by Imogen Clark
But that’s all. No images play in my head other than the angel in her pale-blue dress. It is just a soundtrack, not a film, but it is something. A memory.
This feels like walking on scree. Small stones of recollection are becoming dislodged and rolling away from me down an invisible hill. There’ve been two memories now: the angel, and the stars (or lack of them) in London. There must be more hidden in the depths of my subconscious. Who knows what else may escape?
I can’t wait any longer for them to reveal themselves. The need to dig deeper grabs me and won’t let go. What do they do in television dramas to retrieve memory? Hypnotherapy, maybe, or some sort of counselling? My head spins with ideas and I have to rein myself back to try to think logically. I go back to the trigger. The angel. Would we still have it? Might it be lurking in one of those millions of boxes in the attic? Perhaps the angel is the key to unlocking more of the details that have always been hidden from me.
Leaving Marianne’s present half-wrapped, I run up the stairs towards the attic. I pass Mrs P and Dad on the landing. They are making faltering progress, him leaning heavily into her, her capable arms having to take almost his entire weight. We’ll need a stair-lift soon, I think as I fly past.
‘Is everything all right?’ asks Mrs P.
‘Yes,’ I call out as I bound up the creaking steps. ‘Just had an idea about something, that’s all.’
‘In a hurry,’ says Dad.
‘She is in a hurry,’ Mrs P replies.
I leave them behind, reach the box room and flick on the lights. Then I stop, the wind robbed from my sails by the sheer size of the task ahead of me. Where to begin? There are just so many boxes.
It makes sense that the angel, if it is here at all, will be at the back of the attic. I am almost certain that I haven’t seen it since we moved to this house, so if it had come from our house in London it would be with the things that were first stored away. I make my way carefully through the stacks to the back wall. Again, I’m squinting at labels, but I can’t see anything that says ‘Christmas Decorations’. ‘Bank Statements 1983–88’, ‘Cassette Tapes (Classical)’ . . . I lift a few lids but the contents match the labels. There are no blue angels.
I see a box labelled ‘Correspondence’. I nearly ignore it, as it’s clearly nothing to do with Christmas, but curiosity gets the better of me. The label is incongruous in its lack of specifics. Correspondence with whom and which period? I’m expecting buff, foolscap envelopes but the piles of letters, despite being neatly stacked on their sides, are all of different sizes and colours.
I pull a letter out and open it up. It is a single sheet of paper, decorated up the side with hand-drawn hearts. It is obvious at once that it must be a love letter and that it’s been written by a woman. I smile to myself. These must be letters that Mum sent Dad before they were married. I have never thought of my father as the romantic type but I suppose he might have been back then – and to have kept them for all these years says something too. I scan to the top of the sheet, with the intention of reading down, but then something stops me.
Ought I to read them? I debate with myself about the validity of invading Dad’s privacy for less than a second. That he might have lied to me my entire life cancels out any argument against snooping and so I start to read.
Baby
You have no idea how tough it is to see you and not grab hold of you. I swear it’s killing me. Thought we’d been spotted today. Bit risky to touch your bum like that but I couldn’t resist. It’s just so squeezable. xxxxx Think we got away with it. My heart was going like the clappers though. Won’t be forever. One day very soon we’ll be together.
Can’t wait.
Xxxxxxx
I read the letter twice, trying to piece the story together from what I can glean. It cannot be from Mum to Dad. They were together. There would be no need for all this clandestine stuff unless they were indulging in some kind of role-playing, which seems highly unlikely. Set on trying to work out what was going on, I pull out another letter. This one is written on a piece of lined A4. There is no envelope. It is just a note, folded neatly into eighths. When I open it out, the deep creases make it hard to read but I see that the paper is entirely covered in sketches of love hearts, arrows skewering their centres.
The pictures is a great plan. We can make for the back row. Who needs to watch the film!!!!!! See you at the Odeon at 7.30. Time for a quick bite afterwards? And then we can maybe get some food! (Ha ha!)
Love you T x
T? I realise at once that the letters can’t be from Mum. And then the implication of what that must mean hits me hard in the chest. Someone else was writing these letters. Dad has kept them. There is only one conclusion for me to draw. Dad was having an affair. He was unfaithful to Mum and so she left us. In effect, he drove her away from us. It was all his fault.
My world lurches again and I have to hold on to the boxes for support. Is there no part of my childhood that is going to remain intact after this juggernaut has torn through it? In the film version of my life, the actor faced with this realisation would lash out at the nearest wall, venting their anger dramatically, but I’m not sure that what I’m feeling is anger. It’s more like betrayal.
Dad told us that our mother was dead for all those years when the truth was that his unfaithful philandering had forced her to leave. Since I discovered that she didn’t die, I’ve been worrying that it was our fault that she left – that Michael and I did something to drive her away. Now it appears that we were blameless all along. She left because of Dad’s behaviour, not ours.
Suddenly everything seems to make a kind of sense and yet . . . I grapple with the facts, such as I know them. They had family courts in the 1980s. It wasn’t the Dark Ages. If Dad had an affair then why didn’t Mum fight for us? As our mother and the wronged party, she would surely have got custody without too much difficulty. Then Dad would have moved out and gone to live with his fancy piece and we would have stayed with Mum in London. There would have been no need for us to run the length of the country and make a clean start. Actually, now I think about it more clearly, none of it makes any sense at all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Christmas Eve arrives. My lifelong best friend is getting married today. I know I should be delighted for her. I mean, that’s what best friends do, isn’t it? I’m supposed to run with her excitement, share her dreams for her bright new future with Greg. But, as I dry myself off after my shower, all I feel is a dull sense of loss. Right now, I’m not sure that I can even pretend to be happy. I have never felt more alone.
A single tear trickles down my cheek and I brush it away with the back of my hand. I’ve never been the kind of woman that weeps openly. You need a true depth of emotion for that kind of display and that’s not something that comes naturally to me. Love is a learned behaviour, I understand. If you’re not shown it then you struggle to demonstrate it to others. I suppose Dad, Michael, maybe even Mum all love me in their own ways but I’m not sure that I’ve absorbed enough to teach me any empathy. Their love feels like it’s a feather on a beach, leaving no imprint of where it has touched the sand.
Beth has always been there, though, no matter what. She looked out for me at school, when Dad’s unusual parenting style branded me as a bit weird. She asks me the important but difficult questions that I don’t like to ask myself and makes sure that I always have an answer. She understands how my thoughts order themselves, and can finish my sentences for me. She anticipates what I need next before I know it myself. If there is any love in my narrow little life then it all emanates from Beth.
Now she is leaving me too.
I rub hard at the pale skin of my shoulder with the towel, so hard that my nerve endings shout out in protest. I know I should stop. It will leave marks that might show in my bridesmaid’s dress, but the pain of the towel dragging across my skin takes my mind away from the pain inside my heart. There’s a pleasure in the sensation even though it cannot last, like scratching an
insect bite. I think of Beth and what she needs from me today and force myself to stop. When I move the towel away there is a small patch of skin missing, the flesh beneath freshly pink. As I watch, pinpricks of blood appear across the damaged surface. I observe them bloom, fascinated by the perfection of the tiny spheres. I’ve not done much damage. I have done worse before.
The bleeding stops almost as quickly as it started. I dab at the graze with some toilet paper and soon there is nothing to see but a blotchy red patch, which should be covered by the dress. Given the state of my burned hand, I doubt anyone will be distracted by a slightly discoloured shoulder.
I take a deep breath and stand up straight. I stare at myself in the steamy mirror, thankful that the woman staring back is a little blurred, her sharp edges indistinct.
‘Enough,’ I say sternly to the woman. ‘Pull yourself together, Cara. Today is not about you.’
I meet Beth at the hairdresser’s and am blow-dried into shape and soon we are back at her cottage, perching on the sofa with a plate of delicately cut smoked-salmon sandwiches. We eat them in small, mouse-like nibbles as if taking big bites will spoil our hair. In the corner of the room, the Christmas tree twinkles.
‘I can’t believe you bothered to put a tree up,’ I say. ‘You won’t be here on the day and then it’ll still be here when you get back from honeymoon.’
‘But I won’t be coming back,’ says Beth grandly. ‘Last night was my very last night here.’
‘Of course,’ I say, swallowing hard as it hits me again how much is about to change. No more will we curl up together on this old sofa and put the world to rights. I’m going to lose more than I can bear. ‘I hadn’t really thought beyond today,’ I lie. ‘What will you do with the old place?’
‘Greg thinks we should sell but I don’t want to. I’m going to stay firm and hold on to it. I’ll probably let it out to some student nurses or something.’
‘Is that wise?’ I laugh. ‘Remember when you were a student nurse?’
‘I’ll choose nice, responsible ones . . .’ She breaks off and casts a gaze around the familiar room. ‘I can’t quite believe it, Ca. I’m leaving here. I’m getting married. Everything is going to be so different.’
I reach across and touch her cheek. ‘Not quite everything,’ I say and I know that she understands.
The day runs like clockwork. Beth looks beautiful in her dress. I hear the murmurs of appreciation as I follow her up the aisle, and feel quietly smug. After the ceremony Greg takes me to one side. ‘Thank you for all that you’ve done, Cara,’ he says solemnly. ‘You know I had my doubts at the beginning, but I have to hand it to you. You pulled it off. Beth looks stunning in your dress. I had no idea how talented you are. I’m sorry for not quite trusting you.’
I don’t believe him. There’s something off about his smile, something just out of kilter. Maybe it’s the pressure of the day that makes it feel fake, or the champagne, but, almost out of habit, I interpret his motives with suspicion. I wonder whether he knows how much I resent him. I’m certain that he thinks I’m an unwelcome influence on his new wife. And, to be fair, he’s probably right to be wary of me.
‘I’m just glad I could help,’ I say sweetly, matching his counterfeit smile with one of my own. It’s on the tip of my tongue to make a comment about my achievement being doubly remarkable because of his ludicrously short deadline but I decide against it. He knows that he tried to sabotage my chances and failed. If this were a war, then this battle would be mine. Of course, though, it’s not a war and I remind myself of this as he prattles on about the provenance of one the groomsmen, who is apparently a member of the minor aristocracy. Greg is now married to my best friend. I have to get used to it. But, I also remind myself, I don’t have to like it.
By the time we get to the first dance, the evening has taken on a distinctly mellow feel, everyone conscious that Father Christmas will be sliding down their chimneys in a few hours’ time. One by one people begin to slope off. There are rooms in the hotel, of course, but very few of the wedding guests have taken them up. By midnight there are just a handful of us left in the bar.
Beth, her hair now back to its habitually chaotic state and her dress hitched up so that she can perch on the bar stool, gives a very wide yawn.
‘That’s me beat,’ she says. ‘I think I shall retire.’
‘Not too beat, I trust, my darling,’ purrs Greg, licking his lips and winking at his best man.
I roll my eyes and Beth catches sight and winks at me.
‘Oh, there’ll be plenty of time for all that on the honeymoon,’ says Beth, wriggling herself down from the stool and pulling Greg by the arm.
‘Good night all,’ she says. ‘Thank you for coming. And a special thank you to Cara, the best friend a girl could have.’
She blows a kiss at me and then heads towards the lifts with Greg in tow.
‘This is how it’s going to be from now on. Under the thumb!’ he jokes as he follows his new wife out.
I do hope so, I think.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Michael, 1987
Michael wakes up with a start. He is confused. What day is it? Should he be putting his school uniform on? Is it his day for a bath? As his eyes become adjusted to the light, he realises that there is something that isn’t quite right. It’s far too dark to be morning. Either that or it’s still very early.
He reaches for the clock that his father bought him two and a half years ago, when he started school. It has a small round face and folds away into a leather case for travel. Michael has not yet had the opportunity to make use of this feature. His father had said that, now Michael was at school, it was up to him to make sure he never overslept; his mother couldn’t do everything for him and Michael had to start taking responsibility for himself. His mother had picked up the clock, running her fingers over the grainy leather.
‘He’s far too small for a clock, Joe. He can barely even tell the time yet,’ she said. She reached out to Michael, pushing his knotted hair away from his forehead.
‘Well, it’s about time he learned,’ his father said crossly, as if the fact that he couldn’t tell the time was somehow Michael’s fault.
Michael wanted to say that they had not done time-telling at playgroup but that he knew when it was the hour and the half hour and which hand was which. His mother smiled at him, the special, secret smile that she used when she didn’t really agree with what his father was saying but didn’t want to contradict him.
‘We’ll learn to tell the time, won’t we Michael?’ she said gently. ‘And in the meantime, I will wake you up.’ She winked at him. ‘Just in case.’
The clock face has stripes of luminous paint on the numbers and the hands but it shows up in the dark only if you hold the clock in the light before you go to sleep. Michael peers at it now but he can’t see it with any certainty. He flicks on his bedside light and looks again. His time-telling skills are still a bit wobbly but he is sure that the clock says ten thirty. That’s before midnight. It’s not even tomorrow yet. So why is he awake?
Then he hears the sound again and he realises what has woken him. His father is shouting, loudly and with scant regard for the noise levels. Sometimes his parents are so irresponsible. He needs to make him stop or he will wake Cara and then all hell will break loose.
Michael slides out of bed, feeling cross. His parents are supposed to be adults. Do they not know that people are trying to sleep? He stomps across the bedroom. He will go and tell them to be quiet, to stop arguing and to go to bed. Surely it must be their bedtime by now.
On the landing, he is about to go downstairs when something makes him stop. The voices sound different. His father is yelling. This is nothing new. His father yells at his mother all the time, criticising her, telling what she has done wrong, how she can improve things. Sometimes Michael wants to step in and defend her and will take a deep breath in readiness for all the words he will have to use, but his mother, as if she can read his mind, a
lways puts a finger to her lips to silence him before he has begun. When his father shouts, she just says that she is sorry, that she will try harder, do better. This is how it usually works.
Tonight, though, the arguing is different. His father is shouting as usual but his mother is shouting back. No. Not exactly shouting. Her voice is low and calm but there is no mistaking her anger. Michael holds back on the top stair, torn between wanting to move closer so he can hear what is being said and staying out of sight where he will not get into trouble. His father is shouting again. His tone is familiar.
‘I don’t know where you’re getting these ludicrous ideas,’ he shouts. ‘What am I saying? Of course I know. That bloody woman. Well, I won’t have it. Not in my house. Not under my roof.’
Again Michael hears the low rumble of his mother’s voice, her words inaudible but her rage coming across loud and clear.
‘I said no,’ his father shouts. ‘No wife of mine is going out to work. What I say goes around here and I am saying no so you can tell your new friend . . .’ His father spits this word out so that it sounds anything but friendly. ‘That she can take her ridiculous ideas and stick them where the sun don’t shine.’
They move out of the kitchen and into the hallway. Michael slinks back against the wall so that the shadows engulf him.
‘I don’t know why you’re being so unreasonable,’ his mother is saying. ‘It’s just part-time. Michael is at school and Cara can go to a childminder for a few hours a week.’
‘There is no way on God’s earth that you are fobbing my child off on some stranger while you go off and indulge your petty little fantasies.’
