Whatever Happened to Vicky Hope's Back Up Man?

by Laura Kemp

  Taken your dad out. Back soon. Melanie.

  Stand down, Murphy, you can stand down. He felt a rush of relief as he sank against the wall. You’ve got to stop fearing the worst at every turn, mate, he thought.

  The door opened and there he was, in an ironed shirt, smiling at him.

  ‘Hello, son.’

  ‘The bookies?’ he asked him, covering up the hangover of his concern because Dad would see it as being hen-pecked. ‘Any winners?’

  ‘No,’ he grunted. ‘Alcoholics Anonymous.’

  Fuck. He wanted to do a dance, to celebrate his dad going dry.

  ‘Dad, that’s—’

  ‘Early days, don’t get excited. Melanie’s got me on it.’ He raised a cynical eyebrow. He didn’t want a fuss and Murphy wasn’t going to give one but this was what he had hoped for from the moment he’d understood his father drank more than all the other dads. That was two decades of willing him to do it, raging at his addiction, feeling alcohol came first. It was momentous and yet he couldn't show it because that would heap the pressure on his dad. He would never jeopardize it.

  ‘Right.,’ was all he said. He studied him and saw he was clean-shaven, his hair was Brylcreemed and even his shoes shone. Melanie, that was who was behind this, he was sure of it. And what a job she was doing. But again, make no mention of it, son.

  ‘Brought you some shopping,’ Murphy said, holding up a couple of bags.

  Dad took a suspicious look at the Waitrose branding. He'd see it as complicated poncey food. But Murphy wanted him to eat quality stuff, not cheap crap and he wouldn’t turn it down.

  ‘There’s sandwiches if you like. Melanie left them for when I got back. She’s cutting her hours.’

  Oh, shit. Why? She was doing him so much good.

  ‘On my ask. I need to start doing things for myself again.’

  Jesus wept, who was this man standing here pretending to be his father?

  ‘If it’s the money… you don’t need to worry.’

  His dad ignored him, pointed at the fridge and beckoned him into the lounge. It looked like ham salad… on brown bread. Wonders would never cease.

  ‘Help yourself,’ Dad said from his chair.

  ‘Cheers.’ But he wasn’t hungry. He had something on his mind, why he was here.

  Dad picked up the phone and pointed it at the telly.

  ‘That’s not the remote…’ It was like a kick in the stomach, seeing him still a bit confused.

  He threw it on the occasional table and sighed.

  ‘It’s not easy this,’ he said.

  ‘You’re doing grand,’ Murphy said, flinching then, waiting for a verbal slap.

  His dad turned to him and stared. And smiled. Murphy had a shiver. What was he smiling at?

  ‘Your mam used to say that. “Grand”.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Murphy exhaled, taking the weight off his feet on the two-seater.

  ‘It was all grand, for a while, you know.’

  Murphy held his breath. Dad still had moments like this, when he’d drift back in time then abruptly end his story, leaving Murphy hanging. A patch of light glowered on the wall, as if the sun had been turned up. The clouds were parting.

  ‘The baby. That’s why all this happened.’

  His pumping heart, like the clappers it was, what baby?

  ‘We met at the railway. She was the sweetest thing. Fresh off the boat. Troubled eyes though.’ He looked at the wall as if he was narrating a black and white cine film.

  Please tell me everything, Murphy thought, please don’t stop until you’ve told me the whole thing. He had to know what was behind his parents’ promising start which ended in acrimony.

  ‘The baby. Left Ireland in disgrace, pregnant. A farmer’s son’s boy. Brought shame on the family. That’s how it was in those days.

  ‘Couldn’t get it sorted there though so she came here. Had it done. Couldn’t go back. We met and three weeks later, we were married. But she never got over that termination. Guilty as hell.’

  An abortion. His poor mam. There could've been another brother or sister for him and Orla if she’d kept the baby - he would’ve been the middle child, not the eldest with all the responsibility and expectations that came with that. Maybe his entire life would've been different. Dad wouldn’t have turned to the drink, Mam would’ve stayed sane, perhaps his and Orla’s innocence could've lasted longer than it had. Maybe Mam would've lived longer and she would've got to meet her grandson… But no, there was no sense in thinking this. It was a different era: pointless looking at it through twenty first century eyes when morals and religion didn’t dictate the rules. His heart ached as he thought of Griffy - that had he been conceived decades earlier - he would have been terminated too. The pain of that led him to acknowledge his parents’ pain. How good of him to take her on, as they would’ve thought of it back then, and to stick by her. It was a shock to learn he had a good side. And to see they had tried to keep tragedy at bay but it had caught up with them. His father was only human, after all. And he could forgive him that, he could. The tragedy they endured which, in the end, defeated them, showed they were only human.

  ‘Then we had two of our own,’ his dad said. Murphy felt as if he should stop him - he clearly didn’t know where he was or who was with him. But he was paralyzed by the moment.

  ‘She had you first,’ he said, turning to his son. Shocked, Murphy saw a very real presence in his eyes and they were deep, not flinty and brittle. ‘Then of course Orla. We were so happy for a time. But the darkness, it came back to her. That bloody church of hers, she asked for forgiveness, she’d say, but God wants me to suffer. Her moods… she retreated and I hit the bottle. If I could have my time again, son, I’d do what I’m doing now. Go sober. I’m sorry I didn’t do it earlier.’

  Was that an apology to him? To Orla and Mam? Or an expression of regret to himself? Probably the latter and it was bitter-sweet: to have given it the elbow was outstanding but look at what he'd missed out on.

  Then Dad took a sandwich and began to eat hungrily, dropping salad cream down his front. Murphy leapt up and handed him a tissue from his pocket. He was on his knees, dabbing the mess and then it came. Tumbling out like a whispered confession.

  ‘Dad… I’m a father… I’ve got a son I didn’t know I had.’

  ‘Nice sandwiches.’ Oblivious, Dad was, but the dam had burst within Murphy.

  ‘That night, she came back, you saw her leave in the morning…’

  ‘Lovely ham.’

  ‘She got pregnant. I only just found out. He’s seven. He looks like me. What am I to do? I was going to leave. Vee, I love her but she… Like, I just don’t know what to do. I’ve got a chance to go to the States. Dad, help me.’

  Murphy looked up and saw his dad’s head had lolled forward, his hand still clutching his lunch. Fast asleep, worn out. Murphy wanted to cry: he felt so alone, unable, incapable. His energy deserting him, he fell onto his haunches, supported by shaking knuckles on the floor, barely able to stop himself face-planting the carpet. ‘Help me,’ he said as the sobs came, forcing his forehead down towards his thighs. ‘Help me.’

  And then there was a buzz in his trouser pocket. And he knew it was her. Their connection, he couldn't forget it. The day he was put beside her in the classroom on his first day of school, when the jocks wolf-whistled and she wrote a note and passed it to him: ‘acting like dicks won't make theirs any bigger.’ The sassiness of that brain had him there and then the way she tucked her lovely hair behind her ear with her fuck-you finger. The night before she went away when she said she’d never meet anyone and asked if he would be her insurance policy: how he’d considered then to tell her she was everything to him but what could he offer at that moment to a girl who wanted to escape? He was convinced that what they had was a one-off but what right did he have to tell her? He wasn’t such a prick that he’d clip her wings. The stillness he felt on Barry Island when her eyes, watery from the wind and raw from tears, reached out to him, locki
ng him in. And the ecstasy of skin on skin, making them as one. Her shoulders, his to kiss, the shiver as he tasted her breasts, her hips, her thighs… Something he’d never dared to dream of because he’d needed her consent - she was so special, so precious. Real. Their connection, it would always be there.

  Reaching for his phone, he was all thumbs, fumbling to unlock the screen, then he read her message.

  I’ve made a mistake, Murphy. Is it too late? I’m going to London. Will you come with me to start again? XXX

  He couldn’t believe it. His head fizzed and pounded, whirled and yelped. The consequences of his life were colliding now and he didn’t know which way to turn.

  Is it too late?

  He thought of his father who wished he’d done something earlier to save his marriage, his wife, his kids, himself.

  If he didn’t make the right decision now, Murphy realized, he’d end up like him, living life with a shit load of regrets.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  V

  Brighton

  Deep breaths, Vee told herself in the ladies, as she teased the tilt of her polka dot saucer-shaped fascinator from drunk-at-the-races to c’est chic in the mirror. Just because you’re in Brighton, it doesn’t mean you’re going to see Jez. He was what he called ‘an east end boy’, never venturing west towards the ball-achingly bourgeois and gentrified area of Hove. His studio was in the quirkier Kemptown, his playground was the bohemian Laines and if he went on the beach, it was the nudey one near the marina. The one where Vee had felt self-consciously lacking in piercings on her privates.

  Even if he did drift this far up the seafront he wouldn’t come anywhere near a posh bar like this one. Christ, she’d given it a swerve for the entire seven years she’d lived here: the drinks were too expensive and it was too touristy. Thank goodness Kate suggested it as a meeting place for the wedding party - it was close to their B&Bs and over the road from the bandstand, well-placed for those in heels.

  He wouldn’t recognize her anyway: she looked so different to the scrotty girl who’d left in February. Scrubbed up now, her hair was pinned back, she wore wedges and a spotty black and white tea-dress and her face featured expert swooshes of eyeliner, peachy blusher and red lips.

  Yet under all of that, Vee could see the stress on her face. For all of its cosmopolitan ways, Brighton was small enough to bump into someone unexpectedly. Those sorts of coincidences were part of its magical charm, she’d once thought. Now it felt like a practical joke, as if someone was lurking with a banana skin.

  Remember why you came, she thought. To prove you could. To show Kate that you were true to your word of forgiveness when they’d made up nearly a fortnight ago and apologized over and over together, accepting her invitation to the wedding with grace. That you’re a grown-up now.

  Still her breath quivered slightly but then it was chilly in here.

  Into the bar she went, pinching her bolero closer to her chest in the air conditioning. Outside wasn’t much better considering it was July, but she’d seen days like this here when a sea fret would come in, cover the world in white and then melt as the sun – and the people – broke free.

  At a table in their finest were Charlie and Tom plus Jack, looking adorable in Welsh kilt regalia, complete with sporran. ‘The next best thing to shorts,’ he’d said. Boris was dozing on the floor in a bow tie. In the comfy chairs were Jack’s mother in conversation with Kate’s, who was in full martyr mode about her attendance, but ‘these are the things we do for our children’. She’d cracked in the end, of course she had: she was too much of a control freak to not be in on the action. Then best man Pierre, aka Monsieur Bond in DJ, was racing around, Bea by his side, checking the time and hurrying up everyone’s drinks.

  As page boy, Griff was with Kate and her dad. Vee felt like crying at the thought of her friend having her son with her: that was what Vee had taken from her chat with her mum. Kate had been through hell and back and Vee didn’t need to punish her for it. Kate had asked her to be maid of honour, but Vee didn’t want to barge in on the intimacy before the ceremony: and anyway, it’d make her feel like an old spinster. What she’d learned during this journey these past few months was that she was brimming with experience now rather than regret. And what better way to show she’d learned from everything – that she could make peace with the past. Just hopefully it wouldn’t include Jez.

  ‘Drink up, chaps!’ Pierre called, hustling them to gather their things. ‘The bride’s ETA is twenty minutes. Vingt minutes!’

  Vee’s mouth flopped open - he'd spoken French, out loud! Pierre caught her surprise and winked. Zut alors, she thought, he must’ve found his va va voom with Bea.

  In the street, they behaved like sheep, allowing him to direct them to ‘cross!’ in a break in the busy traffic and following his march into the Victorian bandstand. Only Vee lagged behind, inspecting this city she’d called home with new eyes. On the drive here, with Kate and Jack, she had been nervous about how it would feel to return. She had feared memories at every corner: from the sweeping Downs and glorious Pavilion to the street art and markets. But as she’d watched from the car window, the hairs on end came not out of sadness but realization: their life had all been about him. The walks were always so he could take photographic studies for his art, the eateries his choice. How could she have lived like that? she wondered, joining the wedding group now.

  Sunflowers adorned the ornate white edging of the roof while green deckchairs complimented the colour of the proud columns through which the sea lay grey and still. In the distance was the eerie silhouette of the West Pier, destroyed by arson but not beaten, commanding and proud.

  ‘I bring bread and salt, Vee,’ Bea said as they gathered.

  ‘Didn’t you like the breakfast? I thought it was lush!’ The B&B was one of those old fashioned ones, with eggs and bacon. Possibly not to Polish tastes.

  Bea rolled her eyes from beneath her floppy cream wide-brimmed hat: she looked like a seventies film star as her brown hair styled in waves sat on a dark blue pashmina over the bare shoulders of her green flared jumpsuit.

  ‘Is Polish tradition to have bread and salt at wedding. Bread so the couple may never know hunger, salt to cope through the difficulty of the life.’

  ‘From Fromage?’ Vee giggled.

  ‘No. Waitrose,’ Bea winked. ‘Don’t tell him. Hey, Pierre look nervous. He take this very seriously.’

  She was right: he was craning his neck to look for the bride, trying to take in the registrar’s words and checking again and again he had the ring. Anyone would think it was his wedding! Maybe that was what he had in mind. The thought hit Vee in the heart quite out of the blue. The thought that she might never get to have this, what she had longed for with Jez. Yes, it would’ve been a disaster in the long run, she’d have worked it out eventually that she wasn’t being true to herself, but still, it hurt. Because she had texted Murphy days ago, asking him if it was too late for them to try again and he had replied saying he needed time. He didn’t know where he was going – he had an opportunity in the States, a child in Cardiff and a life he wasn’t living in London. His head was screwed. She understood but it had crushed her, it still did, that their love was destined to remain complex, unconsummated. Because she couldn’t – and she wouldn’t – compete with America or Griff. To have waited all this time to have tasted such happiness only to have it snatched away was unbearable.

  ‘I’ll just go and keep an eye out for Kate,’ Vee said, faking a smile. She needed a moment away to compose herself.

  She took a spot on the pavement and looked up and down the road for Kate’s rickshaw, which she’d hired as a bridal car. But it was hard to make out much through the fog. The sound of the engines, tooting horns and lurching buses helped to drown out her emotions. People walked past her, not batting an eyelid at her dress – this was Brighton.

  Then her heart stopped. It was the way he walked, the loping style of the favoured, with no money worries and an inner confi
dence from good schooling. The outline of his shoulders looming in the mist. Clutching her hands to her chest she fought to breathe again as he sauntered towards her. She wanted to run, but her feet wouldn’t move. This person, who was in and out of view, bobbing in between people's heads, was so similar to Jez it set off a rushing train of thought: the dreads had gone! He’d changed, he looked older, more adult…had he seen her?

  He was getting closer, big shades hiding his eyes, but his chin was the same - certain, held high…the boom in her chest filling her ears. The speech she'd always dreamed of delivering came to her: she’d moved on, she’d gone back to the suburbs and, actually, it was full of adventure. Not full of ‘experiences’ but emotion and meaning, friendship and learning. How a few days with the love of her life had been richer than the years she’d spent with him.

  It would inspire an apology, he would express his regret at how he'd treated her, that things had gone wrong for him and his girlfriend. He'd made a mistake, he wanted her back…

  Closer, closer, he came, and her breathing became quicker until he was just a few steps away and she felt a pull and her hand lifted towards him. Just as she saw that it was a stranger. And he was passing her, oblivious to her agony. After everything she'd been through, to find herself vulnerable again because she'd thought she'd seen him felt a betrayal. Here she was supposed to be over the rejection, having worked out that her happiness depended on her and not a man.

  Weak, that's how she felt, beaten as if the last few months had meant nothing.

  ‘Vee!’

  The shout stopped her. She swivelled round and saw a yellow rickshaw chug to a halt at the kerb.

  ‘Kate!’ Vee ran towards her as miraculously the sun came out.

  She stepped out, captivating in a graceful ivory gown which skimmed her figure as it flowed to the floor - but just before it did, Vee saw a flash of gold…Kate had only gone and chosen flip-flops, which showed she had found her way! Vee clapped her hands in awe – and, oh, her father in tails was taking Kate's arm and Griff was jumping for joy by their side.