The Cactus

by Sarah Haywood

  Not surprisingly, there are numerous photographs of my brother as a baby: Edward naked on a blanket; Edward in the arms of his grandma; Edward in his pram, his cot, his pushchair—later in his high chair, on his tricycle, holding his favorite teddy. Sometimes I’m there in the background. Occasionally I’m the subject of the photograph, too, but squeezed into the edge of the frame as an afterthought. My mother was the main photographer of the family—the sole one as my father’s drinking escalated. The ratio of pictures of Edward to pictures of me says everything that needs to be said. I wonder how I could have failed to notice it before.

  * * *

  I started the court proceedings to fight for justice, fairness—to secure for myself what I believed my mother would have wanted me to have. I realize, now, that that wasn’t what the case was about. What I wanted was to prove that Edward and I were equal in my mother’s eyes. I wanted a judge to pronounce in open court that she wouldn’t, if she’d been in her right mind, have favored my brother. Of course, I always knew she cared for Edward more than for me; the evidence was plain for anyone to see. Sometimes, though, self-preservation causes us to look away.

  My mother worried that Edward had inherited a genetic weakness of character from my father; that he’d descend into alcoholism or drug addiction without her perpetual vigilance. She said it was our duty to protect him. I wonder whether, if my mother had known that I also share my father’s genes, she would have worried about me, too. I doubt it. She considered me to be entirely free of any kind of emotional frailty or vulnerability. She never bothered to look closely enough. I suspect, now, that the reason she never revealed that I was adopted was that she thought I’d abandon Edward to his fate if I knew he wasn’t my brother. The ongoing deception was a desperate attempt to ensure that there was someone to look out for her son after her death.

  I used to think that what distinguished Edward’s experience of childhood from my own was the way in which we responded to my father’s drinking. I’m sure an amateur psychologist would claim that it caused me to be serious beyond my years, to want to be in complete control of my life, to judge myself—and others—harshly. Equally, they would claim that it caused Edward to be impulsive, irresponsible, needy. I suspect that such an analysis might be more accurate than I’m prepared to admit. But I’m not sure, now, that that was the only distinguishing feature. I think that what set my childhood apart from Edward’s was that I was never loved, and my brother was.

  * * *

  Enough. I’ve come to a decision. I get out my laptop and write two emails: one to Mr. Brinkworth and one to Edward’s solicitors. I suggest a meeting, on neutral territory. It should take place as soon as possible, in view of my impending due date. I shower, wash my hair, dress and waddle down to the high street to buy milk and bread. When I get back, I load the dishwasher and fill the washing machine, then spend time straightening my flat. Finally, when order is restored, I empty a cardboard box from the cupboard under the stairs and put the casket containing my mother’s ashes inside it. I screw up balls of newspaper, which I pack tightly into the gaps. I seal it, round and round, with almost a whole roll of parcel tape, then write Edward’s name and the address of our family home on the top in black marker pen. I go online and book a courier company to collect it. It wouldn’t be appropriate for me to hold on to my mother’s ashes. She would have wanted them to be with her son. It’s regrettable, but it’s no great loss. The casket will never be more than a footstool to me.

  26

  I pour a glass of water from the carafe that has been placed in the middle of the conference table, take a sip, then unzip my portfolio. I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t arrived at the mediator’s office so early. I thought I’d gain a tactical advantage by doing so—I could choose the best place to sit, and would have time to organize myself before Edward arrived—but as I wait I can feel my nervousness intensifying. Nonsensical. There’s no reason to be anxious; I know exactly what I’m going to say.

  I’ve been suffering from chronic heartburn since I woke this morning. I decided to skip breakfast, but I’m regretting my decision. The sound of my rumbling stomach is thunderous. As well as this simultaneous hunger and sickness, I’m experiencing uncomfortable tightening sensations across my belly. They started the day before yesterday. I’ve read all about them: Braxton Hicks contractions—practice contractions—the body’s way of preparing for what it’ll have to do in the next few days. I want this meeting to be over and to be safely back home.

  I look around the characterless meeting room: long blond wood conference table with a dozen matching chairs at regularly spaced intervals; thick, green carpet, which deadens sound and makes the room feel cocooned. On the table, as well as the carafe, there are glasses, notepads and pens laid out in front of each chair. Rather excessive. There’ll only be four of us: the mediator, Edward, his solicitor and me. It was Mr. Brinkworth who suggested this particular firm of solicitors to act as mediators. He’s seen them at work before and was impressed. He said, however, that there was nothing to be gained by his own presence at the meeting. If an agreement is reached between Edward and me he is, without admitting negligence, prepared to draw up the consent order and bear his own costs. His offer to take a financial hit indicates to me that he feels, at least partially, responsible for this mess.

  At just after eleven o’clock the door opens and in puffs a well-groomed Asian man with a glossy, Conker Brown attaché case. He’s followed by Edward, who’s carrying a dog-eared, tea-stained cardboard folder. My brother looks awkward, out of place in the professional environment. Yet again he’s wearing the ensemble that’s become his outfit of choice for formal occasions: black jeans, shirt and suit jacket; metal-tipped bootlace tie; and black cowboy boots. I can smell the unmistakable fragrance of eau de pub that precedes him wherever he goes.

  “Hey, sis,” he says, affecting a saunter as he follows his companion to the opposite side of the table. “Oh, hang on a minute, I can’t call you that anymore. How’re you doing, Suze? Not long to go, I see.”

  He practiced his opening lines on the journey here; I can tell.

  “Very well,” I say. “Thank you for your concern.”

  “I’m Mr. Green’s solicitor, Sajid Iqbal,” says the dapper man. He leans across the table with his hand extended. “I know you haven’t got legal representation, Miss Green, but don’t feel at a disadvantage. I’m just here to listen and take notes, and to offer my client advice if he wants it.”

  “I can assure you, I don’t feel at a disadvantage.”

  “Well, this is all very nice, isn’t it?” says Edward, pushing his chair back from the table, stretching out his legs and knitting his fingers together behind his head. This manifest nonchalance used to annoy me, but I can now see it for what it is—an act. He feels as awkward as I do. I notice how much older he looks under the room’s harsh lighting; how gray his hair is becoming at the temples, how lines radiate from the corners of his eyes. Being a full-time party animal takes its toll.

  The door opens again and the mediator comes in—a woman in her late fifties wearing a dove-gray trouser suit and crisp white shirt. Her immaculately styled blond hair is in a French pleat. She sits down at the head of the table, puts on the pair of bifocal glasses that are hanging on a gold chain round her neck and opens her file.

  “Good morning, everyone. I’m Marion Coombes. I’ll be acting as your mediator today. I prefer an informal atmosphere, so I suggest we use first names. Is everyone in agreement? Good. I should begin by explaining it’s not my role to pass judgment on the rights and wrongs of the case, but simply to open up channels of communication between the parties with the aim of finding common ground. I’ve looked at the papers, and I’m hopeful that a compromise can be reached before the close of business. I’d like to begin by briefly summarizing the facts of the case, then each party can have their say.”

  She looks down at the notes in front of her.
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  “I see that Susan and Edward are the daughter and son of the late Patricia Green. Under the will, Edward has a life interest in the family home. Susan claims that the will is invalid—Edward and the executor refute that. Evidence and witness statements have been served by all sides and stalemate has been reached. The next stage is a full court hearing. Is that correct?”

  I nod. Edward and Mr. Iqbal exchange whispers.

  “Just in the interests of accuracy,” says Edward, running a nicotine-stained fingernail along the wood grain of the conference table, “Susan isn’t my mum’s daughter—she’s adopted. She isn’t biologically related to us.”

  “Ah, yes,” says Ms. Coombes. “Reverend Withers raises that issue in his statement. Do you wish to respond, Susan?”

  I can feel another practice-contraction coming on. It’s as if a wide belt’s been placed around my abdomen and is being yanked tighter and tighter. I try to breathe steadily and rhythmically, to ride the wave. It subsides.

  “Yes, I’m adopted,” I say, “but I wasn’t aware of the fact until very recently. I’d like to add, though, also in the interests of accuracy, that I am biologically related to my mother—Mrs. Green—and to my brother.”

  “How d’you work that one out?” Edward asks.

  “Aunt Sylvia was my birth mother. So Mum was my biological aunt as well as my adopted mother.”

  “Aunt Sylvia’s your mum? You’re having me on.”

  “Do I look like I am?”

  “Well, I can’t see the family resemblance, personality-wise, but I’ll take your word for it. One day you’re my sister, the next day you’re no relation at all and now you’re my cousin. This is a bit of a roller-coaster ride for me.”

  He laughs nervously and surveys the room. No one else is laughing.

  “There’s another twist in the track. Or maybe a switchback. I am your sister.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning we’ve got the same father.”

  “What, Dad and Aunt Sylvia? Now you really are taking the piss. He always used to say what an airhead she was. Silly Sylvie. There’s no way he would’ve done the business with her.”

  “I can assure you, I wouldn’t make up something like this. If you don’t believe me, you can phone Aunt Sylvia.”

  Ms. Coombes and Mr. Iqbal have been scribbling away.

  “Well,” says Ms. Coombes, looking up from her notes. “We’ve had some very interesting disclosures here, though we’ve yet to see where they take us. It seems, Edward, that Susan is your cousin and natural half sister, as well as being your adopted sister. Do you accept what she’s told you?”

  “I suppose so.” Edward seems wrong-footed. I notice he has a twitch in his left eye. He rubs it with his fist. “Yeah, okay. I’m not sure what to make of it, but okay. It doesn’t really affect anything, though. I mean, she still wasn’t my mum’s real daughter. Sorry, Suze, but that’s just how it is.”

  “You’re right, Edward. I wasn’t her real daughter.” I turn to Ms. Coombes. “There’s something I want to say before we waste any more time. Is that alright?”

  “Yes, certainly. There are no rules of procedure here. Go ahead.”

  I address my brother again.

  “Edward, I’m going to be completely open. This is hard for me, and it’ll be the one and only time I say this to you—or probably to anyone—so listen carefully. When I found out I was adopted, I was shattered. I’m prepared to admit that. It was like a hammer had smashed my recollection of our childhood into fragments. I was overwhelmed with uncertainty. But after a while I came to realize that that was what needed to happen, that it was long overdue. I spent days going over past thoughts, feelings and events. In trying to piece everything back together again I had to examine every memory to see how it fitted into the new picture. I looked with a fresh perspective at my relationship with Dad and Mum—even with you. There are things about Dad’s behavior toward us that I’d tried for years to avoid thinking about. I don’t need to tell you what—you know yourself. As far as Mum’s concerned, I saw it clearly—that she’d never loved me in the same way she loved you.”

  Edward purses his lips and shakes his head. I ignore him and continue.

  “It forced me to think again about what she would’ve wanted to happen after she died. I still believe I’m right—that Mr. Brinkworth should’ve obtained a doctor’s opinion before he drafted the will of someone with dementia, and that you pressurized, or at least influenced, Mum to make a will. If I wanted to, I could carry on with the court case to try to prove that. But I’ve come to the conclusion that, despite my belief about the lack of validity of the will, its contents are probably not inconsistent with what she would’ve wanted. She was fully aware that you’re incapable of looking after your own affairs...”

  “Thanks, Suze.”

  “...and she would’ve wanted you to have a secure place to live after she died, even if it meant I never received my inheritance. I haven’t come here to negotiate. I’ve come to tell you my decision. I’ve decided that I’m not going to pursue the court case any further. You can stay in the house for as long as you like—for the rest of your life if you want. My only condition is that you pay your own legal costs. I’m not going to be out-of-pocket because of other people’s dubious conduct. You can tell Mr. Brinkworth to draw up a consent order and I’ll sign it.”

  My brother is silent. I can’t read his expression. I’d expected a whoop of delight.

  “This means you’ve won, Edward, in case you didn’t understand what I said. You’ve got what you wanted.”

  “Well, that’s a very constructive move on Susan’s part,” says Ms. Coombes. “I wasn’t expecting such a significant concession so early on. Edward, would you like to discuss this settlement offer with your solicitor before you respond?”

  Edward leans forward and puts his elbows on the table.

  “No need. I haven’t come here to parley either. First things first—I want to say again, Suze—I didn’t put any pressure on Mum to write a will. I know you’ll never believe me, because you’ve always had me down as some kind of crook, but just use your common sense. If I was going to go to all the effort of forcing her to make a will, don’t you think I would’ve made sure I got the lot, instead of just the right to live in the house plus a half share when I move out? Did that never occur to you? But, the main thing you should know, Suze, is that I never even wanted to stay in the house after Mum died. I only moved back in in the first place because she needed somebody to help her. I hate the fucking place.”

  Mr. Iqbal coughs politely.

  “Sorry for the language,” Edward said to Ms. Coombes. “But that house has got too many bad memories. When I’m there, I feel dragged down. Not only that, it’s way too big for me. I can’t stand the poxy neighbors, always telling me to turn my music down at night. And there’s a massive garden to maintain. I hate gardening. And also, by the way, even if I did want to live there—which I don’t—I can’t afford to. The council tax is sky-high and the heating bills are astronomical. I’ve seen a brilliant studio flat in the center of town, where you pay a maintenance charge and you don’t need to do anything to it. I’m planning on selling up, using my half of the proceeds to buy the flat, then renting it out while I go traveling for a couple of years. I need to get away. I need some sun. I’m thinking southeast Asia. The rent’ll pay all my expenses. I went to see the estate agents a couple of days ago, and they’ve already been to take photos. They say it’s a highly sought-after area for families ’cos of the good local schools. I should be abroad before the start of summer.”

  He leans back in his chair again.

  “So actually, Suze, you’ve won.”

  This isn’t what I was expecting. It takes me a few moments to grasp what Edward’s said. My wait is almost over—I’ll have my inheritance. It makes no sense to me, though.

  “If you h
ate the house so much why did you tell me you wanted to carry on living there? Why didn’t you agree to put it up for sale straightaway? Why have you been opposing the court proceedings?”

  “I dunno. Habit, I suppose. We’ve always fought. It’s what we do. When I saw how angry you were with me about the will, it got me riled. You wound me up with all your crazy allegations. The harder you attacked me the more you made me dig in my heels. I wanted to rub your nose in it. It’s your own fault. If you’d been nice about it all in the first place we wouldn’t be here today. You would’ve got what you wanted months ago.”

  “That’s beyond ridiculous. I wouldn’t have thought even you would behave in such a juvenile manner. We’ve wasted all this time and effort and money just because you wanted to score points?”

  Edward laughs.

  “We’ve had some fun, though, haven’t we, Suze?”

  “Well, this is very unusual,” says Ms. Coombes. “I don’t think I’ve been involved in a case like this before, where both sides have so readily conceded defeat. So, let me summarize the position. Edward, you’re going to vacate the family home and put it on the market. Under the terms of your mother’s will that means the proceeds of sale will then be divided between the two of you. The court proceedings will be terminated by an application to the Chancery Division for a consent order. All parties to bear their own costs. Are you both in agreement?”