‘My daughter is called Kate,’ Mel says.
‘Sarah. That’s it. Miss Sarah,’ he continues, ignoring Mel. ‘Poor, poor lass. She had a little baby girl, didn’t she? But you had to get rid of her, Joycie, do you remember? There’d have been none of those goings-on if you’d married me.’
‘Dad…’ Tom says, but Mel holds up a hand, mouthing It’s OK at him.
‘Walter, that baby is me. I’m Sarah’s baby girl.’ She doesn’t expect Walter to take in what she’s saying; he seems so resolutely fixed in the past. But she can’t patronise him either. She never did that with any of the residents at The Cedars.
As expected, Walter doesn’t seem to hear her. ‘Delicious cake,’ he says again, lifting the glass of champagne to his mouth and slurping some down. ‘This is the life, eh?’ He laughs – a phlegmy, choked-up laugh. And choked up with tears, too, Mel thinks, noticing his watery eyes.
‘Sarah turned out another baby, mind.’ Walter looks at Tom and Shelley in turn, shaking his head, as if what he’s saying is for their benefit. ‘A little boy. Do you remember him, Joycie? Terrible shame what happened. Terrible goings-on.’
Mel looks at him and smiles. ‘Yes, that’s Angus. He’s my brother, Walter. He lives in Taunton.’ She smiles, giving him a pat on the leg. ‘He’s all grown up like me now.’
‘But that can’t be,’ Walter says, staring at her, looking puzzled. ‘You told me the little mite didn’t survive.’
‘No, Walter, Angus is fine,’ Mel says with a smile, though her mind is stirring. ‘He works as a carer. He doesn’t have a family but he likes riding his bike and he enjoys painting watercolours. He showed me photos. They’re quite good, actually.’
‘Watercolours?’ Walter says in an incredulous voice. ‘A bike? What are you talking about, Joycie?’ He shakes his head, looking confused. ‘That night I bumped into you in the Inn car park as I were coming out of the bar, you’d got your harassed face on. I remember that well enough. Told you if the wind changed, it’d stay that way, Joycie. I’d had a beer or two, but you were in a hurry and in no mood for larking about, I remember that much.’ He chuckles to himself. ‘“Up to no good?” I asked you.’
Mel listens intently, realising that Walter is somewhere else in his mind completely – back in nineteen-eighty-something.
‘Gripping onto a bundle for dear life, you were. Wouldn’t even stop for a kiss or a cuddle.’ Walter takes another bite of his cake, seeming to take for ever to chew and swallow. ‘I walked you over to your car and that’s when I heard the cry. A baby’s cry coming from inside the bundle.’ He laughs, his shoulders jumping up and down. ‘I said, “You gone and had a babby, Joycie?” but you didn’t find it funny. It were all wrapped up in a rough, grey blanket. I remember its tiny fist poking out.’
‘Dad, I’m not sure—’
‘But I saw you were troubled, Joycie. More troubled than I’d seen you. You confided in me that you had to save Sarah’s shame yet again. And that’s when you showed me the babby, telling me that you feared for it, that no one would ever want him, that he was very sick.’
‘Why, Walter? Why wouldn’t anyone want the baby?’ Mel takes another sip of champagne, again mouthing It’s fine at Tom.
‘Because the babby had no eyes, Joycie. You must remember his face, the poor little mite. He had sealed-up slits where his eyes should have been and his lips were all deformed, too. Oh, my heart bled for him. You were worried he wouldn’t survive the night. Next day I saw you in the shop and you told me the babby had died in your arms. You said you’d got scared and left him wrapped up outside the local hospital so he could have some kind of burial.’
Mel stands up, puts her plate down on the table.
‘I… I don’t understand, Walter,’ she says. ‘Sarah’s second live baby is my brother, Angus. And he was adopted and… and… he’s not blind. Not in the least. He’s fine.’ Mel drops down onto the sofa as she absorbs what Walter is saying. She recalls how Angus had told her he’d been found outside a police station in Taunton, not a hospital local to here. ‘Christ,’ she says, reaching for her bag, pulling out her phone as it sinks in. Her hands are shaking as she stares at Tom, knowing he’s thinking the same, going by his expression. ‘Are you certain, Walter? Are you sure the baby boy died that night?’
‘Never been surer of anything in my life, Joycie.’
Mel looks at Tom again, her heart thundering in her chest, fear written all over her face. ‘Then who the hell is Angus?’ she whispers to Tom. ‘Whoever he is, he’s taken me for a total mug,’ she says, a hand coming up over her mouth. ‘And I sent Mum off to see him earlier.’
‘Call her now,’ Tom says urgently, his body tense beside her. ‘You’ve got his address, right?’
Mel nods.
‘We can be in Taunton in under an hour. I’ve only had one drink.’ He gets up to fetch his keys and phone. ‘And Kate is definitely staying at Chloe’s tonight?’
‘Yes, yes, she’s going there straight after school,’ Mel replies, her hands trembling as she dials Sarah’s number. As she waits for the line to connect, she accidentally knocks the rest of the tarot deck off the arm of the sofa. The phone rings out, going to voicemail.
As she leaves a message, she bends down to gather up the cards, but freezes, unable to take her eyes off what she sees. ‘Oh no,’ she says, covering her mouth again. All the cards are lying face down apart from one – The Fool. She looks up at Tom. ‘We need to hurry. We really need to hurry.’
And as she grabs her bag, quickly saying goodbye to Walter and rushing out to Tom’s pick-up truck, she realises that the only fool has been her.
Epilogue
I haven’t been on a train in years. Years and years and years. Melanie made sure I got on the right one, fretting and fussing around me, showing me how to use the mobile phone she bought me, checking it had enough charge. She offered to drive me, begged even, but I wanted to go alone.
The countryside speeds past the window like the days of my life. All blurred into strips of colour flashing past – one field, one house, one tree, one stream, one town merging into the next.
‘Angus will be there to meet you,’ Mel had said, waving me off. I wonder what name I would have chosen for her, had she not been taken away, still wet from birth as my mother prised her from me. I caught a flash of her matted hair, her scrunched-up face, her clenching fists before she was gone. And she looked at me. I remember that. She turned her head and looked directly at me, her dark eyes seeking me out. Her first and last glance of her mother. Fate unknown.
‘Amelia, perhaps,’ I whisper to myself, face tilted to the train window. The man sitting next to me gives me a peculiar look as I talk to myself. ‘Or maybe Sally.’ But that’s what I’ve done all these years. Spoken when no one is there to hear. Conversations with myself. It was easier that way. Safer. I kept it all inside. Rotting. Waiting. Biding my time.
It was only when I saw young Kate, how she reminded me of me, that I wanted to talk again. Needed to talk. Seeing her as I should have been – vibrant and alive, curious and loved – it did something to me. Made me feel safe. And we look so alike. It was as though she’d brought me back from the dead. Brought me back to me. I smile, gazing out of the train window.
There he is, standing just the other side of the ticket barrier, a long umbrella in one hand and a set of keys in the other. Angus seems nervous, shifting from one foot to the other as he jangles his keys, waiting for me to scan my ticket.
‘Hello, Angus,’ I say as he gives me a hug. I know he’s being gentle, as though he doesn’t want to break me, upset me. What people don’t know is that on the inside I’m made of steel, that my frail bones and slight body are only my exterior.
‘Hello, Mum,’ he says, as though the word is foreign to him – or at least using it on me is. ‘How was your journey?’ he asks, as though I’ve travelled across the Sahara.
‘Pleasant,’ I say, and follow him out of the station, him shielding us both with his big black umbrella. He ope
ns the door of his car – a small, silver vehicle that takes a number of tries to get started. He’s had it for ever, he tells me. As he drives, he chats about the weather, about a film he watched last night, about how busy he’s been at work. I listen.
Then he tells me he’s taking me out for a late lunch. He drives us into the town, parking in an underground car park. He’s a gentleman and opens my door, asking if I like Italian. We eat, chat for a couple of hours, catch up, share stories. Just like a mother and long-lost son would do.
‘Welcome to 48 Nightingale Leys,’ he says, later that afternoon as he pulls up on the drive.
‘Very nice,’ I say, peering up at the neat Fifties semi-detached house.
He opens my door then goes up to the porch, putting his key in the lock. He stops, turns to me. ‘I’m… I’m just a lodger here,’ he says. ‘I hope you don’t mind. But you’ll have your own room and privacy.’ Angus looks pained, embarrassed, as he stares at his feet. ‘Things aren’t easy financially and—’
‘Angus, you don’t have to explain anything to me.’ I place my hand on his arm. What he doesn’t know is that I won’t be staying long anyway. ‘Now come on, I’m dying for a cup of tea.’
‘This is pleasant,’ I say, looking around the living room as I sip my tea. It’s a lie. It isn’t a pleasant room at all.
Angus holds out a plate. ‘Biscuit?’
‘Thank you,’ I say, my hand hovering over a pink wafer before I take it. ‘My favourite,’ I tell him, fighting the urge to crush it.
‘I’m glad you came, Mum,’ Angus says, leaning forward on his elbows, hands clasped, one knee jiggling.
‘Indeed,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry to hear things have been tough financially for you.’ I clear my throat. ‘Mel tells me that things didn’t work out fairly.’
He bows his head. ‘No, they didn’t, I suppose but—’
I raise my hand. ‘It’s why I came, Angus.’ I smile, beginning to enjoy myself.
‘It is?’ he says, his eyes lighting up. I can almost see him salivating.
I nod. ‘Now, why don’t you get some photographs out, show me some pictures of you growing up with your adopted family?’ I smile, wanting to savour this moment. Treasure it.
‘Photos?’ Angus says. ‘Gosh… let me think. There might be some in the loft, but my sister – my adopted sister – has most of them.’ He clears his throat.
‘Why don’t you go and look, just in case?’ I suggest. ‘I’ll have another biscuit.’
Angus gets up, hesitating, as I bite into another wafer, watching him as he leaves the room. It’s time for people to stop taking things from me that don’t belong to them.
A noise. A rattling, a key, a door opening. I listen, slowly putting down my teacup, straining my ears. Someone has come into the house – has dumped a bag down in the hallway, dropped their keys on a table.
Angus is still upstairs, rifling around for the photographs I know he won’t find.
‘Hello?’ someone calls out.
No one replies.
‘Angus?’
Then I hear footsteps on the stairs – thud, thud, thud – Angus quickly coming down, followed by low voices coming from another room. The sound gets more urgent, louder, as if they’re arguing.
I get up. It’s coming from the kitchen. I stand outside with my ear to the door, hand cupped around it.
What the hell are you doing here…? I told you she was coming. Let me deal with it.
Then the sound of a kiss.
You have to go before—
‘Hello,’ I say, pulling the door wide open. The kitchen is as sparse as the living room. A table with two chairs, a kettle and a toaster on the grey worktops. A greasy stove.
The pair of them stand there, embracing, their faces close – shocked expressions on each.
‘Did you find any photographs?’ I ask Angus, smiling.
‘No… no, I didn’t. Mum,’ he replies, a concerned look on his face.
‘Shame,’ I say quietly. ‘And shame on you. Shame on you both.’ I glance at one, then the other, shaking my head. ‘You think I didn’t know what you were up to, Angus?’
‘Really, it’s not what it seems,’ he replies. ‘You’re muddled, confused. Why don’t you have another cup of tea, Mum?’
‘I don’t want tea,’ I say, almost feeling bad for him. I’m about to tell him what I do want when the doorbell rings – the sound chiming down the hall.
Unexpected.
‘Excuse me,’ Angus says, squeezing past, his head down, relieved to be leaving the room.
‘I’m not surprised to see you here,’ I say, walking further into the kitchen.
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ is the reply I get.
‘Oh, I think I do,’ I say, completely confident about that.
‘We’re in love, me and Angus.’
‘So I see.’
And that’s when I hear the commotion coming from the hallway.
‘Where is she?’ a man says sternly.
‘Where’s Mum?’ another voice demands.
Melanie.
Then the sound of Angus trying to calm them down, get them to leave, but it doesn’t work because suddenly my daughter and her friend, Tom, have stormed into the kitchen.
‘Mum, oh God, Mum, are you OK?’ She glares at Angus, slinging her arm around me protectively. Then her eyes flick across the room. ‘Michael?’ she says, shocked. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
Michael says nothing. Just stands there, his arms dangling by his sides, the large cuffs of his green shirt half covering his hands.
‘We only spoke this morning,’ Mel says, confused. ‘I thought you were at home…’ She trails off as Angus goes up to Michael, pulling him close. She frowns. ‘You… you two?’ she says, trying to take it in. ‘You’re… together?’
‘I can explain, Mel,’ Michael says, flustered. ‘Angus is an… an old friend. You encouraged me to look up old flames, didn’t you?’ He laughs nervously.
‘Explain?’ she whispers, frowning. ‘You can explain why Angus is nothing but a common thief and a con man, for a start. He’s no brother of mine, and I doubt very much he’s a carer. I want my fifty grand back, you bastard.’ She goes up to him, prodding him in the shoulder. ‘Now! Transfer it back immediately or I’ll report you for fraud.’
‘Fifty grand?’ Michael yells, turning to Angus, his expression disbelieving. He pushes Angus away. ‘You told me she gave you ten! That it was five thousand for each of us. Jesus Christ…’ He shakes his head, giving Angus a kick in the leg.
‘Each?’ Mel almost screams. ‘Michael, how fucking could you?’ She covers her face briefly. ‘I trusted you.’
‘It was all Michael’s idea,’ Angus chips in, a concerned look on his face. ‘He set the whole thing up.’
‘I was trying to help, that was all, Mel,’ Michael says desperately. ‘All I ever wanted was for you to have the family you never had and… and, well, things have been tough for me, too, Mel. The shop’s not doing well, and… well, I tried to win back online what I’d lost, but got more and more into debt. When Sarah mentioned a son, I didn’t see any harm in contacting Angus. We were together at uni in Bristol, and I knew he still lived down this way. I thought you’d like a brother. We weren’t after money, I swear.’
Mel squints at him. It’s clear she doesn’t believe a word he says. ‘And you’ve been gambling again?’ She shakes her head in disbelief.
‘He’s lying,’ I tell Mel calmly. ‘Michael’s mistake was that he assumed my baby boy was still alive.’ I hug her. It’s not the way I wanted her to find out, but she’s tough; she’s seen worse. I’ll help her through this.
‘So there was no private investigator tracking down Angus?’ Mel asks.
‘No, love,’ I tell her, placing a hand on her shoulder.
‘But… but the letter from the solicitor? It was the same wording as mine.’
Michael sighs. ‘Mel, this has all just been a misunderstandi
ng, really, I—’
‘Christ, I’ve been so stupid,’ she says, choking back an angry sob. ‘That was my letter, wasn’t it? You must have scanned it on your phone and doctored it with Angus’s details on a fake letterhead.’ She shakes her head, pacing about.
I take my phone from my pocket. ‘Transfer the money back to Melanie immediately, Angus, or I’m calling the police,’ I demand.
It’s blood money. My blood money, and I suffered for every penny of it.
‘Just do it,’ Michael hisses at Angus.
I watch as Angus fumbles with his phone, sweating as he does as he’s told. Ten minutes later, when Mel checks her account after Angus has done a test amount first for security purposes, she finally confirms the full amount has been received.
Then I call the police anyway.
Waiting for them to arrive, Tom prevents the pair of them from leaving, blocking the door. He’d have no trouble taking them on if they put up a fight. I take Mel into the living room, sitting her down and pouring her a cup of tea. She looks pale, in shock, so I offer her a biscuit.
‘Thanks, Mum,’ she says quietly, taking the last pink wafer. She stares out of the window nervously, watching out for the police.
‘They were Joyce’s favourite biscuit too,’ I tell her.
She always kept a packet by her bed, to have with her morning tea. They fell onto the floor when I held the pillow over her face, got trampled under my feet as I used all my strength to squeeze the last breath out of her. For a while, she put up a fight, but it wasn’t long before the thrashing stopped. At the time, I had no idea she’d had a stroke just minutes before, didn’t realise that she’d probably have died anyway.
When I heard his footsteps coming, I hid behind the curtain, terrified of what I’d just done. I peeked out, witnessing the rage burst out of Donald as he discovered Joyce had died, leaving him with nothing. That’s when he took to her face with his fist.
After he’d gone, I crept out from behind the curtains. I stood for a while, watching my mother, knowing she’d never be able to steal anything from me ever again.
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