The Happy Family

by Jackie Kabler

  ‘Swot,’ I thought viciously.

  I was different then, you see, to how I am now. Now I’ve learned tolerance and patience, kindness. But then, when I was thirteen, puberty was kicking in and the pain of the loss of my mother was even more acute; the anguish and anger burned more fiercely inside me every day and I was, quite frankly, a little bitch. Now I know that the way I behaved back then was completely normal for someone who had experienced what I had; I had friends, girls I hung out with, but I fell out with them regularly, always pushing them away before we got too close. I had begun more and more to believe, even though my dad told me repeatedly that he loved me, that I was not worthy of love, that I was defective somehow, because why else would my mother leave me? Increasingly, I struggled to cope with any form of criticism, or the tiniest hint of rejection – even a dog bounding up to one of my friends in the park and ignoring me was enough to send me descending into a depression that would last for days and yet was impossible for me to understand or explain. Therapy, although I fought it and refused to go as a teenager, was what saved me in the end. At university, I finally realised I needed help, and the resultant year of regular sessions with a gentle soul called Rita finally taught me that it was safe to put down roots, that it was possible to work through issues with friends and partners instead of shutting down and walking away. That I didn’t have to be so fiercely independent but could actually let people in. That I didn’t always have to say yes to be accepted and loved.

  I’m still a people pleaser, to a degree, still a little paranoid, a little needy sometimes. Still a conflict avoider. But without Rita, things would be very different now. She helped me heal, helped me become less insecure, less sensitive, less resentful. Become happier, basically. A normal person again, or as close to normal as any of us can get, for what is normal, after all?

  But back then, at thirteen, I was so very different. The teenage Beth was manipulative, rebellious, callous. She looked at the quiet girl sitting next to her and she felt only scorn.

  Look at her, I remember thinking. She’s so ugly and skinny and swotty and spotty. How can her mother bear to be related to her? Isn’t she ashamed?

  She wasn’t though. Because Lucy Allen’s mother didn’t walk out on her daughter. Lucy Allen’s mother dropped her off at the school gate every morning at eight-fifteen and picked her up every afternoon at four-thirty. She was a pretty blonde woman smiling broadly, proudly, as her daughter climbed back into the car, chatting animatedly to her as she drove off. Lucy Allen’s mother made her packed lunches with homemade Victoria sponge and freshly squeezed orange juice. Lucy Allen’s mother sent her to school with shiny polished shoes and a jumper that smelt of Comfort. Lucy Allen had a mother and I didn’t, was basically what it came down to. And I hated her for that. Hated her. Hated the fact that although I knew my dad did his best, he had a job to do and money to earn and so I got the bus to and from Fairbridge alone, and had neighbours watch me until he came home from work, and I made my own packed lunches.

  It was horrible and it was lonely, and it made me angry, so angry. But I still don’t know why it was Lucy I fixated on. Most of my friends had their mothers in their lives. It wasn’t a blessing unique to Lucy. But fixate on her I did. Fixate. And hate.

  It was the hate that ruined it all, in the end. Hate for someone who had never done me the slightest bit of harm. Hate that grew, rapidly and ferociously and completely irrationally. Hate that consumed me and began to fill my every waking thought.

  Hate was where it all began.

  Even now, I can hardly bear to think about where it ended.

  Chapter 17

  ‘Hey you two, Mum’s coming into town to meet me for lunch. Do you fancy joining us?’

  I’ve just walked into the staffroom and Ruth and Deborah are there, sitting close together at one end of the table, engrossed in quiet conversation. They both jump as I speak.

  ‘Gosh, sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you!’ I say.

  ‘Blimey, I didn’t hear you come in,’ says Ruth, hand fluttering at her throat. She smiles.

  ‘What did you say? Lunch? Sounds great, yes please.’

  ‘Amazing! Mum’s dying to meet some more of my friends. Can you make it too, Debs?’

  Deborah’s not looking at me. She’s frowning slightly, running a finger down a page of her big desk diary which is open on the table in front of her.

  ‘Erm … not sure. I’m quite busy today …’

  I peer over her shoulder. Her diary is pretty full all morning and again this afternoon, but there’s clearly a gap between about 12.45 and 2pm.

  ‘Not at lunchtime though?’ I say. ‘I mean, if we go out about one? I told Mum I could only be an hour max as I’m quite stretched myself today. You haven’t got anyone booked in then, have you? Come on, it would be nice.’

  Debs hesitates, looks at Ruth, and then back down at her diary. She shifts in her chair, looking uncomfortable, and suddenly I’m feeling anxious again.

  Doesn’t she want to come? Doesn’t she want to meet my mother?

  I tried, over the weekend, not to think too much about Brenda and Barbara and what they said to Mum on Friday night, but I’m still upset, and I was hoping lunch with my mother and my two best work buddies would help. But now …

  ‘OK,’ Deborah says suddenly. ‘It’s fine. I have some paperwork and stuff to catch up on but it’s not a problem; I can do it later. I’ll come.’

  ‘Great!’ I feel a little wave of relief.

  ‘OK, well shall we just go down the road to the coffee shop? I’ll ring Martha and ask her to keep us a booth?’ I say, and they both nod.

  ‘I’ve brought sandwiches from home though, so I might just have a coffee. Is that OK?’ Deborah says quickly.

  ‘Of course! Brilliant. See you later.’

  I wave a hand and leave the room. I wonder if I should tell Ruth and Deborah about what’s happened with Brenda and Barbara – after all, they’d probably be as upset as I am – but I can’t face it, not just yet. It’s embarrassing, for a start, like being back at school when the girls you hang out with suddenly flounce off and say they don’t want to be friends anymore. But I have other friends, I tell myself firmly now, and vow to forget about it.

  ‘The Busy Bees can buzz off,’ I mutter, as I settle myself at my desk and allow myself a small snigger at my own silly joke.

  The morning passes quickly, and by the time we arrive at The Hideaway, our favourite local café, I’m feeling a lot better. Work is a good distraction and how close was I to Brenda and Barbara, really, I think, as we settle ourselves in our corner booth and start studying the menu. If they were really only hanging out with me out of some sort of sympathy, well, I can do without them, can’t I …

  ‘Darling! Sorry I’m late, I decided to get a bus but then I had to find the way from the bus stop to here and I got a bit lost! I stopped and said hello to your friend Nadia on the way past. She doesn’t say much, does she, bless her? Anyway, hello everyone!’

  Mum has arrived, resplendent in a cobalt-blue jumper with some sort of fringe detail on the sleeves, her face carefully made-up, hair freshly washed and styled. Her bags arrived by courier last night, Liv somehow managing to pack them and organise delivery within twenty-four hours of Mum’s email (‘She’s so efficient, it’s scary!’ Mum told me). The clothes filled two large suitcases and a vanity case, and she spent ages in her room, unpacking and arranging. She hummed happily to herself and it made me smile as I stood on the landing listening to her, my heart full.

  My mother, here in my house. Actually moving in for a while. What does anything else matter when I have this?

  I stand up and hug her, laughing at her noisy entrance and touched that she remembered to say hello to Nadia, who I’d only mentioned briefly to her the other day. I make the introductions and soon we’re all gabbing away over toasted sandwiches and coffee. I say we’re gabbing away, but it’s really only three of us; Deborah seems distracted, sipping her coffee and nibbling on
the sandwich she’s brought with her (Martha, the owner, knows us well enough to turn a blind eye to us occasionally bringing our own food in as long as we buy something), while looking curiously at Mum but not really joining in with the conversation. It reminds me of Barbara the other night.

  ‘Everything all right, Deb?’ I ask, when Mum, at her insistence, goes up to the counter to pay for everyone’s food and Ruth nips to the loo.

  She nods.

  ‘Just feeling a bit … well, a bit guilty about coming out. I’ve got so much to do. You know what it’s like. Your mum seems nice though. So interesting too. Great stories.’

  I smile. Mum’s spent the last few minutes telling us about an art gallery she visited a few years ago in Germany which hosted an exhibition of the work of a young artist whose work consisted entirely of the droppings of various animals moulded into sculptures and affixed to canvasses.

  ‘I think he fancied himself as a sort of German Damien Hurst,’ she said. ‘But the place stank so badly they had to offer people facemasks drenched in perfume at the door. I mean, talk about shit art …’

  ‘She’s had quite a life, yes,’ I say. ‘And she’s quite the entertainer. Not shy, that’s for sure.’

  Deborah smiles and looks down at my still half-full plate.

  ‘You’re not eating much,’ she says.

  ‘Ah, just trying to cut down a bit. I’ve piled it on recently,’ I say.

  ‘Really?’ She looks me up and down with a puzzled expression. ‘You look fine to me,’ she says.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, but I don’t really believe her.

  Deborah smiles but her face looks strained. I’m looking at her properly now and she doesn’t look great – dark hollows under her eyes, fingernails bitten. I’m about to ask if she’s really OK, if she’s not feeling well, but Mum and Ruth return and moments later we’re back out on the street, Mum heading off for a wander round the shops while we rush back up the road to work. I don’t get a chance to pop into Deborah’s room during the afternoon and she’s still with a patient when I clock off for the day and drive to the hospital to spend an hour with Dad before I go home.

  I’m thrilled to find him wide awake and sitting up in bed. The little television on the wall opposite is switched on and some early evening quiz show is playing. I pull the well-worn plastic chair that sits by the bed a little closer to him and sit down, and for a while we make small talk, me asking what the hospital food’s like, him wanting to know if Finley’s been picked for the school football team yet. It’s nice to just sit there with him, chatting about nothing very much, and I’m relieved to see that his face looks a little less twisted, to hear his words a little less slurred.

  ‘So,’ he says suddenly. ‘Your mother. How ish she?’

  I hesitate. I’m happy, so happy that Mum is back, but I wouldn’t blame him in the least if he was angry that I’d welcomed her with open arms, although he doesn’t look angry, just casually interested.

  ‘She’s … she’s fine, Dad,’ I say eventually. ‘She’s in good form. She’s going to stay for a little bit longer actually.’

  I decide not to tell him it might be months. We can cross that bridge later. He nods slowly, then says, ‘Whatsh she been up to then, all thish time? Go on, fill me in.’

  ‘Are you sure? Well … gosh. Quite a lot.’

  I spend the next few minutes updating him, and his eyes widen with pleasure when I mention Liv.

  ‘A sishter? You always wanted a sishter, didn’t you?’

  ‘I did. We chatted the other day. It was kind of amazing, Dad.’

  He nods again and smiles his new, crooked smile, and suddenly I want to cry. I love him so much and he’s sacrificed so much for me over the years, and here he is, old and sick but still here for me, still happy for me despite everything. I’m already holding his hand, the skin dry and thin, and I squeeze it, running my thumb over his bony knuckles.

  ‘Ow,’ he says.

  ‘Oh heck, sorry!’

  I release my grip and we both laugh.

  ‘Passh me that water, will you, love?’

  I hand him the plastic beaker that’s sitting on the bedside table, and watch him as he drinks carefully, waving away my offer of help. The door of the room is half-open, and outside in the corridor a bed trundles past, its occupant a motionless mound under a blue blanket.

  ‘Dad,’ I say. ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘I don’t want her to vishit me again,’ he says quickly and firmly. ‘I’m happy for you, but thatsh it.’

  Oh. Well, that’s good. They’re on the same page with that one, at least.

  ‘No, that’s not what I was going to say, don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I understand that. It was something else.’

  I wasn’t going to mention this to him; it’s not something we talk about at all – haven’t done for years. But now he seems happy to chat about Mum and suddenly I need to know, need to pick his brains, need to see what he thinks before I broach it with my mother. He’s looking at me expectantly, still holding the water cup, and I take it from him gently, gathering my thoughts as I put it back on the table.

  ‘Dad, do you think Mum might know? About Lucy? About what happened?’

  His eyes have widened again, surprise and a little shock in them this time.

  ‘I mean, she hasn’t said anything, But I’ve been feeling really anxious, wondering if she knows, and I just wondered if you thought … Oh, I don’t know, sorry Dad.’

  He’s still looking at me with that surprised expression. He makes a little sound in his throat, opens his mouth, closes it again, and then finally says, ‘I don’t know, love. Unlikely, I think. How would she? Who would have told her?’

  I nod, thinking. Putting Mike and his recent research aside – because that still worries me a lot – is there really a chance she could have found out about it from anyone else? Other than Dad and me, who else even knows about what happened? Lucy’s parents, obviously, and the teachers, and at least some of the other pupils at Fairbridge High. Although efforts were definitely made to hush it up at the time, it was a school and things always get out, rumours go around. But who else? Some of Mr and Mrs Allen’s friends, undoubtedly, some of the other parents I saw at the school gates. But, after the initial investigation, after those terrible early days when I felt like my whole life had fallen apart, it all just … faded away. Nothing in the papers, no more visits by the police. Dad never breathed a word about it to anyone, not to friends, not to colleagues, not to family. He promised me he never would, and I had no reason to believe he’d ever break his word. Both of my parents were only children, so there were no aunts, uncles, or cousins who might have found out, and even if my grandparents had discovered the truth, they’re all long dead now. Even – and to this day I wonder if this was the right decision, but it’s far too late now – Jacob doesn’t know what happened. My husband, left in the dark about such a big part of my life. Was that, I sometimes wonder, one of the reasons we grew apart, because I never fully trusted him? Certainly not enough to tell him and expect him to stay with me once he knew.

  And as for Mum, well she had left years before I’d started at Fairbridge and didn’t, as far as I knew, know any of the kids there, or their parents. Dad had wanted me to have a fresh start at secondary school, wanted me to go somewhere where nobody saw me as the poor little girl whose mother had abandoned her, and so he’d chosen a school on the other side of the city, one where none of my primary school friends were being sent. At first I’d been horrified, but when he told me I could make up my own backstory, tell the other children my mum had died, if I wanted to, I realised he was right. It would be easier, so much easier, not having to explain, not to be asked constantly if there was any news, if we’d heard from my mother, if she was coming home soon. And so that’s what I’d done, and it had simply been accepted that I didn’t have a mum. So, I think now, what were the chances of Mum knowing what had happened at Fairbridge, really? There was a tiny chance that someone she knew i
n Bristol might have got to hear about it, but she hadn’t kept in touch with anyone, not as far as we knew.

  Dad’s right. It is unlikely Mum knows, because who would have told her?

  I leave the hospital shortly after that, chatting to a nurse on the way out who says, to my great joy, that she thinks Dad will be well enough to be discharged and move back to Holly Tree in the next day or two. I’m equally relieved when I get home to see that Robin has fed the kids and is just finishing clearing up too, the big spaghetti bolognese pan washed and drying next to the sink, the dirty plates and cutlery neatly stacked in the dishwasher. Mum’s eaten with the children and is in the lounge watching EastEnders. Once I’ve seen Eloise and Finley off to bed and wolfed down the portion Robin’s kindly left for me in the oven, I take a deep breath and go and join Mum on the sofa.

  ‘Has Robin gone?’ she says immediately.

  ‘Erm … yes, a while ago. Why?’ I ask.

  She picks up the remote and hits the mute button, then turns to me, her face serious. I feel a little flutter of nerves.

  Now what?

  ‘Well, there was just something … something I thought you should know. I mean, it might be nothing, but …’

  She shrugs, looking worried. She’s wearing a soft beige sweater, a simple gold bangle on her right wrist.

  ‘Go on, tell me.’

  More bad news? I’m not sure I can take this, I think, but I don’t say it.

  ‘OK, well … this afternoon, when I got back from town, I went straight upstairs to change and I heard some noise coming from your bedroom. It gave me a fright, silly me! So I sort of crept to the door and peeped in, and it was Robin of course, which was fine, just doing some cleaning before she went to get the children. But it was just … well …’

  She pauses, her brow furrowing.

  ‘What, Mum?’

  I’m suddenly aware that my stomach is clenching uncomfortably and a bead of sweat is forming on my top lip. I wipe it away with the back of my hand.