‘I wish I could remember my real mother,’ says Lorna. There is a heaviness in her chest. ‘It’s like . . . she, Daphne . . .’ she almost spits out her name ‘. . . has wiped my memories all clean.’

‘Mum!’ Saffy looks shocked at the anger in Lorna’s voice.

Lorna gets up. ‘I’m going to get us a drink,’ she says. She doesn’t know if she can do this. Sit by this woman’s bedside, knowing that she lied to them for all these years and perhaps even killed her real mother. Lorna’s just about to move towards the door when Rose’s eyes flutter open.

‘Gran, it’s me, Saffy,’ says her granddaughter, gently, lovingly.

It’s obvious she doesn’t recognize them today. She seems to shrink further into the bed as though scared of them.

‘It’s okay, Gran, it’s me,’ says Saffy, in a soothing voice, still holding the older woman’s hand. ‘It’s me, Saffy.’

‘Hello, Daphne,’ says Lorna. She can hear Saffy’s sharp intake of breath, feel her disapproval. ‘We know who you are. Who you really are.’

But the old woman in the bed just stares at each of them, eyes filled with terror. ‘Who are you?’

‘She’s your daughter, Gran. She’s Lolly.’

‘Lolly?’ She reaches for Lorna’s hand. ‘Is that really you? You look so grown-up.’

‘What happened to Rose?’ asks Lorna, crisply, refusing to take her hand. This woman who is no longer her mother. ‘I know she’s the other body in the garden.’

But she just blinks at her, confusion written all over her face. ‘My name is Rose,’ she says. ‘My name is Rose. My name is Rose.’

Goose bumps pop up along Lorna’s arms. It’s as though repeating it mantra-style will make it true. ‘No, it isn’t. It’s Jean. You’re Jean Burdon, aren’t you? You can admit it now. We know everything.’

‘My name is Rose.’

‘Stop it,’ snaps Lorna. ‘You owe us the truth.’

‘Mum!’ Saffy’s voice is hard. ‘You’re scaring her.’

‘I can’t do this. I just . . . can’t.’ Lorna walks over to the door. She needs to leave. She’ll wait for Saffy outside. Everything she believed in. All of it. It was one big lie.

‘Lolly.’

They both turn towards the bed. Her mother is struggling to sit up but her eyes are firmly fixed on Lorna. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, her voice desperate. Lorna’s shocked to see tears running down her creased cheeks. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

‘Why?’ asks Lorna, her voice thick and cracked with emotion. ‘Why did you do it?’

But the old woman in the bed just stares at her blankly, regarding Lorna as though she’s a stranger once again.

51

Rose

October 1980