‘Promise.’
A bird flapped past the window, wheeled heavily away; a muffled lorry rumbled in the distance. Isobel sat so silent she could have been a painting, a canvas on the wall, though still too bright and vibrant to be one of Christopher’s. Jane clasped both her hands together, fingers tightly locked, eyes fixed on the floor. ‘It happened at my party,’ she said slowly, very slowly; each word costing, hurting. ‘My eighteenth birthday party.’
Chapter Seven
‘So now if you’ll all raise your glasses and drink a toast to the birthday girl.’
Jane was suddenly clamped tight against her Uncle Peter’s chest, felt his beard prickling on her lips, his hot hands clammy on her naked stretch of back. Everyone was calling out her name, glasses clinking, cameras flashing, congratulations rising all around her, a triumphant roll of drums as the band played ‘Happy Birthday’. She pulled away, cheeks flaming, bewildered by the curdled heave of colours, the blur of jostling bodies; tried to focus on her parents as the two most solid people there. They were standing just beside her – her father stiff and polished, her mother in a cooling shade of green, her docile hair still tightly crimped despite the heat and crush. Her own hair must be limp by now, had shrugged off the joint efforts of Liz and Prue at Snippers. She could feel it hanging heavy down her back – everything too heavy: the gold chain round her throat, the matching gold-loop earrings; the blusher and foundation which her mother had insisted on because she looked so pale; the smile which seemed to paralyse her face.
She ought to say a word of thanks, but her mouth felt dry and scratchy, and the phrase came out inaudible. She cleared her throat, forced her voice to work. ‘Thank you,’ she said shyly. ‘Thank you all for coming.’ It wasn’t hypocritical. She was glad now that they’d come, had made her so important, marked her eighteenth birthday, her new status as an adult. At first, she’d set her face against any celebration, scared of people noticing that she hadn’t got a boyfriend, or saying she looked young – eighteen in actual years, maybe, but not in poise or style. Her parents had seemed crestfallen. They’d been planning a big party, budgeting for months – secretly, excitedly, intending to surprise her – checking up on venues, sounding out hotels. ‘Hotels?’ she’d cried, appalled, when at last they shared their plans with her. If she had to mark the date at all, then why not just a simple meal – a few friends round the table in the safety of her home, her mother’s chicken casserole, perhaps a special cake?
‘But there are people we must ask. The Frasers, for example – they’ll expect a proper do. And the Holdsworths and the Collinses, and that girl you met in Wales, and all the friends who’ve had you to their own parties, and and and and and …’
She was overruled, outnumbered; bombastic Uncle Peter joining in as well, wanting something grander still, buying her a party dress to match his own ideas – a backless one in taffeta with a full and flouncy skirt. The skirt swished with every move, was rustling now as she stepped towards the table to cut her birthday cake: eighteen tiny candle-flames flickering and guttering, hot against her face as she stooped to blow them out. She took a big breath in, expelled it in a rush. The guests let out a cheer, which turned into a groan. Two candles were still burning, only sixteen dead. Frantically she snuffed the final two. Too late. A second breath always meant bad luck. She tried to make a joke about her lack of puff, ignore the tiny snick of fear fretting through her head. Stupid to believe in luck. Life was just beginning – that’s what all the oldies said – sometimes said it bitterly, as if they hadn’t lived themselves yet.
She inserted the huge knife, felt it jib at hard white icing, plunge through oily marzipan. She wished the cake was pink or blue, not white. It seemed too like a wedding cake, and there wasn’t any groom, no other hand but hers clinging to that ivory-handled knife. Strange to feel alone amidst sixty-seven guests. She glanced back at her parents, longed to dash towards them, hide her head in her mother’s silky skirts, beg to be picked up and put to bed.
Hours to go till bedtime. More white-aproned waitresses had materialised from nowhere and were refilling glasses, passing round the cake. Guests crowded up to talk to her – faces, faces, faces – Rita with her hair swept up and earrings shaped like small giraffes; portly Uncle Colin waving a cigar, punctuating all his words with smoke; Andy scoffing chocolate mousse, a swirl of cream moustaching his top lip; anorexic Emma flirting with a celery stick, which looked pale and limp and skinny like her arms. Everybody talking, interrupting, arguing; sudden yelps of laughter, the phut of burst balloons, boom-di-boom-di-boom-di from the band. She tried to answer everyone at once, turn in six directions, recharge her wilting smile.
‘Love the dress.’
‘It’s hot.’
‘Hot? There’s next to nothing of it. You women do complain.’
‘So what do you plan to do now, dear? College is it, next?’
‘Well, I thought I’d …’
‘Hey! You can’t strip off like that, Sue, not in public, anyway. Jane won’t like it, will you, Jane? Here – have some more champagne to cool you down.’
‘No thanks. I’d better not. I’m seeing stars already. Mac put Southern Comfort in my Coke.’
‘Jane, you look sensational! Last time we saw you, you were thirteen and a half, and swore you’d never wear lipstick in your life.’
She tried to laugh, recall it. A few other long-lost relatives had clucked about her dress, or told her how she’d grown. She hadn’t grown – or not enough. She should be five foot six at least, and acres more sophisticated. She had tried to smoke and loathed it, didn’t like the taste of gin, had no real future plans, and couldn’t sort out what she felt about all those burning issues which other people championed with total fierce conviction, while she weighed up all the arguments on each and every side, and ended up believing, doing nothing.
‘Come and dance then, gorgeous. It’s time you let your hair down.’
Andy took her hand, swept her on to the floor, improvised some wild dance of his own, half a war-dance, half flamenco. His energy ignited her, seemed to blow away her shyness, banish introspection, as she tried to copy him. She could feel her skirt and petticoats flaring out around her, Andy’s laughing twirling body galvanising hers.
‘You’re a fantastic mover, Janey!’ She flushed with pleasure, not just at the compliment, but because he’d called her Janey. It sounded affectionate, endearing, and he was quite the most attractive man in the whole crowded spinning room – Sarah’s boyfriend, actually, though she no longer even envied Sarah tonight. She had received so many compliments herself – gorgeous, dishy, elegant, sensational, fantastic, good enough to eat. They couldn’t all be lying, so perhaps she’d really changed, woken up more beautiful, left Plain Jane behind. It could be a good omen, a new start in her life. She stood panting for a moment while Andy tied his shoe, glancing round the stately room with its fluted pillars, ruched and tasselled curtains. All this just for her – the bowls of hothouse flowers, the trifles, salads, soufflés; the band, the splendid cake. And every single person here had turned up in her honour. Shouldn’t she be flattered, not carping at her parents because they’d done things grandly, judged her worth a splash? She let Andy spin her round again, collapsing in his arms, as the band pumped out a final dizzy cadence.
‘And now a few traditional numbers for the older generation, so wake up, Dad – Mum’s waiting.’ The dapper little band-leader swivelled back to his glitzy baby-grand, which exploded in a storm of trills, before launching into ‘Stardust’. Andy booed and jeered, while a whooping Uncle Peter dived between the bodies, claimed her for a foxtrot.
‘I’m not sure I can do it,’ she said, stalling. She’d been to ballroom dancing classes – her mother had insisted – but they’d never got much further than the quickstep and the waltz. And, anyway, he’d severed her from Andy, who was now prancing up to Sarah, bowing low, so he could inspect her daring cleavage.
‘’Course you can,’ boomed Peter, who hardly seeme
d to notice when she trod on both his feet, moved left and slightly sidewards whilst he lurched right and front. He’d been knocking back the drink, his face as flushed as hers was, and with no help from any rouge.
‘Cracking party isn’t it?’ She nodded, dodged his breath – a strong down-wind of whisky-flavoured nicotine. He was so different from her father, despite the fact they looked alike – two grey-haired grey-eyed brothers with only eighteen months between them. Her father neither smoked nor swore, drank only wine, and rarely; believed in work and discipline, while Peter loafed about, living off past triumphs; his sole targets for the present forty Rothman’s King-Size and half a bottle of Black and White each day. They’d had a row last week. She wasn’t meant to know, but she had heard the two sharp voices rising to her bedroom, shattering her sleep; a final slam as Peter cannoned out. In the morning, she had tried to quiz her mother for the facts.
‘It was nothing, dear – just a silly tiff. Peter and your father have never hit it off. It goes back to their childhood. I suspect he’s jealous, actually. Granny always favoured Alec.’
The face was looming close again, dark shadow on the chin, a spider’s web of broken veins embroidering the nose. ‘So what presents did you get, Jane? Besides my dress, of course. It looks terrific, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ she said, wincing as his size-ten foot landed on her fragile patent sandal.
‘And what did Mum and Dad cough up?’
‘A cheque – a really big one, and this gold chain …’ She gestured to her neck. ‘Daddy gave me that, and …’
‘I’d have thought they might have given you something else. And I don’t mean just a present.’
‘Well, they paid for all this party – the cake and the champagne, and all the food and drink and stuff.’
‘So they bloody should! They’re your parents, aren’t they? Aren’t they?’ he repeated. He staggered, tried to right himself, clutched out at a potted palm. ‘That’s the question, isn’t it?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t follow.’
‘No, I don’t expect you do, Jane. Forget cheques and silly trinkets. They owe you something else – your birthright, you might say. I told them bloody years ago, and I was hammering home the point again last week – but would they listen? – no!’
Jane tried to block his voice out, dismiss the sudden frisson of uneasiness she couldn’t quite explain. Her Uncle Peter had always been a problem. Her parents seemed on edge with him, almost on their guard. Admittedly he’d worked abroad for years, so they saw him very rarely, but he’d returned to live in England just this last July, and even now they preferred to keep their distance, despite his frequent phone-calls. When he phoned, he always spoke to her; had been her fan since childhood – phoning, writing, even from abroad; sending lavish presents, or showering her with compliments long-distance.
‘What I’m asking, Jane, my duck, is whether your dear beloved parents sat down with you last night and had a little talk – shall we say a little heart to heart?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘’Course you don’t. That’s their fault, isn’t it? You don’t know bloody anything, poor kid.’ Uncle Peter hiccoughed. ‘Beg your pardon, Jane dear. I never could take marzipan.’
‘Look, why don’t we sit down?’
‘What, and lose you to some whippersnapper? I’ve been trying all the evening to get you on your own, and now you’re giving me the push.’
‘I’m not, Uncle Peter. It’s just that …’ It was difficult to hear him, difficult to speak. They kept bumping into people, other skilful couples who’d actually learnt to do the foxtrot, could even keep in time and avoid each other’s feet. She was reeling out apologies all round her, like the coloured party streamers now tangling round everybody’s shoes; alternating ‘sorrys’ with brief embarrassed laughs, wishing Uncle Peter would shift his sweaty hand.
‘Anyway, I want a little talk with you. If your parents haven’t got the guts, then I feel it’s up to me. It’s my duty, Jane, my duty as … Hey, is this still the bloody foxtrot, or have they changed the beat? That Liberace fellow should be pensioned out to grass.’ He backed into a pillar, thumped it with a friendly fist, before seizing hold of her again and jigging to his left. ‘Your mother was quite wrong, you know, hushing it all up. I told her so in no uncertain terms. Alec had more sense, but she overruled him, didn’t she – turned on the old waterworks and swore us all to secrecy. He could have married anyone, your father, but – no – Amy was the one. She never liked me, Jane, my pet, and d’you want to know for why? A clear case of the little green-eyed monster. I was closer to your father than she would ever be – yes, even seven thousand miles away. But that’s not the question, is it? What I’m trying to say, Jane, is you’re grown up now, an adult, which means you’ve got your rights.’ He stopped to mop his face, pulling out a teaspoon from his pocket, as well as a white handkerchief. ‘Now, how did that get there? They’ll say I’ve pinched the silver next.’ His laugh suddenly aborted, turned into a grimace, as he gripped her wrist, too hard. ‘Look, maybe you should talk to them yourself; ask them a few really basic questions like …’ He leaned right forward, snickered in her ear – ‘‘‘Who’s my mother, Mummy? Who’s my father, Dad?’’’
‘Excuse me,’ someone said.
‘Get away,’ said Peter. ‘I’m dancing with the birthday girl, and anyway we’re just right bang in the middle of a really …’
‘Sorry, mate, this is an Excuse-Me, so you have to give her up. You’ve hogged her half the evening as it is.’
Jane was passed from hand to hand, hardly hearing anything save Uncle Peter’s insinuating voice still hissing in her ear, spelling out those two quite senseless questions: ‘Who’s my mother, Mummy? Who’s my …?’
‘What’s up, Jane? You look shell-shocked.’ Her cousin, David, six foot three and freckled, his rebellious ginger hair teaming oodly with his dark and tidy brows.
‘Er, nothing. Where’s my mother?’
‘No idea. Hey, come back! You can’t run off like that. I’ve hardly said a word to you all evening.’ She let herself be led into the quickstep. At least Cousin Dave could dance, and he talked enough for both of them. She answered ‘yes’ and ‘no’, trying to discount the churning in her stomach, that sinking seasick feeling, as if she were tossing in a tiny boat in the middle of a storm. She mustn’t take her Uncle Peter seriously. He was pissed, that’s all, merely making trouble, spouting gibberish. In vino veritas, a voice nagged in her head. She tried to keep the rhythm, stumbled, almost fell. She couldn’t hear the music, only pounding waves crashing round her boat.
‘Excuse me, Dave.’
Her father’s voice, her father’s hand in hers; his neat grey hair and sober stripes replacing David’s copper curls and exotic purple shirt.
‘It’s time I asked my gorgeous daughter for a dance. How’re you doing, darling?’
‘F … fine.’ How strange he seemed, like someone in a dream, blurred and out of focus, close to her, yet distant.
‘The party’s going marvellously. Even Mummy’s let herself relax. Just look at her!’
Jane looked. Her mother had just ventured on to the dance-floor and was attempting a cross between flamenco and the twist; her silky skirt whirling round and up, a lacy inch of petticoat showing underneath it, her flushed cheeks shiny-moist.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen your mother quite so lively, not even at …’
‘Daddy?’
‘What?’
‘I … I want to talk to you.’
‘We’re talking, aren’t we, darling! Steady! You almost came a cropper then. You haven’t overdone the drinks, have you? You know I warned you not to mix the …’
‘Who’s my father, Dad?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Who’s my father?’
‘What in God’s name are you …?’
He never said ‘in God’s name’, must obviously be thrown; eyes nervous now a
nd blinking, slack lips mouthing nothing, his whole face slipping, as if his usual tight control had only been a mask, which someone had snatched off.
‘And who’s my mother, Dad?’ She watched him pause and swallow, try to change his voice, make it bluff and jocular, force his mouth to smile.
‘Well, that’s a daft question!’ He gestured to his right, picking up the beat again, waltzing round to Amy. ‘There she bloody is.’
Don’t swear, she begged him silently, don’t stutter, stumble, bluster, fake that awful laugh. It only proves there’s something wrong, that Uncle Peter wasn’t simply plastered – frightening Uncle Peter, who had suddenly returned, butting through the dancers and hiccoughing ‘Excuse me,’ to her father.
‘No, I won’t excuse you.’
Jane excused herself instead, pulled free from her father and darted to an alcove in the lounge; heard vindictive clashing voices rising from the dance-floor, her mother joining in now, another woman sobbing; the band belting out ‘Some Enchanted Evening’. She closed her eyes a moment – longed to close her ears – saw two tiny mocking candle-flames still dancing on the cake. Bad luck. She wasn’t sure exactly what had happened, but it was far worse than just bad luck.
‘Want a drink?’ asked Mac, looming up in front of her. ‘I’ve got this Southern Comfort – my own wee private tipple.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘A double.’
‘So who is my real mother, then?’ The words felt strange, grotesque. What did ‘real’ mean anyway – missing, vanished, lost?
‘Now listen, Jane, it’s far too late to …’ Yes, she thought, it is too late – years and years too late, like Uncle Peter said. He had known she was adopted since she was a baby in her pram. Everyone had known – her parents’ friends, their relatives – everyone but her. She’d been totally deceived, her whole life a lie, a fraud. She could hardly take it in. There were gaping holes, deep shadows, where there’d once been solid facts; everything important negated and confused. She’d tried pressing for more details, but her parents kept on stalling, making lame excuses, plugging the black void with sham-pink candy-floss.
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