The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton

by Catherine Alliott

  I nodded encouragingly. Yes. Or with string.

  ‘But it was so weird. I didn't.’ Her brow puckered in an effort to explain. To understand. ‘Maybe… maybe if she hadn't been so nice… and so worried about how I'd feel. If she'd been pushy, or cocky, but she wasn't. She was more like, worried, nervous. Kept saying – you must be so shocked, must hate me, but I just couldn't. She was trembling, wasn't she, Dad? But not at the end. At the end we were all laughing.’

  Laughing. And I was finding it hard to breathe.

  ‘I felt… d'you know, I felt almost guilty? That here she was, Stacey, sixteen, with no father, and I'd had Dad, my dad – our dad – had his love all those years, and she hadn't.’ Her guileless eyes filled with tears as she looked behind me to Ant. Despite myself, mine did too. Could have been for Stacey, could have been for Anna, could have been for me. Hard to tell.

  ‘And I also thought – there we'd been, sisters. I'd had a sister, Mum, and I'd not had the pleasure of it. Always been an only child.’

  ‘You said you didn't mind that. Always said you liked being an only, all the attention, the love—’

  ‘I know, 'cos that's what I was. But today I was like – God, all those wasted years.’

  Wasted! My heart curled into a tight little ball in my chest in defence. Tucked itself in. I clenched my teeth tightly.

  She took another gulp of water, gazed over my head, thoughtful, her eyes shocked. ‘And I really didn't think I'd feel like that. But I honestly feel… I've found her.’ She brought those astonished blue eyes back to me. ‘Found a sort of… missing link.’ She gave her head a bewildered little shake. ‘I can't explain it, Mum. Maybe it's because she looks so like Dad. Maybe that makes it easier.’

  Easier! Don't faint. Don't faint.

  ‘And it's odd, because if you'd told me that before, that she looked so like him, I'd have said that would have made it worse. But we look alike too. We look like sisters!’ Her face was alight, on fire. ‘Don't we, Dad?’

  Ant had hung his jacket on the back of a chair. He looked up slowly. ‘Yes. You do look alike. Anna, you've got a clarinet lesson later. D'you want to have a go at that Schubert?’

  ‘No, it's OK. I know it pretty well.’

  ‘Anna, go and do some practice! Your father and I want to talk!’ I yelled, fists clenched.

  She looked at me astonished. We didn't say things like that. Ever. ‘Your father and I want to talk.’ We were a modern, emancipated family. We all talked together. But I was back at the farm. I was Mum. No, I was Dad. Both of them.

  There was a silence. Anna glared at me. ‘I thought you'd be pleased! You knew this was going to be hard for me – I thought you'd be pleased I liked her!’ Her face buckled as she pushed past Ant and ran out. I made to follow her down the hall.

  ‘Anna!’

  Ant caught my arm. ‘Let her go. You'll make it worse.’

  I'd make it worse. Me? What had I ever done? This mess was not of my making.

  I came back into the room; gripped the work surface in front of me, then changed my mind, and turned to face my husband, folding my arms in front of me, needing them there.

  ‘So,’ I whispered, raising my chin, ‘it all went swimmingly.’ I didn't want to be this person. This hard, sarcastic person. Didn't recognize her. Felt I'd been forced into her shoes.

  ‘No, but it went better than I expected. Anna's only young, Evie. Everything's either brilliant or awful in her book. And her emotions are bound to be heightened because she's so nervous. She's high, at the moment, but she'll come down. I hope not with a thud, but she'll realize that the situation is still complicated. It can't be sorted out in a few hours as easily as she's suggesting.’

  I nodded. He was right. The voice of reason, as ever, echoing in my kitchen. Anna was high. On adrenalin, nerves, a glass of wine and now she wanted everything to be all right. Children do. Eternal optimists. Ever hopeful.

  ‘But it is more complicated?’

  ‘Of course it is. But essentially…’ he spread his hands, palms up, in a familiar gesture, ‘well, essentially, they're nice people. Who thus far haven't wanted to invade our lives. And who feel… very nervous… about doing it now. But the fact is, Stacey has an interview at Trinity, and it looks very much as if she'll get a place. How could she be in the same town as her father and not say anything? You must see that. Added to which, she's sixteen now. The time is right.’

  I nodded. Yes, I could see that. Could see everything. I pulled a chair out and sat down shakily.

  ‘Was she… is she, very like you?’

  ‘Enough not to bother with DNA.’ He sat opposite me, watching me carefully.

  ‘And… nice?’

  ‘Yes. You'd like her. You'd like them both.’

  I knew what was coming. ‘You want me to meet them.’

  ‘Well, that's what you originally wanted, Evie. You wanted to have them here, for tea.’

  Yes, before I knew how nice they were, I wanted to say. How beautiful, how apologetic, how tremulous, how everything they should be. When they were outsiders, that's when I wanted them. Now I was the outsider. No, of course I wasn't, but that's what it felt like.

  ‘Or, we could just leave it at that, if you like. They certainly aren't asking for more. For any integration. Stacey just wanted to meet me, set eyes on me.’

  ‘Of course she did.’ In spite of my jealousy and fear I knew this to be true. Ant was encouraged.

  ‘And now – well, now, I don't feel I can just leave it. Walk away.’ He looked at me pleadingly. Took my hand across the table. ‘Do you see that?’

  ‘Yes,’ I whispered. Yes, of course I saw that. And how I loved him for it. How odd it would be if he didn't feel that. What sort of a man would that make him? But still. I was fighting myself. I looked at him.

  ‘How did it feel? Seeing Stacey?’

  He caught his breath. ‘Indescribable, Evie. Imagine how you'd feel meeting… your child… after all these years, knowing she'd grown up without you.’ He struggled for composure. ‘I felt shame. Terrible shame. But they were quick to dispel that. Bella was at pains to point out that I couldn't have known, she hadn't told me. Because… well, obviously…’

  I nodded. Because he was engaged to marry me. But still, she could have done. Other women might. Other, less educated, more money-grabbing women.

  ‘And love,’ he said suddenly, astonished. ‘Which completely took me by surprise. After all, she's a stranger Stacey. But I sat there thinking, how odd, I feel…’

  I got up quickly. ‘Love?’

  ‘Not love,’ he said quickly. He ran a despairing hand through his hair. ‘Forgive me, Evie, all my emotions are heightened too, but – a definite pull, something strong.’

  I nodded, staring at the wall above his head. The big question. Pull it out, Evie. Pull it out.

  ‘And how did it feel seeing… you know,’ I glanced to get his reaction, ‘Bella?’

  Something flickered in his eyes. I caught it just as he tried to mask it. It killed me.

  He sighed. ‘Very odd. She's changed a bit. But not much. Peculiar.’

  ‘No, not what did she look like. How did you feel inside?’

  He looked at me squarely. ‘OK. Fair question. I felt… something leap. My heart perhaps, my nerves jangling, but it was a nostalgic pull. Mixing memory with desire – yes, to do with memory. With the past. Not the here and now.’

  He was always going to be honest. I knew, if I asked, I had to accept the consequences. He would be scrupulously honest. As I folded my arms protectively tight he struggled to get it all out. ‘And of course the fact remains she is very beautiful, and she's—’

  ‘OK!’ I said breathlessly, holding up my hand. I shut my eyes. ‘Enough. I know I asked, but…’ I froze a smile. Shook my head. ‘You might have to lie to me a bit, Ant.’ I opened my eyes. ‘To spare my feelings. Not sure how much truth I can take.’

  He smiled, got up and took my hand. ‘There is no more. That's it. She's very attractive,
but she's someone from my past, when I was young. When I was a bit insecure, a bit directionless. She is what she was then: a final fling.’

  I wasn't sure that was true. Ant didn't do ‘fling’, and how come he was directionless when he was getting married to me, but then I had asked him to dissemble.

  ‘You didn't think – I wish I'd married you, wish I'd stayed with you and Stacey all these years?’ I blurted out in a rush, shocking myself.

  He looked horrified. ‘Of course not. How could you think such a thing?’

  I shrugged miserably. There was no end to the things I could think. How tormented I could be.

  ‘Although, of course,’ I saw him plucking up the courage to be honest again and flinched; almost put my arm over my eyes, ‘the fact remains we have an unbreakable tie. We have a child together.’

  I gulped. ‘Yes.’

  Damn. Should have put that arm up.

  18

  On Sunday we took Anna over to the farm where she spent the day falling in love with Hector. The following morning, however, it was my turn, so as promised I drove down the lanes, swung around the familiar last bend with its high hedge, and swept through the gate into the farmyard. I turned off the engine. All was quiet; all was still. The hens had been let out and were pecking in the dirt. The cockerel, pleased with himself for having serviced most of them at least twice, stretched his neck and shook out his feathers, having had a celebratory dust bath in a long-abandoned flowerbed. A faint mist was lifting, rolling up like a fleecy grey blanket over the vale, but still shrouding the hills beyond, where our cows, having spotted Tim's white pick-up rolling towards them with their hay, lowed in Pavlovian response. I was early, as instructed, and as I got out of the car, I stood for a moment, breathing deeply, savouring, despite everything, what had always been a special time of day; when my father – now Tim, of course – had been hard at it for hours, but the rest of the village slept or slowly stirred.

  It was a beautiful hazy morning. Soon it would be my favourite time of year. Not Ant's, because he said everything died, but for all his wisdom of the Romantic Pastoral tradition, he'd grown up in town. He didn't know autumn wasn't about fading beauty, but a last strong push: the elderberries clinging in luxuriant clusters in the hedgerows, the blackberries with second wind, plump and swollen by the rain, and when the mist lifted, that fabulous light no Hollywood movie could recreate would cast long, shifting shadows conjuring up all the shadows of my childhood. By then the apples would be dropping off the trees faster than Caro could pick them; pears and plums, gathered so eagerly a month ago, squashed underfoot by children's wellies. Summer would be long gone and all the bustle and organization that went with it. I didn't mourn it. I loved the limbo of autumn, the wondering when to get the logs in and light the fires, the sparkling spiders webs glistening with dew stretching from one blade of grass to the next in the early mornings, the soft mists and mellow fruitfulness. Who'd said that?

  At the sound of my car door shutting, Megan, the old sheepdog, spayed and fat now, came lumbering up. As I stroked her bony head, I made out Tim's pick-up, coming, sure enough, back through the mist in the distance, from the few cows he kept as a nod to auld lang syne: rather like Caro's pigs, I thought, as I passed Harriet in her stable, curled up in a bed of straw, snout in trotters. I smiled. They'd be surprised to see me so early. But then, I hadn't been able to sleep anyway; had lain awake half the night, so I might just as well be here.

  Sounds of activity were coming from a stable further along the row of loose boxes. I put my head over a door in time to see Phoebe putting the finishing touches to Pepper's immaculate bed.

  ‘Morning, Phoebs.’

  ‘Oh, hi.’ She turned from where she'd been patting down some clean sawdust with a pitchfork. ‘You're here!’

  ‘I am indeed.’ I grinned. Oh, ye of little faith.

  ‘I put Hector out for you with Pepper 'cos he'd have got all stressy on his own. I was just going to start on your stable.’

  ‘You will not! Look, I'm all wellied up and ready.’ I raised an immaculate pink boot with two hands above the door for her to see.

  She blinked. ‘Cool. Well, I've filled a hay net for you, but I might go in, if you're OK. I've still got some homework to finish. You're next door, by the way. You know where the muck heap is, don't you?’

  ‘Of course. Don't forget I lived here, Phoebe!’ And flashing her a bright smile I opened the adjacent stable and went in.

  A moment later her face appeared over the door. She grinned. ‘Right.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. It's just I've never seen anyone go in a stable with a handbag before. Mum will be pleased you're here. I'll go and tell her.’

  And off she went, bounding away to tell Caro. I thought what a sweet girl she was as I popped my Chloé bag outside the door – or maybe in the car, bit grubby there – and how I didn't know her well enough. Caro was right. I came back across the yard from the car. We should get the children together more. All five of them, now. I seized a pitchfork and steadied myself on it. Took a moment. Yes, how would the cousins take to Stacey? With alacrity, I should imagine. I could just see Jack's eyes lighting up, Phoebe's jaw dropping with admiration as this prospective Storm model sashayed into their yard. Well, good. That was good, Evie, wasn't it? Excellent. Taking the fork firmly in both hands, I marched off to muck out.

  My, what a lot of muck. I looked around the stable in dismay. An awful lot of dung one way and another, and all sort of spread around the place. Not in neat piles. It was as if the wretched horse had tap-danced in it. Oh, well. I set to work, wrinkling my nose in disgust as I balanced one load of ordure after another on the end of a wobbly pitchfork – jolly heavy stuff – and plopped it in the wheelbarrow. Yuck. Urgh… I tried not to retch. Lift, wobble, urgh, plop. Lift, wobble, urgh, plop.

  I began to get used to it. My arms were aching, but I'd stopped retching and I gazed around, panting. My barrow was full, but the stable still didn't look anything like Phoebe's. I popped next door. Nothing like. Hers was neat and tidy, a flat bed of sawdust banked up slightly around the walls and finishing in a neat line about three foot from the door, revealing a strip of clean concrete. Right. I beetled back, banked up the sawdust around the walls and swept a clear strip of concrete between the bed and the door. There. I stood back. But no, because – there were still lumps of doo-dah everywhere. Small lumps that – I seized my pitchfork – fell through these wide prongs. I hastened next door. Did Phoebe's stable have…? I rooted around in her sawdust with my fork, feeling treacherous. No, no little lumps. I patted her sawdust down. So how…? Ah. I hastened to the tack room: found a smaller fork with narrower prongs. Hurried back. No. The little bastards still dropped through. Were they Hector's speciality and not Pepper's? And was it a one-off? Had he had a nervous evacuation on entering a new pad? Should I just ignore them, hope he wouldn't notice when he turned in tonight?

  I could just imagine his refined nose wrinkling in disgust; saw him whipping a mobile from the pocket of his purple bed jacket: ‘Camilla darling, this place is a disgrace. I simply can't stay.’

  I threw down my fork and hurried up to the house, skirting round the back to the kitchen window, where… I couldn't quite believe what met my eyes. It was like something out of a TV commercial. Three children in school uniform, hair neatly plaited or parted, sat at a scrubbed farmhouse table, Terry Wogan warbling merrily, whilst Caro, strapped into a Cath Kidston pinny, fried bacon and eggs at the Aga. How unlike my own chaotic, much smaller, household, where Ant and Anna foraged for themselves in a cupboard, found cereal if they were lucky, tested it tentatively with their teeth to see if it was stale, whilst I, when they'd gone, nipped back to bed to read secret copies of Hello! and eat chocolate. I was a terrible mother. Terrible.

  I banged on the window. Caro turned.

  ‘Oh, well done, Evie!’ she shouted. ‘Phoebe said you were here. I couldn't quite believe it!’

  God. They really thought I wouldn't. Jack
leaned across the table to swing the window wide.

  ‘Well, I'm not making much headway, I'm afraid. Lots of really annoying little ponky poos keep slipping through my fork.’

  ‘What?’ She cupped her ear and lunged to turn the radio down.

  ‘Tiny bits of shit!’ I yelled, as a rather glamorous blonde turned from where she'd had her back to me in the shadows by the Aga. She gazed in wonder.

  ‘Oh, this is… Alice,’ breathed Caro, going pink. ‘One of my brides. Getting married in the autumn. Phoebe, go and speak to your aunt.’

  I must make a tremendous spectacle: sawdust in hair, red of face, shouting obscenities through the window. Perhaps they'd pass me off as the mad aunt. Pass me off? I was the mad aunt. On a rogue impulse, as the young woman gave me a dazed nod, I rolled my eyes up into my head in an insane manner and gave a half-baked smile. She looked startled and turned away. Happily Caro missed it, but Phoebe giggled as I bent to whisper urgently in her ear. She listened, then whispered urgently back; saw my eyes widen as she divulged her advice.

  ‘But you don't have to,’ she said quickly. ‘Lots of people don't. I'm just fussy.’

  I gazed at her in wonder. ‘Me too,’ I whispered. I hastened off.

  Back at the stables I located said bucket in said tack room and found said Marigolds at the bottom covered in… ugh. Face averted I slipped them on, and then arms outstretched, ran to the stable. I could do this. I could. Crouched in my Armani jeans, hands still miles away, eyes half shut, I picked one up… dropped it in the wheelbarrow… picked one up… dropped it in. Just grass, I told myself, nostrils clenched, breathing through my mouth. Herbivores. They just eat hay and grass.

  Twenty minutes later, barrow now brimming, I stood and gazed around. Immaculate. In fact it was so flipping immaculate and I was so exhausted I was tempted to lie down on it myself. But it wasn't over yet. Phoebe had kindly filled a hay net for me, which I strung up for Hector's tea – I very much felt he was a Hector, not a Heccy – then I filled a bucket of water and lumbered back across the yard with it. As I set it down with a triumphant thump in the corner of his stable, half of it sloshed down one of my pink boots.