Lacey's House Read online

  Joanne Graham is the winner of the 2012 Luke Bitmead Bursary. Born in Wolverhampton in 1970, she is the youngest of five children. Lacey’s House is inspired by her maternal grandmother who was lobotomised in the 1960’s as a result of the depression she suffered. Joanne lives near Exeter, Devon.

  Visit Joanne at www.joanne-graham.weebly.com

  Legend Press Ltd, 2 London Wall Buildings,

  London EC2M 5UU

  [email protected]

  www.legendpress.co.uk

  Contents © Joanne Graham 2013

  The right of the above author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.

  Print ISBN 978-1-9093956-7-1

  Ebook ISBN 978-1-9093956-8-8

  Set in Times

  Printed by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  Cover design by Gudrun Jobst www.yotedesign.com

  Author photo © Rob Mackenzie

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  Acknowledgements

  There are so many people I have to thank for the creation of this book. First on the list is my maternal Grandmother who this book is dedicated to and whose barbaric experiences will, thankfully, never be repeated in our society. I must also thank my incredible family for putting up with me through the writing process and for giving me unfailing support and encouragement. I would especially like to say a huge thank you to my brother, Dave, who always said I could, my mother Val for believing in me, and of course, to my children for putting up with my grumpy tiredness.

  Thanks also go to Wendy Bowen, who read the first draft of the book and asked me why, to my niece Sarah for her words of support, and to Eve Jones and the women of the Halberton Book Club for reading the original story and giving me invaluable feedback. I would also like to thank my incredible Rhiannon sisters for supporting me through a year of growth and transition, and making me believe I could do this.

  Special thanks also go to the Tiverton Community Police team and Heavitree Police Station for answering my many questions, to the Royal Albert Memorial Museum in Exeter for having a ‘Gerald’ to visit as well as many other wonderful things, and to Aerosaurus Balloons Ltd for letting me know the laws around hot air ballooning, and what you can and can’t do! I am also grateful to the creators of the website www.exetermemories.co.uk, which proved invaluable during my research into how the war affected Exeter.

  My thanks also go to Ariella Feiner, Tom Chalmers and the Legend Press team, as well as the incredible Elaine Hanson, Luke Bitmead’s mother, who works tirelessly in his memory. And finally no end of appreciation goes to my friends Julie, Sacha, Sam and Chen for keeping me sane, you are all marvellous.

  Anything contained in these pages that is inaccurate is entirely my fault and please forgive me if I have forgotten to mention you, it wasn’t deliberate.

  This book is dedicated to my Grandmother, Hilda, who put the flesh on Lacey’s bones.

  And to my children, Kiera and Sam. I love you all the atoms in the universe.

  Contents

  Prologue ~ Lacey

  Chapter 1 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 2 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 3 ~ Lacey

  Chapter 4 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 5 ~ Lacey

  Chapter 6 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 7 ~ Lacey

  Chapter 8 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 9 ~ Lacey

  Chapter 10 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 11 ~ Lacey

  Chapter 12 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 13 ~ Lacey

  Chapter 14 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 15 ~ Lacey

  Chapter 16 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 17 ~ Lacey

  Chapter 18 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 19 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 20 ~ Lacey

  Chapter 21 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 22 ~ Lacey

  Chapter 23 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 24 ~ Lacey

  Chapter 25 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 26 ~ Lacey

  Chapter 27 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 28 ~ Lacey

  Chapter 29 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 30 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 31 ~ Lacey

  Chapter 32 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 33 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 34 ~ Lacey

  Chapter 35 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 36 ~ Lacey

  Chapter 37 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 38 ~ Lacey

  Chapter 39 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 40 ~ Lacey

  Chapter 41 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 42 ~ Lacey

  Chapter 43 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 44 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 45 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 46 ~ Lacey

  Chapter 47 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 48 ~ Lacey

  Chapter 49 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 50 ~ Lacey

  Chapter 51 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 52 ~ Lacey

  Chapter 53 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 54 ~ Lacey

  Chapter 55 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 56 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 57 ~ Lacey

  Chapter 58 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 59 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 60 ~ Lacey

  Chapter 61 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 62 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 63 ~ Rachel

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Epilogue

  Prologue ~ Lacey

  She hadn’t spoken to her father in years. The silence had expanded to fill every room in the house until it was a tangible, solid thing that they had to push past whenever they moved. A plate of food would be placed in front of him as he sat at the dinner table, his laundry gathered unrequested, his boots tidied away into the hallway, his medical bag prepared. But not once did she open her mouth to speak, not once did she so much as look at him.

  Sometimes he would open his mouth and a faltering sound would emerge, not quite a word but far from the common silence. And before the syllables were formed, before his lips closed to shape it into something recognisable, she would be gone and the word would fall into nothing.

  She would feel his eyes on her at times; sense the questions in that look with the heavy brow and the pinched mouth. His frustration beat against her like waves in winter, but she kept her balance and maintained her vow.

  How many years had it been? She couldn’t remember and when she tried to, it ached in her head until she frowned and rubbed her eyes. It had been a long, long time. So much had happened that she should hold on to, but the memories skittered away like cockroaches when the light was turned on. They moved too fast and couldn’t be grasped.

  Some things were remembered, as if through a haze, but at least they were remembered. Her mother, already slight, had grown stick thin and begun to fade until finally she had lain in a darkened room in a pale ball of agony and failed to breathe in. Stood beside him in the graveyard, drizzly rain seeping into black clothing, she had looked at the coffin and heard her mother’s voice calling from inside.

  People had come to the house for the wake and she had prepared food and looked at the carpet as she handed plates around. They looked her way with curious eyes, waiting for her to behave with something far removed from normality. Some had exchanged greetings, asked her questions, and they
had been answered with a soft, faltering voice that became quieter as her eyes were pulled towards the window and beyond to the distant hills.

  Her father had sat in his chair, rigid and dour, shaking hands with the local men, nodding politely to their wives and daughters and not looking at the pretty, silent woman that hung like a weight around his neck.

  Now though, as she lay on the bed and watched the ceiling lights pass, her eyes tried to find him. There was a flash of dark fabric behind the others tucked tightly around the bed and she craned her head to see beyond them until a hand curled across her forehead and pulled her head flat against the mattress. Several attempts wielded the same results and she felt the panic rise in her chest. The sharp stink of disinfectant filled her nostrils kicking up a vague memory. She had been here before but couldn’t remember enough to know why her heart raced and fear spread through her limbs.

  The movement stopped and it seemed that everyone spoke at once. She raised her head again and this time nobody stopped her. Someone moved away and there he was, his coat in dark contrast to the white of the others. He stared at her dispassionately before his eyes moved to look at something she could not see.

  “Please, father, please stop them!” She felt the vow of silence shatter around her but the words were propelled by fear. In that moment all that mattered was getting out of there. He remained rigid and unmoved. She looked at the walls and felt the hands on her again. White room, white coats, hands on her ankles, hands holding her wrists. Her eyes moved to the faces suspended above, their weight pressing her further into the bed. Mouths moved in masks of concentration but the words blurred together, grew hazy around the edges until they became white noise hanging over where she cowered and urinated in fear.

  But then she saw it: a flash of colour beyond the crushing bodies. The big red shiny ball held by little hands that bounced it against the hard floor tiles before catching it again. Bounce... slap. Bounce... slap. She looked to the space above those perfect, dimpled hands and met the eyes of her young son, crinkled at the edges as he smiled at her and bounced his ball.

  She knew then that she had to stay calm, more afraid now that she might scare him; she looked into his eyes and started to sing,

  “Hush little baby, don’t say a word, Mamma’s gonna buy you a mocking bird.” Her voice faltered and stumbled over the syllables, shaking while she was manipulated by the hands of the doctors, but she carried on and was rewarded with a bigger smile that she managed to return. She saw the doctors turn and follow her gaze before looking at each other, but she forced herself to concentrate on the red of that ball, the width of his smile.

  Bounce... slap. Even as they turned her and tied the straps across her forehead, she could still hear the ball, and she still sang. As she felt the leather around her limbs and heard the metal buckles grate as they were pulled tighter and tighter, her voice shook but was still there.

  Fingers reached from somewhere above her and pulled her eyelids up and up until her vision blurred and she could barely see the craggy face of the man that moved close and stared into her eyes. He moved back again and the face was replaced by hands. Those hands would haunt her years later, when screams would echo down a tunnel that was decades long. She would see those hands with their half bitten nails and the specks of dirt in the corners that told her the owner cared nothing for hygiene. She was tainted by them.

  She saw the point through teary eyes and it hovered like a star above her, moving closer, growing bigger and bigger until it filled her vision. She heard the hammer blow before she felt the pain, a cricket ball hit for six on a distant village green. A metallic echoing sound that she was still contemplating as the pain exploded behind her eyes and pushed the song from her mouth with a scream. She was burning, burning in her head as sound became a whine in her ears and the room began to drift.

  Chapter 1 ~ Rachel

  It began with an ending. In the darkest part of the night when the moon had long passed the window and all I could see were shadows within shadows. When I awoke to pain that should not be there and felt the fear of it carve through me. When I felt the cloying wetness of her absence and shied away from it. It began with a chill that painted goose flesh across my skin. It began with a bloom of red on white sheets.

  That long night gave way to a bitterly cold January day, the kind that paints diamonds on the pavements. The slump from Christmas had cast shadows in the eyes of passers-by, their shoulders heavy enough to rest on their hips as they walked. I looked at them and did not want to carry the weight of them, the misery of them. I looked up the street and wanted to keep on going, to keep on walking and never look back. I wanted to walk right out of my life and leave it behind. But I didn’t, not then.

  Instead, I sat in the shabby waiting room with its worn chairs and peeling paint, feeling like the invisible woman as people bustled around me. I had sat and waited and prayed that everything would be alright. But sitting before the doctor as he looked at his computer screen and then right through me, I felt that hope wither away.

  “We’ll send you up to the hospital for a scan just to make sure.”

  “To make sure? You mean there’s a chance the baby is still alive?” I felt the jump in my chest, a flicker of possibility that I wanted to cling on to. His head shook slightly, a movement small enough that I could pretend I hadn’t seen it if I wanted to go on fooling myself for a little longer.

  “There is a very small chance but I think it is highly unlikely. The scan will verify the situation.”

  Cold and clinical, the words were a dagger in my belly and I fought against a rush of tears. He saw my face crumple and had the grace to look contrite.

  “I am sorry, it’s just one of… ”

  I held up my hand, a visual full stop sweeping the words from the doctor’s mouth and catching them in my palm; I curled my fingers tight around the empty phrase that meant nothing to me and even less to him. He reached forwards to pat the back of my hand, still clenched around his words, still damp with the tears and snot that I had wiped there a few minutes before in the waiting room. His concern seemed to be no more than a reflex response from someone who has seen it all before, said these words before and had long ago stopped caring. Perhaps for him a lost baby was frequent enough to become commonplace, but not for me. His sympathy touched lightly upon his face and stayed there, penetrating no deeper beneath the surface, not touching his heart or mind. Did he practice that look in the mirror? Too easily I could imagine him making small adjustments, getting the right element of frown and downturned mouth, the perfect, subtle nuances in his cheeks that reflected an ideal study of empathy and compassion. A mask he could wear over his usual, everyday smile as the need arose.

  I wanted to scream at him, ‘Not to me, never to me!’ To tear myself apart in front of him, pulling skin from flesh and flesh from bone so that he could examine every fibre of my being and see the loss reflected there; see how empty and barren I was without my child to fill the empty spaces. I wanted to shock his actor’s face into something other than meaningless pseudo-sympathy. I wanted to show him that I wasn’t going to take all the hopes and dreams I had created around my tiny baby, bundle them up into a little dusty package and tidy it away. She wasn’t just ‘one of those things’ to me. Those things were birds shitting on my head, a broken heel or spilled coffee. Surely those words couldn’t apply to my broken baby who had curled up inside me and died beneath my heartbeat. She wasn’t one of those things, she had been so much more.

  I opened my mouth to tell him, to send barbed words into his skin so he could hurt as I hurt, but they travelled as far as my throat and stalled, stumbling over the unshed tears lodged there. I felt powerless, frozen in that silent moment. I got to my feet and saw the brief spasm of relief on his face before he covered it by turning around to his desk and busying himself with his keyboard. He had got over the difficult bit. The patient wasn’t going to melt into a boneless puddle on the floor that he would have to mop up before the next one came in.
He had done his job well and everything was going to be fine.

  I stumbled home, pausing only long enough to make the appointment that would tell me that my baby was dead and everything was different now. I fought the urge to keep on walking past my flat, to just keep on going until exhaustion forced me to stop. I slid my key into the lock, waiting for familiarity to settle about me, seeking the comfort of my own space. I saw my paintings on the wall, my rugs, my furniture and they looked two dimensional, flat and colourless as though the life pouring out of me had stolen the life from everywhere else. I stretched out on the floor, deeply tired but unable to bear the thought of going into the bedroom and facing blood stained sheets.

  At some point the clouds had rolled in. Fat, pregnant raindrops splattered onto the skylight above and I watched as they exploded into smaller droplets and trickled slowly down the glass, meandering along until they joined up with others and became larger, running faster until they faded at the edges of the frame.

  The wooden floor lay uncomfortably against my shoulder blades as I watched these raindrop races, the foreground to a lowering, oppressive sky that pushed me further back into the floor and pinned me down. Slowly I began to move my arms and legs, no snow to leave an angel in, just the unyielding polished wood that smelled of lemons and age. I wondered whether what I did now would leave any impression on those that would come afterwards. Would they sense somehow that I had lain here? Would their shadows dip a miniscule amount as they spilled over this section of the floor, a subtle change they could sense somewhere deep within them?

  I would never know for sure whether the baby had been a little girl, but somewhere deep down I was certain of it and I felt her absence fill the space around me. I realised that I couldn’t stay here, where a blue line on a plastic wand had become wet, red linen; where for too short a time I had imagined a different reality from the one I faced now. Everything felt strange, alien, and I no longer belonged in the place where I had lost her. I needed to find somewhere else, anywhere else.