Victoria pulled her head back on her shoulders. ‘It wasn’t rough for me living me with my gran.’ She was aware of her slightly defensive tone and felt conflicted. ‘She was wonderful. Until after she died. Now, I’m not so sure . . .’
‘Well, that’s good then.’ He looked a little perplexed and took another slug of his juice.
‘The thing is, my mum . . .’ She swallowed, aware of how utterly incredible this was going to sound. It still sounded incredible to her, and she had been living with it inside her head for a little while now. ‘My mum isn’t actually dead. She came to my gran’s funeral, turned up out of the blue.’
Flynn placed his glass on the table and blinked.
‘So you lied about having no mum?’ He sat back in the chair. ‘That’s fucking messed up!’
‘No! God, not at all. I was lied to. My gran told me my mum had died, but in fact she hadn’t.’
She watched his eyes roam the space above her head, digesting the facts.
‘Are you kidding me right now?’
‘No. I’m not kidding you. I kind of wish I was.’
He was quiet for a beat or two, his brow furrowed. ‘Why would anyone do that?’
The laugh that left her mouth was sharp and incredulous and she lay her hands on the tabletop. ‘I don’t know, Flynn! I am still trying to piece it all together, but I can tell you it is the worst thing imaginable. I have mourned her all my life, comforted by my gran during the saddest of days, and all the time . . .’ She traced a pattern around the rim of her glass with her fingertip.
‘So you hadn’t seen your mum until the funeral? Not once?’
‘No.’
‘Was she living close by?’
‘No. Oslo.’
‘Oslo,’ he repeated. ‘Did she not want to see you in all that time?’
‘I don’t know. She says she did, but I don’t know . . .’ She wished she had better answers.
‘Did your nan tell you when she died. I mean, did you think about her on the anniversary? Go to church? Light a candle, all that shit?’
She knew he was thinking of his own family, sitting and mourning the passing of Michael junior, and was no doubt, like her, trying to think of this happening when, all the time, her gran would know it was a farce, as Sarah was very much alive.
‘Not really, no. There was no specific day mentioned. We used to talk about her, though. Not a lot or in any detail, but it wasn’t taboo. I was told she died when I was a baby of a drug overdose.’
‘Shit!’ he surmised. ‘That’s seriously, seriously messed up.’
‘Yep.’ So you said. ‘And part of that was true. She was a drug user and was in rehab when she had me, but the overdose bit – that was apparently not; at least, if it is true, it wasn’t fatal. Obviously.’
‘That’s a lot for you to take in.’
‘As I said’ – she took a sip of her juice – ‘I have some other stuff going on.’
Flynn bit at the skin around his thumbnail, clearly thinking. ‘So what happens now you know she isn’t dead? Are you going to see her again? Is she going to come and live here?’
‘No, she won’t be coming to live here and I’m not sure about seeing her again. She wants us to get to know each other, but . . .’
‘But what?’
She ran her hand over her face. ‘They lied to me, Flynn, all of them. All the people I trusted and who were looking after me, they all lied, and not just once, and it wasn’t a small white lie – it was a big lie! The biggest! And they did it for my whole life, and my gran and grandpa died without giving me a chance to hear it from them or ask them about it or . . .’ She shook her head at the unpalatable truth; her list of gripes was long. ‘And I can’t seem to get past that. Do you think you could get past something like that?’
‘Hmm . . . I think at first I’d be too angry to feel anything but furious. Maybe that’s where you are now?’
‘Maybe,’ she conceded.
‘But then, looking on the positive side, you’ve got your mum back! And that’s got to be pretty cool.’
She nodded. ‘The hardest thing is just that . . .’
‘What?’ he asked softly.
‘I was able to cope with not having my mum around because I knew, or thought I knew, that she would never have chosen to leave me. I kind of felt sorry for her because she had no choice, because she died. But that’s bullshit. She did choose to leave me, and I feel more abandoned and alone than I ever thought possible. Even though she is still here.’
‘It will all get easier.’ The platitude irritated her.
‘Here’s hoping.’
‘And you know, Victoria, people lie for very different reasons.’ He finished his drink and stood from the table, balancing his empty glass in the crowded sink, like setting up a game of washing-up Jenga.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well’ – he picked up his backpack – ‘everyone thinks a lie has to be a bad thing, but I lie to my parents every day because, if I told them the truth, it would destroy them, hurt them. Can you imagine? Actually, Mum and Dad, I couldn’t care less that this would have been Michael’s twenty-first birthday because I don’t remember him, and no, I don’t want a piece of the birthday cake made for a person who only existed for a couple of years who I don’t even remember! And so I’ll eat the cake and I’ll lie.’ He shrugged, as if it really was that simple.
‘I guess.’ She decided not to go into the detail of how she believed her circumstance to be very different.
‘You look fed up.’
‘I am fed up!’
‘So we need to do something to change that.’ He drummed his fingers on his chin. ‘How about a party?’
‘A party?’ She instantly thought of what she might wear to a party; her experience of such things was a little limited. Parties were definitely the domain of Courtney and the hair-extension brigade and, generally, she wouldn’t be in favour of going to one, but with Flynn on her arm – it might be worth it just to see the look on the faces of those girls. ‘Can Daksha come too?’ This was the kind of event she knew she could only get through with her best friend by her side, with whom she could exchange looks of support or understanding.
‘Of course she can! Anyone you want to can come because it’ll be your party.’
‘My party?’ She didn’t try to hide her confusion.
‘Yes! You’ve got this big old house, everyone is about to scatter to the four winds, heading off to uni or whatever. You should have a party!’
‘I . . . I’ve never had a party.’ Barely been to one . . .
‘All the more reason. You’ve had a rough time. A party would take your mind off things, cheer you up.’
Victoria beamed. ‘I have had a rough time and yes, I do need cheering up. But I don’t know if a party is the way to do that.’
‘The way I see it, you need to feel like this is your house, and what better way to do that than hold a gathering here, make it yours!’
‘I don’t think I know enough people to invite to a party and I think Nilesh, Roscoe and that lot have already left for uni.’
Flynn looked at her as if he had no idea who these people were.
‘You don’t need a ton of people, just a few, and I know everyone!’
Victoria decided to get Daksha’s thoughts on the matter. An image of Prim floated into her mind: strict, judgemental Prim, who had apparently clipped Sarah’s wings.
‘I flirted with inappropriate boys, swam braless in my underslip, very daring at the time, and then danced in front of a bonfire until I dried off with a very large mimosa in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I was quite magnificent.’ And the thought struck her: perhaps it was time she learned how to be magnificent . . .
Victoria, now aware of the march of time, stood. ‘Let’s do it! Let’s have a bloody party!’
Flynn gave her his lopsided smile, which felt very much like a reward, and walked over to kiss her on the mouth, the novelty of which hadn’t worn off. Her
stomach flipped accordingly.
‘I think I’m happy.’ He beamed.
She squeezed his hand and had to admit that, despite all that was going on, at that very moment, she thought she might be happy too, even if only as much as her complex situation allowed – a small, good thing, like the edge of the sun glimpsed though heavy cloud.
‘I’ll see you tonight,’ he breathed.
‘Tonight?’ she asked with a giggle of surprise, wondering where he was headed today.
‘Yes! I’ve got people to see and things to sort out. Will you miss me?’
‘No,’ she lied, laughing. He kissed her again and, in that moment, the thought of more fumbling in the dark beneath the duvet suddenly seemed quite attractive. She couldn’t wait for him to return. ‘Okay, Flynn, maybe I’ll miss you a little bit. I’ll see you tonight.’
The doorbell rang around midday. It was Bernard, in his standard blue overalls and the checked flat cap he favoured. Victoria steeled herself and opened the door, having rehearsed this encounter in her mind more times than she might care to admit. He smiled at her through the glass pane, as if it was any other day, and his smile, one that indicated all was well, was enough to spark her fury. In fairness, it was fury directed at the whole gang who had deceived her, but neither Grandpa, Prim nor Sarah were in front of her right now and so Bernard became the target.
‘I usually use my key to let myself in the back doors of the garden room and get cracking, but thought today I’d better knock,’ he explained. The only indicator of any potential nerves was the way he licked his lips.
‘Well, I’m glad you did.’
‘Oh, oh good.’ He spoke with obvious relief, clutching his small stepladder and workbag.
‘No, I don’t mean I’m glad you came, Bernard, I mean I’m glad you knocked. I wanted to talk to you before you started.’
‘Oh right, of course.’ He looked at the floor, his face coloured.
‘I did send you a text.’ She recalled the 3 a.m. attempt at contact to which he still had not replied.
‘I saw that . . .’
‘You did? Right, I did wonder, as you didn’t reply and it was something important: my life, in fact, that I wanted to talk about, needed help with.’
He hesitated. ‘My wife said not to reply as you were . . . I think she said, agitated.’ He nodded. ‘She said you sounded agitated.’
‘Did she? She was probably right. I am a little agitated.’ She gave a dry laugh, agitated . . .
‘I’ve got to be honest, it feels very strange coming here and not having your gran answer the door.’
‘Well, at least you have decided to be honest. That’s something, I guess.’ She watched his face colour and his mouth flap. ‘How did you see this working, Bernard?’ Her tone was clipped.
‘Oh! I suppose the way it always has. I do whatever is needed. It’s like the Forth Bridge, this house!’ He tried out a small laugh, which she ignored. ‘I still need to finish repairing the veranda that is proper rotten in some places, and I need to dredge the pond, the garage door needs painting, I have a list . . . Then I get a payment direct into my account every second Friday – and your gran adjusts it – sorry, used to adjust it – depending on my hours. I keep a log in my little book.’ He patted his pocket to indicate that this was where his little book lived.
‘I see. So I make you a cup of tea the way Prim used to, while we chat about the weather and the state of the wood on the veranda, and we just ignore the fact that you have been at the heart of the deceit that has ripped apart my life? Is that what you thought?’ She clenched her fists to stop them trembling.
‘I . . . I don’t know. I thought—’
‘I don’t care what you thought!’ She cut him off, despite having asked the question. ‘But this is what I think: I think you have some nerve. You were a spy in this house, watching my every move and reporting back to Sarah—’
‘It wasn’t like that!’ It was his turn to interrupt.
‘Wasn’t it? Tell me how it was then.’
She thought of all the times she had stumbled across him and Prim laughing over a cup of tea as he leaned on the countertop, or how they would stand admiring a flower bed, deep in conversation. Fury balled in her gut at the thought that she might have arrived home from school, given them a quick wave and made her way to the privacy of her bedroom and all the while there was the very real possibility that they were not discussing the loose linen cupboard door or what to plant around the lake, they were talking about her, about Sarah! How could it be that Bernard was in receipt of such important information while she was left out in the cold? It was monstrous, and she vented her anger on him, too blinded by emotion to question whether or not it was justified.
‘Prim didn’t know.’
‘Didn’t know what?’
‘Didn’t know I wrote to Sarah. I never told her.’ He hung his head and took a deep breath.
It should have made a little difference to her rage, but she was too deep in the pit of anger to think straight or claw her way up to the calm surface.
‘Sarah contacted me not long after you were born and asked me if she might be able to give me the odd call. And she did, once or twice a year, that was all, and then she sent me a new address in Oslo when she got settled, and I started jotting her notes – again, just once or twice a year.’
‘Did you ever see or hear about me crying for her? For my mum who died?’
He nodded and kept his eyes averted.
‘And all you had to do was tell me, tell me that my mum was still alive and that you knew where she was!’ Her voice cracked at the most monstrous thought.
‘How could I? You were a little girl and Prim would have been mad, she’d have told me to leave and Sarah would have lost the only contact she had . . .’
‘Jesus! So instead you became part of it, part of the conspiracy that has left me feeling like a stranger in my own house, my own family! I don’t know what’s real any more.’ Victoria kicked her toes against the brass lip of the step.
‘I couldn’t stand it, Victoria. I couldn’t stand for her not to be part of your life, that was all. It felt cruel.’ He tried and failed, in her eyes, to justify his meddling.
‘And what about me? That wasn’t cruel? I can’t stand that I have mourned my mum for my whole life; I thought she had died, Bernard! I thought my mum died! And one word from you and my life would have been so different!’ she cried.
‘I guess Prim thought—’
‘Prim’s not here any more, is she?’ Frustratingly, this phrase alone was enough to make her tears gather.
‘No, no, she’s not.’ His voice was soft. He rubbed his palm over his face, suggesting the reminder had moved him. ‘I don’t know how I got mixed up in it all, I just want to fix things.’ He looked like he might cry, but that was just too bad; she had cried her own fair share of tears.
‘You spied on me and fed information back to Sarah, and to make matters worse, Prim paid you for the privilege.’
‘It wasn’t like that!’ he implored.
‘So you said.’ She folded her arms, feeling simultaneously a little scared and elated that she was now in charge and in control. ‘I don’t want you to come here any more. Well, there’s no need, is there? Not now I can write my own notes to Sarah telling her to fuck off and leave me alone – should save you some stamps.’
He opened his mouth as if to speak, but clearly thought better of it, before turning slowly, taking one last lingering look at the front of Rosebank, the house and gardens he had been tending for the best part of thirty years, and walking over the gravel towards his van.
Victoria watched him leave with something like satisfaction lining her gut. She looked up towards the brooding sky; it looked like rain might be coming in. She welcomed the idea, the washing away of the summer heat that was thick with lies and deception, which spun webs inside every room.
Her pulse settled. With Flynn out of the house and Daksha away, she felt the tendrils of lonelines
s reach out and stroke her skin. Grabbing her novel, she sank down on to the sofa in the drawing room and opened it at the place where she had folded a corner of a page as a marker, a habit that used to infuriate her gran. Her eyes swept around the room: cushions were still littered on the floor, and the dirty plates, which had started to give off a rather unpleasant hum, were still on the coffee table. She knew these things would have infuriated her more.
The last time she had read was on the day Prim died. They had lain in the steamer chairs, her reading and Prim watching the lake, commenting on the ferocious heat and the bees that buzzed around the irises, noting their industry and choreographed moves. Their conversation came to mind. This, like every other memory, now tainted with the betrayal of lies.
‘I sometimes wonder, Prim, if my mum took too many drugs because Marcus had died, like something Shakespearian, you know: couldn’t live without her one true love?’
‘I think you’ve been reading too many books,’ Prim had snapped.
‘Guilty as charged.’ Victoria lifted the novel in her hand.
‘I also think, darling’ – Prim’s tone, softer then – ‘that you shouldn’t romanticise what was a very painful and unattractive time. A tragic time . . .’
Victoria ground her teeth and kicked out at the coffee table, making a mug wobble. Yes, tragic and truly Shakespearian how you plotted and lied to me . . . It was as she remembered this conversation that her phone rang; she lifted it to her chin and spoke as she settled back in her seat, her novel poised.
‘Victory.’
The word and the sound of Sarah’s voice was enough to make her jolt. She wondered if she would ever get over the fact that her wish of having a direct line to her mother might come true. This, however, was not how she had envisaged it.
‘Victoria. Yes.’
‘Sorry, Victoria.’ Sarah corrected herself speedily; her voice had an undercurrent of excitement and anticipation. ‘I had a missed call from you. I’m so sorry – my phone was off, I’ve only just seen it. Is everything okay? Are . . . are you okay?’
No, I’m not! I am still mad and confused and scared of being on my own, and Flynn McNamara has been staying here and we have had sex, twice! And I’m worried I didn’t feel more – and I smoked a joint and liked it. And what I don’t like is being on my own, but then I crave space, confusing right? And I miss Prim, the Prim I thought she was who was always honest with me, the Prim who told me I knew every little thing about her, but I didn’t, did I? And I hate the Prim who lied to me – and I just took this out on Bernard and it felt good, but now I feel like shit . . .
The Day She Came Back Page 16
