I breathed deeply. ‘And you’ve told Xavier all this? You’ve told him Edward isn’t his father?’
Brigitte tutted once more. ‘Non, non. Absolutely not. I’ve just told you, I’ve never revealed this to anyone until now. I spent all last evening with my son while ’e poured out ’is ’eart to me. I love Xavier more than anything in the world. I will do this for ’im, but only if you love ’im. If you don’t love ’im then I don’t need to tell my secret. You see?’
I saw.
Shit, poor Edward. Within a couple of weeks, he’d gained a daughter and lost a son. Enough to make anyone question their relationships. ‘Let me get this straight,’ I said carefully. ‘Just so I can be sure…’
‘Xav is not your brother.’
‘So, we can be together?’ A great cacophony of bells was ringing; fireworks were going off in myriad colours in my head.
‘Only if you love ’im enough. If it is at all ’alf ’earted then I must ask you to forget that I ever came ’ere this afternoon. By giving you Xavier you ’ave to see that ’e will lose his father. He can’t ’ave both. It is in your ’ands, Cassandra.’
‘Mrs Bamforth,’ I pleaded, ‘what do you want me to do?’
She shrugged. ‘Edward and I don’t spend all our time together. I stay in Paris a lot at my mother’s ’ouse. I love Paris; I never really love Midhope. If, by telling Edward that Xav isn’t his son and that I ’ave deceived ’im all these years, my ’usband and I fall apart then that must be so. I shall go and live with my mother in Paris permanently and ’ope that Xav forgives me.’ Brigitte looked at me intently. ‘You know, it’s only been a few weeks with you and my son. You need to be sure the relationship is strong and stable before you put the cat amongst the pigeons.’ She smiled.
I nodded, unable to speak.
Brigitte stood up, scrutinised my face carefully and then, kissing me on both cheeks, walked out without a backwards glance from my office.
34
Is That Jesus, or Maybe Beyoncé…?
Clare, Fiona and I had planned a walk for the following day.
We’ve not been together, just the three of us, for weeks,
Clare had texted us both earlier in the week.
Get your walking boots out and we’ll head for the moors.
‘I don’t want to be accused of being one of those women who, the minute they have a new relationship, abandon their women friends in order to be there solely for their new man,’ Clare announced, hopping around in stockinged feet by the boot of her car as she changed long black leather boots for a sturdy pair of walking ones.
‘You mean Rageh is at the hospital?’ Fi asked drily. ‘I can’t imagine you giving up a chance to spend a whole Saturday with him in order to tramp over the moors with us.’ She adjusted the bright pink woolly hat atop her head and pulled on a pair of gloves. ‘God, it’s cold. Wouldn’t we be better just going for coffee somewhere?’
‘For your information, I’ve left Rageh tucked up in bed,’ Clare said loftily. ‘As I said, my friendships are important to me. You…’ she poked Fi in the ribs through her padded jacket ‘… are important to me. Come on, we’ll walk up over the moors and round Robinwood Reservoir.’
The rain, sleet and wet snow that had continued to fall throughout the working week had finally petered out, leaving one of those fantastically cold but crisp days where the sun has deigned not only to put in an appearance, but is determined to be a total show-off. Even while I donned sunglasses, the cold scoured my cheeks like a Brillo pad and our breath smoked in the freezing air. My hands, in their gloves, were numb and I slapped them together in an effort to bring some life back into them.
I was tired, having spent much of the previous night unable to sleep. I’d swung from total euphoria, hugging myself with excitement and happiness as I lay in bed, knowing that Xavier was no blood relation whatsoever to me, to total anxiety that I held the key to opening the biggest and wormiest can of invertebrates I’d ever come across. By opening that can I was going to shatter Edward’s relationship with both his wife and his supposed son.
‘Are you OK?’ Fi took my arm as we set off from the car park. ‘Careful,’ she warned as I skidded slightly, bumping into her. ‘Watch your step; all that slushy snow has turned to ice.’
‘You’ve been very quiet all the way here.’ Clare walked quickly to catch us up after locking her car. ‘Come on, fill us in with the latest. Is Mark still badgering you?’
‘Badgering me?’ I laughed. ‘Sounds a bit rude, does that: oh, hang on, that’s rogering, isn’t it?’ I laughed again. ‘God, can you believe two months ago I’d have been in heaven if Mark were rogering… or badgering me.’
‘So how do you feel about him now?’ Fi asked.
‘He just seems a bit pathetic. Weak and spoilt. Did he always seem like this? I don’t know…’
‘And Xavier? Is he still sticking to the rules and not contacting you? That must be so hard, Cassie.’ Clare patted my arm as we strode out against the cold.
I nodded. And then, unable not to, stopped walking, bringing us all to a halt. ‘I’ve got to tell you two or I’ll burst. I’ve just got to tell someone…’
‘Ooh, what?’ Fi was excited.
‘Look, I shouldn’t… it’s not my secret. Do you absolutely promise that what I’m going to tell you will not go any further than we three? Even Matt and Rageh musn’t know.’
‘Blimey, what is it?’ Fi took my arm once again as I set off walking, unable to keep still. ‘Oh, I know, you’ve murdered Tina and buried her somewhere. That’s why Mark came back: no one to have sex with or wash his socks.’
I laughed. ‘No, according to Mark he came back because he wanted to: realised he loved me after all…’
Clare snorted. ‘Sorry, Cassie, and I wouldn’t have told you this if I knew you were going to take him back. Tina told him to leave. Seems that the excitement of an affair soon loses its thrill once all the exciting subterfuge and illicit meetings become legal. There’s only so many times you can step over your lover’s dirty socks and pants left on the bedroom floor. Mark, apparently, was under the assumption they would be picked up, washed, ironed and back in his drawer by the sock and pants fairy.’
‘’Fraid that was me,’ I said guiltily. ‘I couldn’t stand mess, you see. I had to pick them up otherwise we’d have been stepping over them all week. I tell you something – there’s no way I would ever do it again for any man.’
‘Yes, well, Tina didn’t put up with it,’ Clare finished.
‘Look, can we get off Mark’s dirty pants and on to the secret?’ Fi was impatient.
‘OK, so you two promise? I mean, it’s not my secret to tell and it’s really not fair that you know what I’m going to tell you and the people involved don’t—’
‘For fuck’s sake, Cassie, just spit it out.’ Fi took one arm and Clare my other, and, while I knew I shouldn’t, I related, verbatim, Brigitte’s visit to my office the previous afternoon.
*
‘But, that’s brilliant,’ Fi said, hugging me. ‘I don’t see the problem. What the hell are you doing here, with us, when you could be with Xavier?’
‘Oh, come on, Fi…’ Clare stopped walking and pulled out a hip flask. ‘Hang on a minute, have a slurp of this brandy to keep us going.’ She handed us the flask in turn, and the mellow liquid radiated warmth as we swallowed. ‘I understand totally Cassie’s dilemma. By telling Xavier this secret that’s been kept for forty years, she’d be lighting the blue touch paper for an absolute implosion. I don’t see how you can tell him, Cassie.’
‘And I don’t see how you can’t.’ Fi was adamant. ‘He made her slide down the wall, for heaven’s sake. The first man to ever do that. She has to tell him.’
‘Last night, in bed, I thought of you and Rageh, Clare,’ I said, ‘and how you refused to see him because his happiness was more important than your own. You refused to upset the apple cart…’
‘For God’s sake,’ Fi snorted. ‘We’ve had
upset apple carts, cans of worms, cats and bloody pigeons. Just let the shit hit the f- - -ing fan and have done with it.’
‘I think, Cassie,’ Clare said calmly, ‘you have to decide which Xavier himself would rather. Would he rather continue thinking that Edward is his real father? Or would he rather have you? It really is as simple as that.’
*
And so I did nothing.
I’d not seen Xavier since the evening I’d gone round to his house and he’d told me in no uncertain terms he couldn’t be my brother. Surely, if he felt the same about me as I did about him, he’d have wanted to see me if only to be my brother? I felt he’d made the decision for me.
*
I filled every waking moment with my family’s needs: seeing Mum, visiting Granddad and making sure that my kids didn’t miss out from being in a single-parent family. I put ridiculous time and effort into Little Acorns in order to prove that I was the right person for the headship once the permanent post was advertised. Which, according to David Henderson, would probably be after Christmas.
But I really filled my head with school stuff in order not to leave any room in there for Xavier. I couldn’t allow him there. Pictures of Xavier on the beach; Xavier holding my head as I was ill on the boat; Xavier with his warm mouth on my neck in my kitchen. They all had to be extinguished.
The countdown to the final week of term started with Little Acorns’ Nursery and Reception Nativity which, I knew from past experience, would go down a treat as parents and grannies assembled to see their little darlings on stage for the first time.
‘’Oo’s this ’ere then?’ George Sanderson, one of the local farmer’s sons, executed his lines in a broad Yorkshire accent.
‘It’s my baby,’ Mary, a.k.a. four-year-old Molly Dixon, simpered, showing her dolly to the audience.
‘Wot’s ’is name then?’ George asked, accentuating every word in a wooden monotone.
‘Beyoncé,’ Mary said proudly, holding up a swaddled Jesus.
‘Is it ’eck,’ George said loudly, frowning and looking offstage for reassurance that he’d got the right name. ‘It’s Jesus…’
‘It’s Beyoncé,’ Mary reiterated once again.
‘It i’nt, is it, Mrs Beaumont?’ George looked offstage, beyond the curtains once more. ‘It’s Jesus, i’nt it?’
‘It’s my dolly, Beyoncé, George,’ Mary said soothingly. ‘But we’re pretending she’s Jesus, just for today.’
Two Kings made their appearance, walking slowly towards Jesus, a.k.a. Beyoncé. From my seat with the governors on the front row, I peered towards the stage curtains: weren’t three Kings the norm? The third, five-year-old Noah Pogson, bored with waiting to come on in majestic triumph, had experimented with putting his foot on the bottom of the stage curtain and twisted round. And round… and round… until he was trussed up in the curtain like a Christmas turkey. It took two nursery nurses to spin him in reverse and push him on stage, giggling and slightly drunk with the excitement, to join his more regal mates.
‘I must remember to put that in next year’s risk assessment,’ I whispered, grinning at a laughing David Henderson.
Karen Adams was on sick leave. While the lump in her breast was not malignant, thank goodness, she’d apparently broken down in her GP’s surgery, unable to move from her chair until her husband was sent for. Stress was diagnosed, and Karen told to take an immediate and, it turned out, extended leave. Little Acorns was a much happier place without her.
*
So, I filled my days and, exhausted, fell into bed and deep, dreamless sleep. When Harry Kennedy was back in Midhope from recording in London, he would turn up at the house in his Mini to see Tom. Harry had, according to Freya, who knew about these things, been totally open with the press about his sexuality from the start. It didn’t appear to put off the village teenage girls, who hung around our garden waiting for autographs. They even asked Tom for his and, grinning, he signed his name with a flourish on their pieces of paper and Second Coming posters. I worried for Tom, of course I did. What mother of a seventeen-year-old, in love for the first time – or second, I reminded myself, remembering the boy in the Blue Ball – didn’t?
I was concerned that living in a small rural village might be difficult for him and he could find himself alienated at his new sixth-form college. I needn’t have worried. We were terribly lucky that this particular establishment, one of the best in the country and situated down in Midhope town centre, with kids travelling in by train from Manchester as well as Leeds and Bradford, was exceptionally right-on with regards to its students’ personal and social welfare and particularly its stance on LGBT issues. While maths was still Tom’s number-one love, he was now allocating time in his life for more personal matters and had even put himself forward for election to the Student Welfare Committee at college. I had chatted to Tom’s tutor and been assured and reassured that, whilst the college was always open for chats and even counselling sessions with regards a student’s sexuality, kids today were, on the whole, far more confident about expressing their sexuality, with other students accepting as normal their choice of orientation.
I became very friendly with Nicola, Harry’s mother, a divorcee, and together we had mutual worry sessions over a bottle of wine.
Mark had moved in with his mother but would arrive unannounced at the house several times a week. I’d often come home late from school or a prolonged meeting to find Freya and Mark sitting at the kitchen table sharing a bowl of pasta and pesto, the only dish in either of their respective culinary repertoires.
‘He is trying, Mum,’ Freya announced one evening just before the end of term. ‘He really wants to come back, you know…’
Biting back the obvious retort that yes, her father was bloody trying, I said, ‘Look, Freya, I’m glad, really glad, that you appear to have a relationship with your father once more. I certainly wouldn’t deny either of you that.’ I just hoped Tom would come round, too, but that didn’t seem to be on the cards at the moment. Tom was too caught up in his own new and exciting life to be overly concerned with his father’s. ‘But,’ I went on, ‘you have to understand that I’ve changed over the past four months. I’m sorry, but it’s just not on, having your father back here on a permanent basis.’
Freya had actually grinned. ‘Fair enough; just be his friend rather than his wife.’ She hesitated. ‘I can see why you fancy that Xavier Bamforth.’ She looked up at me through her emo fringe, which seemed to get longer and darker on a daily basis. ‘Mum, I know…’
‘Know what?’ My heart lurched at the mention of his name.
‘That you had a bit of a fling with him in Mexico… and that he’s your brother. Bloody hell, Mum, how come it’s turned out that Edward Bamforth – the biggest enemy of the NMLA – is my granddad?’ She grinned again. ‘But I can see why you fancied Xavier. He’s pretty hot… Gosh,’ she went on excitedly, ‘I suppose he’s my Uncle Xavier. Our very first real uncle. Do you not think he and Edward Bamforth will stop all this planning now? Now that we’re related?’ Then she stopped smiling as she saw my eyes fill with tears. She came and put her arms round me. ‘Oh, Mum, I’m sorry. You really did fancy him, didn’t you? And you can’t have him.’
Freya thrust the roll of kitchen paper in my direction and I tried to smile. ‘Paula told you, I suppose?’ I’d kill her when I saw her.
‘Of course she did. She’s worried about you, Mum.’ She frowned. ‘Mind you, I don’t think she really wants you and Dad to get back together either. Paula says you’ve become a strong independent woman with your own views.’
*
The Saturday before Christmas – I was determined to make an effort for the kids’ sake and had invited not only Paula and Granddad Norman for Christmas lunch, as usual, but also Nicola and Harry Kennedy as well as Clare and Rageh – so I made some mince pies and decided to take a batch round to Granddad.
He was irritable when I arrived. ‘What’s that you’ve got there, lass?’ he asked suspiciously
as I placed the plastic box on his kitchen table.
‘Mince pies. I thought we’d get into the Christmas spirit.’
‘Aye, well, I don’t like mince pies: the pastry gets stuck behind me plate. And I don’t like Christmas. Any road, I reckon I won’t be around by Christmas.’
‘Oh? Are you going anywhere nice?’ I asked, playing along. ‘Do you want a lift to the station?’
‘I reckon I’ll be singing wi’ bloody angels by Christmas.’
‘Well, then, as it’s only two days to Christmas, you’d better come to All Hallows Church carol service with me tomorrow. Get some practice in before you meet them. St Peter won’t let just anyone in, you know.’
Granddad grunted but refused to get out of his chair.
‘Come on, you miserable old so-and-so. Get your coat on and we’ll have a wander around Norman’s meadow. You need some fresh air.’
‘I can’t be bothered, our Sandra. If they’re going to build on me field I’d rather not be here.’
‘Here, get your coat on.’ I pulled it down from its usual place on the back of the door and threw him his flat cap.
Granddad grunted again, but stood up, planted his cap firmly on his head and reached for his stick beside his chair. ‘There’s nowt to see at this time of year, anyhow. Miserable bloody time of year…’
‘God, Granddad, if I was fed up before, I’m almost suicidal now.’
He looked at me sharply. ‘What’s up wi’ you? That husband of yours still not come back, then?’
‘He wants to, but I don’t want him back. I’m perfectly fine by myself.’
He nodded approvingly. ‘Yes, you’re a lot like your mother… an independent, strong woman… Get off me arm, Sandra, I’m perfectly capable of walking meself. Anyone’d think I were on me last legs…’
The damp, foggy weather was enough to make us turn back before we’d started, but I opened the gate at the top of Granddad’s garden and we were immediately into the meadow. A combination of autumn grazing by the local farmer’s cows, followed by a flock of sheep, now gazing balefully at us through orange satanic eyes, had rendered the meadow unpromising, keeping the glory of what would come by the spring and summer well hidden.
A Village Affair Page 31
