No Sister of Mine (ARC)

by Vivien Brown

  There were a few cassette tapes too, mainly for use in the car, and often recorded themselves

  from something on the radio or from their own records. Their preferences hadn’t moved with

  the times either. Dad still liked his Status Quo and his Stones, which nobody would ever suspect from looking at him, and Mum had always been a little in love with Tom Jones and Engelbert,

  and hankered after bad-boy David Essex in his curly-haired days, having given up on Paul

  McCartney as soon as he married Linda and stopped eating meat.

  I went to the sideboard and opened the double doors at the bottom. The records were

  lined up inside in cardboard boxes, the most played ones at the front, the ones they never

  touched but still couldn’t bring themselves to part with tucked away at the back. I picked some out, one by one, and read the labels. All songs I had heard played so many times in this house.

  ‘Eleanor Rigby’. No, not today. Too sad, especially with all that loneliness and churches

  where weddings had been.

  ‘Yesterday’. Too many regrets and too many shadows. Why she had to go . . . No, not

  this time, Sir Paul!

  167

  ‘Lily the Pink’, by the Scaffold, with Paul’s brother Mike, not quite so famous and not quite so handsome. ‘ Let’s drink a drink . . . ’ I started to sing the words in my head, then put it aside as a possible for later, when I knew Dad would get the whisky out before bed.

  And then I saw it. Tom Jones. ‘What’s New, Pussy Cat?’ Yes, that had always been a

  favourite of Mum’s. I could remember her playing it often and pulling Dad up to dance with

  her around the room, their hips rolling around just like slinky Tom’s as they sang and laughed

  together.

  I slipped the record from its paper cover and polished it gently with my sleeve, the way

  I had seen Mum do so many times, before placing it on the turntable and clicking the switch

  that brought the needle over. ‘ Pussy cat, pussy cat . . . ’

  I saw Dad’s eyes light up with the memory, and then just as quickly mist over again.

  No, it couldn’t be, could it? Yes! That was it. It was where they had got the nickname from.

  Suddenly it all came clear and I wondered why I hadn’t seen it straightaway. Even some of the

  words he’d written had been lifted from the song. I looked up at the ceiling, towards the pile

  of old letters under my bed, towards Mum, somewhere up there in Heaven and hopefully

  looking back down. Everything was all right. She had led me to this cupboard, shown me a

  sign. Put my mind, and her own reputation, at rest. Dad – my serious, seemingly unromantic

  dad – really was the mysterious Pussy Cat after all!

  And I liked that. That there had been a real love story between them, a secret past that

  neither Sarah nor I knew anything about. I must find the right time to ask Dad about it, I

  thought. To find out why they had been forced apart, and how they had resolved things and

  ended up back together again. A happy ever after, till death did them part. And I knew then

  that I wasn’t going to read the rest of their private letters. I would slip them back in their box at the back of Mum’s wardrobe and one day, when he was ready to face up to sorting through

  what was left of her things, he would find them, and hopefully they would make him smile. Or

  maybe cry, but either was good.

  A story like that, a story of true love so close to home, gave me some sort of hope, that

  things would work out all right in the end, for the rest of us. For me. They usually do, after all.

  One way or another.

  ***

  I got the job at Grange Heath School. The previous deputy head having left quite abruptly due

  to ill health, they needed someone to step in as soon as possible, and that suited me perfectly.

  With references and medicals to sort out, and me still feeling I should be around during the

  168

  daytime to help Dad for just a bit longer, we agreed on a start date straight after the Christmas break. New job, new term, new start . . .

  I was desperately looking forward to teaching again. It would have been just over six

  months since leaving Wales by the time the new job kicked in, but it had been a very long and

  harrowing six months. The absence of any real purpose now that Mum had gone was messing

  with my head, leaving too much time and space for my thoughts to wander back towards Josh

  and what I had thrown away.

  I was in no hurry to move out. Dad had decided to go back to the office in the New Year

  too, but for now he still drifted about in a daze a lot of the time and, left to his own devices, would probably forget to buy food or iron a shirt for work, so I knew he still needed me, and I suppose I needed him too. The thought of being alone again and facing a new job, new people,

  was not an appealing one.

  It was good to be back in touch with Lucy, who had somehow turned up at the funeral

  without me even thinking to invite her, and to have her living so near. My years away had taken a toll on our once close friendship, but we were both eager to put that right. ‘You’ll be a

  godmother, won’t you?’ she said, as we sat at a window table in her favourite coffee shop,

  watching the world go by. She was toying with the remains of an enormous almond croissant,

  licking her finger and dipping into the sprinklings of icing sugar on the edge of her plate, her other hand resting protectively across her tummy.

  ‘Really? Me? I’m not very religious, you know. Well, not at all really.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. The vicar’s cool with it, as long as at least one of the other

  godparents is a God-fearing person who knows her christening from her confirmation and what

  to do with the candle! And Rob’s sister fits that particular bill. So, why not you? You’d be

  perfect for the job. I’ve probably known you longer than anybody else, ever since primary

  school, and you’re the right sort of person, you know, to guide him in the right direction, teach him to read, buy all the right presents . . .’

  ‘Ha! So, it’s about presents, is it? I often wondered what a godmother’s duties were,

  and now I know.’

  ‘Of course it’s not. But you’re a teacher, you know a lot more about kids, and educating

  them, than I do. I don’t want my son to have godparents who fill him up with sugar or offer to

  babysit and then just plonk him in front of the telly all day.’

  ‘So I have to babysit as well? Is there no end to my duties?’

  ‘Don’t you want to do it then?’

  169

  ‘Of course I want to do it! I’d be honoured. But I don’t know a lot about it. I’ve never been a godmother before.’

  ‘Not for your sister’s little girl?’

  ‘Oh, no. We were still not speaking when Janey was born. I would have been the last

  choice, believe me. And Josh insisted on a Catholic ceremony apparently, which is hardly my

  forte.’

  ‘Things better now though?’

  ‘Between Sarah and me? Sort of. I’m not sure we’ll ever be the way we were, but it’s

  civilised these days.’

  ‘And Josh? Is he behaving himself?’

  I could feel the heat rising in my face. I lifted my coffee and breathed it in, letting the

  effects of the steam act as my disguise. ‘I suppose so. No idea. Why?’

  ‘Oh, once a cheat, always a cheat. Calls himself a Catholic! What a hypocrite. And if

  he could do it you, he can do it to Sarah. I’d be watching him very closely if I was her. Thank God my Rob isn’t like that.’

>   ‘How can you be so sure he isn’t?’

  ‘Honestly, Eve, do you think I’d be having this baby if I had any doubts at all? No,

  Rob’s one of the good guys. A good husband, and definitely good father material. He has never

  so much as looked at another woman. And as for touching . . . God, no! A wife knows these

  things. If Josh is still up to his old tricks, Sarah will have an inkling, believe me. I know I would, if it was Rob.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘I guess not. It really is time we got you married off, you know!’ Lucy went on,

  oblivious to my discomfort. ‘No man on the scene?’

  ‘No. Been too caught up with life, work, Mum, just about everything else, to get mixed

  up with a man.’

  ‘It might do you good if you did. If you want babies of your own, you can’t leave it too

  long.’

  ‘Ah, but I’ll be a godmother soon, won’t I? A baby I can spoil rotten but hand back

  come bedtime. Sounds like the perfect arrangement to me.’

  ‘You don’t mean that. I know you don’t. And now you’re more settled, with a new job

  on the horizon, it’s the obvious next step, isn’t it? I’ll have to see who I can fix you up with.

  Maybe one of Rob’s friends?’

  170

  ‘Lucy! Don’t you dare! When – and if – I decide I want a man, I will find him for myself, thanks very much.’

  ‘Well, don’t be too long about it. This little one will want a playmate around his own

  age. And I quite fancy being a godmother myself. A fairy godmother,’ she giggled, ‘with a big

  dress and wings, and a wand and everything.’

  ‘I hate to spoil things for you, but wands don’t work. There’s no such thing as magic.’

  ‘Cynic!’

  ‘Maybe, but men and babies and a life of domestic bliss are your dreams, not necessarily

  mine. And I might not even stick around long term, once Dad’s back on his feet. I might go

  back to Wales. I like Wales.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Eve. You can’t run away forever. You only ever stayed there after

  university to get away from Josh and Sarah, and you only went there in the first place to get

  away from that scumbag Arnie.’

  ‘Rubbish! I’d already applied and been accepted, before Arnie . . .’ I finished my coffee

  and pulled my coat back on. Arnie. I hadn’t thought of him in ages, and I certainly didn’t want to now. ‘Look, I don’t want to start some silly debate, or argue with you. We can’t change the

  past, much as we might like to, but Wales was good for me. I enjoyed uni and I loved my job.

  Now come on, let’s hit the shops. If I’m meant to buy suitably educational baby gifts for little Horace here, then I might as well start early.’

  ‘Horace?’

  ‘Well, if you’ve decided on a better name for him, you haven’t given me so much as a

  hint of it yet, so I’ll be guessing until I get it right. Cyril? Arthur? Buzz?’

  ‘Now you’re just being silly.’

  ‘Guilty as charged. Now, toys. How does a shape sorter sound?’

  ‘Great. As long as you promise to stop trying to push a round peg into a square hole

  and stay here, where you belong.’ She grinned at her own joke. ‘Think seriously about your

  future, Eve, please. Accept that Wales is not for you. Not anymore. I need you here. And so

  does little Horace.’ She linked her arm through mine as we headed out into the street. ‘I’ve

  missed you.’

  171

  CHAPTER 22

  SARAH

  Josh wasn’t happy. He never actually said it, but I could tell. Since we’d lost Mum the

  atmosphere in both homes had changed. We’d got through a low-key but quietly comfortable

  Christmas, based around a traditional turkey meal and lots of TV, keeping our gifts simple and

  raising a glass to Mum at what seemed the appropriate time, in the slow and satisfied gap after lunch where her home-made pudding would usually be trying to force its way in. Janey had cut

  up a lacy paper doily and made a new angel decoration in Mum’s honour, but Dad had decided

  not to put up the tree, with all its memories, so the angel had taken pride of place on the

  mantelpiece. Josh had gone easy on the booze, and everyone had been in bed by eleven.

  It had been our turn to go up to Josh’s parents but Dad had needed us all to be together,

  and strong, so we had stayed, and they had come down on one of their rare but fleeting visits

  to us the day after Boxing Day. Josh had appeared pleased to see them, but the gloom soon

  descended again once they had gone. At first I thought maybe he was grieving for Mum the

  way I was, but the long silences, the gazing off into space, the valiant attempts to stick to his own side of the bed and the tossing and turning even when he’d managed it, all spoke of

  something more.

  Call it intuition, but I had a feeling he was keeping something from me, and that it was

  something I really didn’t want to hear. I wondered, not for the first time, if there was someone else, if he was about to leave me, or was thinking about it at least. A growing sense of unease began to eat away at me and, like a dog with a bone, I couldn’t give it up.

  It all came down to that day when Mum had died and I had sat at home alone and

  heartbroken, waiting for him to come back. There had been no evening out with the lads, no

  drunken falling asleep on some anonymous sofa, no Bob, I was sure of that. I had never

  challenged him about it though. If I had, he would only have lied to me anyway. So what was

  it? What did that whiff of telltale perfume mean? That it was Eve. It almost certainly had to be Eve. But was it just a one-off thing? An innocent drink together, for old times’ sake? A renewed interest that had started now she was back home, and was in danger of igniting into something

  I still just might have time to stop? The more I convinced myself it was her he had been with,

  her on his mind now, keeping him awake at night, the more I knew I had to find out for sure. I

  172

  needed the facts. I couldn’t cope with my fears, or decide what to do about them, unless I knew what it was I was dealing with.

  And so I started to snoop. Not a nice word, and not a very nice thing to have to do, but

  it was the only way. I must have been stupid, or at best naïve, not to have done it long before.

  Josh was always off out somewhere, disappearing for hours, days, weekends at a time, on

  business trips, courses, conferences. There had been so many opportunities for him to stray. A

  woman? Several women? A whole bloody harem, for all I knew. Yet I had pushed my doubts

  aside and never questioned too deeply. But now I wanted to know, and if there was something

  dodgy going on, there was sure to be evidence.

  Josh worked in banking. He was methodical, analytical, sensible. He had bank cards

  and credit cards and he kept the statements. He hung onto his petrol receipts and his restaurant slips and hotel bills so he could make his expenses claims. He’d even done it when he’d been

  out with me in the pub that time, I remembered, when Mum had been ill and we’d gone for a

  scampi and chips that Dad had given us the cash for. No, I wasn’t a client, but the bank wasn’t to know that, and Josh wasn’t so honest as to miss a trick like that. I’d seen him pocket the

  receipt and had no doubt about why.

  It wasn’t going to be hard to work out what he was up to, where he had been. The paper

  trail winding its way behind his every move would be like the crumbs on the path behind Hansel

  and Gretel. I just hoped it wasn�
��t going to lead me to the wicked witch that otherwise went by

  the name of Eve.

  He kept everything in a big blue document case in the corner of our little box room,

  tucked under the small desk he’d always used to sort out the household bills, a desk that had

  slowly been taken over by Janey and her homework. It was all just her dad’s boring old stuff

  in that document case, as far as she was concerned, papers she had never been in the slightest

  bit interested in looking at, and neither had I. That was probably why Josh had never bothered

  to hide it, nor find a way to lock it. Dragging it out from its cobwebby corner was like taking candy from a baby. Almost too easy to be true.

  They say you should keep important documents for six years, don’t they? In case the

  bank needs to query anything. Or the taxman. Or, in this case, the wife. And there it all was,

  stuffed into orderly little pockets, carefully and helpfully labelled . Electricity. Water. Council tax. TV licence. Insurance. Car. Household appliances. Travel. Work expenses. Wills. His life, our life, past, present and future, pound for pound, recorded on paper, for all to see.

  173

  After a brief flick through the house stuff, I could see from the dates on the bills just how rigidly Josh had stuck to the six-year rule. There was nothing older, no doubt all fed

  through the shredder as soon as its usefulness was up. I moved on to Travel, and there were the photocopies of our passports. An itinerary for a school trip Janey had been on to Devon. Details of family holidays: a day trip on the ferry to Calais, a week in the Lakes, our long weekend in Bournemouth. We never had made it to the ski slopes. Nothing unusual, nothing incriminating.

  My hand hovered over the prime suspect, Work expenses. Would he have kept receipts once they had been submitted and claimed? Yes, of course he would. Well, photocopies anyway. I

  lifted them out, trying to keep them in order, and not to drop any, as I laid them out on top of the desk. It was the recent stuff I wanted. For the day Mum died, and definitely the months

  since. Where had he been, and who with? What was making him so distracted, and so restless?

  So sad?