The Lies Between Us

Every family has secrets … but some keep them better than others.

Eva has always felt like a disappointment in her mother’s eyes, but even more so now that she has failed her exams. She is working part-time while she studies for her resits, dreaming of when she can go to university, and get away from her family. Her mum, Kathleen, is drinking even more than usual these days, and the void between them is deepening.

They say you never get over your first love, and Kathleen knows that more than most. She met Rick when she was sixteen, and was swept away by his charm and charisma. But their romance stayed behind closed doors and, years on, Kathleen still bears the scars of what he put her through. And Eva has not been an easy child to love.

As Eva and Kathleen struggle to connect, will the very thing that drove them apart be the one thing that can finally bring them together?

Also available by Marian Dillon

Looking for Alex

The Lies Between Us

Marian Dillon

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2015

Copyright © Marian Dillon 2015

Marian Dillon asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © August 2015 ISBN: 9781474044851

Version date: 2018-09-19

MARIAN DILLON

Marian lives in Sheffield, and has been a writer since she was twenty-one. She has previously published several books for children and young adults, and in 2011 she completed the MA in Writing at Sheffield Hallam University. The Lies Between Us is her second full-length novel.

Marian is part of the Hallam Writers’ group, whose members meet regularly to exchange ideas and critique each other’s work. They also give readings at literary festivals.

As well as writing, Marian works as a counsellor. She is married, with two grown-up sons.

Thanks go to my writers’ group, the Hallam Writers, for all their support with this novel and to Janet Digby-Baker OBE, for her help with my research into mother and baby homes in the 1960s.

Dedicated to the memory of my brother, Peter, who always encouraged me to write

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgement

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Excerpt

Endpages

About the Publisher

1

Eva

1987

On my way home from my shift at the Prince Albert, if I choose, I can go down the road where I lived until I was ten years old. I don’t always go this way, it’s quicker along Weston Avenue, but sometimes I like to walk down The Parade and turn right towards the park, which takes me right past our old house; 1 Ivy Road. This is what I do tonight. Maybe it’s nostalgia. Or maybe I’m putting off the moment of going home. I don’t know.

The small semi looks exactly the same after nine years – mucky grey pebble-dash, black and white paintwork, and the narrow front door with its sunrise window. When I lived here, I didn’t see that it was small, and mucky-looking, and lacking the suburban smartness that my parents now embrace. It was home. Now I look at it and think, what would this house say if it could talk? When we lived here, was my mother already drinking too much, and was my father already under her thumb? Were these things that I just didn’t notice then, being younger?

I often think I’d like to look inside, to see if anything has changed. It’s a young couple who live here now, I’ve seen them outside once or twice, and one time I nearly asked if I could look round, but I thought they’d be embarrassed, so I didn’t.

The flickering light of a TV can be seen through the gaps in the curtains and I stare at the window, imagining myself aged two, four, six, eight, ten – lying on my stomach in that room, gazing up at The Magic Roundabout, Sesame Street, Blue Peter, Tiswas, Grange Hill. I could go on and on, could list them all as I watched them all, always on my own. I can’t remember ever having my mother by my side on the big settee, although my mother never worked and was always home. She preferred to stay in the kitchen, smoking and drinking tea at the little Formica table, and if I went in for a glass of squash and a biscuit the room would be a warm fug of cigarette smoke. She would lift her head from the magazine she was flicking through – Woman and Home, Home and Garden, Country Life – and say vaguely, ‘All right, Eva?’ God knows what she’d have done if I’d ever answered ‘No’; it hadn’t been part of the agreement. If I left my mother alone, I could watch TV till the cows came home, and have my tea on a tray. That would normally be at five o’clock, when John Craven’s Newsround came on, and while I ate my fish fingers or tinned spaghetti I’d hear the chinking of glasses when my mother set the Martini out, ready for when my father came in at six. A ritual that got steadily earlier, until she stopped waiting for my father, eventually.

Down the road a door bangs and a man walks out with a dog. He gives me an odd look, so I pretend I’m looking for something in my bag, and then move on.

From here to what I still think of as ‘the new house’ is a distance of maybe half a mile, but the streets change dramatically; they widen, they sprout trees, and acquire drives and double garages; they become Avenue, Drive, Crescent. I’m entering a different world, the one we moved to when my father stopped selling cars for other people, took out a bank loan, and began the business of selling cars for himself to the people of Harborough. A business he’s doing very well in, reflected in the house I’m now looking at, in leafy Park Vale. Across the curved lawn, lights blaze and figures are silhouetted in the big bay window – the house is lit up like a cinema screen, for one of my parents’ parties. I can hear music pulsing and shrieks of laughter and I know the booze will be flowing. Hopefully, it should be easy to slip upstairs unnoticed.

Letting myself in at the front door I make straight for the stairs, but my father sees me as he comes out of the lounge with empty glasses in his hands.

‘Eva, where are you going?’ He’s a little tipsy, his speech veering towards the Brummy drawl that he tightens up for his customers. My accent, like my mother’s, is more nebulous, more received pronunciation than provincial. ‘Don’t go hiding upstairs. Where have you been? You’ve been out all day.’

‘Just out, with Louise, and some others,’ I say. ‘We went to see a film. And then I was working. Dad, you know that.’

‘Of course, of course.’ He’s smiling at me fondly. ‘Come on, come and say hello.’

‘Not now. You go back in.’

‘No, no. You must come and meet everybody. Come on Eva, just for me – you know I like to show my lovely daughter off, hmmm?’

‘Dad, I’m tired, and I’m not dressed for a party –’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ he says. ‘You look lovely, you look … delightful.’

And at that I give in to being propelled into the lounge and towed around the people gathered there, some of whom I know, most of whom I would rather not spend time with. Self-conscious, embarrassed by my father’s attention, I smile and nod and give the right responses to the same questions, over and over. No, I found I hadn’t quite got the grades I wanted, when I opened up my results letter (which doesn’t quite reflect the cold shock of those stark letters, C, D, D, and the idea of another whole year at home stretching ahead of me). Yes, I am retaking my A-levels and hope to go to university next year. Yes, I quite like my part-time job behind a bar, but I’m looking for something better paid to tide me over the next year. And no, I don’t have a boyfriend, yet. (As if that’s your business, I think.)

When my father is distracted by some guests who are leaving my mother drifts over on a cloud of Dior and gin, glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She wears ski pants with a sparkly lurex top that leaves one shoulder bare, and her newly permed hair is caught at both sides in tortoiseshell combs, from which red curls spill extravagantly. (One day I will tell her that she should stop trying to look like Olivia Newton-John). But it’s her eyes that make my heart sink, with that glitter in them that comes with an evening of steady drinking. When she drinks my mother never trips or stumbles over her words; drink seems to have the opposite effect on her. She becomes harder, sharper. At least, until the hard look eventually becomes a glassy, unfocused stare.

‘Hi, darling.’ My mother’s eyes run swiftly over my clothes: a long black blouse worn belted over a very short denim skirt, and then black tights and pumps. My standard pub uniform. Tomorrow she’ll ask me when I’m going to stop wearing all that black. ‘Nice day?’

‘Yes, thanks.’

Her mouth twitches. ‘Yes, thanks. Is that it?’ I go over the same things I told my father, and she says, ‘Was James there?’

‘No.’ I frown, wishing I’d never mentioned my one date with James Gregory. ‘No, he wasn’t.’

My mother pulls a face. ‘Shame.’ She smiles at her friend Connie, who has wandered across and is drinking all this in. ‘Eva’s saving herself. She hasn’t met anyone good enough yet, but we have great hopes of James.’

Connie laughs some more, until I snap, ‘Shut up, Mum, you’re talking bollocks,’ at which Connie’s gaze whips back to my mother. She, however, seems unfazed, and gives me a bright smile.

‘I suppose you must be tired?’

‘Actually no, not yet.’ I look around. ‘I think I’ll get a drink.’ I head off to the kitchen, sensing her mild annoyance follow me across the room, and pour myself a large glass of red wine. For a while I stand in the doorway, drinking my wine and staring down at my pumps, which, even to me, look incongruous next to a trio of stilettos.

Another pair of feet, shod in dark brown leather, materialise at my side. My gaze travels upwards – past jeans, a check shirt and a soft leather jacket – to find a pair of serious eyes staring at me. These eyes are the colour of polished wood, set in a face that is long and narrow, like a fox, and the owner has thick, light-brown hair, cut short at the back, with a big fringe that falls over his eyes. He looks younger than the rest, who are all my parents’ age. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him here before, but then I’ve usually made sure I was either staying at Louise’s or upstairs in my room.

He waves his bottle of Buds in my direction. ‘You look like you wish you were somewhere else.’ He has a deep voice and the accent is northern; some has become soom.

I glance into the room, to see my mother and Connie swaying along to ‘Dancing Queen’, with their hands in the air and all the words on their lips. I look back at him. ‘Don’t you?’

He laughs. ‘I hear these parties are a regular event.’

‘Yes, but no one ever seems to have had enough. They all still come.’

‘Which must include you – to know that?’

I give what I hope is an enigmatic smile; he obviously has no idea who I am. ‘You remind me of someone,’ I say.

‘Oh?’

‘I can’t think who.’

He turns his head. ‘Try my profile. Does that help?’

‘Not really. It’s in the eyes. Shit, it’s going to annoy me now.’

‘Don’t think about it, then it’ll come to you. I hope it’s someone good-looking.’

‘Well, now you’ve said that, I will of course think of someone supremely ugly.’

We both laugh. He looks down at my nearly empty glass.

‘Can I get you a refill?’

I nod, and he takes my glass and disappears into the crowd in the kitchen, and as I wait for him to come back there’s a new jittery feeling in my belly that tells me I’ll be disappointed if he doesn’t. I glance across at my mother and see she’s taking all this in. For a moment we hold each other’s gaze, then he comes back with my drink.

‘Do I get to know your name?’ I ask.

‘I’m called Ed,’ he says.

‘Why? Isn’t that your real name?’

He gives me a close look. ‘As it happens, no.’

‘Is it that bad, the real one?’

He grins. ‘You don’t get it out of me that way, either.’ He takes a swig of his beer. ‘So,’ he says, ‘you didn’t answer my question.’

I frown. ‘Question?’

‘I was saying, you must come here a lot?’

‘Oh. No, I never come to these parties if I can help it.’

‘You don’t like the company?’

‘No. Not much.’

I’m looking at my mother, now given up dancing and talking to one of my father’s colleagues, standing close, too close, with her head tilted fetchingly to one side, laughing too much. Ed’s gaze follows mine.

‘Pretty obvious, isn’t she?’

It’s startling to hear someone say it out loud. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I think so.’

‘I wonder if it’s all show. Or if she really lives up to her reputation.’

My stomach churns a little. Somehow I thought that I was the only one who would find my mother embarrassing; I never thought that she might have a reputation.

‘Don’t you know, then?’

‘Me? I’m a newcomer. Just moved to town. I’m here with my mate, Steve, he works for Vince.’ He nods at a man talking to my father, across the room, but I don’t recognise him. Then Ed’s gaze travels back to my mother. ‘Word is …’ He stops. ‘Look, I might be speaking out of turn. I hope she’s not your best friend, or your sister, or something like that.’

I’m watching my mother, as she puts her hand on the man’s arm and says something in his ear. He laughs heartily. ‘I suppose you mean she sleeps around.’

Ed turns to me, squinting slightly as someone’s cigarette smoke drifts across our field of vision. ‘Look, I’m not saying …’ He’s backtracking now, probably wondering if he’s dropped himself in it. ‘Steve says he thinks she’s not very happy, a bit desperate.’

I look back at my mother. I’ve never thought of it in those terms, that my mother might be desperate. I’ve always seen her as being totally in control.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Maybe.’

Ed peers at me through another wreath of smoke. ‘So, do you know them well – Kathleen and Vince?’

‘Oh,’ I say, ‘sort of, yes.’

‘Look, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. That’s me all over, putting my size nines in it.’

‘It’s okay. I know how things are.’

He waits for me to elaborate, and when I don’t we fall silent; in the long pause I wonder if he wants to extricate himself now, but is too polite. My head feels a bit swimmy after all the red wine and the couple of Stellas I was bought at work, and I start to think I should go to bed and save myself the embarrassment of Ed sidling off at the first opportunity. Then I catch my mother looking our way again, and change my mind. For want of something to say I begin to interrogate Ed. I find out that he comes from Leeds, hence the accent; that he’s been living and working in Cambridge, but moved here for a job on the local paper; that he’s the youngest of four boys; and that he’s staying with Steve, an old school-friend of his older brother, while he looks for a flat to rent. I begin to wonder how old he might be, as it’s hard to tell.

‘Is this your first job?’ I ask, and he shakes his head.

‘No. I’ve served my time as junior reporter, not to mention office gofer. This is a promotion.’

‘Gofer?’

He laughs. ‘If someone wants something, you go fer it.’

‘Ah.’ I’m still calculating. Twenty-four, five? But before I can glean any more information my father appears in front of us.

‘Eva, can I borrow Ed for a minute? Someone wants to meet him.’

I shrug. ‘Okay.’

‘Hope you don’t mind?’ he says to Ed.

‘Of course not.’ Ed turns to me. ‘Excuse me.’

I watch him go, and tell myself he must be relieved. Of course not. I would have liked to carry on talking, but I doubt he’ll be back, and as a loud burst of laughter comes from the group he joins I decide there’s no point hanging around like a lemon. I should just go to bed.

Upstairs, though, I realise I’ve left my bag; when I go back down I see my mother has now commandeered Ed and is talking to him at the far side of the room. Talking is a loose term; there’s a lot of flirting going on, she’s laughing and standing close, the way she does, with her eyes hooked on his. It’s so naked it’s embarrassing, and I hate to think of what Ed might say about my mother now, with firsthand experience of how ‘desperate’ she is. I shouldn’t care, I really shouldn’t care what others think, but somehow I still do – I can’t bear to see my mother making a fool of herself. I wonder if I should go and interrupt her, somehow prise her away from him, but that will piss her off even more and I’m not prepared to get the sharp end of my mother’s tongue in front of Ed.

Back in my room, I stand listening to the babble downstairs. Someone has just changed the music, and ‘Bette Davis Eyes’ drifts up the stairs. She’ll take a tumble on you, roll you like you’re a dice. Would she? Does she actually do that? I can hear her laughter now, above the rise and fall of voices, and to shut it out I put my hands over my ears. I stand there, frozen, with my heart hammering and my eyes squeezed tightly shut. When at last I open them I stride to the door and run smoothly, quickly, downstairs. In the lounge my mother still has Ed cornered and I watch them for a moment, trying to read Ed’s body language, to decide if he’s lapping it up or attempting escape, then I whirl round and go in search of my father. He’s in the kitchen, stashing empty bottles into a box.

‘I need to talk to you.’

‘Do you? What, right now?’

‘Yes. Right now.’

He picks up a box of empties and turns towards the side door. ‘Just open the door, will you?’

I follow him out, and I’m wondering what to say, because when I came back down I hadn’t got as far as that. ‘Dad, don’t you think you should wind the party up now? It’s late.’

He gives me a puzzled look. ‘Don’t be daft, Eva. It’s just getting going.’

‘Dad, listen, please. It’s Mum.’

‘What?’

‘She … she drinks too much.’

He laughs. ‘No more than anyone else. Don’t be daft.’

‘No, it is more, way more. And … Dad, you need to sort this out.’

‘Eva …’ He’s shaking his head, smiling. ‘You funny girl.’

My father puts the box down by the bin, the bottles chinking together. Then he makes to move round me, to go back inside. I put my hand on his arm. ‘Dad, please, just tell them all to go home. Make them go home.’

He pauses for a moment, caught by the threat of tears in my voice. He reaches up and smoothes my hair on one side. ‘What’s wrong, Eva? It’s only a little party.’

‘It’s a party every week, Dad, and she drinks as much on all the other nights. It’s out of control.’

He frowns. ‘Now you’re being ridiculous. Nothing’s out of control.’

‘Vince?’ My mother appears, framed in the doorway. ‘Steve and Amy are going. They want to say goodbye.’ She looks at me. ‘I thought you’d gone to bed.’

I tighten my lips and glare at her. She sighs, brushing back long wisps of hair that have come loose from one of her combs.

‘Eva thinks we should tell everyone to go home,’ my father says, and I flinch at the amusement in his voice. ‘You’re out of control, she says.’

‘Me? Oh, for Heaven’s sake, don’t be stupid, Eva. It’s a party, not Sodom and Gomorrah. Come on, Vince, you’re the host, you can’t stand out here all night.’ She goes back in to the party.

I stand looking at my father. ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Have it your way. But I know you know what I’m talking about.’

Turning, I push my way rudely through some people coming into the kitchen, just in time to see Ed following Steve and his wife out onto the porch. My eyes meet Ed’s for a moment, and he raises a hand in a single wave, before the door slams shut behind them, and then I run up to my room and close that door too, leaning against it as if the whole houseful is behind me.

Pretty obvious, isn’t she?

So why haven’t I seen it?

***

At ten-thirty the pub is still filling up, and myself and the other two bar staff are working at full tilt. Occasionally the landlord pitches in, rounding up the empties, but mostly he chats to the locals and gets on with what he calls ‘keeping things sweet’. We should have had Jon on as well tonight, but no one predicted it would be this busy on a Wednesday night. There’s no reason we can think of – just one of those things. Maybe because it’s been such a warm day, the last day of September, making people feel nostalgic for their Spanish holiday and sending them in droves to the next-best thing, the great British pub.

My feet ache, and I’m so hot I can smell the sweat on myself. I’ve been pulling pints for four hours solid, and if I have to listen to Rick Astley singing ‘Never Gonna Give You Up’ one more time I think I’ll throw up. As if that isn’t enough, I’ve just started my period and the heavy, dragging feeling between my legs is yet one more drain on my energy.

All in all, I’ll be glad when eleven o’clock comes round and the bell is rung, and that lovely phrase called out in the landlord’s husky, forty-a-day voice: Time per-lease!

As I look up from pulling a pint the door opens, and a large group of men crowd through. It’s obvious from the suits and ties that they started drinking straight from work; now, at the end of the night, they’re loud and full of drunken banter, although harmless enough. As I serve them I find myself laughing along at their stupid jokes, a bit of light relief. I know the landlord is keeping an eye on things, so I don’t have to think too much about it. Then the door opens again and three more squeeze through and struggle to the bar. When I glance up again I see who the last one is, before he sees me. And then he does, and quickly I look back down to the Snakebite I’m pouring – which is hard enough to do at the best of times. The man who ordered it is grinning at his mates, in a ‘watch her make a mess of this’ way, so I take extra care to dribble the Guinness slowly and thinly down the side of the glass, into the waiting cider, so that it doesn’t froth up and over. I’m glad to have something to distract me, and that I can blame the flush in my cheeks on the heat in the bar. When I’ve finished, and the pint stands there with its gold and dark layers, there’s a loud cheer. Despite myself I laugh, and give them a mock bow.