by Imogen Clark
The button-and-ribbon redistribution seems to have been completed without fuss and the girls slink off to another part of the house, taking their treasure with them. Marianne comes in with a tray laden with the necessaries for a perfect cup of tea. She sets it down on the coffee table and pours me a cup, adding milk and one sugar without having to be asked. She passes it to me and I take it gratefully and sink a little deeper into the sofa.
‘So,’ says Marianne once she has her own drink. ‘How’s your dad? Is it working out well with the nurse?’
‘It’s good so far,’ I reply. ‘I think. Dad likes her and she’s kind and treats him with dignity, which isn’t always easy, given how he behaves a lot of the time.’ I think I see Marianne wince a little at this but I am not pulling any punches. Life with Dad is hard and they need to understand that. ‘I think it’s going to work out fine,’ I add and realise as I say it that it’s true.
‘Michael is incredibly grateful for all that you’re doing,’ Marianne says in her gentle voice. She looks straight into my eyes as she says this and I understand that she is trying to convey something more than just the words. I don’t want to get into this kind of discussion; there’s too much in my head already. I bat her away with a smile and a nod.
‘I know that, Marianne,’ I say, and hope that I don’t sound too dismissive.
Michael should be bloody grateful. He runs away at the first chance he gets and never comes back, leaving me with the father he was escaping from and then later with the broken man that he’s become. I hope his conscience does trouble him. It’s no more than he deserves. I suppose he did the best he could, given the animosity between the pair of them, but sometimes your best just isn’t enough.
‘The girls have grown,’ I say, neatly changing the subject.
Marianne smiles warmly at the mention of her daughters.
‘Oh, they’re little monkeys but we are proud of them. Zara is doing really well with her violin and Esmé seems to have inherited her Dad’s love of maths. It’s early days, I know, but so far so good.’
As she speaks, I hear a key sliding into the front door. Marianne hears it too and starts to straighten her hair, almost a Pavlovian response.
‘Ah,’ she says, with a greater sense of relief than seems necessary. She must find this one-to-one stuff difficult. Or maybe it is just me that’s a challenge?
‘Here he is. The man of the house. We’re in here, Michael,’ she shouts out to the hallway.
I get the impression that this is as much to remind Michael that they have a visitor as it is to direct him to where we are. There is the sound of keys being put down on a table and the rustling of a mackintosh and then my big brother appears at the door. He looks just like he did when we were kids but for the flecks of grey in his strong, dark hair. His tie is loose and his shirt sleeves are rolled to the elbow but they are both expensive-looking and his suit trousers hang neatly from his slim hips to just the right height above his polished shoes.
‘Ca. Hi. How are you? Good trip? Got all your sewing supplies?’
Even though I haven’t seen him for well over a year, there’s no expectation that we will embrace; but I can hear the sincerity in his voice.
I nod a reply to all his questions, adding, ‘You don’t mind me landing on you like this, do you?’
He shakes his head.
‘Of course not. It’s great to see you.’
I notice that he does not follow this with the usual pleasantries about how long it has been since we saw each other last. We both know exactly how long it’s been.
‘We were just catching up,’ says Marianne. ‘Cara has bought some lovely things for the girls, which was really kind.’
I shrug to suggest that it’s the least I can do.
‘Anyway,’ she continues. ‘I’ll just go and check on the dinner. It won’t be long now.’
She stands up, lifts the tea tray and heads out of the room, leaving me alone with my brother.
‘Well?’ he says, seeing straight through my thin haberdashery excuse.
‘Not here,’ I say. ‘Not now. Can we get away after dinner? Just the two of us. Go to the pub or something?’
Michael looks at me, clearly thinking about what could be so important that I don’t want Marianne to hear. I think he might object but then he just says, ‘Okay. I’ll sort it. There’ll be questions, though, and I’m not saying that I won’t tell Marianne whatever it is later.’
‘That’s fine,’ I say. ‘I’d just rather discuss it with you in private first.’
He nods, happy with this, and then Marianne calls out from the kitchen that dinner is ready. The sound of the girls thundering down the stairs follows quickly after.
‘I’m looking forward to this,’ I say as I push myself to my feet.
One of Marianne’s many talents is an ability to cook delicious food, which is something I can’t do. Michael doesn’t reply and I wonder, not for the first time, what goes on in his head.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Annie, 1984
Annie turns the oven down again. The chops that she has grilled for Joe’s dinner are starting to crisp at the edges, the fat charred almost to the point of burning. The peas, once a vibrant green, are now a sludgy, processed khaki and there is a skin on the gravy that she won’t be able to lift without making a mess of the once-perfect plate. It can’t be helped. If he’d been home on time, his meal would have been there to greet him as he walked through the door. He doesn’t like to wait. She can understand that. He works hard and wants things to be just so when he gets home. Her father was the same. She thinks now of her mother, who always spent the last twenty minutes of their day tidying the house and then touching up her face in the hall mirror. Annie loved watching her trace the contours of her mouth with the edge of the lipstick, pinching at her cheeks to bring up their colour. Now Annie tries to do the same for Joe. Each day, she aims to make their home a scene of tranquil, domestic bliss for when he gets back; but somehow she always falls short. Tonight, Michael and Cara have had their baths, and Cara is in bed, but the makings of a Lego fort are still scattered across the kitchen floor and their discarded clothes strewn over the landing. Try as she might, she can never seem to get dinner, the children and the house all sorted at the same time. Something is always out of place.
Joe is late and his meal is most definitely past its best. The pork is beyond help but she could perhaps do some more peas. She opens the oven door and reaches for the plate, remembering too late that it will be hot. The skin on the pads of her fingers contracts as she grasps the china. She grabs for a tea towel and tries again to retrieve the plate. The heat sears through the thin cotton and into her already-burned fingers. She knows she should put her hand under the cold tap but there’s no time. She’ll do it later, once the dinner has been rescued. She drops the plate on the table, refolds the tea towel into a thicker wedge and picks it up once again, her fingers crying out against the heat even through the padding. Propping the bin lid open with her elbow she tries to scrape the faded peas off the plate without losing anything else. The chop in its lake of congealed gravy begins to slide towards the waiting mouth of the bin. Gathering momentum, the mashed potatoes follow. Before she can stop it, the chop skates off the plate and lands on top of the remains of the children’s spaghetti hoops.
For a second Annie freezes, not sure what to do to. Panic grips her but it is okay. She can fix it. Then she puts her hand into the bin and extracts the chop. It looks all right. There is a bit of tomato sauce on it but she can disguise that. She’s just thinking that she might need to wipe the rim of the plate with a bit of kitchen roll when she hears Joe’s key in the front door. Now there are no peas, the gravy looks like a dirty protest across the plate and the chop has ketchup on it. She had tried to make everything so perfect for him and she has messed it all up. Again. Then, right on cue, a howl of anguish rings out upstairs. Cara is awake.
Annie sits down heavily at the table, the remains of Joe’s dinner before
her, and puts her head in her hands. Tears sting her eyes but she bites her lip in an effort to keep control and takes deep, solid breaths.
‘Hello,’ Joe shouts. ‘I’m home.’
‘I’m in here,’ Annie replies, her voice not much above a whisper. The door opens and in strolls Joe. Annie does not look up. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says quietly. ‘I’ve ruined your dinner.’ She can hear Joe cross the room towards her and feels his arm across her back. He gives her a gentle squeeze.
‘You really can’t be trusted on your own, can you, baby?’ he says, laughing warmly. ‘Only you could manage to ruin chops and mash.’
She can hear the smile in his words but she still doesn’t raise her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says again. ‘It was fine but then you were late and . . .’ She stops speaking abruptly. She doesn’t want Joe to think that she blames him for the spoiled dinner. She should have left it warming in a cooler oven. There’s no one else to blame.
‘It doesn’t matter, pumpkin,’ says Joe, and takes his arm from around her shoulder, which makes her feel suddenly cold and exposed. ‘I had something to eat after work anyway. We’ll just get rid of this . . .’
He takes the plate over to the bin, lifts the lid and lets the meal slip unceremoniously inside.
‘There,’ he says. ‘Problem solved.’
As Annie watches the meat disappear, she thinks of the baked beans that she and the children regularly eat to make her housekeeping money stretch.
From upstairs, there comes another howl.
‘I think she must be teething,’ says Annie. ‘She wouldn’t settle all day. It’s been exhausting, actually, trying to make her happy. I just haven’t managed to get anything done.’
‘Don’t worry,’ says Joe. ‘You just keep sitting there and have a little rest and I’ll go and sort her out.’
Annie knows that she should leap up and settle their daughter, that it’s Joe who ought to be putting his feet up and relaxing after his hard day at work, but she just doesn’t have the strength. ‘Thank you,’ she murmurs, but she doubts that he hears her as he bounds up the stairs to placate his grizzly little girl. She can just catch his sing-songy voice as it floats accusingly down the stairs.
‘Now then, my little princess,’ he sings. ‘What’s all this? Are those new teeth giving you some trouble? Mummy is too tired to come and help you but Daddy’s here so everything is going to be all right. There, there.’
Annie pictures him pacing up and down the nursery, Cara pressing her tiny body into his shoulder, her perfect little head nestled into the space beneath his chin. Already the crying has stopped. He has done, in less than a minute, what she has failed to do in a whole day. She couldn’t settle her own baby. She couldn’t even make dinner without creating carnage. She is no good at being married. She is a terrible mother and a worse wife. The thought crosses her mind, and not for the first time, that they would all be so much better off without her.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Cara, 2017
As anticipated, Marianne’s dinner is delicious. I eat far more than is good for me but it’s such a rare treat to be cooked for that I get carried away.
‘Coffee anyone?’ asks Marianne when dessert has been duly dispatched.
I throw a glance at Michael but he is already pushing his chair away from the table.
‘That would be lovely, darling, but Cara and I have some things to talk through. About Dad,’ he adds to clarify.
I don’t correct him.
‘I thought we might nip out to the pub.’
Marianne’s eyebrows shoot up.
‘There’s no need for that,’ she says, as if Michael has suggested that we sit out in the shed. ‘I’ll put the girls to bed and do the clearing up.’ She glances round the kitchen in which barely a spoon is out of place. ‘You two can sit in the lounge.’
‘Thanks but I think we’ll go out,’ Michael replies in a tone that grazes harshness. He reminds me of Dad. ‘There’s a place that’s not too bad at the end of the road, Ca. Grab your coat. Let’s go.’
The pub really is just at the end of the road. It’s painted white with numerous hanging baskets dangling along the frontage above low, dark windows. Michael leads the way and we easily find a table tucked away down one side. I make myself comfortable, with my back to the wall, as Michael asks what I’d like to drink.
‘Brandy, please,’ I say.
He looks at me quizzically. ‘Am I going to need one as well?’ he asks.
‘Quite possibly.’
Not asking anything further, he heads to the bar, leaving me to think, yet again, about how I’m going to address the issue.
He returns in almost no time with two brandy glasses containing what look like double measures. He hands one to me and then drops into his seat.
‘Are you going to tell me what this is all about?’
I take a deep breath and begin. ‘It started with Mrs P,’ I say.
Michael looks confused already.
‘Mrs P. That’s the nurse. I call her that because . . . well, it doesn’t matter. Anyway, we got talking about Mum . . .’
I sense him bristle. Talking about Mum would not be something he’d do with a stranger. I ignore his reaction and plough on.
‘Anyway, she’s incredibly organised, is Mrs P – you’ll like her. She’s sorting the whole house out. You wouldn’t recognise the place . . .’
Michael is radiating impatience. My ‘all round the houses’ delivery style is starting to irritate him. He raises an eyebrow but I refuse to let him fluster me.
‘So, I went up to the attic to look for stuff that Dad might recognise, to help him feel settled and . . .’
‘You went in the attic!’ he says with mock horror.
The mood is immediately lightened.
‘I know. It was very naughty. I kept thinking that I was going to get caught, which is obviously ridiculous. He’s not like he used to be, Michael. I doubt he even remembers we have an attic, let alone that we weren’t allowed up there.’
Michael has the good grace to look at least a little sad before he moves me on.
‘So, what did you find on this little expedition of yours?’
‘Well, that’s the thing,’ I say and take a mouthful of brandy.
Over near the bar someone drops a glass. The chime of it smashing on the tiles is immediately followed by a cheer and a round of applause. I look over to see what is going on but when I look back Michael is still staring at me, as if nothing has interrupted my story. I continue.
‘So, right at the back there was this box. It wasn’t labelled like all the others. It just said “A” on it and when I opened it . . .’
‘Bats flew out and a ghostly apparition floated . . .’
‘If you’re not going to take this seriously . . .’
‘Sorry,’ Michael says and bows his head in faux shame.
‘Anyway,’ I say with pointed emphasis. ‘The box was full of postcards. Like these.’
I scrabble in my bag, take out the envelope containing a sample of the postcards and push it across the table towards him.
Michael hesitates for a moment before reaching out to pick them up. He slides them out of the envelope, takes a cursory glance at the pictures and then turns them over. I scrutinise his face as he reads the message on one of them. He flicks through the others and clearly registers that all the messages are exactly the same; a deep line appears between his eyebrows.
‘What’s this supposed to mean?’ he says. His tone is curt. ‘“My darling babies. I love you more than you will ever know. Please forgive me”,’ he reads flatly. There is a bitter, sarcastic tone to his voice that makes me uncomfortable. It’s as if he is speaking to some trainee who’s failed to do a piece of research to his satisfaction. ‘Where have they come from?’ he asks and drops the cards on to the table, pushing them back towards me. I hesitate. I need to take him with me on this but I’m in danger of losing him before I get to the important part.
‘Look
at the postmarks,’ I say quickly. ‘This is just a few of them but they start in March 1987 . . .’ I pause to let the significance of the date dawn on him. I can tell from his face that he’s with me. ‘And they keep going until I turn eighteen and then they stop.’
‘Okay,’ he says slowly. ‘You found some old postcards from a nutter with a screw loose. And?’
I take another drink, the brandy burning first my throat and then my stomach. ‘So, this is where it gets really weird,’ I say. ‘I started wondering what if – and it’s just a left-field idea – but what if Mum sent these postcards?’
‘Well, she couldn’t have,’ says Michael dismissively. ‘You’ve already said that the first one was sent after she was dead.’
I don’t speak for a moment and just wait for the significance of what I’m saying to sink in.
‘Oh, I get it,’ he says, leaning back in his chair and putting his hands behind his head. ‘I get it. Please tell me that you’re not about to say you don’t think Mum died.’
It is like we have gone back in time. Me, the stupid baby sister with nothing worthwhile to say, and him, my know-it-all big brother.
‘Well,’ I say as I rub at the lumpen skin on my damaged hand. ‘What other explanation can there be? Who else would write postcards like that? And keep it up for our entire childhoods?’
Michael opens his mouth to speak but I talk across him.
‘And anyway, that’s not it. That’s not the main thing.’
‘Come on then,’ he says. ‘Let’s have it.’
He’s still trying to look like he isn’t interested but now he leans forward in his seat again so that his head is close to mine. I take a deep breath. I knew that this was never going to be easy but everything will turn on how he reacts to my next sentence. I need to keep calm and just tell him the facts without any emotional angle so that he can’t mock me and miss my point.
