Grace lets go of both of us and pushes ahead. ‘Careful!’ Leo begs, and I feel his fingers closing around mine. He gives me an apologetic glance. ‘Do you mind? Not sure if I can stay upright.’
I shake my head. His hand is warm and dry. I clasp him tighter. Grace glances at us over her shoulder.
‘Look at her! She’s getting pretty confident,’ I say.
‘Yes, it’s wonderful to see,’ he says. And then he yelps in horror.
Grace is down. She’s flat on her face. I let go of Leo and drop to one knee to check that she’s unhurt.
‘Grace?’ He’s calling from behind me, anxiously. ‘Is she hurt?’ he asks.
‘Don’t worry,’ I tell him. ‘She’s fine.’
She takes my outstretched hand, and together we stagger back to our feet, giggling. Her knees and palms must be stinging like crazy, but she doesn’t cry or complain. ‘Brave girl.’ I smile at her.
Leo’s at the side again, and there’s a hint of desperation in the way he’s hanging on. He gives me an embarrassed smile. ‘How about some lunch?’ he calls.
*
There’s a café at the rink, and that’s where Grace wants to eat. Inside the plastic-bright interior, we gorge ourselves on greasy burgers and salty fries and drink too much fizzy stuff. It reminds me of being in Atlantic City. ‘You Spin Me Round’ blares out of the speakers.
Grace sits between us, cheeks flushed and eyes too bright. Sugar rush, I think. She’s wound up tightly with all the excitement, and there’s the symbolism of the date, too. Elizabeth and Leo were married on Grace’s birthday: the fifteenth of October. I glance at Leo to see if he’s struggling with conflicting emotions, but if he is, he’s doing a really great job at covering it up. He’s a good dad. I finish my drink, glancing at the two of them either side of me. My life with Leo and Grace is something I could never have imagined, but it feels like this is where I’m supposed to be.
There’s a letter for me on the hall table. We were in a rush to leave the house after breakfast, and the only mail we opened was cards for Grace.
I leave my letter where it is. It’s time for Grace to open her presents. Mine is a diary. She’s seen me writing in one, and asked for one of her own. I’ve got her a purple beauty with silver lock and key. She flings her arms around my neck. ‘I love it! Thanks, Cat!’
‘You’re welcome, bug. Happy birthday.’
She’s warm and solid in my arms. I inhale strawberry shampoo and milky skin. We’ve come a long way since those early days. Her memories of her mom’s death seem to have faded. The nightmares have stopped. She’s a happy, lively child.
She holds the diary against her cheek. ‘What shall I write in it?’
‘The truth.’
‘The truth?’
‘Yeah, about how you feel, and maybe what you did during the day. But most important is putting down your feelings, because a diary is like the best secret friend you can have. It will always be there for you, and it’ll never judge you, or tell anyone else your thoughts.’
She smiles. Then she’s turning away, ripping the paper off another present.
It’s hours later – after Grace is in bed – that I allow myself to go to my room and open the envelope addressed to me.
Kit-Cat,
I’m a free man. A changed man. I know I caused you and your mom pain, and for that I am truly sorry. I received help in jail for my gambling from a Christian group, and I intend to stay away from casinos and nearer the Lord. That means I can no longer live in Atlantic City. I must find somewhere far away from temptation – Utah or Tennessee maybe, even Alaska. Don’t worry about me. I’m a strong man. I could be useful somewhere. I hope your mom will forgive me in time if I prove myself to her. She always was and always will be the love of my life. I’m glad that you have a job and a home in London. Perhaps one day I can visit with you there.
Dad
PS Will forward my address when I’ve settled somewhere.
I hold the letter in my hand. His loneliness seeps out of the paper, out of the inky scrawl of his handwriting. He’s on his own, and he’s starting over. He’s never had to take care of himself.
I get up and look through my window at the view I’ve come to love, and wonder if I should give up my job and go home to take care of him.
There’s a quiet knock on the door; Leo puts his head round. ‘Just wanted to say thank you for today,’ he begins, smiling; then he sees my face and the letter in my hands. ‘Are you all right? Not bad news, I hope?’
I raise my shoulders, let them fall. ‘My dad. I told you he was in prison for embezzlement? Well, he’s out. He says he’s going to stay away from gambling, move state, start again.’ I sigh. ‘But he’s old. I don’t know if he’ll manage … especially without my mom.’
Leo comes into the room. ‘You want to go back to the States?’
‘Not really. But maybe I should.’
Leo tilts his head to one side. ‘If he’s not asking you to come home, then perhaps this is something he needs to do for himself.’
‘Yeah, he kind of said that, I suppose.’
Leo rubs his chin, and sighs. ‘Look, I don’t want to persuade you to stay if you need to go to him. We’ll organise cover for while you’re gone.’ He swallows. ‘We’ll miss you, of course.’ He comes closer. ‘I’ll miss you.’ His voice is soft.
‘I need to think about it,’ I say, biting my fingernail.
‘The other possibility,’ he says gently, putting his hand on mine, ‘is for your father to come here. We’ve got a spare room. He could stay for a while.’
I stare at him in amazement. ‘You mean that? Really?’
He laughs at my expression. ‘Cat, you’re family now. Of course I mean it.’
‘Thank you.’ I can hardly speak; a hard lump blocks my throat.
‘It’s the least I can do. The main reason that Grace is happier is you. Neither of us can imagine life without you.’
We look at each other inside a space that hums with the unspoken. Then we both move at the same time, stepping close. As he dips his head, I shut my eyes and part my lips. But the feel of his mouth doesn’t come. Our noses clash as he takes an abrupt step back. ‘Oh God, we can’t do this,’ he blurts out. ‘I’m so sorry.’
My pulse jumps at my throat. ‘We … we can’t?’
‘It’s not right. I feel as if I’m … taking advantage.’ He touches my cheek with the backs of his fingers. They tremble against my skin. ‘You mean so much to me. I don’t want to do anything to spoil what we have.’
I open my mouth, but he’s already speaking again.
‘Please forgive me. Can we … can we pretend it didn’t happen?’ His face is pink.
I give myself a second, gazing down at my feet. Then I manage to meet his eyes and nod.
He looks relieved. ‘I nearly forgot,’ he says in a newly bright voice, holding up the book in his hand. ‘If you haven’t already read it, I thought you might like this, Scott Fitzgerald’s Tender Is the Night. It’s my favourite novel.’
I take the battered paperback.
‘Goodnight, Cat,’ he says softly.
The door closes behind him. I follow, but stop with my hand resting on the handle. I have to respect what he said. Then I remember: it’s his wedding anniversary today. No wonder kissing me didn’t feel right to him.
In bed, I look up at the moonlight making patterns on the ceiling and know that Dad won’t come and visit. He’s too proud. But I’m overwhelmed by Leo’s generosity, his kindness.
I’m staying. Relief fills me. This house is my home. And I feel as if I’m making progress: with Grace, and with my writing. I have a collection of children’s stories now. After I read them to Grace, she tells me what she liked best, and what she didn’t like. It’s a kind of game we play together. With her help, I think I’m becoming a proper writer.
I can’t sleep. I can’t stop thinking about Leo, wondering what it would have felt like to kiss him. Because I wanted to. I still do. H
e’s the first man I’ve wanted to kiss since Sam. I switch on my bedside light and open the novel he lent me. The pages are soft from use, well thumbed, much loved. I press my own fingers over the curled edges, reliving the seconds before the almost-kiss, the way the air between us tightened, my insides hollow with longing. And I think of the look on his face, the sound of his breath catching in his throat. He wanted me as much as I wanted him.
There’s been a massacre in Grace’s room. I stand at the threshold in the brilliance of morning light, my hands clamped over my mouth. Her dolls are lying on the carpet, slaughtered, ruined. She’s hacked off their hair, torn off their limbs, gouged out their eyes with a pair of scissors: the murder weapon in plain sight, stolen from her father’s desk.
She sits up in bed, rubbing her face. Her dark hair is a wild mop, her cheeks rosy from sleep.
‘Grace … what … what have you done to all your lovely dolls?’
She lets her gaze drift to the floor. ‘I’m too old for dolls now.’
I kneel down, fingering tufts of shorn acrylic hair, the colours mixed together like the remains on a hairdresser’s floor. I skim over the torn plastic of their sightless, still-smiling faces. ‘But some of them are nearly new – we could have given them to someone else, or just put them on a shelf.’ I turn up my palms helplessly. ‘You’re not really too old for dolls.’
‘I hate them,’ she says, pulling the covers over her head. ‘And … and I heard you … I heard you talking to Daddy last night.’ Her voice is muffled.
I sit on the bed and place a hand on her motionless shoulder. ‘What did you hear, Grace?’
She stays hidden under the sheet. There’s a long pause before she speaks. ‘You’re going away.’
Shock hits, then guilt. ‘No.’ I swallow. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
‘I know … I know why you don’t want to stay. It’s because I’m bad.’
‘Grace, listen to me, I’m staying right here.’
There is silence from under the covers. I can’t pull them back. I have to let her make the decision to come out.
‘I don’t want you to worry about that, okay?’ I say.
A ripple of fabric. Her shoulder moving. But she doesn’t reappear.
‘Shall I tell you a story?’ I ask. I decide to take her lack of response as a yes. ‘Once upon a time,’ I say, ‘there was a little girl who stayed in bed all the time, not because she wanted to, but because her legs didn’t work properly. She wished and wished that she could leave her room, and to pass the time she used to look out of her window and imagine flying to exciting places. Her favourite toy was a little china horse she kept on her dresser; he was snowy white with a long mane and tail.’ Still Grace remains hidden. I keep talking. ‘One night, she woke up with something soft nuzzling her shoulder. To her surprise, it was a horse, a great big white horse with a long mane and tail, standing right there in her bedroom, snorting and stamping his feet, and leaning down to push at her gently with his velvety muzzle.’
I feel a twitch of interest. ‘Her toy horse came to life?’
‘He sure did.’
I continue the story, and slowly, slowly she emerges from under her sheet: forehead, nose, and mouth. She puts out her hand, and I take it. We grip each other tight. Her dark eyes fix on my face. Unblinking, she watches me speak, following the story like a lifeline thrown between us.
TWENTY-SIX
Sam, October 1985
His mother is already settled at a corner table in the Fortnum & Mason tearoom, where they meet once a month. Dressed in a tweed two-piece suit, a string of pearls around her neck, she holds herself like a duchess. Sam smiles, knowing she’d rather be in an old skirt covered in dog hair, rooting around in the flower beds at home. He straightens his shoulders as he weaves through the tables towards her; he needs to break it to her that he’s living with George now.
‘Mum,’ he says, kissing her before sinking into the seat across the white linen tablecloth. ‘Have you ordered?’
‘Cream tea for both of us,’ she says, lighting a cigarette. ‘Are you still living in that dreadful place … what do you call it? The squat?’
This is his cue, earlier than he expected. He shakes his head. ‘I’ve moved out. Now that I’m in the band, things are looking up.’ He glances at her. ‘I’m sharing a flat in Balham with another band member. And … it’s George.’
‘George?’
‘Yes.’ Sam swallows. ‘I wanted to find the right time to tell you,’ he says gently. ‘George … as in Dad’s other son.’ He tries to assess her expression. ‘He’s my flatmate. He’s a really talented drummer.’
At that moment, the waiter arrives with their tea. They wait while he arranges the cups and plates in front of them with long-winded ceremony. When he’s gone, she picks up the teapot. ‘You’re friends now?’
‘Turns out he’s a good guy.’ Sam touches her hand. ‘Do you mind?’
She shakes her head. ‘No, darling. He’s your half-brother. If any good can come out of all of this, then I’m glad.’
‘That’s generous of you, Mum.’ He watches her bite into a scone. ‘But I still can’t understand why you let Dad get away with it.’ He looks at the cream on his plate and feels nauseous. ‘All those years he was cheating on you. Why didn’t you leave him?’
She dabs at her mouth with a napkin. ‘It suited me.’
Sam looks at her in surprise.
She puts a hand over his and squeezes. ‘I never really liked the physical side of marriage. It was the home I was interested in, the security and companionship. And you children, of course. I turned a blind eye to the other woman because … well, because the arrangement let me live my life the way I wanted.’
‘The arrangement?’ Anger coils in his belly. ‘Didn’t you think about us? You knew how unhappy I was at school.’ He pauses, trying to control the swell of his fury. ‘Why didn’t you protect me? Say something to Dad? Tell him to leave me alone?’
She picks up a spoon and stirs her tea. ‘I knew you didn’t like school. But lots of children don’t. Sometimes things that are good for us can be unpleasant. Your father only wanted the best for you; for you to be successful.’
‘On his terms.’
She frowns. ‘Those were the only ones he knew.’
Sam sighs. He’ll never really be able to talk to her about this. She’s had the same kind of upbringing as his father: nannies, boarding school, choices made under the jurisdiction of tradition, and no discussion of anything personal, ever. She loves him, but she’s always been happiest with her dogs and her garden. He notices that her lipstick has seeped into the lines around her mouth. He sits back in his chair, rubs at his nose.
‘Your father’s mellowed a little since he first heard about your change of career,’ she says. ‘If you could bring yourself to come and see him …’
At the thought of his father, his stomach cramps and twists. ‘I don’t know.’
He’s aware of someone hovering over him. He glances up. ‘Jack?’ Lucinda stares down: a less angular, softer version of Lucinda, in a floaty dress. It’s a shock to see her, and with another shock he realises that under the flowing folds of her dress, she’s pregnant.
‘How are you?’ she’s asking. ‘And you, Mrs Winterson, how nice to see you.’
‘You look wonderful,’ he says, truthfully.
She gives a rueful smile. ‘I’m due in two months. Harry and I are living in Kensington. Harry Chivers. He’s a barrister.’ A large diamond glints on her ring finger.
‘You’re married.’ He’s filled with a rush of affection for her. ‘That’s great, Lu.’
‘And you? Is there another Mrs Winterson?’
He shakes his head. ‘There’s only one.’ He gestures towards his mother.
‘How did the whole music idea work out?’ She tilts her head to the side. ‘Are you a singer now?’
He’s relieved that he can give her a positive reply. ‘I’m in a band called the Lambs. You won’t have he
ard of it. But we’re playing my music.’
‘A band?’ She says the word as if it’s faintly amusing. ‘I hope it was worth giving up your career for, Jack, I really do.’ She looks at her watch. ‘Must dash. Meeting my sister-in-law.’ He stands and stoops so they can brush each other’s cheeks with air kisses. She feels like a stranger, and it makes him feel sad and relieved at the same time.
As she winds her way through the tables – a tiny, upright figure – waiters bow deferentially.
‘Goodness, that was more interrogation than conversation,’ his mother says.
He manages a laugh. But his hands are shaking as he calls for the bill. The last time he saw Lucinda, he was still under the illusion that he and Cat had a future together. ‘She is, as they say, a force of nature.’ He puts some coins onto the saucer for a tip. ‘But I’m glad things have worked out for her. Now, this is our time, Mum. What would you like to do next? Have a look at what’s on across the road at the Royal Academy?’
She wrinkles her nose. ‘Actually, my feet are killing me. I think I’ll get the early train home. My boys will be wondering where I am.’
Sam knows she means the dogs.
He watches as her taxi pulls away, then turns, pushing a hand through his hair. He startles for a second as he catches a glimpse of himself in a shop window. Beyond his reflection, there’s a banked-up display of books. He looks closer. They’re children’s books, with bright covers and pictures of animals and cartoon kids with oversized heads. He goes into the shop and, ignoring all the best-sellers and tables full of special offers, heads straight for the G section, running his fingers over different-coloured spines, searching for her name: Catrin Goforth. It’s not there. It never is. He always checks whenever he comes across a bookshop. Disappointment plucks at him. Unwilling to give up, he approaches the assistant at the desk and asks if he’s heard of an American author by that name, but the young man shakes his head.
Since George joined as their drummer, the band have laid down some of the best tracks in a recording studio. The resulting promo tapes are with record companies now. They’re waiting for responses. And Marcus has been busy fixing up gigs all over the country. The band pile into an old Transit and travel from one venue to the next.
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