‘Thank you,’ I say. Just that. Nothing else.
‘They did want you, you know that, don’t you?’ I pull back, shocked by what she has said. ‘They both wanted you. If your dear mother had got her way, it would have been the other one who left this house.’ It was a close call . . . Me or you. ‘She deserved it after what she did. If only they hadn’t discovered what was happening, they would never have brought her home.’ Then she shakes her head, purses her lips. ‘Oh, I know I shouldn’t say that. She was just a little girl and I shouldn’t wish that upon a child.’ She reaches up, places her good hand over her chest where her heart is. ‘Not even her, God forgive me.’
‘Joyce, what are you talking about? Why did they send me away? What was happening?’ The similarity of this story to what Elle began telling me after the funeral is indisputable, and the proximity of the truth swells up inside me, blocking my windpipe. All this time I was sitting holed up in that room, and if I had just pushed Joyce about what happened, she might have told me everything.
‘He didn’t feel it was right after learning what they were doing to her. They had to bring her home, but it was too risky to let you both stay. He just felt so guilty. So many lies had already been told, what was one more?’ She swallows hard. ‘He didn’t think anybody would be able to care for Elle if they learnt what she had done. So he kept her here, kept it all quiet, and sent you away. Oh,’ she says, touching her head. ‘I forget myself. However could I have said that it would be better if nobody knew? For that to happen to a little girl . . .’ She steps away and I reach for her arm. ‘No, I shouldn’t be saying this. Like I said, better left behind closed doors.’
My mouth parts to speak, but I don’t get my words out in time. Instead the cry flies down the stairs, shrill and urgent.
‘Nooooooooooooo! Whhhaaaaaaaaaaanooooooooo!’ Desperate cries, mauled baby, strangled kitten cries. I let go of Joyce and charge up the stairs, round a dog-leg bend into unknown territory. I pass a dead end on the right with a small table next to it and swing around the banisters as I follow the wailing. ‘Breeeatthe!’
As I run, I can hear Joyce shuffling along behind me calling out to Frank. I arrive at an open door. The room is dark, curtains closed. Elle is on the bed, rocking back and forth, wailing. I see my father underneath her. I have seen enough of death to know that he is gone. I have spent my adult life watching the sleeping, and I do not confuse the two. I creep forward, invisible, and look into his dead, half-open eyes. I know there is no point trying to save him. He died hours ago, and the empty bottle of Valium on the bedside locker next to an empty bottle of Scotch is all the evidence I need to know that it was suicide. I pick up the pill bottle with no name on it. It is mine.
I step backwards, unable to help. Snapshots of the room blink at me like the flash of an old-style camera: the heavy velvet curtains, the striped dressing gown on the end of the bed, the brown duvet cover, the empty water jug. I slide the bottle into the pocket of my jeans and edge away. Joyce is hobbling along the landing as I reach the door.
‘Call an ambulance,’ I mutter as she arrives next to me. She yelps when she sees him, wobbles, and I catch her before she falls. ‘Call an ambulance,’ I say again. I take one last look at Elle, flailing about on the bed, distraught. She is beating her hands like a wild animal against our dead father’s chest. We are orphans, I realise, something else that binds us. What can I do? Nothing. I cannot save him. I cannot save her. This time, just like every other time, I can only save myself.
I run down the main stairs and up to my bedroom and see that my bag is still sitting on the end of the bed, ready to go. It looks undisturbed. I grab it, ignoring the commotion from the adjoining room, the screams filtering through the air vents. I charge through the door, letting it swing to the point that it slams into the plasterwork. I hear something crack, break, flutter to the ground, but I am back down the stairs in a flash without a second thought. I slip outside through the back door, and as I approach the front of the house I see Frank running towards the main entrance. I wait for him to pass before I continue. I can still hear Elle. She is hysterical, making no sense. I think that maybe I should stay, try to help her, even though I know I will fail. But it would be futile.
I throw my bag on to the passenger seat of Elle’s car and climb in. The keys are still there. The tyres crunch on the gravel as I pull from the driveway, heading for the airport. The village with what should have been my school is just up ahead. The grave of the woman I resemble so much is only minutes away. I look into the rear-view mirror and watch as the house that should have been mine fades into the past, just like Elle, and I know for the first time that there is nothing salvageable left behind.
20
Once I’m through security I stake out a quiet corner, one of the seats that nobody wants because of the limited views towards the departure gates. I buy a new phone, one of the cheap disposable things that I will bin as soon as I get home and change my number. I push in my old SIM card and wait for it to register. Within thirty seconds I receive seventeen missed-call notifications. Each one Antonio. The tears that struck me on the way to the airport resurface, so I put the phone down and brush them away. My eyes are hot, so red-raw that my vision has become blurry. I know I should call Antonio, and I even make a couple of attempts to dial his number. Half an hour later I still haven’t made the call.
I head to the toilets and wet my face, letting the water wash into my eyes. A woman at a nearby sink watches me, sees that I am troubled. She considers an approach, a Good Samaritan shoulder to cry on, so I grab a paper towel and get the hell out of there. I buy a coffee and sip it before it gets the chance to cool down, burning my lip and tongue again. My head is throbbing, either from the swelling of my Ecstasy-fuelled brain, or because of what I have done as a result of it. So I find an empty seat near a kiosk selling souvenirs, where the noise is not so overpowering. I take out the new phone, knowing there is no point in waiting. Nothing is about to change. I dial Antonio’s number.
‘I love you.’ The first thing he says, and in English too. There is no anger in his voice, and no confrontation. ‘I am so sorry for everything.’ It makes everything so much worse, because at least if he was angry at me I could claim injustice. Whatever it was that Elle told him, he sucked it in, drank it up like baby milk.
‘I . . .’ I can’t get my words out. I want to tell him everything and be forgiven, yet at the same time I cannot bring myself to admit what I have done. The only thing flowing is a tear across my cheek. ‘I . . .’ I say again, but my voice cracks and it’s no use trying to hide it. Another kindly looking woman initiates a movement in my direction, so I turn away, stagger towards an exit. There is a large sign hanging across it that reads, Use only in an emergency.
‘Don’t say anything. It’s OK. I should have gone with you. I should have been there.’ I can hear that he is angry with himself. As if he is the selfish one for not coming.
‘I wish you had been here,’ I sputter, a line of snot streaming from my nose. I don’t know why I feel so sorry for myself, because the things I feel most sorry about are all my doing. Sleeping with Matt, and abandoning Elle at the time when she has perhaps never needed me more.
‘I will be at the airport waiting for you,’ he says.
And he is. He carries no flowers or extravagant gifts. Just him, dressed in the leather jacket I have always protested I hate. But when I see it, there is something instantly familiar about the way it makes me feel. He reaches out and I grip him, the smell of leather and garlic filling my nose. He wraps his arms around me and holds me, whispering in my ear in a mixture of English and Italian that is impossible to understand. But I do catch one phrase: ‘I will never stop being here for you.’
Suddenly nothing of what has gone before in our relationship matters. As if all the arguments and problems never existed. Somebody always there for me, is that what’s on offer? I can handle that, can’t I? No matter who it is. I wonder if I said something to elicit such a res
ponse. I’m not sure. I sink into the crumpled leather, let him muffle out the world. For a moment, it is just me.
At the house, I see that standards have slipped. Beer bottles are stacked up by the sink; there’s a smear of pizza sauce on the white tiles of the kitchen. Things that wouldn’t normally be there. But it doesn’t bother me, not even the haphazard way that the cushions have been tossed about. Not even the fact that it looks like he slept on the couch last night. That’s a whole lot better than where I slept.
‘Welcome home,’ he whispers. ‘This is where you belong.’ He snuggles in close, but the relief of being with him, away from them, isn’t as fresh as it was at the airport. I’m starting to think more like myself now that I am in my home, and I begin to suspect that he can smell Matt on me, like some sort of primitive instinct.
‘Thank you,’ I say, taking the cup of tea he makes for me. ‘I’m going to have a shower. Then we need to talk.’ I set the mug on the table. ‘There are things I need to tell you.’ There is only a hint of concern on his face, which he hides well with a smile.
I run the water hot to the point that my skin turns pink. I scrub my lank, greasy hair free of the dust from my childhood bedroom. I slough off the hairs from my arms and legs, and then proceed to the small strip between. By the time I finish, I am as hairless as an on-set porn star. As hairless as Elle. I scrub my body, avoiding only the scars on my hip, desperately trying to work out what it is that I want to tell Antonio.
I grab a towel and wrap it around my scalded body, my scars raised and inflamed. I leave the bathroom, determined to tell him everything. I go into my bedroom and push my feet into the slippers he bought for me, but then kick them off, feeling that to wear them is a liberty I shouldn’t take. I dig further into my bag, see the butterflies flapping to get out. I take the picture, drag my fingers over the delicate strokes. I set it down on my bedside table, propped up against the wall. I see the photo of my mother so retrieve that as well, but slide it quickly into my bedside drawer. I rummage for the small toiletry bag in search of lotion that I haven’t used in days. But as I pull it out, something else comes with it: a manila envelope. It falls to the floor and lands next to my bare foot. I look down and see that on the front of the envelope there is a name written in old-style calligraphic handwriting.
Irini Harringford.
‘Rini,’ I hear Antonio call up the stairs, ‘I made you another tea. Hurry, while it is warm.’
‘OK, I’m coming,’ I shout, sliding my arms into my towelling dressing gown, which smells like home, crossing over the ties at the front. I sit on the edge of the bed and reach down for the envelope. A few drops of water fall from my hair on to the ink, obscuring the letters. I curse under my breath, snatch at the white towel and dab at the drops. I turn the envelope over, feeling the weight, trying to guess what is inside. I slide my finger into the seam and tear it open, pull out the contents. The first word my eye catches is testament.
I, Maurice J. Harringford, of Mam Tor House, Horton, declare that this is my last will and testament. I revoke all prior wills and codicils created prior to my wife’s passing, and I . . .
I stop reading when I see Antonio leaning against the bedroom door frame. The door frame that he painted. Such details make my infidelity seem much more hurtful.
‘What are you reading?’ he asks as he sits next to me, fiddles a finger into my hair.
‘Nothing. It’s not mine,’ I say, folding the pages over. He picks up the envelope from my lap and holds it out in front of him.
‘It has your name on it. That makes it yours.’ He turns his body and edges towards me, and I smell his familiar perfume, spicy ginger and cardamom rich on his skin. ‘You wanted to talk, yet now you lie? Why?’ He doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘You have something here. Something for you. It looks important. Tell me. Tell me something,’ he begs. ‘Let me in so that I can help you.’
I swallow hard, impressed by his dedication. ‘A lot happened these past few days, Antonio. None of it was good.’ He looks a little nervous, almost sad. I offer him the pages and he begins to read. It takes time, because it isn’t like any English he knows. After a while, he pushes them back into my hand.
‘I don’t understand. What is this?’
‘It’s my father’s will. His wishes and instructions after his death. It is a legal document. I found it in my bag.’
‘In an envelope with your name on it?’ I nod. ‘Your father’s handwriting?’
‘I’m not sure. I guess so.’
‘So, your father wanted you to have it. But he’s not dead. Why would he give it to you now?’ My face gives it all away: the little swallow, the jittery eyes, verging on tears. ‘Your father died?’ I nod, look away. He reaches for me but my body stiffens. ‘What happened?’ he asks.
‘He killed himself. Overdose.’
‘But you spent all night together, talking and working things out. That’s why you didn’t come home last night.’
I start working on an explanation through the fog of lies. Elle’s lies, which I don’t fully know. I feel like I am the one who murdered him and am now trying to make up an alibi, lie my way out of trouble. ‘We did. It must have been afterwards. After he went to bed.’ But as soon as I say it, I know that my story contradicts something he thinks he knows.
‘But you . . .’ He pauses, before changing his mind. ‘Never mind.’ He flaps his hand dismissively.
‘What? Go on,’ I urge him. I lean into him because I want to know what mistake I have made, what part of my story already smells like a lie.
‘It’s nothing,’ he says, reaching down to the will. He pushes it towards me. ‘What does it say?’
I follow his lead and remind myself not to be too specific about what it is that I am supposed to have done. Turns out I’m not quite ready to divulge the whole truth.
‘I don’t know. I haven’t read it yet.’
‘Well, go on. Read it.’
I skim the five-page document as best I can, trying to rake through the legal jargon and pick out the important facts. I recount them for Antonio as I find them. ‘He survives his wife, Cassandra Harringford. He declares he is of sound mind.’ When Antonio looks confused, I add, ‘That he knew what he was doing when he wrote it.’ I turn the page, trail the words with the tip of my finger. ‘His funeral expenses should be covered by his remaining capital. And . . .’ I pause, not certain if I have read it correctly. ‘Just a minute. Let me read this part again.’ I swallow hard, gulping for breath as I take in the words. I look to Antonio, who is waiting, his teeth gritted together with the excitement of finally being involved.
‘What?’ he urges.
‘He left me the house.’ Antonio takes the paperwork from me. ‘Article four,’ I say, directing him to the relevant section. He reads while I stare at the butterflies sitting next to my bed.
‘He left you the house.’ Antonio flicks through the last pages, turns over the whole document and looks at the back in search of hidden secrets. ‘There is something written here. A number.’ He points to a handwritten series of digits, scrawled on the back in the same calligraphic handwriting: 0020-95-03-19-02-84. ‘What does that mean?’ he asks.
I shake my head. ‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Phone number?’
I look again at the numbers, the delicate blue ink. ‘I don’t think so. At least not in the UK.’
‘And not Italia,’ he confirms, as if there was a chance. I smile, because it reminds me of just how much he wants to be useful to me. How much he wants to be an integral part of my life. How much he used to try. And for that reason I think of Matt, and just how guilty I feel for what I have done.
Antonio continues skimming through the document, certain that we must have missed something. Then suddenly he jumps to his feet, tapping at the papers with the back of his hand. He thrusts them at me, pointing at the signature. ‘There, look. The date.’ I shrug my shoulders to indicate I don’t know what he is so excited about. He points again, pushing his f
inger into the page. ‘That’s only a couple of days ago.’
And he is right. The will was written on the same day I arrived at the house. I remember my father in the study. Wasn’t he signing something that night when I went to find him? Is this what he wanted to give me? I snatch up the picture of the butterflies and drive it with a strong forearm into the wall. Antonio staggers backwards in shock. I watch as the glass shatters into tiny pieces, parts of the painting tearing as it falls. Instantly I regret what I have done.
21
‘We should look into the number. The number has to mean something,’ Antonio insists, not for the first time since we came downstairs. The radiators are kicking in and I can hear them clanking in the background as I sip on a glass of red. There is a chill in the air, and the house feels smaller than it once did, like Antonio and I are stumbling over each other. He reaches for an oversized sweater draped over the edge of the couch. A light drizzle whips at the windows.
‘I don’t even want to think about the number. I just want to forget about it.’ If I am entirely honest, what I want to do is get drunk, pass out, and wake up tomorrow as a different person. Again. I settle for saying, ‘I don’t want his money, or his house.’
Antonio nods, but seems less than certain. He tries to hide his displeasure at my unwillingness, but he doesn’t do it well. I have known him too long for him to be able to mask it, and I know what he is really thinking. He believes this document creates a connection to my family. That he can exploit it, heal my wounds, and finally I will give him what he wants. He tries to settle next to me on the couch for a while as we watch some inane show about the mating habits of the dung beetle, but it doesn’t take long for him to get the fidgets. He sets his wine glass down untouched, heads over to my desk. I can see him working on the Internet, typing the number from the back of my father’s will into different search engines.
After a couple of hours and another bottle of Merlot, I am feeling better and he has finished his research. He begins giving me options, possible solutions as to what the number means: telephone listings in Egypt, Fibonacci sequences, and a television show called Number Alert. He reassures me that the television show has already been discounted as a dead end. Next up, details about how to calculate an international banking code, instructions on how to create a Swiss bank account, and notes about the instability of the human genome. All from the number scrawled on the back of my father’s will. It pisses me off that he seems to have been enjoying himself, creating a treasure hunt out of irrelevant Internet finds, like this is all part of a game.
My Sister Page 16
