The Faithless - Martina Cole [87]
From that day, Celeste Parker never left her mother’s home, not even for a few hours.
Book Three
As is the mother, so is her daughter
Ezekiel 16:44
It is not what a lawyer tells me I may do; but what
humanity, reason, and justice tell me I ought to do
Edmund Burke (1729–97)
Chapter Seventy-Five
1998
‘What’s the matter with you, child?’ Mary was worried about her granddaughter, she was very quiet these days, as if the light had gone out of her, and had been ever since coming out of care.
‘I’m all right, Nana, I just don’t feel that great lately.’
‘You’re not sickening for anything, are you?’
Gabby laughed at that. It was Irish for ‘Are you pregnant?’
‘Don’t worry, Nana, that’s not what’s wrong with me.’
She saw the palpable relief on her grandmother’s face and sighed inwardly. She wished she was pregnant; it would be lovely to have a baby of her own. Something to love and care for. A little person who loved you back unconditionally. Gabby craved love like other people craved water or food. It was because of her upbringing – God knows, the new social worker had told her that enough times. She grimaced at the thought of Miss Byrne; though she liked the woman, she could be hard work.
But that wasn’t what was bothering her. How could she tell her grandmother that after nearly three years her mother wanted contact again? Of all the things she had expected that had not been one of them. And Miss Byrne was all for it! She said it would give Gabby ‘closure’. What a crock of shit! What it would give her was untold aggravation, which was all her mother had ever brought to anyone in her life.
Still, she couldn’t deny her interest was piqued. She was curious to see how her mother had fared since she had disappeared, and she would love to ask her how she could have dumped her two kids so unceremoniously without a second’s thought. Then why ask the road you know? She knew the answer to that question already. Cynthia had walked away because that is what she did; she made a mess and she ran from it as soon as it got out of hand. Her husband had killed himself and what had she done? Left her children to cope with the fallout.
‘Are you going to answer me, madam?’
Gabby was brought back to the present by her grandmother’s harsh words.
‘Am I talking to myself here or what?’ Mary was clearly irritated.
‘Sorry, Nana, I was miles away.’
Kissing her nana’s cheek, Gabby left the room and went to her bedroom. She sat on her bed and looked around. It was pretty enough; she liked the pale pinks and greens in the curtains and bedspread, the cream walls left unadorned – not a pop star or film star to be seen. She’d made it almost clinical, and she knew that was the result of years of being in her mother’s house where there was never any mess whatsoever. She could still hear her mother’s voice: ‘Do you know how much that wallpaper cost a roll? And you want to put fucking Sellotape on it!’ She had heard it many times, and it had always made her angry inside. Other girls had posters, pictures of ponies, whatever on their walls, but not her.
She pushed the thoughts from her mind; she was only thinking about her mother because the social worker had told her she wanted to see her. That was it. It was a natural reaction but, still, it was stirring up unpleasant memories.
Gabby looked in the small dressing-table mirror at herself, wondering what her mother would think of her now. At sixteen she was a beauty, or so everyone kept telling her. She was also the living image of Cynthia. She stared into her deep-blue eyes, framed by dark lashes, and looked at her mouth, the wide-lipped mouth that was so fashionable at the moment. She was prettier than most girls, and that wasn’t her being big-headed – it was a fact. Anyway, she knew that