by Wendy Clarke
He’s looking at her. Scratching his jaw with his fingernail. ‘I saw you in the paper last week. You won that cross-country thing, didn’t you? Mum was showing it to Ava. Asking if you’re still in the same form at school.’
Kelly dares to look at him properly now, noticing how his eyes are an unusual shade of green beneath sandy brows. Why is he even talking to her? Everyone knows she’s the girl whose family once had all the different kids living with them.
Swallowing down her embarrassment, she makes herself answer. ‘Yes. The race was last week. I’m in the athletics club.’
‘Impressive.’
Kelly glances at him to see if he’s being sarcastic, but he’s grinning. ‘I’m pretty quick myself.’
‘Oh.’ She doesn’t know what else to say.
‘Well, see you around.’ Hefting his rucksack onto his shoulder, he walks away across the field, leaving Kelly red-faced and flustered.
It’s only as she’s walking back towards the school building that a realisation dawns on her. How she’s feeling now is the way she feels on the rare occasion her dad bothers to talk to her.
* * *
When Kelly goes home later, the humiliation she’d felt in the classroom is eclipsed by a feeling of unbridled joy. Ethan is two years older. Boys never like her, but he must – or he wouldn’t have stayed and talked to her after Ava had gone.
Hugging the feeling to her, she fits the key into the lock and pushes open the front door. Immediately, she’s hit by the lemony smell of some sort of cleaning product. That’s not the only strange thing, though, as all the bags and coats that used to junk up their small lobby have been removed. They’ve been hung on a new pine coat stand and a matching rack on the floor is filled with their shoes.
‘Mum?’
There’s no answer, but she can hear the whine of a hoover somewhere above her head.
Taking her bag off her shoulder, Kelly goes into the living room. The first thing that catches her eye is the dining table at the far end of the room. Over the last few years, she’s got used to the magazines and papers that have been dumped on it. The piles of bills, random junk mail and menus from takeaways waiting to be filed. Now, though, the table has nothing on it except a cut-glass vase of pink carnations. That’s not all. The tabletop that she hasn’t seen for a long while, has been polished, giving off a rather unpleasant waxy smell. When she runs her hand over it, it’s slightly tacky.
Leaning her back against the table, she takes in the rest of the room. Gone are the piles of Radio Times by the chair her mum likes to sit in when watching daytime TV. In their place is a copy of Good Food magazine, yellow Post-it notes peeping from between its pages. She picks it up and flips it open at one of the marked pages. Butternut Squash with Lentils and Spinach, she reads.
The hoovering has stopped. ‘Mum?’ she calls again, but either her mother doesn’t hear her, or she doesn’t want to answer.
Ben’s bed has been moved too. It’s now in the kitchen instead of its usual place in the living room. Bending down, Kelly strokes his big head and smiles as he rolls over onto his back in the hope she’ll rub his tummy.
‘What’s going on, boy? Any idea?’
Ben wriggles on his back and Kelly leaves him to it. As she climbs the stairs, she notices that the carpet has been freshly hoovered and the frames of the photographs on the wall shine. She stops on the landing and listens. Strange clunks and scraping noises are coming from the large bedroom across the landing from hers – the one her brothers and sisters once slept in. The one that hasn’t been used in the six years since Freya left. Even though the room is twice the size of her own, she’s never been allowed to move into it. It’s as though it’s been kept as a shrine.
She sees her mum straightaway. She’s reaching into the wardrobe and hooking coat hangers onto the rail. Sliding them along to make room for more. The drawers of the chest near the window have been taken out and are on the double bed, which has a new duvet on it. Each drawer has been lined with flowered paper that’s been cut from the long roll that’s on the bed next to them and she can smell a faint aroma of roses.
Her mum turns her head to look at her. ‘What are you staring at, Kelly?’
She runs her fingers through her dark hair and as it parts, Kelly sees the strands of grey her mum no longer bothers to hide. She can’t remember the last time her mum went to the hairdresser’s.
Kelly folds her arms across her school sweatshirt. Even at fourteen, her mum has a way of making her feel like she’s said the wrong thing… asked the wrong question. She searches desperately for something that will appease her. Make her smile. ‘I just wondered what you were doing.’
There’s a pink spot on each of her mum’s cheeks. A strange, distracted look in her eyes. She stares at the newly lined drawers, the freshly hoovered floor, the panes of glass that gleam in the sunlight. ‘What do you think I’m doing, Kelly? You have eyes.’
‘You’re cleaning. You never clean.’ As soon as she says it, she wishes she hadn’t. It will only anger her and sometimes her mum’s moods can last for days. ‘I mean, it’s a Wednesday and it’s a funny day to be doing the housework.’
Her mum puts the last of the hangers on the rail and closes the wardrobe door. She picks up one of the drawers and carries it to the chest and, with difficulty, fits it onto its runners and slides it into place before going back for the other two.
‘You could help, you know. Rather than just standing there.’
Kelly looks around the room. Her mum’s been busy – everything’s clean and tidy and she hardly recognises the place. She doesn’t know what to think. After she’d started to make new tentative friendships at secondary school, she’d been too embarrassed to invite anyone back to her dirty, cluttered house. If anyone had shown an interest, she’d tell them her mum worked from home and needed the quiet. Is it any wonder that, just like Carly, Ava and Tabby, they’d eventually drifted away?
But today, everything is different and it’s unnerving.
‘What shall I do?’
‘Put these in the drawers.’
Beside the bed is a large plastic carrier bag that she hadn’t noticed earlier. When she squats down and opens it, she sees that it’s full of clothes. Taking out a T-shirt, she looks at the label inside. Topshop. The price tag is still on it and she’s surprised to see it cost almost ten pounds. There are other tops – skirts and trousers too. Things that Carly and Ava might wear. Fashionable things, like the tracksuit bottoms she’s holding with the Adidas logo on the front.
Her mum smiles. ‘They’re nice, aren’t they?’ She looks around her. ‘The room’s scrubbed up well too. You see, patience is always rewarded.’
Pressing the tracksuit bottoms she’s holding to her chest, Kelly feels her heart leap. After waiting for years, after holding her tongue and not asking, she’s finally going to be allowed this room. It’s because of the cross-country. They never said anything, but it’s their way of rewarding her. She’ll leave her tiny bedroom with its blinds and functional cupboards and move to this room where she’ll sleep in the double bed with its view over the meadow to the downs. She can almost feel the plumpness of the pillow and the cool, crispness of the new duvet cover.
‘Shall I get my things?’
Her mum is opening the windows, letting the sweet summer air into the room that hasn’t had anyone in it for years. She stops with her hand on the catch.
‘What things?’
‘My things… my clothes and stuff.’
Her mum looks puzzled. ‘Why would you do that?’
Kelly falters. She was so certain and now she’s unsure. ‘Aren’t I moving into this room? Aren’t these things for me?’
Even before her mum replies, she realises her mistake.
‘For you? Why would they be?’
Dropping the tracksuit bottoms onto the bed, Kelly turns and leaves the room, fighting back the tears until she can reach the safety of her own bedroom. Of course, she wasn’t going to be all
owed to sleep in the new room or wear the new clothes. Her mum’s feverish excitement, the spotless house and the smell of lemon and furniture polish can only mean one thing.
By tomorrow, there will be a new brother or sister in the house.
25
Kelly Now
‘Anyone home?’
From my vantage point at the top of the stairs, I watch Mitch shoulder the front door closed. Taking off his donkey jacket, he’s about to hang it up when he changes his mind and throws it over the others on the end of the banister instead. In the living room, Isabella’s voice is loud above the television.
I walk a few steps down the stairs, the letter in my hand, wanting, yet not wanting, to show him.
Mitch opens the door wide and I see, on the wide plasma screen, that a red dinosaur is talking to a small blue one, but neither girl is watching it. Instead, they’re rifling through a box of Lego that’s upturned onto the carpet.
‘Hi, girls. Where’s your mum?’ He bends and drops a kiss on both their heads.
‘Up there with Noah.’ Isabella points towards the ceiling, but Sophie says nothing. She looks pale and withdrawn.
‘What’s up, chick?’ Kneeling beside his daughter, I watch him scoop her into his arms, noticing how thin her legs look under her stiff grey school skirt. ‘Not had a good day?’
Sophie shakes her head and buries her face in his neck.
‘Jack Long called her a baby.’ Isabella’s voice is unconcerned. Running her arm through the Lego, she drags the pieces towards her and starts to pick out all the yellow ones, looking pointedly at Sophie. ‘You can’t have any.’
I bite my lip, wondering where her cruel streak has come from. But it’s obvious where. My hand tightens around the letter.
Thankfully, Mitch is quick to pick up on it. ‘That’s enough, Izzy. You should be extra nice to Sophie if she’s unhappy. Sisters should support one another.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they’re family and family is more important than anything.’
‘That’s stupid.’
‘No, it’s not.’
Picking up the remote, Mitch points it at the television. As the red dragon’s voice fades to nothing, he looks towards the hall and I quickly step back up.
‘Kel?’ he calls. ‘What are you doing up there?’
When I don’t answer, I know he’ll come and find me. I’m going to have to make a decision. Shall I tell him or not? There’s silence and I imagine him rubbing his hand twice over the top of his bald head, unsure whether or not to come up.
There’s a cry from Noah, and with a shock, I realise I’ve left him on our bed on the change mat. What was I thinking? Running back into the bedroom, I’m relieved to see that he’s fine. He’s lying on his back, his legs paddling the air.
I hear Mitch come up the stairs and soon he’s at the door, his jeans covered in what looks like creosote.
‘Everything all right?’
Getting up from the bed, I go to the window and part the net curtains. The letter is still in my hand and I know that, if I want to, I can make something up. There’s a movement in the street, and for a second, I wonder if someone is watching me.
Mitch is beside me, taking the letter from my hand, and I’m grateful the decision has been made for me.
‘Come on then. Who’s it from?’ he asks.
I don’t look at him. ‘It’s from my mother.’
‘Your mother?’
‘Yes, she’s written to tell me my dad is dead.’
I can tell by his silence that he’s shocked at my bluntness. Is he wondering at my emotionless voice? Painting a picture in his head of a father I’ve never talked about?
Outside the window, the sky has turned to navy and the street lights are starting to come on. I want to pull the curtains and switch on a light, but I don’t. I’d rather Mitch didn’t see my face.
He goes to the bed and sits next to Noah, placing a gentle hand on his stomach. He’ll be searching for words of comfort. He’s not good at this sort of thing.
‘Do you want to tell me about it?’ he says gruffly.
Ignoring his question, I scan the street again. The window is wet with condensation – all the windows are like it, but despite being a builder, Mitch has never got around to doing anything about it. I run the tips of my fingers down the glass, leaving two perfect lines on the misted pane, even though I know that I’ll have to clean the whole window later if I want to get rid of the marks. ‘How did she know I was here?’
Mitch folds the letter carefully. ‘It’s not hard to track someone down if you’ve a mind to.’
Downstairs, we can hear Isabella doing dinosaur impressions in the living room. Letting the net curtain drop, I walk over to the bed and sit next to him.
‘Tell me something about him. What was he like?’ He settles down on the covers as though I’m about to tell him a story.
I look at the letter and then into the distance trying to conjure up an image. ‘He was never there. I hardly knew him.’
‘That’s all?’ He’s disappointed, I can tell.
‘What else is there? Like I say, he was never there.’
Mitch frowns. To him the bond between a child and their parents should be the strongest there is, but in my case it wasn’t.
‘The funeral’s next week,’ he says. ‘I’ll leave the site manager in charge and go with you. I can look after the kids at your mum’s house and—’
‘I’m not going.’
Mitch stares at me. ‘You have to go. He’s your father.’
‘A father who couldn’t care less if I was alive or dead. Who all through my childhood made me feel that I was unwanted even though I adored him.’
My husband clearly can’t believe what he’s hearing. ‘But you haven’t any brothers or sisters. Your mother’s alone now. You’re all she’s got, Kelly. You and the children.’
The street light outside the window casts a faint light into the room. Mitch’s face looks ghostly.
‘Keep the children out of this? She knows nothing about them.’
Mitch rubs his thumb across the back of my hand. ‘Don’t you think she should? She is their grandmother.’
‘No.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’ It bursts out of him, echoing in the room.
‘Why are you shouting?’ The twins are standing in the doorway. Sophie’s voice is muffled from the thumb that’s in her mouth.
Mitch gets up wearily and places a hand on each of their shoulders. ‘Mummy’s upset. She’s had a letter from your gran.’
Isabella’s eyes widen. ‘What gran?’
‘Don’t call her that!’ Leaping up, I snatch the letter from his hands.
‘But that’s who she is, Kelly.’
‘I don’t want you talking to them about her.’
‘Okay, okay.’ He raises his hands in supplication. ‘I just thought…’
‘No, Mitch. You didn’t think.’ Tearing up the letter, I drop the pieces into the wastepaper bin beside the dressing table. ‘Go back downstairs, girls. I’ll be down in a minute. Why don’t you choose a book for me to read?’
They look at each other, then run downstairs. Mitch waits until he hears their voices in the living room, then sits back on the bed, lifting Noah to his shoulder.
‘I think you’re being unfair, Kelly.’
My jaw tenses. ‘You think it’s unfair that our children don’t know that somewhere out there is a twisted, bitter old woman intent on ruining everyone’s lives.’
‘But she gave birth to you. She’s your own flesh and blood.’
‘My past is nothing to do with you or anybody else.’
My words have cut him. Now it’s his turn to be angry. ‘I’m not anybody else. I’m your husband, Kelly. You can’t fucking accuse me of not understanding something if you won’t share it with me.’
I flinch and lower my head, the fight gone out of me. ‘Don’t swear at me, Mitch.’
Before Mitch met me, he’d bee
n a bit of a lad, calling out to pretty girls from his vantage point on the scaffolding. At weekends he and his mates would practise their cheesy chat-up lines on the hen parties that frequented the Brighton pubs and often he’d wake up with the hangover from hell and a strange face in his bed to tell Maddie about later over a strong mug of black coffee. Meeting me, that night in the pub as I’d pulled his pint, had put an end to all that. He’d become a different man.
Reaching out, he takes my hand and pulls me on to the bed next to him, the old bed frame squeaking. He moves closer and kisses my hair. Noah stirs in his arms and we must look the perfect tableaux: father, mother and the baby we both adore.
‘Look, Kelly. I’m sorry, but you’ve got to see how frustrating it is for me. It’s like I’m living with someone with no past. I want to know all of you. Not just the part you want to show me. Please don’t shut me out.’
Outside, a group of teenagers are laughing and kicking a can along the pavement, but for once I know Mitch isn’t thinking about whether they might steal his car aerial or fall into his wing mirror.
‘When you smiled at me that first time in the pub,’ he continues, ‘I felt as though someone had got hold of my gut and twisted it. Did I ever tell you that?’
I manage a smile. ‘Yes, you did. Maybe twenty times.’
I relax against him and we sit in silence until the voices and laughter fade into the distance. I need to confide in him. Tell him my worries.
‘There are things I need to tell you, Mitch. Things that are making me scared.’
He looks concerned. ‘What things?’
‘Something happened at school the other day and then again today. I didn’t tell you before as I thought you’d think I was being stupid.’
‘I wouldn’t think that. Anyway, Izzy told me. Some kid called Sophie a baby.’
I shake my head. ‘It’s not that. It’s something else. While I was taking the girls in, I think someone moved Noah’s pram.’