by Ruth Mancini
Yet now the moment was here, I was lost for words. I didn’t know how to begin.
Catherine, on the other hand, had clearly been expecting my call. “It’s okay, Lizzie,” she said. “I know. I know all about your daughter – and who her father is. I’m okay with it. It’s over between me and him. I haven’t seen him for years.”
I started to cry, softly. The anxiety that had been building up for months, that had lain dormant for years, was too much for me. I wiped my eyes.
“Really?” was all I could manage.
“You were right about him, Lizzie. He’s not right in the head. It took me a while to realise that. It took me more than a while. It cost me... well, anyway. Let’s just say that I saw him for what he really was. I wish to God that I’d got out sooner. Before Sky witnessed some of the things he did. And,” she added, “I wish to God that I hadn’t lost you in the process.” Catherine’s voice wobbled slightly as she spoke and I started sobbing uncontrollably.
“I’ve missed you,” was all I could manage.
“I’ve missed you too. You were the best friend I ever had. I can’t believe I let you go.”
I took a deep breath, and turned my eyes to the kitchen clock, which was ticking away on the wall in front of me. I tried to breathe in time with the second hand. Five seconds in. Five seconds out.
“Catherine, there’s so much I want to say to you. So much I want to ask. But first of all, I need your help.”
“Okay. Look, do you have Skype? That would be easier.”
“Yes. What’s your address?”
She gave it to me. “I’ll call you back.”
My fingers were trembling as I tapped in the address she’d given me. I looked at myself dubiously as I appeared in the little box to the side of the screen. I looked dreadful; it was not how I’d imagined myself to be looking the first time I saw Catherine again, but never mind.
A minute or two later she appeared on the screen in front of me. She looked lovely. Older of course, but lovely, all the same. Her long dark hair hung round her shoulders and her green eyes glistened as she smiled at me. She sniffed and wiped at the corner of her eye. She’d clearly been crying too.
“You look exactly the same as you did,” she said.
“Rubbish,” I smiled. “I look awful. I hate myself on camera. But you look amazing. Really well.”
She smiled and looked at me for a moment, taking in my disheveled appearance, her face racked with genuine concern. “This is quite emotional, isn’t it?”
“Just a bit.”
Catherine picked up a cup and took a sip.“So, you know about Sky? My son?”
“Yes. I think he’s been talking to my daughter. To Helena.”
Catherine nodded. She put her cup down and looked at me a little anxiously. “Do you mind?”
I was touched that she cared. I could tell by her face that she was on my side about all of this, that there was no residual bitterness towards me. “Well, no. Not exactly. How did they... how did you...?”
“Find out about her?”
“Yes.”
“Zara told me, when I saw her. Well, she didn’t tell me, exactly, but she kind of let it slip. She said she was waiting for your daughter, who was down the road at the Uni in Southwark.”
“She said that?!” Zara! I mentally reprimanded her. She’d told me she’d given nothing away.
“Well yes, and Sky’s just about finishing his A-Levels, so I realised they must be close in age. You didn’t have a daughter when I saw you last, and so that got me to guessing. Then I got talking to Sky about it and we put two and two together. Zara told me that she was a pentathlete and that you lived in France. Sky found her on Facebook. There weren’t many Helena Taylors who were pentathletes and also lived in France – and certainly not ones that looked exactly like Sky. Her date of birth was on there and it all just added up, so Sky sent her a message.”
So, Zara had also told Catherine Helena’s name! She hadn’t told me that!
“But,” Catherine persisted, “I’m okay with it. Really. If you are.”
I nodded again. “I’m just worried,” I confessed. “Worried that Martin will find out about Helena. I really don’t want him to know about her.” And then, the million dollar question: “Is Sky, you know. In touch with him?”
There was a slight time lag and I took a deep breath and waited. I worried that I’d lost her, for a brief moment. And then Catherine shook her head in cyber-slow-motion and said. “No. It’s fine.”
“What do you mean, ‘it’s fine’? He doesn’t see him? Is that what you’re saying?”
“No, he doesn’t see him.”
“Are you sure?”
Catherine nodded. “I’m sure. He was a bastard to me, Lizzie. And to Sky, unfortunately. He’s got no time for him – or any interest in him. They lost contact years ago.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m sorry. For you, I mean.”
Catherine nodded again. “Well, it turned out okay. I’m with someone else now. He’s really nice. And he treats me well.”
I smiled. “That’s great. That’s really great, Catherine. You always deserved someone who treated you well.” I wanted to know more, but not yet. I was like a stuck record. I had to be sure about Sky.
“So, how long ago did they hook up? Sky and Helena. Do you know?”
“Soon after I met Zara again. March I think. Or was it April? Sky was pretty impressed when I said you had a daughter who was a Pentathlete. He said you have to start off doing biathlons and then triathlons before you build up to a full... a full...”
“Pent. Yes, Sky’s right,” I interrupted. Was he an athlete too? Sporty, like him? Was it in the genes?
“And so that’s when he started searching Facebook for her. And round about the same time, that’s when I started to put two and two together and to wonder if maybe – just maybe – that’s the reason why you never tried to get in touch with me again in all these years, why I couldn’t find a trace of you anywhere, and if that was maybe why you went to live in France: because after what happened... well, you were pregnant. And then Sky found Helena on Facebook and we knew, straight away. They just look so... so similar. And so he sent her a message and Helena replied and they met up.”
So that was it. Zara! I reprimanded her again, silently.
But what was done was done, I realised. I had to make the best of it, and I couldn’t deny that it felt good to be talking to Catherine again, to be seeing her face again, to see her moving around on the screen in front of me, alive and well. It also felt so strange, hearing her talking about our children in that way, casually mentioning their names, the names that we had given them! Hearing her talking about my daughter. About her son, Helena’s brother, who had existed for all this time, without our knowledge.
“Are you okay?” Catherine put her head to one side.
“They’re brother and sister,” I blurted out, almost laughing. “Our kids. Are you really okay with that?”
Catherine smiled and nodded. “I’m fine. I know I would have been upset at one time. I know I was upset. Really upset. About... you and him... well, you know.” She said that bit quickly, and moved on. “But that’s in the past. And me and him – it’s also history. So yes, now I’ve had time to think about it I quite like the idea. Don’t you?”
“I guess,” I smiled, though I wasn’t entirely sure. If there was one thing I’d learned about this whole strange turn of events, it was that my feelings were changing from one minute to the next – along with each new discovery I made. I hoped and prayed that this was it, that I now knew all there was to know and that I could finally start to make sense of it all, to piece it all together and come to terms with it, once and for all.
Catherine appeared much calmer. She appeared to have thought it all through. “I’ve always felt bad that Sky was an only child,” she was saying. “I couldn’t have any more. After...”
“After what?”
Catherine wiped the corner of her
eye again. “I had a miscarriage,” she said. “Because of him.”
“Oh, Catherine.” I could see my face on the screen, red eyed, streaky and shocked. As I imagined the events that might have led to such a terrible thing, my mind replayed the memory of Martin’s face – angry, menacing, his lip curled up and his eyes full of hate, the way it had been the last time I had seen him (well, almost the last time), the time he had pushed me backwards on the bed and into the wall and threatened me. If you tell Catherine, you won’t see her for dust.
“You know, I’d love to see you. Properly,” said Catherine. “It’s like there are a million things we need to say.
“I’d like that,” I told her. I laughed. “We’ll be talking all night, just like we used to!”
“I know!” Catherine laughed too. “Have you still got the teapot?”
“I broke it, I’m afraid. The French just, you know, they brew it in the cup.”
“Oh well. Then you’d better come and visit me. I have a teapot. And I have biscuits too. Lots of biscuits.” She grinned.
I thought about that for a moment. “Where do you live?”I asked.
“London. Wood Green. I’ve got a flat there – it’s just off the North Circular Road.”
“Is this with...?”
“Just me and Sky. I don’t live with Clem. He’s got his own place in Islington. It would be a bit cramped if we all lived together and neither of us is quite ready to give up our own place. Plus, there’s Sky to think of. He’s been through a lot. So we decided to keep our own places for now. We just go back and forth. But there’s room. For you, I mean. You can have Sky’s room and he can sleep on the couch. What do you say?”
I nodded. “That sounds great.” It really did.
“So, when can you come?”
“Okay... well, let me think.” I considered her offer for a moment and my heart skipped a beat. There was a bit of a lull at work right now. A trip to London was just what I needed. Seeing Catherine again would be emotional, for sure, but it would be a break from this house, from this kitchen, from staring at the clock mindlessly as it ticked on and on, from pacing the living room, with Lily watching me mournfully from the sofa. Getting away for a few days would be a welcome reprieve from the stress and worry of the last few months that had made it difficult to concentrate on my work, or on anything else for that matter. All I seemed to be doing was wandering around and looking out of the windows and wondering what on earth was going to happen next. A long talk with Catherine would be a chance to put things back on an even keel, to claw back some control of the situation and, of course, a chance for Catherine and I to re-establish our friendship, for us both to fill in the blanks of the last eighteen years.
I’d talk to Helena tomorrow, I decided, as soon as her driving test was over. I’d leave her to get through that first. Then I’d tell her what I knew (minus the information I’d found out by searching through her phone) and then, no matter how she reacted, I’d go. She could come to London too, if she wanted to, or she could stay at home and have some space. I’d give her the choice. Either way, however she reacted, I needed to go and she could be with me, or without me, whichever she preferred.
“Would this weekend be too soon?” I asked.
Catherine looked surprised. Then she slowly shook her head.
“No,” she said. “Not too soon at all.” Her face broke into a smile.
*
I was asleep on the couch when Helena arrived home from the lycée. The tearful conversation with Catherine had drained me and I had walked straight over to the sofa as soon as we’d finished talking, swung my legs up, pulled a throw over me and fallen straight into a pleasant and peaceful slumber. Later, I became aware of Helena tiptoeing past me to her room. I opened one eye to see her pausing and looking back at me from the doorway with a strange expression on her face. I opened both eyes and wriggled myself up onto one elbow but by the time I’d sat up she’d gone.
I knocked on her door a little later to see if she wanted any supper but she called out that she’d already eaten and that she was studying. I grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl in the kitchen, washed up a few cups and plates and wiped the table. I then went to bed and slept deeply without waking until late the following morning. Helena had already left the house when I got up, so I made coffee and settled myself down in the kitchen to work. I had three short articles for our biggest client, a Parisian medical journal, to translate from English into French. I worked out that if I got them done before Helena got home, I could cook a nice dinner for her and open some wine, then give them a once over and email them to my editor the following morning before I left for the station. This would leave me with no further deadlines until a week on Monday. If all was going well and I wanted to stay longer in London, then I could do so, with nothing to worry about at home.
I had just finished the last article when Helena’s driving instructor pulled up onto the drive outside. I glanced up as I caught sight of the car through the window and opened the front door.
Helena got out of the passenger seat.
“What’s happened?” I asked. “Why aren’t you driving?”
“Oh no, we don’t let them drive after the test,” said her instructor, laughing, and getting out of the car too. “Too much excitement. That’s the most likely time for an accident.”
“So you passed?” I smiled and clapped my hands together.
Helena beamed. “Yeah. I did it.” She ran into my arms and hugged me. I hugged her back, before she pulled sharply away, thanked her instructor and ran into the house and into her room.
I walked down the hallway and tapped on her door.
“Helena? I made some celebratory tea.”
“Just a minute,” Helena said, appearing at the door with her phone to her ear. “Hold on,” she said into the phone.
“Can I talk to you?” I asked her.
A flicker of annoyance crossed Helena’s face and then she said, “I’ve got to go. I’ll call you back.” She ended the call and followed me into the kitchen.
I took two champagne glasses from the cupboard and Helena sat down at the table, expectantly. I guessed that Catherine had been talking to Sky, who in turn had been talking to Helena, because she looked as though she knew what we were about to discuss.
I pulled the cork from the bottle and poured us both a glass of champagne. Helena picked hers up.
“Nice touch,” she said. “The champagne. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. And congratulations, darling.” I clinked my glass against hers and smiled.
Helena pulled back the chair next to hers with a screech and swung her feet up. She sat in silence, sipping at her champagne and waiting for me to speak.
“So. Was that Sky?” I asked, nodding at her phone, which was sitting on the table.
“Yep,” Helena agreed.
I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. That I didn’t tell you,” I said.
Helena looked up at me. “It was a pretty big thing, Mum. He’s my brother, you know?”
I bit my lip and looked at her. “I know. And I am sorry. Really, I am. I think I knew how much that would mean to you. I wanted to tell you about him. But I was scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of him. Your father.”
Helena shrugged. “Well, they’re not really in touch.”
I nodded. “I didn’t know that though. I couldn’t be sure.”
Helena shrugged again. “So, what is it about him that you’re scared of exactly?”
I studied her face. Was she joking? I’d thought she had understood about Martin, what he was like. I’d told her that he raped me, for goodness sakes. But I could see by her face that she wasn’t just being difficult. She really wanted to know.
I said, “His temper.” Helena still didn’t say anything, and so I added, “That he’d find out about you and be angry, angry that I hadn’t told him about you; that he’d got a daughter that he hadn’t been allowed to know about, or see, for eight
een years. That he’d get back at me in some way for keeping you from him. I don’t know.”
Helena pushed her hair back from her face and put down her champagne glass. “You make him sound like a psycho.”
Her face looked pained and my heart leaped. I put my glass down on the table next to hers. “That’s because he is,” I said.
“Well, why did you ask me if I wanted to find him, then? Get to know him?”
I sighed. “Honestly? Because I knew that you wanted to know the truth about him. But I suppose, deep down, I was hoping that, once you knew what had happened, what he was like, you’d say you didn’t want to bother with him.” I added, “Which you did.”
Helena shrugged again and looked down at her feet, which she was rubbing against the wicker seat of the chair in front of her. “I know.” Then she said. “But what if I hadn’t?”
My stomach churned. Was this never going to end? Had she changed her mind? Did she now want to see him? “Then I suppose I’d have helped you find him.”
“Even though you’re afraid of him?” Helena started picking at her toenail.
I don’t know. “Yes. I expect so.”
Helena continued to focus intently on the bit of skin around her toe. She tugged at it, wiggling it back and forth. Ordinarily I’d have told her to stop doing that in the kitchen, to get her feet off the chair and to go and get a pair of toenail scissors. But I couldn’t trust myself to speak. So I sat and watched her until she looked up and caught my eye. The expression on her face was clearly one of guilt.
“So, have you changed your mind?” I asked, eventually. “Do you want to meet him now, after all?”