by GJ Minett
‘I never had the chance to tell you before,’ she said, getting to the real reason for her call. ‘I wanted to make sure you know how much I appreciate what you’ve done for her. I know you’ll tell me that’s what you’re paid for but I couldn’t help but notice the way you were with her . . . all those extra little touches to make her feel special. I’m sure it meant a lot.’
‘Ah well, she’s a lovely lady, isn’t she?’ he said, obstinately sticking to the present tense. ‘She has her ups and downs like the rest of us but she’s very philosophical about things, very good at accepting what she can and can’t do. I should cope half as well as she does when my time comes.’
‘That’s nice to hear,’ said Ellen. ‘It’s always so hard for me to know how she feels about things. I mean, Sundays aren’t so bad but weekdays she’s always so tired by the time I get to see her. A lot of the time I’m not even sure she knows it’s me anyway.’
‘Oh, she knows alright, don’t you worry about that. I know it must be difficult for you, the way she keeps drifting in and out – you never get to see her at her best. But during the day, till recently, at any rate, she’s had spells when she’s been sharp as a tack. And she can talk up a storm when she has a mind to.’
Ellen experienced a momentary pang of something . . . jealousy, was it? It seemed Barbara was capable of normal conversation with just about anyone but her. She wondered what they’d found to talk about – had she been tempted to tell him things she’d kept from her own daughter? She wanted more details but didn’t like to ask directly.
She realised Jacob was still talking and tuned back in at the mention of goody bags.
‘. . . always thought that was a lovely idea,’ he was saying. ‘Not so much what’s in them, more the thought behind them. They mean a lot to her. Always telling the other residents, she is – how her daughter spoils her.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Ellen, groping her way back into the conversation. ‘Goody bags?’
‘Your little parcels.’
‘My parcels?’
‘From Webster’s . . . the grocer’s in the village.’
‘Someone’s been sending her parcels?’
There was a momentary pause at the other end of the line.
‘Biscuits, lime juice, Jaffa Cakes, couple of magazines each time . . . you mean, they’re not from you?’
‘No. I don’t know anything about it. I thought the Jaffa Cakes were all your doing.’
‘Mine? Oh dear, there seems to have been some confusion.’
He sounded genuinely distressed over the mix-up.
‘So how long have these parcels been arriving?’
‘Oh, I couldn’t say for sure. Quite a while though. Can’t have been long after she first came here.’
‘And who brings them?’
‘The boy from the village store, I imagine. I’m never actually here when they arrive but he cycles out here every morning with the newspapers and a few other odds and ends.’
‘And he said they were from me?’
‘I don’t know. Like I said, I’ve never actually spoken to him myself. I could check with the other staff if you like. I’m sorry, we just assumed they were from you, I suppose, because you’re the only person who comes to see her.’
‘In which case, I’d have brought them with me, wouldn’t I?’ she asked. ‘I wouldn’t need to have them delivered.’
‘No, I suppose not. We just thought you’d set it up as a little surprise for her to look forward to. But – if it’s not you who’s been sending them all this time, who is it d’you suppose? Bit of a mystery, isn’t it?’
Not really, she thought to herself. Not if you know Sam Balfour. It was just the sort of flourish he’d think of, a thoughtful gesture from four thousand miles away and one she herself would never have come up with in a million years. Why was she so incapable of taking the broader view? Was it really, as she tried to convince herself, because she was head down in the swamp all the time with hardly a second to look up and draw breath? Or was it, as seemed more likely, a lot simpler than that? Did it just come down to who she was – dogged but unimaginative, uninspired? How was it Sam could see these things and she couldn’t?
It crippled her to have to admit it but she knew immediately what it was about these goody bags that hurt her the most. It was the thought of Barbara sharing out the little treats with her fellow residents and burbling cheerfully about her daughter’s thoughtfulness when in reality she’d had nothing to do with it. It seemed to encapsulate their relationship just perfectly – crossed wires, missed turnings, lost connections.
And it hurt.
February 2008: John Michael
He’s been thinking about that afternoon again – the afternoon in the park. Third time in as many days. Must be years since he found himself going down that road. He naively imagined it was all behind him, he’d outgrown it somehow but the last few nights the memories have come flooding in the moment his head hits the pillow. Not a nightmare exactly – he’s wide awake the whole time. Sleep’s the only thing that drives it away and it won’t come quickly enough.
It’s just the uncertainty – he knows that. If he could only see a few weeks down the road and know for sure how things are going to pan out, he’s sure he’d be fine. And he knows that, whatever happens, he can deal with it once it’s there in front of him. He likes the life he’s made for himself here and would rather stay but if it comes to it and he’s left with no choice but to run, he can do that – it’s not like he’s never done it before. But he needs to know where he stands if he’s going to make the right decision. And it’s the waiting that’s doing his head in. He doesn’t like not being in control. He has to get a grip, stay on top of this or someone’s going to notice before long. And drawing attention to himself is the last thing he wants.
He’s tried thinking of other ways to take his mind off it – some problem at work, a TV programme he’s watched recently, that article he was reading the other evening. Waste of time. If he lets his guard slip for just a moment, he’s back there again in the park with Carol Bingham and the others and it’s all so fresh in his mind it could be yesterday, not forty-odd years ago. The sense of humiliation is as strong as ever.
And what makes it worse is he seems to be remembering details he thought had gone for good, like the black V-neck sweater with the red zig-zag pattern around the waist which he wore over his school uniform. And the area of scorched earth where the grass hadn’t yet recovered from the bonfire the local scouts group had built, still fenced off even though Guy Fawkes Night was a fortnight earlier. And the little old man who spent most of the day sitting on a park bench, taking abuse from the local kids because he walked with a permanent stoop and talked to himself and who his father insisted was a war hero and ought to be treated with a bit of respect. Details like these should have been wiped from his memory a long time ago and yet here they are, dancing in front of his eyes, clear as anything.
You’d think the shock of what came next would have wiped them out for good.
February 2008: Ellen
Sam and Mary arrived at 12.57. The traffic may well have been a mitigating factor but Ellen suspected those extra seventeen minutes had probably cost the taxi driver a sizable tip. Sam was a firm believer in results. One of his favourite mantras – excuses don’t pay the bills, Ellen.
Mary was first to enter. She gave Ellen a hug which went on for long enough to convey her emotional frailty. Then, eyes shining, she stepped back and dropped her hands to her side, taking in Ellen’s overall appearance. She tilted her head, first one way then the other, before coming up with the adjective healthy. Ellen knew exactly what that meant.
Sam made his entrance two minutes later with two suitcases, a couple of nurses and one specialist in tow. He broke off to give Ellen a hug and a perfunctory kiss on the cheek before resuming his interrogation of the staff. Only when he was satisfied with the answers did he drape his overcoat across the back of a chair an
d give her his full attention. Ellen was familiar with this sort of bravura performance, Sam Balfour in full flow, but she couldn’t help feeling this one was a little overcooked. Maybe it was her imagination, but he seemed determined to establish the ground rules from the outset. Apologies were not going to be on the agenda.
Mary suggested Ellen and Sam might like to grab a bite to eat while she stayed with Barbara. She said she wasn’t hungry herself and besides, she’d welcome the chance to have a few moments to catch her breath. It came across as just a little staged, probably pre-rehearsed in the taxi, but Ellen went along with it. She wasn’t particularly hungry either, and she was a little apprehensive about leaving Barbara, but she was more than ready to clear the air with Sam.
She took his proffered arm and agreed to his suggestion that they should try the pub across the road from the hospital – he wanted a good old-fashioned pint and a proper meal, not some pre-packed synthetic rubbish. And as they took the lift, walked endless corridors to the main entrance, crossed the road and chose their drinks and meals, they talked about everything and nothing – the flight, the traffic on the M23, the miserable English weather, even his eyesight which had deteriorated enough for him to struggle with the Specials board. The real conversation hung there between them all this time – she apologised for jogging his elbow as they reached for the bar menus, he fidgeted with his watch strap and seemed excessively interested in banalities that wouldn’t have made a blip on his radar under different circumstances.
They chose a table which looked out onto a car park rather than the road, the only two options available. Ever the gentleman, Sam pulled Ellen’s chair out for her and took his seat opposite. He pulled a face at the music which sounded like a compilation of hits from the ’60s. She wasn’t sure if he was objecting to the choice or the volume, and she told herself that if he started reminiscing about what he was doing when the Swinging Blue Jeans were in the charts, she’d scream.
Eventually, as if responding to some inner signal that the time was right, Sam reached across the table and patted her hand.
‘So how are things?’ he asked. ‘You bearing up?’
She nodded.
‘Sure?’
‘Sure. You know.’ My mother’s dying as we sit here. I’ve got to explain it all to my kids this afternoon. Oh, and I’ve just discovered that the boy who set two girls on fire and is one of the most hated figures in the history of tabloid journalism also happens to be my half-brother but apart from that . . .
‘Bearing up,’ she said.
She reached into her bag for a tissue, using it as a pretext for pulling her hand away. He left his own resting there on the table for a few moments before withdrawing it.
‘I gather I’m not very high on your Christmas-card list at the moment.’
Ellen smiled ruefully. ‘Is there anything Isaac doesn’t pass on to you?’
‘I didn’t need Isaac to tell me you’d be pissed with me. You think I don’t know you after all these years?’
‘Yeah, well . . .’ she said, lifting her glass of orange juice from the table and pausing to take a sip. ‘We don’t always know people as well as we imagine, do we?’
Sam took a much longer draught from his own glass, then wiped his lips, his eyes locking on to hers.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Message received. Let’s get it all out though, shall we? You got things you want to ask, then fine – go ahead. I’ll sit here and answer as many questions as you want to throw at me, ’cos I figure you’re entitled to at least that much. But bear in mind I’ve had a shitty flight, hardly got any sleep in the past twenty-four hours and my back’s killing me, so if you’re just here to throw some hissy fit, you’ll have to excuse me – I’ve got better things to do with my time. Up to you.’
In the space of a few words, he’d swept her back to when she was eight years old and he’d caught her smoking behind one of the store buildings at Langmere Grove. Then again, she could have been fourteen, sitting through a lecture on how ungrateful she was after she’d presumed to criticise Barbara in front of him. Her instinct now was to carry the fight to him, to let him know she couldn’t be so easily subdued any more, but there were still so many questions. The last thing she wanted was for him to get up and walk out on her.
‘Why didn’t she want me to know?’ she asked, working hard to control her voice.
‘That I’m her uncle?’
‘Let’s start there.’
‘OK.’ Sam sat back in his chair, apparently satisfied that his point had been made. ‘For one thing, she knew the time would come when you’d want to track down your father and she was determined to shut down as many leads as possible.’
‘And you’re a lead?’
‘You’d have traced my history back to Ashbury and she didn’t want you anywhere near there, digging around for answers. If we’re not related, you’re not going to be looking there, was how she saw it.’
‘Why would it matter if I did? I find out my father might have been someone called Peter Vaughan. So what?’
‘Yeah, well . . . it wasn’t just what you might find. She was afraid anyone looking for her might think to check out her wealthy uncle at Langmere Grove.’
‘But that doesn’t make sense. Who did she think would be looking for her? She didn’t even know Peter Vaughan’s real identity at that stage.’
She caught Sam’s expression and realised she was missing something.
‘She knew two weeks after his death,’ he explained. ‘You don’t think she left home and hid herself away at Langmere Grove just because she was pregnant, do you?’ Ellen thought about it and knew instinctively he was right. Barbara was a tough woman, far too thick-skinned to worry about what others in the village might be saying behind her back. If she felt the need to leave Ashbury altogether, it would have to be something more significant than that. She wondered how the obvious hadn’t occurred to her before now.
‘But . . . how did she know?’ she said, struggling to slot the pieces into place. ‘I assumed the first she knew about all this was when Eudora got in touch.’
Sam broke off for a moment, leaning back to make room for the waitress, who had arrived with their meals. He waited until they were alone again before resuming.
‘She was clearing out his room,’ he said, giving the salt cellar a few violent shakes followed by a couple of taps on the base before giving up and removing the lid. ‘Not long after the funeral. He had this diary and a couple of photos taped to the underside of one of the drawers – she said they were so well hidden she’d have missed them if she hadn’t been having a complete clear-out. Anyway, you can imagine what that did to her when she read through it. She’d only just found out she was expecting his baby. Hadn’t even told her father she was pregnant.’
She wouldn’t have, was Ellen’s immediate reaction. Not her. She wondered how that frail woman whose bedside she’d just left would react if she knew that all these secrets, which she’d fought so hard to keep, were seeping out right now. Had she really intended to take them with her to the grave or would she be quietly relieved to have such a burden removed from her shoulders at last?
‘So,’ Sam continued, ‘she sat on it all for a couple of days, trying to decide what to do. The only thing she knew for sure was that she wanted to have the baby and she was worried sick that if she hung around in Ashbury, someone would show up asking questions before long. She wanted to be out of there by the time that happened.’
Ellen’s scepticism kicked in at this.
‘You don’t think she was being a bit paranoid maybe?’
‘Maybe. But she already knew about this one guy who’d called in to see Peter a couple of times just before he went off up to Scotland – supposed to be an old friend but Barbara said he didn’t look that friendly and one of the last entries in the diary made it sound like maybe he was a reporter –’
‘O’Halloran,’ said Ellen.
‘You know him?’
She waved him
on and he looked closely at her before continuing.
‘Anyway, once she’d decided she needed to get away from Ashbury, she called me to ask for help.’
‘Why you?’
‘You what?’
‘Why you and not her father?’ My grandfather!
Sam put down his knife and fork for a moment, reaching down to pat a golden Labrador that had sidled up to the table. He picked up a chip from the bowl and dangled it tantalisingly out of the dog’s reach before dropping it into its mouth.
‘Bit of hero worship, I suppose,’ he said eventually. ‘She and I were really close when we were younger. I was a bit of an afterthought, so although I’m her uncle there’s not that much of an age difference between us. We’ve always been more like brother and sister really. And besides, I was the big success story, the one who got away from the village and made a name for himself, whereas the only time she’d been away was the year or so she spent married to that worthless piece of shit from the local garage, ’scuse my French. As far as she was concerned, I was right up there. If I couldn’t sort it all out, nobody could.’
‘So it was your idea for her to come to Langmere Grove?’
Sam shook his head. ‘Hers. I was just there for moral support. She thought her old man might be more receptive to the idea if he thought it had come from me. He wasn’t happy about it but by that stage he knew he was seriously ill and, with my sister having already gone early, he wanted to make sure his daughter was safe and settled with someone he could trust.’
‘And what about you and Mary? Were you happy about it?’
‘I wasn’t unhappy. I thought it was a bit of an overreaction, to be honest. Seemed to me they were jumping at shadows a bit. But Mary was all for it – she and your mother had always got on so well together and Barbara had been there for her when we finally had to give up on the idea of having kids of our own. Seemed like the perfect solution as far as she was concerned. She’d be able to look after you while Barbara was working at Langmere. It worked out well for just about everyone.’