Something to Tell You Page 3

  ‘Did you know woodlice have their skeletons on the outside of their bodies, Grandma? It’s called an exoskeleton. They are terrestrial isopod crustaceans,’ she said, stumbling a little over the long words, ‘and—’

  ‘And they are very, very boring,’ came the disembodied voice of her brother from the hammock. ‘Nearly as boring as you.’

  ‘They’re not boring! Grandma, tell him!’

  Robyn went on shelling peas as her mother sorted out the squabble. Despite her earlier grumbles, in some ways she was glad Alison hadn’t come to the party, she found herself thinking, not least because of how much John had drunk. Robyn had barely been able to manhandle him into the taxi afterwards. This morning his face had been as pale and crumpled as an old paper bag, and he’d seemed very subdued. Was it the hangover causing this quietness or was he brooding about something? Robyn really needed to find a moment to talk to him, try and get to the bottom of whatever was on his mind.

  ‘The thing I love most about my children,’ Jeanie had once confided in Robyn, ‘is that they’re all so different. John’s the ambitious one. Paula’s loyal. David’s always content. As for Stephen, well, he was a surprise baby and he’s never failed to surprise me since!’

  At the time, Robyn had been pleased with the label assigned to her husband – that of ambition. But with ambition came restlessness, she had come to realize; a dissatisfaction with the status quo that sent a person pushing on, endlessly trying to achieve more. Wasn’t it better to be contented, like Dave; to simply enjoy what you had?

  ‘MUM! I said come and see the house,’ shouted Daisy just then, and Robyn blinked her worries away, before dutifully going out into the sunshine.

  They all made their houses, didn’t they, she thought, crouching down to admire her daughter’s efforts. Real or imagined or woodlouse-sized, they all worked so hard to build and create, to configure walls and doors, to call a place a home, as if that was enough to keep out the bad things. Robyn’s mind flicked back to their own warm, comfortable house on its quiet little cul-de-sac, with their Christmas china in the cupboard and their toothbrushes lined up in the bathroom, and the sofas, gone spongy from the children’s bouncing. That life she and John had put together for themselves, piece by piece, year after year, memory upon memory. She thought of her husband’s late nights out recently, his black moods. She hoped their cosy little world wasn’t in any danger of crashing down. Was it?

  Chapter Three

  Paula Brent had always been able to put a good spin on things. At work, she didn’t bat an eyelid when calling a small, damp-ridden fleahole an ‘exciting investment opportunity’. As the mother of two teenage boys, she had learned to unearth a silver lining where nobody else could see one, including the time she’d replied, ‘Well, at least he can spell “vagina”,’ when called in to see the head teacher about her eldest son’s graffiti last term. And God help her, she’d been married to Matt Brent for seventeen years, and still found it amusing when letters arrived addressed to ‘Mr and Mrs Bent’. But today, here in her parents’ lounge, the same room where she’d sprawled on the sofa to watch cartoons on telly as a child, where they’d had the Christmas tree in the back corner every single year, everything she thought she knew was being unravelled. Because it turned out there were some occasions when a good spin was actually not possible at all.

  ‘I’m very sorry to have to admit to you all that I had an affair some years ago,’ her dad’s opening gambit had been, and the words spattered like shrapnel into her brain. Paula had to clutch the armrest of the sofa, because it felt like the ground was tilting beneath her, as if they were all on board a capsizing ship. Wait – what? Dad had cheated on Mum? Dad, the soppiest man alive, had done the dirty on kind, lovely Mum? No. No way.

  It had to be some sort of wind-up, she reassured herself; one of her dad’s daft pranks. Because her parents were supposed to be going off on their second honeymoon today, for goodness’ sake! Their hotly anticipated week in Madeira, all sunbathing and sherry; new swimming costumes packed in the cases. He was kidding them, right?

  But when Paula turned to her mum beside her for confirmation, a chill travelled the length of her spine. Jeanie’s mouth was trembling, like she wanted to cry. Her eyes were bloodshot and bruised-looking. And her body was held rigid, arms tightly folded about her own waist as if it was all that kept her from crumbling to pieces. Even an optimist like Paula had to admit that the signs did not appear promising.

  Her brothers appeared every bit as dumbstruck as Paula. ‘For real?’ Stephen asked dazedly, but their dad was still talking. There was more. There was worse.

  ‘And I found out yesterday . . .’ Harry looked down at his hands, briefly clenching them in his lap, before detonating a second explosive, ‘there’s a daughter. A half-sister to you all.’

  ‘What the—’ cried John, rising in his seat. His eyes bulged as he swung round towards Jeanie, desperate for one parent to start talking sense. ‘Mum, is this true? It’s not, is it?’

  Jeanie pressed her lips together very tightly, and Paula felt her heart fracture at the pain on her mother’s face. ‘It’s true,’ Jeanie confirmed, her chin wobbling.

  ‘Oh, Mum,’ Paula said immediately, putting an arm around her as if trying to protect her from the blow. Jeanie was never usually one to wear her heart on her sleeve like this. A piano teacher for years and years, she’d get a bad mood or disappointment out of her system by playing certain thunderous pieces, chords crashing until she felt better. Rachmaninov’s Prelude in C-sharp Minor for your average annoyance. Chopin’s ‘Revolutionary Etude’ for the rare occasions when she was truly cross. And yet now look at her, so completely devastated she seemed beyond the point of playing a single note.

  ‘Look, I’m very sorry, of course I am,’ Harry went on, looking wretched. ‘I’m so sorry. But I had absolutely no idea this girl – this woman, rather – even existed until yesterday.’

  ‘Well, who is she?’ Paula blurted out, rounding on him. ‘And how come she’s just turned up now? On your anniversary, of all days?’

  ‘She came to the party,’ Jeanie said, her voice catching.

  ‘To the party? What, you invited her, Dad?’ Even Dave, usually the most mild-mannered and laidback of the siblings, sounded incredulous.

  ‘No! She came here first, apparently, and Lynne next door told her we were in the hall . . .’ Harry was a picture of agitation, shifting in his seat as if he’d rather be anywhere else. ‘It was all very unexpected. To be fair, I think she felt pretty bad about the circumstances—’

  Stephen snorted. ‘Clearly not that bad, if she turned up anyway. To your anniversary party. God!’

  Paula said nothing, reeling from a secondary wave of shock as the reality sank through her. Dad with another woman. Dad with another child. When the Mortimers had always previously seemed so unassailable, so tight, so solid. When her parents had been such role models, the greatest advertisements for happy marriage! It was like finding out Father Christmas wasn’t real all over again, only worse – a million times worse.

  ‘It was unfortunate timing; she had no idea . . .’ her dad was saying in a weak, apologetic voice, so unlike his usual cheery confidence.

  Paula didn’t care about timing or what this other woman thought, when Jeanie was sitting there, so broken and hurt. She couldn’t even look at her own dad any more, she felt so stunned.

  ‘Fuck,’ John said, shaking his head. It didn’t even earn a ‘Language!’ from Jeanie, as it normally would have done, that was how dire things were. ‘Does she want money or something? Is that why she’s come here now?’

  ‘What if she’s lying?’ Stephen put in, sounding suspicious. The youngest of the Mortimer siblings, he’d become a lawyer and now worked in very grand office premises near the Theatre Royal; his childhood years of being wrestled and sat on and pillow-whacked making him an excellent advocate for those treated unjustly by others.

  ‘I don’t think she’s after money,’ Harry replied. ‘At leas
t she didn’t mention it. And she’s definitely not lying. I knew as soon as I looked at her that she was . . . that she was mine. I’m sorry, love,’ he added as Jeanie gave a wounded sniff and blew her nose. ‘But why would she lie anyway? Why would anyone make up something like that?’ He sighed. ‘It was all so out of the blue.’

  ‘You’re telling me,’ Paula snapped, anger flaring inside her. She’d never had a bad word to say about her dad before, never. He’d been her hero her entire life, rescuing her from outside nightclubs when she was young and the last bus had gone; walking her up the aisle on her wedding day; speeding her to the maternity unit when she went into labour early and Matt was working out near Leeds. As the only daughter, she’d always felt so special, so beloved, the apple of her father’s eye. But now, as it turned out, there was a rival apple. Suddenly she was quite a lot less special than she’d imagined.

  ‘But even if she did want money,’ Harry went on, sounding braver all of a sudden, ‘then yes, of course I would give her that, if she asked me for it.’ He gazed around at them in turn, defying anyone to interrupt. ‘Because the bottom line is: I am her father and we’ve all got to get used to that fact. I’m sorry if you don’t like me saying so, but there we are. I’ve apologized to your mother, I’ve apologized to the four of you. I don’t know what else you want me to say.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Her name is Frankie, by the way. And that’s all I know about her, except that she must be about thirty-four.’

  About thirty-four. Nobody said anything for a moment, and Paula guessed they were all quickly working out the maths. Stephen was thirty-eight. Had their dad really been so shallow as to have an affair while their mum was doing her best to cope with four young children under the age of ten? Paula herself must only have been about seven, she calculated. Seven, and preoccupied with horses and dogs, gymnastics club and Brownies. Bile rose in her throat at the thought of her dad carrying on behind everyone’s back. Sneaking off to his bit on the side, then coming home to be daddy and read adventure stories to them at bedtime. It was repulsive. Repugnant. It was unthinkable!

  ‘Clearly this is a bit of a shock, to all of us,’ said Dave, the erstwhile peacekeeper, while the others sat in horrified silence. ‘Dad included, if you had no idea about this . . . this Frankie person.’ He said the word as if it tasted strange in his mouth, as if worried that by mentioning the woman’s name it might conjure her up in front of them. ‘But you two are still going on holiday, right?’ he went on, addressing his parents. ‘Maybe a break is what you need: get away from it all, have some space.’

  What – and sweep the whole sorry saga under the carpet, like it never happened? Paula thought in disbelief. How was that going to work? If it had been her and Matt in this situation, a holiday would be the last thing on her mind. She’d have been more inclined to shove him off the nearest cliff.

  Her brothers disagreed with her, apparently. ‘Yes, absolutely,’ John was saying in a similarly bracing Keep Calm and Carry On manner.

  ‘Bit of sunshine, a chance to talk . . .’ Stephen added encouragingly.

  Paula squeezed her mum’s hand, not wanting to insult her by joining in with them. ‘So, er . . . How did you leave things, Dad?’ she asked when a strained silence fell. ‘I mean – I take it we’re going to meet her, are we?’ She felt a weird shuddery sensation at her own question. Growing up with three brothers, she’d always longed for a sister in whom she could find an ally and confidante, but not a sister like this, thrust upon them without warning. ‘Is she . . . local?’ she added, not entirely sure what she wanted the answer to be.

  Harry gave an uncomfortable shrug. ‘Well, that’s the problem,’ he confessed. ‘Everything happened so fast, we didn’t really get to say much more than hello to each other. I’ve no idea where she lives, I’m afraid.’

  Jeanie’s eyes were like gimlets suddenly. ‘We needed to cut the cake,’ she said, a dangerous edge creeping into her voice. She wasn’t just upset, Paula realized with a jolt of alarm, she was boiling over with anger and humiliation.

  ‘But you’ve got a phone number for her, haven’t you, Dad?’ John put in. ‘Some contact details?’

  Harry shook his head regretfully. ‘She’d gone before I could ask her,’ he admitted. ‘I don’t even know her last name. We’re just going to have to hope that she gets in touch with me. Otherwise . . .’ He spread his hands wide. ‘Otherwise we might never see her again.’

  ‘Well, good. Because I don’t want you to see her again,’ Jeanie said suddenly and they all turned to look at her. She was sitting up a little straighter now – regally even, you could say – and her chin was positively pointy with rage. ‘Do you hear me? I don’t want to hear so much as her name mentioned in this house again. Because it’s her or me, Harry Mortimer. Understand? It’s her or me.’

  Chapter Four

  The west-London flat where Frankie lived was on the fourth floor and the lift, as so often seemed to be the case when she was particularly tired, was out of order today. By the time she’d tramped up the stairs with her overnight bag, there was sweat beading on her forehead and her hair weighed hot and heavy on the back of her neck. The air was humid, the clouds huddled ominously above; you could feel the storm just waiting there on the horizon for its big, dramatic entrance.

  ‘Hello,’ she called, trudging through the front door and dropping her bag by her feet. She heard an excited yelp from Fergus, followed by an answering ‘Hi!’ from Craig. He’d rung her last night, but she hadn’t felt like discussing the awkward reunion on the phone with him, instead sending the call to voicemail and texting as a stopgap message: Knackered! Will tell you all tomorrow.

  ‘Mumma!’ yelled Fergus, bursting from the living room and barrelling towards her. He threw his arms around her legs, pressing his face against her jeans, and she reached down to stroke his curly head, comforted by his presence. Four years old, Fergus was a chunky little thing, with his stocky barrel-chest and the most squeezable thighs of any small person, plus a mop of black ringlety hair that framed his beaming, chubby face.

  ‘Help! Don’t pull me over,’ she cried, laughing and almost losing her balance as she bent down to hug him. Her dear little boy with his naughty, gurgling chuckle and tight-gripping arms now clasped around her neck, it was exactly what she needed. ‘I missed you,’ she told him, snuggling against him.

  ‘A lot? A big lot?’

  ‘Oh, a big, big lot. The biggest, most enormous lot there ever ever was!’

  Seeming satisfied with this answer he gave her a wet kiss on the cheek, wiggled out of her grasp, then charged back down the hall. ‘Daddy! It’s Mumma,’ he proclaimed joyfully just as Craig emerged from the room.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, eyes scanning her expression, trying to read her mood. ‘Welcome home. Are you okay? How did it go?’

  She leaned against him as he embraced her. They’d been together three years and he was kind, good and solid, everything that your loved one should be. ‘I’m okay,’ she replied. That much at least was true. She was alive, breathing, still in one piece. Then she sighed, because he was waiting for the rest of the story and it was going to be painful to get it out. ‘It wasn’t exactly what I was hoping for,’ she admitted eventually.

  ‘Oh, love,’ he said, stroking her hair, just as she’d stroked Fergus’s.

  ‘I just . . . I think I blew it. You were right, I shouldn’t have gone steaming in there unannounced. I picked pretty much the worst possible time, as it happens.’ There was a lump in her throat. Craig was only ever going to be on her side, but it was hard to confess to anyone that you’d been rejected. That you’d made a fool of yourself.

  ‘I set up the TRAINS, Mumma. I set up the TRAINS!’ Fergus was back, seizing her hand triumphantly, trying to pull her along the hall to their small living room, which, at any given time, felt like it was eighty per cent train set.

  ‘Cool!’ Frankie cried, allowing herself to be hauled forward to bear witness to his latest feat of engineering. Fergus was big on trains.
Also dinosaurs, space, zoo animals, the dustbin lorry, squirrels and water pistols, but his heart beat with most passion when it came to trains.

  ‘Tell me about it later,’ Craig said from behind her and she nodded. ‘Listen, I . . .’ He hesitated, and she turned back to look at him. ‘Now that you’re back, would you mind if I catch up on some work? Just for an hour or so? Then I’ll make us something to eat. Is that okay?’

  ‘That’s fine,’ said Frankie, because she was too tired to do anything else and, actually, the thought of playing trains, making bridges and stations, pantomiming dismay at Fergus’s eager, ghoulish engine crashes . . . it all sounded kind of soothing. Anything to distract her. Besides, this was how it went, when you had two self-employed people and one small hullaballoo of a child; you had to seize an hour here, twenty minutes there, to get anything done.

  Craig was a journalist. Frankie had actually read about him and Fergus before she met either of them, in Craig’s ‘Dad About the House’ column in a Sunday newspaper. By turns light-hearted and deeply moving, the column was started by Craig as a means of detailing the highs and lows of being a single dad, and one who was facing a series of challenges at that. Fergus had not had the easiest of starts to life. He’d been born with a cleft lip and been plagued with ear infections for the first few months, as well as difficulties feeding, and he’d been in and out of hospital for surgery and follow-up appointments. Understandably, this had all come as shattering and unexpected news to Craig and his then-partner Julia, and she’d become depressed, blaming herself for Fergus’s problems, not feeling as if she could bond with her child. Despite Craig’s best attempts to keep things going, she’d vanished when Fergus was barely six weeks old, leaving a note to say that she couldn’t manage and was bailing out.