Family Baggage

by Monica McInerney

  ‘At church?’

  ‘No, not at church. Here, in the garden.’

  She knew then that Lara and her mum had already talked about this. The decision had been made. ‘What will we do?’

  ‘Lara thought she’d like to say something, and then I will say something about her mum and dad, and so will your dad, and then we will think about them, and how sad we are that they’re not with us, but how glad we are that Lara has been able to stay with us and become part of our family.’

  ‘What date will it be?’

  ‘We talked about that, too, didn’t we, love?’ Her mother smiled over at Lara, who was sitting quietly. ‘And we thought maybe the day Lara came to live with us, rather than —’ she hesitated, ‘rather than her parents’ anniversary. So we remember something good at the same time as we remember something sad.’

  Harriet liked the sound of this. ‘Can I do something?’

  ‘I think this first one is for Lara, Harriet. We’ll see how we go after that.’

  ‘But I could do the flowers or help with the prayers. I’m good at prayers.’ She’d got a star last week at school for the prayer she wrote about wanting the weather to be good for sports day. She had rhymed keep the rain away with on our sports day.

  ‘Not this time, Harriet.’

  Harriet got up and walked away then. It wasn’t until ages after that her mother came out to find her. She’d had to start dropping plums from the tree she’d climbed up to draw attention to herself.

  ‘Harriet, please don’t be like this.’

  ‘Lara gets to do everything.’

  ‘Harriet, this isn’t a treat. This is a way for Lara to remember her mum and dad, and for her to know we remember them too.’

  ‘But it’s not fair. You’re always asking her to do things. You tell me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You say to her, “Lara, would you like to go into your room and finish your homework.” And you say to me, “Harriet, go and do your homework.” ’

  Her mother was silent for a few seconds and then nodded. ‘You’re right. I have done that. I’m sorry, Harriet, I didn’t realise. We’re trying to make it as easy for Lara as we can, to be as kind as we can to her. Do you remember, we talked about being kind to her?’

  ‘But she’s okay now. She hardly cries at all any more. She doesn’t even have those nightmares.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean everything is okay, though. She’s still very sad inside.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I know what it feels like when your mum and dad die.’

  ‘That was different. You said your mum and dad were old when they died.’

  ‘It’s still sad, whenever it happens. Come down from there, Harriet, come and help me. And you’ll have your own special days down the track, I promise you. This one is for Lara and her mum and dad memories.’

  Harriet climbed down. She didn’t really need her mum’s help but it felt nice to take her hands and jump into her arms like she used to do when she was little. ‘What’s she calling it? It’s not a birthday or Christmas Day, is it? What’s the name of this day?’

  ‘It’s an anniversary, of when she came to stay with us, and a day to think about her parents.’

  ‘Can she call it Memory Day?’

  ‘You can ask her if you like.’

  Harriet asked her as soon as they went inside. Lara thought about it and then shook her head. ‘No, thanks anyway, Harriet.’

  ‘But Memory Day is a good name. You can remember your mum and dad and remember when you first came to live with us.’

  Mr Turner patted her on the head. ‘Harriet, I don’t think Lara wants to call it that.’

  She couldn’t do anything right. Anything. ‘It’s always about Lara in this house!’ she shouted, as loudly as she could. She slammed the door after herself, ran into her room and threw herself onto her bed.

  Her mum didn’t come to find her that night. She eventually fell asleep. When she came out the next morning she was told off, by her mum and by her dad, for being so rude.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The St Ives hotel had set aside a corner of the bar area for the Willoughby cocktail party. Harriet checked with the manager that all the preparations were in place. They were. He told her Lara had faxed through a detailed running list and everything she’d asked for was organised. Harriet checked the date. Three days previously. It was so peculiar. If Lara had known she was going to leave them like this, would she still have been checking that the buffet and wine were going to be in place?

  Harriet glanced at her watch. Twenty minutes to seven. She had promised Patrick Shawcross she would meet him in his room and escort him down to the cocktail party. It was a way of keeping things in control. It was also for his own safety, but she hadn’t told him that. She didn’t like to imagine what Mrs Lamerton might do if she happened upon Willoughby on his own in the hotel corridor.

  She made one last check of her appearance. She’d washed and blowdried her hair and applied night-time make-up – darker eyeshadow and a bolder shade of the red lipstick she liked. It was how she looked from the neck down that was the problem. After spending the afternoon in normal clothes she was back in her now dry Turner Travel uniform. Another one of Melissa’s rules – full uniform to be worn at all group functions, as well as during travelling days. It made the tour leaders easy to spot across rooms, as well as in airports. She had three attempts at tying the scarf before deciding it would have to do. Perhaps Miss Talbot would show her how to tie it again. She had seen her itching to get her fingers on it in Malaysia during the stopover and eventually given in. Those nimble knitter’s fingers had proved equally skilled at twisting and tying a silk scarf. If she’d had time she would have called in to Miss Talbot’s room and asked for her help. She suspected there would be a flurry of activity in all the rooms already though, especially those of the women. From what Harriet had seen so far, they all took a lot of trouble to dress up each evening.

  As she put her key in her bag she realised she had run out of peppermints. She liked to have a supply with her on tour, more for her clients than herself. Gloria called them the tour guide’s secret weapon. As they had all discovered over the years, there was nothing more upsetting for groups of people travelling in close quarters than someone with halitosis. She decided to nip out quickly to the chemist she’d seen down the road when they pulled in. She glanced out the window and saw dark grey clouds had covered the sky. There was even a smattering of rain on the window. She took her own, non-Turner Travel red macintosh off the hook and slipped it on over the uniform.

  Ten minutes later she had a new supply of peppermints and a beating heart. There had been a queue in the chemist and she was late getting back to the hotel. There wasn’t time to take her mac back to her room. She smiled at the receptionist and darted into the room where the cocktail party was being held. Everything was set up. The bar was open, its wooden shutters pulled aside. There were cocktail glasses and bowls of glacé cherries, pineapple chunks on sticks and a giddy arrangement of paper umbrellas and twirly straws. It looked like something from a cruise ship. Across the room two uniformed waitresses were arranging the buffet dinner. They had ordered a simple selection of poached salmon, cold ham and salads, with plenty of warm bread rolls and dishes of butter curls. Nothing too spicy, nothing too exotic. Elderly stomachs had a habit of ‘playing up’, as their clients often delicately put it, when on tour. Most of the group were already there, more than ten minutes early. Their faces lifted in expectation when she opened the frosted glass doors and then fell again when they realised she was on her own. She gave a big smile and promised to see them again shortly.

  ‘With the guest of honour?’ Mrs Lamerton said, sharply.

  ‘The man himself,’ Harriet said with a smile.

  She went up the stairs to Patrick Shawcross’s room, catching sight of herself in the mirror at the end of his corridor. A little windblown but not too bad. And at least the red o
f the macintosh suited her, which was more than could be said for the yellow uniform. She knocked on his door at ten to seven, as they’d agreed. There was no answer. Another knock.

  ‘Mr Shawcross?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Mr Shawcross?’

  She tried the door. It opened. She walked in, just in time to see him step in from the open balcony. ‘I’m sorry to just come in like this. I knocked but …’ She stopped. He looked terrible. Pale, with beads of sweat on his forehead. There was no sign of the amused, relaxed man she’d seen earlier.

  ‘Harriet, hello.’

  ‘Mr Shawcross, are you all right?’

  ‘I think so. I will be.’ He gave a weak smile. ‘Just a bit queasy.’

  What could it be, food poisoning? Or perhaps he had an allergy? ‘I’m so sorry. I can call a doctor, we could maybe get you some emergency medication or—’

  ‘I’ll be fine. Well, not fine, but you don’t need the doctor.’

  ‘But if it’s food poisoning —’

  ‘It’s not food poisoning. It’s nerves.’

  ‘Nerves?’

  ‘Stage fright.’

  ‘You mean about the cocktail party?’

  He nodded.

  ‘But you can’t be nervous of them. It’s twelve old people.’

  ‘I’d be nervous if it was four toddlers.’

  ‘But you’ve been working as an actor for years, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, and I’ve been sick with nerves beforehand for years too.’ The colour was coming back into his face. ‘I know it’s ridiculous. And I know I’m hardly on the brink of stepping out into the Royal Albert Hall, but a performance is a performance.’ He gave her a shadow of his usual smile.

  ‘But you’ll be great. You will be. They’re all beside themselves at the idea of meeting you. They’ve been talking about it non-stop. Like teenagers …’ She regretted her words immediately as she saw the blood rush out of his face again. But she couldn’t pretend the group wasn’t excited. She tried again. ‘Once you get to know them you’ll be all right, I promise you. And you will get to know them, over the next few days. They’ll be like family by the end of it.’ A particularly deranged family, but it wasn’t the time to tell him that.

  He still looked pale. ‘I shouldn’t have said yes to this.’

  ‘Of course you should have.’ There was no way she was letting him escape now. ‘Please don’t worry, Mr Shawcross. Really. I know you’ll be terrific.’

  ‘Harriet, I won’t be, you know. I told you, I could have bluffed a magazine article, but this? I’m hardly the world’s best actor, am I? Known for what? A long-forgotten role in a bad TV detective series?’

  He was like a different man, not the confident, amused man she’d met earlier that day. He had seemed like something from a celebrity magazine then, all jokes and good looks and accents. Now he seemed like a normal human being. A nervous normal human being. The peculiar thing was that the more nervous he seemed, the more her own nerves were subsiding. She felt perfectly calm. It all seemed straightforward. ‘But that’s exactly who they want you to be. That’s why they’re here and why they wanted you to be here. It’s not really Patrick Shawcross they’re interested in. It’s who they think Patrick Shawcross is. Which is Willoughby. So all you have to do is pretend to be Willoughby again. Or at least a sort of Willoughby.’

  He stared at her.

  She thought that might have been hurtful and stepped closer, hurrying to correct the impression. ‘I mean, of course they’ll be interested in you, Patrick Shawcross, your life and all of that, but I think deep down they just want you to be like Willoughby the detective.’

  He came close and, to her astonishment, took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead. She got a faint scent of mint mouthwash and that nice aftershave again. ‘You’re a genius, Harriet. It’s that simple, isn’t it? It’s got nothing to do with me at all. I just have to start acting from now on, don’t I?’ He sat down at the table. ‘The only problem is I can’t really remember much about Willoughby.’

  Harriet could have done a PhD on Willoughby. ‘He was moody. Mysterious. Charming. Enigmatic. All those kinds of things.’ He was sexy, too, but she didn’t say that.

  ‘Did he have any catchphrases?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Like Dirty Harry said “Go ahead, make my day” and Kojak had “Who loves ya, baby?”? ’

  ‘I don’t think so. Only that line at the end of every program. “That’s people for you, George.” ’

  He answered her distractedly. ‘ “Aye, Willoughby, so it is.” That’s right. But no, that wouldn’t work in a crowd situation. We don’t have time to watch the video now, do we? To refresh my memory?’

  She checked the time. Five minutes to seven. They were already cutting it fine. She wouldn’t have been surprised to hear slow handclapping coming up from the cocktail lounge. ‘I’m sorry, no.’

  ‘What did he wear?’

  Harriet had a mental picture immediately. ‘Thick sweaters. Dark blue shirts. I think that was supposed to be his postman’s uniform. And in the opening credits, he wore a sort of baggy white shirt, with a dark duffle jacket over it.’

  ‘That would help.’ He went to the cupboard, unbuttoning the blue shirt he was wearing as he moved. ‘A white shirt like this?’

  She saw dark hair on his brown chest as he turned back from the wardrobe with the new shirt. She also noticed his toned body. A swimmer’s body. ‘Just like that,’ she said.

  He did up the shirt quickly, rolling the sleeves up over his elbows. He had well-shaped hands, too, with long fingers. He flicked through the cupboard again. ‘No, nothing even close to a duffle coat. Would this do? It’s not too casual, is it?’

  She looked at the jacket he had taken out. It was a dark blue corduroy one. It felt strangely intimate, advising him on his appearance like this. ‘No, that looks perfect.’

  He tried it on and looked over at her again. ‘It’s okay?’

  ‘You look great. You look like you should. Just like Willoughby.’ He did too.

  ‘I don’t suppose you could get me a black and white dog from somewhere? A stand-in Patch? To complete the look?’ He shot her a grin. He was starting to relax again.

  ‘I think the hotel has rules about dogs. Except guide dogs, but that might not be quite the right look,’ she said, straightfaced.

  ‘No, perhaps not. Another, smaller animal perhaps?’

  ‘I did see a cat outside the kitchen earlier, if you want me to try and catch it for you?’

  He pretended to consider it. ‘What colour was it?’

  ‘Ginger, I think.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, the colours would clash. But thank you anyway.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ Harriet bit back a smile. The mischief was back in his eyes again. She was surprised at how much she was enjoying this. And how relaxed she was feeling. As if this was a perfectly normal way of spending an evening, watching a stranger get dressed, talking about cats and dogs. She checked her watch. Nearly seven. They were cutting it fine. She stood up. ‘I’m sorry to rush you, but I think we’d better get going.’

  ‘Of course. I’m ready now. And thanks, Harriet. You’ve been very understanding.’

  ‘I’m glad I could help.’ She waited in the corridor as he closed the door. They walked side by side down the carpeted corridor to the lift. ‘It really will be informal, I promise, but as I said, everyone is quite—’ she stopped there, as the word hysterical came to mind. She didn’t want to make him feel nervous again ‘—excited about meeting you. If it gets too much, please just signal me to help out and I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘Signal? Wave wildly across the room at you, do you mean?’

  She smiled. ‘Well, that’s one way.’

  ‘Something more low-key, perhaps?’ They were waiting for the lift. ‘We need a code word. Something I can drop casually into the conversation that will let you know I need rescuing.’

  ‘That’s a good idea. What
did you have in mind?’

  ‘Armadillo,’ he said, as they moved into the lift. ‘If I happen to slip the word armadillo into a sentence, you’ll know I need rescuing.’

  ‘Armadillo? Won’t that be a bit obvious? I don’t think there’s going to be much chance of you spotting one wandering across the room.’

  ‘That’s my challenge. So do you agree? Armadillo it is?’

  ‘Armadillo it is.’ He was quite mad, she decided.

  The lift stopped at the ground floor and the door slowly opened. He held it open but didn’t make any move to step out. ‘Can I ask you one more thing before we go in?’

  ‘Of course.’ She had stepped forward and was standing closer than normal to him.

  ‘Would you please call me Patrick? This Mr Shawcross business is really making me feel like a schoolteacher.’

  ‘I’m not supposed to. It’s one of our company rules, particularly with a special guest.’

  ‘Even if I command you? In my best Willoughby voice?’

  ‘Well, perhaps. But only in private.’

  ‘Then I’ll have to make sure we’re in private together as much as possible.’

  Was he flirting with her? She shot him a glance but he looked innocently back. ‘I can probably make the occasional public exception, too.’

  ‘Thank you, Harriet.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Patrick.’ She stopped around the corner from the cocktail party. ‘Here we are. They’re all waiting. I’ll introduce you and please feel free to say a few words too, if you want, but it might get a bit —’ like a rugby scrum, she suspected, ‘— hectic, after that.’

  ‘I’m ready for anything, I promise. Me and my armadillo.’

  She realised she was still wearing her red macintosh. She quickly unbuttoned it and folded it over her arm as they came to the closed doors. Beside her, Patrick Shawcross came to an abrupt stop.

  ‘Harriet, what on earth are you wearing?’

  She turned back, puzzled. ‘My company uniform.’