Messy, Wonderful Us

by Catherine Isaac

  Peggy picked up a dishcloth to help with the mess. ‘Well, that’s going to happen, love. He doesn’t live that far away.’

  ‘It was so awkward, Mum. I felt terrible.’

  ‘Joe doesn’t need your pity,’ Peggy said.

  Christine looked at her and frowned. ‘It wasn’t that. He was telling me about some big training exercise he’d been involved in . . . and how he’s planning a holiday abroad with some friends from work. And he’s got tickets to see The Smiths at the Hacienda, probably with somebody else. You’d think the end of our relationship was the best thing that ever happened to him.’ She looked up, her lip trembling as she tried to steady her voice. ‘God, I miss him.’

  ‘Enough to get back with him?’

  Christine closed her eyes. ‘How could that even be possible after what I’ve done?’ she said furiously.

  ‘What about your new boyfriend – have you gone off him?’

  Christine shook her head as if Peggy didn’t understand. ‘No,’ she said, slightly exasperated. ‘He’s lovely too. Totally different but . . .’ Then a thought popped into her head. ‘Will you meet him?’

  Peggy’s eyes widened. ‘You’re not asking me to choose for you, I hope?’

  ‘No, of course not. I’ve made my choice already, the least I can do now is live with it and not mess Joe about. I’ve hurt him enough as it is.’

  Peggy didn’t reply.

  ‘I just want you to meet him, that’s all,’ Christine persisted. ‘And okay, I’ll admit it. I want you to tell me what you think of him. I want you to let me know if you think I’ve done the right thing.’

  Chapter 55

  Allie

  The taxi winds its way through the shimmering dust back towards Portofino, and I can’t shake an unpleasant, gritty feeling that I’ve left myself exposed. By writing the letter, revealing my name, my hotel, giving my number. The need to run away rushes up in me, fuelling my instinct to get out of here as fast as I can.

  ‘Do you want to try the boat yard?’ Ed asks.

  I shake my head. ‘No. Let’s just leave it as it is.’

  Ed’s presence in the seat next to mine brings with it a kaleidoscope of conflicting emotions. But above all else, it is the only thing stopping my anxiety from spinning out of control. It’s not even anything he’s said; it’s simply the knowledge that he’s there with me. My backup. My rock. No matter what the aftermath of that letter turns out to be, I don’t have to face it alone, at least for the time being.

  The taxi drops us off as near to the hotel as it can, but instead of going inside, we decide to wander down to the harbour.

  ‘Fancy a gelato?’ Ed asks, clearly trying to lighten the mood.

  ‘Maybe,’ I shrug. I’m too agitated to be hungry, but we make our way towards the little gelateria that nestles in a stone alleyway between a fancy fashion store and a bakery.

  ‘Did the neighbour say he’d definitely be back within an hour?’ I ask, as we stand in the queue. I can’t even say Stefano’s name out loud anymore.

  ‘She didn’t say definitely. Just that he usually is on a Wednesday,’ Ed tells me.

  I take my phone out of my pocket. It’s 1.23 p.m. Saliva gathers at the sides of my mouth and I swallow it back.

  ‘Allie. Don’t be too disappointed if he doesn’t contact you.’

  ‘I won’t,’ I reply. ‘In fact, right this minute, I’m desperately hoping he doesn’t. Here, let me get your ice cream.’

  ‘No, it’s all right,’ he protests, rooting in his pocket for change.

  I flash him a mock warning look. ‘Ed, after everything you’ve paid for on this trip, let me buy you a gelato.’

  The sheerest smile appears on his lips. ‘Go on then. Anything but pistachio.’

  I choose a swirl of cream and pink, made with fresh Amareno cherries, and hand it to Ed. Then we drift back towards the harbour and along the jetty, until we’re entirely out of runway. Ed lowers himself onto the wood, as I sit down next to him and slip off my sandals, dipping my toes into the water, the cold biting my ankles. With the cove behind us, it feels as though we’re floating above the sea, the clear, bright sky stretching ahead.

  ‘I haven’t said thank you,’ he says, all of a sudden.

  I look up and shield my eyes from the sun.

  ‘That’s all right. I should’ve got you a double scoop though. That Marsala flavour looked lovely.’

  ‘I wasn’t talking about the gelato.’

  I can see the creases on his skin from behind his sunglasses. He lifts them up to look at me properly. ‘Thank you for being here when I needed someone.’

  Emotion throbs between us in the haze, but I can’t bring myself to acknowledge it.

  ‘No worries. Besides, you had your uses,’ I say lightly. ‘I didn’t have to dig out my pocket Italian dictionary once.’

  He laughs and I realise how much I love that sound. He can’t ever be mine but I will always have that: I was the one who made Ed laugh again.

  ‘It’s been a lovely holiday,’ he says.

  ‘Are you sure it’s been much of a holiday? I’ve had you traipsing halfway up and down Northern Italy.’

  ‘It hasn’t exactly been hell. I’ve got to see some of the most beautiful parts of the country, with . . . with you.’

  The only sound is the shifting air as birds circle above us, and the chime of water as it splashes under our feet. I look away, following the lines of the lush, green cliff that rise above the harbour to a vanilla-coloured house, high above the sea. ‘Imagine living up there,’ I say. But Ed’s hand is on mine, gently squeezing my knuckles. I look down and let my gaze settle on it, as heat rises up my chest. I allow myself to look up at him, at those fiercely blue eyes.

  Then I become aware that my phone is ringing.

  I snatch away my hand and before I even look at the screen I am gripped by panic, at the thought that this can only be Stefano. This is the first phone call I’ve had since I left England.

  ‘You’ll be okay,’ Ed says.

  I turn over my mobile. But the number is from the UK and it’s listed in my contacts already. I release a thin trail of breath as my adrenalin disperses.

  ‘Hi, Grandma Peggy. You do know I’m not back from my holiday yet, don’t you?’

  ‘Allie . . . I’ve just had a phone call.’ The crack in her voice sends a rip of anxiety through me.

  ‘What is it, Grandma? Is something the matter with Granddad? Is everything all right?’

  ‘He’s fine. We’re all fine. The call . . . it was from . . . they called him Stefano.’

  The moments after she says his name feel like a vacuum, one that gradually fills up with an awareness that Grandma Peggy is crying. I can’t think of a single occasion when I’ve heard her do that before.

  ‘Grandma, what’s the matter?’ I whisper. ‘Tell me what you know about Stefano. I need to know.’

  It takes several moments for her to answer. ‘He telephoned me and told me you’d been to his house. He said you’re not in Portugal. But that you tracked him down in Italy and had written a letter.’

  ‘How did he find you?’

  ‘He . . . remembered where to look.’

  This entire conversation is making my head throb, as if I’m trying to work out a puzzle that’s beyond my comprehension.

  ‘I should’ve been honest when you found that newspaper article and the letter,’ she continues. ‘I was upset and confused and . . . I’m sorry, Allie. I never wanted to lie to you. I didn’t know how to explain.’

  ‘Explain what, Grandma?’

  I can hear the quickening of her breath before she finally speaks. ‘What happened between your mother and Stefano McCourt.’

  Chapter 56

  June was always a strange month for Peggy because it was Christopher’s birthday. Every year, as the days on the calendar would count down to the 16th, the memory of that day when she’d given birth on a hard hospital bed, frightened and alone, would sharpen into vivid focus.

&
nbsp; Over the years, she’d learnt to hide her feelings as the date approached. She never did anything to mark the occasion, except for one year when she took the day off work and went to Nightingale House, just to stand outside and let memories slip over her. But it had closed a few years after Christopher was born and, after a brief spell as a children’s home in the 1970s, had been bought by a businessman who planned to turn it into posh flats.

  She never went back again. Mostly, she just tried to get through that date without being too quiet and pensive. But, no matter what she felt, one of the hardest lessons she’d learnt over the years was that life goes on. It has to, even on the days when you’re so exhausted by the world that it’s difficult to breathe.

  Christopher would have been twenty this year. The intense joy Christine had brought her didn’t change the fact that Peggy had had twenty years of regret burning her up from inside. Twenty years of love that was sometimes tender, sometimes so angry it was ready to burst out of her. Twenty years without a little boy who didn’t even know her name.

  It felt like such a terrible milestone that, when Christine announced that Peggy would finally get to meet her new boyfriend on the 15th – the day before her strange and secret anniversary – she really wanted to find an excuse to say no, to hibernate at home and not have to face the world. But Christine had it all planned. He was picking her up from home before they went off to the pictures, and she’d asked him to arrive ten minutes early so she could introduce him to her mum. Peggy’s seal of approval was clearly important to both of them.

  ‘You’ll be okay for ten minutes or so, love,’ Gerald had said gently that morning, as he turned down Radio 2, silencing Terry Wogan. ‘It might just be a distraction.’

  Peggy nodded. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Do you think Christine’s deliberately arranged to bring this lad home when I’m at work?’ Gerald grinned.

  ‘Probably,’ Peggy said. ‘She’d nearly brought him here before she went to that party with him at Allerton People’s Hall at the weekend, but decided against it. Probably didn’t want you casting your critical eye over the poor lad.’

  ‘Me? Critical?’ Gerald protested. ‘I’m a softy and she knows it.’

  ‘Not when it comes to boyfriends you’re not.’

  ‘I was nice to Joe,’ he pointed out, as he took a last mouthful of tea.

  ‘Everyone was nice to Joe,’ Peggy replied. ‘It was impossible not to be.’

  ‘Don’t say that in front of the new fellow, whatever you do,’ Gerald chuckled and put his warm arms round her. ‘You all right love?’ he whispered.

  His concern cracked something open in her chest but she held it in. ‘I’m fine,’ she said as he kissed her gently on the temple, grabbed the keys to his Ford Sierra and left her alone with her thoughts and the faint hum of the radio.

  *

  Peggy had to remind herself to keep an open mind about Christine’s new boyfriend, though it wasn’t easy given how much she’d liked Joe. But first impressions were good. He had a narrow face with serious eyes and thick, dark hair, while an exaggerated cupid’s bow drew attention to the small gap in his teeth. He was polite, with a strong handshake and an easy smile.

  ‘Can I get you a cup of tea? Or . . . what is it you drink in Italy?’

  ‘Coffee usually. Occasionally, my parents drink wine.’

  ‘You’ve got some Harvey’s Bristol Cream in the drinks cabinet, Mum,’ Christine grinned, trying her luck.

  ‘Water or juice will be fine,’ he laughed and the ice was duly broken.

  ‘That I can do.’ Peggy beckoned them through to the kitchen, where they took a seat at the table while she set about making the drinks. ‘Whereabouts in Italy are you from?’

  ‘Well, I was born here, but my parents moved to Sirmione when I was very small.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘In Northern Italy, near Verona, where my mother was from. I’m half-English though. Liverpool was my father’s home.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right,’ she said, placing two tumblers of orange squash in front of them.

  ‘Christine mentioned that your dad works at the museum now.’

  ‘He’s a curator,’ he nodded. ‘My grandmother hasn’t been so well, so Papà wanted to move back to the UK and be closer to her. Thanks for the juice.’

  ‘It must’ve been a culture shock for you and your mum though.’

  He hesitated while he worked out how to put this politely. ‘I like it in England,’ he said, and as he glanced at Christine it was clear why. ‘There are things I miss, of course. My uncle’s boat yard in Portofino, for example – I’ve spent the last few summers working there. But I’ve applied for a job at the Royal Mersey Yacht Club, so who knows? In the meantime I’m working in the hospital and it’s really not so bad.’

  ‘Your mum’s not as keen on it here though, is she?’ Christine added.

  He took a deep breath and smiled regretfully. ‘Not so much, no.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll settle in eventually,’ Peggy replied.

  ‘I hope so,’ Stefano shrugged. ‘Though . . . it’s different for her. For me, this is where my roots are, so I have a reason to be here, other than to simply follow my father. I can find out a little about where I was born.’

  ‘Stefano was adopted,’ Christine told her mum, matter-of-factly.

  ‘Not that I’m looking for my biological parents. I never wanted to do that,’ he continued. ‘I just always wanted to . . . get a feel for the place, I suppose. Understand where I was from.’

  A chill had run through Peggy’s blood. Not because she had any idea that Stefano was her own baby – born as Christopher – before she was forced to give him up for adoption. Not yet.

  *

  For the rest of the time Stefano and Christine remained in the house, Peggy was left with a sharp reminder of her own past. Her baby was out there somewhere, she told herself. He’d be all grown up now. The idea that he might think of her in the same terms that this young man thought of his birth mother – almost as an irrelevance – sent misery spreading through her like ripening mould. Eventually, she simply had to ask Stefano something.

  ‘You’ve never wondered what happened to your real mother?’ The words fell from her lips before she’d had a chance to fully form her thoughts.

  He shook his head vehemently. ‘The woman who gave birth to me gave me away. I’m sure she had her reasons, but being a parent . . . well, you already know: it isn’t just about biology. That’s only a fraction of it.’ He spoke in a measured, impassioned tone. ‘My mother and father were the ones who loved and raised me. They taught me to read, encouraged me to work hard, helped me stand up to the bullies at school. They’re my parents, not a stranger who gave me away when I was six weeks old.’ Peggy felt her trembling lips try to protest, but he got there first. ‘She didn’t even leave a note.’

  A thought was now ricocheting around her head: she hadn’t been allowed to leave a note. Indeed, the thought of doing so had never even crossed her stupid mind.

  All she’d been allowed to leave was the baby box – which she doubted his new parents would’ve kept anyway – and the little blanket of stars she’d knitted for him. Except that got left behind and had been gathering mildew spores upstairs in her bottom drawer for years.

  There was a time when she’d spend hours holding it against her face, breathing in the warm, milky scent imbued in its fibres. But that smell had long since faded and, over the years had been replaced by musty overtones, even though she regularly wiped out the drawer with lemon juice. Eventually, she’d been forced to launder it, but the chemically produced lilac fragrance of the washing powder only made her feel as though she’d lost another little bit of him.

  That thought made her eyes prick and she urgently had to say something.

  ‘Some women were forced to give up their babies.’

  Christine frowned and looked at her mother, bewildered. But Peggy felt she had a duty to the poor woman who was his real
mother, to let him know that she probably loved him, more than she’d ever have the privilege of telling him.

  ‘You’re right, of course, that your parents have had the hard job of raising you. But don’t simply assume that your natural mother didn’t want you. In the sixties, if a girl got pregnant and her parents found out, she often wasn’t allowed to keep the baby.’

  She could feel the heat from Christine’s eyes from across the table.

  ‘I haven’t put much thought into that. Maybe I will one day.’ He forced a smile meant to diffuse the tension and lowered his glass, clasping his hands under the table.

  ‘Stefano, we need to go,’ Christine said, standing up abruptly. ‘The movie will be starting soon and I hate missing the trailers.’

  They started making their way towards the front door. Peggy felt a fool. She padded after them and tried to re-engage them in conversation so that things weren’t left hanging on this strange and unexplainable note.

  ‘What is it you’re going to see?’ she asked.

  ‘An Officer and a Gentleman,’ Christine replied.

  ‘Well, have a lovely time. Are you going to walk? It’ll be a nice stroll through the park on an evening like this,’ she replied.

  ‘Hmm. Maybe.’ Peggy realised her daughter was probably worried about bumping into Joe. For all Christine’s enthusiasm for this new boy, Peggy knew she still had regrets about her ex-boyfriend.

  ‘We might do that tomorrow after we’ve been to the new bistro at the top of the road.’

  Peggy raised her eyebrows as she opened the front door and they slipped out. ‘It’s meant to be pricey, that place.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s a special occasion.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Tomorrow’s my birthday,’ Stefano said. ‘I’ll be twenty.’

  As Peggy stood and watched them cross the street hand in hand, she clutched the door frame until her knuckles turned white, for fear that if she let go her own legs might not be able to hold her up.

  Chapter 57

  Allie

  My head feels swollen in the heat as I gaze up at the vanilla house on the hill. I am woozy and confused and my heart is racing so fast that Ed appears next to me and hands me a bottle of water, placing it into my palm as he touches my back. ‘Everything all right?’ he mouths.