By the time Mitch reached his classroom at school he had regretted both his words to Lauren and his bitter thoughts about Tessa. When he got home that afternoon he sought her out, finding her on a stepladder changing a light bulb in one of the guest bedrooms.
‘Sorry, Mum.’
She looked down at him and though he saw her try to remain severe, she softened and smiled, shaking her head at him: ‘I’m busy enough without you two kicking off.’
‘Let me do that,’ he offered, as she struggled to reach the shade suspended from the high ceiling.
‘No, I’m fine.’
‘I’m taller than you.’
She looked at him in surprise, and laughed. ‘So you are.’
She climbed back down and handed him the bulb, which he adroitly replaced.
Folding up the stepladder, he kept his eyes away from hers. ‘Can we talk about your father?’ he asked. ‘Roy Weaver – that’s his name, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Kind, thoughtful, supportive. Sorry for what he’s done.’
Mitch did not want to oppose her, but found it hard to blind himself to the unreality of such a claim.
‘So does he have a family?’ he asked. ‘Do you have brothers or sisters? I guess they’d all be younger than you.’
‘No. He doesn’t have kids. Just an older sister, Shirley.’
‘Have you met her?’
‘No, they don’t get on.’
‘But you might. You might like her.’
‘One thing at a time, Mitch.’ She smiled a little wearily. ‘I’m still getting to know him. Can you pop that back downstairs for me?’
‘Sure.’ He waited for Tessa to hold the door for him to carry out the lightweight metal ladder. He waited in the hallway as she turned to check that everything in the room was orderly and then closed the door. ‘I thought you wanted to know your family, didn’t you?’ he asked.
Tessa reached out to stroke his arm. ‘Thanks for caring. That’s really nice. But it’s complicated.’
‘How?’
‘Well, it was really difficult for Roy and Shirley growing up because their mother was an alcoholic. Died of liver disease years ago, and then Shirley simply turned her back on him when he was convicted.’
‘You’re still related,’ he insisted. ‘She’s your aunt.’ Mitch found he rather liked the idea of involving this wider family: it made the facts of Roy Weaver’s crime and incarceration less intense, more manageable. He couldn’t understand why his mum wouldn’t want that normality too.
‘Grannie Pamela says Erin’s coming back. For a proper visit this time.’
Mitch refused to be sidetracked. ‘Will she go and visit him?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘So what about his sister? You could speak to her at least. Meet her and see what she’s like. You don’t have to see her again if you don’t want to.’
But Tessa shook her head. ‘It would be disloyal to befriend a woman who could reject Roy when he was at rock bottom like that.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Look, sweetheart, I really must get on. That couple from Nuneaton will be here any second.’
Mitch stowed away the ladder then went up to his attic room, an obstinate rebellion forming itself like a physical sensation in his chest. Why should Tessa just expect him to fall into line like that? This was his family too.
THIRTY-FIVE
The luxury of being able to smooth the sheets on the spare bed, knowing that Erin would sleep in them tonight, of taking a fresh batch of shortbread out of the oven, already looking forward to offering Erin some with her coffee, gave Pamela immense pleasure – the kind of domestic pleasure that brought to mind Averil’s doll’s house. It was as though all the grief and regret that had been sealed up for so long inside that toy mausoleum could finally be dispelled, the little padlocks undone, the whole front of the house opened wide, and life breathed back into the fixed attitudes of the inhabitants. Except, remembered Pamela, there were no inhabitants in this intricate and unchanging world. Averil had removed the dolls when Erin went away. Pamela had found them when she’d been packing up Averil’s things after her death, three miniature dolls wrapped up in yellowing tissue paper in an old biscuit tin. She had put them aside, totems of her childhood, and had them still, tucked safely away.
She found the tin at the back of a bureau drawer. The paper had softened with age and she took care not to tear it. Shrouded by the wrapping were three tiny but differently sized dolls, each light as a feather and all wearing faded dresses. Funny how she had forgotten that the doll made to represent her father had disappeared when he died. The remaining three, in descending order, were Averil, herself and Erin. Pamela thought about how she was always in the middle, stuck between stronger opposing forces, never sure enough of what she wanted to stand her ground and fight for it.
She shook herself: Erin was coming! She had rung and invited herself, said she wanted to come, and Hugo was already on his way back from meeting her at Heathrow. Things would be different now, they really would. Pamela started to rewrap the dolls and place them back inside the tin. She would give them to Erin. Erin could put them back where they belonged. It would break the spell, lift the curse, start to make things right again.
For too long Pamela had not only believed that she didn’t deserve children of her own but also concluded that it was a punishment for taking Tessa away from Erin. That was why she had never defied or even confronted Averil. She knew how much Hugo blamed himself for their infertility – all the medical tests had said the problem lay with him – and that was why he believed that what he wanted didn’t count either. But she had made a terrible mistake in allowing him to defer to her, and so let Averil have her way. Hugo was right to condemn her for that. He’d never say it, he was too kind, but she knew he did.
For too long she had drowned her guilt and cowardice in gin. But first thing in the morning after Erin had called to say she was coming, Pamela had rung her doctor and booked an appointment. That had been last week, and although the GP had told her she’d have to wait a few weeks before she could start talking to an addiction counsellor, she’d congratulated Pamela on taking the first step, and Pamela had already succeeded in cutting down a little bit. It wasn’t much, but it was a step in the right direction. Maybe with Erin here she’d do even better.
She’d told Erin on the phone that Tessa was seeing Roy Weaver, but that it was fine – he was respectful, caring, had even sent that message about how fondly he remembered her. It was when she’d assured Erin that she really thought everything was going to turn out Ok that Erin had asked if she could come and stay for a couple of weeks. Pamela had been overjoyed: it was as if all the clouds that had hung over her family for so long had blown away, leaving nothing but blue sky.
THIRTY-SIX
Mitch stopped beside a busy roundabout to consult the A to Z he had bought at Liverpool Street Station. It was lunchtime, and the streets were a maelstrom of movement and traffic noise. He could not imagine how there were enough pockets of calm for anyone to live or work in such a place. Even the air felt dirty, and if you dared stop to gather your bearings, you were likely to be mown down by a bus, bicycle or rushing pedestrian. Catching flashes of brightly coloured socks or stockings amongst the crowd, a passing swipe of scarlet lipstick and sharp, unusual angles of haircuts, shoes and sunglasses, he felt lost amid a foreign tribe.
Thanks to Sam giving his distracted permission for Mitch to filch his credit card, Mitch had been able to check out premium online records, and was pretty certain he’d located the right Shirley Weaver. Tessa had said she was older than Roy, and this Shirley Weaver was younger, but she was definitely related. She was a designer and filmmaker with her own small company in Shoreditch, and Mitch had found plenty of links to her work: awards she’d won, her photo and her work address. He’d done a pretty intensive search on Roy too, but it had thrown up no new background information, probably because he was already banged up
by the time the web really got going. But that didn’t matter now that he could ask Roy’s sister about him.
Mitch had also fibbed to Sam to borrow enough money for the train fare, and had threatened Lauren not to blab about him taking a bus to the station instead of going to school. This was the second time he’d bunked off, and he hoped his parents wouldn’t get to hear of it. Charlie Crawford had been informed of Mitch’s unauthorised visit to Tamsin’s school, and Tamsin had been gated for the weekend in punishment, though she promised Mitch she didn’t care – seeing him had been worth it. But apparently Charlie had ordered Tamsin not to see Mitch again. Despite her insistence that her dad never stuck to threats he made, and her certainty that by the beginning of the holidays he wouldn’t even remember the incident, Mitch remained miserable and apprehensive about the future.
At least Tessa had broken it to Lauren a couple of days ago that she was visiting Roy Weaver in prison. Lauren had listened with a kind of wide-eyed excitement, as if some scary horror movie were about to begin, and kept asking whether Tessa was making all it up. Although Mitch was glad it was no longer a secret, Lauren’s attitude had upset him more than he let on: if she was going to view their biological grandfather as some kind of Voldemort character, then what did that make him?
Mitch turned left down a narrow street lined with a mixture of solid red-brick Victorian offices and warehouses, dissenting chapels and modern plate-glass bars and shops, and stopped outside a big wooden door. He now regretted his decision not to email Shirley first to request a meeting, but then told himself that if she’d refused it would have made it even more impossible just to turn up on her doorstep.
He pressed the buzzer and the door clicked open. He entered straight into a high open space with whitewashed brick walls, filled with desks and state-of-the-art technology. A very thin young man wearing a headset looked up from behind a white desk by the entrance.
‘Who are you here to see?’ he asked.
‘Shirley Weaver.’ Mitch was acutely aware of how obvious it was that he did not belong here.
But the thin young man smiled patiently. ‘Work experience?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Mitch. ‘She’s my aunt. My great-aunt.’
‘Oh, right.’ The thin young man pressed a button on his keyboard and spoke into his headset. ‘Shirley, your nephew’s here.’
Shirley must have registered surprise, for the young man glanced suspiciously at him. This was the moment Mitch had dreaded but anticipated, so he forced himself to stand still and smile calmly. ‘We’ve never met,’ he said. ‘I’m here to introduce myself.’
The young man relayed his words, and a moment later Mitch looked across the room and encountered the steady gaze of a woman with strikingly cut short hair with a straight fringe, all dyed a smart plum colour. He recognised Shirley from the photos on her website. She wore muted colours, and even though he knew she was in her late fifties, her pitch-perfect fashion sense made her appear much younger. She watched Mitch for a little longer then wove her way over and held out her hand.
‘I can certainly see a family resemblance,’ she said. ‘Come with me. We can talk in the meeting room. Coffee?’ This last was directed to the young man behind the desk, who nodded and went off to fetch it.
The meeting room turned out to be a partitioned cubicle at the back of the space with a long table, chairs and a board covering one wall to which was pinned a host of coloured Post-it notes connected by coloured threads wound around pins and linking photographs and what looked like pages cut out of magazines. Shirley smiled. ‘Work in progress. The client’s coming in later so I won’t have long, I’m afraid. Please,’ she gestured. ‘Sit down.’
Mitch sat down opposite Shirley, who rested her hands on the table and waited. He had rehearsed his opening speech. ‘My mother discovered recently that she’s adopted, and that Roy Weaver is her father. My grandfather.’
Shirley nodded, not taking her eyes off his face.
‘I’m sorry to turn up out of the blue like this, but I’d like to know more about him.’
‘I’d like to help you,’ she replied pleasantly, ‘but I’ve not been in touch with him for years.’
The door opened and, with a curious glance at Mitch, the young man laid down a tray with everything they might need. Shirley turned to him. ‘Nick, can you bring me my iPad? Thanks.’
‘But you know where he is now?’ Mitch hated himself for asking the question.
Shirley was pouring the coffee and did not look up. ‘Yes.’
‘Can you tell me exactly what he did?’ asked Mitch; there seemed little point is not being direct.
‘Don’t you know?’
‘Only that he killed his girlfriend.’
‘That’s right,’ she said. Mitch felt enormous relief: at least what Tessa had said – and had been told – was true, and Roy wasn’t some pervert who jumped out of bushes and abducted strangers.
Mitch could see that despite her friendly manner, Shirley was trying to disguise a wariness for which he could hardly blame her: she was right to be cautious. ‘I realise it must pretty awkward to be questioned by a complete stranger about your brother like this,’ he said, ‘but I’d like to know whatever you can tell me.’
‘You don’t look at all like a stranger.’ Shirley regarded him with quiet composure. Mitch decided she was pretty smart and that he liked her. ‘I can’t tell you much,’ she went on. ‘I know his victim was someone he’d lived with for quite a while, but I’m not sure I ever met her. Roy had walked away from us long before his conviction.’
‘So he’s not, like, a psychopath? Sorry,’ added Mitch, aware that he was blushing.
But Shirley looked amused. ‘Who knows?’ she said. ‘But he had been in trouble before.’
‘What for?’
‘Again, I don’t know for certain. But he had to give up his teaching job. Some kind of inappropriate behaviour with a female student.’
Mitch was aware of her looking at him, scanning his features, his hands, his proportions.
‘He was lecturing in a university, so she must’ve been over eighteen. He’d lost touch by that point, but I don’t think he ever went back to teaching. And I suspect maybe it wasn’t the first time,’ she added gently.
‘He told my mum that you don’t get on because your mother was an alcoholic,’ Mitch told her bluntly.
‘What?’ she exclaimed. ‘That’s nonsense. Typical Roy bullshit!’
Mitch couldn’t believe that such an unguarded reaction was anything but truthful.
‘He said you were older than him too.’
‘Yeah, poor little Roy!’
Mitch wanted to ask her what she meant, but Nick tapped at the door, handed Shirley an iPad and disappeared.
‘Oddly enough,’ she said, ‘I’ve just been digitising some family photos.’ She touched and swiped the screen to find what she wanted, then turned the device around to him. ‘That’s Mum.’ She pointed to a pretty woman smiling shyly at the camera, flanked by two teenagers. ‘If she had a glass of sherry at Christmas, she thought she was living the high life. She most certainly was not an alcoholic. That’s me,’ she added, ‘and that’s Roy.’
Mitch felt ill again: the clothes and hairstyle were old-fashioned, but the face of the teenage boy was his own.
Shirley flicked at the screen so it displayed a second photograph. ‘Roy’s graduation.’
Roy wore an academic gown and hood and held an official scroll tied with red ribbon, standing in the traditional pose with a three-quarter turn to the lens and a fixed smile; once more Mitch saw his own face beneath the mortar board.
‘I’ll print these off for you, if you like.’
Mitch swallowed, unsure that he wanted them.
‘I’ve not seen my brother in twenty-five years,’ she told him. ‘Maybe more. And he chose not to come to Mum’s funeral. So seeing you standing there in reception just now, so like him – well, it was very strange indeed.’
Mitch looked at h
er miserably. ‘I want to know what kind of man my mum’s dealing with. None of us have met him.’
Shirley nodded and sat back, taking a sip of her coffee. ‘I don’t honestly know for sure. But Roy was always … I don’t know, self-centred, manipulative, used his charm as a strategy to get what he wanted. And wasn’t very nice if he didn’t get his own way. I guess that’s why he stopped bothering with us. But as for actual criminal behaviour, I have no idea how far it went.’
‘But he murdered a girlfriend.’
‘Yes.’ She turned her coffee cup around in the saucer so the handle was in line with the edge of the table. ‘I was told that before he killed her, she had obtained a restraining order against him.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It meant he could be arrested if he went anywhere near her.’
‘My mum goes to visit him,’ said Mitch, willing himself not to start crying like a little kid.
‘Well, she can’t be in any great danger in a prison.’
Mitch wasn’t too sure about that. A couple of times he’d seen Tessa come home with a sort of feverish sparkle that didn’t look right, and now he was certain they were the days she’d visited Roy Weaver. ‘What if he gets out?’ he asked.
‘Is that likely?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’m afraid I was glad not to get involved,’ Shirley admitted. ‘You can imagine how his conviction devastated my poor mum. Thank goodness Dad didn’t live to see it. All the same, Mum and I decided we had to be there, in case he wanted anything from us. I mean, imagine starting a life sentence. We kept on writing every couple of months for the first two years. He never replied.’
‘He told Mum you turned your back on him.’
The Bad Mother Page 21
