by Imogen Clark
I fish out another. This time it is a picture of Big Ben with black cabs passing by in the foreground and a big, red Routemaster bus. I turn it over with shaking hands. Again, the same message.
My darling babies. I love you more than you will ever know. Please forgive me.
This one is dated September 1995. My hand dives into the box again and retrieves another. This time it’s from Mombasa, an African elephant waving its trunk high in the air. It’s dated 2001. The message is the same as the others.
I pull out card after card. They all say exactly the same thing. My head is spinning with questions. Who are they from? Why are they all addressed to me and Michael? Why are they hidden in this box in the depths of the forbidden attic?
There is nothing else in the box – just the postcards, hundreds of them, in no particular order, just lying where they have fallen. I scrabble about, looking for the oldest card. I cannot find a single one that was written before March 1987. Mum died in the February.
It makes no sense. I take the box and settle myself down on the dusty floor in the other room, where there’s more space, all thoughts of finding what I came up here for forgotten. I begin to pull out handfuls of cards. I make piles – one for each year, so that I can get them into chronological order. They span from March 1987 to July 2002. The cards seem to be from England at first, mainly London. There are a few from touristy places – Paris, Amsterdam, one from Moscow with snow settled on the brightly coloured turrets of the cathedral in Red Square. There are lots from Italy – Rome, Naples, Bologna – and America too . . . But then later, after 2002, nothing. The cards just stop. I wonder whether they stopped arriving or whether Dad stopped saving them. I reason that they must have actually stopped arriving as I’ve been dealing with the post for years now and I would have seen a postcard like this.
I empty the box out completely but there’s nothing else hidden at the bottom. There are just the postcards. I pick one up at random. It is a garish shot of a sunset. The colours look artificial. I tap it rhythmically against my lips as I try to calm my racing mind into some kind of order. But there is no order. It makes no sense. I can think of no one who would send us postcards like this for so many years. No one, of course, except the one person who couldn’t possibly have sent them.
CHAPTER NINE
Annie, 1976
Joe is coming for Sunday lunch with the Kemps and Annie has worried herself into a frenzy. Her desperation for them all to like one another is almost visceral. If they could just not shout at each other long enough to eat the meal that would be a start, she thinks.
Her mother has invited Joe for pre-lunch sherry. Annie shudders at how bourgeois this sounds but decides not to say so in case her mother loses her nerve and cancels the whole thing. She spends the morning chopping veg and constructing a trifle and becomes so distracted by trying to make everything perfect that when the front doorbell rings at a minute after twelve she can’t think who it could be.
‘He’s very punctual,’ says her mother from the lounge, where she is plumping the cushions on the sofa for the third time. ‘I do like that in a man.’
She supposes that her mother’s tick list of qualities for an ideal mate must be pretty short, given that she settled for her father.
‘Well, answer the door then!’ her mother adds, standing frozen to the spot like the proverbial rabbit. She must be as nervous as me, Annie thinks.
She knows as soon as she opens the door that everything is going be all right. He stands on the front step polishing his shoe on the back of his trouser leg. He is wearing his good suit and a blue and grey tie that Annie has not seen before. His dark locks are neatly combed and he has had a shave recently. A glow of pride both for him and that he has chosen her radiates out from her somersaulting stomach.
Shyness creeps over her, as though she, not he, is the one on foreign territory. She gestures towards the lounge and he steps over the threshold, gently placing a little kiss on her cheek as he passes. She inhales the woody overtones of his aftershave.
‘Something smells good,’ he says, momentarily confusing her until she realises that he means the lunch.
‘It’s roast beef,’ she says. ‘Mum likes to do a full roast on a Sunday.’
Actually, what her mother cooks on a Sunday depends almost entirely on how sober her father is, but it sounds better to pretend that Joe has just stepped into a typical day at the Kemps’.
‘Please. Sit down,’ she says. Her voice sounds formal and strained to her but Joe does not seem to notice. He drops into the sofa, squashing one of her mother’s over-plumped cushions. Annie winces involuntarily. ‘Did you find us okay?’ She sounds like the receptionist at a job interview. ‘I’m sorry,’ she adds, twisting her mouth into a grimace. ‘Ignore me. I think I’m a bit nervous.’
Joe smiles his wide smile at her, no hint of apprehension in his face. ‘Don’t be,’ he says. ‘I’m great with parents. They’ll love me.’
Before she has time to worry about that as well, the door opens and in strides her father. She tries to look at him through Joe’s eyes. A middle-aged man with the start of a beer belly and hair slick with Brylcreem. He is wearing a sleeveless cardigan over a tired green shirt and brown slacks, clearly having made no effort for their guest.
‘You must be the new squeeze,’ he says and Annie winces again. ‘Malcolm Kemp.’ He nods, as if his identity is so obvious that he really has no need to introduce himself to anyone.
Joe, who had stood up quickly when her father came into the room, now offers him his hand to shake.
‘Joseph Ferensby,’ he says. ‘Very pleased to meet you, Mr Kemp – and may I say how delightful your daughter is?’ He oozes confidence, just like he did that first day on the bus, and she envies him his easy manner.
Her father regards Annie thoughtfully, as if it has never occurred to him that she could be considered delightful. Annie tries to second-guess his thoughts and fails as her mother bustles in. She is carrying a silver tray holding five rattling glasses of amber sherry and a bowl of salted peanuts. ‘Sherry, anyone?’ she asks and begins to offer the tray to Joe. Then, at the last minute, her mother changes her mind and pushes the tray towards her father, who takes a glass, sniffs its contents and knocks it back in one mouthful.
‘Joe, this is my mum, Pam,’ Annie says quickly. ‘Mum, this is Joe.’
‘Lovely to meet you, Mrs Kemp,’ said Joe. ‘I can see where Annie gets her good looks from.’
Annie very nearly chokes. Her mother blushes instantly and almost drops the tray, casting a nervous glance at her husband. She offers the tray of glasses to Joe and he’s about to take one when her father speaks.
‘You don’t want to be drinking that muck, Joseph. They’re open and we’re wasting good drinking time. We’ll just nip out for a quick pint, Pam. We’ll be back in time for lunch.’
Her mother, who clearly hasn’t anticipated a trip to the pub before the meal, is momentarily thrown. She rubs at the knuckles of her left hand with her right as if they are sore. ‘All right,’ she says quietly, ‘but I need you back to carve the meat at twelve forty-five, Malcolm. Please.’
Annie can hear the pleading tone of her voice and hopes Joe can’t. Her father just nods and then, snatching a handful of peanuts as he passes, ushers Joe back out of the front door. Now all they can do is wait and hope.
Annie takes a glass of the sherry and a handful of peanuts, which she tips into her mouth in one go. Her mother begins to re-plump the cushions.
It is closer to one thirty by the time the men get back, both having clearly had more than a pint but in high spirits and seemingly getting along just fine. At the sound of the door banging shut, Ursula appears from her room and comes halfway down the stairs, stopping just out of reach. Annie’s father waves his arm towards her.
‘And this young beauty, Joseph my boy, is my firstborn, Ursula. Now, she’s a proper firecracker. You’ll be wondering whether you’ve picked the right sister by the end of lunch. Ursula, m
y little chickadee, come and say hello to young Annie’s new beau.’
Ursula scowls down the stairs but makes no effort to move any closer. ‘Hello,’ she says. Nothing about her tone is welcoming or friendly. She turns to their mother. ‘Is lunch ready yet? I’m starving.’
‘I think it may be slightly past its best,’ says her mother under her breath, but her father is already making his way through to the dining room.
‘My belly thinks my throat’s been cut,’ he says, pushing his way past her mother.
‘Shall we sit boy, girl?’ asks her mother brightly as they gather around the table awaiting instruction. ‘I’ll sit here by the door so I can bring things in and out. Do you want to sit next to Annie, Joseph?’
‘This isn’t going to work out,’ says her father, shaking his head deliberately. He points a tobacco-stained finger at each chair in turn, counting them off one by one. ‘It’s basic maths, woman,’ he says to her mother and then turning to Joe adds, ‘You’d better not be looking for brains as well as beauty, Joseph. They’re in pretty short supply around here.’
Annie hears Ursula clear her throat and thinks for one terrifying moment that she is going to contradict him, but instead she says, ‘Oh, we’re both as thick as planks. Not a brain cell to rub together between us.’
‘Well, I don’t think that’s really true,’ says her mother quietly.
‘The boy knows I’m joking, Pam. Don’t be so sensitive.’
Annie sees her mother shrink a little, her shoulders rounding and her head dropping so that Annie can no longer see her face. ‘I’ll just bring the food in,’ she says in a voice barely above a whisper. ‘Could you help me please, girls?’
‘I don’t know,’ says her father, leaning back in his chair and looking over at Joe as he speaks, as if the two of them are communicating in a language that the women cannot follow. ‘How can I show my daughters off to Joseph if you keep dragging them away? Can’t you manage in the kitchen by yourself? Anyone would think you’d never made a Sunday roast before, the fuss you’re making.’ Her father is clearly enjoying himself, belittling her mother and showing off to Joe. ‘And Joseph and I need a drink. There’s some beer in the pantry. Bring us each a can, would you?’
Annie can see her mother starting to flap, unable to cope with so many tasks at one time.
‘I’ll get them, Dad,’ she says and then slips out of the room before he can complain again.
Her mother follows her out, head bowed.
‘I’ve had to carve the meat myself,’ she says once they are safely in the kitchen. Nerves make her voice high and breathy. ‘I couldn’t wait any longer. He won’t like it but what could I do?’
‘It’ll be fine, Mum,’ Annie replies. ‘I bet he doesn’t even notice. I’ll just take these drinks through and then I’ll come back and give you a hand.’
She scoops up the cans and a couple of glasses, more for appearances’ sake than anything, as she is certain they won’t be used, and heads back to the dining room. Her father is holding court, Joe laughing roundly at something that he’s said. Ursula is still scowling and looks as if she would rather be anywhere but there.
‘That’s true, isn’t it, Annie?’ her father is saying as she enters the room. ‘Ursula could turn milk with that face of hers. It’s no wonder that young Joseph here has set his cap at you. You might not have the looks of your sister, or, let’s face it, the figure . . .’
Annie is mortified. She sets the cans down on the table, places a glass next to each and then backs away, her arms folded tightly across her chest. She shoots a glance at Joe, hoping to see horror or, at the very least, sympathy on his face but he is focused on her father and is laughing even louder than before. He can’t be being taken in by him, surely? She risks a glance at Ursula, who shakes her head with a minute movement. Leave it, she is saying. Just leave it.
‘. . . but at least our Annie knows how to smile,’ her father continues.
‘I’ll just go and help Mum,’ Annie mutters and retreats.
‘Joseph seems nice,’ says her mother when she gets back to the kitchen. Her voice sounds calmer now. ‘And your father likes him,’ she adds. ‘Which is good.’ Annie notices the sherry bottle, open and almost empty, on the side but doesn’t mention it. ‘Can you just carry the veg and I’ll bring the roasties and the meat,’ her mother adds, handing Annie a tea towel. ‘I’ll come back for the gravy.’
Annie picks up the hot tureens and follows her mother through. She sets the dishes down carefully on a mat in the centre of the table, the serving spoons placed with their handles towards her father.
‘Oh, silly me,’ her mother is saying. ‘I’ve forgotten the plates. What was I thinking?’
‘You weren’t thinking,’ her father says. ‘You never do. See what I have to put up with in this family, Joseph? I’m surrounded by incompetent idiots.’
Joe laughs again but he sounds less sure this time. He looks at Annie, one eyebrow raised quizzically. She just shrugs. What could she say? Welcome to the Kemp family.
‘I’ll just go and get them. They’re warming. I won’t be a minute.’
Her mother’s voice is once more shrill with the strain of trying to keep control. She disappears yet again and returns seconds later with a pile of plates and the gravy bowl balanced on top. Annie holds her breath, expecting disaster, but her mother manages to deposit them all on the table without accident. She raises her hands over the food, checking that everything is as it should be. It’s almost as if she’s blessing it.
‘So, Joseph,’ she says, finally raising her eyes to her guest. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Oh, a bit of everything would be lovely thank you, Mrs Kemp,’ Joe says and gives her one of his trademark winks.
Her mother blushes like a debutante. Ursula rolls her eyes but Annie feels a little shiver of pride. This handsome man is hers and hers for keeps. Joe’s plate, piled high with food, is passed round to him.
‘Gravy?’ Annie asks.
Joe nods and winks at her too, a small conspiratorial gesture that tells her that he understands and that they will get through this together.
‘What the hell have you done to that meat?’ Her father’s anger comes suddenly and out of nowhere. The atmosphere shifts immediately to something much darker. Annie bites her lip. ‘What did you carve it with, woman? A nail file? Hacked at it with a spoon, did you? You’ve ruined a perfectly good piece of beef, you dozy cow – and it didn’t come cheap you know, Joseph. None of your skirt or brisket for us. That’s proper topside, that. Might as well have been skirt, though, for the mess she’s made of it.’ He pushes back from the table, preparing to stand.
Her mother retreats into herself, the tiny sliver of confidence that had built back up evaporating.
‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbles. ‘I did my best. It was just that you weren’t here and it needed doing or everything else would have spoiled.’
‘I see,’ her father replies, nodding his head slowly. ‘It’s my fault. My wife is incompetent with a carving knife and somehow I end up taking the blame. Do you see what I have to put up with, Joseph?’
‘You could have done it yourself if you’d been back from the pub when Mum asked you to be. As it was, we had to make do,’ says Ursula calmly.
Annie stiffens and drops her gaze to her place mat, suddenly fascinated by the hunting scene depicted on it. Her mother takes a sharp breath. They all wait for what will inevitably come next but it is Joe that breaks the silence.
‘Well, it all looks delicious to me, Mrs Kemp,’ he says. ‘My mouth is watering like you wouldn’t believe.’
Annie’s father falls back in his chair and grunts but he doesn’t complain again. Her mother quickly piles food on to a plate and passes it to him. He accepts it without thanks. Then she serves Ursula and Annie and finally herself and soon they are all tucking in, noises of appreciation coming from Joe in lieu of conversation.
When he has finished his plateful, her father pushes his plate away an
d leans back in his chair.
‘So, Joseph. What do you do to earn a crust?’
‘I’m a bookie, Mr Kemp,’ says Joe.
Annie sees her father sit up a little.
‘A noble profession,’ he says. ‘You have to be smart to be a bookie. It’s all mathematics, you know, girls. Calculating the odds, working out probability. Clever stuff. Bit beyond you, though, Annie. Not the sharpest knife in the box, our Annie,’ he adds in an exaggerated stage whisper.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ interrupts her mother bravely. ‘Annie did very well in her O Levels. She got nine you know, Joseph.’
‘Fat lot of good it did her, though. Selling gloves to women with more money than sense for a living? I don’t call that a career success. And Ursula’s no better.’
‘I’m at art college, Dad,’ says Ursula.
‘Against my better judgement. Where’s that going to lead, I ask you? Nowhere that’ll put a roof over your head and that’s for sure.’
‘You should be proud of your girls, Malcolm,’ her mother ventures. ‘They’re both doing very well.’
Her father looks about to disagree but Joe jumps in.
‘Well, I’m very proud of Annie,’ he says. ‘She’ll do for me.’ He smiles at Annie then, his pale eyes twinkling despite being slightly unfocussed. ‘That was a delicious lunch, Mrs Kemp,’ he adds.
Annie’s heart does a little leap in her chest. She sees her mother glow too. Even her father looks less angry. Ursula is still scowling.
‘Oh, please, call me Pam,’ her mother says, sitting taller in her seat. ‘Another drink, Joseph, before I serve the dessert?’
