by Ross Welford
Foundation goes on first, with the aid of a little sponge pad. (It’s a bit like applying face paint, but not as cold.) Bit by bit, streak by streak, my face becomes visible again.
It’s not perfect, obviously. For a start, there’s still a gaping space where my head and hair should be, but still … it’s working.
We try lipstick, but that looks weird on me – it’s like I’m dressing up as an adult, so we go with a type of dark blusher, which is totally convincing.
Dad’s good at this. He even mixes a slightly darker shade for my ears. There’s a light brownish-red for my eyebrows and lashes.
The glitter wig is mad, but at least it covers up the space, and now all that’s left are my eyes and mouth.
Both of these look disgusting and scary. My eyes are just these dark holes in my head. If I part the wig at the back of my head, you can see right through. As for my mouth, that’s no better: I can’t put make-up on my tongue and teeth. So the sunglasses will stay on, and my mouth will stay shut.
I stare at myself in the mirror, and it looks fabulous. I give a huge grin, which looks much less fabulous, like I’ve had all my teeth knocked out.
I even do my hands. There’s a whitish varnish I can put on my nails.
Dad’s got this soppy half-smile as he watches me turning my head to see the effect from other angles.
‘You look just like your mum,’ he says, and I figure now is a good time to ask him the question I have been dying to ask.
Because, it’s not like everything is suddenly OK, you realise?
I’m not like, Oh, my dad’s turned up out of the blue, so I’m now going to live happily ever after, and never question him, and trust him for ever. Whoop-di-doo! The End.
No. I have some questions that – so far as I can see – only he can answer. Well, only he, and Gram, and Great-gran, but seeing as Dad is the only one within asking distance, it’s going to be him.
I take a deep breath and ask:
‘Why did you run away to New Zealand and leave me?’
I was living with Gram when Mum died, though I don’t really remember much, as I think I have said – I was only three.
‘Your mum always wanted the best for you,’ says Dad. ‘She wasn’t able to look after you properly – not with the touring and the recording, and, well, you know …’
I don’t know. Not really.
‘So having me around was … what? Inconvenient?’
Dad looks hurt, and I know I have touched a nerve. ‘Try “impossible”. The life we were living wasn’t exactly suitable for a little girl.’
‘So why not change your life?’
Dad gives a small grunt of laughter. ‘That’s what your gran said. She loved your mum’s success, but she hated the world she was in – entertainment, show business, music. People who were jealous of everything; people who will cheat you. You’ve got to be strong to survive it. I think your gran blamed herself because your mum wasn’t stronger.’
‘That’s crazy.’
‘Maybe. But we’re all a little bit crazy. If we weren’t, how boring would life be?’
We’re still in Gram’s room, and as Dad speaks he keeps taking out cuttings and pictures from the tin and turning them over in his hands. He comes to the one of me in the rain with Mum and just stares at it.
‘They said she was a drunk. A drug addict,’ I say.
‘No,’ says Dad. ‘Not your mum. Oh, everyone said that, and – well, she sailed pretty close to the wind. But after you were born? She cleaned herself up pretty good.’
‘So how did she die, then?’
‘Heart attack. That’s what the doctors said. I think, to be perfectly honest, she was pretty weak, physically. But do you know the expression “mud sticks”?’
‘Get a bad reputation and it stays with you?’
‘That’s it, spot on. And she wasn’t helped by the one person who could have helped her.’ He has picked up the card with the message to Gram: the one with the lighthouse on it and the message saying, If it all goes wrong please take Boo far away from all of this.
‘Who was that?’ I am so hoping he will not say Gram. I couldn’t bear it if he blames Gram.
‘Me. I was messed up. I was pathetic and lost and completely incapable of bringing up a little girl. I mean, I tried. I told the judge that I would provide for you and give up the music business, but I turned up to court drunk, and that was it. Your gran, God bless her, did exactly what she promised your mum she would do. She took you far away, gave you a new name, a new home, a new history.’
This is all coming a bit fast, I have to say. I’m not sure I like it, but I need to keep listening. Dad’s voice is soft and reassuring. It’s what he’s saying that is not soft and not reassuring.
‘Gram chose my name?’ I say.
He looks at me. ‘Come on, do I look like the sort of guy who’d call a kid Ethel?’ And then a shy half-smile comes onto his mouth, and I get that he is testing me, and I grin.
‘Not really.’ I look at his ordinary clothes and his neat hair. ‘But then you don’t look like the sort of guy who’d call a kid Tiger Pussycat. Not any more, anyway.’
He smiles, and it turns into an embarrassed half-grin. ‘You got me,’ he says.
‘So what am I meant to call myself now?’ I say.
‘You can be any name you want. Me and your mum? We always called you Boo – like on this card.’ He holds it up. ‘After the girl in Monsters, Inc. Your mum loved that film.’
‘Me too,’ I say. ‘As a name, though … it’s all a bit, I dunno … showbiz. Isn’t it?’
He laughs. ‘Yup. Lost in showbiz, we were! I prefer Ethel, now.’
‘Really?’
He looks at me closely, through my sunglasses. ‘Really, I do.’
This is nice to hear, but I’m not letting him off the hook.
‘And now? Why do you turn up now?’
There is the longest pause. So long that I wonder if Dad has heard my question.
‘Dad?’
He turns to me and nods. ‘I heard you. I’m just not sure that my answer will be good enough.’
‘Try me.’
‘I was scared. Scared you’d hate me; scared you’d blame me. Once I got myself straightened out, it became clear to me how I’d let you down. I figured you must be better off without me, and besides, your gram had done such a good job that you weren’t exactly easy to find.’
‘So how did you find me?’
‘You know what, Ethel. I think there’s someone who can explain that better than me. But we’re going to have to go out.’
He stands up, and takes another piece of chewing gum from the packet. That’s when I notice: it’s nicotine gum, used by people to help them stop smoking. I look at Dad’s fingers: the yellow stains are much fainter, and he no longer smells of old cigarettes.
‘You’ve stopped smoking,’ I say.
‘Doing my best,’ is all he says, and he starts chewing again.
I stand up too. ‘So where are we going?’
‘To see your great-gran,’ he says.
Great-gran turns her tiny white head towards us as we walk in. Her nodding seems to increase in intensity and her eyes are fixed on Dad, who is smiling broadly. We’ve brought Lady with us; she’s totally relaxed with me now, and she immediately goes and flops down by Great-gran’s slippered feet.
‘Dear old Mrs Freeman! Twice in as many days, eh?’ says Dad. ‘You’re lookin’ pretty good today. Well, certainly a lot better than you have a right to expect at your age.’
I look across at Dad, horrified at his … his what? His cheek, I suppose. He carries on in the same manner: blunt, teasing, funny.
Even, dare I say it, a little bit common.
‘I’ve brought Ethel with me – or as she now knows her name to be, Tiger Pussycat. She knows everything, an’ don’t go havin’ a heart attack on me, not with your ticker.’
It’s his New Zealand accent: he’s sort of laying it on a bit thick – the no-non
sense, straight-up, tell-it-like-it-is bloke who can have a laugh with everyone. He’s not even shouting at her – he’s just speaking clearly – and Great-gran seems to have no problem hearing him.
And you know what? She is loving it! I can see it in her eyes, and the smile that is dancing round her old, cracked lips, and the little colour that has returned to her cheeks. I even think she is blushing.
I honestly don’t think Great-gran has been spoken to like this in years.
He’s being friendly, funny and respectful. He calls her Mrs Freeman. He is talking to her as if she is normal.
Which she is, of course. Just very, very old and normal. Perhaps I had forgotten.
I’ve still got my shades on, and my hoodie over the glitter wig.
‘Sorry about the sunglasses, Great-gran,’ I say. ‘I’ve got a bit of an eye infection,’ I add, by way of explanation. She barely takes her eyes off Dad, though.
He has brought an iPad with him from the glove compartment of the rental car that we drove in to Priory View.
‘I thought I’d show Ethel how I found you all,’ says Dad, switching on the tablet and typing rapidly.
A few seconds later, the front page of a newspaper comes up: The Whitley News Guardian.
Scrolling down, Dad’s fingers stop at a story and a picture.
100 And Not Out!
Century Celebration for Local Woman
Mrs Elizabeth Freeman celebrated her 100th birthday last week at the Priory View Residential Home, where she has lived for the last nine years.
A stroke several years ago affected her speech, but care-home staff reported her to be in ‘excellent health and spirits’ when the big day came.
Born during World War One – in the reign of George V and before the invention of television or commercial air travel – Mrs Freeman has lived through the terms of nineteen prime ministers, the first being David Lloyd George.
She received a cake baked by the staff of Priory View, and a message of congratulations from HM the Queen.
She is pictured with her daughter, Mrs Beatrice Leatherhead, and her great-granddaughter, Ethel Leatherhead.
‘That’s it?’ I ask, incredulous. ‘That’s all it took?’
‘All it took? Her old house was turned into flats, and letters were returned to sender. I tried calling all the nursing homes once, but Priory View wasn’t on my list because it’s a ‘senior community residence’. So for three years, I did a twice-weekly Google search for ‘Elizabeth Freeman’. I had a feeling that she’d make it to a hundred, but I couldn’t remember exactly when her birthday was. I also knew that when she did, it would be in the local news. So I just kept checking and checking. For that, or … well …’ he lowers his voice, ‘… for an obituary.’ He turns to Great-gran and speaks loudly again. ‘But I was totally confident you’d make it, wasn’t I, Mrs Freeman?’
Great-gran’s nodding seems to intensify (though it’s a bit hard to tell sometimes).
He goes on: ‘And that photograph? Well, your gran may have cut her hair and changed her glasses, but there’s no mistaking her. As for you: a bloke can recognise his own daughter anywhere!’
‘And you came back?’
He fixes me with his pale grey-green eyes.
‘I was on the next flight, Boo. It was just a question of persuading your gran that I was a changed man, and that she wouldn’t be betraying your mum’s wishes by letting me meet you.’
All this time, I’m looking at my great-gran, whose expression has changed. The shaking has stopped for a while, and her eyes are even wetter than normal. She is looking straight at me and her trembling left hand seems to be beckoning me.
But I don’t move. I just don’t know how to react. I mean, Dad’s being nice and everything, but it’s dawning on me that this old lady, pretty much locked in her own mind for nearly a decade, has been deceiving me all along. Amid all the happiness of rediscovering my dad and of having at least some of my millions of questions answered, there’s a quiet anger building up inside me.
Then I hear Gram’s voice behind me and that anger finds a focus.
‘Oh, my darling Ethel. I was about to tell you, I really was … and my goodness, what are you wearing?’
So that’s who Dad was frantically texting before we drove here.
Gram continues, ‘Are you wearing make-up, Ethel?’ Then she says to Dad, ‘Richard, how did this all come about?’
And even if now is not exactly the right time, and the circumstances not exactly perfect, I don’t really have much choice.
I’m face to face with three adults. I’m twelve. Their combined age must be nearly two hundred, and I still feel that it’s me who has more sense, me who is doing the right thing.
‘How? How could you?’ I say softly, and turn to include Great-gran. ‘How could you both?’
Perhaps it’s Dad’s blokeish banter that gives me the confidence to speak to them as directly as I do.
Gram hasn’t even sat down yet, and no one says anything so I go on.
I practically whisper, ‘You knew. You and Great-gran, the two of you, conspired to keep the truth from me. All my life I have been living as … as someone else. And you knew?’
No one says anything, so I hiss, ‘How could you?’
My voice is losing its calm.
Dad has raised his hand in a calm-down motion. ‘Steady on, Boo,’ he says. ‘She’s an old lady.’
That’s when something releases inside me. It really feels like that, as well: like when a stretched elastic band pings off your finger. Everything I’ve been concealing, all of the tension that I have been holding on to, all of the times that I’ve wanted to share my secret but never felt able to – it all seems to come loose with that one gentle gesture and the soft words of Dad.
‘Don’t “steady on” me!’ I say, much louder. ‘And I know she’s an old lady. Old enough to know better, that’s what I say.’
I look at Great-gran, and speak directly to her. ‘One hundred years old and you haven’t learned not to lie? Everyone thinks you’re just a sweet little old lady, sitting there in your shawl, but you’re no better than anyone else. Just because you can’t talk? You think that’s an excuse?’
Dad has stood up now. ‘Boo, that’s enough.’ He’s right, of course. It was mean. But now I’ve started it’s like I have to go on.
‘Enough? I haven’t even started. And don’t call me Boo. It’s Ethel. And I like my name! My name – the one that’s on that stupid fake birth certificate!’ I’m shouting now, and Great-gran’s expression is horrified, but there’s more to come, I can feel it.
I turn my anger towards Gram.
‘Have you seen this?’ I say, pulling off my sunglasses to reveal the dark sockets of my eyes. ‘What about this?’ I open my mouth wide and lean towards Gram. ‘This is me! What are you so horrified about? Is being invisible a bit too “common” for you? Or is it just “vulgar”? Well, I don’t care – this is what is going on, and I’m sick of lying! I’m sick of hiding!’
I pull off the glitter wig and Gram’s hands go straight to her mouth as she sobs a gasp of pure terror.
I’m on a roll now, and I don’t think I could stop – even if I wanted to.
I stride over to the basin in Great-gran’s room where, as always, there is a tub of Nivea skin cream. Removing the lid, I plunge my fingers in, smearing a glob over my face.
‘Boo? Ethel? I really think we should talk this through.’ Dad’s voice is not loud, but I can tell he’s super-anxious. ‘Think about your gran, eh?’
I’m ignoring him. I want to reply along the lines of ‘Why should I think about her? She’s turned me into someone I’m not,’ but I can’t because I’m vigorously rubbing off all the carefully applied make-up, leaving pinkish-brown smears all over Great-gran’s hand towel.
And then it’s done. Off come the wig, the hoodie, the jeans, the shoes, and I am standing in front of them all.
They stare, dumbstruck. For like five, ten seconds.
&
nbsp; Just.
Completely.
Awed.
‘This is me!’ I say eventually. ‘Can you see? I’m nothing – nothing at all. And you know what? I think I prefer it this way. At least it’s the truth.’
I check in the mirror and remove the last traces of make-up while Dad is dithering around and saying stuff like ‘Boo. Think about what you are doing.’
Poor Great-gran looks terrified. Gram has sat down on a low chair and is looking straight ahead and blinking hard.
I am thinking about what I am doing. I’m thinking that if this invisibility is permanent I’m going to have to get used to it. And more lying won’t help.
Lady has retreated to the far corner of the room, scared off by the raised voices.
‘Come, Lady,’ I say, more gently, and even though she cannot see me, she’s used to me now, and she comes to where I am. I like it that there is at least one person in the room (if you count Lady as a person, and I kind of do) who doesn’t seem to care whether I am visible or invisible.
I’m halfway to the door, when I see Gram stand up and take a shaky breath. What she says is almost too quiet to hear, but there is more sadness in the next four words than I have ever heard.
‘I lost a daughter.’
And when I hear that, I so want to go and hug Gram and hear that everything will be all right. I’m standing in the doorway and about to step forward when a large nurse walks bang! right into me, and shrieks with surprise. I’m knocked sideways and the only way past her is into the corridor.
Lady’s with me. The nurse is really freaking out: her hands touched me and everything.
‘Aaiiee! I touch! I touch something, someone!’
There’s a proper commotion going on, and we run.
A minute later we’re on the seafront, looking out over an indigo sea, and I’m feeling really, really confused.
It’s not only that I have shouted at a one-hundred-year-old lady, and stormed out on my new-found dad like a petulant teenager from some TV show. It’s also that – in all of this – I have ignored the fact that my own gran has been grieving secretly for nearly ten years. Gram’s ‘I lost a daughter’ keeps repeating in my head.
