Page 28 of A Family Affair
Beryl. x
Honey was stunned. And she hadn’t even opened envelope number two yet. To know that her precious Aunty had kept some terrible secret for so many years, one that had caused her such heartache, was unthinkable. Unfathomable. Did Honey want to know what her great grandma Molly had done? And once she knew, would she want to tell her Grandad?
Then a sobering and welcome thought occurred. Aunty Beryl, let alone her great grandma, were from a generation who thought you had to take down mirrors in a thunderstorm, and closed their curtains when someone in the street passed away.
Perhaps, whatever this secret was had been blown out of all proportion by two old dears who would have the vapours if they read what went on social media these days.
Feeling her anxiety dial down a notch, Honey tutted. Beryl wasn’t the type, capable even of keeping something terrible hidden for all these years. So expecting nothing more shocking than a case of hiding love letters to her grandad, sent by an unsuitable girlfriend, Honey peeled open envelope number 2.
Molly’s big secret was about to be revealed and, if truth be known, now she’d chilled out, Honey couldn’t wait to see what it was.
CHAPTER21
BERYL
Marple, Cheshire. 2003
Beryl nudged the bedroom door open with her hip and, spotting her mother was still sleeping, placed the tray onto the hospital-style table that arched over the bed.
Moving over to the dressing table, Beryl lowered herself onto the stool and waited. Hopefully once sleeping beauty awoke, ate her toast and drank her sweet tea, she could get on with telling her the ‘great McCarthy family secret.’
The ramblings had started earlier that morning when Beryl heard Molly calling her name: ‘Beryl, Beryl! Hurry I need you!’
And in those bleary-eyed moments when she’d noted the clock said 6.30am, and panicked that her mum was ill, she’d stumbled into her bedroom to find Mother McCarthy wide awake and sitting upright, pointing at the wardrobe door.
‘There you are at last. Your father’s been. He came out of the wardrobe to tell me it’s time to go… I need to pack a bag. That’s what he said. Have a look inside and see if he’s still there.’
At the time Beryl was part-relieved and part-freaked out. ‘Mum, what on earth…’
‘I knew he’d come and get me, when it was my time, so we have to prepare and I’m not ready. I haven’t told you my secret and I can’t go before I confess.’
‘Confess what? And may I remind you, Mum, that you’re not Catholic so don’t even think about asking me to ring for the priest. I don’t know any for a start. Now, seeing as you’re awake I’ll go and put the kettle on.’ Beryl yawned and headed for the hall but only made it as far as the door.
‘And then when you come back I’ll tell you my secret. I want you to write it all down, so you don’t forget … so find some paper and a pen. Look in the bureau. Hurry up Beryl, go on, time’s running out.’ Molly raised her arm and flapped her hand, ushering Beryl from the room.
By the time she returned with a cup of tea, Molly had fallen back to sleep but knowing she’d never be able to do the same, Beryl decided to get on with her day and tackle the subject of ghostly apparitions and the secret, later.
The thing was, while she went about her morning routine, Beryl’s mind had wandered. And the more she thought about her mum’s outburst, and as the clock ticked, her curiosity was piqued, and her imagination ran wild.
Which was why she was perched on a green velvet stool, like an impatient lady-in-waiting, for Molly to wake up.
Beryl gave a small cough, hoping it might nudge her mother awake, but nothing. Then she shuffled on her seat and gave a loudish sigh. Still no joy.
Should I let her sleep?
Yes, really you should.
But the toast will go cold.
You can make some more, just leave her.
While conscience won the day, Beryl sat, part-mesmerised by the rise and fall of her mum’s chest. This was accompanied by raspy breaths that emitted a faint hooting sound from between her thin, barely open lips.
Molly was a dozer and took naps throughout the day, yet as each passed, Beryl could see she was becoming weaker, more frail, less present. Like she was dissolving into the beige duvet set. Being absorbed by the wool of her white cardigan. Sucked into the down of her pillows until poof! One day she’d just fade away and be gone.
It was how Molly McCarthy had lived, really. Fading into the background like a bit-part player in a theatre production of her own life. Never wanting to take centre stage, draw attention, make a fuss. Not on the outside anyway. In public. Whereas between those four walls, in their family home and lives, Molly had ruled the roost. Her word was law.
Still, Beryl thought, a gentle dimming, like the switch that controlled the light in the lounge, would be a nice way to go. Better than how her old dad went, anyway. So if Beryl had one wish, for Molly, it was that when the time came she would just slip away, butnotbefore she’d divulged ‘the secret’.
