setting up the foundation. She had commandeered a corner of the new offices of McCoy and Pace Architects and she wanted my help to launch the Lean On Me helpline. The role was voluntary, the charity couldn’t afford paid staff or much else for that matter, but Ruth found a way around that by employing me as an admin assistant and allowing me to split my time between the firm and the foundation.
I was reluctant at first, and Mum wasn’t too pleased that I was being offered such a lowly position in her brother’s firm, but I wasn’t looking for favours from Auntie Ruth and Uncle Geoff. They became simply Ruth and Geoff as we adjusted to our new roles in each other’s lives, and although certain aspects of the work can be a challenge, I’ve been surprised by how much satisfaction I’ve gained from helping others through the charity. I’m less keen on my admin duties but, if the relaunch of the helpline is a success, if we secure more funding and reach out to more people, then I plan to start training to be a counsellor. It’s by no means guaranteed and I share Ruth’s desperation, but I’d like to believe that Meg is steering me towards a career I never knew I wanted. This relaunch has to work.
When I lift my head, Ruth is beaming a smile at the reporter. She’s in full flow, talking about the helpline. It might not be on the grand scale of some of the national charities we work with like the Samaritans, Women’s Aid and Refuge who can offer twenty-four-hour support but, for three evenings a week, we are there for young people who often have nothing more than a growing sense of unease about a relationship and want to talk it through. A listening ear might not sound like much, but we’ve had enough successes to make the last seven years worthwhile, and long may it continue.
A shadow appears in my periphery and I turn to find Geoff with his shoulder pressed against the window.
‘I wish you wouldn’t do that,’ I whisper, my pulse racing as I imagine a creak as the window frame loosens, followed by the sound of glass and bone shattering on the concourse below.
Geoff straightens up. ‘Sorry.’
Like Ruth, my uncle’s tailored appearance gives no hint of the trauma he’s suffered. He was the one who found Meg in the garage but if the shadow of that memory persists, it’s hidden behind the twinkle in his grey eyes. The only marked difference I’ve noticed in the past decade is a receding hairline and the slight paunch he carries as a result of too many whiskeys.
‘How’s it going?’ he asks, tipping his head towards Ruth.
I attempt a smile but my eyes give something away.
‘What’s happened?’
‘Ruth might have suggested Meg was being abused,’ I say with a wince. ‘She didn’t mention him by name but she said enough for anyone who knew Meg to join the dots.’
‘Including Lewis,’ Geoff replies, his mouth twisting into a snarl. ‘I wish we could name that bastard and prick his conscience, but I doubt he has one. He’s not the one who suffers when old wounds are reopened.’
I want to give my uncle a hug but that would simply acknowledge the pain he tries so hard to hide. ‘It’ll be worth it if just one person sees the interview and reaches out,’ I tell him.
‘It’s a lot of effort to go to for one person, Jennifer,’ he warns.
Despite being a trustee of the foundation, Geoff has always taken a pragmatic view of our work. He was the first to challenge the effectiveness of the helpline in light of the sharp decline in callers, and his initial suggestion was to wind things up as a precursor to retirement, which he’s mentioned an awful lot since turning sixty. The relaunch isn’t only about convincing new clients to believe in us.
‘We’ll get plenty of new callers after this,’ I promise, with enough conviction in my voice to make the cameraman on the other side of the office raise an eyebrow. I mouth an apology and for the remainder of the interview remain tight-lipped. It’s not as if there’s anything else I can say to Geoff that Ruth hasn’t already tried. Results are what we need and I pray that Ruth’s interview will draw the right kind of attention.
Jen
‘Did you see the interview?’ I ask Mum as I pour a layer of béchamel sauce over lasagne sheets.
‘Ruth didn’t look at all well. Her eyes were sunken and I bet her fingers have been chewed to the quick beneath those false nails.’
I pull a face, which fortunately Mum can’t see because she’s on speakerphone. ‘Ruth’s fine,’ I say. ‘If she looks tired, it’s because we’ve been working so hard on the relaunch. I thought she came across really well, and we got the message across that we needed.’
‘It’s a good cause, we all know that, but was it wise to name Lewis?’
‘She didn’t name him.’
‘As good as,’ Mum says, filling my heart with dread. If she thinks that, so will everyone else.
In the hours since the interview I’ve tried to remain positive but there’s no running away from the fact that Ruth has taken a huge risk. She’s made the first strike, and if I know anything about Lewis, it’s that he will hit back.
‘I can understand why she’s so determined to blame him,’ Mum continues. ‘It’s got to be better than facing the truth.’
‘Oh, and what exactly is the truth?’
I hear her sigh. ‘She blames herself, like any mother would. And I know she’d love to go back and do things differently but that’s never going to happen, is it?’
‘And what would you do differently?’ I ask through gritted teeth. If my mother wants to start apportioning blame, a chat about the role she played is long overdue.
‘I loved Meg, you know I did,’ she says firmly, ‘but it’s time to stop dwelling in the past. That video montage they showed – poor Meg, all smiles and full of life – it broke my heart. Goodness knows what it did to Ruth and Geoff.’
It broke my heart too, I want to tell her. But I shouldn’t have to. ‘Ruth wanted to share it, Mum,’ I continue. ‘It was her idea. The helpline wouldn’t exist without Meg and that’s how she keeps her memory alive.’
‘That, and having you around,’ Mum mutters, edging closer to the subject neither of us dare raise.
I’m the youngest of Mum’s brood and it’s fair to say that the novelty had worn off when she got to daughter number four. I gravitated to Meg because we were the same age and, well, because she was Meg. It wasn’t because my aunt and uncle had the posh house and the spare room I could have to myself whenever I stayed over, although Mum always insisted that was the draw. I loved being somewhere where I wasn’t lost in the melee of family life, and there were times when I wished Ruth had been my mum. Occasionally, I still do.
As I drop globs of bolognese sauce into the oven dish, it splatters across my white cotton shirt. I want to swear but I don’t. ‘Ruth and I share a passion for what we do,’ I explain. ‘Look at what we’ve achieved, Mum. There’s a lot we can be proud of.’
‘Of course there is,’ Mum says in a placating tone that riles me. ‘Your father and
