‘Yeah, people like beaches on bank-holiday weekends, don’t they? I’m just trying . . . Look, I don’t know. I’m just guessing here.’
‘But the idea of us all going to the beach together? I mean, that’s just too awful to contemplate, right?’ Martin says. ‘The idea of an actual family holiday where we have some fun together, that’s a total impossibility. Because my son can’t stand me and, given the choice, my wife would prefer to be just about anywhere else than wherever I happen to be. I mean, when did I get to be the bad guy, huh?’ Martin’s rant ends in a crescendo that reaches as far as the kitchen. ‘When did that happen, Sander?!’ he shouts. ‘What did I ever do?’
A minute later, Bertie, awoken by his father’s voice, appears in the kitchen.
‘Why’s Dad here?’ he asks Will quietly.
‘I don’t know,’ Will says.
‘Did you tell him?’
‘No,’ Will says. ‘I didn’t.’
‘He sounds upset,’ Bertie says. ‘He sounds, like, crazy upset.’
‘I think he is,’ Will agrees. ‘I think he’s upset about your mum coming down here without telling him, mainly.’
‘Can I say something?’ Ben, who is seated at the kitchen table, interjects.
Will frowns and turns to face him. ‘Of course you can. Why would you even ask that?’
‘Right. So the thing is,’ Ben says, winking at Will and then turning to Bertie, ‘you know that conversation we had about choosing your moment.’
‘To tell Mum and Dad?’ Bertie asks nervously.
‘Yeah. Well, this is it,’ Ben says. ‘Your dad’s upset, but not with you. If you tell him now . . .’
‘I’m not telling him now,’ Bertie says.
‘I think you should. I think this is your moment.’
‘No way,’ Bertie says.
‘What do you think, Will?’ Ben asks.
Will chews the inside of his mouth for a moment before replying. ‘Ben could be right,’ he finally says. ‘I mean, if anything goes wrong . . .’
‘Which it won’t,’ Ben interjects.
‘No,’ Will says. ‘But if it did, then we’re both here for you, aren’t we? And he might just be relieved. It might even calm him down a bit. If he understood, I mean, why you’re here, with us.’
‘I think it will, too,’ Ben says.
‘It won’t!’ Bertie protests.
At that moment, the kitchen door opens, to reveal Martin, looking no longer angry but upset instead – his eyes are watery. ‘Bertie!’ he says, then with the briefest of glances, ‘Will. Ben.’
‘Hi, Dad,’ Bertie says. ‘What are you doing here?’
Martin opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again and sighs jerkily instead. ‘I . . . I don’t know,’ he says.
‘We’ll, um, leave you to it, eh?’ Will offers, making to leave.
But Bertie sends him a pleading glance. ‘No!’ he says urgently. ‘Please, Will, no!’
Martin glances between the two men’s faces as he tries to understand, then takes three steps forwards and stands facing his son. He takes Bertie’s elbows in his hands and says, as if the realisation is only now dawning on him, ‘You’re scared of me? Is that it, Bertie? Are you scared of me?’
Bertie rocks his head from side to side in a troubled manner. ‘No . . . I . . . I don’t know.’
‘Why?’ Martin asks, now straining against a second bout of unexpected tears. ‘What did I ever do to you, Bertie?’
Bertie shrugs.
‘Did I ever hit you, Bertie? Did I ever once hurt you?’
Bertie, whose eyes are now tearing up as well, shakes his head.
‘Was I unfair to you? Was I mean to you?’
‘No, Dad,’ Bertie says, his voice cracking.
‘Then why?’ Martin asks. ‘What happened here? Never mind why am I here, why are you here, Bertie? Why aren’t you at home? Why aren’t we all off having a holiday somewhere? Why don’t you . . . I don’t know . . . You don’t even seem to want to be my son any more. Why is that?’
Bertie glances at Will again, who is chewing his bottom lip, then at Ben, whose eyes are glistening as well. ‘It’s time, Bertie,’ Ben says gently.
Bertie nods almost imperceptibly, then turns back to face his father.
Will steps forward to stand by Bertie’s side. He blinks kindly at Martin (who frowns uncomprehendingly) then puts one arm around Bertie’s shoulders.
Sander, who has appeared in the doorway, asks, ‘Shall I close this door and give you some space?’
Will shakes his head at him. ‘Go on, Bertie,’ he says. ‘I’m here. We’re all here for you. Tell him. Get it over with.’
‘Tell me what?’ Martin asks.
‘No . . .’ Bertie protests.
‘Go on,’ Will says. ‘Do it. We’re here. Ben and I are here for you.’
‘What?’ Martin asks. ‘What is it? What’s wrong, son?’
‘I’m . . .’ Bertie says, his voice wobbling. He scans the faces around him for reassurance one last time then, in a rush, he spits the words out. ‘I’m gay, Dad.’
Martin releases Bertie’s elbows now and folds his arms. ‘You what?’ he says flatly.
‘I’m gay, Dad,’ Bertie says again as tears start to flow. ‘I’m sorry.’
Martin’s brow furrows. ‘You’re gay?’ he says.
Bertie nods shamefully.
‘You . . . you mean, you don’t like girls? You like other boys?’
Bertie screws his face up and nods again as tears run down his cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ he says again. ‘But I can’t help it. I’m like Will and Ben.’
Martin, now crying silently as well, shakes his head. ‘But why?’ he pleads.
‘I don’t know,’ Bertie sobs.
‘No one knows why,’ Will murmurs.
‘Uh?’ Martin says, now shooting Will a glance that implies he’s just said something really irritating.
‘Well, they don’t,’ Will tells him.
‘I don’t mean why is he gay,’ Martin says incredulously. ‘I mean why are you telling me this, son? Why are you apologising to me? I don’t get it.’
Bertie dares to look up at his father.
‘Well?’ Martin asks.
‘Because I know it’s not what you want,’ Bertie splutters.
‘What I want?’
‘Yes,’ Bertie says, nodding miserably and sniffing. ‘You want me to be good at sports and all that. You want me to be one of the lads. You want me to be a footballer or something, so you can be proud. But I’m not like that.’
‘Oh, Jesus!’ Martin exclaims, now opening his arms. ‘Come here, will you?’
Bertie glances at Will and then looks nervously back at his father. ‘Come here!’ Martin says again, now moving forwards and wrapping his son in his arms. ‘Jesus! I don’t care what you are, son,’ he tells him as he pulls him tight. He sounds outraged that anyone could have ever imagined otherwise. ‘I don’t care what you do or who you are or who you fancy. I don’t care about any of it. You can be a footballer or a dancer or a bloody Brazilian drag queen, as far as I’m concerned. You’re my son. You’re my boy, Bertie. You’re my beautiful baby boy! And I love you. No matter what. Don’t you get that?’
On reaching the end of the footpath at West Beach, Penny points inland and says, ‘There are tearooms over there. Do you want to go and get a drink?’
‘Not really,’ Victoria says. ‘You?’
‘No, I’m fine.’ And so the sisters cross the beach and continue their way along the water’s edge, walking on the narrow strip of sand between the pebbles and the sea.
‘What are those for?’ Victoria asks, pointing at one of the wooden breakwaters.
‘The groynes? To stop the beach being washed away, I think.’
‘Of course they are,’ Victoria says, picking up a pebble and throwing it as far as she can. ‘I kind of knew that anyway. Do you remember Ed’s stone-throwing competitions?’
‘Not really,’ Penny says. ‘S
hould I?’
‘It was kind of a speciality of his,’ Victoria says, ‘setting up competitions that he could win. He used to make you bet sweets and stuff and you were too little to realise that you’d always lose. It was quite mean, really.’
‘I don’t remember,’ Penny says. ‘In fact, if the truth be told, I hardly remember Ed at all. I remember some of his toys, which is weird. I remember his steam engine, for instance. It had a funny smell.’
‘Methylated spirit,’ Victoria says. ‘It ran on methylated spirit. And you’re right, it did smell funny.’
‘But that’s weird, isn’t it? Remembering that, but not Ed? I mean, I can hardly make out his face but I remember every detail of that steam engine. It was green and red and it had a big brass wheel that went round.’
‘Memory’s a funny thing,’ Victoria says.
‘It is,’ Penny agrees. ‘Especially when there’s trauma involved. So what was he like?’
‘Ed?’ Victoria says, glancing back at their footprints in the sand. The trace of their passage is already fading. ‘Ed was OK, I suppose.’
Penny frowns. That was not the response she had been expecting. ‘He was OK?’ she repeats mockingly.
Victoria shrugs.
‘Did we get on?’
‘You and Ed?’
‘Yes. You just said he was mean to me.’
‘Oh, no, that wasn’t anything serious. He just liked betting things with you and stealing your sweets. But half the time he gave them back when you cried. He was OK towards you, I suppose.’
‘He was OK towards me?’
‘Yes.’
‘So I wasn’t nice to Ed? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘You used to get him into trouble quite a lot,’ Victoria says. ‘We both did. But that was normal, really. He was quite irritating because he was so clearly everyone’s favourite. Mum treated him like he was her husband half the time. She used to ask him his opinion on stuff as if he was an adult. Which was pretty weird, a bit dysfunctional, if you look back on it now.’
‘And what about you two?’ Penny asks. ‘I mean, you were closer in age. Did you two get on?’
‘He was OK,’ Victoria says again.
‘Did you love him?’ Penny asks. ‘Did you miss him horribly when he died? Because I think I was too young to get it, really.’
Victoria looks away along the beach. ‘There are hardly any people over there,’ she says. ‘Let’s go there.’
‘Did you love him?’ Penny asks again. She’s used to people avoiding the most pertinent questions when in therapy.
‘I . . . Look, do we have to talk about Ed?’ Victoria says.
‘No, we don’t,’ Penny says after consideration. ‘But I’d appreciate it if we could. I’ve waited a long time to dare to talk about Ed. In fact, it would seem I had to wait until my mother died. So now we have broached the subject, yes, I’d be grateful if you could tell me a bit about him, for the simple reason that I don’t remember much.’
‘It’s best avoided,’ Victoria says. ‘As a subject, I mean. That’s my honest opinion.’ And then she starts to head diagonally off across the beach. Despite the pebbles, which are hard going, she manages quite a pace. Penny is forced to trot to keep up with her.
‘Hey,’ she says when she finally manages to catch her sister’s arm. ‘Wait!’
Victoria attempts to break away, so Penny grabs her belt, and it’s only then, only as Victoria looks angrily back at her, that Penny realises she is crying. ‘Oh,’ Penny says. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Victoria?’
‘It’s nothing,’ Victoria says, swiping at her tears with the back of her hand.
‘Only it’s not nothing, is it?’ Penny says.
‘No,’ Victoria admits. ‘But please, let’s not go there.’
‘Sit down,’ Penny says gently. ‘Just sit down and tell me.’
Victoria shakes her head. ‘I can’t.’
‘Please.’
‘Can’t you just drop this?’ Victoria says, sounding exasperated and angry and tearful at the same time.
‘No,’ Penny says. ‘No, I’m sorry, but it’s time. Sit down and talk to me!’
Something inside Victoria gives way. It’s as if the physical strength she has been using to keep this secret all these years has suddenly deserted her. Unable to stand, she crouches, then sits on the pebbles, and Penny, who immediately joins her, throws one arm around her waist.
‘Come on,’ Penny says. ‘How bad can it be?’
Victoria snorts sadly. ‘You have no idea,’ she says ominously.
‘So tell me.’
‘Oh, God. I’ll tell you if you really want,’ Victoria says. ‘I’m too tired to care any more. I’m tired from carrying it all, too. I’m tired of hiding it all the time. But I really need to know that you’ve heard me. Because I’m telling you, as your sister, as your friend, that you’re better off not knowing.’
‘OK,’ Penny says. ‘I’ve heard you. And I don’t care. So tell me.’
‘Give me a hug first, please,’ Victoria says.
‘Now?’ Penny asks, looking surprised. Her sister has never been the huggy type.
Victoria nods. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Because I don’t think you’ll want to give me one afterwards.’
Penny briskly hugs her sister, then, when they separate, she asks, ‘And why would that be?’
‘You’ll see,’ Victoria says.
A man passes with a Labrador on a lead. Both he and the dog look enquiringly at Victoria – it’s as if the air around her is purple with angst. She crosses her arms and hides her face in them until they are past.
‘He’s gone,’ Penny says eventually.
‘So, Ed,’ Victoria says, lifting her head. ‘You asked me what he was like.’
Penny nods and rubs her sister’s back gently. ‘Yes,’ she says.
‘Well, he was . . .’ Victoria takes a deep breath. ‘Look, I don’t want you to think that I’m saying any of this was his fault, OK? Because it wasn’t. I’ve thought about this a lot, and I’m sure Ed was just doing the best he could to make sense of what happened to him, all right?’
‘All right.’
‘OK,’ Victoria says, looking out to sea then taking another forced, mechanical breath. ‘So, you asked me if I loved him. The truth is that I was scared of him.’
‘You were scared of him?’ Penny repeats, withdrawing, despite her best intentions, her hand from Victoria’s shoulder.
‘Yes. Scared. Terrified.’
‘But why?’
‘Because he was damaged goods. That’s what we’d say these days – damaged goods.’
‘Because of what Cecil did to him, you mean?’
‘Yes. Because of what Cecil did to him. It had been going on for a while, that’s the thing. The abuse. For months, definitely. For years, maybe.’
‘Years?’ Penny says. ‘But he was only eleven. How could it have been going on for years?’
‘I don’t know. And I don’t know what form it took before then. I mean, he might not have always . . . you know . . . done what I caught them doing that day. But he was always in Ed’s room when he came to stay, you remember that, right?’
‘Yes. Ed had a spare bed in his room, so . . .’
‘So, when I caught them that day – on Christmas Eve – it was like something I knew already. Do you know what I mean? When something’s more like a realisation than a shock?’
‘I suppose I do, yes.’
Victoria picks up two small pebbles now and begins to turn them over in the palm of her hand with her thumb. ‘It changed him, that’s the thing. It wasn’t his fault, but it changed him from a nice, ordinary boy into something else. It wasn’t his fault. But it wasn’t right either.’ Victoria covers her mouth with a trembling hand and looks away for a moment. ‘I feel sick,’ she mumbles.
‘Me, too,’ Penny says. ‘But go on. You’re doing really well.’
‘It started one weekend in summer,’ Victoria says, looking down a
t her feet. ‘Actually, it was probably the same weekend as now. August bank holiday or something. He always came down on bank holidays. And it was after he left that it started.’
‘What started? Cecil abusing Ed?’
Victoria shakes her head. ‘No, that pre-dated this, like I said. No, this was different.’
‘Right,’ Penny says, struggling to follow. ‘What was?’
Victoria blows through her lips. ‘Jesus, this is hard,’ she mutters. ‘So, Ed came into my room. He asked me if I wanted to play a game, all right? He told me to close my eyes and hold out my hand. And I didn’t suspect anything. I mean, I was eight, right?’
‘Yes. Of course. But this is Ed, or Cecil?’
‘Ed! I told you. It was after one of Cecil’s visits.’
‘OK.’
‘So . . .’ Victoria rests her elbows on her knees and covers her face with both hands. Speaking through the gaps, her voice all over the place, she continues. ‘So I closed my eyes, and I put out my hand. And he put his . . . you know . . . he put his thing in my hand.’
‘His thing?’
‘His dick.’
‘Ed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ed put his penis in your hand?’ Penny says, unable to believe that she has correctly understood what her sister has said.
‘Yes.’
‘When you were eight?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh God! What did you say?’
‘I screamed,’ Victoria says.
‘Well, you would.’
‘Only he covered my mouth with his hand. He was scared Mum would hear.’
‘But that’s horrible,’ Penny says.
‘And then he lay on top of me,’ Victoria continues, her voice almost inaudible. ‘He pinned me to the bed. He was much bigger and stronger than me. You remember how sporty he was? Well, he put his hand over my mouth and he pinned me to the bed.’
Suddenly, despite every part of her struggling against it, a perfect vision of Ed, usually so elusive, pops into Penny’s mind’s eye. It’s an unwelcome CinemaScope vision of her brother lying on top of her sister. A tiny dollop of acid reflux rises into her throat. ‘He didn’t . . . do anything, did he?’ Penny asks.
Victoria shakes her head. ‘No,’ she says. ‘No. He was too young, I think.’
‘And his dick . . . was it . . . oh, never mind. Forget I asked that.’
The Bottle of Tears Page 31
