by Julia Green
Still no texts.
Nothing from Seb.
Nothing from Rachel, even, who’s supposed to be revising for her Physics exam.
I lift the curtain to peer out. The rain’s stopped at last.
The sofa makes horrible creaking sounds as Dad and Cassy pull it out to make their bed. Cassy giggles softly. Dad grunts and fusses around.
The fox is back, somewhere beyond the field, calling into the night. I put my hands over my ears.
5
I’m still in a mood when I get back from school the next afternoon. Everyone’s out. Kat has left me a note.
Hey dearest Em,
Sorry we didn’t get a chance to talk properly. Why don’t you come up to York? Bring beautiful Seb! Have a good term. Good luck with everything. Love you.
And then she’s drawn a little cat and two kisses.
PS Sorry about the mess.
I push open the bedroom door. Most of her clothes and stuff have gone, but the duvet’s in a tangled heap, and a load of papers and books and things have been shoved half under the bottom bunk. I’m so furious with her I could cry.
But what’s the point? So I start sorting it all out. I smooth out the duvet and sheet and put the pillows back in the right place. I stack the books more neatly on the floor, and then I sift the paper into ‘rubbish’ or ‘might be important’ piles. It’s mostly rubbish, and pages of notes written in blue biro on narrow-lined paper. I put the notes into a plastic sleeve in case she needs them for revision or whatever. I sort through some make-up in case there’s anything nice (one lip-gloss, an eyeliner pencil). Then I find a plastic bag with important stuff like her passport and an EU health card, and in with them is her birth certificate. I open it right out. I don’t recall ever seeing one before. Dad keeps that sort of thing for all of us in a special file.
The first thing I see, leaping out at me, are the two parents’ names handwritten in black ink, one beneath the other.
Father: Robert Michael Woodman
Mother: Francesca Davidson
I stare at the words.
My brain can’t make sense of what my eyes are seeing.
Davidson?
I flip out completely.
I don’t know how long I sit there. An hour? Two? I get cramp from sitting squashed on the floor for too long. I’m cold to the bone.
All my life – sixteen years of it – I’ve thought of my mother as Francesca Woodman. Woodman – like Dad and Kat and me: the name that joins us all together, whatever happens.
Davidson?
Why didn’t Kat tell me this before? Or Dad? Or someone?
Why didn’t I think about her using her old name, from before she got married?
I feel totally stupid. Humiliated.
It begins to seep through, the realisation of what this means. How easily I can track her down, now, if I want. Simple as typing a name into a search engine.
I could do it right now.
No wonder nothing came up when I tried before. I was typing in the wrong name.
My heart’s thudding.
What am I so scared of?
I fetch my laptop from the table and put it on Kat’s bed and switch it on. I take a deep breath. I start to type Francesca Davidson.
Francesca Davidson. b. 1971 Canada
Paintings, photography and sculpture:
Natural landscape and domestic portraits form the main subjects of Davidson’s work. A bold sequence of paintings of women in domestic settings were exhibited in the Musée d’art moderne 2007 . . .
I find five references to her work in total. All her exhibited work is in France. So that’s where she must be living, mustn’t it?
I’m shaking all over. My head’s a jumbled mess. I switch off the laptop, shove the birth certificate back with the other stuff in the bag, grab my coat and phone.
I try Seb’s mobile one more time. Nothing. So I dial his home number.
Avril answers. I can tell she’s surprised to hear my voice.
‘Is Seb there?’ I ask.
‘No , Em. He’s not coming back here at all while he’s on the course. It’s good that it’s going so well, isn’t it? We’re so pleased.’
Course? When did he decide on that?
I don’t know what to say.
‘So,’ Avril says. ‘How can I help, Emily?’
I think fast. I can’t bear her to know that Seb has told me nothing about what he’s doing. ‘His mobile doesn’t seem to be working. So I thought I’d check with you . . .’ I know how feeble I sound even as the words come out.
‘That’s odd. He phoned us yesterday without any problem. He’s probably run out of credit or something. I can give you Ruby’s number, if you hang on,’ Avril says. ‘Try him there, Emily. He’s probably busy during the day, but later this evening he’ll be at Ruby’s, I should think. Unless they all go down the pub at the end of the day!’
I write down the number. ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Bye, Avril.’ My hands are shaking.
So.
Seb’s doing his stone-carving course. The one he talked about.
Seb’s away, for six weeks? Or longer? And he didn’t tell me?
I’m trembling all over.
I can’t bear it.
I sit there for ages, frozen.
I phone Rachel. ‘Can I come over?’ I say. ‘I need to talk to you. Please? I won’t stay long. I know you’ve got your exam tomorrow.’
I start the long walk up to the bus stop.
Rachel’s sitting on her bed, surrounded by bits of paper and small notecards with tiny writing on in different colours. I pick one up.
‘You can test me on those,’ Rachel says.
‘OK. What’s the formula for Work?’
‘Work equals Force times Distance.’
I pick up the next card. ‘Power equals?’
‘Power equals Work (energy transferred) over Time.’
It makes no sense to me whatsoever.
‘So. What’s happened? Seb?’ Rachel asks.
‘Seb, and something else.’
‘You’re pregnant!’
‘NO! How could I possibly be . . . Honestly, Rachel!’
‘What, then? Your eyes are all bloodshot. You look terrible.’
‘I’ve found out something about my real mother . . .’
‘Your mother Francesca?’
‘Yes.’
‘About time!’ Rachel says. ‘How come?’
I tell her about the birth certificate, and about what I found on the internet. ‘She’s an artist. I think she lives in France. Her real name is Francesca Davidson.’
‘That’s it?’
‘So far.’
‘Great. Well, it’s a start.’
‘I feel all shaky and funny. Like, it’s made her real. She’s a real person, and out there!’
‘Of course.’
Rachel’s phone bleeps. She checks the message. ‘Luke,’ she says. ‘Hang on a minute; I’ll just answer him quickly.’
I wait.
She turns back to me. ‘Why’s her name different, do you reckon? Perhaps your dad and her weren’t actually married.’
‘Or she kept her own name. Like, lots of artists and writers and people do that, don’t they? Why should you change your name, anyway? Just because you’re the woman?’
Rachel shrugs. ‘What’s the big deal about a name? So, are you going to contact her or what?’
‘Do you think I should?’
Rachel makes a big effort. Half of her brain is still thinking Luke, or possibly (unlikely) Physics. ‘Of course! I’ve thought that for ages. You’re bound to feel a bit strange, right now. So let it sink in. There’s no hurry, is there? You’ve waited all these years. A few days won’t make any difference. Wait till after the exams.’
She’s so sensible and rational I begin to calm down too. She’s right. What’s the rush?
‘And Seb’s gone away,’ I say. ‘We had a terrible row.’ I tell her what happened. All the sordid details.
‘Why didn’t you tell me about this before?’ Rachel asks. ‘You are such an idiot, sometimes, Em. I knew something was the matter with you. I assumed it was the exams, or the caravan or something.’
Amanda comes upstairs with two cups of tea. ‘Revision?’ she says, looking at Rachel. ‘Don’t blow it now. Sorry, Emily, but Rachel needs to do some work.’
I get up. ‘I was just going, in any case,’ I say. ‘I’ve got work to do too. And my bus goes in five minutes.’
Cassy and Dad are in the middle of supper by the time I get back to the caravan.
‘All right?’ Cassy says. ‘I assumed you’d eaten? Wherever you’ve been.’
‘Rachel’s,’ I say. ‘And I’m not hungry.’
‘It’s not too much to ask, is it, that you leave us a note at least, to say where you are?’ Dad says through a mouthful of spaghetti.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Sorry sorry sorry. That enough?’
I slam the bedroom door. It clicks to, annoyingly softly.
I try talking to Kat on MSN.
– I found your birth certificate. Our mother’s name is on it. Why didn’t you tell me??????
– You’ve been going through my stuff? she types back.
– YOU left it in a mess. In MY room.
– What’s the matter?
– The name. Francesca DAVIDSON??? I never knew.
– And the big deal is?
– How can you say that? It’s a HUGE deal. It changes everything.
– I don’t see why. It’s just a surname, for God’s sake.
– It means I can find out who she is.
– DON’T.
– Why not? Aren’t you curious too?
– NO. She’s nothing to do with us.
– I want to find her.
My words hang there. I wait ages for Kat to answer. Finally she starts typing again.
– I’m getting on fine with my life without her. I don’t need her messing it up again. Nor do you.
Then she’s off-line. I can’t even answer back.
I read back the typed conversation. My own words surprise me. I want to find her. I typed that sentence without a thought, and the real truth came out. I want to find her. I want to see her, what she’s like. I want to know everything about her.
I search through Kat’s box of books on the shelf, and fish out the faded book of fairy tales. I open the front cover, trace my finger around the name, like Kat and I used to do. Francesca.
Who on earth is she?
What kind of mother leaves two small children, and doesn’t even try to tell them why?
I try one more time, searching back through all my memories, to find one of her. Just the tiniest fragment. The feel of her arm, or the smell of her perfume, or the sound of her voice.
Nothing.
All I have are the memories of afterwards, of Kat and me in the garden, eating raspberries and redcurrants, Kat reading to me and telling me stories.
I try to imagine it. I close my eyes and concentrate hard.
That last day, before she went. Because there would have been a day like that, a day before leaving, when she did ordinary things with me and Kat, like any ordinary mum. Making breakfast. Washing-up. Getting us dressed. Walking to the shops, me in a buggy and Kat holding the handle. Did she take us to the park? Push us on the swings? Or was it a truly terrible day, both of us yelling and squabbling, endless rain, no car, Dad at work till late, like he always was, night after night? Francesca bored bored bored, frustrated and lonely, the artist who can’t paint, can’t take photos, desperate and at the end of her tether.
How bad would it have to be, to make you leave everything?
I lie awake for ages, thinking about what I’ve found out today.
It’s like someone’s lifted off the top of my head and let in all this air. I’m dizzy with it.
6
‘Want to come to Moat House at the weekend? See the latest developments?’ Dad says over supper on Thursday. ‘They’ve worked fast these last couple of weeks.’
Cassy looks at him. ‘How about if we go and get Mattie first, and bring her with us? Instead of a walk, she can just have a run around.’
‘Good idea,’ Dad says. ‘What do you think, Em?’
‘It depends,’ I say. ‘Are we going to adopt her or not? And if not, what’s the point? It’ll just make me sad.’
‘You know we can’t have her yet,’ Cassy says. ‘It doesn’t make any sense. But when we move into Moat House, things will be different. Rob and I’ve talked about it. There is lots of room, what with the garden, and the field. You were right about that. It’s a good place for a dog.’
‘Is that a yes, then?’
‘It’s a probably,’ Cassy says. ‘That’s as much as I can promise at the moment.’
My eyes sting with sudden tears. Perhaps things will work out for Mattie, at least.
* * *
Mattie sits on the seat in the back of the car with me, her head resting in my lap. She’s trembling, as if she’s afraid. Or cold. I stroke her silky ears, and run my hand over her spine. You can feel all the bones, and even though I know she’s that kind of dog, I can’t help thinking she’s way too skinny. But she perks up when we get out of the car, and she dashes across the garden like a coiled spring, newly released, charging through the big puddles and running round in ever-increasing circles. We walk up the steps to the front door, and when I call her, Mattie comes racing back.
‘She remembers you all right,’ Cassy says. ‘It’s good to see that.’
The beautiful oak front door has been restored and has a proper lock on it. Inside, the house smells of new wood instead of damp and decay. The floorboards have been laid upstairs; electric cables are being installed. In the centre of the big front room, the new staircase winds round in a spiral to the first floor. The French windows are in place, so the house is flooded with light. Cassy and Dad go into the kitchen together. Cassy’s making little exclaiming sounds. ‘Oh . . . oh, Rob . . . It’s just lovely!’ I watch Dad; he stands behind Cassy, puts his arms around her, his hands over her belly. He nuzzles his face into her hair. They don’t need me. They’ve forgotten I’m here, even.
Mattie whines to go back outside and I go with her. I close the door softly behind me and follow her down to the river. It’s still high, up almost to the top of the banks, and beyond it, the field gleams silver, another lake. The geese I saw with Seb have all gone. Mattie sniffs along the bank, tail low and quivering, following some scent trail. She scuffs through the dead leaves beneath the willows, and then slips under the fence into the copse of trees.
I can’t get it out of my head: that image of Dad and Cassy and the new baby. The new family who will live in this perfect house, when it’s finished, all clean and made new. The house is coming awake again, everything starting over, afresh. But it all looks so different to me, now. I can’t feel excited about any of it.
When Seb and I came here that first time and we climbed the scaffolding to my attic room, and we pushed the skylight wide open to let in the night, and when we first kissed . . . it was as if everything was thrilling. Everything was about to happen. I was excited about the house, about Seb, about me . . .
And now it’s not like that. It’s like everything’s been spoiled.
I turn when I hear footsteps.
‘There you are!’ Dad comes over, a clipboard in his hand. ‘Want to see the early plans for out here?’
He’s oblivious to what I’m feeling. He just ploughs on, regardless. ‘Wondered about having a dovecote, a traditional circular stone tower, just here.’ He points to the place on the plan with his pencil. ‘Like the one at Minster Lovell. Remember? You loved it, when you were little.’
I do remember. The sound of the doves echoed round the tower when I ducked through the little door and crouched inside. Small white feathers drifted down from the rafters, and it was warm in the summer sun. And Kat was calling for me, looking for me all over the gardens, while I
stayed curled up, hidden and happy in my secret place . . .
Dad’s still talking. ‘. . . formal kitchen gardens, up near the house, with box hedges, but we’ll let it all run a bit wild down to the river . . . daffodils and fritillaries in the long grass. Cowslips and foxgloves . . .’
I don’t say a word.
Dad finally stops. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ he asks. His voice is strained, edged with irritation.
I shrug. He hates that.
‘Emily!’
‘What?’
‘Can’t you show a bit more interest? A bit of enthusiasm? Aren’t you excited about all this? The house? You were, before.’
Before.
Exactly.
Before the baby. Before I started finding things out about Francesca. Before I argued with Seb. Before Kat got close to Dan and couldn’t be bothered with me any more.
‘It doesn’t feel like my house any more,’ I mumble.
‘It’s a mess, I know, with the builders’ stuff all over the place, but it’s getting better all the time. You wait and see. It’s going to be fabulous.’
‘It’s not that,’ I say.
‘What, then?’
‘It’s you. Cassy and you and the baby. That’s who the house belongs to really. That’s what it’s been about all along. Only I didn’t see that before.’
‘How can you say that? You mustn’t think that!’
‘But I do.’
‘Hey, Em. Come here.’ He tries to put his arm round me.
I pull away. I stare at the brown water, the branches being swirled downstream in the fast flow of the river.
‘Emily?’ Dad isn’t going to let it go. ‘Listen to me. The baby doesn’t change the way I feel about you and Kat.’
‘NO? You listen to ME, for once!’ I shout, suddenly furious. All that pent-up emotion I’ve been holding on to, deep inside, comes boiling up. ‘You never tell me the truth about anything. You never have. You’ve never once thought about what it’s like for me. Living with you and Cassy. Always having to move house because of YOUR stupid plans and your stupid houses. Living in a caravan, for God’s sake, in the middle of winter, miles from everyone, in the middle of a muddy field.’
Dad’s staring at me, but I can’t stop. I’m on a roll.