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

‘Nadia?’ I say. ‘Mum?’

‘Nadia to most, these days. Always Alice Armstrong, deep down,’ she says.

Her greeny-grey eyes are filling with tears now and I stare at her, really looking at her for the first time, remembering eyes like those filling with tears so often, so very long ago, when we were both thirty years younger. Remembering, but unable to comprehend any of it, terrified to believe it. I breathe in her stale aroma and remember the strange, musty smell in the house on Friday when we found Alison unconscious on the floor. I try to look past the straggly grey hair, the tattered clothing, the deeply lined skin, and try to see the woman underneath. Hope shivers like a baby bird inside me. With a trembling hand, I reach out to touch the baggy black sweater she’s huddled in – no coat covering it in the warmth of this late spring day. I gently push the neckline down to expose a hint of pale collarbone. And there it is.

Three little stars.

One star for her, one for Dad, one for me.

Oh my God. It’s her. It’s really her.

‘Mum,’ I say, and now there are little firecrackers of joy and confusion going off inside me. I still don’t understand any of this but it doesn’t matter anymore because finally, finally, I get to say it, and this time to the right person. Because she is. I know she is.

‘Hello, Mum. Welcome home.’

Chapter 46

‘How will Father Christmas bring Nana presents, Mum? Will they unlock the doors for him?’

I’m sitting at my desk in my bedroom, writing a few final Christmas cards to deliver by hand this evening. Finley has sidled in, leaning his chin on my shoulder and pressing his warm little body against my back. He’s eight now, and I’m not entirely sure he really believes in Father Christmas anymore, but I love that he still pretends to – for me probably. It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow, and the presents are all wrapped and piled under the big tree in the corner of the lounge and the front door is decorated with a pinecone wreath. Downstairs in the kitchen, Eloise and Cleo, one of her friends from school, are singing along to Mariah Carey, their voices high and sweet.

I put my pen down and turn to look at my little boy, gently pushing an errant strand of blond hair back off his forehead.

‘How does this hair grow so fast? I’m glad Daddy’s taking you to the barber’s this afternoon,’ I say. ‘Father Christmas would be leaving your presents somewhere else otherwise, ’cos he wouldn’t recognise you.’

His eyes widen, then he grins.

‘Don’t be silly. He knows e-ver-y-thing. So will he? Be able to bring Nana presents?’

‘Of course he will,’ I say. ‘Prison walls are no problem for him. The reindeer can fly right over them.’

He nods, satisfied, then turns and skips from the room. I watch him go, my heart swelling, and I marvel yet again at how accepting children are and how quickly they adapt to the strangest changes in circumstances. A grandmother who wasn’t, and now a grandmother who is. She’s not with us, not yet – she’s currently residing in Eastwood Park women’s prison in south Gloucestershire. She insisted, in the end, on handing herself in to the police, who charged her with grievous bodily harm for the assault on Alison. At the end of May she pleaded guilty in court, and was sentenced to three years in jail, which, I hope, means that with good behaviour she’ll be out by this time next year. She’s a model prisoner, by all accounts, content with her warm cell, regular meals, and the safety afforded by the prison walls. Despite her lifestyle of recent years it is, the police told me, the first time she’s ever been in trouble, the first time she’s ever been arrested.

‘Pretty remarkable for a woman who’s lived on the streets for as long as she has,’ one of them said. I felt a rush of guilt mixed, weirdly, with pride and love.

Sixty years old and going to prison, for me. She did it for me. To protect me, when she finally worked out who Alison was and what she was about to do. She wanted to stop the party, to stop Alison before her final attempt to destroy me,

Her story was extraordinary, relayed that first afternoon as we sat together in my kitchen, before I drove her to the police station to make her confession.

‘A clean slate, love. When I’m out, we can start afresh, if you want me.’

‘Oh, I want you. You’re not getting away from me again,’ I said, and she smiled her gap-toothed smile, and nodded shyly.

It was almost eerie how comfortable I felt with her, and yet I had from the beginning, hadn’t I? I’d sat there in a doorway with a homeless woman I’d known as Nadia, chatting about anything and everything, and I’d felt at ease. At home.

She cried a lot that first afternoon. I did too as we relived the past, gently raking over her final days with me and Dad. She explained how unhappy she’d been in the marriage. The rumours I’d heard had been true – the age gap had been just too big. She told me how she’d finally plucked up the courage to just walk away. How she’d moved abroad, travelling around Italy and France and Spain, looking for excitement and glamour. She’d had a string of boyfriends, none of whom gave her what she was looking for because she didn’t really know that herself. She’d gone from low-paid job to low-paid job, drifted across Europe, and eventually found her way back to the UK, where she’d opted out of society, camping on beaches and sleeping in hostels. And that had continued for years.

‘I started using Nadia instead of Alice because I didn’t want anyone from my past to find me,’ she said. ‘The shame of leaving you never left me, Beth. And