by Lucy Diamond
‘I guessed as much,’ Jeanie had replied before he could get any further. She hadn’t even felt a twinge of surprise. Instead, decades-old memories had flashed up instantly in her consciousness. The school sports day that summer, when she’d been passing the playing field, with Stephen in the pushchair, and they’d stopped to wave to Harry. There had been this very pretty young woman with long chestnut hair and even longer tanned legs, jumping up and down at the sidelines of a race, cheering on the sprinting kids, and Jeanie remembered asking Harry, ‘Who’s that?’
‘That’s Kathy,’ he’d replied, and there was something about the way he said it, something about the softness of his smile that made her shiver as they both turned and looked at her. The memory of this made her feel sick now, obviously. That’s Kathy. The woman I’m actually having an affair with, was what he hadn’t said back then, of course. And believe it or not, in thirty-five years’ time, we’ll have a right old surprise when her daughter – and mine! – turns up unexpectedly at our anniversary party.
There was more. Another flickering film-reel that had emerged from the depths of her brain: the drinks at the end of term that July, in the Bricklayers’ Arms, for the teachers and their other halves. Jeanie hadn’t thought she’d be able to make it, what with Stephen coming down with a tummy bug and John having just cracked one of his teeth at the cricket club, but her mum had offered to babysit at the last minute and Jeanie had decided that popping out for an hour wouldn’t hurt. She’d changed her top and brushed her hair out from its ponytail, she’d even dabbed some rouge on her cheeks and put on lipstick, for good measure. It had been a lovely evening, she remembered it still, because in those days it was such a novelty to be walking along the sunny street on her own, and she actually felt quite uplifted to be out like this for once, going to meet her husband for a social event. And then she’d got to the pub and she’d seen Harry sitting next to her – that Kathy girl – their heads close together, their bodies turned towards one another, and she’d heard a warning bell jangling in her head. A wife noticed these things.
‘I didn’t think you were coming!’ Harry cried, springing up away from the girl as soon as he saw Jeanie there, and the warning bell went on with its discordant jangle as Kathy glanced over at her and moved swiftly to another table.
Jeanie had kept her suspicions to herself – she had enough on her plate, with four young children occupying her time – but had breathed a private sigh of relief on hearing from another teacher friend that Miss Hallows had left town and was no longer at the school the following autumn. So that was that, she’d thought.
Except it wasn’t quite the end of the matter, after all, was it? Because here she was now, without her husband on their so-called second honeymoon, as a result. Oh, life could play cruel tricks on a person sometimes.
For the whole of her first miserable day in Madeira, Jeanie had been convinced she had made the most dreadful mistake, jetting off by herself in a trembling fit of rage and hurt; but after that, she’d jolly well pulled her socks up and done her best to distract herself from the anguish. Had she been bored? Had she heck. She’d swum in the pool every day, read four excellent books and seen her skin turn a perfect bronze.
Had she been lonely? Not a bit. She’d met a couple of very friendly women from Pembrokeshire who were holidaying together, and they’d invited her to join them for cocktails and dinner several times. Plus the staff had been unfailingly kind, bringing her drinks at the sun-lounger, encouraging her to try the cabaret evening, leaving the most beautiful tropical flowers on her pillow whenever they turned down her bed in the evening. She’d even had a bit of a dance at the Sixties Music Disco, shimmying around to Martha and the Vandellas as if she were twenty again. Obviously her case was already loaded up with all kinds of silly souvenirs for her beloved grandchildren, which she hadn’t been able to resist in the gift shop. It was one of the greatest joys in her life, being a grandma, and just the thought of her grandchildren’s dear smiling faces was enough to bring her tiny crumbs of comfort through her darkest moments.
Jeanie’s life had always been so busy, until now. As well as bringing up four children and working for twenty-five years as a piano teacher, it had still been her putting all those dinners on the table, and organizing the shopping and housework. Even when the children had grown up and flown the nest, she’d kept herself active, doing shifts as a volunteer in the local charity shop and helping with the little ones at a playgroup nearby. She’d maintained an open house for all the Mortimers, when it came to Sunday dinner – everyone welcome! – and always laid on a special party tea for family members on their birthdays: a proper Yorkshire cream tea with home-made scones as well as the cake of their choice. She was never happier than when she had her complete flock around her, all safely gathered in, when she could see them enjoying her dinners and cakes, when she could marvel at what wonderful people her children had grown up to be.
‘I don’t know how you do it,’ Harry’s sisters would cry. ‘How do you find the energy?’ This was from the three of them, mind, who’d serve you shop-bought Battenberg if you went round to their houses, a Wagon Wheel if your luck was in.
Well, Jeanie found the energy because she loved looking after her family – that was the simple answer, even if, truth be told, the get-togethers took their toll on her these days, wiping her out afterwards with the exhaustion of all that shopping and baking and hosting. Not that she would ever admit it to anyone other than Harry, of course. No, because it was always worth it.
Oh, Harry, she thought unhappily, turning over in the huge bed and hugging one of the spare pillows to herself. His infidelity, his betrayal seemed to have severed her from all of that now. Whatever had possessed him to jeopardize the family in such a terrible way? Why had he gone looking elsewhere for attention, into the arms of this other woman, when she, Jeanie, had always loved him so completely? He had quite broken her heart. He had broken the family too. How could she go back and face them all when her marriage was in ruins, when the future seemed so fraught with uncertainty? Would the family ever be able to enjoy a party or Sunday dinner together in the same way, after this revelation? She and Harry had been a twosome for so long, had weathered so many storms between them, but this – this felt like a hurricane. One of those awful ones you saw on the news that wrecked everything in its path: trees, houses, lives, all tossed aside.
She was dreading tomorrow when the holiday would be over. Being here had been like escaping into a brightly lit bubble of temporary pleasures, far from the pain and embarrassment left behind at home. A bubble where she was looked after and cosseted, where she was protected from the pain of real life. But tomorrow, it ended. Tomorrow, she’d have to pack her bags, hand back the key to her room and then catch the bus to the airport, where she would wait, drearily, resignedly, for her flight home. She’d have to face Harry’s grovelling apologies, maybe even at the Arrivals gate at the other end, if he was really desperate to creep back into her good books. And then, once home, she’d have the prospect of being confronted with every last gossip on the street, their faces lighting up as they spotted her, flocking in like iron filings to a magnet. Oh, you wait – the news would already have whipped between the neighbours like wildfire, Chinese whispers from house to house. (Have you heard? He’s got a secret love-child. Yes, Harry Mortimer. Who would have thought? She left him at the airport, you know. She did!)
Worst of all, at some point, when they couldn’t put it off any longer, she and Harry would have to have The Conversation, make some decisions. Harry would tell her what he wanted to do about Her, and Jeanie would have to put her own feelings on the table in response. It’s her or me, she had proclaimed a week earlier, and she was not a woman to go back on her word. What if Harry chose her, this new daughter? What if he said he’d preferred Kathy all along? Their marriage might never recover from this hit.
Doom-laden minor chords played in her head at the prospect. It was all too terrible for words.
Rollin
g over in bed and nestling into the soft, comfortable pillows, she shut her eyes, not wanting to think about Harry or his betrayal any more. If only she could stay here instead, she thought longingly. Stay here and never go back . . .
Chapter Eight
The radio silence from her mother over the last week had been very odd, thought Paula as she parked at the airport on Sunday. The two of them had always been close, speaking on the phone or texting pretty much every day, if not catching up in person. When Paula had first become a mum, Jeanie had been like a guiding star through the early weeks of parenthood, pushing colicky baby Luke around the streets in his pram for hours at a time so that Paula could try and sleep. She had always loved her mum, of course, but it wasn’t until she saw the tender, patient way Jeanie engaged with Paula’s own children that it really struck her how strong family bonds could be, and how deeply love could run between generations. But for the last seven days there had been no cheery text message or phone call, no funny photos on the family WhatsApp group. A hole had opened up in Paula’s life without Jeanie there.
It wasn’t just Paula she’d gone quiet on; nobody had heard from Jeanie. Paula had sent her various supportive messages and voicemails with no reply, before becoming worried that her mum had somehow gone AWOL in transit – or worse. After two days she’d actually called the hotel in a panic, caught up in a terrible What if . . . ? loop of doom. If something had happened to Mum and she’d been on her own, Paula would kill Dad for it. Kill him with her own bare hands, just see if she didn’t. But – ‘Your mother is here and says she is perfectly fine,’ the manager had assured her, in charming broken English. ‘She is having a lovely holiday, but doesn’t wish to speak to anyone.’
So that had been that. And it was understandable, after all, if Jeanie wanted to switch off from the real world for a bit, Paula supposed. Only . . . well, her mum was a proud sort of woman, and going of alone was completely out of character. For all Paula knew, Jeanie might be sobbing into her pristine hotel pillow each night, desperately lonely and feeling awkward too, about having to do everything on her own. ‘Tell them I’m fine,’ Paula imagined her sniffling, blotchy-faced, when the manager came knocking. (What must the hotel staff think of the Mortimer family, for letting this happen? Harry should have flown straight out to Madeira after Jeanie, begging her forgiveness, in Paula’s opinion. Instead he’d meekly come back to York and had gone to stay at Dave’s house in Clementhorpe because he couldn’t face being alone. Should have thought of that, shouldn’t you, before you went and cheated on Mum? she’d mused crossly.)
‘I’ll take Dad to the airport,’ she’d offered Dave, when she rang him the night before. The middle brother, he was closest in age to Paula and her favourite of them all, due to his kind, earnest nature. As eldest, John had always been keen to shoot ahead and do everything first. Stephen, the youngest, had been the rebel, involved in all kinds of naughtiness. Dave and Paula were the easy-going middle ones, who held the balance. ‘I just want to see Mum for myself, do you know what I mean? I’ve really missed her.’
‘Me too,’ said Dave, then lowered his voice. ‘As for Dad . . . honestly, he’s lost without her. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. He hasn’t made himself lunch once this week while Bunny and I have been at work. Says he doesn’t want to take liberties.’
‘Doesn’t know how to work the toaster, more like,’ Paula replied, rolling her eyes. Her dad was a total old-school man’s man, who considered the kitchen and everything within it his wife’s territory. You’d have thought he’d at least have tried to make himself something to eat, though, rather than going starving hungry all day, she thought in exasperation.
Anyway, here they were now, she and Harry, striding through the airport terminal together, both looking forward to welcoming Jeanie home. ‘Arrivals this way,’ said Paula, pointing ahead. ‘So, how are you feeling about seeing Mum again?’ she asked, remembering with a pang the way Jeanie’s lip had quivered the last time they’d all been together. ‘Have you worked out what you’re going to say?’
Harry looked at the ground as they walked along and she wondered if he was reliving the scene here the week before, and Jeanie’s acrimonious departure. ‘Well, I’ve already said it a million times,’ he replied. ‘That I’m sorry, and that I love her. And I hope she can forgive me.’ A hangdog expression came over his face. ‘But I’ll say all of those things again when she gets here, if that’s what it takes. And I’ll just have to keep on saying them until she accepts my apology.’
‘How about Frankie, have you heard from her?’ Paula asked, feeling peculiar, as she always did, when she thought of this unknown sibling of hers, the mystery guest at the party. Paula hadn’t even got to look at her, but kept picturing an angry young woman bursting through the doors, out for vengeance. ‘Have you managed to track her down or anything?’
‘Track her down?’ They had stopped in front of a bank of screens detailing flight departures and arrivals, and Harry stared blankly at them. ‘Oh. I hadn’t thought to . . . I mean . . .’
‘You could look for her on Facebook, or just Google her, if you’ve got her surname,’ Paula went on, unsure why she was being quite so helpful when she didn’t even know if she wanted this new half-sister in the first place.
‘Facebook,’ Harry repeated, as if it was some country he’d heard of, but had never visited in person. ‘I guess I could try. If you think it’s a good idea,’ he added uncertainly. Then his face lit up and he pointed at one of the screens. ‘The plane’s landed!’ he cried. ‘She’s back. She’s back!’
He looked so childishly excited and yet so nervous and vulnerable that, for the first time, Paula actually felt a bit sorry for him. Dad was hopeless without Mum, he really was. If it hadn’t been for Dave and Bunny taking him in, he probably wouldn’t have eaten properly all week. Paula had gone round to the house with him that morning and had been dismayed to discover that the post was still in a pile on the mat, the plants were drooping and the butter, left out in its dish since the previous weekend, had turned completely rancid. ‘Dad, you can’t let her come home to this,’ she’d scolded, opening the fridge door and finding it almost empty inside. She’d sent him out to buy groceries while she cleaned and tidied, shaking her head over his cluelessness. No wonder he wanted things to go back to the way they were. Maybe he’d appreciate Jeanie a bit more after this.
‘It’ll be a while yet, Dad, she’ll have to collect her case and go through passport control,’ she pointed out now, but Harry was already hurrying expectantly to the Arrivals doors.
Paula followed him and they waited together. The trickle of arrivals soon turned into an outpouring; a river of tanned people looking cheerful and healthy after their Madeiran holiday. Duty-free bags clinked. Bulging cases trundled. This family heading for the car park. That family being greeted by awaiting friends. The couple over there looking hungover in his-and-hers matching sunglasses, holding hands and smiling at each other. Through they all came, one after another: not Jeanie, not Jeanie, not Jeanie. Still not Jeanie.
Half an hour after the plane had landed, an elderly man with a walking frame shuffled slowly through the doors, and they closed behind him with a certain finality. You could almost hear Harry’s anticipation fizzling out to nothing as the doors remained shut for several minutes afterwards. He frowned and wet his lips. ‘That’s strange,’ he said. ‘I wonder where she is?’
‘She might be in the Ladies, touching up her lippy,’ Paula suggested. Jeanie had been known to put on mascara to do the gardening, after all – plus she liked to make an entrance. If Paula herself ever had the massive kind of bust-up with her husband that saw her jetting off on holiday alone in a fury, she’d damn well stake out the Ladies for a full hair and make-up check before she emerged through the Arrivals door. Wouldn’t most women?
‘Maybe they’re still loading on some of the luggage,’ Harry said, checking his watch. ‘They batch them up, don’t they, in those big trolleys? You never know, one of t
he trolleys might have got stuck or . . .’ His voice petered out again.
‘She’ll be here in a minute,’ Paula said bracingly, although as that same minute ticked by, followed by another and then another, the two of them found themselves beginning to doubt these words.
Everything all right, Mum? Paula texted as Harry trudged disconsolately towards the information desk in the hope of discovering his wife’s whereabouts. A few moments later, Paula’s phone pinged with an incoming message and she let out a gasp. ‘Um . . . Dad?’ she called after him, blinking and checking the words again, just in case she’d gone mad. ‘You might want to come and read this . . .’
‘No way!’ breathed Robyn, open-mouthed, when John got Paula’s update with the no-Jeanie bombshell. ‘She wasn’t on the plane?’
‘Is she all right?’ asked Bunny in alarm, when Dave told her the same piece of news. ‘Well . . . when will she be back?’
WTF??? texted Stephen. Do we need to stage an intervention?
‘Bloody hell,’ spluttered Matt, sitting up straight in his deckchair on the patio, as Paula came home, still pop-eyed with shock, and told him the latest. ‘So what happens now?’
Paula sank into the chair next to him, still hardly able to believe the text that had arrived from her mum. I’ve decided to stay here a bit longer, it had said, verging on brutal in its simplicity. Having a lovely time. Not sure when I’ll be back.
‘What happens now,’ Paula replied, massaging her temple where the first stab of a headache was setting in, ‘is that Dad has to convince her to come home. Somehow or other. Otherwise . . .’ She shrugged, grim-faced, and shook her head. ‘Otherwise, your guess is as good as mine.’
Chapter Nine
I know you said you didn’t want to know, Frankie’s mum Kathy had written at some undetermined point in the past, but just in case you ever change your mind, these are the facts. The letter had been tucked in an album of baby photos that Gareth had put in a box for her when he’d cleared out the family home, after Kathy had died. Frankie might not have discovered the missive for years and years, perhaps never, if Fergus hadn’t disputed the fact that she and Craig had ever been babies themselves, back on a sleety winter’s day. ‘No,’ he had decreed firmly, dark curls bouncing as he shook his head. ‘You are my mumma and daddy. Not babies.’ Laughingly, Craig had found an old photo of himself as a newborn, as the blinking, wobbly-headed proof, and Frankie had been requisitioned to find one of her, too. The letter had slipped out of the photo album, still smelling faintly of her mum’s perfume, and with a deafening crack Pandora’s box had shattered clean open.
