‘Ah, research.’ Chrissie sighed. ‘There’s nothing better. Well, almost nothing.’ She grinned.
‘Start with these.’ Chrissie passed me a small bundle of official-looking papers. ‘See what you can find.’
‘Are you heading back upstairs?’ I asked.
She shook her head and took a seat opposite me, behind a pile of journals and account ledgers. We sat for hours, at either end of the table, huddled over the dark wood. Bundle after bundle of papers and letters were looked through and discarded.
‘Look Chrissie!’ I jumped up and waved a piece of paper above my head. ‘I’ve found Vivienne’s birth certificate. Nanny’s name was Patricia Nightingale. Vivienne was adopted. Now that crazy story she used to tell me is starting to make sense.’
‘Story?’
‘Yeah, Nanny used to tell me about a Ballerina and a Revolutionary. There was always a part I didn’t understand. Now I think I do.’
I let Chrissie take the birth certificate from my hand and gazed at the next official looking document on my pile. It was another birth certificate. My jaw dropped open.
‘What is it?’ Chrissie asked.
‘I’m not sure. Let me look at her birth certificate again ... Oh shit! God, Chrissie, look at these dates!’ I placed both certificates next to each other and pointed at the years of birth.’
Chrissie squinted then walked around the table and studied the documents over my shoulder.
She gasped. ‘Your mum was only fifteen when she had your brother.’
My hands started to shake. “Filthy! Filthy!” The word echoed around my head. My heart started pounding. The shaking travelled up my arms and into my shoulders then my whole body shook. I struggled to breathe. ‘I didn’t know,’ I whispered.
‘Crow!’ she shrieked. Her hand grasped a third birth certificate.
‘No!’ I gasped.
‘A twin? Did you know you had a sister?’
I shook my head. ‘Does Tom know he’s a twin?’
I stared at the three documents. They looked genuine and I couldn’t understand why fake birth certificates would be here in this house anyway, but none of it made sense, not Vivienne’s age or the missing sister. Did she die?
‘Where’s my phone?’ I stood up suddenly. Chrissie’s jaw caught on my shoulder as I rose. ‘I’m sorry. Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine,’ she answered, rubbing her chin.
I nodded and ran out of the room and upstairs to grab the phone from my bag. An answer machine clicked in when I dialled Tomas’s number. I decided not to leave a message, but took my phone downstairs with me again in case he saw the missed call and rang back. Armed with more papers, Chrissie waited for me in the dining room.
‘He wasn’t there.’
She didn’t seem to hear me. Her face was bright red. ‘Your sister was adopted. I can’t find any record of the biological father’s name. Not yet anyway.’
‘Fifteen,’ I said, slowly. I thought again of the young Vivienne in the bathtub. ‘Do you think?’
‘What?’ Chrissie shrugged.
‘Vivienne, when she, I, whoever was being held under the water ... remember? I heard a voice. It kept saying “filthy, filthy”. I reckon she was about fourteen then. Maybe this was why?’
‘I s’pose your Nan wouldn’t approve of her being a pregnant teen.’
‘It couldn’t be Nanny. She would never ... she was loving and gentle.’ I shook my head, frowning.
Chrissie touched my arm. ‘Your grandfather?’
‘I dunno, maybe ... I’ll try Tomas again.’
I still couldn’t get hold of him. I sank into my chair, shivering. Chrissie looked at me with sympathy. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
I nodded. ‘I wonder why they never told us. It doesn't make sense, does it, keeping one kid and getting the other adopted? Why would anyone do that?'
‘Because he was a boy and she wasn't? It sounds stupid, but I've heard of weirder things. I wonder if your brother knows. Maybe they would have told you when you got older, but you left before they could?’
‘Maybe,’ I said, but I was certain Tomas didn’t know.
I looked at the birth certificates again. The father’s name was blank, I wondered whether Vivienne had ever told Tomas who his father was or whether he’d ever asked. At least, in that respect, I had the better deal. I knew who my father was, Enrique Herrera, a revolutionary from Bolivia. Vivienne had met him while she was touring with a ballet company in Latin America; their love had been explosive, but short lived, pulled apart by circumstance and bad timing. That was why she couldn’t look at me, because she loved my father so deeply.
‘Your birth certificate’s here too, Crow. Giselle Antoinette Nightingale, born in Birmingham, United Kingdom on the 1st March 1994, mother Vivienne Nightingale and father Frederick Richardson.’
I stared at her. ‘You what?’
She passed the document to me, frowning. ‘What’s wrong?’
I shook my head, staring at the name, willing it to change. ‘Chrissie, any idea why the wrong name would be listed under my father’s details? Is it normal when your dad’s not a national or if he’s a dissident?’
Without looking up, I felt her eyes bore holes into my skull. ‘Ummm.’
‘Yeah.’ I sighed. ‘Ummm, indeed.’
I folded the document and stuffed it into my pocket.
‘I’m not sure you’re supposed to fold them,’ Chrissie said, weakly.
I shrugged. ‘Fuck it! How do I research this shit? I want to know who my dad really was or is, and whether my sister's alive. Oh shit, Chrissie. The Ballerina and the Revolutionary ... what if it’s all a lie? Who am I?’
Chrissie picked up the other certificates and placed them in a drawer she opened from the underside of the dining room table. ‘We can keep looking through the rest of these, or you could go and ask your mother. The public records aren’t likely to shed any more light than the certificates, I reckon.’
I sighed. ‘Something tells me she isn’t more likely to tell me the truth now than for the thirteen years we lived together.’
‘I don’t know. You were a child then, Crow.’
I shook my head. ‘Skeletons ... what are they but the truth behind the pretty lies we tell each other ... Maybe she is ready to tell me ... but not because I’m older. It’s because she’s older. I was never a child, Chrissie. I never had the chance.’
I tried my brother’s phone again and left a message on his answer machine. ‘Hey big brother, we need to talk. Can you pop round after work?’
Chrissie stood behind me. ‘What do you want to do, Crow?’
‘I don’t know. I – I, fuck it, Chrissie, why?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe it seemed easier?’
‘Just the truth, that’s all I wanted.’ I felt the corners of my eyes burn with hot tears.
‘I know.’ She patted my shoulder, tentatively.
I frowned at her. ‘Let’s go home?’
‘To London? I don’t think that’s a good idea, Crow.’
‘It’s gotta be better than staying here.’
‘See what Tomas says and you might as well ask Vivienne. What have you got to lose, really?’
I laughed, sardonically. ‘The last few threads of my sanity.’
22
(London, England - 2007)
The girl wouldn’t speak to me as I waited with her in the doorway. She acted as though I was invisible, a ghost perhaps, and focused on the adults in suits and fine wool coats, striding past.
With a soft voice and an even softer manner, she regularly stepped forward and asked for help. Her movements were tiny, completely non-threatening and full of a gentle humility and grace. The people who did stop, more than half of those she approached, would smile sadly and press a coin into her hand. She thanked them with such openness and raw gratitude they seemed to continue on their journeys with a lighter step, proud to have helped someone in need. It was a strange symbiosis, but it seemed to work.
I nodded and walked beside her to a grungy looking café where she purchased two pastries and passed one to me. ‘I’m Roxie. What’s your name?’
I paused for a moment then smiled. ‘Crow.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Crow. Did you just arrive?’
‘Yeah, I took the bus ...’
‘Don’t tell me where you came from. It’s better that way. Most people will be able to tell by your accent anyway, but from now on you’re a Londoner, like me, okay?’
‘Okay,’ I said, spitting out crumbs as I spoke. ‘Sorry.’
She grinned. ‘Street kids don’t need good manners. Come on. I’ll show you where I live. It’s okay. A bit cold sometimes, but we’ve got plenty of blankets and the people are kind. No one will ... bother you.’
No one to bother me? That sounded luxurious. The cold I could handle, but ... my skin crawled for a moment before I regained control. ‘Thanks.’
‘No problem. Rule number one - we always help each other.’
‘Are there other rules?’
‘Don’t get arrested is a good one.’ She laughed and while I wasn’t sure I understood the joke I laughed with her. Her humour was compelling, and I wanted to wrap it around myself, to shield me from the terrors beyond.
Her home was a third storey apartment in a run-down tenement building in the East End. We ducked under lines of washing hanging across a narrow walkway come balcony. I imagined sun worshipping out here in the summer until my nostrils caught a whiff of something revolting and I quickly reconsidered.
‘What’s that smell?’ I whispered, not wanting to offend our neighbours.
Roxie shrugged. ‘Piss probably.’
I wasn’t convinced. I’d smelled urine before, but never anything as pungent and malodorous as this stench.
‘Here we are,’ she said, pushing down the handle on a non-descript aluminium framed door.
I picked my way between piles of rubbish across a threadbare carpet and followed her through a curtained doorway on the left. The floor was covered in blankets and sleeping bags.
‘How many live here?’
‘It changes. There’s about twenty kids here at the minute. The girls share this room and the boys share the one across the hall. There’s six adults too. They have a room at the back. I’ll show you the kitchen and the bathroom. We’ve hooked up the electrics so we even have hot water a lot of the time.’
‘Is it noisy?’
‘Sure, but hell it’s a roof, right? I hope you weren’t expecting the Ritz.’
I blushed. ‘Of course not. How long have you lived here?’
‘Oh just a few weeks in this place. We have to shift around a bit, you know, but I’ve been with a lot of the same people for almost a year. It’s a good group. It’s safe.’
As we stepped back into the hall I almost collided with a tall white man with light brown hair. ‘Hi Roxie. Who’s this?’
‘Matty, this is Crow. Crow, this is Matty. Are you heading to work?’
‘Yup.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Hi, Crow. Welcome to the Palace of Dreams.’
I laughed and curtseyed. He grabbed his stomach and almost collapsed in a fit of giggles.
‘You’re okay, kid. You’ll fit in fine.’
I pulled a face.
‘Where’s Max?’ Roxie asked. ‘I managed to get thirty squid for the pot today.’
‘She’s in the kitchen. I’ll see you guys later, okay?’
‘Bye, Matty,’ Roxie said.
I waved as he left and he offered me a quick salute. I felt my cheeks warm as I blushed fiercely.
Roxie nudged me. ‘He’s awesome. Come on, let’s meet Max.’
Max was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She must have been close to six foot tall. Her skin was chocolate brown and her head was shaved. Thick eyelashes framed eyes that glistened like gold. When she spoke, her voice was like syrup, rich, sweet and melodious. I wanted to be her.
Roxie passed handfuls of coins to Max who was sat on a sparklingly clean kitchen counter with her ankles crossed.
‘T’ank you, Roxie. We feast like kings, now, hah? Who’s this you bringing ’ome, mtoto?’
‘Max, this is Crow. Crow, Max.’
‘Like a bird, hah?’
I nodded.
‘You flew de nest, sweet mtoto?’
I smiled, shyly.
‘Well ’tis okay now, ya hear. Roxie, she look affer you. She look affer everyone. De mama kuku.’
Roxie puffed out her chest with pride.
Max rubbed her forehead and sighed. I looked to Roxie and she nodded.
‘See you later, Max,’ she said.
Max waved as Roxie gave me the rest of the guided tour, a tiny bathroom with no window. Unlike the kitchen it had not been recently scrubbed. I decided I’d adopt the room and pay for my keep with a cleaning brush. ‘Can I stay?’
‘For as long as you want,’ Roxie said.
23
(Bristol, England - 2013)
I wandered out of the dining room and into the kitchen. Chrissie joined me. She sat in silence, unable to find any words to console me. I appreciated the company anyway.
‘Shall we go out?’ she asked after I finished a second cigarette.
‘Where?’
‘Anywhere. Just out.’
‘Why not? Let me go and take a piss first.’
‘No problem, Crow. I’ll just wash up a bit while I wait.’
‘You’re too good. You’d make someone a lovely wife ...’
‘Fuck off!’
I giggled as I walked out of the room. I mounted the stairs slowly, my head full of questions. They swirled around me like a dense fog, making it hard to navigate. As I stepped onto the landing I heard a voice.
‘Gramps, Gramps.’
My stomach felt like lead. I breathed deeply trying to shut out the sound. Not again. I shook my head and tried to walk away, but the voice dragged me back. The sound was coming from the attic. I peered up the shadow filled staircase. The door at its apex stood ajar. I stood at the bottom, straining my ears, wondering whether my imagination was playing tricks on me until I heard it again. Shaking, I climbed the steep, narrow stairs, my heart shuddering with every fall of my feet onto the treads, thud, thud, thud. Memories flooded into me as I felt the stairs getting steeper, or rather my legs shrinking.
‘No! Not again,’ I whispered in a voice too low to be heard, but I couldn’t stop climbing.
When I reached the top I pushed the door fully open and looked into the attic room. At its centre I saw a boy, a youth, no older than thirteen. His dark brown hair curled slightly out at the ends. His feet shuffled then he started to turn around. In mere seconds I would be able to see his face. I felt my throat constrict as though a hand was squeezing my windpipe. I tried to turn away, avoid his gaze, but I couldn’t move, I couldn’t even cover my eyes. I saw the tip on his nose and the cleft of his chin then his hazel eyes stared at me; they were full of fear and confusion.
‘Gramps?’ he said again, looking at me for an answer.
‘What is it, Tommy? What’s wrong?’
He pointed to his right, to something beyond my field of vision. I swallowed painfully as I took a final step into the attic.
A large figure stood in the corner of the room, his head almost touching the ceiling. No, he wasn’t standing, he was swaying. A rope stretched above him, fastened to the roof.
‘Grampy,’ I called, rushing towards him then, as I saw his face, I screamed.
Wrapping my arms around me for comfort, I fell to the floor, remembering every detail, the bloated face, the bulging eyes, the horror of it. Vivienne had rushed up the stairs and taken each of us under her arms and ushered us away before phoning the police. She left in a police van and one of my friends’ mums looked after us. We were never told what had happened. Grampy was simply there one day and then he wasn’t and eventually the mem
ory had become a shadow like a forgotten nightmare. If there had been a funeral, I didn’t go. I never got to say goodbye. Life returned to normal and the horror, the bloated face and the bulging eyes, seemed like a dream, until I forgot it completely. Now I remembered again and it was time to grieve.
I remembered his huge hands. He always gave us sweets and told us stories in hushed whispers so no one would overhear, sitting in a battered armchair, reading or smiling. I couldn’t remember him ever frowning or angry, but I recalled being afraid of him sometimes. Maybe they were scary stories.
‘Crow, are you up there?’ Chrissie yelled from the landing.
‘Sorry. I’ll come down.’ I stood up, slowly, my legs shaking and wiped the tears from my face with dusty hands, leaving dark streaks down both cheeks.
‘You’re filthy.’
Filthy, filthy! ‘What?’
‘Your face is covered in dirt, Crow. What happened? Are you okay?’
I shook my head and lurched towards the bathroom, the word “filthy” echoing around my brain. My reflection looked as though I was in full camo-gear. I imagined myself by my father’s side, winding our way through trees or jungle, guerrillas and outlaws, then I wondered whether that was really my father or just another lie. Who am I? I’m filthy. I washed my hands and face. The water gurgled around me as I leant, nose mere inches from the plughole. When I glanced back in the mirror I jumped, startled by the reflection of my friend looking over my shoulder, frowning.
‘What happened?’ Chrissie touched my shoulder.
I shuddered, too many memories beating against my skull, demanding to be set free.
‘Grampy hung himself in the attic. I just saw him.’
Chrissie’s frown deepened. Our reflections made eye contact. Her wide eyes stared through mine and into my soul. ‘Hanged himself? Why?’
‘Don’t know.’ Abruptly, I turned away from the mirror and walked out of the bathroom, leaving my friend behind.
I expected Chrissie to follow me and I sat at the kitchen table and waited. When she didn’t appear, I rolled and lit a cigarette. It seemed like ages passed before Chrissie entered the kitchen and sat down. She looked pale and frightened.
The Ballerina and the Revolutionary Page 8
