She explains that the huge, bare pine has been propped up in the corner of the backyard. A whopper – the café gifted a tree each year by one of their farmer customers. It made for an impressive festive display, but organising for its safe disposal was a trial.
Until this year.
By nine thirty, the tree securely in place, Kate arrives to tell Martha she is feeling better and would like to help Wendy and a team of volunteers to dress the first branch.
They have been knitting furiously since Maria explained her plan – Wendy and Martha coming up with a simple, basic pattern for a leaf, using wool in various shades of green. Lime green, olive, school uniform green, every shade of green. For the campaign launch they had made up little kits to hand out – photocopies of the standard pattern and remnants of wool. The idea is simple: people who support their campaign – to preserve the quay, saving the wool shop, the piano shop and the café – should help them to knit leaves.
To knit a tree, get it? And as the bare fir tree is gradually transformed into a glorious multi-coloured woolly oak, the message to the council will be clear. Like a Blue Peter fundraising chart.
‘Genius,’ Wendy declares as the first branch is finished. ‘It’s so visual. So clever, Maria. So very beautiful!’
Even the fishermen agree that it looks very ‘arty’, and it is only Carlo who notices that Maria still looks anxious. Only half an hour to go, and aside from the volunteers there are just six people hanging around – helping themselves to the coffee and tea set up on trestle tables, along with two huge trays of the blessed leaf biscuits.
They said ten o’clock to the photographer from the local paper and were hoping that the television crew who covered the court case might return. Carlo checks his watch and winks encouragement at his wife as Martha leads Kate to one side.
‘Now are you sure you’re up to this, Kate? No one will mind at all if you want to go home. I can say you’re unwell.’
Just last night Toby turned up to collect some more of his things and Martha held her breath upstairs in her room as their raised voices drifted up to her. Him begging her to reconsider. I don’t like to leave you like this… Kate beside herself but insisting he go. I have Martha. I am OK. And then retiring early to bed.
‘Thanks, Martha, but I’ll be fine. I think it will do me good to help. Doing something useful. I need to be doing something.’
Everyone is checking their watches as Maria begins to look more agitated.
‘I thought there would be more people here by now. Carlo? Martha? Did you not think more people would be here by now?’
At five to ten, the photographer from the local paper arrives – frowning at the tiny crowd but impressed by the tree. Yes – it will make a good photo. If I can just get everyone to group together? To make it look a bit busier?
Maria implores him to wait a bit – fetching coffee and a plate of her leaf biscuits to distract him – while liaising with Wendy. There is no sign of the TV crew. The newsroom assistant non-committal on the phone. Damn. Five more minutes and they will have to start without them.
And then suddenly there is the most enormous hooting sound from the water. The blast is from the east of the quay – and as the small gathering outside the cafe turns simultaneously seaward, there is a raucous cheer as other boats sound their horns in reply.
For heading into the landing point is one of the pleasure boats which during the summer months ferries tourists along the coast for one-hour cruises. They are rarely at sea at this time of year, except for parties and special bookings, but today one of the larger boats is sporting a huge banner made out of sheets with the words SAVE OUR QUAYSIDE SHOPS in large black lettering, billowing in the wind.
‘Our surprise.’ One of the fishermen is beaming at Maria, who has her hands to her mouth now as at least forty people wave and shout from the boat. It is still too far out for her to recognise individuals, but the fisherman explains they are all regulars who use the café. The TV crew are on board too. It has all been fixed as a surprise. A show of support.
And there are tears in Maria’s eyes as Carlo steps forward to hug his wife, with Geoffrey and Wendy lining up alongside them for another photograph – Matthew a step behind, grinning in disbelief.
The skipper of the pleasure cruiser has a megaphone to lead the singing of We shall not, we shall not be moved as the passengers embark at the end of the quay, the megaphone eventually handed over to Maria.
After thanks, tears, and urging everyone to help themselves to the biscuits, Maria explains about the campaign tree while a group of Wendy’s regulars step forward to hand out copies of the leaf pattern, urging the knitters to rope in all their WI friends.
And then there are the interviews. The photos. If we can just have all the shopkeepers over here by the tree for the picture? And the biscuits? Is it a secret family recipe? Delicious.
Finally several men help Geoffrey wheel out one of the old pianos from his shop right onto the quayside, Matthew then playing a medley of Beatles hits for a singalong.
A street party. With Martha so happy for her friends – smiling from the back of the crowd as she hears several of the younger women giggling and whispering about Matthew.
So who is he? Have you noticed his eyes? Gorgeous eyes.
33
Matthew had not planned to tell anyone about his search.
This was, in part, because he was so confused initially about his own feelings. Afraid to think about them too much, let alone try to put them into words.
Some nights he lies under the green candlewick bedspread of the single divan at Mrs Hill’s and realises that it has somehow become as much about hiding as searching. He wants to know the truth about his background, but he doesn’t want anyone else knowing it.
What frightens him most of all is the fury that shines from his eyes in the mirror some mornings. He had honestly not realised that he was capable of so much anger.
When his mother – God, it is difficult to call her anything else – turned up out of the blue at the shop, it had been the horrible maelstrom of confused emotions that had most shaken him. Anger. Relief. Love. Hate. All of this stuff swirling around and around in his head as he stared at her through the glass of the door. He had wanted to hug her. Also shout at her. In the end he had instead kept mostly silent because he was terrified that if he even started…
And now?
Now Matthew has simply become tired of getting up every day and pushing the anger down into a tight knot in his stomach. Exhausted by it as the days passed, one after another, with no progress after his meeting with Emily. No word. No news despite his repeated phone calls. And it is this frustration and exhaustion that finally makes her parting words prey on his mind. It would be good if you had someone to confide in…
‘Can I talk to you about something, Geoffrey?’
He picks their Omelette Thursday – now a regular fixture. Tonight Matthew is beating the egg whites in a glass bowl. They each have their own roles – working side by side, Geoffrey getting the yolks and the omelette pan and grill ready. The plates warming in the oven.
Matthew normally keeps his eye on the clock, keen not to miss Top of the Pops. Each week Geoffrey teases him mercilessly about this, but clearly enjoys watching it with him. It amuses him – what the young people are listening to these days. He likes to wind Matthew up about the names. Showaddywaddwotsit? You are kidding me?
But tonight Matthew has not even checked the time. Mentioned the show. And Geoffrey narrows his eyes.
‘Happy to talk about anything, but you will need to put a bit more elbow grease into that, Matthew.’ Geoffrey passes him the salt and pepper. ‘And remember to go heavy on the pepper.’
‘You’ve never asked why I came to Aylesborough.’ Matthew obediently beats more furiously. ‘Never pressed me about when my mum came by. Why things are – well, so difficult between us.’ His voice is altered by the effort of the beating – masking his nerves.
Geoffrey has compl
eted his own part of the assembly – the yolks in a separate bowl with cheese grated and ready along with some chopped smoky ham.
‘Well, to be honest, I rather felt it was up to you, Matthew. When you want to discuss it, I mean.’
‘Right. Well. I’m grateful for that. But – the thing is.’ Matthew now hands his bowl to Geoffrey, who combines the yolks and the whites as butter sizzles ready in the pan on the gas hob. ‘I’m in quite a quandary, actually. The thing is, I had this big falling-out with my parents.’
‘Ow!’ Jumping back, Geoffrey wipes a splash of hot oil from the back of his hand and adjusts the gas.
‘You all right?’
‘Yes, fine. Fine. You were saying? A row?’
Matthew coughs and looks away to the view of the garden from the window by the table where Geoffrey has already set their places, both ketchup and brown sauce standing to attention.
‘What am I saying? Of course you realise there was a row. The way I was with my mother and everything. But – Geoffrey. Well. It was a very unpleasant row. Very bad.’
Geoffrey lets out a sigh, moves the pan up under the grill, turning to Matthew who is still looking away.
‘I’d rather guessed as much, Matthew. And I am very sorry. But from my experience these things nearly always blow over in the end.’
‘No. It’s not that kind of row. A normal row. You see – I found out that I was adopted, Geoffrey.’
‘My goodness.’
‘All my life, they kept it a secret. Didn’t tell me. It only came out in this really terrible argument with my father. Right out of the blue. I want to go to music college. He wants me to go into the business. The butcher’s. It all got nasty. Out of hand. And he started saying awful things… a true son of mine. Stuff like that.’
Geoffrey moves the pan away from the heat, to turn out the first omelette onto a plate.
‘I honestly don’t know quite what to say. This sounds terrible. And you really had no idea at all?’
Matthew shakes his head very fast, eyes wide as Geoffrey turns back to the cooker.
‘I tell you what – you start. I’ll make mine. You eat, Matthew. You need to eat.’
As he makes his own supper, Geoffrey appears to be thinking hard, glancing every now and again at the photograph of his wife on one of the shelves..
‘You and Jean. You didn’t have children. I don’t mean to pry. But did you never consider it? Adopting?’
‘I did, yes, but Jean was very against the idea. I think she thought it would be unfair on the child. Her condition. That she would be turned down. The wheelchair and everything. I disagreed.’ Now he was staring at a different photograph, Jean beaming at them both from her beloved Whitstable. ‘I really can’t think of anyone who would have made a better mother. But I didn’t want her to think I had any regrets, Matthew. That I minded about not having children. And so I lied to her, Matthew. I told her that I agreed with her. Sometimes people do that, you know. Lie out of love.’
Matthew smiles weakly at the gesture, chewing very slowly.
‘My mother even made up stories, Geoffrey. When I was little and asked about when I was born, she made up stories. About us in the hospital together.’ He turns to Geoffrey and looks straight into his eyes. ‘How could she do that? Make up stories like that.’
Geoffrey shakes his head.
‘To be honest – I have absolutely no idea, Matthew. I’m struggling to know what to say here. But when she came here – your mother. It’s obvious how much she cares about you. So I can only assume she was trying to protect you.’
And now Matthew’s breathing is changing, and he has to put his hand under the table, clenching his fist to control the familiar knot of anger and confusion twisting in his stomach. The anger which made him hit his father that night – a proper, grown-up, fist-clenched blow to the face which had made his nose bleed. His mother with her back against the sink in the kitchen, weeping and pleading with them both to stop.
Matthew, I’m so sorry, love…
Adopted? You’re telling me I’m adopted?
Well, you didn’t really think you were a bloody son of mine?
Stop it, Arthur. Stop it. Not like this – please!
A son of mine poncing around on a bloody piano all day, not a decent day’s work…
Stop it, Arthur! Stop it!
A bloody nutter, your real mother. In a mental hospital. A bloody nutter, she was...
Matthew puts his knife and fork together and pushes his plate to the middle of the table.
‘I was born here, apparently. In Aylesborough.’ Matthew pauses, narrowing his eyes and deciding he is not ready to mention Millrose Mount. ‘That’s all I know until I can get hold of more of my records. I’ve been to the council. For help to trace my birth mother. It’s allowed now. Some change in the law.’ Again he is searching Geoffrey’s face for a clue to his thinking. ‘My father – my adoptive father, that is – has said that he will disown me if I pursue this. That it’s ungrateful. Cruel of me.’
And now Geoffrey takes in another deep breath himself, as if understanding everything better – putting a hand onto Matthew’s shoulder.
‘And you don’t know what to do.’
‘No. I mean – when I first ran away, after the row, I was so sure, Geoffrey. So angry with them both for lying to me. Not telling me. I didn’t care what my dad thought. To be honest, I still don’t. But my mother explained things a bit more when she came here. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still furious with them both for not telling me. But I do understand a little better what my mother was thinking.’
‘Go on.’
And now Matthew slowly shares what Glenda told him as they sat awkwardly on piano stools in the shop that day.
How she and Arthur were so happy when they married. Different people. How not being able to have a child slowly somehow sucked all the happiness out of them. Tests confirmed the problem was with Arthur, which seemed to destroy him.
He was dead set against adoption. Didn’t want people knowing their business. But about five years into the marriage, when the chance came to move – to set up his own butcher’s shop – Glenda had pushed and pushed and pushed. Hatched this plan to tie in an adoption with the move so that people in the new place wouldn’t know.
She had promised on her life that the child need never be told – so it would never be anyone’s business but their own. Only very close family would know.
Matthew tells how she was crying as she told him how sorry she was now. But the adoption staff had said that it was fine not to tell the child. For the best, actually. They left that entirely up to the parents.
‘She must have wanted very much to be a mother.’ Geoffrey says this softly. ‘I can understand that.’
‘But not telling me, Geoffrey. Not even when I grew up and my father seemed to take more and more against me… ’
Matthew goes on – understanding even better himself as he sets the story in front of Geoffrey. His father assuming he would want to follow in his footsteps. The butchering. The business. While all Matthew wanted was his music. He hated the butchering. The blood and the sound of the saws. The carcasses with their empty, staring eyes in the cold room. And his father just got angrier and angrier over the years as people raised their eyebrows.
So where’s he get it from? The music? Is that Glenda’s side of the family?
‘We just didn’t fit, Geoffrey. Me and my father. He always looked so – I don’t know. Disappointed in me.’
And now Matthew shares something he has never shared with anyone. That for a few years he had come to wondering if his mother had had an affair. If that was the root of the conflict. That his father wasn’t his father. And the truth? He wasn’t even terribly upset by this possibility. Felt it was a plausible explanation. Why he and his mother were so close while his father prowled around them both in this permanent state of disappointment.
‘But I never for one moment, Geoffrey— ’ And now his voice is breaking slightly, looking
once again to the garden where two birds are sitting on the bird table, pecking at the seeds. ‘Never once did it enter my head that my mother might not be my real mother.’
It is Geoffrey who makes the move to find a handkerchief. Matthew, embarrassed, struggling in his pockets for a tissue to find only a grey, disgusting rag, which makes them both smile. The cue they both need – Geoffrey’s hand again on Matthew’s shoulder before disappearing to produce a proper cotton affair. Initialled. And ironed. Making them smile at the contrast as Geoffrey moves across the kitchen to turn off the grill while Matthew blows his nose loudly.
‘I’m sorry. I’ve spoiled our supper, Geoffrey. Spoiled everything.’
‘Don’t be silly. So – your mother? Have you been in touch again? I mean, I don’t want to speak out of place here. To suggest I know best. But it seems to me it’s important to stay in touch. To keep talking while you try to work through all this.’
‘Yes. I’ve phoned to say I’m OK.’
‘Well, that’s good. And you know she’d be very welcome here. If she wanted to visit again, I mean.’
‘Thank you, Geoffrey. She’s gone to stay with her sister. My parents— ’ A clearing of the throat. ‘They’ve separated. It was a long time coming.’
‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that. A lot for you all to deal with at once.’
And then it is Matthew who changes the subject – needing a breather – blowing his nose again as he asks what Geoffrey really thinks of the council’s wretched public meeting, boasting of all the new plans, and whether their campaign stands a chance now.
Geoffrey takes the cue. So that they talk quite frankly of their fears for Maria, as Geoffrey confides that the council has been far cleverer than any of them had anticipated – roping in all the local schools to support the ‘gift’ of a new library and arts complex, which the town so badly needs. The idea of a competition for a new name. Yes. All very clever.
Last Kiss Goodnight Page 15
