My phone rings. I check the caller ID and see it’s a Liverpool number. It must be Mum! The last time I phoned home and said nothing, she knew it was me. And she apologized. I know over the years she has reflected on what happened and has altered her opinion – she fucking APOLOGIZED! She’ll put a stop to this. She’ll make me feel better. She’ll wash away the pain as only a mother can, and everything will get better. I will get better.
I click ‘answer’.
‘Hello?’
A man speaks. ‘What the fuck did you say all that to Billy for?’
And I feel like my insides have fallen out onto the carpet.
‘How did you get my number?’
‘How d’you fucking think? Billy give it me.’
‘I don’t want you calling me.’
‘And I don’t want you going round saying I’m a rapist.’
‘If the cap fits.’
‘The cap doesn’t fit, you lying bitch. Coz I’m not. Look. I know it’s all trendy to go round saying everyone was abused by grown-ups and celebrities in the eighties. But you and I both know what happened.’
‘You raped me.’
‘I did no such thing.’
‘Then how d’you explain Billy?’
‘You give me the glad eye, you did. Hanging around in your short skirts, batting your eyelashes. Being all flirty.’
‘I fucking wasn’t.’
‘I fucking hate it when birds swear. You give me the come-on. I responded.’
He is making me feel sick. How could he? How fucking could he?
‘You came into my bedroom at night and . . .’
‘Yeah, and then you bottled out – well, tough. You were gagging for it at one stage.’
‘I was fourteen.’
‘I’ve a good mind to go the papers about this. Miss High and Mighty. Tell them what you’re really like.’
I say it again. Slowly. ‘I was fourteen.’
‘You were very well developed.’
‘So you raped me?’
‘Fourteen going on forty. And you can’t rape the willing, love.’
‘You wouldn’t dare go to the papers. I’ll just say you’re a rapist.’
‘If I raped you, why’d you keep the baby?’
It’s pointless arguing with him, but I can’t help it. Adrenalin is pumping round my body. I am shaking, sweating, my voice is rising. ‘That wasn’t my decision.’
‘Oh, behave. I know what happened that night, even if you’ve forgot.’
‘Oh, fuck off.’
‘No, I won’t fuck off. And d’you wanna know something else?’
‘What?’
‘You were a crap shag. It was like thingy. Necrophilia.’
And then he hangs up. My vision turns cloudy. My tears are blinding me. I need an escape. I look to the balcony.
I slide the door open. Fresh air hits me, makes me brave.
I know what I have to do now.
ADAM
London, 2015: That Night
I don’t know why I’ve come here. I was in the area, had dinner with Jay-Jay and then I remembered. The flats I could see on the skyline, looming over us. That’s where she lives.
I’ve come to have it out with her. I’ve come to tell her she can’t keep hurting those who love her. Or loved her once upon a time. I’ve come to tell her she’s a hypocrite and that if she doesn’t stop being so repugnant about so many people, up there on her high horse, I have enough contacts in the media now to let them know about her secret kid, about her sordid past with the agency.
I stand in front of the flats. I look up.
A woman is looking down at me.
It’s her.
BILLY
London, 2015: That Night
I’ve come to apologize. I should never have given her number to that horrible man. I was angry, confused. She will understand. I have prayed on this and I see she is the injured party, like me. I will apologize, she will forgive me, I will forgive her and we will move on.
Well, that’s how I feel right now. I fluctuate.
I stand on the parched earth amongst the trees, working up the courage to go and ring her bell. I see a man lurking. He’s clearly gay. Oh God, is this a cruising ground? But he is ignoring me. He doesn’t seem to know what he’s doing, pacing. And then he looks up through the trees.
Right. I am going to go and ring the bell and be contrite.
I have a lot to ask forgiveness for.
I move forward, then hear something fall behind me. I look. A white woman in party clothes has tripped over and is giggling. I go to help her up. It’s her. It’s Kathleen. It’s the woman who . . .
THUD.
I look round to see where this hideous noise has come from.
And that’s when I see her.
The other man. The gay one. He moves forward, stares at Mum for a second. Then he runs away.
ADAM
London, 2015: That Night
I don’t know why I’m running away. I should have stopped, stayed with her. But it was obvious she was dead. I run as fast as I can through streets I am unfamiliar with.
I do know why I’m running. It’s because part of me wanted to scare her when I went round. A part of me wanted to hurt her. It’s so wrong to want to hurt a woman, but that’s the feeling she brings out in me. Especially recently.
So it’s like I made it happen.
I stop to get my breath back. I hear a siren wailing. From now on I will walk, in order not to arouse suspicion. I walk with a stitch in my chest, sweat pouring down me, panic rising.
I run into a back alley and puke my guts up.
BILLY
London, 2015: That Night
Dear God,
I am lying in bed with this strange woman who shouldn’t be strange at all. She snores lightly and I stroke her hair. She is really rather beautiful as she sleeps. She has a beautiful nose. I try to see myself in her, but much as I try, I can’t.
I now realize I should have stayed, gone with Jocelyn in the ambulance maybe. But it was obvious to any fool that you can’t drop that distance and survive. That would be some kind of miracle, and my guess is you didn’t love her well enough for that. I know you love all your children, but she was quite a character. Not exactly your best calling card.
I have left the curtains open, and I enjoy my tiny bit of sky. The street lamp. The roof. A bit of tree. Black sky and one star. Like the star when you were born, Lord. One bright star showing where you were. And tonight feels like a rebirth of sorts, as well. A time to start again. Maybe that is the gift that Jocelyn has given me. Maybe that is her legacy. Not that I want to rewrite my past, but . . . oh, I am tired. I am not thinking straight.
I wonder whether I would ever force myself on a woman like he did. And I think I would not. Especially now I know what a man can truly be capable of. I used to think like those posters think. Ladies! Girls! Don’t wear that short skirt on campus, you’re asking to be attacked. Now I know they have it arse about face. The posters should be aimed at the men. Men, fellas, don’t drink too much tonight and get lairy, and keep your hand on your ha’penny. AND DON’T RAPE ANYONE. That would be a much better advertising campaign.
I guess I could work in advertising. I could do so much really, instead of my boring job at the council. A pen pusher, they call me, which in itself is an outdated term; I am rarely away from my keyboard. Yet what have I achieved? Very little, really.
But then I think: unlike Mommie Dearest, I’m still here. And that, for now, feels like some kind of liberation.
I have always found discussing my family quite difficult. I never knew what I was allowed to say and what I had to avoid. And who was in on the story, and who wasn’t. And there was never anyone really to share it with; for Ruby and the twins, it was too dangerous. Too fraught with ‘don’t say that for fear of upsetting them’, and so on.
And yet this woman who lies beside me is part of that history. And she is someone that maybe I can share a history with.
It’s kind of nobody else’s but ours. Neither of us chose this history. We are the innocent ones. And out of it might even come some good, some healing.
Of course, there is the possibility that she doesn’t know any of this. After all, she is the one who got tipsy at her grandmother’s funeral and insisted Mark Reynolds was my father. But something tells me – call it intuition, whatever – that she does know now. Why else would she seem so troubled? Her sleep is troubled.
Mind you, she is probably poisoned from all that drink. She really hums with it. But that’s OK. Maybe I will be someone to help her veer away from that path and onto a better one. One where she doesn’t fall over.
Two falls tonight in such close succession. My, my!
I really can’t sleep. Too pumped, too wired. I pull my arm away from my sister, ease myself gently off the bed and return to the kitchen. I open the drawer next to the oven and pull it out.
It’s a photo. I don’t know why, but I stole it the other day when I was round at her flat. She didn’t see me take it, and God knows why I did. Sorry, you know why I did . . . but it was there, and it was an act of anger more than anything . . . but you know what, Lord? I’m glad I took it.
It shows Jocelyn with two friends. They look about twenty. Their faces are fresh and trouble-free, and they look so full of optimism and excitement. One of them, I now see, is Kathleen. The other, a gawky-looking white lad with a snub nose. Jocelyn is holding up a purple Christmas bauble with gold figures in it, and they are all laughing. They appear to be in a nightclub. It makes me happy. And it means I now have a picture of her looking happy, instead of the morose, anger-filled creature I grew familiar with and who I eventually, sort of, got to know, albeit briefly. It’s fading; well, it’s an old picture. But I’m sure I can scan it and play around with it on my computer and bring it back to life. When Christmas comes I might even hang it on my tree. I’ll have a tree this year. Maybe Kathleen will want to come round. We will drink grape juice and say, ‘To the future!’ and then talk about our shared history.
I’m feeling sleepy now. The photograph has calmed me. I slide it back into the drawer and close it.
I go back to bed and lie next to my sister.
I will sleep, I’m sure.
Amen.
ADAM
16th December 2015
Dear Kathleen,
It was so lovely to see you yesterday and catch up. You’re looking so well. You must be right, not drinking suits you. I was going to drop you an email but what I want to express feels too intimate for that, so a good old-fashioned letter it is! I’m so grateful you told me what you did. It must have been an awful burden to be carrying around all this time, but you know none of it is your fault. None of it. You’re not your father and you hardly knew him growing up so he didn’t even have that much influence over you. I’m glad you’re forging some sort of relationship with Billy. But like I said yesterday, tread carefully. Though his selflessness in letting us scatter the ashes on our own was pretty remarkable. Like you said, he’d thought it through and thought it more appropriate if it was just us. In stark contrast, of course, to Ross, who just washed his hands of the whole thing. Some boyfriend, eh?
I loved that we did it on her birthday. I loved that we did it somewhere as pretty as Parliament Hill. I was less keen when the wind changed and we both got a mouthful of Jocelyn, but I kind of think she’d have loved that. I think that would have tickled her pink.
I’ve thought about what you said. About us staying friends but only seeing each other occasionally, and you’re absolutely right. Times change, life moves on, and we’re different people from when we were teenagers. It doesn’t mean we don’t care about each other, and it doesn’t mean we can’t just strike up where we left off when we do see each other. I get it. I get you. I get us, I guess.
I’m glad I told you where I was when she died. We know everything now. Well, as much as there is to know. We know enough.
It’s funny, getting to this age. I often feel the best bits are behind me. Sad, isn’t it? Oh I know I have a great future with Him Indoors and Denim and wherever he might take us. But I can’t change my foundations now. That’s my history. It’s written, done.
I hope you manage to have a gorgeous, peaceful Christmas and who knows. Maybe we’ll see each other in the New Year.
I meant what I said yesterday. I didn’t know. Oh yes, she’d dropped hints. But she never ever mentioned your dad. Truth be told I dismissed it, thinking she was attention-seeking. You can imagine how proud of that I am now. Exactly.
Oh well. Guess we just have to keep on keeping on.
It really was a lovely day. I hope there’ll be many more.
Please don’t feel you have to reply to this.
Take care of yourself Kathleen.
All love
Adam xx
All She Wants
There are some things in life you can always rely on. Living in the shadow of your ‘perfect’ brother Joey, getting the flu over Christmas, and your mother showing you up in the supermarket.
Then there are some things you really don’t count on happening: a good dose of fame, getting completely trashed at an awards ceremony, and catching your fella doing something unmentionable on your wedding day.
This is my story, it’s dead tragic.
You have been warned . . .
Jodie X x
‘Utterly original, sharply written and very funny’
JOJO MOYES
The Confusion of Karen Carpenter
Hello.
There are two things you should know about me:
1) My name is Karen Carpenter.
2) Just before Christmas my boyfriend left me.
I’m not THE Karen Carpenter. I just have the most embarrassing name in Christendom. Particularly as I’m no skinny minny and don’t play the drums.
I can’t even sing. I’m tone deaf. I work in a school in the East End. (Where I came third in a ‘Teacher we’d most like to sleep with’ competition amongst the Year 11 boys.)
My mum’s driving me mad. She’s come to stay and is obsessed with Scandi crime shows and Zumba.
Oh yeah. The boyfriend. After eleven ‘happy’ years he left me. No explanation, just a letter Sellotaped to the kettle when I got in from work. I think I’m handling it really well. I don’t think I’m confused at all. What was my name again?
‘I enjoyed it HUGELY . . . a total page-turner, very entertaining, then very moving’
MARIAN KEYES
The Girl Who Just Appeared
LONDON – THE PRESENT
Holly Smith has never fitted in. Adopted when just a few months old, she’s always felt she was someone with no history. All she has is the address of where she was born – 32B Gambier Terrace, Liverpool. When Holly discovers that the flat is available to rent, she travels north and moves in. And in the very same flat, under the floorboards, she finds a biscuit tin full of yellowing papers. Could these papers be the key to her past?
LIVERPOOL – 1981
Fifteen-year-old Darren is negotiating life with his errant mother and the younger brother he is raising. When the Toxteth Riots explode around him, Darren finds himself with a moral dilemma that will have consequences for the rest of his life.
Moving between the past and the present, Darren and Holly’s lives become intertwined. Will finding Darren give Holly the answers she craves? Or will she always feel like the girl who just appeared?
‘Absolutely delightful. Jonathan Harvey writes with all his heart and all his soul.’
LISA JEWELL
The Secrets We Keep
It’s hard being that woman, the one whose husband disappeared. It’s made me quite famous. I just wish it was for something else.
He went out five years ago for a pint of milk and never came back. So here I am with a daughter who blames me for all that’s wrong in the world, a son trying his best to pick up the pieces and a gaggle of new neighbours who are over-friendly, and incredibly nosy. Then
we find a left-luggage ticket in the pocket of one of his old coats and suddenly I’m thinking . . .What’s if he’s not dead? What if he’s still out there somewhere?
You think you have the perfect life, the perfect kids, and then it’s all turned inside out. What if I don’t like what I find? And is it a chance I’m willing to take?
THE HISTORY OF US
Jonathan Harvey comes from Liverpool and is a multi-award-winning writer of plays, films, sitcoms and Britain’s longest-running drama serial.
Jonathan’s theatre work includes the award-winning Beautiful Thing (Bush Theatre, Donmar Warehouse, Duke of York’s; winner: John Whiting Award; nominated: Olivier Award for Best Comedy), Babies (Royal Court Theatre; winner: Evening Standard Award for Most Promising Playwright; winner: George Devine Award) and Rupert Street Lonely Hearts Club (English Touring Theatre, Donmar Warehouse, Criterion Theatre; winner: Manchester Evening News Award for Best New Play; winner: City Life Magazine Award for Best New Play). Other plays include Tomorrow I’ll Be Happy (Royal National Theatre), Corrie! (Lowry Theatre and national tour; winner: Manchester Evening News Award for Best Special Entertainment), Canary (Liverpool Playhouse, Hampstead Theatre and English Touring Theatre), Hushabye Mountain (English Touring Theatre, Hampstead Theatre), Guiding Star (Everyman Theatre, Royal National Theatre), Boom Bang a Bang (Bush Theatre), Mohair (Royal Court Theatre Upstairs) and Wildfire (Royal Court Theatre Upstairs). Jonathan also co-wrote the musical Closer to Heaven with the Pet Shop Boys.
For television Jonathan has created and written three series of the BAFTA-nominated Gimme Gimme Gimme for the BBC, two series of Beautiful People (winner: Best Comedy, Banff TV Festival), the double-BAFTA-nominated Best Friends, Von Trapped! and Birthday Girl. He has also written for Tracey Ullman’s Show, Rev (winner: BAFTA for Best Sitcom), Shameless, The Catherine Tate Show, At Home with the Braithwaites, Lilies and Murder Most Horrid. To date he has written over one hundred episodes of Coronation Street.
The History of Us Page 31
