The Happy Family by Jackie Kabler (electric book reader txt) 📕

sued, so they’re generally very careful not to libel anyone. So as long as there aren’t any actual untruths in his story, well …’

‘Oh, Mum.’ I sigh and push my plate away too.

‘I know. I can only imagine what it was like to see yourself all over the newspaper,’ she says. ‘And I don’t even want to talk about those pictures; we’ve been there. I’m horrified they’ve ended up in the paper, just absolutely disgusted, and if I ever see that nasty little … that evil little …’

She narrows her eyes, looking furious, and I know she still thinks it was probably Robin, but I say nothing, for maybe it was Robin and maybe it wasn’t. I just don’t know anything anymore, and if I think about that too much on top of everything else today I might actually go mad.

‘The only thing I want to ask you about, darling, is … well, what was that bit about the incident at your school? A suicide?’

She casts her eyes around the room, as if looking for the newspaper, then looks at the recycling bin.

‘It implied you were involved, somehow?’ she says.

‘It was … well, it was a girl I knew – not a friend exactly. A girl called Lucy,’ I say.

I’m trying to remember the exact wording in the newspaper article. All it said was that I’d been linked to the suicide of a troubled pupil at a Bristol secondary school’, didn’t it? That no charges had been brought and that we’d moved away from the area?

Mum’s wrinkling her brow. The towel is still hanging over her shoulders and she pulls it off, draping it over the back of her seat.

‘Lucy? I don’t remember anyone called Lucy in your primary school class.’

‘No. We met for the first time at Fairbridge.’

I pause. For a moment, I’m teetering. To tell or not to tell?

What I should do now is tell her everything, for surely I’ll have to, one day? I think. She’s my mother, and now she knows that something happened, all she’s doing is showing concern. She’s not running from the room, she’s not shrinking away from me in disgust, and maybe I should have told her about this at the very beginning. Maybe I should have told Jacob too. Maybe I should have told everyone …

It’s part of my story, my history, part of me, I know that. And now half of me feels it’s been ridiculous – I’ve been ridiculous – to even think that I could keep this massive secret for my whole life, that nobody would ever find out. But then there’s the other half of me, the half that’s screaming: NO! DON’T TELL HER! WHAT CAN YOU POSSIBLY GAIN FROM TELLNG HER NOW, YOU IDIOT?

And, predictably, that half wins.

‘She was being bullied, or that’s what her parents thought,’ I say. ‘We were thirteen. And after she … after she died, there were diaries, or something, and they thought …’

My mouth is dry, my tongue thick and heavy. I reach for my mug and take a slug of the now-cold tea and grimace.

‘They thought I might have been involved. In the bullying, I mean, because I sat next to her in some lessons. The police investigated and there was no evidence, so that was it. But, well, I was really upset by it, you know? Everyone at school was; it was horrible. And so Dad decided it might be better to move me away. That’s it, really.’

Mum’s listening silently, her eyes boring into mine. I look back for a second or two longer then drop my gaze, shame sweeping over me.

I’m lying, Mum. I did bully Lucy. It was my fault. She died because of me. And I’m sorry, so very, very sorry. I’ve been sorry every day of my life since and the burden of this dark, abhorrent secret has dragged me to the very depths of despair more times than I care to remember. And now I’m sorry again, sorry for lying. But I’ve lost so much. I can’t lose you again, and if you knew …

Inside, I’m howling the words, but I sit here, silent, waiting for her to react.

‘OK,’ she says simply.

I look up, puzzled.

Is that it?

She stands up, all efficiency again. She picks up my pastry plate, putting it on top of hers and adding the mugs before walking to the dishwasher.

‘Stupid little hack trying to cause trouble, making something out of nothing,’ she says, as she starts stacking the dishes in the machine. ‘You’ll probably want to explain that to the surgery? They’re bound to ask. Now, why don’t you go and have a nice bath? And don’t you worry about that.’

She’s turning on the tap to wash her hands now and gesturing towards the recycling bin with her head.

‘Tomorrow’s chip paper,’ she says.

Still feeling slightly stunned – is it going to be that easy to get away with this, to keep this secret? – I go upstairs, strip off, and (I’ve gone off baths, for some reason) get into the shower. I stand there for a long time, letting the powerful jets of hot water pummel my tense shoulders. As I’m drying myself my phone rings. It’s Jacob and I sigh. I put him on speaker as I slowly get dressed. He has, of course, heard about the Daily Star piece, and I stay silent, letting him yell, letting him tell me how appalled he is, how this is the final straw, how the entire school is going to know about it by the time the children go back after Easter, how Finley and Eloise are going to be a laughing stock, and my heart breaks all over again.

‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper.

But he’s still shouting, and now he’s demanding to know what the reference to the school suicide was about and why this is the first he’s heard of it. I tell him the same story I told Mum, but he’s still so angry, so livid. He wants more detail and