Edie’s eyes met Mary’s. ‘Rebeccalooks the spitting image of you. So does George—your son.’
Mary shuddered inside. Her childrenwere suddenly coming to life and becoming real people. The boy had aname. George. She hadn’t allowed herself to dwell on them aschildren turning into young adults. And now she knew that they lookedlike her. ‘Are they well and happy?’
Edie nodded. ‘Yes, but they’d behappier with you. You can come back and live with me for as long as youneed.’
The very idea went against everything thatMary had worked towards since leaving England. She knew that she didn’thave the inner strength to re-open that closed chapter of her life. Witha trembling voice, she said, ‘Edie, listen to me carefully. I can nevergo back to England until…the past is gone. Every day my heart has achedfor those children and what might have been. The life I might have hadwith Edward. But I shut it out, close down those feelings because it cannever be. I’ve got a life here now, far away from all those people. I’m a teacher. I’ve got friends. In my own way, I’m happy.’
Edith sniffed and sobbed at the news shefeared she might have come all this way to hear. ‘Please, Mary. Wecan move away from Winchelsea and leave the past behind.’
‘Edie, don’t you get it? You’re partof it. You had a child with that horrible man and then married the doctorwho pinned me down and snatched away my children the very moment they firstdrew breath. No matter where I could be in England, I’ll always bereminded of Mary Mercer and her past.’
‘But you are Mary Mercer,’ Ediesaid.
‘No, not anymore. I’m Martha Stone.’
Edith looked exasperated. ‘Marthawas a good friend of ours who died, Mary—don’t you see? You’re justhiding from the past by pretending to be a dead girl.’
‘Stop! Please!’ Mary begged. ‘Listen to me.’ She paused and took Edie’s hand in hers. ‘You’re mysister and the only thing outside of Canada that I care about—’
‘But your children?’ Edie interrupted.
‘They’re not my children anymore—they werestolen from me and they’ve lived for fourteen years believing that they are whothey are. Do you honestly think they’d thank me for trying to take themaway? That we could suddenly play happy families after all theseyears? That Caroline and the Mansfields would just sit back and let metake them with no evidence whatsoever that they’re mine? Edie, not asingle day has passed when I haven’t imagined taking them back and us buildinga life together, but it cannot happen. Think. Who wouldbenefit? Not me, not them, not their parents.’
A long protracted silence clung to Mary’swords as the two sisters looked at each other and sobbed.
Mary broke the silence. ‘You’rewelcome to stay here for a few days but then you must go back to England, backto your life and forget all about me. If I ever return to England it willbe when all traces of the past have disappeared.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Monday8th October 1962
Thefuneral was over. Mary had watched the mourners leave the church and filein a long black procession to Edith’s house, where refreshments were beingprovided. Returning to Winchelsea for the first time in more than fiftyyears was unbearably difficult and had really taken its toll on herhealth. She was sixty-nine years old now and, for the first time in herlife, was beginning to feel her age. But today it would all be over: thepast would finally be put to rest.
She was sitting on a wooden bench justbeyond the low stone wall of the church on Friar’s Road, as conflictingmemories—sad and happy, past and present—flashed into her mind. Anelevated discussion from within the churchyard made her turn. Withsurprisingly dry eyes, she watched as the church sexton and another helperprepared to shovel the mound of clay-brown soil into the void above Edith’scoffin. Mary watched as they began to attack the pile, their shovelsscooping up clods alternately. There was almost a musical rhythm to theirwork.
In just forty minutes, Edith’s coffin wasinterred and the gravediggers had gone, leaving a plethora of bouquets andwreaths on the grave.
Mary stood and quietly entered thedeserted churchyard. She wove her way slowly across the grass, aroundheadstones and footstones until she reached the grave.
‘In loving memory of Katherine Mercer,born 2nd March 1870, died 8th December 1932. Awonderful mother and wife. Also, Thomas Mercer, husband of the above,born 21st April 1870, died 1st November 1938.’
Her parents’ grave, and now her sister’sgrave.
Mary stifled her tears with a handkerchiefas she leant a single white rose against the grey stone. Wrapped aroundthe rose was her silver locket containing Edith’s photo. Images of thepair of them receiving them for their birthday filled her head. Howhappy we once were, Mary thought.
‘Hello,’ a male voice said softly,startling Mary.
She turned to see a young man—she guessedin his twenties—with a handsome face and a neat dark quiff. He wasdressed in black and his red swollen eyes told Mary that he was here to mournher twin. ‘Hello,’ she replied stiltedly. She had no wish to speakto anyone, lest they discover her identity.
‘You knew her, then?’ he said, indicatingthe grave.
Mary nodded. ‘From a very long timeago, yes.’
‘She was my granny,’ the man said, with aslight whimper at the end of his sentence.
Now that he had said it, Mary could seesome of Edie’s angular features in his face. ‘Charles’s son?’ she asked.
‘That’s right—did you know him?’ he said.
‘I didn’t ever meet him, no.’
The man looked disappointed. ‘Ibarely knew him. He was killed in the war when I was only nine yearsold.’
‘That must have been awful for you,’ Marysaid.
‘It wasn’t the best time of my life,’ hemuttered. He looked at Mary with a quizzical look. ‘You seemfamiliar. Have we met?’
Mary’s stomach suddenly lurched. Shecould tell Edie’s grandson everything but that wasn’t what she had cometo do. That was never the plan. She laughed. ‘No, definitelynot. I must have one of those faces.’
The man seemed satisfied. He smiledand offered his
