‘Poor Mike,’ Tom said.
‘Yes,’ I said, with feeling. ‘We don’t know the half of it, I’m sure.’
Dad spun round. ‘What do you mean by that?’
I was taken aback by the harshness in his voice. ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Just – I feel so sorry for him. If we knew where Rosalie was, our worst suspicions might be confirmed or otherwise. You know?’
Mum came in with the tray as Dad stared at me. ‘Darling, I don’t think that’d make a blind bit of difference. It’s to do with Mike, not Rosalie,’ he said, after a while.
‘It might make a difference if you knew who she was with,’ I said heatedly, then changed tack. ‘Why are you so down on Mike? She’s the one in the wrong.’
Dad laughed shortly. Mum started pouring tea. She shot him a look under her lashes. Kate sat down on the sofa next to Tom. ‘How are you, darling?’ she said.
‘Good, thanks, Mum.’ Tom kissed her. ‘You’ll never guess who I saw this week, by the way. Do you remember—’
‘Hold on,’ I said, and stood up. Then I felt like a bit of a berk and sat down again. ‘Can we get one thing straight? You don’t know all the facts. About Mike and Rosalie, I mean,’ I said, since my parents and Kate were staring at me as if I’d gone mad. ‘Look, I wasn’t going to tell you this—’
‘Lizzy—’ Dad said.
‘John, shut up,’ Mum said, with urgency.
I took a deep breath. ‘I know where Rosalie is,’ I said.
‘Oh!’ Mum said.
‘Exactly,’ I said firmly. ‘She’s – well, she’s with David. I think…well, I don’t know. But they’re living together. She moved in last weekend.’
‘I know,’ Dad said. He looked from Mum to Kate.
‘You know?’ I said. ‘I didn’t want to tell you because – and you know?’
‘I know,’ Dad repeated.
‘Does Mike know?’ I said. ‘Are you going to tell him? God, this is…Why on earth didn’t you say anything?’
He cleared his throat. ‘Well. There’s something we need to tell you – I don’t know why we didn’t tell you from the start. You see, we’ve all been keeping a few secrets.’
‘Eh?’ Tom said.
‘I’m going to the study to get some things,’ Dad said, and stalked out.
I had a dreadful, lurking suspicion, something hovering just outside my realm of comprehension, various ideas and images all rushing together and then Mum said, ‘Yes. It’s about Mike. It’s…Well, where Rosalie is isn’t important compared to what he’s done.’
‘What’s he done?’ I whispered, hardly wanting to frame the words.
Kate spoke up: ‘Your uncle,’ she said, face pale, her hand in Tom’s. He’s – he’s not quite the lovely man you – we – think he is.’ She looked at my mother, who nodded, then said, in a cold voice, ‘Mike’s the reason we’re having to sell the house.’
The sound of footsteps in the corridor made me turn my head, and Dad was in the doorway with several box files under his arms. ‘Right,’ he said, as he laid them on the sofa. ‘We – we didn’t want you to find out about this. We didn’t want to worry you. But I understand why you feel you deserve an explanation. And you’re not children any more. Kate, it’s rather appropriate you’re here, isn’t it?’
Tom and I looked at her, completely at a loss. She smiled at us wanly.
Mum handed Dad a cup of tea. He lowered himself gingerly into his armchair. ‘Give me a moment, and then I’ll explain why we’re selling the house.’
When I remember the happy, often hilarious hours spent in the drawing room at home, playing raucous family games, Grandfather sleeping in the big chair in the corner, Jess and I lying on our stomachs scribbling in drawing-pads with felt-tip pens in front of the fire, I often think what a strange picture the five of us must have made that day in March, so bright outside but dark and full of shadows in the room. We sat there, I between Tom and Kate on the sofa, Mum nearby, as Dad, glasses perched on his nose, lifted documents out of files, smoothed them on his knee, and passed them to me. These papers were always locked away; they told the story of the house. It was these that Rosalie had been looking at on Christmas Day, a few short months ago.
I learned that Edward Radcliffe, who built the house in 1592, had had a wife called Cicely who died in my bedroom, giving birth to his son, Thomas, in 1599. I learned that in 1664 Mary Kirke, Thomas’s granddaughter, ordered the planting of the lavender and roses in the garden. I learned that Edwin Walter’s son Julian built the gate leading to the meadow at the back. And that Julian’s younger brother, Francis, was killed at Ypres in 1914. He was twenty-nine. All these things, waiting for me to know them, in this house all the time, and I only heard them now as we were leaving, packing up, and my sadness about leaving our family home, which had less-ened in the last week or so, started to creep back.
‘The thing is,’ said Dad, putting another sheaf of papers back into a box, ‘I doubt you’ve ever really given it much thought, but you must know that the house isn’t ours.’
‘What?’ Tom said.
‘Not mine and Suzy’s. Grandfather left it to Mike. He’s the eldest.’
‘So, why isn’t it his, then?’ I said.
Dad spoke slowly. ‘It is his – or, at least, the casting vote is his. If he decides to sell we all get a share of the proceeds, but he’s the only one who can force a sale and the house is in his name.’
‘But why doesn’t he live here?’ I asked.
‘He didn’t want to. When you were little, he went to live in New York and it all happened quite fast.’ He looked at Kate who was gazing down at her hands, resting in her lap.
‘Anyway,’ Dad went on, ‘when Grandfather and Grandmother decided to move out so we could move in, Mike signed a deed of covenant putting the house in my name, not his. Tony had died several years ago, Chin was far too young, and when Grandfather died, Mike was settled in New York and didn’t want to come back. We were the only ones who were in a position to take on the house. It was that or lose it. Mike had made his feelings quite clear.’
‘How could you be so sure? Why did he hand it over to you?’ I asked. Dad was silent.
‘I think,’ Kate said slowly, choosing her words with care, ‘when he left, all those years ago, he wanted a fresh start. He needed to get away. From – well, he felt – he felt he had to go.’ She looked down, and fell silent again.
Mum and Dad were watching her. I looked at all three in turn, then at Tom, who was looking at his mother strangely, his brow furrowed.
‘Oh, Lizzy.’ Mum sighed. ‘You have to understand what Mike was like when I first met him – when I first met your father’s family.’
‘Well…’ Dad said, shuffling and uncomfortable.
Mum ploughed on: ‘It was easy to be seduced by it all. I was. The house, the family, they were all such good fun – and Mike especially. He was at the helm with Tony. The pair of them were golden boys, couldn’t do anything wrong. But Tony – well, he was just special. I wasn’t aware of it then, but he was.’ Mum reached out and touched Tom’s hand. ‘Wasn’t he?’ she asked Kate, casually, as if she wanted confirmation of the price of a pint of milk.
Kate nodded. Mum gave her a private smile, sisters-in-law together, and I saw them as outsiders for the first time.
‘Mike was different,’ she went on. ‘With Tony it wasn’t an act – with Mike it is. He’s never been happy, always rest-less, always wants what he can’t have, the grass is always greener. And that’s – well, that’s thrilling, exhilarating, but it’s not for life. It’s not real. That’s why I married your dad – that’s why people get married, I think. It’s real life. Mike doesn’t understand that that’s what makes you happy.’
Dad was still fiddling with the papers, but he leaned against Mum and said, ‘She’s right.’
‘Of course I’m right,’ Mum said, and took some papers from him.
I still didn’t see where this was leading.
‘I don’t underst
and what this has to do with the house, though,’ Tom said, echoing my thoughts.
Kate got up, grabbed the tea-tray and clattered out of the room.
‘Darling,’ Dad said, clutching a box file on his knees, ‘Mike looked at the covenant – well, he got Rosalie to do it – and he realized that the house is worth quite a lot of money now.’
‘So?’ I said. ‘Big deal. He’s rolling in it.’
‘No, he’s not,’ Mum said shortly. ‘He’s bankrupt. He lost his job about six months ago. And now we discover he owes about three-quarters of a million pounds.’
‘What?’ I said. ‘Mike?’
‘Mike?’ said Tom. ‘Are you sure?’
Dad nodded.
‘But…how come?’ I said hoarsely. ‘How – how did it happen?’
Mum went on, in a toneless voice, ‘I’m afraid that’s your uncle, darling. He’s always been one to fly by the seat of his pants. He was made redundant last year – some irregularities, nothing really bad – and he invested money he didn’t have in an online stocks-and-shares company. He borrowed more and then more and…I’m afraid he used Keeper House as collateral for the loan.’
‘Uncle Mike? But…’ I felt as if someone was trying to explain the plot of a soap opera I didn’t watch with characters I’d never heard of. ‘Are you sure you’ve got this right? It really doesn’t sound like him. He must have been defrauded, or set up, or something.’
Some irregularities? What did that mean? We all knew Uncle Mike was a crazy spendthrift, but that was just his style. It was part of what made him such fun when we were younger – you never knew if he was in clover and buying a shiny red MG or selling his furniture to afford bread and milk. Then I remembered David’s harsh, angry words of only a week ago: ‘You’re all like that, all of you. Look at Mike, living in a fantasy-land, not caring how much he hurts other people.’
‘Darling, you shouldn’t blame him too much,’ Mum said. ‘He’s had some bad luck. Unfortunately, he and Rosalie have proved to us that control of the house is still his, and I’m afraid that means we have to sell, whether we like it or not.’
I found my voice at last. ‘But he can’t! He can’t force you to sell!’
‘I’m afraid he can, Lizzy,’ said Dad. ‘And he has. He couldn’t have done it without Rosalie, though, I’m sure. He must have known he could do something like this. I just don’t think he ever thought he’d be able to pull it off, though, until he met her. She crystallized it for him. I don’t think she wanted to, but she did. Well, you know the old saying – “Fancy a house, marry a property lawyer.” I blame myself.’
‘Don’t be silly, John,’ Mum said sharply. ‘I blame Mike. Well, I blame Rosalie, too, but Mike first and foremost. She rang us last week from David’s. She was distraught. She was head over heels in love with Mike and I don’t think she thought about what she was getting into. Well, she’s left him now, which I suppose is for the best. He was using her.’
‘But I thought he loved her?’ Tom said, in a small voice.
‘I’m sure he persuaded himself he could love her,’ Mum said. ‘The sad thing is she’s probably the best thing that’ll ever happen to him, but he’s too immature. Too selfish. He won’t realize till long after she’s gone, and in the meantime he’s broken her heart and there’s this –’ she waved her arms, ‘to deal with. That’s Mike. I knew he’d let us down one day but not how badly.’
‘Let’s not talk about it any more, shall we?’ said a voice at the door. It was Kate, her hands in her pockets, leaning against the frame, her bright gold hair shining in the pale sun. ‘It’s my fault he went and it’s my fault he still feels so hurt, all these years later…And that’s why he doesn’t care any more. He can sit there and be jolly and underneath be lying to us. That’s the truth. So.’ She collected herself, then went on: ‘The apportionment of blame after the main event is satisfying but pointless. Let’s just not talk about it.’
I wanted to ask what she meant. I wanted to say, ‘But, Kate, you and Mike, what happened?’ But, of course, I didn’t. She left the room, and Tom reached for the tea, and I knew I wouldn’t ask.
We drank our tea in near-silence. I looked across at the photo of Dad, Mike, Tony and Chin outside the house. It was in this room, three months ago, that Dad had told us all that the house had to be sold. We were packing up, moving out, and our family was becoming more fractured and distant as a result. Because of Mike, who had sat there with his head bowed and forehead lined after Dad had broken the news. Because of Mike, who’d married Rosalie who, it turned out, hadn’t wanted to be queen of her own British castle, simply to help the man she loved get the proceeds from it. The proceeds from the sale of a goldenstone house that people had lived, loved and died in for four hundred years were going to pay off electronic, paper-less debts, run up in a matter of days. Because of my uncle Mike, the eldest son, whom I loved and who had casually reached in and ripped out the heart of our family.
TWENTY-FOUR
It turned out that much of what Mike had said and done at Christmas had been a lie: that the sole purpose of his visit was the hour-long conversation he had had with my father on Christmas Eve while we all lay around like a family of lotus-eaters watching Some Like It Hot and yelling about how great it was to have him home, as Rosalie sat with us. How she must have laughed at us. What idiots she must have thought we were as, in the study, Mike was explaining, calmly, brutally, to Dad that he had to sell our home. My darling dad had kept this conversation to himself all through Christmas, waiting till the twenty-eighth when he could go and see our family solicitor. There, he reread the deed of covenant that he and Mike had signed when Mike moved to New York, the document that confirmed the house was in my father’s trust but belonged to Mike, although all three siblings benefited from a sale, according to the terms of Grandfather’s will, it was ultimately Mike’s house to do with as he pleased. And it pleased him to sell it.
I pieced this and more together from Mum and Dad during the next few hours and over supper. Later, when Tom, Miles and I met at the Neptune we agreed how Alice in Wonderland it all felt, like when you are little and allowed to stay up way past your bedtime, and everything seems strange and dreamlike. The Mike I knew wasn’t a nasty man, a criminal or a bastard: he was our uncle, we loved him, he looked out for us and made life better. So what he’d done didn’t make sense. It was a bit like finding out your teacher’s first name, or seeing a friend’s parents kissing – wrong, strange, odd.
It wasn’t just the sale of the house. It was what Mike’s behaviour had meant over the years. Did he really not care about any of us? Could he put us all aside so easily, so thoughtlessly? It was chilling to think about his real nature, if one disregarded the patina of charm. And then I remembered the missed birthdays, the late arrivals, the broken promises, nearly thirty years of half-forgotten disappointments. Our parents refused to condemn him outright – to us, anyway: Mum and Dad were too bogged down with the practicalities of the sale, preparations for the wedding and the move, as was Kate, and Kate was bound by some other code of secrecy. I was sure now that Mike had been in love with her, but it wasn’t as simple as that. I had to understand that there are always parts of people’s lives of which you know nothing, things that happened before you were born or that have nothing to do with you.
So that night at the Neptune, we drew our own conclusions. Mike was a dastardly, creeping, thin-moustachioed skunk, the black sheep of the family, a liar, a cheat, and we – Tom and I especially – cursed his name. We couldn’t have known what would happen in the weeks to come. We didn’t even know where he was – Rosalie had moved back into the apartment and all she would tell Tom, sharply, when he rang was that Mike was in a motel, she didn’t know where, and was looking for an apartment. He didn’t reply to our emails. He didn’t even call to apologise, hadn’t spoken to Mum and Dad since he’d left at Christmas, except to confirm the sale price of the house. The saddest thing of all was, if Mike had had to become the villain of the fam
ily it should have been for something colourful and terrible – as a high-wayman or a pirate, not as the pathetic shell of the golden boy he had once been.
Yes, we passed a strange evening in the pub. Tom and I got steadily drunk as the evening wore on, and alternately ranted or were silent. Miles was good enough to sit with us while we occasionally burst out with things like, ‘Why can’t he just sell something in America?’, ‘What will we say to him at the wedding?’ or ‘Why did he do it?’
‘I tell you something,’ Tom burst out, after a prolonged silence. ‘I’m sticking with the good ones from now on. Gibbo – now, there’s a good bloke. No trouble, nice, polite, not a cheating, lying thief, like Rosalie, or – or Mike, or even David. Sorry, Lizzy.’
‘That’s OK,’ I said.
‘Sorry, Miles, too,’ Tom said.
‘No sweat,’ Miles said. He paused. ‘So – David must have known, mustn’t he?’
‘About what?’ Tom said.
‘About Mike. Must have. And he did nothing about it.’
‘Fucking typical,’ I said. ‘Yes, I’d love another wine white, please, Tom.’
‘White wine, you mean,’ Miles said. ‘Are you OK there?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m fine. How about you?’
‘I’m great, thanks,’ Miles said, disentangling his hand from my frenzied grip. ‘It might be time for you to try a spritzer. How does that sound?’
‘Lovely,’ I said, as Miles got up.
‘Stag night,’ Tom said firmly, as he came back with the drinks. ‘I’m going to give Gibbo a night to remember. Hurrah. No nonsense, bloody lying people getting in the way. Great! Gibbo’s the best, isn’t he?’
‘Yeah!’ I said.
Tom leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Let’s ring him. Let’s tell him we think he’s really great.’
‘OK,’ said Miles. ‘We should go home now. Come on, finish your drinks. Honestly, the pair of you.’
‘Shut up, Dad,’ I said, as we tripped out of the pub into the cool April evening a few minutes later. ‘’Bye, Bill! ‘Bye! ‘Bye, Bill!’ I felt Miles’s arm through mine, comforting and solid.
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