Ann Troup - My Mother the Liar

Every family has its secrets

Two dead bodies. A lifetime of secrets.

When Rachel Porters estranged mother dies, she returns to her family home filled with dread about having to face her past, and the people who populated it.

Little does she know that there are dead bodies waiting to be discovered, and a lifetime of secrets are about to unravel.

Secrets kept by her mother, the liar.

The Lost Child

The Silent Girls

The Forgotten Room

Contents

ANN TROUP

Lives by the sea in Devon with her husband and dog. Two children have been known to remember the house, which they call home, but mainly when they are in need of a decent roast dinner, its Christmas or when only Mum will do. In a former incarnation she was a psychiatric nurse, an experience that frequently informs her writing and which supplies a never-ending source of inspiration. You can contact Ann on Facebook or at anntroup.wordpress.com

As always its the readers and reviewers who make it all worthwhile so my thanks go to them first. I wont name names, the list would be longer than the book and you know who you are.

Gratitude to Charlotte Mursell and Nia Beynon at HQ for some awesome author wrangling and telling me Im a pleasure to work with and (almost) making me believe it.

Last but not least, to the usual suspects for all the virtual gin and hugs!

To Julia, Lesley and Sue sisters of the less psychotic kind

Rachels mother had been fond of blanket statements that set others indelibly in their places. Proud of her insights into the characters of others, she had set out her childrens traits like a script. As if they were pickles in jars, all three of her daughters had been permanently labelled and preserved by her assertions. Frances was the clever one, Stella was useless, and Rachel was just downright difficult.

Did all parents like to define their offspring, leaving their children floundering and typecast? Rachel felt imperfectly moulded by her family, an inconvenient, bit-part player in the sometimes drama that had been her life. It had made her bitter.

Now her mother was dead. Valerie was no more and Rachel wasnt feeling much of anything except antipathy.

She would have known about Valeries death weeks before, but shed quietly ignored the first letter from Frances, knowing that it couldnt contain good news. The Porters didnt trade in good news. The slanting, deeply etched handwriting on the envelope had said enough: Frances could ooze anger even when writing a simple address. Shed used green ink, which Rachel was inclined to think had been distilled from her sisters bile.

It had taken a second letter containing the expected diatribe of accusations and sour grapes to make Rachel finally take notice. She had already missed the funeral. Frances had been brutal and unforgiving about that. Rightly so in Rachels mind missing your own mothers funeral was pretty shabby in anyones book. Even if your mother was Valerie Porter.

She might not have gone back at all if she hadnt been required to assist with the application for probate. Without that shed have carried on burying her head in the sand and ignored them all for ever. It was Valerie Porters final revenge to force her to go back.

When she was sitting on the train, when it was too late to turn back and take refuge again, she allowed herself to think about the consequences of going back. Of what shed have to face.

Who shed have to face.

There were people more dreadful than Frances who populated the past.

While the train took her relentlessly towards home, she pulled out the second letter and reread Francess words.

I am patently aware that you still harbour resentment about the past; however, the house is a joint responsibility and whatever grudges you still bear, I feel you should put them aside for once and show a little loyalty, Francess letter baldly stated. Stella is nowhere to be found and Ive been left to deal with this alone. You have a legal obligation to carry out Mothers last wishes at least. I will expect to see you at the soonest opportunity. I shant say at your convenience because that would mean waiting for ever

Rachel could imagine the gritted teeth and grim expression that had fuelled those words. It had been a sense of stale guilt and obligation that got her to Paddington Station, plus curiosity and a strange, unpleasant yearning for something she couldnt define, which had made her get on the train. Since when had Frances ever needed anything from her?

With every mile that took her closer to home she felt an increasing sense of apprehension. Given the circumstance of her departure all those years ago, it was bizarre that Frances would contact her at all, let alone request her help they both knew that there was no love lost between Valerie and Rachel; they hadnt spoken in years.

The only logical conclusion she could draw was that her physical presence was needed to allow the sale of the house because no connection between sisters, or mothers for that matter, would have driven Frances to write otherwise. Given that for most of Rachels life, Frances hadnt been able to bear being in the same room as her for more than a few minutes, there couldnt be any other reason.

Frances wanted the money. Nothing else on earth would have forced her to make contact, not even the truth. That was something none of them could bring themselves to face.

***

By the time Rachel arrived at the house Frances had already sold everything of any remote value that Valerie hadnt, and had resorted to burning what was left on a large bonfire in the overgrown garden. Things that couldnt be burned, like the ancient enamelled cooker that their grandmother had bought in 1959, and the six broken vacuum cleaners that had languished in the attic for years along with numerous other aged and dishevelled domestic items, were to be taken to the local tip by Sid, The Man With A Van and his monosyllabic sidekick, Steve.

Sid and Steve were cheap, available and discreet. Frances valued discretion and economy above most things including false sentiment. She showed none of that when greeting her sister, merely offered her a pair of rubber gloves and a black bag and told her to pick a room, any room, and get on with it.

Rachel received a warmer welcome from Sid.

The amiable Sid explained that he and Steve had been at the house for days, repeatedly loading the van and making trips to the local landfill site as Frances steadily forced the large old house to disgorge its contents and bare its mouldering soul.

Rachel arrived with barely enough time to salvage Stellas meagre belongings from the purge, and only just managed to stop Steve feeding yet another box of books onto Francess pyre. They were Stellas books, childrens classics that Stella had kept from her own childhood and had read to Rachel during hers.

Frances argued that if Stella had wanted the books she would have taken them with her; Rachel shrugged and said that she was keeping them anyway. One of the rare pleasures of her childhood had been listening to Stella read those stories, so even if Stella didnt want them, she did. Besides, monstrous though Frances could be, what kind of person could burn books?

Frances had been so eager to clear the house that she hadnt really left much that Rachel could do, except stand by and wonder at her sisters vigorous enthusiasm for incinerating every last stick the house had ever contained. It felt as if she were only there to witness the destruction. It was Francess way of punishing her, she supposed.

Ive spent too many years being oppressed by all this junk! Frances yelled above the crackling bonfire, eyes blazing as bright as the fire as she watched the flames consume yet another chunk of their past. Its liberating, dont you think?