Wronged Sons, The

by Marrs, John

  “There, it’s done, now take it off or you’ll get it creased,” I grumbled as James stomped out of the room.

  I sat on the lounge floor alone, staring at the last drop of wine in both the glass and the house. I cursed the kids for taking up so much of my time that I hadn’t got the chance to stock up at the off-licence before it closed early. When everything else around me went wrong, wine was my safety net and it made me angry if there wasn’t a bottle to hand if I needed it. I dreaded waiting another three hours for the party to begin before I could have another drink.

  Suddenly, a loud crash in the kitchen became the final straw. My mother and I roared together.

  “Bloody shut up now or there’ll be no party and you’ll all go to bed early!” I’d screamed, hoping the kids would give me an excuse to be a hermit.

  Their voices quietened to whispers, then giggles, then squeals.

  “Right,” I bellowed and stood up, steadying my jelly legs against the arm of the sofa, and went to confront them. Their backs were towards me but Robbie couldn’t hide the glue and scissors in his hands or torn newspapers scattered across the worktops and floor.

  “What the hell are you doing? Look at the mess in here! And you know you’re not allowed to play with scissors. Get upstairs now!”

  My words were a little blurred but my outburst dazed them. As they parted, a homemade birthday card with a drawing of our cottage and family lay on the table. They’d framed it with dried pasta tubes and gold Christmas glitter.

  “Happy birthday Mummy,” they mumbled together as Emily handed it to me. Inside it read: ‘To the best Mummy in the world. We love you very much.’ They’d all signed their names in different coloured crayons and wrapped up their favourite things for birthday gifts – a seashell, a dinosaur and Flopsy.

  “They make us happy so we thought they’d make you happy too,” added James, unable to look me in the eye. I felt nothing but shame. I closed the card and noticed you weren’t in their drawing. They’d understood it was just the four of us now and the only person who hadn’t, was me.

  It was like someone had let the air out of me. My body deflated and my mouth fell open as for the very first time, I began to cry in front of them. My tears were so heavy they pushed my head forwards then bent me over double. The kids responded by gathering around me with the force of a rugby scrum.

  “Don’t cry Mummy,” said Robbie, worried. “We’re sorry we made you sad.”

  “You haven’t,” I sobbed. “They’re happy tears.” And some of them were. Not all of them, mind you, but some of them. In an instant, I recognised everything that had been wrong with me since you disappeared.

  I’d known deep down I’d been relying on alcohol to keep me sane, when there was the real solution, propping me up. James had been right, I was drunk and I couldn’t remember a day since you went when I hadn’t knocked back at least a couple of glasses.

  I’d used wine to replace you. And gradually it’d become my crutch and the only glimmer of light in my dark corner of world. It was the only thing that sandpapered the rough edges away and made everything bearable again. It prevented a night of tossing and turning by easing me to sleep. It’d comforted me when I imagined all the bad things that might’ve happened to you. It was my reward for getting through another day after my miscarriage without falling apart.

  But when too much of it flowed through me, it made me bitter. I hated myself for it but I’d blamed you for throwing me into a life I’d never asked for. And worse than that, you’d made me take out my frustrations out on my babies. Of course it wasn’t your fault - it was mine.

  All four of us decided against the party at the village hall, and packed the fancy dress costumes into a bag and stuffed them into the cupboard under the stairs. Then we stayed up until midnight to see the New Year in together, watching it on the TV. And the three pairs of arms that had held me up for so long without me noticing gave me more strength and support than a bottle of wine ever could - or would - again.

  ***

  Saint-Jean-De-Lus, Twenty-Four Years Earlier

  New Year’s Day, 12.05am

  Champagne corks flew through the air as a chorus of a thousand voices cheered across the town square. Church bells in Saint-Jean-de-Luz chimed to announce the arrival of the New Year while the townsfolk celebrated with backslapping and cheek pecking.

  My first Réveillon de la Saint-Sylvestre had begun earlier that evening with a feast cooked, blanched and seared by the willing kitchen staff of local restaurants, cafes and bars. Crockery packed with mouth-watering dishes was piled upon every inch of available surface space at my restored Hotel Pres De La Cote for its grand re-opening. Wooden tables were pushed together, draped in ivory lace linen and decorated with plastic holly branches and white pillar candles. Flames flickered across the rooms and enshrouded each person in a tangerine blush, as if we were banqueting in the belly of a bonfire.

  I was one of more than three hundred friends, neighbours and tradesmen sat together side by side on wooden stools to indulge in the conclusion of the festivities. Then with the food still fresh in our stomachs, it was time for a traditional walk through the cold, sharp air to the church for Midnight Mass. Even though I’d misplaced my religion a lifetime ago, it was a place, somewhat hypocritically, that I needed to visit to offer gratitude for my second chance. And to prepare for a third.

  As the church bells rang, I joined the extended congregation to walk en masse with blazing torches towards the square, the final destination for celebrations. There, a uniformed brass band played traditional French folk songs as balloons floated through the breezeless air and party poppers decorated the sky.

  “Happy New Year buddy!” shouted Bradley as our glasses collided.

  “And you.”

  “Any resolutions?”

  “Just the one,” I replied vaguely.

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “And what is it?”

  “I can’t tell you that, it’s unlucky.”

  “Unlucky? Your Brits are weird.” He shook his head, bemused, and wandered off in the direction of a slender waitress who’d been catching his eye all day.

  I remained in my place under a leafless cherry tree, taking mental pictures as the throng sang, drank and danced. I placed my half-full glass on the base of a statue, stubbed my cigarette out on the cobbles and walked slowly towards the Hotel Pres De La Cote. I stood on the opposite side of the road and dissected how my months of intense restoration had radically changed its appearance. I was thrilled with my achievement.

  I unlocked the front door, and was greeted by the warm sound of silence. I headed down the corridor to my room and pulled my recently purchased green canvass rucksack from the cupboard. It held my sparse collection of worldly possessions – clothes, a couple of books, maps and money I’d kept hidden in rolled-up socks – all of which I’d packed earlier. And, of course, Darren’s passport. The hotel wouldn’t be the only thing to see in the New Year with a new identity.

  I closed the bedroom door and walked back towards the reception, only stopping briefly to examine a photograph Bradley had pinned to a cork notice board. It was of a dozen of us, including Darren, sitting in the courtyard raising beer bottles towards the lens. I returned their smiles.

  I’d spent the last six months of my life with people who had no idea who I really was. Nobody judged me, challenged me or bruised me and that suited me perfectly. I’d been safe there, and I could have spent another year, two years… maybe five years in that town. But I knew eventually it would fail me. Everything that makes you happy eventually disappoints.

  And it was pointless creating a new life for myself if I wasn’t going to live it. It would’ve all been for nothing. It was in my best interest to escape on my own terms, while I had nothing but fond memories. So with a heavy heart, yet motivated by the thrill of expectation, I prepared to take flight.

  I lit three candles, one for each child I’d left behind and one more for mysel
f, and placed them in the dining room, the reception, my bedroom and by the rear door. It only took a minute before their inch-high amber flames licked the curtain hems, then climbed towards the sky, destroying everything in their paths.

  I locked the front door behind me, strapped my rucksack to my back and made my way up the long, steep road to the railway station. I paused half way for a final sentimental glance at the building responsible for helping to rebuild me. A red glow had already illuminated a couple of rooms and it wouldn’t be long before more followed.

  Like I had with my family, I’d created something almost perfect. But perfection fades. Yours had, and the Hotel Pres de La Cote would follow suit. Nobody would feel the love for it I’d felt. No one would hear its cry for help like I did or restore it like it deserved. I would not let others ruin it like they had done before. I would be the one to choose how it got the finale it deserved.

  Fifteen minutes later, I perched on the pavement outside a lifeless station and drew the faint sea air into my lungs one last time. I placed my rucksack behind my head, lay on the pavement and drifted off to the sounds of pops, shouts and small explosions.

  ***

  Today, 12.30pm

  “I don’t understand,” she began, utterly confused. “You put your heart and soul into renovating that building and then you set fire to it?”

  He nodded slowly and tapped his foot on the floor.

  “So is that what you do?” she continued. “You work hard to create something amazing and then destroy it because of something you think I did to you twenty-five years ago?”

  This time his head remained still, but she persisted.

  “Is that what the problem was with us? We were the perfect family you’d always wanted, but once you got it, you realised you didn’t need us after all?”

  “No,” he replied with certainty. They were far from perfect, she had seen to that. But he’d save that part for later.

  Her initial anger was giving way to frustration. He appeared quite determined to regale select stories from his past, but because there was so many gaps open to interpretation, she naturally wanted to know more. But then he’d clam up as tight as an oyster shell or change the subject. She hated herself for letting him draw her in; nevertheless, she wasn’t prepared to end her line of questioning just because of his reluctance.

  “But you’d made friends there; while I was working like a slave and selling off everything we owned, you didn’t have a bloody care in the world!”

  “Nothing that satisfying ever lasts, Catherine,” he replied. He was smiling but she could see it was underpinned by sadness. “Not the hotel, not the people, not my life here or my life there. So it’s far better to leave on your own terms than on someone else’s.”

  “Then you were depressed? I understand depression; you knew what I went through before you went. But you could have talked to me about it, let me be there for you like you were there for me. You didn’t have to run away.”

  “I didn’t say I was depressed, Catherine, you’re making assumptions.”

  She was exasperated. “Then once again, I don’t understand! Why did you leave? All these bloody riddles and you still haven’t told me the one thing I want to know. What did I do that was so bad it made you run away?”

  Like the slow burning of a cigarette, he kept her waiting. She didn’t know what game he was playing, but he was better practiced than a politician when it came to avoiding the answers that mattered.

  As much as she hated being controlled by a puppet master, she got the feeling she’d have to play along a lot longer before she could cut the strings herself.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Northampton, Twenty-Four Years Earlier

  January 4, 5.25pm

  I couldn’t have felt more out of place had I been dressed in a clown suit and deely boppers.

  The bell above the door tinkled when I walked through the doors of Fabien’s Boutique. It was like stepping into the pages of a Vogue magazine - orange rust and gold wallpaper covered the walls and mahogany rails of clothing were scattered about near occasional tables draped with select pieces. A crystal chandelier hung from the centre of the ceiling. The whole shop was like Joan Collins’ walk-in wardrobe.

  I checked the designer labels on hangers but there wasn’t a price tag in sight. A little matter of cost didn’t concern the kind of women lucky enough to afford to shop there. Like my mum’s dresses, the clothes in Fabien’s were always supposed to hang in someone else’s wardrobe, not mine.

  “Stunning, aren’t they?” a smoky voice crackled behind me. I turned around, startled, and yanked my hand from a rail and back to my side like I’d been caught shoplifting.

  Selena had asked if I could visit her mother after the Christmas holidays. I’d presumed she’d wanted some alterations doing, but when she revealed her mother owned Fabien’s, you could have knocked me down with a feather. It was one of only a handful of independent clothes shops in town selling high-end fashion imported from places like Italy and France. I’d never had the guts to go inside myself; my experience of Fabien’s was lingering glances as I walked past the window to C&A.

  “I’m Selena’s mother, Margaret. You must be Catherine,” she began, extending a manicured hand towards mine. Her long, ruby red fingernails drew my eye to clusters of diamonds in her gold rings.

  “Yes, nice to meet you,” I replied, ashamed of my own pin-cushioned hands.

  Margaret was every inch the boutique she owned, and precisely the reason I’d never set foot in it. Hovering somewhere around her mid-fifties, she was the epitome of old school glamour - part Joan Crawford, part Rita Hayworth. Her chestnut brown hair was tied into a neat bun and lines running horizontally down her cheeks and above her lips were a giveaway that she enjoyed the sun and a cigarette. I wondered why she had a daughter who could barely make ends meet.

  “Nothing like Selena, am I?” she asked rhetorically. “I’ve tried to help her, financially I mean, but she’s inherited my stubbornness and refuses to take a penny. I’m proud of her nonetheless. Anyway, please continue looking around.”

  I felt even more self-conscious as Margaret’s eyes bored into me to get the measure of who I was by the clothes I was drawn to. Eventually she spoke again.

  “I’ll get to the point, darling. I want you to work for me.”

  “Um, I don’t know if I’d fit in here,” I stuttered, convinced I’d misheard her.

  “No, no,” she laughed. “I don’t need you in the shop; assistants are ten a penny. I want you to make a range of clothes for me.”

  I must have looked baffled because it was too early for an April Fool. So Margaret explained how she’d seen the clothes I’d made for Selena and her friends. And while the modern fashions teenage girls wanted weren’t to her taste, she’d been impressed by my attention to detail and the quality of my work.

  “Oh, I just copy what I see in magazines,” I said, a little flattered, a little embarrassed.

  “Which is a skill in itself,” Margaret interrupted. “Darling, I don’t offer praise lightly. I’ve taken a very close look at your work to the point where I’ve almost picked the bloody things apart looking for faults, much to my daughter’s annoyance. But your standard is quite exceptional. Obviously your choice of fabrics is… how can I put this without causing offence… a tad ‘high street’. But you clearly have an instinct for what suits a woman. And watching you wandering around my boutique like a kiddie in a sweet shop tells me you have greater aspirations than making school uniforms and trendy frocks for little Madonnas.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, neither used to, nor entirely comfortable with, compliments. I followed her like a puppy on a lead as she walked the shop floor with a purposeful stride, sifting through rails and draping clothes over my arm

  “You’re not perfect, but none of us are darling,” she continued. “A few of your clothes have room for improvement, but that’s something we can work on. I want you take a few pieces away with you and examine the
m closely. Look at how they’re pieced together, the use of appliqués, gross grains and the shirring… the devil is in the detail. These are the intricacies that separate clothes you’ll find on my rails from those you’ll see in a Littlewoods catalogue. Then come back to me in, let’s say a month, with three of your own creations. My customers don’t settle for anything less than the best and neither do I.”

  Top quality clothes were Margaret’s main income, but small, independent labels were fast becoming popular – limited edition ranges aimed at the over thirties. Margaret’s clientele was growing older and she needed to appeal to an equally lucrative younger market with a ‘disposable income’ – whatever that meant. And I got the feeling that what Margaret wanted, Margaret got.

  “If you can prove to me you’re the untapped talent I think you are, then we could do business,” she added, smiling.

  One nervous handshake later and I was sat on the top deck of the number five bus, holding on to a thousand pounds worth of dresses for dear life.

  January 20, 1.55am

  Making clothes for children who didn’t care about fashion trends and teens that wanted designer rips in their jeans was entirely different to Margaret’s expectations.

  For the first time in my life, I had the chance to turn my talent into something really profitable. But I was scared. What if she laughed my ideas out the boutique? What if it wasn’t in me to be original and I could only stretch to copying clothes that already existed?

  I could have gone around in theoretical circles for days, but the only way to find out was to stop dithering and get on with it. I sat down at the dining room table with a mug of tea, and surrounded myself with Robbie’s coloured pencils, a blank sketchpad, and an image of Margaret breathing down my neck. Then I drew. And drew. And drew.