by Rona Halsall
In a fit of procrastination, she decided to investigate the caller further, feeling like an intruder, a peeping Tom, as she scrolled through her mum’s phone until she came to the contacts list. Her eyes widened. There was an address for this Greg person who had just called: 26 Seiont Street, Caernarfon, North Wales.
Why would Mum be doing work for someone in Wales?
His surname was listed as MacKay. Not Dad, she realised, because before they’d moved, she’d been Martha Macmillan. Then when they’d arrived in Cornwall, her mum had said they were changing their name to Taylor because she wasn’t married to Greg any more. It was all very confusing at the time, but as a child, she’d accepted it.
Now she looked at Greg’s surname and wondered if it could be the same person after all?
She went back to the menu and clicked on messages, her jaw dropping as she found not just one message, but a number of them going back a few years. How’s Martha? Greg MacKay had asked a couple of times. Her heart clenched. Why would a stranger be asking about me? She felt a little dizzy as she carried on scrolling, hardly daring to believe what she was seeing. Her mother’s messages were predominantly requests for money – support for his daughter, she said. There was no doubt now; this was the same Greg, her father, but with a different name.
Questions traipsed into her mind, forming an unruly crowd, shouting for answers. Mum and Dad have been in touch all this time and she’s not told me? Her body shook with the deceit of it, the betrayal, the fact that her mother had been lying to her for all these years. She flung the phone into her mum’s bag as if it was poison.
It was a horrifying thought, that her mum had let her cry for her father when she had the means to let them speak. Her mother knew where he lived and Martha could have gone to stay in the holidays. Isn’t that what happened when parents divorced – things were shared? So why didn’t that happen for me? It was even worse to think that Greg knew where they lived and had never come to visit, never sent her a birthday card or present. Then it occurred to her that just because her mum knew where her dad lived, it didn’t mean it worked the other way round. Perhaps he doesn’t have our address, just mum’s number. So… did that mean it was her mum who didn’t want her to have a relationship with her dad?
Mum’s not cruel like that. She was a mess and lived in a dreamworld half the time, but there was nothing nasty about her. If she’d kept her contact with Greg a secret, there would be a very good reason for it. Martha gritted her teeth and decided that she was going to make it her mission to find out what that reason was.
Why would he change his name? That was odd, wasn’t it? Normal people didn’t go around changing their names. Not unless they’re hiding. There was something very strange going on, and whether her mum liked it or not, she was going to find out the truth.
Eight
Martha
Yesterday
The next day, Martha decided that she’d have a proper conversation with her mother, see if she could get to the bottom of the situation with Greg. If she’s well enough, she reminded herself, although she was impatient for answers. She paced up and down in the kitchen while she listened to the dial tone, waiting for someone on the hospital ward to answer. When they did, the news was not what she’d been hoping for.
‘Truro?’ she said, her voice an incredulous squeak. ‘She’s been moved to Truro?’
‘That’s right. That’s where the specialist diabetes centre is, and with her complications, the consultant decided she’d be better cared for over there. There’s nothing to worry about, her condition hasn’t changed, it’s just they have all the specialists in one place these days.’
Martha sank onto a stool, thoroughly disheartened. Truro was fifty miles away and it would take hours to get there on public transport. ‘Okay, thank you,’ she muttered before ending the call.
It would have to be the train, she decided, and she looked up the timetable before getting herself organised for the trip, certain that she couldn’t afford to do it every day if her mum was going to be in hospital for a while.
While she was getting ready, her phone rang and she answered, thinking it would be Izzy, because Martha hadn’t been answering her messages. She was too worried about her mum and confused about the discovery of Greg’s phone number to be able to think about anything else.
But it was Gemma, Pete’s wife at the vet surgery. ‘Oh, I’m glad I’ve got hold of you.’
‘How are you?’ Martha winced as soon as she’d said it. What a stupid question.
‘Oh… you know.’
Martha squirmed, no idea what to say, and the silence stretched to the point where she had to fill it. ‘I’m so sorry I haven’t been round,’ she said, aware that it sounded lame, a feeble excuse, but in reality, she’d never got on too well with Gemma. She’d always been rather cool with her, and she’d felt there had been jealousy in her snippy comments, her complaints about how much time Martha and Pete spent together. Even though their relationship was more mentor and student than anything else, Gemma sometimes acted like she thought Pete and Martha were having an affair. ‘I was going to call to see if I could help at all but Mum’s in hospital and—’
‘Don’t you worry,’ Gemma said. ‘I hope she’s okay?’
Martha couldn’t speak, her heart fluttering like a trapped bird. She didn’t want to break down on the phone. Embarrass herself. She was all right when she was on her own, had managed to take the whole terrifying situation in her stride, but as soon as someone tried to comfort her, then it all became real, not an abstract problem any more. She could feel herself falling apart, her chest heaving, saliva filling her mouth.
She sniffed, her voice thick as she struggled to keep control. ‘Honestly, I’m not sure. They just transferred her to the diabetes unit in Truro, so I’m about to head off there to see what’s happening. I gather there are other complications. Possible gangrene in her feet, they said yesterday.’
‘Oh, Martha. I’m so sorry to hear that. On top of everything else…’
‘Christ, listen to me, going on about my troubles when…’ Martha’s voice cracked, unable to acknowledge out loud that Pete was dead without losing control completely. She took a few deep breaths, finally managing to swallow the onset of tears.
‘Look,’ Gemma said, surprisingly businesslike all of a sudden, a forced chirpiness in her voice. ‘We’ve got to go into Truro to see the… the undertaker. Sally’s here, helping me sort everything out. You’re more or less on the way over there. Let me give you a lift. It’s the least I can do after making you redundant so suddenly.’
Martha lowered herself onto a chair, relief taking all the strength out of her legs. ‘Could you? A lift would be wonderful.’ She’d been dreading the journey, and even though an hour in a car with Gemma might be awkward, it would save her so much hassle.
‘The reason I was ringing though… I’ve got some money for you. I know you get paid by bank transfer, but the business account is going on hold, so your final wages with your redundancy money might be delayed. Anyway, I’ve got a bit of cash for you, just to keep you going until everything is sorted out properly.’
Thank God! Martha closed her eyes and could hardly manage to mutter her thanks before arrangements were made for Gemma to pick her up and they rang off. She hugged her phone to her chest. A lump of cash would solve one of her immediate problems, reduce her list of worries. She felt a bit light-headed and leant her elbows on the table, head in her hands while she calmed herself down. Two problems solved in one go. Maybe today isn’t going to be all bad news.
But it was.
Although Gemma had £500 for her, the rest of her severance pay could be delayed by months while the solicitor sorted out Pete’s estate.
Martha paled when Gemma told her, but mumbled her thanks as she took the envelope of money and stuffed it into her bag. She remained silent for the rest of the journey, feeling invisible and awkward as Sally and Gemma discussed what jobs they had to do. She busied her mind with m
ental arithmetic, trying to work out how far she could make £500 stretch and what the priorities for spending would be, given the file of doom she’d uncovered the day before. Not far enough, was her conclusion. She chewed on a fingernail, wondering if any of her mother’s creditors would be open to negotiation, her stomach griping with the thought of having to ask.
Once she got to the hospital, Fran was away having a scan and it was over an hour before they wheeled her back to the ward. Her complexion was grey, her face drawn and she was too weak to even have a conversation. Martha sat next to the bed, holding her hand, aware that her life had shifted and was never going to be the same again. Her freedom to choose her future was a thing of the past.
She gazed at Fran as she slept, while the doctor told Martha about the heart condition they had discovered, her high blood pressure, the need to improve her diet and better manage her cholesterol. They couldn’t operate on her feet until her health had been stabilised, which increased the chance of amputation further down the line. Martha’s undeniable love for her mother curdled into a bitterness that she could taste on the back of her tongue. It was all avoidable. Everything that was wrong with her mother, she had inflicted on herself. It wasn’t bad luck. It wasn’t genetics. It was her life choices. And there was nothing that Martha could do to make things better.
All thoughts of Greg faded from her mind, the conversation she was going to have with her mother shelved for weeks, until she was in a fit state to respond. While her mum slept on, she copied Greg’s number onto her own phone and left Fran’s by her bedside, so she’d be able to ring her when she felt strong enough.
The journey home was spent in a daze of medical terms and conditions as she searched Google trying to work out the prognosis, feeling more despondent the more she learned. Aside from the health concerns, there was no doubt in Martha’s mind that her mother would not be fit for work, so the small amount of income she’d been able to generate was gone. They should be able to apply for benefits, she’d discovered, with Martha as the carer, but there was an assessment process and her claim would take weeks to be processed. Even then, the extra money didn’t amount to much. Her head ached with all the reading and she put her phone away, stared instead at the fields and hedges and the grey, drizzly skies.
Mum’s carer. It was such a scary thought, being tied even more closely to Fran, her independence curtailed. The idea of it tightened her chest tight, squeezing the breath from her lungs, like she was suffocating.
We’ll have to move into town. Truro maybe, so they were close to the hospital and the diabetes unit. That made her brighten a bit because at least she’d be closer to work opportunities and would have support there, perhaps even respite care. She won’t do it, though, will she? Martha leant her head against the window, knowing what her mum’s answer would be. She’d tried to get her to move in the past, so that it would be easier for Martha to get a job, but she wouldn’t, for several reasons. She hated towns and wouldn’t be comfortable. She needed space around her and got anxious in crowds. Anna’s rent was very cheap. They’d manage.
Yeah. Like we’re really managing now, aren’t we, Mum?
Fran was going to be in hospital for a few days, maybe a week, the doctor had said, and someone would come to assess their property, to make sure it was fit for Fran’s return. Martha decided she would do her best to point out the pitfalls, the problems, the reasons why they should try and rent something more suitable. A ground-floor flat maybe, or a bungalow. Could we afford the rent though? With all those debts we’ve got to pay off?
Her phone pinged, breaking into her thoughts, and she glanced at it, saw it was Izzy again. She’d neglected her today, with everything that had been going on, but she hardly had the energy to speak, let alone string a sensible sentence together. There would be questions – there always were with Izzy – and Martha didn’t have all the answers. Not yet, anyway. I’ll talk to her later, she decided and sent her a quick message saying she was on her way back from hospital and couldn’t talk.
What she wanted was a bit of peace and quiet to let everything settle in her mind, so she could try and see a clear way forward. The first thing she needed to do was grieve for Pete, spend some time with her thoughts of him and decide how she was going to say goodbye.
‘We’re having the funeral in London,’ Gemma had told her on the drive to Truro. ‘He grew up there and both our girls live there now too, of course.’ She didn’t say where in London or even when, nor did she say that Martha was welcome to attend, which made her assume that she wasn’t. Gemma had changed the subject and Martha knew she was making it clear, in her usual passive-aggressive manner, that she was excluding Martha from the occasion. It doesn’t matter, she’d decided, turning to look out of the window, a determined set to her jaw. I’ll give him a send-off in my own way.
When she got home, she found her photo album and pulled out a handful of pictures of them at dog shows, when he’d been at his happiest, she felt. From the odd unguarded remark, she’d found out that his relationship with Gemma was a bit fraught because she’d wanted to move back to London, especially now their daughters were both there. He loved Cornwall and didn’t want to go. There was no obvious compromise and Martha felt that had weighed heavy on him at times.
Pip, one of his collies, had won an event at Crufts, and as she looked at the picture of the two of them with Pip in between, sporting his red rosette, proud grins on their faces, the memory made her smile. It had been the most brilliant day – a time when she’d forgotten all her worries and relaxed into being herself for once.
She studied the row of framed pictures on top of her chest of drawers, picked up the one of her winning a sports medal at school, and replaced the picture with the one of her and Pete.
There, I can always see you and we can have a chat whenever I want, she told him, her eyes meeting his in the photo.
Now that she was sitting still, the house quiet, the weight of her grief pressed down on her. She clasped the picture to her heart and cried, not caring about how loud she was, or the mess of snot and dribble that trickled down her face and dripped off her chin. There was nobody to hear, nobody to see, and her heart was broken. She’d loved Pete like a father and he’d been a positive, steady influence in her life. More than that – he’d been a source of fun and laughter and learning, always patient and understanding – and now he was gone.
She lay on her bed and sobbed some more.
It was dark when she woke, but it wasn’t Pete who filled her thoughts. It was Greg. She’d been dreaming about meeting him.
Her mind travelled to another space, an opportunity she had fantasised about many a time. Was that a really stupid idea – going to visit him? Perhaps he’d be happy to see her. Perhaps he’d invite her to stay. Perhaps her mother had never told him where they lived, so he couldn’t be in touch, even though he’d yearned to see his daughter again. That would be typical of her mum, and now she thought about it, maybe that would explain how possessive and clingy Fran had become in recent years. Perhaps she was worried about her leaving, finding her father and deciding she would prefer to be with him.
In that dreamy state, between sleep and wakefulness, a whole new world opened up for her, a world without responsibility for her mother’s well-being. A world without drama and drunkenness and bloody diabetes and heart conditions and goddamn gangrene.
I’ve got his address.
Her mum was going to be in hospital for a while yet, which gave her some freedom. She’d have time to get to North Wales and back before Fran was able to come home, and the assessment of the house wasn’t until next week. Plenty of time.
Her mind flipped between deciding this was a great idea and a really, really bad one. I could just ring him, she told herself. But he could hang up, she countered. The truth of the matter was, she wanted to see him. With all her heart she wanted to see her dad again, especially after everything that had happened over the last couple of days. If ever there was a time she needed him,
it was now.
Right, mate, she thought, more determined than ever to find out what had happened all those years ago. Guess who’s coming to visit?
Nine
Martha
Yesterday
Martha waited for Izzy to answer. She checked the time – only half past eight at night, but she felt like the day had gone on forever, the fact that she’d fallen asleep earlier making her thick-headed and disorientated. She’d messaged Izzy with the news that she’d found Greg’s address and now she was impatient to talk it through.
‘Hiya,’ Izzy said with a wave as her face appeared on the screen. ‘I got your message – you found him!’ Her face was alight with excitement and Martha shuffled backwards on the bed until she was leaning against the wall.
‘I know. Mum had been in touch all the time. Can you believe that? Though it looks like he’s changed his name.’
Izzy frowned. ‘That’s a bit… strange, isn’t it?’
‘Hmm, I thought so. It made me wonder…’ Martha’s eyes scanned the ceiling as she dredged her memories. ‘Mum always said he was a chancer. That’s what she called him. But I just remember a funny, lovely man who took me to the park and pushed me on the swings and played football with me and liked a game of cards.’ She looked at Izzy and gave a rueful smile. ‘He had a daft sense of humour and liked all the animated films, although he told me not to tell anyone. And whenever there was trouble, he was always on my side.’
Izzy’s frown deepened. ‘He sounds so great, hun. But what happened to break everything up? And why has your mum kept in touch and not told you? Maybe he’s not as lovely as you remember him?’
