CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It took daily trips to the cashpoint to withdraw the money, but after a few days I finally had £4,000 in cash. Tuesday was admin day at the Project so I was in the office rather than out on a visit. At eleven, my phone pinged. It was a text from Scott. Feeling bad, can’t travel. Pls come here. He gave an address not far from the city centre. I felt a flash of irritation that he was telling me what to do rather than asking, but then I reminded myself that he was dying, and even if he hadn’t been, he definitely had the upper hand.
I knew roughly where the road was – I’d lived a few streets away when I first moved to Sheffield. London Road was busy as always, and as I drove along it, past the scruffy pubs, the PC repair shops and the many restaurants and takeaways, I felt like I was playing one of those simulated driving games where hazards pop out at you every few hundred yards. Today I narrowly avoided a cyclist who turned in front of me without signalling, a Staffordshire bull terrier who was running in and out of the traffic and a woman who pushed a double buggy out in front of me twenty yards from a zebra crossing.
When I saw where Scott was staying, I felt quite hopeful about persuading him to take the money. It was a dump, one in a row of terraced red-brick houses, all with satellite dishes like ugly growths sprouting from their walls. Some of the windows were boarded up, while others framed filthy net curtains or had blankets nailed across. A broken television lay outside one house, its guts spilling out onto the pavement; the whole street was littered with empty pizza and burger boxes, beer cans, cigarette ends and dog shit. Number 89 was smaller than the others, stuck on the end as though the builders had found they had a few bricks left over and thought they might as well use them up by throwing together one more tiny house to finish off the terrace, like a makeweight. There was an overturned wheelie bin in the front yard and a scrawny-looking black cat chewing vigorously on a bone from a KFC box. The cat hissed as I approached, eyed me warily for a moment, then carried on chewing, the tip of its tail flicking sharply from side to side. There was no doorbell, so I knocked hard on the peeling front door and waited. Just as I was about to knock again, my phone pinged: Come round the back. Door open.
You had to go through a shared gennel to get to the back door, which opened into the kitchen. I could immediately smell incense – patchouli; it was so evocative I almost expected Eve to appear and offer me a cup of chamomile tea. On the windowsill was a plastic tray of dried-up soil that had shrunken away from the sides, and a saucer containing a rusty key, a couple of corks and an open packet of seeds, mung beans, by the look of it. An old image flashed up: egg boxes crammed onto the kitchen windowsill in Hastings, the tender young shoots of cress, mung beans and alfalfa sprouts, bright green sparks of life pushing their way up through the soil and into the light.
‘Hello?’ I called.
‘In here,’ came the weak reply. He looked dreadful, thinner, if that was possible, than he had last week, and his eyes seemed yet further sunken into his face. He sat in an armchair, his feet up on a wooden stool with a woven canvas top. I wondered if he’d made the stool himself; it was the sort of thing he used to do.
‘So, how are you?’ Usually when we asked this question, we didn’t really want to know the answer, but I did want to know now.
‘Had better days,’ he said. ‘Had worse, though.’ There was no colour left in his voice. My eyes strayed to the guitar that hung on the wall in one of the alcoves. I wondered when he’d last been able to sing. ‘A long time since I’ve made music,’ he said, as if reading my mind.
The wallpaper in here was dark, with an old-fashioned leafy pattern, and there was a torn and faded poster bearing the words: If God gives you lemons, make lemonade stuck to the chimney breast with Sellotape. A coal-effect gas fire sat in the fireplace, chucking out heat and swallowing up oxygen.
‘I can offer you nettle tea.’ He nodded to the flask on the floor next to him. ‘Or you can go through and make yourself something else.’ He gestured towards the off – shot kitchen.
‘I’m fine.’ My eyes flicked around the room. There were a few books and CDs here and there, a couple of dry-looking cactus plants on the windowsill. It wasn’t particularly homely, but it was reasonably clean and tidy. He read my mind again. ‘My landlady lives next door. She comes in a couple of times a week to do my laundry, a bit of cleaning and so on.’ His eyes closed when he stopped speaking and his body appeared to deflate, as though the effort of speaking had taken all his energy.
‘What about meals?’ Why was I asking this? Why should I give a damn?
It was a second or two before he opened his eyes. ‘Takeouts, mainly, and Brenda – the landlady – brings me meals when I ask her to. I pay her, obviously.’
I looked at him. ‘Scott, I’ve been thinking about what you said.’
He met my gaze without speaking. His eyes had lost their sharp cornflower colour and were paler now, a weak, sickly blue.
‘And I need to talk to you.’
He waited.
‘You’re not going to like—’
‘I told you, Jo, I’m not letting it go.’
‘Just hear me out. And don’t call me that.’
He opened his mouth to interrupt again but I put my hand up. ‘Look, I listened to you, now listen to me.’
He sighed and his body sort of slumped. ‘Go on then, say your piece.’ He closed his eyes again.
‘Thanks.’ I was slightly thrown at how easily he gave in. ‘I understand why you feel the way you do. Believe me, I’ve dreamed of unburdening myself ever since it happened, but it’s not that simple, is it? I could walk into a police station now and tell them everything, and I’m sure I’d sleep easier if I did, but what good would it do? It won’t change the past or make anything better; all it can do is make things worse.’
‘For you, maybe. But do you only think of yourself?’ He opened his eyes and turned towards me. ‘Look at you. You’ve come a long way since you turned up on my door-step looking pathetic, haven’t you? ‘
‘Your doorstep?’
‘Nice house, nice car, nice clothes. I bet your husband’s nice, too. Good, solid provider-type.’ He shook his head dismissively.
‘I’ve been lucky, I know that. I told you, Duncan’s a good man and he’s been a good father to Hannah.’
‘She’s my daughter.’
‘But you didn’t want to know.’ I slapped my hand down on the arm of the chair and stood up. ‘You can’t pull that one on me now. You don’t care about her; you haven’t even asked about her life.’ I felt tears threatening, but they were tears of frustration and anger. ‘You don’t know anything about her,’ I shouted at him. ‘Whether she’s married or single, whether she’s happy, what she does for a living. You don’t know whether she was bullied at school, whether she had chickenpox or mumps or measles or . . .’
He tipped his head back and closed his eyes again. ‘She married in 2008; husband’s name, Marcus Wilson, a physiotherapist, I believe. She’s a qualified acupuncturist and reflexologist, and they work together at an alternative healing centre on the outskirts of the city. Their baby’ – he opened his eyes and looked at me defiantly – ‘my grandson was born not long before Christmas.’
‘How the hell—’ But I stopped myself. He’d found me easily enough, I supposed he was bound to look Hannah up as well. ‘Bastard,’ I muttered as I rummaged in my bag for a tissue. ‘Not your grandson, actually.’ But I didn’t know if he heard that. How dare he! How dare he turn up after all this time hell-bent on ruining our lives. ‘You’ve got a nerve,’ I said, anger making my voice falter. ‘Have you been following her as well? Making anonymous phone calls to her in the middle of the night?’
He shook his head slowly. ‘No. And I never called you in the middle of the night, either. Well, I know it was late on New Year’s Eve, but I knew you’d be up then.’ He looked at me. ‘Listen, I needed to make sure I spoke to you, that’s all. I didn’t want to follow you to work, or creep up on you in the park.’
‘Well, how very bloody generous of you.’ I walked over to the window and looked out, glad to have turned my back on him. ‘I haven’t “come a long way” as you put it; all right, I made a good marriage, but only after years of struggling on my own.’ I snapped round to face him again. ‘You’ve no idea what it was like for me. I’m the one who fed her and clothed her on next to nothing, bathed her cuts and grazes, sat up all night with her when she was screaming with earache – you haven’t a bloody clue, have you? Being a parent is not just about providing the sperm, you know. You can’t spend your life mooning around in the sunshine with your guitar and then think you can suddenly come back and decide to play at being a father because, I don’t know, because you feel unfulfilled or something, or because I have a family and you don’t and you’re jealous.’ I ran out of steam, and there was a silence when I stopped speaking. Scott still had his eyes closed and his head was tipped forward now so that his chin was almost on his chest.
‘I know what it is to be a father,’ he said, without opening his eyes. ‘I had a daughter – I mean, another daughter. I had a family.’ He still didn’t look at me. I waited. ‘Alice, my little girl, she was killed.’
The room was silent, but I could hear the whine of a rubbish-collection truck outside in the street. I knew I was staring at him and that my mouth was open; I closed it and swallowed, trying to gather my thoughts. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
He sighed heavily. ‘She was only twelve when it happened, and Kara – my wife – she couldn’t . . . we couldn’t . . . after the funeral, we stayed together for about eighteen months, but . . . ’
‘What. . . ?’ But I couldn’t bring myself to ask. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said again.
‘It was a hit and run.’
I shook my head, and now I sighed, too. I looked at my nails, then I looked out of the window where the orange light from the rubbish truck flashed steadily as the bin men made their way down the street. ‘I really am sorry, Scott. It must have been awful for you. And for your wife. But. . . but that still doesn’t make it all right for you to come here and stir up our lives like this. Surely having been a father you can see that?’
‘I think Hannah should know the truth, that’s all. And I want her to know about me.’ He bent forward to pick up the flask and stopped halfway, drawing in a breath. His face was twisted in a grimace and I noticed that he was gritting his teeth and a film of sweat had appeared on his pale forehead. He let out a breath and his face relaxed again.
‘Look, Scott.’ I took the fat brown envelope out of my handbag and thrust it towards him. ‘There’s £4,000 here; I know it’s not much, but it would mean you could afford some more help.’ I gestured vaguely towards next door. ‘Perhaps get someone professional in; a qualified carer.’ He was paying attention now, so I warmed to my theme. ‘I could even help you to find someone. It might make life a bit, I don’t know, more comfortable, I suppose.’ I waited for him to say something, but he didn’t, and then I saw that he’d closed his eyes again.
I saw a flicker of movement in his jaw as he drew a deep breath, but he still didn’t speak.
‘So, what do you think, then?’
He shook his head slowly. ‘My God, you certainly have come up in the world, haven’t you?’
‘Sorry?’
‘If you think four grand is not much.’
‘I meant in terms of—’
‘Hush money. You think money would make a difference?’ His voice was stronger now. ‘You think I give a toss about money now?’
‘Well, what do you want then?’ I leapt to my feet. ‘Drugs? Sex? Just tell me what I can do to—’
‘Stop, for fuck’s sake.’ He put his hand up, palm facing me. ‘And calm down.’
‘Calm down? How dare you tell me to calm down! Do you really not see the implications of what you’re asking?’
‘Of course I do. That’s why I haven’t gone to the police yet. I want you to tell her what happened; it would be better coming from you. And whatever you may think, my aim isn’t to totally fuck up your life. I want her to know the truth, and I want to see her – I don’t want to interfere in your precious, comfortable life, I just want to meet my daughter once, so she knows who I am.’ He looked down. ‘Or who I was.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Hastings, 1976
Although she’d only been living with Scott and Eve for five weeks, it seemed longer. It felt like they’d all known each other for ages. She felt comfortable here, and every now and then, she’d catch herself laughing, forgetting that her mum was dead, that she’d watched the coffin being lowered into the ground. And then she’d feel ashamed.
Scott had been right; there was plenty of cash-in-hand work, and within a week, she’d managed to get regular shifts at a pub in the town centre. It wasn’t as nice as some of the quaint little pubs in the Old Town but the money was okay and meals were thrown in so she was able to pay her way and have enough left over to buy a few bits for her room. Eve had dragged her along to help at a jumble sale on Saturday because the helpers always got first pick. She’d bought a rocking chair for 50p and a red lava lamp for 20p; the stand was chipped but the lamp worked perfectly and looked lovely in the corner of her room. Scott and Eve had been so kind, giving her things, listening while she talked endlessly about her mum, and on the few nights she wasn’t working at the pub, even cooking her meals. Today, she was determined to do something for them. She hadn’t done that much cooking before, but she was good at making Granny Pawley’s cheese hotpot. It was the first proper meal her mum had taught her to cook. It was Granny Pawley’s own recipe, made from layers of sliced potato, onion, tomato and grated cheese, and sometimes topped with crispy bacon for a special treat. The trick was to slice the potatoes thinly so they cooked right through and to season every layer, then you had to cook it for a couple of hours so that the potatoes and onions softened into the melted cheese. The salty, savoury tang of the cheese was perfectly off set by the sweetness of the tomatoes. The only trouble was, it was the sort of meal that was really best eaten on chilly winter evenings, but today it was sunny and very warm, especially for the second week in May. Oh well, she didn’t suppose it mattered.
The hotpot was soon bubbling away in the Baby Belling and a rich, savoury aroma drifted through the house. After clearing the kitchen and setting the table, she went up to the thinking room to read. She was about to check on the meal when she heard the door at the top of the basement stairs open and close. ‘Hello,’ Eve called up the stairs. ‘Anyone home?’
‘Yes,’ Jo called back. ‘Coming.’ She was smiling as she went down into the kitchen, expecting Eve to comment on the wonderful smell that was wafting through the house. But Eve was standing in the middle of the room with a frown creasing her forehead. She wrinkled her nose. ‘Is that . . .’ She paused, took another sniff . ‘Is that bacon?’
Jo stopped, realisation dawning fast and hard. They were vegetarian! Of course they were. All at once, it was as though she could see every meal they’d eaten together floating before her eyes; hear every conversation they’d had about food whispered into her ear. There was never any meat, never any mention of meat. It was so obvious, now she thought about it. It took her a moment to find her voice. ‘I wanted to make you a special dinner, to say thank you. But. . . but I forgot . . . I didn’t think . . .’
Scott appeared in the doorway. ‘Something smells good,’ he said.
Jo felt her bottom lip tremble, so she bit it. ‘You’re vegetarian, aren’t you? I’m sorry. I’m such an idiot. You don’t even need to make it with bacon, it’s just that’s what my granny used to do for a special treat.’
Eve’s face relaxed into a smile. ‘It was very sweet of you.’
Jo looked up hopefully. ‘The bacon’s only on the top; you could take it—’
But Eve shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Jo. I’d be able to taste the flesh lingering on the vegetables. Thank you for the thought, though. And don’t worry about us; we’ll get o
urselves an omelette or something.’ She went over to the sink and tipped out a carrier bag full of leaves. ‘And look what I picked – nettles and wild garlic. We can have a lovely salad with it. She turned the tap on to wash the leaves, then began opening cupboards to look for something to eat. ‘What do you fancy, Scott?’
Scott smiled sadly at Jo as he walked across the kitchen to look in the cupboards. As he passed behind her, he whispered so closely in her ear that she could feel his breath, ‘Shame, because it smells delicious.’ She turned to look at him, but he was already talking to Eve.
*
By the end of May, the temperature had hit the eighties, and by the start of June it was too hot to wear anything in bed. Last night had been so uncomfortable that she’d thrown the covers off, but it was still too hot and sticky to sleep. She dragged herself reluctantly out of bed and pulled on the white peasant blouse and the orange gypsy skirt Eve had given her. What on earth would she have done for clothes if Eve hadn’t put on weight? All she’d brought with her was winter stuff . She moved aside the red fabric she was still using as a curtain. The window was shut – no wonder it was like an oven in here. She could feel the heat searing through the glass onto her bare arms and warming the floorboards so that they gave off a rich, biscuity smell. She pulled the sash window up as far as it would go and leaned out. The garden below looked battered by the heat; everything that grew there appeared dull and limp, yet the park on the other side of the wall was lush and vibrant thanks to the sprinklers that had been set up last week. If you turned to the right, you could see the whole of the park with its sweep of emerald grass punctuated by regimented flower beds; if you looked to the left, beyond the park and over the rooftops, you could see the sea, the blazing sun reflected in the water. The punishing heat burned the top of her head and there wasn’t a breath of air. Above her, the dream-catcher Eve had made for her hung perfectly still in front of the window; even the feathers didn’t move. She stood back to admire the way the silver beads sparkled as the sunlight bounced off them. She’d had a go at making one herself, but it hadn’t turned out very well.
The Secrets We Left Behind Page 12
