‘Tell me more about this photograph,’ I said, changing the subject.
He linked his hands and began twirling his wedding ring round and round with his opposite hand. Then one knee started twitching. Whatever he wanted to say, it was clearly difficult to put into words.
‘This was taken on the Valentine’s Day after we got married.’ He pressed his lips together into a thin line. ‘We were at another party. Your mother loved parties, she was a real party animal. I was happier at home, to be honest.’
‘She doesn’t look that happy to me,’ I said.
He shook his head unhappily. ‘We had just found out she was pregnant. With you.’
I squeezed my eyes shut. I felt sick all of a sudden.
Please don’t tell me that I was the reason you fell out of love?
Terry saw my face and immediately laid a hand on my knee. ‘Finding out your mother was having a baby was the happiest day of my life. Even better than our wedding day. I felt like the luckiest man in the world.’
I studied his face: the penetrating green eyes, thick eyebrows showing the first signs of grey, dense dark hair. Already he was becoming more familiar to me. His eyes glazed as he looked at the photograph in my hand.
He sounded sincere, he looked as if he meant those words.
‘Why, Terry? If you were so happy, how could you have walked away?’
He stared at me for what felt like an eternity. The tension was building in me like a balloon filled with too much air. Something was going to burst any second, I could feel it.
Breathe, Sophie, breathe.
‘When I met you on your birthday, I could tell from your, um, attitude, that perhaps you hadn’t heard the full story.’
What was it my mum had said? ‘Well, no doubt you’ve heard the whole sordid story.’
My whole body was trembling. So there was more to it! As much as I wanted – needed – to hear what Terry had to say, I was scared. All at once, it felt as if my whole life had been leading up to this moment.
‘Go on.’ My voice was so shaky, I hardly recognised it.
Terry exhaled as if psyching himself up. I held my breath.
‘Your mother –’
Buzzzzz.
We both jumped. A very persistent person was leaning on our entry bell.
I leapt up, shooting my father a look of apology as I ran to the door.
‘Probably Emma, forgotten something.’ I released the outer door without checking who it was.
I waited in the hallway for Emma to bound up the stairs with her long legs. Instead, there was a slow shuffle, a thump and a grunt. Intrigued, I poked my head out over the stairwell. It couldn’t be? I blinked several times to make sure my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me.
‘Mum?’
thirty-six
I raced down the top few steps and took Mum’s heavy suitcase from her.
‘I wasn’t expecting you.’
Honours degree in stating the bleedin’ obvious, me.
She paused, out of breath, and gave me an injured look. ‘Well, if it’s not convenient?
‘It’s a nice surprise, obviously,’ I added too late.
The shock of seeing her on my doorstep took my breath away, but the change in her appearance gave me even more of a jolt.
My mum was always immaculately turned out: accessorised and colour-coordinated to the hilt, her fine blonde hair lacquered in place, full war paint on. I used to swear blind that if I turned up at hers at four in the morning, she would have lipstick on.
But not today. Today, she had bags under her eyes that wouldn’t pass the Ryanair baggage allowance, her hair was flat at the front and all bird’s nesty at the back, and instead of tanned and healthy she looked tired and old.
I put the case down in the hall and hugged her. A wave of relief washed over me; she had come home and she was OK – miserable, but OK. When did she get so thin, she was a bag of bones? I pushed down the instant figure-envy and scanned her face. Her chin had a distinctly unhappy wobble going on.
‘Mum?’
She collapsed against me and her petite frame started to shake. ‘I’m finished, Sophie,’ she sobbed. ‘Past it, they said, nobody wants that sort of thing anymore.’
‘I thought your Madonna act was going really well?’ I stroked her hair. I don’t think I’d ever seen her so upset.
‘I’ve been replaced with a Madonna drag act.’ She took a tissue from the pocket of her thin coat and dabbed her eyes. Her mascara had made black streaks down her cheeks. She would be horrified when she looked in a mirror.
‘A miming Madonna drag act. All pointy boobs and reinforced gussets.’ She looked at me distraught. ‘Apparently, even a man looks better in the outfit than me, a man half my age!’
My heart melted for her. To a woman who prided herself on a youthful attitude to life, being told she was too old would be the ultimate insult. My second emotion was less altruistic. When I saw her coming up the stairs, I had assumed that she had come to patch things up between us, but evidently she was here to lick her wounds. And to think I’d been worried about her all these weeks! I mean, how difficult would it have been to let me know she was on her way?
‘I didn’t know where else to go,’ she whispered into my neck.
I rolled my eyes at no one in particular. Nurse Sophie to the rescue – again. Her body felt heavy pressing against me. She was probably exhausted from such a mammoth travelling and crying combo.
I peeled her coat off. No wonder she was cold. She was wearing a silver off-the-shoulder jumper, which could have doubled as a spider’s web, a thin camisole and skinny jeans. I put an arm round her shoulders.
‘Come on,’ I smiled at her. ‘You look shattered.’
‘Thanks, Sophie, love,’ she sniffed and allowed me to lead her into the living room.
‘Friggin’ Nora!’ cried Mum and promptly fainted.
Damn! I’d forgotten her ex-husband was here.
Terry jumped up out of his seat unsteadily. He’d gone a murky shade of ash white. I guessed it was as much of a shock for him as it was her. For a hideous moment I thought he was going to pass out on top of her. That would take some explaining when they both came round.
Thankfully he rallied and between us we managed to lay her on the sofa. I covered her with a blanket while he fetched her a glass of water.
My heart was pounding, my dress was tight and I was feeling a bit breathless. Of all the moments Mum could have chosen to spring a visit on me! God knows what was going to happen when she opened her eyes, but there was a good chance of fireworks.
‘I should go,’ said Terry, anguish etched in lines around his eyes.
I hesitated.
Mum moaned and stirred.
His departure would make it easier; I would be left to face the music on my own, but at least there would be no bloodshed.
No, stuff it!
I had had enough of taking the soft option, avoiding conflict and doing anything for an easier ride. My father had disappeared before, presumably when times got tough, and I wasn’t going to give him the chance to do it again. And before Mum had made her dramatic entrance, I had been on the cusp of finding out why.
I shook my head. ‘You're staying.’
At least if they were in the same room, I would get to hear both sides of the story. Terry sighed reluctantly and began to pace up and down our small living room, raking a hand through his hair.
Mum slowly opened her eyes and gazed blearily around her. I held the water up to her lips. She sat up gingerly and winced.
‘Haven’t you got any brandy?’
Feeling better then, I thought, as I darted off to the kitchen to pour her a tumbler of Baileys.
‘This is very cosy, isn’t it?’ She eyed Terry warily. ‘I knew this would happen,’ she added under her breath.
Strange, I thought she would rip his head off. Perhaps she was still suffering the effects of her blackout?
‘Terry is over in the UK visiting his son,’
I said, deliberately avoiding the word ‘brother’. ‘Brodie is here at uni. Well, he’s in the pub with Emma at the moment.’
‘So. You started over,’ said Mum quietly, picking at her nails. The cherry red polish was chipped. Wow, she must have been in a bad way to neglect her manicure.
Terry turned to face her, legs apart, arms folded, his face set like granite.
‘Why, Valerie?’ he asked in a monotone voice. ‘Why tell me she wasn’t my baby?’
I gasped and a cold shiver ran along the length of my spine.
What? He wasn’t my dad?
The events of the past few months whirled around in my brain in confusion: the will, our first meeting, the birthday cards… None of it made sense. I shook my head. Ridiculous! He had to be. They were married when I was conceived and I even looked like the man, for pity’s sake!
I gawped at my mum, lying like an invalid under her blanket, willing her to deny she had ever said such a thing. But to my horror, she shrugged weakly and her face crumpled as a fresh batch of tears coursed down her cheeks.
‘I was so angry with you. I felt trapped,’ she sniffed. ‘Getting married was so exciting. But being married…’ She shuddered. ‘All you wanted to do was stay at home, do DIY and watch TV. I wanted parties, fun, excitement and I still thought I could be the next Whitney Houston.’ She laughed which turned into a sob and an unsightly bubble of snot billowed from her nostril.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I handed her a tissue on autopilot.
Terry pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. I couldn’t read his expression. It might have been pain or fury. Possibly both.
‘Angry?’ he said simply. ‘You stole our baby from me because you were angry? To win a stupid argument?’ He shook his head and stared at her.
He was incredibly controlled. I would have been lunging at her and wringing her chuffin’ neck by now.
‘I suppose it was your Aunt Jane who told you?’ Mum raised her chin to glance at Terry; she was managing to avoid all eye contact with me though, I noticed.
Terry nodded. ‘As soon as she saw your little girl she knew I had to be the father. The likeness between us was too much of a coincidence.’ He smiled at me ruefully, before turning his attention back to Mum.
‘You lied.’ His eyes pierced hers so forcefully that she dropped her gaze to her lap. ‘You deprived me of being a father to Sophie. God, what a mess!’
‘You were pretty quick to believe me though, weren’t you? I might have been a bit of a flirt, but nothing more. I would never have cheated on you. Not that I didn’t have offers.’
His knees sagged and he dropped heavily into the arm chair, covering his face with his hands. ‘When you made me move out of our home, I lost everything. You broke my heart.’
Mum fumbled up her sleeve for another tissue and blew her nose loudly.
‘I was wrong, I admit it. I was selfish. And at first I regretted it. I came looking for you in your old local pub, just before the baby was due. My plan was to tell you the truth and ask you to give us another chance. I saw you across the bar with your head down a barmaid’s cleavage. I thought you’d moved on, didn’t need me anymore. As I watched you, I realised that I was relieved. I was too selfish to be a good wife. I would have driven you crazy.’
Terry narrowed his eyes as if trying to cast his mind back all those years. ‘After we split, I drowned my sorrows non-stop for weeks. I can’t even think who that barmaid might have been, but it would only have been a shoulder to cry on. There was no one else for me until I met my second wife.’
I had been listening to this incredible exchange as if it was a scene in a TV soap. Suddenly, the impact of her actions hit me and I snapped.
‘What about me, Mum? Didn’t I deserve a father? Shouldn’t I have had a say in any of this? Not to mention the fact that all this time you’ve let me believe that it was him who abandoned you!’
Mum chewed on her lip. The lipstick had worn off long ago, just a shadow of colour remained where it had bled into the fine wrinkles round her mouth. She reached out and placed her hand on my arm.
‘I’m so sorry, Sophie, I’ve been a terrible mother. All the time you were growing up, I dreaded your father getting in touch; I knew how badly I’d behaved. When Jane challenged me about Terry being your father I panicked; I was terrified of losing you.’
I shook my head. Not good enough. Everything I had just heard contradicted what I thought I knew about my parents’ divorce, about my own start in life. It was too much to take in.
‘I haven’t lost you, have I? We had fun, didn’t we? We made a good team?’ she pleaded.
I stayed silent and let my mind wander back through the years of my childhood.
Having a good time had always been high on her agenda. The day Gary Barlow made an appearance at Virgin records sprang to mind. I was in the middle of my GCSEs, but she wrote me a note for school so I could join the crowds and get his autograph. Live for the moment, she had told me. But I had needed more than fun; I’d wanted a family and a proper home. She had denied me both of those.
I looked down at her. Her eyes were drooping and her skin was so pale that she was almost translucent. Despite being furious with her, I could see she was in no fit state to take much more.
I sighed and shook my head in despair. I suggested she climbed into my bed for a nap and she accepted gratefully. Terry put the kettle on while I helped her into my room.
Five minutes later, it was just the two of us again, him on the sofa, me in the chair. This time we both had tea – milky with two sugars. We sipped our drinks in silence. I didn’t know what to say. Terry had definitely been dealt a raw deal by my mum – and by me, come to think of it – but his aunt had bumped into us when I had been about five and he hadn’t exactly fallen over himself to make contact, had he?
Terry seemed like such a supportive parent to Brodie, a real father figure. Having someone like that in my life when I was growing up would have made a massive difference. Why hadn’t he fought for me?
As if reading my mind, Terry groaned and looked me squarely in the eye.
‘We’ve made a right mess of things, me and your mother. I can’t lay all the blame at her feet. I’m sorry for how all this has affected you, duckie.’
Duckie! Thirty years away and he still spoke like a true Nottingham lad.
‘If you had been so looking forward to being a dad, why didn’t you come and challenge Mum as soon as you found out the truth?’
If he wanted to be part of my life, I needed more assurance that I had mattered to him, because right now, he was coming across as weak-willed and pathetic.
Terry started to massage his forehead and to my horror, he began to cry, full-on shoulder-shaking, silent tears.
‘Dad,’ I said, sitting next to him and patting his arm awkwardly. ‘Dad, come on. Talk to me.’ Yep, definitely a bit pathetic, although at least if he was crying, I guessed it must mean he cared.
He sniffed and gave me a watery smile. ‘You called me Dad.’
I had. In that moment, he had somehow become Dad. Not my father. Dad. A warm glow filled my body and I smiled back at him. It felt quite nice to have a dad.
He sighed before he answered. ‘I realise this will sound feeble, but here goes. When Aunt Jane wrote to me to say she’d seen Valerie with a curly-haired, green-eyed beautiful little girl –,’ he paused to smile at me and I felt my face heat up, ‘I’d already been in the Navy for five years. I had a bit of a nomadic lifestyle and it was easy to stay away. I told myself that by sending you a birthday card, I was at least making some effort. Aunt Jane tried to make contact with your mother, but she couldn’t track her down. I kept sending the cards on the off-chance.
‘My aunt was always badgering me to come back to Nottingham and find you, but too much time had gone by. And besides,’ he flicked me a sideways glance, ‘I’ve always been a bit of a bugger for taking the easy way out. I told myself that it would happen one day, we would be reu
nited at some point in the future.’
I shook my head in annoyance, partly with him, but also because he was reflecting my own character traits back at me.
‘One thing I’ve learned this year,’ I replied, ‘is that you have to go out and make your future, not sit around waiting for it to find you.’
He patted my hand and met my gaze, his expression etched with decades of regret. ‘I know that now. And although it’s of no consolation to you, I vowed when Brodie was born that I would do better the second time around. To my eternal shame, once he was born, I stopped sending the cards. I figured as you weren’t getting them anyway, what was the point?’
A pang of sadness struck at my heart. So he had just pushed me to the back of his head. Filed under ‘daughter: whereabouts unknown’. But with a new wife and a new baby, was it really so difficult to understand?
A thought struck me suddenly. ‘You haven’t told me anything about your second wife?’
He laughed shakily. ‘I think today has been emotional enough without telling you about Maggie. Next time perhaps. There will be a next time?’
Where do lumps in the throat come from? One minute you’re absolutely fine, chattering away like a parakeet, and then without a word of warning, a lump the size of a tennis ball materialises in your throat and you can’t speak, swallow or breathe.
I nodded.
Then on impulse I put my arms round him and hugged him tight. Tentatively, as if he was unsure whether it was allowed, my dad hugged me back.
‘I’d like that,’ I croaked. ‘Although I’m not sure Brodie will be so keen.’
‘I’ll let you into a secret,’ he said, his eyes twinkling. ‘He’s been boasting about having an English half-sister all his life to his friends.’
‘Really?’ I tried not to look as flattered as I felt.
Dad nodded. ‘He’s just feeling a bit overwhelmed and, I have to say, unnecessarily over-protective.’ His hand moved involuntarily to his chest, a gesture which wasn’t lost on me.
‘Anyway,’ he said, standing up reluctantly. ‘I’ve taken up enough of your time. You’ve got your mum to look after. I’d better round up Brodie and pour him into my hire car.’
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