It made me sad to think about that, so I distracted myself with sorting out the video. It took a bit of messing around accessing the video sharing account – password MyGrubbyAngels999, which makes you wonder who MyGrubbyAngels numbers 1–998 belonged to – but we got there in the end, and sat back and watched as our dead mother graced the flat-screen in glorious technicolour.
Seeing her there – perched on the bench we’d just been sitting on, in the garden we’d just been enjoying – was surreal. As though if we looked out of the kitchen window right now, she’d be there, with a cup of tea, watching the blue tits.
I’m not sure whether we’re lucky to have this final chance of spending time with her, or whether it is simply dragging out an already long and painful process. Even as I think it, I feel guilty – the amount of effort that she and Lewis have put into this project, at a time when most people would just be wallowing in self-pity, is staggering. She was even trying to help us as she approached death, and I know I’m being ungrateful to even consider not seeing it through.
But … well, this is hard. I’m not good at dealing with complicated emotions, which is why I’ve streamlined my own life to the point of non-existence. I don’t have close friends, or serious relationships, or children, or even pets. I have my work, my shallow social life, and my mother. Or, I had her, at least. Over the years there have just been one too many knocks, and at some stage I suppose I gave up even trying to get up and fight the next round.
Now I’m being plunged back into the messy, mucky, extremely disorganised world of my family, and being asked to make decisions that I’d rather not have to make.
Rose is looking as shell-shocked as I am, slouched on the sofa holding a mug of coffee that I know must be stone cold by now. Her poor ankles look swollen from the heat, and her hair is like a wild animal around her head. I can tell she’s feeling awful, probably on several different levels.
Last night, she was more open. More honest. More drunk, to be fair. But I can’t keep her drunk forever, and this morning she’s retreated back into her shell a little, as though she’s worried about the repercussions of even one frank conversation with me.
That hurts, and when things hurt, I tend to block them out, and ignore them until they go away. Thanks to our mother, however, that’s not an option here – which was all part of her cunning plan, I’m sure.
‘So,’ I say, switching the TV off and throwing open the curtains. She cringes as the light hits her, as though she’s a vampire in a movie. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think it’s weird,’ she says, shuffling up the sofa to get out of the direct sunshine. ‘The whole thing. I miss her so much, and want to talk to her so badly, and when she does those bloody videos, they feel so realistic that I think I can. The way she talks, as though the camera is actually us, and we’re with her?’
‘I know,’ I say, sitting opposite her on the armchair. Mum’s armchair, the floral fabric worn down and shining from all the times she laid her hands on it. ‘It is weird, how she does that. But I don’t suppose we should be surprised, should we? She spent her whole life acting – and this is just another type of it, I think. Another role.’
Rose frowns at me, and seems upset by something I’ve said. I have no clue what.
‘I don’t think that’s fair,’ she says. ‘I think she means every word – she’s not just following a script, is she?’
‘That’s not what I meant!’ I reply, exasperated. It’s so grating, the way we are both ridiculously quick to jump to the wrong conclusion about each other – it is starting to grind me down.
‘What did you mean then?’
‘I meant that she’s doing it all very deliberately – she is ill when she’s making these videos, isn’t she? Really ill. But she’s pretending not to be, putting on a show, throwing in a few funny lines. She wants us to do certain things, and she knows she’s manipulating us into doing them, leading us in a certain direction. I’m not saying she doesn’t mean it all – she obviously does. I just mean that she’s not daft – she knows us so well, she is predicting how we will react to things, building in light and shade so we don’t just get bogged down in it all. She’s trying to make it … fun, as well as making it matter.
‘And that way she talks to the camera? All isn’t-this-marvellous-girls? That’s her using her professional skills for a very personal goal. I’m not criticising it, I’m amazed by it. That, in her last few weeks, she chose to do this. For us. Because, like she keeps saying, she loved us so much. Does that make sense?’
I’ve explained it as well as I can, and if Rose still wants to interpret it as me being a cow, she’s welcome to. I think part of her still wants me to be a cow, because then I’d be easier to ignore.
She nods, almost reluctantly, and sips some of her coffee, immediately pulling a face when she realises how cold it is. I should make her a refill – but we have a decision to make first.
‘What do you think, then?’ I ask, rubbing the worn fabric of the armchair as though I am trying to absorb any last traces of my mother’s touch. ‘About the dad thing? Do you want to know or not?’
She surprises me by answering immediately, and firmly: ‘Yes. I really do.’
Some of my surprise must show on my face, and she gives me a little smile, as though she’s satisfied to have shocked me with something.
‘Because of Joe,’ she explains. ‘I mean, it’s not as though I believe that our genetic make-up is the be-all and end-all of who we are – Joe is nothing at all like his dad, for example, even though I do sometimes worry that Gareth will rub off on him every summer when he goes and stays with him.
‘But Joe has asked about my father, and I’ve never been able to answer properly because I don’t know myself. And one day, he’ll be in the same boat we’re in now – when I’m gone, I mean. He’ll be the one with the questions, and there’s no way I’ll be capable of pulling off one of these A–Z affairs. I’m not organised enough for that, or selfless enough – I’ll probably spend my last weeks on earth eating cheesecake and pairing socks and watching box sets of Poldark—’
‘I love Poldark,’ I say, unable to stop myself interrupting. Her smile returns, bigger this time, as she replies: ‘Who doesn’t?
‘Anyway,’ she adds, leaning forward and looking at me intensely, ‘you can’t say that you’ve never been curious, can you? It was always odd – she was so open about everything else, but this one thing just foxed her every time we mentioned it. I always secretly wondered if our dad was somebody … you know, famous? Like maybe we were the illegitimate love children of Robert Redford or something?’
I bite back a giggle at that idea, but can’t deny that similar thoughts had crossed my mind.
‘I know what you mean,’ I say. ‘Except not Robert Redford – I think she’d have mentioned it, relentlessly, if she’d ever met him. But maybe one of those British actors she worked with back in the Seventies? Like Robert Vaughn, or Timothy Dalton before he was Bond, or Ian McShane?’
‘She did always have a bit of a thing for Ian McShane, didn’t she? Always looked a bit dreamy-eyed when Lovejoy came on the telly …’
‘Or,’ I say, pouncing on a new idea with what is probably far too much enthusiasm, ‘didn’t she do a stint in theatre with Richard Harris?’
Rose bursts out laughing, and her whole body is shaking so hard that cold coffee is sloshing out of its mug, and splashing on to her thighs. I’ve not seen her laugh like this for so very long, and it is joyous to behold.
‘What?’ I say, grinning at her. ‘What’s so funny?’
She wipes the tears from her eyes – the good kind, this time – and takes a few deep breaths, trying to stifle her giggles.
‘It was the look on your face, sis,’ she says, ‘the look on your face when you said that. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so excited. You do realise, don’t you, that you’ve just suggested that Professor Dumbledore is our dad?’
Chapter 34
Rose
> I honestly don’t think I’ve laughed so hard in my entire life. Apart from maybe that time in the tent at Glastonbury, when I was a Stoned Rose and every word out of Poppy’s mouth was absolutely hilarious.
This time, I’m not stoned – just a bit hungover. And this time, Poppy isn’t my best friend – she’s the person I’ve been holding responsible for ruining my life for all these years, even if part of me knows that’s not entirely fair.
And this time, we’re not joking about our mum sneaking into a festival as a blue-boobied yoga freak – we’re on some crazy beyond-the-grave odyssey that she’s sent us on; an insane journey of reconciliation.
None of this is funny at all – but God, it felt good to laugh again. And it felt good to see Poppy relaxed again, even if it was for just a few moments; the way her face lit up at the thought of being Dumbledore’s long-lost daughter was absolutely priceless. Well, she has been reading Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban this morning.
That look – that genuine glee – meant that for a little while there, she lost control. She stopped being the perfectly poised Poppy she is these days, and instead became the imaginative, excitable little girl she always used to be. The way I remember her, before everything turned to shit.
I suppose, no matter what comes next, no matter what the ultimate outcome of Mum’s bonkers spirit quest, we both needed that. We both needed to laugh, to let go, to relax.
Now, egged on by Mum’s insistence that E is just a bit of fun, I decide we should press ahead.
‘Okay,’ I say, pointing at the boxes on the living-room floor, ‘while I’m still half dead with this hangover, shall we see what E is? She said it was funny, but I’m not sure I trust her. This spirit quest business is a bit unpredictable.’
‘Spirit quest?’ Poppy echoes, unfolding the now slightly tattered printout of the A–Z index. I hope she has a copy, or we’ll be screwed.
‘You know. Like in films. This reminds me of one – like at some point, we’ll be asked to sit in a teepee and smoke a peyote bong?’
‘Like we’re Kevin Costner in Dances with Wolves,’ she replies, obviously getting it. Of course. She looks up, frowning at me quizzically, still looking much younger and much more innocent.
‘What would your spirit animal be?’ Poppy asks, kneeling down and rummaging in the rose-painted box.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I reply, giving the issue some serious thought. This is, after all, a perfect hangover conversation, right up there with, ‘What’s your favourite superpower?’ and ‘If you were a colour, what would you be?’
‘Maybe,’ I say, after a few moments, ‘I’d be a Labrador. They’re big and cuddly and like to eat and sleep. I don’t think I’d mind being a Labrador.’
‘Well, I can see what you mean,’ Poppy says, producing a slim A4 envelope from the box and waving it triumphantly. ‘But that wouldn’t have made the cut in the movie, I don’t think. Spirit animals are usually something clever, or magnificent, like a fox or a grizzly bear or a deer. Not the pet equivalent of a foot warmer.’
‘This isn’t the movie version, though. It’s our version. And I think you’d be a seal.’
‘A seal? Why a seal?’
‘Because you’re all … I don’t know, sleek, and streamlined, and shiny.’
‘Funny you should say that,’ Poppy answers, double-checking the envelope and seeing a giant black letter E scrawled on it. ‘Because I also happen to be an absolute genius at balancing a beach ball on my nose, and clapping my flippers.’
I laugh again. I can’t help it. She always could make me giggle – even when I didn’t want to. It feels weird, though – fragile. Like we’ve both somehow decided to call a truce for the time being, pretend we’re not both so tense, allow ourselves a small break. It’s only skin deep, and we both know that, but for now, it’ll do.
‘What’s in the envelope?’ I ask, pointing at it. ‘And do we need to be wearing face masks when we open it?’
‘I don’t think so,’ she says, sitting back on to her heels and looking at the index again. ‘It says here it’s a photo, with a note on the back. I hope she’s right, and this one is fun – because I couldn’t help looking ahead at F while I was at it. I know I’m not supposed to, but my eyes just kind of accidentally skimmed ahead, and it doesn’t look like a barrel-load of laughs.’
‘F is for Fungus?’ I suggest, not quite wanting to let the easy mood die just yet. ‘F is for Fibre? Does she want us to eat a bowl of All-Bran mixed up with magic mushrooms? I wouldn’t put it past her …’
‘Well, that would definitely help with finding our spirit animals, even if we did have to hold the pipe-smoking ceremony on the loo … but no. It’s F is for Forgiveness.’
Poppy casts a nervous glance in my direction, and looks ridiculously vulnerable. She hasn’t put make-up on yet this morning, and her hair is tied back in a slightly messy pony, and if I squint my eyes up a bit, she could be ten years old.
Ten years old, and asking me to forgive her for losing the lids to my felt-tip pens, or eating the last Curly Wurly even though she knew I was saving it, or spilling orange cordial on my maths homework. Asking forgiveness for any one of a thousand tiny childhood transgressions that are all part of growing up.
Except, of course, this time she’s asking me to forgive her for a whole lot more – and I am nowhere near ready to do that. My lack of forgiveness is so deeply ingrained in me, I don’t know if I ever will be.
Neither, though, do I quite have the will to look into that vulnerable face of hers, and say exactly that.
‘Well,’ I answer, ignoring her silent inquiry, ‘let’s worry about that one when it’s time.’
Poppy nods, uses her long, perfectly shaped fingernails to slit open the top of the envelope, and out falls a photo. It’s old, an 8 × 10-inch shot that looks as though it could have been used for some kind of promo. It’s a bit crinkled, and curled around the edges, but is vivid in that gloriously glossy way of the Seventies.
She holds it up and looks at it, and her eyes widen in disbelief.
She turns it to me, and I see why. There, dressed in some kind of hideous hot-pants outfit made entirely of gaudy greens and golds, is my mother. The Seventies incarnation of my mother – all wild hippy hair and huge eyes and boobs.
She appears to be dressed in some kind of sexy mock Irish get-up, several buttons on her green waistcoat open to show off her cleavage, her tight green sequinned shorts ending inches above her bright gold thigh-high boots. She looks gorgeous, but ridiculous – like some kind of Playboy bunny version of a leprechaun.
That, however, isn’t what is leaving us both speechless. We’ve both seen more amusing pictures than that of our mum.
What is leaving us speechless is the man next to her, his beefy arm slung around her shoulder, bloated face and bleary eyes smiling into the camera in a way that suggests he wasn’t entirely feeling at his best.
The man she’d always claimed to have met, even though we were never quite sure we believed her. I turn the picture over, still shaking my head in amazement, and see that Mum has indeed left a handwritten note on the back.
Chapter 35
Andrea: E is for Elvis
Ha ha! Not to be smug, girls, but I told you so! I saw all your eye-rolling whenever I told you this story, but it’s true – and here is the evidence! I thought I’d lost this, but Lewis has helped me empty the entire contents of the attic recently, looking for other things, and he unearthed this – for some reason it was being used as a bookmark in the manual that came with my Jane Fonda Workout, which probably explains why I never saw it again!
Anyway – here we are. Me and the King. I was very young here, in the States doing some awful show for St Patrick’s Day, and he wasn’t at his peak, poor man. But he was very sweet, even then. A real gent, even though we were all dressed like leprechaun strippers.
Good luck with the rest, girls – hope this made you smile.
Now, as Mr Presley might say, goodnight,
and thank you, thank you very much!
Chapter 36
Poppy
When Rose comes downstairs the next morning, looking bleary-eyed and still tired, she catches me out with Lewis’s index spread before me on my lap.
‘You’re skipping ahead, aren’t you?’ she asks, pointing at me accusingly.
I nod, and try not to look guilty. I’m a grown woman and she doesn’t have the right to tell me off. At least that’s what I keep reminding myself.
‘She probably knew you would,’ she adds, wandering into the kitchen in search of coffee.
‘I know,’ I shout through to her. ‘It’s like with those books with all the endings. I always cheated, and she knew I would with this – so it’s all deliberately obscure.’
Rose comes back in, using the same mug she always used when she lived here – a giant one with a picture of Princess Diana on the side.
‘Did you look at P and Q? And … well, do you even want to find out about our dad? I was only two when whatever happened happened, and I don’t even remember him. Sometimes I think I do, but I suspect I’m making it up. What do you think?’
I’m nowhere near as certain as Rose that I want to find my long-lost father. If he’s even alive – there’s no promise of that in what our mum has cryptically said so far. He could be dead, or in jail, or living on a small Pacific island creating animal-human hybrids in his evil-genius laboratory for all we know.
This whole thing with Mum, with Rose, feels like enough of a head-fuck to me – but if she wants to know, for Joe, for herself, for whatever reason, then I won’t stand in her way.
‘I do want to, and I did. But it wasn’t much help. All P says is that we’ll need our passports, and Q is for Questions. It’s like the rest of the index – deliberately obscure, like I said.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asks, sitting down opposite me.
‘Well, some of them say what the letters stand for – like D for Daddy Issues – but some don’t. Some just have the letter, and a note about what to look for, and which box it’s in. Others have little comments by the side, which I suspect are from Lewis – I think Mum was so caught up in this she forgot about real life.
The A-Z of Everything Page 16