Conditional Love

by Cathy Bramley

  I collected the cards up and was about to put them back in the box when I heard Audrey tutting loudly.

  ‘There doesn’t seem to be much activity in here,’ she said, tapping her toe as she leaned on the doorframe. ‘The kitchen is all packed up!’

  Her beady eye noticed the box on the bed and the cards in my hand. ‘Ah.’

  ‘Do you know about these?’ I asked, springing to my feet.

  The old lady looked uncertain for the first time.

  ‘I thought my dad had never bothered with me.’

  ‘Jane used to say that Terry was always one for sticking his head in the sand. Anything for an easy life.’

  I felt a twinge of recognition in that description.

  ‘So what happened then, what’s the story?’ asked Emma, flopping down on the bed.

  Audrey shook her head. ‘It’s not my story to tell. That’s why she wanted Sophie to meet him. It’s up to her to decide whether she wants Terry back in her life. Now come on, let’s get this room finished.’

  It was getting dark and we were exhausted by the time we piled back into the mini and headed back to the flat. I had shoved the birthday cards in my bag. I had no idea what I was going to do with them yet, but they were too extraordinary to leave behind.

  ‘Marc’s coming over later,’ I sighed. For once I wasn’t looking forward to his company. All I wanted was a hot bath and a chance to make sense of my swirling thoughts.

  Emma harrumphed. ‘He was conspicuous by his absence today I notice.’

  ‘He said he would have helped, but he’d promised to watch the football in the pub with his mate and didn’t want to let him down.’

  She curled her lip and tutted. ‘For someone with such a capacity for tolerance where he’s concerned, I’m amazed that you can’t bring yourself to give your dad a second chance.’

  For once I didn’t argue with her. I was beginning to feel the same way myself.

  twenty-nine

  Three o’clock. I was convinced that Donna somehow tampered with the clocks in our department to slow down the hands of time. It felt like I’d been at my desk for at least eighteen hours.

  My state of mind probably didn’t help; I couldn’t concentrate on anything. Ever since finding that stash of birthday cards, my uneasiness had been accumulating like the used teabags in our kitchen sink.

  An hour ago, or maybe it was only five minutes, I couldn’t really tell, The Herald’s Twitter account had hit fifteen thousand followers. Last week, this event would have had me tweeting my own trumpet to all and sundry. Today I barely even muster a follow-back to my new Twitter friends.

  Last night was as bad; I was so preoccupied with my thoughts that when Marc called, interrupting Come Dine with Me to ask if he could come over, I turned him down flat. He hadn’t been very impressed, but for once I didn’t care.

  I had pretended not to see the silent conversation between Jess and Emma that followed. Through a series of facial expressions using raised eyebrows, wide eyes and contorted mouths and finishing with a snigger, the exchange had gone as follows:

  ‘That’s not like her!’

  ‘He won’t like that.’

  ‘It’ll do him good to know where he stands.’

  ‘I agree, she shouldn’t drop everything just for him.’

  Snigger. ‘Especially not those.’

  I sighed and looked up from my doodling to check the office clock again.

  The problem was that I couldn’t make sense of my father’s behaviour. I’d assumed that my parents’ divorce had simply been particularly acrimonious, hence my father disappearing without trace. But finding those birthday cards, which bizarrely only started from my sixth birthday, hinted at something more mysterious.

  This was getting ridiculous. I had to do something to drag myself out of this pithering. I made a list of what I knew.

  Fact one: I had millions of unanswered questions.

  Fact two: there was no way Mum going to answer them.

  Fact three: Great Aunt Jane knew more than she let on in her letter and she wanted me to find out the truth for myself.

  Hardly the finest piece of deduction; however, the list led me to a gut-churningly inevitable conclusion: if I really and truly wanted to get to the bottom of the situation, I was going to have to eat my words along with a large slice of humble pie and contact my father again.

  Unfortunately, Terry was several thousands of miles away and I had refused to take a note of his contact details.

  Of course! Mr Whelan could help me out there. Donna was out at a meeting, so I brazenly plucked my mobile phone from my bag and dialled the solicitor’s number.

  ‘Mr Whelan is on annual leave,’ explained the receptionist apologetically. ‘Can you call back next week?’

  ‘I don’t need to speak to him directly. I’m only after a telephone number.’

  ‘I can’t give out confidential information, I’m afraid.’

  ‘It’s not confidential, it will be in my file. I just need my father’s phone number.’

  There was a pause on the line. I didn’t blame her for hesitating. It didn’t say much for our relationship that I had to ask a solicitor for my own father’s contact details.

  ‘It’s very important,’ I added hopefully.

  ‘Handing out numbers is highly unorthodox. What if there’s an injunction out preventing you from making contact? I’d be an accessory.’

  I suppressed a tut. ‘I’m sure a detail like that would be in the file.’

  ‘Hmm.’ She was coming round, I could tell. Time for a white lie.

  ‘Actually, it was Mr Whelan himself who suggested I ring my father. I can’t stress enough how important it is that I speak to him urgently.’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ she sighed and I heard some shuffling and tapping on the keyboard. ‘Here we go. Mr Stone.’

  She rattled off the number and I scribbled it down with a pounding heart.

  I shut myself in my bedroom and spent a good five minutes double checking that I had worked the time difference out correctly and trying to get my hands to stop trembling. I knew my father lived in Nevada, but not a lot else. By my reckoning it would be midday there. What if he didn’t answer? What if he reacted as badly as I did when he surprised me with a phone call at work?

  I was still ashamed about that. Whatever else might or might not have happened in the past, Terry was now a widower and instead of showing respect, I had said some very cruel things.

  I flicked my eyes over the list of questions I had prepared as a prompt in case nerves got the better of me. Then, with fluttering heart and trembling hands I dialled the number.

  Instead of the long single ring tone, like I’d heard on American TV shows, it rang out as a double, just like in England. That wasn’t what I’d expected.

  ‘Hello?’

  Weird! The voice on the other end was male, but even from that solitary word, I could tell it was too young to be my father.

  ‘Oh hi, I was looking for Terry Stone.’

  ‘This is his son, Brodie Stone. I’m afraid my father is no longer staying with me.’

  I panicked. I dropped the phone from my ear and covered the mouthpiece with my hand. The soft American drawl was unmistakeable in a longer sentence.

  OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD

  The dozy receptionist had given me the wrong number. I’d dialled my half-brother. I glanced at my list of questions but they were no help. I hadn’t factored in this conversational twist. Now what?

  Put the phone down. Put the phone down. Sophie! HANG UP NOW!

  ‘Er. I’m Sophie Stone.’

  There was a harsh laugh down the phone. Oh God, I should have put the phone down while I had the chance.

  ‘Is that so?’

  Hold on a minute! What was he getting all high-horsey about? Is that so? All snippy and snarky. I was the one who had been wronged here. I decided to get what I needed and end the call as quickly as possible. Speaking to my father was today’s goal, I must not get
sidetracked in semi-sibling squabbles.

  ‘Yes, and I was hoping to speak to Terry. Do you have his number please?’

  ‘He’s my father. Of course I have his number.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Then can I have it, please?’ Keep calm, Sophie. Do not rise to the bait.

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No, you may not.’

  I didn’t believe it! The snivelling spoilt brat was jealous. Yup. He was jealous and worried because all of a sudden, he had a rival for Daddy’s attention.

  ‘And what will Terry,’ I coughed, ‘what will Dad think about that when he finds out that you prevented me from talking to him?’

  Brodie huffed down the phone. ‘You stay away from him. Don’t you think you’ve done enough? You and your crazy aunt?’

  Technically, Great Aunt Jane was as much his as mine, I wanted to point out, but decided to let that one go.

  ‘He flies halfway around the world, against doctors’ orders, to honour the old lady’s last request and what does he get for his trouble?’ Brodie paused momentarily. Long enough for me to register the doctor part.

  ‘He was pushed around, shouted at, accused of all sorts of lies –’

  ‘What do you mean, against doctors’ orders?’ I recalled the bags under the eyes, the unhealthy skin tone. I had put that down to jetlag.

  ‘Jeez. Didn’t you talk about anything but yourself when you met him?’ I could imagine him shaking his head in disgust at the other end to the phone.

  ‘He had heart surgery earlier this year. Officially he wasn’t supposed to fly until September, but your solicitor kept pushing him for an appointment.’

  And I pushed him in the chest and sent him flying within thirty seconds of meeting him. I closed my eyes in horror. I was a terrible person. No wonder he didn’t want to pass on Terry’s number.

  ‘I brought forward my arrival date at uni, so that I could travel with him. To keep him safe.’ He stressed this last part.

  ‘It was perfectly acceptable for Mr Whelan to pin down the appointment. The flights were paid for from Jane’s estate after all.’ No harm in pointing out that Terry hadn’t had to put his hand in his own pocket.

  ‘Uh uh,’ Brodie argued. ‘He wouldn’t take payment for the flights. He wanted all the money to go to you.’

  I rolled my eyes. Terry was quite the philanthropist according to Brodie! He was doing a great job of reinventing our father as some sort of martyr.

  ‘It’s a bit late to start worrying about my financial welfare now. My mum never received a penny towards my upkeep from the moment I was born. I take it you didn’t go without?’

  I cringed instantly. This had rapidly degenerated into a mud-slinging, tit for tat argument. It was time to end the call, but Brodie wasn’t ready to call it quits yet. He gave a low whistle.

  ‘I haven’t had the misfortune to meet either you or your mother. But from what I’ve heard, you’re every bit as manipulative and vindictive as she is.’

  I sucked my breath in. This boy made very free and easy with the insults. Whatever my father had told him about our meeting, I clearly hadn’t come out of it too well.

  ‘For the life of me, I cannot understand why he insisted on meeting you. But he did. Because for all his faults, he is a kind and loving father. But you rejected him out of hand without even hearing him out.’

  He did have faults then. I was beginning to think I’d been sired by Ghandhi.

  ‘Dad has me to love him. He doesn’t need you. Please leave us alone.’

  This was my cue to apologise and much as it stuck in my throat, I knew I needed to do it if this phone call was going to achieve something other than bruising my ego. I took a deep breath.

  ‘Brodie.’ It felt odd saying my brother’s name. I said it again. ‘Brodie. I was hurt and confused when Terry came to see me. I realise now that I may have jumped to conclusions. I really need to speak to him. I’d like to apologise and hear what he has to say. Truly.’

  There was a long silence on the line.

  ‘He’s at home recovering right now. I can’t risk you setting his recuperation back again.’

  ‘But this time I won’t –’

  ‘He’ll be back for Christmas. It’ll be the first year without Mom, so we thought we’d spend it here.’

  My heart plummeted. I felt sorry for my little brother for the first time. Christmas was going to be really tough for them this year.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss, I really am. Look, I won’t ask to speak to him now. It can wait. But please, would you tell Terry that I would very much like to see him at Christmas?’

  Brodie sighed. ‘OK. But if you step out of line again –’

  ‘I won’t. I promise,’ I added hastily. ‘Goodbye Brodie.’

  ‘Bye Sophie.’

  I collapsed on my bed in an emotional heap. How surreal was that? My first contact with my brother. I got the impression that he wasn’t very enamoured with his big sister. Well, ditto. Apart from the pang of pity at the end of our conversation, I hadn’t been overly-impressed with him either.

  And I still didn’t have Terry’s phone number. I did a quick count up and huffed impatiently. Eight weeks until Christmas. Two whole months until I could hear my father’s side of the story.

  thirty

  Marc lay back, closed his eyes and tucked a hand behind his head. I nestled into him happily, wrapping an arm around his torso. He squeezed me tightly in response and I looped one leg across his. My ministering angel.

  I’d phoned in to the office sick this morning with a bad headache and then spent all day in in bed with the curtains drawn. At four o’clock Marc arrived, announcing that he had come to visit the patient. I’d quickly opened the curtains and put on a clean t-shirt. Marc had tutted at me seductively, closed the curtains and peeled off the t-shirt. Didn’t I know that the best cure for a headache was distraction?

  It had worked. My headache had completely gone; in fact I was feeling positively light-headed.

  ‘I could cook for us all tonight,’ I said, kissing the side of his face lightly, enjoying the sensation of his stubble against my lips.

  ‘Why?’ Marc opened one eye suspiciously.

  ‘Because.’ I hesitated. Spike was coming round later and I thought this would be a chance for us all to bond. I had a rose-tinted image of us all sitting down to a civilised dinner, where at least the food, if nothing else, would provide some common ground, and I did so want Marc to get on with my friends. I couldn’t admit that though, or he’d have been out of the flat like a shot.

  ‘I want to be able to cook you delicious dinners when we’re in the new house. I need the practice.’

  ‘True. Will Emma be there?’

  ‘Yes, and Jess and Spike.’

  Marc grunted and closed his eye. I leaned up on one elbow and stroked his hair. He looked like a sulky little boy.

  Please stay and please promise me you’ll be nice.

  He rolled over and looked at me intently.

  ‘Have you mentioned anything to that architect yet about developing the land? You should definitely put more than one house on it. It’s a no-brainer. Just think of the extra dosh!’ He traced a finger down my stomach and I felt my insides go all gooey.

  ‘I’ll do it tomorrow,’ I promised. I’d agree to anything if it meant he would make an effort with my friends. Besides, a visit to Nick was well overdue. I had amends to make in both senses of the word.

  ‘I suppose I have worked up a bit of an appetite.’ He winked at me. ‘I can stay for a while before I go to the gym. Nothing too heavy though,’ he said, swinging his legs off the bed and pulling on his trackie bottoms. ‘I’ll grab a shower first.’

  Yay! Operation Bonding was on. I threw on my dressing gown and went to search the kitchen for inspiration. I was in luck: six eggs, a packet of smoked bacon and a kilo of dried spaghetti. According to the Jamie Oliver website, with only a few minor substitutions, I had the makings of an easy Spaghetti C
arbonara. I filled the biggest pan we had with water and set it to boil.

  Marc was still whistling in the shower and I was contemplating how to bruise garlic, when Emma arrived home lugging a heavy box.

  She set it down on the kitchen table and wafted away the steam until we could see each other clearly.

  ‘What do you think of these?’ said Emma, carefully removing three shiny objects packed in bubble wrap from the box.

  It was a set of teardrop-shaped jugs, small, medium and large, with the point of the teardrop forming the spout. The smallest was the size of an elongated tennis ball. They were made of highly polished silver, but what made them so exquisite was their copper lining.

  I gasped in delight. ‘Absolutely stunning! You made these?’

  Emma grinned. ‘Yeah. You like?’

  ‘I love!’ I said, picking up the smallest and turning it round in my hands.

  ‘Cheers, mate. It’s my entry for the National Silverware Awards.’ She smiled coyly and started wrapping them back up.

  I was chuffed to bits that she had taken my advice. ‘Your parents are going to be so proud of you for doing this,’ I said.

  She shrugged. ‘I probably won’t get anywhere, but it’s worth a try,’ she said modestly.

  We both turned to the front door as we heard Jess’s key rattling in the lock.

  ‘Don’t tell Jess,’ Emma hissed. ‘She’ll only warn me not to get my hopes up and I don’t need her style of encouragement.’

  Emma whistled as Jess backed into the hallway carrying a large pumpkin under each arm and wearing black boots and a very short dress. It took a few seconds to find the right words.

  ‘Isn’t that dress a bit short for school?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s a top,’ giggled Jess. ‘I lost my leggings in PE.’

  ‘I thought it was the kids who lost their clothes, not the teachers,’ said Emma, lifting the box off the table and carrying it to her room.