My Mother's Silence

by Lauren Westwood

Genres: General Fiction; Literary Fiction; Women's Fiction; Crime Fiction; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

‘Mum wants to know when you’re coming home.’ They were the only words that could ever make me return; the words that I’d been waiting to hear for all these years. The day Ginny died, Skye lost more than just her sister. Though her mother, Mary ’s, strength held their family together, Skye never saw her cry, and her silence made Skye feel alone in her grief. It overwhelmed Skye, and after Ginny’s funeral, she left, wondering if her mother blamed her for not being there the night Ginny fell. When Skye learns that Mary is desperate to see her for the first time in fifteen years, she hopes that it’s a chance to build back their relationship over homemade shortbread and walks along the beach. To mend their hearts, which have been broken for so long. Mary’s face is lined, but her hazel-green eyes are the same. The warm scent of lavender and apple hasn’t changed. But there is so much Skye doesn’t know about her mother. And as she finally begins to feel close to her again, Skye starts to uncover secrets about Ginny’s death that may tear their family apart for good… My Mother’s Silence is a twisty and emotional novel about the bonds between mothers and daughters, and what happens when we hide things from those we love the most. Fans of Diane Chamberlain, Liane Moriarty and Kerry Fisher will be gripped. What readers are saying about My Mother’s Silence : ‘5 stars, without a doubt!… I found myself lost in the moment turning page after page, loving every moment of pure intrigue… fans of Liane Moriarty and Sally Hepworth will surely enjoy it!’ Misty’s Corner Reviews, 5 stars ‘Definitely a must read book! Needless to say this book pulled hard on my heartstrings from the very beginning and didn’t let go… will stick with you well after you finish reading it… Such a masterpiece.’ Heidi Lynn’s Book reviews, 5 stars ‘A beautifully written and emotional read… Loved this page turning story.’ Goodreads reviewer ‘ Lauren Westwood has smashed it out of the park with a roaring whack!!… This book affected me in a lot of ways… I was left with a pain deep inside me, pain of the unshed tears for the mother and daughter who had lost so much but found each other. I could write pages, but I have to stop here with a tear rolling down my cheek. ’ Book reviews by Shalini, 5 stars ‘A stellar read!... Powerful and evocative… I was taut with tension with my shoulders near my ears and suspected each secondary character at some point in reading. I was unwilling to put my Kindle down and deeply resented any interruption.’ Books and Bindings, 5 stars ‘I was drawn into the drama of the past, the secrets, lies and family connections. I couldn't put this book down. Equally emotional and cathartic. It truly was a riveting read.’ Robin Loves Reading ‘Beautiful and emotional… A powerful read that will stay with you after you’ve put the book down. ’ Goodreads reviewer, 5 stars ‘The writing was so evocative in this novel and the Scottish highland scenery almost became another character. You become drawn in and invested in finding out the truth. A thoroughly enjoyable read with a wholly satisfying and beautifully hopeful ending.’ Goodreads reviewer, 5 stars ‘A story of love and loss and triumph over despair. I look forward to reading more by this author, she is really that good. I highly recommend this book.’ Goodreads reviewer, 5 stars

Release date: November 11, 2019

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 290

Sample

The mists are closing in. Swirling down from the barren hills, creeping out of the glens. The light is fading fast, and with it, my resolve. This is wrong. I shouldn’t be here.

I wrap the tooled leather strap of my handbag tightly around my palm, cutting off the circulation. But I can’t stop the tide of memories, growing stronger by the mile as the coach heads west.

Some of them are beautiful and shiny: memories of my childhood, especially at this time of the year. The buttery smell of shortbread in the oven; the dogs sleeping on a rug by the fire. Guests arriving for dinner; Dylan songs on the guitar; board games and laughter. Snow, falling in great white flurries onto the beach.

I unwrap and examine each one like a child on Christmas morning. Dad stringing lights on the tree, Bill, my little brother, held up to put the star on top. Mum at the hearth lighting a fire to stave off the cold that was forever seeking a way in through the nooks and crannies. The warm glow of being together. A long time ago.

The coach turns northward and I catch a glimpse of the sea. Mauve-grey, almost purple, with a ghost of orange haze on the horizon as the sun slips away. I see my own reflection in the window, the image sharpening as darkness sets in. For a moment, it’s as if I’m seeing someone else’s face, Ginny’s face, staring back at me from the darkness. Daring me to unwrap those other memories, the ones in the package with no bow and the tag that’s fallen off. Remove the tissue paper, look inside…

‘Eilean Shiel,’ the driver calls out.

I free my hand and untie the scarf around my neck, struggling to breathe. I should have called out and asked the driver to stop, to let me off miles back – anywhere but here. Now, though, it’s too late. A middle-aged woman across the aisle looks at me and frowns.

‘You OK, love?’

‘Yes,’ I say hoarsely, though it’s probably obvious that I’m not. Since I made my escape fifteen years ago, I suppose that I have been ‘OK’. I’ve had good times that have nothing to do with this place. I’ve seen the sunrise over the Mojave Desert, driven the Sunset Strip with the top down. I’ve lived in Vegas and Nashville, and lots of places in between. I’ve got good memories that I can unwrap and relive when I need them the most: on a sleepless night in a dive motel, in a car driving mile after mile down a long, lonely stretch of highway. Dad used to say that without the bad times, you’d never know how good you have it. Dad said a lot of things, most of which I’ve learned the hard way. But in the end, I can look back and say that I’ve done the best I can. Done my best to live a life for both me and Ginny.

The coach pulls up at the bus shelter across from the village hall. The door opens and the woman opposite stands up, collecting her bag from the overhead rack. I sit there, not moving, staring out towards the dark, infinite sea. The woman walks to the front of the coach and stops, looking back in my direction. I’m worried she might try to talk to me again. I make myself stand up and move forward.

I step off the coach onto the pavement. The orange sodium lights can’t even begin to dispel the darkness. I’d forgotten about the darkness, so heavy and eternal this time of year. But it’s the cold that’s truly shocking. I pull my scarf back around my neck and clench my teeth to stop them chattering. The wind lashes at my skin, my thin coat unable to keep out the chill.

The driver opens the bottom of the coach to unload the baggage. I look out along the curve of the bay to the dark headland opposite the village. Through the drizzle I can just make out the pinprick glow of lights. The cottage where I grew up. In a few minutes, once I get a taxi, those lights will be my reality. Out there, no amount of shiny memories can make up for what’s coming. I’ll be seeing Mum again; I’ll be coming home.

As the driver unloads the baggage, fifteen years seems like yesterday. I’d just turned twenty and was going the other way: Eilean Shiel to Fort William, Fort William to Glasgow, and, eventually, a plane to America. Yesterday for me. But what will it seem like for Mum?

We’ve been in touch – of course we have. A hurried postcard, the odd strained phone call on birthdays and Christmases. My brother, Bill, acts as the messenger between the trenches, supplying regular updates by email. I’m grateful that he makes the effort, and sorry that he has to do so. When he contacted me in late November to say that Mum had had a fall and fractured her ankle, I was worried. I sent flowers, chocolates and a nice card. When he wrote again and told me where it happened, I cried. And then, on a lonely November night when I was dying for a different town, a new lover – something, anything – to make a new escape, Bill rang me. Mum, he said, had asked for me. ‘She wants to know when you’re coming home.’ He didn’t know that those were the only words that could ever make me come back here; the words that I’d been waiting for all these years. I packed up my things, and booked a flight…

The woman from the coach is still watching me. I take out my phone, pretending I have an important text to send. There’s no signal. No pretending here.

‘What you got in there, lass?’ the driver says, bowing under the weight of my wheelie case. ‘Gold nuggets?’ His accent rings in my ears. The rich, almost sing-song voice of the Western Highlands. Over the years, I’ve met people who’ve thought my accent was ‘cute’, ‘sexy’, ‘melodic’, ‘weird’. To me, though, it sounds like home.

‘I thought I was travelling pretty light,’ I say.

He sets my case on the pavement. ‘In my day, all we needed was a toothbrush and a change of knickers.’

I laugh at that, which warms me up inside. A little.

The driver closes the hatch and I wheel my case to the side. It’s heavy because I threw in a few books at the last minute, but it’s small considering that I don’t know how long I’ll be staying. Before I left, I gave notice on my rental house in Vegas. As I was packing, I discovered that I had almost no warm clothing. A few cotton jumpers, a pair of boots, some scarves, and a knit hat with sequins and a fake fur pom-pom. I shoved what I could into the suitcase, left my guitar with a friend, and gave everything else to charity. I’m used to being a nomad, a vagabond. My roots have shrivelled up and died.

The driver climbs back aboard and the door shuts with a hydraulic hiss. The engine judders to life. There may still be time. This is the end of the line, but if I gave him twenty quid, I’m sure he’d let me back on. Drop me at a different village, a different cove, maybe take me all the way back to Fort William.

Too late. The coach pulls away. The woman is still hovering about. I stand up a little straighter, like I know what the hell I’m doing next. In fact, I’ve no idea. There are no taxis. There used to be a village taxi that met the coach, I’m sure of it.

‘Would you be needing a ride, love?’ the woman says. ‘My other half will be here in a few minutes. He’s meeting me.’ She smiles and, in the glow of the lights, something about her looks familiar. I don’t want familiar.

‘No, thanks,’ I say. ‘Someone’s meeting me too.’ The lie comes easily.

‘Right,’ she says. Car headlamps come towards us, blinding me for a second. ‘This is me, then. You sure…?’

‘Yes, I’ll be fine. You have a good evening.’ I take advantage of a well-practiced ‘have a nice day’ American answer to everything.

As the car pulls up, the woman cocks her head. ‘It’s good you’ve finally come home,’ she says. ‘Your mum will be glad to see you.’

I stare at her as she gets in the car. If only I knew for sure that that was true. Her words poke at the place inside where my guilt is coiled, lying in wait. She doesn’t know anything – can’t know anything. About the things that can never be unsaid, the wounds that time can plaster over but never heal.

The car drives away and I’m left standing in the wind and the darkness, feeling utterly alone.

The drizzle is becoming a steady rain and I can no longer see the lights on the headland. I take a breath and steel myself. It’s fine that there are no taxis. It’s late afternoon, not the middle of the night. I haven’t eaten for over six hours, not since the airport at Glasgow. I’ll walk into the village, get a coffee, warm up, and call for a taxi. I’ll be half an hour at most. It will be good to get the lay of the land again before going to the cottage. I’ve rehearsed my reunion with Mum many times in my head, but it won’t hurt to go through it again. What’s another half hour when it’s been fifteen years?

I walk quickly, hunched over as the wind blows the rain into my face. The village is only a few streets, all of which lead down to the harbour and the promenade along the front.

I head towards Annie’s Tearoom. I can’t remember a time when it wasn’t there, and the summer before I left, I worked there part-time serving tea and cakes and clearing tables. It’s owned by a woman called Annie MacClellan, whom everyone in the village called ‘Aunt Annie’, probably because she knew everything about everyone, and was everyone’s best friend – if you stayed on her good side. Annie made melt-in-the-mouth cranachan from wild raspberries and fresh cream, and in winter her clootie dumpling, rich and heavy with dried fruit and spices, was the toast of Hogmanay. Cranachan, clootie, black bun… all those remembered tastes and smells… My senses go on high alert.

My bag rumbles behind me along the uneven pavement. I pass a row of gabled, whitewashed cottages and as I get nearer the water, a small parade of shops. Most of them are closed, but the Spar is open, along with a general store selling fishing supplies, souvenirs and so-called antiques. A signboard outside, optimistically advertising ice cream, creaks in the wind.

The harbour is deserted. I pass the boat-launching ramp, strewn with fishing traps and nets. The breakwater juts out into the gloom and a few wind-tossed boats are moored along the front. My eyes are tearful from the salt and the sharp gusts of wind. I turn onto the promenade looking for Annie’s Tearoom along the row of buildings. Where is it? It can’t be… gone.

I come to the place where I know it must be. The teashop is dark and there’s a sign in the window. Closed. I shut my eyes until the irrational sense of despair ebbs away. Regroup, start again. I’m good at making new starts. Not so good at making them last. I don’t need a coffee and a cake anyway.

I walk on. A little way further down the front there’s a lit up sign: The Fisherman’s Arms.

Fish and chips – now there’s a thought. The proper kind, wrapped in newspaper, doused so thoroughly with salt and vinegar that the flavours stick on your tongue, making you thirsty for hours afterwards. Dad used to take us for them on Saturday evenings in summer. We’d find a bench along the front, and the gulls would swoop and dive, squabbling over dropped chips. Bill would chase after them, leaving his chips on the bench to be attacked by other birds. The batter was crisp and the fish was so moist it would just flake apart. How could I have forgotten those fish and chips?

I hurry towards the lit up sign. The pub is neatly whitewashed, and there’s a strand of Christmas lights strung inside the bay window. As soon as I open the door, my senses are assaulted by familiar smells: frying food, beer, and wood smoke. The warmth draws me in. I shiver from the sheer pleasure of it.

The pub isn’t crowded. A few tables are occupied by couples and families eating fish and chips, and an old man is playing a fruit machine by the door. The room is lit by lanterns and wall lights made from old glass fishing floats. In the corner at the back there’s a carved figurehead of a woman with flowing hair trimmed with rose garlands. I recall the odd prickly sensation I had, aged twelve or so, when I first noticed the bare breasts of the figurehead. Even now the carved woman strikes me as garish and risqué.

I approach the bar. Most of the stools are taken. The bartender’s back is to me as he pours a measure of whiskey into a glass. But even before he turns around, I know him. I had no idea he worked here now, or else I wouldn’t have come inside. I should have arranged for a taxi before I arrived, or better yet, rented a car in Glasgow. Now, it’s too late. He turns around and spots me. Byron.

He stares at me. Long seconds pass. I don’t know which is worse: that he recognise me, or not recognise me. Surely, I haven’t changed that much…

A smile blooms across his face. He begins walking towards me. His fair hair is longer than it was back then, his skin tanner, like he’s been somewhere getting winter sun. He’s still big, and though he’s wearing a woolly grey fisherman’s jumper, looks very fit. His features are bold and handsome, the years making the planes and angles more defined. Byron…

Once I would have done anything for Byron.

‘Skye! Skye Turner – it’s you, isn’t it?’

‘Guilty,’ I say, then instantly regret it.

Byron engulfs me in his strong arms. He smells of beer and man and it’s so familiar that my knees wobble.

‘So let’s see you.’ He holds me at arm’s length. ‘You look great. What’s it been? Ten years?’

‘Fifteen,’ I say hoarsely.

‘Fifteen! Did you hear that, Lachie?’

A ginger-haired man with a scraggly beard turns around on one of the bar stools. I know him too. Lachlan McCray.

‘Yeah,’ Lachlan says. He doesn’t smile or look remotely friendly.

‘And you’re a celebrity now!’ Byron’s voice is loud enough that people are starting to look over. He’s still holding on to my shoulders.

‘No.’ I take an awkward step back. ‘No, I’m not.’

‘Oh, come on,’ Byron teases, ‘don’t be modest. Wee Bill keeps us updated. We’ve all seen you on YouTube.’

This is getting worse and worse. When I left here everyone knew that I had big dreams. Singing my songs, on my terms, conquering the world with elegant poetry and haunting melodies. Instead I’ve spent most of the time tarted up in denim and diamonds, singing country music classics in tacky shows and cheap nightclubs. I suppose it was too much to hope for that they didn’t know that.

‘Great.’ I manage not to wince.

‘Our own hometown girl made good,’ Byron says. ‘God, fifteen years! I can’t believe it’s that long since…’

I brace myself. He cuts off. Lachlan’s eyes meet mine. There’s a moment of recognition: that this conversation can go nowhere, other than down paths that are best left deserted and overgrown with weeds.

‘… since I left,’ I finish for him.

‘Hey, are you staying on for Hogmanay?’ Byron deftly changes the subject. ‘We could use you. You remember the fire festival, right?’

As if I could ever forget. The fire festival is a big local event that takes in five villages on New Year’s Eve. There’s a bonfire on the beach, food stalls along the front, carnival rides on the sports field, and a parade of boats trimmed with lights in the harbour. The boats are blessed for winter by the vicar, and one lucky teenage girl gets crowned Queen of the Fleet. The year we turned eighteen, it was Ginny. I remember how beautiful she looked as she sat on the bow of the first boat, her long hair billowing behind her. Not my sort of thing, but I guess I was a little jealous that it wasn’t me. And then later on that evening, Byron took my hand by the bonfire. Kissed me and told me that to him I was Queen of the Universe. And even though I knew we couldn’t be forever, it was enough. I wonder if he even remembers that night.

‘I’m helping organise the stalls and the entertainment,’ he says. ‘We’ve got a ceilidh band lined up. It would be brilliant if you could perform with them. Just a song or two. Our own celebrity!’

I doubt he remembers, and I wish he would drop the groupie act. Byron always had the knack for saying what you wanted to hear exactly when you needed to hear it. I can’t let him strip away my defences and reduce me to that needy teenage girl again. The one who wanted praise and recognition for herself, not just to bask in the reflected light of her twin sister. The one who was proud that he loved me best.

‘I’m taking a break from performing just now.’ I smile casually. ‘Recharging my batteries.’ Now it’s me who’s sounding fake, like this is all some kind of restorative trip before I’m on to the next big thing. But what am I supposed to do? Trot out the fact that my Vegas gig dropped me a few months ago? Does that constitute small talk among old friends – first loves – who haven’t seen each other for years?

‘Right, well, speaking of recharging, what can I get you to drink?’ He stands back and peers at me. ‘Let’s see, what was your poison…? Ah, yes: whiskey and Coke.’

Bile rises in my throat, though I know he’s just being hospitable. I like a drink or two – maybe more than I should. But I haven’t had so much as a drop of whiskey since leaving here.

‘Just a beer, please. A half.’

Byron frowns like he’s expecting me to stay all afternoon for a piss-up instead of going to Mum’s. Then again, maybe he suspects that I’m here at the pub to delay the inevitable. And maybe I am.

‘Actually, I came to find a taxi,’ I say. ‘There weren’t any at the bus stop.’

He goes behind the bar, takes a half pint glass and fills it with rich, amber beer. I take out my card to pay, but he waves it away.

‘Lachie can give you a lift,’ Byron says. ‘Whenever you want.’

I glance over at Lachlan. He’s talking to an old man in a deerstalker hat on the stool next to him. He doesn’t break off his conversation.

‘I don’t want to be a bother,’ I say. ‘Isn’t there someone I can call?’

‘Lachie’s the cabbie,’ a woman at the end of the bar says. ‘Officially.’

I look over her way and do a double take. She’s about sixty, with a wrinkled, heavily made-up face and dyed orange hair that’s loose and unkempt around her face. She’s wearing a big necklace with macramé beads, and chunky rings on every finger. She wouldn’t be out of place at a trucker bar in Tennessee or Arizona, some sad dive where a man passing through can get almost anything for ten bucks. I feel guilty for thinking that, because I also recognise her.

‘Aunt Annie?’ I say. Byron hands me the half pint.

The woman gives a phlegmy laugh. ‘More like grandma now.’ She bats a ringed hand in my direction. There’s a big gap in the front of her mouth where she’s lost a tooth. ‘It’s been a lot of years, love.’

‘I know!’ A tiny tear forms in the corner of my eye. Somehow seeing Annie MacClellan makes my being here seem real, even more than seeing Byron.

She cocks her head to look at me. ‘You were always in such a hurry to leave. Why bother to come back now?’

There’s a barb in her voice that puts me on edge. It’s true that when I worked for her, I was always banging on about the life I was going to have once I escaped the misty veils of Eilean Shiel. How Ginny and I were going to become big stars, somewhere better than here. But that was so long ago…

I give her a warm grin to dispel the tension. ‘I missed your clootie and black bun, Aunt Annie. They were calling to me from across the miles.’

She laughs again, but her kohl-lined eyes are guarded. I hold the half pint of beer up to my nose and breathe in the hearty, yeasty smell. I don’t really want it, but I drink it anyway. I should have laid low and avoided the pub. Eased into things more gradually. Byron, Annie, Lachlan – all here, all different. What will Mum be like after fifteen years?

I choke down the dregs of the beer and put the empty glass on the counter. ‘I just need the loo,’ I say. ‘And then I’m really sorry, Lachlan, but could you give me a lift to the cottage?’

Lachlan turns back, studying me in a way that’s a little uncomfortable. We used to think of him as an ‘almost’ kid. He almost played football at the regionals, got a couple of A-levels and almost went to university. He was never as cool as Byron, or as rich as James. He was never as fun, witty, or clever as the rest of us – or as vain and conceited. Yet Lachlan was always there in the background. Observing. Judging. I’m not looking forward to getting a lift with him.

‘Sure,’ he says.

‘Thanks.’ I go to the other side of the bar where a door leads to the loos and the pool tables upstairs. The corridor is unheated and the cold is startling after the warm bar. In the loo I stare for a long time at my reflection in the mirror. When I left here I had just turned twenty. Now, I’m thirty-five. My face is thinner, my dark hair longer. My eyes are my best feature: green flecked with hazel. But in this light, they look almost blue. More like Ginny’s.

For the most part, Ginny and I never looked that much alike. She was blonde and fair, and stunningly beautiful. Most people were surprised to learn that we were sisters, let alone twins. Though most people weren’t surprised that I was the eldest, if only by a few minutes. Dad used to say that I had an ‘old soul’. Ginny, in contrast, was like a little girl who didn’t want to grow up. A free spirit; unruly and untameable.

I splash water on my face and put on lip gloss. It’s time to go. I can’t delay any longer. I need to see Mum. Face Mum. Find out if it’s really possible to come home after all the years.

As I re-enter the noisy bar area I imagine that, just for a moment, there’s a hush. I hear a voice: Aunt Annie talking to the man next to her: ‘… dead sister.’

I need to get out of here. Panic begins to well up inside of me, just like earlier on the coach. Panic laced with resignation. Here, I will always be that girl, even when I’m as old as Annie MacClellan. Some things you can never escape. I should know. I’ve been running away for fifteen years. Now I’m right back where I started.

Outside the pub the wind is relentless, whipping the rain diagonally. The boats at anchor creak and groan, and waves batter the stone wall along the front. Almost as soon as I step outside, my coat is soaked through by rain and spray. The good thing about the weather is that there’s no question of idly shooting the breeze with Lachlan. Both of us bow our heads and hurry along as quickly as we can.

Lachlan’s vehicle, a Nissan Qashqai, is parked up near the bus stop. He beeps the locks and I heft my bag into the back. The Nissan is freezing, but at least it’s dry. As soon as I close the door, I experience an odd sensation of light-headedness. I hate being a passenger in a car, with someone else driving. It gives me a panicky sensation of being out of control. At least it’s a short journey.

When Lachlan starts the car, the stereo blares on. I recognise the CD: ‘Capernaum’ by the Tannahill Weavers, a traditional Scottish band. I feel an unexpected rush of nostalgia. When we were teenagers, Ginny knew the words to all their songs, and I’d pick out the. . .