by J. L. Merrow
All in all, it was a gift from the gods when I got to the last job in Southdown and realised I wasn’t going to be able to do it today. I’d have to order a new pump in, seeing as the one I had in the van turned out to be faulty.
Mrs. L. was pretty understanding about it, in the circs. Like she said, who needs hot water in this weather?
I swung by the supermarket on the way home, then had a shower. Lukewarm to show solidarity with Mrs. L., not that she’d know anything about it. It was still a bit early to ring Cherry—she might be in a meeting or something—so I grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge and switched the telly on, but the sofa just wasn’t comfy this evening. Too hot or something. I put my beer down on the coffee table, got up and stretched my legs a bit, then wandered into the kitchen. I stared out of the window (waste of time: the view hadn’t got any more interesting since the last time I’d looked), gazed blankly at the calendar on the wall (the Chippendales: a present from Gary; Mr. May was rocking the oiled pecs and leopard-skin posing pouch look), and tapped my fingers on the kitchen counter. Merlin pricked up his furry little ears at the sound, but Arthur carried on ignoring me in favour of scarfing down his dinner like there was no tomorrow.
Speaking of dinner . . . It’d been slim pickings in the fresh produce aisle, so my and Cherry’s tea was going to be quiche garnished with the few limp lettuce leaves I’d managed to forage for in the supermarket. I could rustle up a pretty good selection of pickles, but it still wasn’t anything I was particularly proud of as a spread.
I could make a pasta salad. Yeah, that’d pad things out a bit. Make it look like I’d made a bit of an effort. I nodded to myself and put the water on to boil.
Twenty-five minutes later, I had a reasonably decent meal put together. And I still hadn’t invited the bloody guest of honour. This was getting ridiculous. Time to stop faffing about. I’d put Phil off and everything; there was no point putting this off any longer. I dialled up Cherry’s number and hit Call.
It went straight to voice mail. Sod it.
I hesitated, then did a quick internet search for the number of Ver Chambers, which was where Cherry hung out during work hours when she wasn’t busy m’ludding in court. This time, I got an answer on the first ring, and recognised Jeanette-the-receptionist’s chirpy tones immediately.
“’Ullo, love. It’s Tom Paretski. Is my sister in today?”
“Ooh, hello, Tom, are you keeping well? Sorry, I think you’ve just missed her. She said she’d be going home early today.”
I tried to keep the swearing under my breath. Why the bloody hell hadn’t I pulled my sodding finger out and called her half an hour ago?
“Oh, hang on, no, she’s on her way out now. Shall I get her for you?”
“Yes. Please,” I said firmly.
I drummed my fingers on the kitchen counter to the sound of muffled conversations on the other end of the line. Then Cherry’s voice came in loud and clear. “Tom?”
“Hi, Sis. Have you got to dash off somewhere?”
“No,” she said in the sort of tone that suggested she really wanted to add a legal disclaimer.
“Fancy coming round to mine? I’ve got salad and stuff in for tea,” I added, because if I knew my sister, the last thing she wanted to do was have to cook a meal when she got home.
“Tonight? You only saw me a couple of weeks ago.” That had been at the bash for her fortieth birthday, which had been such a carbon copy of her and Greg’s engagement do, I’d been honestly surprised they hadn’t laid on a poisoning as entertainment. Still, having seen my sister almost fall victim to a murderer once, I was in no hurry to see anything like that ever again. “Don’t tell me you’re missing me already.” It was more jokey than suspicious. She was wavering. Never let it be said that members of the legal profession aren’t open to a bit of judicious bribery.
“I made that pasta salad you like,” I said to sweeten the deal. “You know, the one with the goat’s cheese.”
“Oh?” Now she was more suspicious than jokey. “Anyone would think you were trying to butter me up for something.”
Oops. Apparently I’d laid it on a bit too thick. “Well . . . there might have been something I sort of wanted to have a word about.”
“Ah.”
Funny how much you can learn from one short Ah. “Bloody hell, you knew, didn’t you?”
“Knew what?”
“Don’t play games with me, all right? You knew what I was going to find at the Morangie house, didn’t you?” Which had basically been a load of old letters that told me the bloke I’d always called Dad wasn’t, in fact, my father. Call me unreasonable, but I’d have thought my sis could have, I dunno, maybe warned me I was about to find out I was a bastard.
There was a pause. “I didn’t know. But I could guess. All right, I’ve just got to phone Gregory. I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”
It was a tense twenty minutes, waiting for her. Actually, it was nearer a tense half an hour, but who was counting?
Oh, that’s right. Me.
By the look of Cherry when I opened the door to her, she’d been a bit white-knuckled on the short drive over from Ver Chambers herself.
I sighed. “God, you’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you? Ever since I went to that bloody house. Come in, sit down. Cup of tea?”
“I’m not sure. Am I going to need something stronger?” Cherry bustled in, dumped her handbag on the floor by the sofa, and then stood there, looking at me expectantly.
“Oi, I’m not letting you drunk-drive your way home. Greg would have my nuts. Probably stuff ’em and hang them from his rearview mirror.” Gregory Titmus, canon of St. Leonards cathedral, was Cherry’s fiancé. And a keen taxidermist.
“Do you have to be so vulgar? And of course I wouldn’t drink and drive. You still have a spare room, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but haven’t you got work tomorrow?”
“Actually, no. I booked the day off.”
“What, this soon after a bank holiday? Clients all off sunning themselves on the Costa del Crime, are they? All right for some, innit? Some of us have to work for a living.”
Cherry tsked. “You know I do a lot of my paperwork at home. And the day off is so Gregory and I can get on with the wedding preparations. You wouldn’t believe how much there is to do.”
“Yeah, right. I’m Gary’s best man, remember? And their wedding’s in four weeks, not, what, eight months?” Cherry and Greg had the cathedral booked for next February. God knows why they’d gone for a winter wedding. Maybe Greg was too busy in the summer with other people getting hitched? Or maybe he fancied wearing his Doctor Who hat and scarf for the ceremony. I amused myself for a mo picturing my sis dressed up as one of the Doctor’s companions—miniskirted Jo, maybe, or Leila in her jungle gear—but had to stop when Cherry started giving me funny looks.
“Some people spend years planning their weddings. I hardly think nine months”—trust Cherry to point out I’d got my maths wrong—“is too soon to get things sorted. Anyway, for God’s sake, get me something. Preferably cold. I’m gasping. You know they say the heat wave is going to continue? It’ll be hosepipe bans before we know it.”
Like I hadn’t had that conversation a dozen times already this week. I trooped dutifully into the kitchen. Ever hopeful, the cats trailed me like a couple of furry bridesmaids. “Lemonade all right?” I called with my head still in the fridge, enjoying the chill.
Cherry said something indistinct which I took as a yes, so I poured a couple of glasses and took them back into the living room. “I can bung a bit of vodka in if you want,” I said, handing Cherry’s to her.
She looked torn. “Probably better not. We’re tasting cakes tomorrow.”
“Yeah, well—anytime you change your mind . . . And are you hungry now, or do you want to wait a bit? It won’t take long to get stuff ready.”
I swear Cherry’s ears pricked up like a dog’s when I mentioned food. “Actually I’m ravenous. It was way too hot to ea
t much at lunchtime. I swear, there are days when I would kill to work in an air-conditioned office.”
“Yeah, I know the feeling. I spent half my afternoon up in this woman’s attic sorting out her water tank. Felt like diving in myself by the time I was finished. I seriously thought I was going to come down mummified.” I left her to her lemonade and went back in the kitchen.
Judging by the way Cherry’s eyes lit up when I brought the plates back, I needn’t have worried about the food not being up to scratch.
“There you go. There’s more pasta salad if you want it—actually, there’s more everything, except the green stuff. Apparently nobody else in Fleetville can face the thought of hot food either. It must be killing trade for the local takeaways.” I joined her on the sofa.
“I’m fine. This is lovely,” Cherry said, already on her second mouthful by the time my bum hit the seat.
We chatted about this and that while we ate—Gary’s forthcoming wedding, Cherry and Greg getting Wimbledon tickets, the arguments for and against nontraditional wedding cakes. Apparently Greg had a yen for a French-style croquembouche (which I had to get her to spell for me). Who’d have thought it?
Eventually, though, plates were put aside on the coffee table, we leaned back in our seats and an awkward silence fell with a plop like a brick in a cesspit. Cherry took a gulp of lemonade and swallowed it audibly.
Right. Time to talk about stuff. I half wished I’d gone for the vodka after all. “So. Down to business. You knew about the letter?”
“You mean Mum’s letters? Or, well, that man’s?”
“‘That man’ being my real dad? Yeah.” Actually, I’d meant Auntie Lol’s letter explaining stuff, but, well, if Cherry knew about the love letters, she didn’t need the explanation, did she?
“Yes, I knew. But it’s not like it really matters after all this time, though.” Cherry’s tone was even more dismissive than her words.
I stared at her. “You think it doesn’t bloody matter? For Christ’s sake, I found out Dad’s not my dad, and you knew all along and didn’t tell me! And you think it doesn’t matter?”
“But it was all so long ago. Dad’s perfectly fine about you now. It was just one of those things.”
“Just one of those . . .” I couldn’t seem to stop repeating what she said. “Sis, this is my bloody life we’re talking about. I can’t even . . . How long have you known?”
“Oh, years. You were about four when it all came out.” She glared at me. “You won’t remember, but it was horrible for the rest of us. Richard was in the middle of exams. It’s amazing he didn’t fail the lot of them.”
“Well, excuse the fuck out of me for being born!” Jesus. And this was the woman I’d gone to the bother of making pasta salad for. Next time, she could have supermarket value-brand coleslaw and like it.
“There’s no need to be bitchy about it.” Cherry was tight-lipped. I couldn’t believe she was blaming me for this. Then again, I was still, even after several months, struggling to believe it was even true. Mum? Having affairs? She’d always seemed so, well, old when I was a kid.
Not that I’m ageist, or anything. Obviously. Just, you sort of expect your mum and dad to have got that sort of thing out of their system by the time you’re old enough to remember them. Which I supposed Mum had—at least, I hoped she hadn’t had any more affairs while I was growing up. But, well, infidelity’s like skinny jeans and designer stubble: looks better on the young.
“What happened?” I asked weakly.
“You did, obviously. Poking around in Mum and Dad’s bedroom, finding things that should have stayed hidden.” She was breathing hard, and I didn’t think the pink in her cheeks was all down to the heat. “It’d all been over for years, and then you had to go and rake things up. I mean, I’m sure Dad must have at least suspected, but to have it all thrown in his face like that . . . You’ve no idea how hard it was on him.”
She was right, I realised. I’d had no idea. Not once, not one time in all of my twenty-nine years, had he ever even hinted I might not be his. Not when I announced at seventeen I wasn’t going to bother with school any longer. Not when I told him I was gay.
Not even when I’d brought Gary home for Christmas dinner.
Had he been more distant to me than to Richard and Cherry? I wasn’t sure. He’d been, well, older when I was a kid. Not really up to football in the park, even if he’d wanted to. Or had that just been an excuse?
God, this was doing my head in.
Cherry leaned over and gave my knee a pat that looked as awkward as it felt. It didn’t help that I was wearing shorts and her hand was hot and clammy. But it’s the thought that counts. “You’re still my brother, you know,” she said. “And Richard feels the same.”
“So basically, the whole sodding family knew about it except me?”
“Only the four of us. But yes. And it didn’t matter.”
“Bollocks.”
“Language. Well, obviously it did at first. But you get used to these things. And I really don’t see why Laura Morangie had to go and rake it all up again after her death.”
“God, you make it sound like she’s one of the undead. Rising from her grave to plague the living.”
“I don’t think it’s very respectful to talk like that.”
“What, and it’s respectful to criticise her dying wish that I find out the truth?”
Cherry gave me a sharp look. “Tell me honestly—are you happier now you know?”
“Well, no, not exactly, but . . .”
“There you are, then.” She gave a satisfied smile.
I got up and wandered around the coffee table for a bit. Merlin thought this was a great game and joined in, then tried to change the rules into he who trips, wins. I sat down again quick before he could make me fall down. “So is there anything else you can tell me? About my real dad? I mean, did Mum say anything about him?”
Cherry stopped smiling. “Well, no. I don’t know what you’re expecting here. I suppose she must have said something to Dad, but for God’s sake, I was fourteen. She was hardly likely to tell me all the gory details. Most of the time, actually, I ended up having to look after you while they shut themselves up in the dining room and had all these discussions that always ended up with Mum in tears.” Her mouth twisted. “One time Dad cried. It was horrible.”
“Shit.” Which was a pretty good description of how I felt. Dad had cried? My dad? Well, the bloke I’d always known as Dad.
And it had been because of me. I sat there in silence for a long moment, staring at the bubbles rising in my glass of lemonade. Cherry didn’t say anything more either. She didn’t really have to.
In the end, she shook herself like a damp dog, picked up her glass, took a final sip, put it back down on the coffee table, and stood up. “Anyway, I’ve said all I had to say. You know how I feel about raking things up. I’ll let myself out.”
I stood up anyway. “Look, about Mum and Dad . . . I didn’t realise, okay?” I managed a wonky smile. “Never really think about Dad having, well, feelings.”
She nodded. “It’s his generation. Which I suppose is why it was all so upsetting at the time. For us, I mean, but I suppose for him too. Look, why don’t you come for lunch at Gregory’s Sunday week? We’re already booked this coming Sunday, but we’ve got nothing on the one after. You and Phil. Gregory was only saying the other night we should have you over again soon.”
“Thanks, but seriously, roast dinners, this weather?” Greg had turned out to be a dab hand at stuffing a chicken, to nobody’s surprise.
“Oh, the heat wave’s bound to have broken by then. And anyway, did I mention a roast? We’ll probably have cold meat and salad or something.” Cherry gave me a sly look. “And it’s usually nice and cool at the Old Deanery. Those old stone walls and high ceilings aren’t so bad in summer.”
I had a sneaking feeling Greg probably wanted the opportunity to collar me for some sort of wedding preparation duties, but I supposed I wasn�
��t likely to escape them forever. “Yeah, okay, then. Twelve o’clock as usual?” It was earlier than I usually liked to eat lunch at the weekend, but Greg’s Sundays were pretty much regulated by the services at the cathedral.
Cherry’s look got even slyer. “You could always come for the service. Gregory’s preaching that week.”
“Er, thanks, Sis, but I think we’ll let him give us the edited highlights over lunch.”
“Worried you’d be struck by lightning if you stepped over the threshold?” Cherry tutted. “You know, most people in the Church of England are perfectly accepting of homosexuality. There’s a very good theological case for it. Half the phrases in the Bible that people always quote as condemning it are simply mistranslated, misinterpreted, or both.”
“Oi. I’ve been to your Greg’s cathedral before. Didn’t have the world’s greatest experience, did I? Nah, I don’t think Phil’d be up for it. He’s a bit funny about religion.”
More to the point, I thought he’d have a few choice words to say about being dragged out of bed on a Sunday morning just so he could hear Greg drone on from a pulpit.
“But lunch’ll be great,” I went on before she could muster another argument. “We’ll see you at twelve, all right?”
After she’d gone, I couldn’t seem to stop staring at the few photos I had of my real dad. He was dark, like me, and also like me not the tallest bloke in the world, unless Mum had been standing on a box for the photos. Having checked my face in the mirror, I knew Phil wasn’t making it up when he said there was a resemblance between us, although we didn’t look like twins or anything.
Of course, the pictures were taken thirty years ago. He probably looked a lot different these days. Although chances were that, unlike Dad and Richard, he still had a full head of hair.
It was well weird seeing Mum standing next to him, his arm around her waist, both of them smiling at the camera. I’d often wondered who’d taken the pics—some mate of one of theirs who was in the know? Or did they grab some passing stranger and ask them to do the honours? It was hard to tell from the backgrounds just where the photos had been taken. They were standing outside, around bushes or trees, and could have been in a park somewhere, or just as easily in someone’s back garden. Mum looked happy but tense—unless I was reading too much into a faded smile. The time of year was hard to judge too. They weren’t dressed for winter, and the trees were green, but it could have been spring, summer, or early autumn. Had she known she was pregnant already? Had he?
