The Things We Left Unsaid Read online

  Contents

  PART ONE Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  PART TWO Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  PART THREE Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  PART FOUR Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  PART FIVE Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Emma Kennedy is a bestselling author, TV writer, actress and presenter. She has written nine books including her bestselling memoirs, The Tent the Bucket and Me and I Left My Tent in San Francisco. She wrote the Wilma Tenderfoot series for children and has also adapted The Tent the Bucket and Me for the BBC, renamed The Kennedys. The Things We Left Unsaid is Emma’s debut adult novel.

  As an actress Emma has appeared in many award-winning comedies including Goodness Gracious Me, People Like Us and Miranda. Emma won Celebrity Masterchef in 2012 and is a Guinness World Record holder.

  Emma lives in Surrey with her wife and their dogs, and is hard at work on her next novel. You can follow her on Twitter @EmmaKennedy.

  Also available by Emma Kennedy

  fiction

  Shoes For Anthony

  non-fiction

  How to Bring Up Your Parents

  The Tent, The Bucket and Me

  I Left My Tent in San Francisco

  The Killing Handbook

  children’s

  Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Frozen Hearts

  Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Putrid Poison

  Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Fatal Phantom

  Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Rascal’s Revenge

  For Aunty Ann and Uncle John

  PART ONE

  ‘Nothing is ever really lost to us, as long as we remember it.’

  L. M. Montgomery

  Chapter One

  Then

  September 1964

  Eleanor was packing. She had a ticket for the 9.42 to Paddington and she couldn’t be late.

  ‘Do you think you’ll have sexual intercourse?’ Agnes was lying belly down on the bed, behind Eleanor’s suitcase. Her arms were stretched out above her head, her face pressed into the eiderdown. She said the words as if she’d only just learned them.

  ‘Don’t be coarse, Agnes.’ Eleanor turned and looked at a pile of jumpers. She wasn’t sure how many to take.

  ‘I’m not being coarse. I’m thinking about all the things that might ruin you, like being mauled by a bear or being crushed by falling masonry or having sexual intercourse.’

  Eleanor frowned. ‘You have the most vivid imagination of anyone I know. Mauled by a bear?’

  ‘Exit, chased by bear. That’s Shakespeare. So, you know, you might,’ said Agnes, turning her face sideways ‘Do you think by the time you come back I’ll be as tall as this bed?’

  Eleanor glanced down at her little sister, stretched out to her limits. ‘Only if you grow at least two feet in the next nine weeks, which is unlikely.’

  Agnes gave a small huff and pushed herself up. ‘It’s so frustrating. As soon as I’m as tall as you I can wear all your clothes.’

  ‘No, you cannot. And when I’m not here, don’t try.’ Eleanor picked up a heap of socks from a washing basket and began to sort them into pairs.

  Agnes dangled her legs off the edge of the bed and peered into Eleanor’s suitcase. ‘Are you sure you’re taking enough? You’re going to be gone for ages.’

  ‘I don’t know. But I’ve only got one suitcase. And I’ve got to fit books in as well. I’ll take two of everything. Except for socks and knickers. I’ll take seven pairs of those.’

  ‘Are you going to miss me?’ Agnes looked up, hopeful.

  ‘Not in the least.’

  Agnes’s face fell. ‘That’s disappointing. I think I shall miss you terribly.’

  ‘You’re not supposed to tell me that. Sisters are supposed to roll through life quietly resenting each other.’ Eleanor pressed a powder-blue jumper down into the suitcase.

  Agnes pushed herself off the bed and wandered over to the bookshelves in the corner of the room. ‘Can I have your encyclopedia?’ she asked, fingering the spine.

  ‘You can borrow it. Pass me those books on the top shelf. The Sylvia Plath, the John Fowles, To Kill a Mockingbird and’ – she peered towards the shelves, then glanced back into her suitcase – ‘anything else that’s thin.’

  Agnes gathered up the books carefully and carried them back to the bed. ‘I think you will miss me,’ she said, sitting down and swinging her legs. ‘I think you’re going to get to London and wish I was there. Unless you’re planning sexual intercourse, in which case you won’t.’

  Eleanor frowned. ‘You’re obsessed, Agnes. You’re only thirteen. You’re supposed to be riding around on a bike, pretending it’s a pony. Besides, I haven’t even got a boyfriend. I rather think that comes first, don’t you?’

  ‘Eleanor!’ a voice shouted up from downstairs. It was their mother. ‘Are you packed?’

  ‘Almost!’ Eleanor threw the socks into the side of the suitcase and squished them down.

  ‘It’s so strange you’re leaving,’ said Agnes, screwing her nose up. ‘It’s almost as if I don’t quite believe it. You know Daddy cried?’

  ‘He did not,’ said Eleanor, placing the books on top of the packed clothes. ‘You’re making that up.’

  ‘I am not. I saw him getting into his car and his face was entirely wet. You’re his favourite, you know. He’ll be furious he’s left with me.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ replied Eleanor, pressing down on the suitcase. ‘He hasn’t got a favourite. In fact, I’m not entirely sure he likes either of us. Not really. Here, lend a hand. Press down on that side so I can get this shut.’

  ‘I think I’ll only have one child.’ Agnes pushed her full weight down on to the top of the suitcase. ‘That way there can be no confusion as to who I like the best. How many children do you think you’ll have?’

  ‘Heaps of them,’ replied Eleanor. ‘All running around. At least five. Press down harder. I can’t get this done up.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Agnes pushed again. ‘If you have five you won’t remember their names. You might lose one in a department store and not notice for days.’

  ‘It’s no good. You’re going to have to sit on it. I’ll put it on the floor.’

  Agnes leaned back and Eleanor picked up th
e suitcase with both arms. ‘Right,’ she said, placing it down, ‘you sit on it.’

  Agnes scrambled off the bed and sat, as heavily as she could, on the suitcase. Eleanor got down on her knees and pulled at the leather buckle. ‘Almost,’ she said, straining. ‘Sit a bit harder.’

  Agnes bore down.

  ‘Got it.’ Eleanor leaned back and blew out. ‘You can get off now.’

  Agnes stood and Eleanor picked up the suitcase and rested it buckle side up. She glanced at her watch. ‘Just in time too. Shall we say goodbye now?’ She looked at her sister.

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Agnes, clasping her hands behind her back. ‘I’d rather not.’

  Eleanor shook her head. ‘What a peculiar child you are, Ag. I shall miss your oddness. I’ll give you that.’

  ‘I am not odd. I am interesting. And I can definitely borrow your encyclopedia?’ She glanced over towards it.

  Eleanor nodded. ‘Yes. You can read it whenever you want.’

  ‘Eleanor!’ Another call came up the stairs. ‘We’re going to be late!’

  ‘Coming!’

  ‘I’m not going to cry,’ said Agnes, sticking her chin out.

  ‘Neither am I,’ said Eleanor, dragging her suitcase out to the landing.

  Agnes stood listening as her sister thumped the suitcase down the stairs. Her mother was muttering something, agitated and tense. She looked around her sister’s room. It was slightly bigger than her own and had a bed that didn’t creak every time you turned over.

  ‘I’m not going to cry,’ she said again, as if willing herself to believe it. ‘I’m not.’

  Downstairs the front door slammed shut and she could hear Eleanor dragging her suitcase up the front path. She went to the window and looked out. Her mother was getting into the car. She was frowning, the way she did when she was on the verge of feeling frantic.

  ‘Oh no,’ Agnes suddenly said. ‘The beret I made for her!’ She ran from the room and dashed into her own.

  Eleanor cast a glance back up to her bedroom window. There was no sign of Agnes. Despite all her bravado, she felt a short pang of regret. She’d never been away from home, not even for a night. This was the house she had been born in, the pretty white cottage that sat on the hill and looked out over wide horizons. The world had always been there, right in front of her eyes, and yet here she was, standing still, unsure, a little frightened and longing for her sister to reappear.

  ‘Eleanor,’ called her mother again. ‘Get a move on.’

  She put a hand on the garden gate. It was time to leave.

  Chapter Two

  Now

  Rachel stood, bag in hand, facing the single bed rammed into the corner of the room: the old iron bedstead that creaked every time you breathed, the mattress that sucked you into an inexplicable hole like a thin, narrow coffin, the springs that felt as if they might bruise your kidneys.

  She let the bag slip from her hand to the floor. She’d bring the boxes up later; for now, she needed a moment, away from her mother, away from any set of eyes that might catch hers. Here she was, back in her old room, and there wasn’t a single thing she could do about it.

  The bed was made up, as it always was, the lighthouse for whenever she needed to come home. Her mother had never got round to upgrading it to a double. Rachel had always considered that a deliberate rudeness; now it felt prophetic. She let her hand drift across the crumpled cotton of the duvet and the faint scent of something clean and clinical drifted upwards.

  She looked around. Bright yellow wallpaper, imprinted with tiny daisy chains, a charcoal sketch of Rachel as a child, drawn by her mother one autumn morning when they still got on. Rachel stared at it and thought about how life chips away at you: the disappointments, the bad decisions, the small, brooding resentments that take hold in the gaps. She had no solid memory of when it began to turn sour, still less of whether either of them really cared. They had been through so much of late, it was hard to remember if they got on or not. They were two women bound by a birth, and Eleanor had no other children to fall back on. Here was another thing her mother could be disappointed in. Add it to the list.

  To the left of the portrait was a rickety bookcase that relied on a battered encyclopaedia for a leg. It was crammed with Rachel’s old books: vintage children’s stories that took her back to big chairs and roaring fires. A desk sat in front of the large sash window that always stuck on the way up, and on it were a pencil pot waiting in vain, a pair of cashmere socks that were still in their shop wrapping, a packet of royal baby playing cards, a small rosewood Buddha, a silver tankard she’d won at school for a painting competition and a crumpled, over-loved teddy, her beloved Mr Tumnus. He was leaning against a photo frame and, as she picked him up for a reassuring cuddle, she saw it: the smiling photo of Claude, the man who was now supposed to be her husband. Without a second thought she picked up the frame and tossed it into a wicker bin.

  She noticed her old bedside table: thick oak legs and a round top that Rachel had once spent a day covering in pictures cut from magazines. There was a word for it in crafting circles. Découpage. The art of taking disparate things and making something new. She’d removed the varnish, sanded it down and spent hours cutting pictures from her mother’s art-and-design magazines before gluing them on. Her father, Charlie, had come in and opened all her windows, letting out the scent of acrylic sealant. ‘Do you want me to carry that outside for you?’ he had asked, nodding towards the table. ‘Air in here’s like a glue factory.’ She couldn’t remember how she’d answered but she had a visceral memory of how she had felt: the sudden blind outrage at a parental intrusion. She’d sent him packing, backing out of the room, hands held up in defeat. ‘Only trying to help,’ he had said.

  Rachel lifted another framed picture from the table and stared into it: black and white, taken when she was five, perhaps six. She had a mass of blonde wayward curls, a sea breeze blowing it back from her ears. She was sitting with Charlie on a rock at the edge of a cliff, Cornwall maybe, the perfect chilly image of an English summer. She had a curious expression, her eyes slightly narrowed, and she was looking off, following the direction of her father’s pointed finger, one arm extended, his other arm cradling her back, keeping her safe. His corduroys, a little flared (but not enough to be fashionable), billowed out as if his ankles were flagpoles, but the one detail she loved most were his shoes. For some reason that summer, her father wore a pair of blue-and-white bowling shoes. They were entirely out of character, as too was the beard he was sporting. It was a summer of rebellion. He’d stopped shaving, as if for a dare, curious to see what would manifest itself on his chin. She ran a finger over his face.

  This was her favourite picture of him.

  Downstairs, a door opened. Someone had arrived, again, the third that day, to ‘see how Rachel was’.

  Rachel froze, listening for her mother’s hushed voice. Over the last two days it had been as if Rachel had died: sombre calls from relatives, deliveries of endless boxes of cupcakes as if they were somehow imbued with the power of healing. Note to self: they’re not. But Rachel hadn’t died. She’d moved back to live with her mother because she had to. She was the ghost of her former self.

  Rachel let a long sigh heave itself out, put the framed picture back down on the table and turned towards the door. Soft footsteps were padding up the stairs. Rachel felt the knot in her stomach tighten another twist. Here we go again.

  Two gentle raps and the door opened towards her. A head appeared, soft blue eyes hooded in an expression of empathy.

  ‘Hello, Agnes,’ said Rachel, seeing her aunt. Her mouth mustered a weak smile. She felt her shoulders relax. Agnes, she could cope with.

  ‘My poor darling.’

  Agnes approached, arms extended, and drew Rachel to her. Rachel stared over Agnes’s shoulder towards a small chest of drawers against the wall, her eyes blank and lifeless.

  ‘I can’t tell you how furious I am. Boiling,’ she said, pulling back and holding her by t
he shoulders. ‘That man is an utter shit.’

  Rachel let out an involuntary laugh.

  ‘Do you know, I’m glad,’ Agnes continued. ‘I am. I’m glad that pond scum of a man hasn’t married you. You might not think it now. I don’t expect you to. But if he’s capable of doing that, you’re better off out of it.’

  Agnes let her hands fall from Rachel’s shoulders. She was younger than Rachel’s mother, Eleanor, by five years, an unexpected bonus for her grandparents, who had thought all chance of having another child was gone. She was in her mid-sixties, a light, bouncing presence, wicked, mischievous, blunt. She wasn’t as attractive as her elder sister: Eleanor had been blessed with high cheekbones and a heart-shaped jawline; Agnes was more solid, full of the sort of enthusiasm that’s required when someone needs a personality to get on. She’d aged well.

  ‘Have you spoken to him?’ Agnes moved to the edge of the bed and sat down, her hands falling into her lap. The ancient springs groaned.

  Rachel shook her head and leaned back against the wall, folding her arms. ‘Not a word. Not a single word. It’s like he’s vanished. I wouldn’t put it past him to be on our honeymoon in Turks and Caicos.’

  ‘He wouldn’t dare, surely?’

  ‘All bets are off, Agnes. I didn’t think he was capable of doing this and look where we are …’

  ‘I’d happily give him a piece of my mind. I’m tempted to set up shop here, just in case he turns up. Chase him off with a spade. No. A rake. More prongs.’ She stopped and tilted her head as she looked up at Rachel. ‘Has he given you any indication why he did it? Anything?’

  Rachel gave a shrug and Agnes’s eyes widened, her eyebrows raised in a look of utter incomprehension.

  ‘No. Tom just had one text telling him he wasn’t coming. That’s it. That’s all we’ve got.’