by Jane Davis
Part Fifteen
Andrea's Story
Chapter Forty-seven
The purchase of 42 Westbrook Road was pushed through by Uncle Pete's firm, but he struggled with the architect's design to convert the two houses into flats. 'We're a room short.' He fretted over the drawings, turning them this way and that as if more space would miraculously appear. 'Flat 4 doesn't have its own bathroom.'
'I can share with Nana,' I offered, but he wouldn't hear of it, ignoring the fact that I had shared a bathroom with my parents and Nana for my entire life, apart from a brief respite when I had shared his bathroom, and three years at university when I shared with five other students. What did it matter if we were a room short? I was still waiting for my aunt and my godfather to ask to talk to me when the contracts were exchanged, still waiting when the date of completion came and we had what was referred to as a 'family celebration' in the lounge of the new house. Still waiting as the designs were drawn up. Still waiting as the four of us chose which of the flats we wanted. Sod that room! It was the thought of everything that could blow up around us that gave me sleepless nights.
'It's too late for me to say anything now,' I mourned to Lydia.
'It's not, love. It's just that the timing's got to be right and that moment hasn't arrived yet.'
'It's getting to the stage when the waiting is worse than anything anyone can tell me.'
'Then your head's getting sorted. That's a good milestone to have reached.'
'Ma!' Kevin shouted from the living room. 'Ah can't find the last piece!'
'Scuse me, love,' she said. 'He's doing one of those thousand-piece jigsaw puzzles. I buy them from Oxfam because he only does them the once, but this happens every time.' She slapped her thighs and pushed herself to standing. 'We'd better go and sort him out.'
The puzzle covered most of the available floor space and Kevin was kneeling by it, clearly exasperated. There was a small piece of patterned carpet showing through near the middle.
Lydia grabbed the empty box. 'He's been working on this all day.' She shook her head.
'Five hours wasted!' Kevin muttered.
Lydia beamed rays of sympathy at him. 'I'm sorry, love.'
'Is that a picture of baked beans?' I asked. 'It must have been really difficult.'
'Aye, he's good at puzzles, this one. He can solve anything, given a bit of time.'
'I don't suppose you'd take a look at the floor plans for the flats?' I joked, but then it struck me that Kevin might see something we hadn't.
He shrugged. 'May as well do it now, seeing as Ah can't finish this.'
'Right.' I was used to people who made promises and then put things off for another day. 'I'll get them, shall I?'
'I'll put the kettle on, then,' Lydia offered. 'The brain always works better with a cup of tea.'
Sitting round the kitchen table I explained the problem to Kevin. 'We need two flats in each house. Every flat is supposed to have a living room, a bedroom, a kitchen and a bathroom, and Uncle's Pete will have an office in the loft extension. The problem is that the upstairs flats have these big landings in the middle and these' – I pointed to bold lines – 'are the supporting walls.'
'Let's have some paper, Ma.' He took charge and quickly sketched near perfect copies of the drawings.
'So, that one's got ter stay?' He pointed to one of the bold walls.
I nodded and pointed. 'And that one.'
'Shame,' he said, sketching in some new lines, 'because this would have made the best room of the space.'
'I don't think they even thought of that one!' I was impressed with his initial thoughts.
'Is the flat for you?' he asked, scratching his head.
'Yes.'
'Are you set on having a separate kitchen an' living room?'
I shrugged. 'Not necessarily.'
'There's ernly two options,' he said. 'You make a larger living room an' put the kitchen in it, like this.' He drew another sketch, and let me take it in. 'Or, we could swap round these two like this, but you ernly end up with a shower room.'
He passed the plans back to me, as if he was ready for the next challenge of the day.
'That's brilliant!' I was genuinely impressed, not only by the speed of the solution, but by the drawings themselves. 'I think I could live with both of them. Have you ever thought of going in for design?'
'Oh,' Lydia nodded, 'you'd be ever so good at it.'
'It's just like a jigsaw puzzle, really.' It was his turn to shrug. 'Nothing to it.'
'Do you think you could come next door to explain it to Uncle Pete, like you did to me?'
Lydia folded her arms and raised her eyebrows. Kevin looked unsure, as if the thought of leaving the house pained him.
'Go on, love!' she said. 'It won't take a mo'.'
'You might have some more ideas when you see the house,' I encouraged.
'Just for a few minutes.' He gathered up the papers reluctantly.
'Uncle Pete!' I yelled, opening the front door.
'Through here!' came the reply.
'Kevin's solved all your problems for you. Come in, Kevin.' I beckoned him over to the table where Uncle Pete was still struggling with the paperwork, one pencil in his hand and another behind an ear.
'Good to meet you.' He stood and leaned over the table to offer his hand, which Kevin held rather than shook. 'If that's the case, you're a better man than me. I don't have a head for these things at all. Spread yourself out on the table and let's take a look.'
Kevin walked around the back of the table and laid his plans out, and started talking Uncle Pete through them. As always, he kept to the point, short and simple, like all good technical explanations should be – unless you're trying to bamboozle your audience. Leaning forwards from the waist, Uncle Pete supported his weight on his hands. After he had glanced at the papers in front of him, I realized that he was looking at Kevin rather than the plans. As Uncle Pete quizzed him about details of plumbing and doors, I thought that he must have seen a flaw.
'Do you mind if I run these by my architect?' Uncle Pete asked, rolling them up and tapping his other palm with them.
'Ah've got no use for them,' Kevin said dismissively.
'Can I ask what line of business you're in?'
'Ah work for Morrisons,' Kevin replied.
'Do you design their stores? That must be very rewarding.'
'Ah stack the shelves.'
'They don't know what they're missing out on. I'm very grateful to you.' He held out a hand to Kevin again who took it uncertainly. 'Very grateful.'
'Ahm good at my job.' Kevin seemed to be under the impression that he had been criticized.
'I dare say you are.'
Kevin turned to me. 'Can Ah go now?'
'I'll show you out.' I smiled and walked him to the door. 'See you soon. And thank you.'
'Well?' I said, returning to find Uncle Pete sitting and staring in front of him. 'You obviously saw a problem with them.'
'Not at all. They're quite brilliant. Simple but brilliant. I can't believe I didn't see it myself. Who is that boy?'
'That's Lydia's son, Kevin. They'll be your new neighbours.'
'He's not from round here, is he? There's a hint of something in his accent.'
'Lydia's from round here, but Kevin was brought up in Sunderland. He's adopted.'
'Adopted,' he repeated, nodding, his usually ruddy face pale.
'Are you all right, Uncle Pete?' I asked. 'You look like you've seen a ghost.'
'Not a ghost, Andrea,' he said. 'I think you'd better sit down. I've got something I need to tell you.'
He got up and opened the drinks cabinet, taking out two glasses and a bottle of expensive brandy.
'No, thank you,' I said as he poured two large measures, ignoring me.
'Can't stand brandy myself. It's purely medicinal. You might need it,' he said. Then he sat and seemed reluctant to speak, covering his mouth with one hand and sighing.
'We don't have to do this
now,' I said after a short while. 'It's still too early for both of us. I know what you're going to say.'
'No, Andrea,' he insisted gently, shaking his head, 'I'm afraid you don't. I'm still struggling to work out how the story fits together. And now the two people who could have given me the answers are gone, so I can only tell you my part. You see, it has always seemed as if the people who are missing from my life have been as important as those who are part of it. And as you get older, I'm afraid the list of missing people starts to grow. But for now, let me tell you about just two of those people.' He topped up his own glass. 'Stay right there for a minute. First of all, there's something that I need.' I heard his heavy footsteps retreating upstairs and then returning. He appeared with a framed photograph, which he set down carefully on the table and then turned towards me. I saw an ageing sepia print of a young man in uniform, grinning at the camera. 'I'd like you to meet my Uncle Jonathan. He was my father's identical twin. I know his face better than I know my own. He would have been twenty-one when that picture was taken. It was a month before he was killed. How old would you say Kevin is?'
I picked up the photograph by the frame and studied the face more closely, looking from Uncle Pete back to the print. There was only a slight family resemblance between them. 'He was twenty-one earlier this year,' I said, but I knew what I was holding in my hands. It was another piece of the jigsaw puzzle.
He nodded. 'Four years younger than you.'
And then he began his story.
Chapter Forty-eight
I approached Lydia's front door in a similar state of nerves to the one that she had been in on her return from London. Stowed away in my handbag was Uncle Jonathan's framed photograph. Uncle Pete had been reluctant to let it out of his sight, but I had insisted that I needed a prop.
'We're going to need two of your strongest cups of tea,' I said, heady with brandy and churning thoughts.
'Don't tell me,' she said as she headed for the kitchen, 'you've won the lottery.'
'Not quite.'
'Well, something's up, I can tell. Let's sit us down so I can give you my undivided attention.' She fussed about with teacups and the teapot, and then joined me. 'I could do with a break. I'm dead on my feet.'
I found myself mirroring Uncle Pete's stance earlier.
'Oh, Lordy,' said Lydia, bringing one hand to her own mouth and using the other to cover the one of mine that was resting on the table. 'You've had the talk. How did it go?'
'I think we've found my brother,' I said.
'Oh, that's marvellous!' She brought the hand that had been resting on mine to join its partner by her mouth.
'Yes, it is.' I nodded, reaching for the photograph and placing it carefully in front of her.
'Well, that's not him.' She had only looked at the age of the photograph rather than the detail.
'Look closely,' I told her, my eyes on her face rather than the picture. I watched as her expression changed from shock to confusion, then I poured her a cup of tea.
'Who is this?' she asked, her voice no more than a whisper.
'This is my Uncle Pete's uncle. His father's identical twin. He was killed in the second world war when he was only twenty-one.'
'Uncle Pete thinks that Kevin's his son,' she said.
'You've got to admit they're very alike.'
'But who's his mother?'
'It's beginning to look like Kevin is my half-brother.'
'The photos of the baby that you found! That was my Kevin?' she said. 'So, your Uncle Pete wasn't just visiting your mother in hospital.'
I had already gone through this stage of shock only hours earlier. The camera never lies. The question that I still couldn't quite understand was how the three of them had all managed to stay friends.
'There weren't any Fellows family photographs because he wasn't a Fellows,' I explained. 'I don't know how he did it, but Kevin may not have been so far off the mark after all. Lydia, I need you to ask Kevin to open the envelope.'
She recoiled. 'It'll finish him!'
'No, it won't,' I said. 'It might come a shock, but he should have a choice whether to get to know his father. And he's never had a sister before.'
'But don't you see? There isn't any choice when the man's living next door. It's not like finding out that your father lives several miles away and you can visit if you want to.'
'Uncle Pete would never force himself on Kevin. He just wants to do the right thing by him.'
'Who we talkin' about?' Kevin ambled in, taking an apple from the fruit bowl and biting into it noisily.
Lydia and I looked at each other.
It was Lydia who said at last, 'Sit down, love. There's something we need to show you.' He sat and she placed the photograph in front of him. 'We think we've found your father.'
He sat there in silence for some time. Then, without taking his eyes from Uncle Jonathan's photograph, he said, 'Ma, please can you get me envelope.'
We waited in the living room holding hands while he faced his truth alone in the kitchen.
'Do you know?' Lydia said nervously. 'If Kevin's your brother, then we're almost related. I always wanted a daughter and I couldn't think of a better one than you.'
'Ma!' Kevin called from the kitchen. 'You there?'
'Yes, love!' She squeezed my hand. 'That's our cue.' We both stood and walked to the kitchen.
'Hello, Andrea,' he said. It was only two words, but it meant so much more. After so much loss, I had found my brother.
'Hello, Kevin.'
'Ah'd like ter be called Derek from now on,' he announced.
And it would prove to be about as liberating an experience as a twenty-one-year old is capable of.
Chapter Forty-nine
My history no longer fits neatly on to a family tree. If I have to explain who I am and my place in what I now refer to as my extended family, I follow my father's suggestion and draw a Venn diagram. I have experimented with putting a variety of people at the centre. Nana, the matriarch, who rules over her family with a rod of iron and a heart of gold. My mother, Laura Albury, who thought that her looks defined her, but discovered that she was defined by whom she loved. Tom Fellows, father, musician, engineer, mechanic, artist, all-round good guy, who regained his strength despite losing his hair. My Uncle Pete (and I still find it difficult to call him by any other name), who was responsible for bringing my parents together not once but twice. My Aunty Faye, well travelled, independent, feisty, a sister who was so close that she gave away what she thought she didn't need in her life and lived to regret it. Me, the child who so many people showered with affection to make up for their other losses, an unwitting referee in so many relationships. Derek, the child whose absence was so keenly felt that I now realize it was as much a part of the make-up of our family as I was. Even Lydia, whose ears we pour our stories into, whose ample shoulders we all cry on, whose endless pots of tea without which we would all die of thirst. She is the cement that holds our little neighbourhood together. Our keeper of secrets. Ironically, if our new family has a mother figure, it is her.
There is nothing that I enjoy more than to spy on Uncle Pete and Derek as they sit out on their front steps, separated by a fence but by less than a foot. From the movement of the net curtains in a parallel room two doors away, I know I am not the only onlooker. The men exchange only a few words, but the lengthy gaps between sentences are not awkward. Derek feels that gaps between words are an essential part of conversation. How can we possibly find the meaning of what is being said if hundreds of words tumble out unrestrained one after another? How can we enjoy conversation if we don't take the time to appreciate what the other has just said? To you and me, a comment like, 'Isn't it a lovely evening?' might sound like a throwaway exchange. To Derek, it is something miraculous to contemplate. He will consider the temperature, how the breeze feels as it touches his skin, how the streetlight reflects in puddles in the pavement. On clear nights he will be mesmerized by the number of stars in the sky, captivated by the cyc
le of the moon. On a cloudy night, he will observe how the moon is partly obscured and the resulting ethereal glow. He might enjoy the silence, or the whoosh of tyres on a wet road, the rumble of a distant train, the roar of a motorbike, or the bark of a dog. He carefully considers the company that he is in, and what impact it has on the whole experience. It might be a good quarter of an hour before he replies, 'Aye, it is at that.'
Uncle Pete, I'm sure, enjoys the welcome escape from the women in his life. I suspect there are moments when he regrets the loss of his bachelor pad, when he would gladly go back to the days when he was not expected to understand the inner workings of a washing machine simply because of his gender.
Uncle Pete and Derek are slowly adjusting to their new relationship. Bill will always be his da, but it is also hard for Derek to give up on the idea that he is Tom Fellows's son. He virtually modelled himself on him. It is certainly where he thought he inherited his practical talents from.
'It can't be genetic,' Uncle Pete says. 'He certainly didn't get that from me.'
It seems obvious to me whom they came from. My mother had always designed and made her own clothes, and turned old garments into new ones for me. They are forgetting that my father wasn't the only person who could fix things in our house.
Derek has no doubt spent many years contemplating the meaning of the word 'father', and Uncle Pete is right to tread gently. If anyone other than Bill announced that he was his dad, I suspect that after a long silence, Derek's response would be: 'No, you're not,' because that man hadn't been there to teach Derek how to play football or to buy him his first bike; it hadn't been his loose tobacco that was Derek's favourite smell; he hadn't been there to tuck Derek in at night or to read his school reports, or to watch his first school play. Uncle Pete is keenly aware of each of these missed opportunities and feels each one as a loss. At the same time, Derek doesn't bear him a grudge for not being there. He is too grateful for the opportunity that he had to have Lydia and Bill as his parents. And, now, just when he needs one, he has someone who is willing to be a father figure in his life – if he wants one. If not, Uncle Pete has made it clear that he is happy to settle for being a neighbour. As long as he can be a good neighbour.
