by Maureen Lee
Perhaps the last time she’d been happy was with Hugh O’Mara. Even now, the next day, I found it difficult to grasp what Gran had told me.
I turned into Clement Street, found a place to park, took a photograph of number eighteen, then knocked at the door. The street was comprised of small terraced properties, the front doors opening on to the pavement.
The house in question had been relatively well maintained, though the downstairs window-sill could have done “with a fresh coat of paint. I noticed the step hadn’t been cleaned in a while.
The door opened, “Hello, Millie,” said Tom O’Mara.
Yesterday, I’d written to him, then fled back to Blundellsands when I came out of the solicitor’s with my mother, so there would have been no one in when he turned up at Flo’s last night. I’d thought long and hard about what to write. In the end, I’d merely stated the facts baldly, without embellishment or comment. I didn’t put “Dear Tom”, or who tilt” letter was from, just a few necessary words that explained everything. He would know who’d sent it. I’d posted it to the club because I didn’t know his address.
Tom turned and went down the narrow hallway into a room at the rear of the house. He was dressed in all black: leather jacket, jeans, T-shirt. I took a deep breath and followed, closing the door behind me. The room was furnished sixties style, with a lime green carpet, orange curtains, a melamine table, two grey plastic easy chairs, one each side of the elaborate tiled fireplace, which had little insets for knick-knacks. Everything was shabby and well used, and there were no ornaments, or other signs that the place was inhabited.
“This is where me gran used to live,” Tom said. His jacket creaked silkily as he sat in one of the chairs and stretched out his long legs. He wore expensive boots with a zip in the side, and looked out of place in the small dark room with its cheap furniture. I sat in the other chair. “I bought it years ago as an investment. I got tenants in when Nancy went to Southport. Now they’ve moved I thought I’d sell. They say the price of property has started to go up.”
“When did you decide to sell?”
“This morning, when I heard from you. It made a good excuse. I got a woman from the club to ring the place you work. I had to see you again.”
“Why?”
“I dunno.” He shrugged elegantly. “To see what it felt like, maybe, knowing you were me sister, knowing it was over.” He looked at me curiously. “Didn’t you want to see me?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Tom. I’ve no idea what to think.” I felt slightly uncomfortable, but not embarrassed or ashamed. I’d pooh-poohed Gran’s gruesome claim that the family was cursed, that the devil was involved, and the world was about to end because a half-sister and brother who’d known nothing about their relationship had slept with each other. “We didn’t know, Gran. It wasn’t our fault. If it hadn’t been for all the secrets . . . ’It was irritating to know that I was now accumulating secrets of my own, things I couldn’t tell my mother or Trudy or Declan. ‘Don’t repeat a word of this to your mam,’ Gran pleaded. ‘I’d be obliged if you wouldn’t mention to your dad that I told you,’ Mum had said the other night, about something or other I couldn’t remember right now.
“You can go back to that boyfriend of yours,” Tom remarked drily. “What’s his name?”
“James.”
He looked amused. “James and Millie. They go well together. What’s Millie short for, anyroad? I always meant to ask.”
“Millicent.”
There was silence. Then Tom said something that made my stomach lurch. “Will you come upstairs with me?” He nodded at the door. “There’s a bed.”
“No!” Despite my vehemently expressed horror, somewhere within the furthest reaches of my mind, I remembered what we’d been to each other and did my best not to imagine what it would be like now.
“I just wondered,” Tom said lightly. “It’s not that I want to, bloody hell, no. The whole idea makes me feel dead peculiar. I’m just trying to get things sorted in me head.”
“It’s all over, Tom.” I could hardly speak.
“Christ, Millie, I know that. I’m not suggesting otherwise.”
He smiled. Over the short time I’d known him, he’d rarely smiled. Whenever he did, I’d always thought him even more extraordinarily attractive than he already was, more desirable. I had that same feeling again, and it made me slightly nauseous. He went on, “I wish we’d found out we were related before we . . . ” he stopped, unwilling to say the words. “It would have been great, knowing I had a sister.”
“And knowing Flo was your gran.” And my gran, I realised with a shock.
“Aye.” He nodded. “That would have been great an” all.”
I refused to meet his eyes, worried about what I might see there. It seemed sensible to get away as quickly as possible. I took my notebook out of my bag and said briskly, “Is it really your intention to put the house on the market?”
“I’d like to get rid of it, yes.”
“Then I’d better take some details.” I stood, smoothed my skirt, conscious of Tom watching my every move. I didn’t look at him. “I’ll start upstairs.”
Quickly, I measured the rooms, made a note of the cupboards, the state of decoration, the small modern bathroom at the rear. Downstairs again, I took a quick look in the lounge, which was the same size as the front bedroom and had a black iron fireplace with a flower-painted tile surround, which could be sold for a bomb if it was taken out. There was an ugly brocade three-piece with brass pillars supporting the arms—I must tell Tom to get rid of the furniture.
In the hall, I paused for a moment. Tommy O’Mara had lived here, walked in and out of the same rooms, up and down the same stairs, sat in the same spot where I’d sat only a few minutes ago when I talked to his grandson.
One day, a long time ago, Martha Colquitt, my other gran, had probably come to this house bringing Flo’s baby with her, the baby who’d turned out to be my father. I stood very still, and in my mind’s eye, I could actually see the things happening like in an old, faded film, as if they were genuine memories, as if I’d lived through them, taken part. It was an eerie feeling, but not unpleasant.
When I went into the living room, Tom O’Mara had gone. He’d left the key to Flo’s flat on top of my handbag.
He must have slipped out of the back when I was upstairs, and I was glad that my main emotion was relief, mixed with all sorts of other feelings that I preferred not to delve into. A car started up some way down the street and I didn’t even consider looking through the net curtains to see if it was him. In one sense, I felt numb. In another, I felt entirely the opposite. I knew I would never make love with another man the way I had with Tommy O’Mara—Tom! The thing that had drawn us together was a crime, yet it would be impossible to forget.
When I returned to the office, Diana was cockahoop.
She’d just shown the Naughtons round a property in Childwall, and they were anxious to buy.
“How many places did you show them, Millie—ten, a dozen? I only took them once and they fell in love with it straight away,” she crowed.
“I’m sure they were more influenced by the house than the agent,” I said mildly. Right now, I couldn’t give a damn about the Naughtons, or Diana.
After my parents’ thirty brutal, wretched years of marriage, I expected there would be something equally brutal about its end: a fight, a huge scene, lots of screaming and yelling. I even visualised my father physically refusing to let Mum go. In other words, I was dreading Friday. Several times during the week, I asked Mum, “What time are you leaving?”
“For goodness sake, Millicent, I don’t know. It’s not high noon or anything. I’ll pack me suitcase during the day, and once I’ve had me tea I’ll tell him I’m off before he has time to brood over it.”
“It can’t possibly be that simple, Mum.”
“He can’t stop me, can he? He can’t guard over me for ever.” She bit her lip thoughtfully. “I’ll leave him a casserole in
the fridge for the weekend.” She smiled at me radiantly. Over the last few days, the anxious lines around her eyes and mouth had smoothed away. I had never known her look so happy.
“I’ll come straight from work and give you a lift,” I offered.
“There’s no need, Millicent. I’ll catch the bus. I won’t have much to carry—a suitcase, that’s all.”
I didn’t argue, but on Friday, as soon as I finished work, I drove straight to Kirkby. Trudy had obviously had the same idea. When I drew up the Cortina was parked outside the house.
My mother was kneeling on the kitchen floor playing with Scotty, who was lying on his back, wriggling in ecstasy as his tummy was tickled. “I’ll really miss this little chap,” she said tearfully, when I went in. “I’d take him with me if there was a garden. But never mind, he’ll be company for your dad.”
“Where is he?” I asked.
“In the front room.”
“Does he know?”
“Yes. He’s taken it hard, I knew he would. He pleaded with me to stay. He promised to turn over a new leaf ‘Really!’ I said sarcastically.
Mum laughed. “Yes, really.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Not for a minute, luv. I don’t think he could, no matter how much he might want to.”
Trudy came into the room with a plastic bag. “You’d forgotten your toothbrush, Mum.” She grinned at me.
“Hi, Sis. She’s hardly taking a thing, just a few clothes, that’s all.”
“I don’t want to leave your dad with the house all bare.
It’ll be nice to start afresh with Flo’s stuff. I must say,”
Mum nodded at the ancient stove, “I’ll be glad to see the back of that ould thing.”
“Flo’s is even older,” I said.
“Yes, but she’s got a microwave, hasn’t she? I’ve always wanted a microwave. Now, Trudy,” she turned to my sister, “I want you to promise that you’ll bring Melanie and Jake to see their grandad from time to time. He loves them kids, and it would be cruel to deprive him of their company.”
Trudy rubbed the scar on her left eyebrow and muttered, “I’m not promising anything, Mum. We’ll just have to see.”
“Well,” Mum said cheerfully, “it’s time I was off.”
The moment had come. Trudy and I looked at each other, and I saw my own incredulous excitement reflected in her green eyes as we followed Mum into the hall, where she paused at the door of the lounge. The television was on, a travel programme showing an exotic location with palm trees, sun and sand. To my surprise, Declan was sitting on the settee reading a newspaper. My father—the man I’d always thought was my father—was smoking, apparently quite calm, but there was something tight about his shoulders, and he seemed to hold the smoke in for too long before he blew it out again.
“I’m going now, Norman,” Mum said. She spoke as casually as if she were going to the shops. I sensed a subtle shifting of power.
Her husband shrugged. “Please yerself,” he said.
“Your clean shirts are in the airing cupboard, and there’s a meat casserole in the fridge. It should last at least two days.”
Declan got up. “I’ll come out and say tara, Mam.”
“Heavens, lad! I’ll be seeing you tomorrer. You promised to come to dinner, didn’t you? There’s no need for taras.”
“Yes, there is, Mam. Today’s special.”
Trudy picked up the suitcase and we trooped outside.
Dry-eyed and slightly breathless, Mum paused under the orange street lights, looking back, her brow furrowed in bewilderment, at the house of silent screams and hidden tears, as if either that, or the future she was about to embark on, was nothing but a dream. Trudy put the case into the boot of the Cortina, Mum gave a queenly wave, and the car drove away.
It was as easy as that.
Declan and I were left standing at the gate, with me feeling inordinately deflated by this turn of events. I’d expected to take my mother to William Square, help her settle in, show her where everything was, gradually hand the place over. But now I felt excluded, unnecessary. All of a sudden it hurt badly, imagining other people going through Flo’s things, sitting in Flo’s place, watching her lamp swirl round, playing her favourite record.
Scotty came out and licked my shoe. I picked him up and buried my face in his rough, curly coat to hide the tears that trickled down my cheeks. I’d never felt so much at home anywhere as I’d done at Flo’s. From the very first time I’d gone there, the flat had seemed mine. I knew I was being stupid, but it was almost as if I’d entered my aunt’s body, become Flo, experienced the various highs and lows of her life. I’d discovered something about myself during the short time I’d spent there, though I wasn’t sure what it was. I only knew I felt differently about things, as if Flo had somehow got through to me that I would survive. Never once, in all the nights I’d slept there, had I dreamed the old dream, heard the slithering footsteps on the stairs, wished I were invisible.
I sighed. I could follow the Cortina, still help Mum settle in, but I knew I was being daft, feeling so possessive about a basement flat that had belonged to a woman I’d never even spoken to.
“What’s the matter, Sis?” Declan said softly.
“I feel a bit sad, that’s all.”
Declan misunderstood. “Mam will be all right, you’ll see.”
“I know she will, Dec” I put Scotty down and gave his beard a final rub, wondering if I would ever see the little dog again. “Will he be all right?”
“Scotty’s the only member of the family Dad’s never laid a finger on.” Declan grinned.
“And what about you? You can always sleep on the sofa in my place until you find somewhere of your own.” I’d welcome his company at the moment. The thought of returning, alone, to Blundellsands and the flat I’d been so proud of was infinitely depressing.
“Thanks, Millie, but I think I’ll stay with me dad.”
I stared at him, open-mouthed. “But I thought you couldn’t wait to get away?”
“Yes, but he needs me, least he needs someone, and I suppose I’ll do.”
“Oh, Dec!” I touched his thin face. My heart felt troubled at the idea of my gentle brother staying in Kirkby with Norman Cameron.
“He can’t be all bad,” Declan said, with such kind reasonableness, considering all that had happened, that I felt even worse. “I know he loves us. Something must have happened to make him the way he is.”
I thought of the little boy locked in a cupboard.
“Perhaps something did.” I watched Scotty sniffing the rose bushes in the front garden. One day, I might come back. Perhaps we could talk. Perhaps.
A taxi drew up outside the house next door and hooted its horn. The Bradleys came out, dressed in their ballroom-dancing gear.
“Has your mam gone?” Mrs Bradley shouted.
“A few minutes ago,” I replied.
“About time, too. I’m going to see her next week.” Mr Bradley helped to scoop the layers of net skirt into the taxi. As it drove away, I said, “I suppose I’d better go, it’s cold out here.” I kissed Declan’s cheek. “Take care, Dec. I won’t stop worrying about you, I know I won’t.”
“There’s no need to worry, Mill. Nowadays, me and Dad understand each other in our own peculiar way. He accepts me for ‘what I am.’
I paused in the act of unlocking the car. “And what’s that, Dec?”
Beneath the glare of the street lights, Declan flushed. “I reckon you already know, Sis.” He closed the gate. “Do you mind?”
“Christ Almighty, Dec!” I exploded. “Of course I don’t mind. It would only make me love you more, except I love you to death already.”
“Ta, Sis.” He picked Scotty up and waved a shaggy paw. “See you, Mill.”
I started up the car and watched through the mirror as my brother, still hugging Scotty, went back into the house. A door had opened for my mother, at the same time as one had closed for Declan.
Every morning, I woke up with the feeling that I’d lost something infinitely precious. I had no idea what it was that I’d lost, only that it had left a chasm in my life that would never be refilled. There was an ache in my heart, and the sense of loss remained with me for hours.
My flat, my home, seemed unfamiliar, like that of a stranger. I stared, mystified, at various objects: the shell-shaped soap dish in the bathroom, a gaudy teatowel, the yellow filing basket on the desk, and had no idea where they’d come from. Were they mine? I couldn’t remember buying them. Nor could I remember where particular things were kept. It was as if I’d been away for years, having to open cupboards and drawers to search for the bread knife or a duster. There was food in the fridge that was weeks old: wilted lettuce, soggy apples, a carton of potato salad that I was scared to take the lid off. The cheese was covered in mould.
The only place where I felt comfortable and at ease was the balcony. Most nights I sat outside wearing my warmest coat, watching the branches of the bare trees as they waved, like the long nails of a witch, against the dark sky.
I listened to the creatures of the night rustling in and out of the bushes below. There were hedgehogs, two, never seen during the day. The light from the living room was cast sharply across the untidy grass and straggly plants—no one tended the garden in winter—and under the light I read the book that Tom O’Mara had given me about the Thetis. I read about the bungling and ineptitude of those at the top, the heroism and desperation of the ordinary seamen as they tried to rescue the men who were trapped, so near and yet so far.
How would it have been, I wondered, if Tommy O’Mara hadn’t died? How differently would things have turned out for Flo?
I felt very old, like someone who knew that the best years of their life were over and was patiently sitting out the rest. Having a birthday didn’t help. I turned thirty, and became obsessed with wondering how the next ten years would turn out. What would I be doing when I was forty? Would I be married, have children? Where would I be living? Where would I be working? Would Mum still be living in William Square with Alison?
Which was stupid. I told myself how stupid I was being a hundred times a day, and made sure no one guessed how dispirited I felt. When I went with James to the theatre one night, I sat in the bar in the interval while he went to fetch the drinks. He came back, saying, “Are you all right, darling? I looked across and your face was terribly sad.”
