by Isabel Wolff
I imagined myself in my mother’s shoes. ‘No,’ I conceded. ‘I wouldn’t. It would be very awkward, even today; and yes, thirty years ago it would have been …’
‘ Unbearable,’ Mum concluded. ‘You can imagine the gossip and speculation.’
‘All right.’ I exhaled, sharply. ‘Even so … the idea that you never, ever mentioned her to me – my God …’
‘I couldn’t …’ She heaved an exasperated sigh. ‘Because if I had done, then you might have wanted to contact her, which would have put us back in John’s orbit, which, I repeat, I did not want.’
I glared at Mum. ‘Everything’s been about what you’ve wanted.’
She blinked. ‘No, Ella. No. I was thinking of you. Because the point is not that your father got himself into that situation. The real point is that you were almost five years old by then, and your father had seemed devoted to you, but—’
‘What do you mean “seemed”?’ I interrupted. ‘He was! He was devoted to me! That’s why my memories of him are only happy ones. I remember him playing with me, and pushing me on the swings, and watching children’s television with me, and taking me to the theatre to see you dance. I remember him putting me to bed, and reading to me and doing painting with me; I remember him hugging me, and holding my hand …’ My throat ached. ‘In all my memories of him, he’s holding my hand!’ I felt my eyes fill. ‘So don’t tell me that he wasn’t devoted to me – because he was!’
Mum clasped her hands in front of her again, then inhaled. ‘You still don’t understand. You still haven’t got there. So now I’m going to tell you.’
‘Tell me what?’ I fumbled in my pocket for a tissue. ‘What are you going to tell me?’
‘The truth,’ Mum answered bluntly. ‘I’ve never wanted to tell you the truth, Ella. I’ve sheltered you from it. But now I will.’ My mother’s slender chest rose, and then fell. ‘Ella,’ she said softly, ‘your father chose to be with this other child. He chose to spend his life with her, and not with you.’ Tears glimmered in her eyes. ‘That is what I’ve never wanted you to know.’
As my mother’s words impacted on me I imagined feeling my father’s hand in mine, his grip firm and strong, then his fingers suddenly loosening, and letting go.
Mum swallowed, painfully. ‘But that’s not all he did.’
‘What do you mean?’
She inhaled, shudderingly, as though suddenly cold. ‘That day, you and I then walked back to the car, and I drove home. I was in shock – how I managed not to crash, I don’t know. You were asking me why Daddy was playing with that little girl and who that lady was. I didn’t answer – I didn’t know how. Nor did I know how I’d be able to go on stage that night and dance – but I did and as I danced I felt that Giselle’s suffering was my own: and afterwards everyone said that it was the best performance of my life. What I couldn’t have known was that it was to be the last performance of my life.’
‘The last …?’
Mum laced her fingers together. ‘At eleven, I got back to the flat. The babysitter left, then I just lay on the bed, in the darkness, watching the headlights from passing cars strobe across the ceiling. After a while I heard the key turn in the front door – John was back. Despite what I’d discovered that day, my reaction was one of relief. He’d come back. I ran downstairs to greet him. But his face was white – he was trembling with emotion.’
‘What did he say?’
Mum was staring ahead now, as if reliving those moments. ‘He said that he couldn’t stand it any more. He said that he’d prevaricated for three years and it had driven him mad. He said that he was finally being forced to choose. I felt myself start to panic, but then he went wearily upstairs and I felt so relieved – he was going to bed. We would sleep, then work things out in the morning – I was certain that everything would be all right, just as long as we stayed together. But as I went into the bedroom I saw him pulling his suitcase down from the top of the wardrobe; then he began opening drawers and taking out his clothes and putting them into it. Then he looked at me … and he said …’ Mum’s voice had caught ‘… that he’d decided to be with Frances. He said that he didn’t want to lose her. He said that he loved her …’ Mum wiped away a tear. ‘So this was the second hammer blow that day. I begged him not to leave us, but he carried on taking his things out of the drawers, quickly putting them in his case. Then he snapped the clasps shut, picked the case up and, without even glancing at me, went down the stairs.’
My hand flew to my chest. ‘Didn’t he say goodbye to me? Surely he wanted to say goodbye to me?’
‘He did want to – but you were asleep and I wouldn’t let him wake you. I didn’t want you to know what was happening. So as I followed him down I told him that he’d have to come the next day, to reassure you. But he didn’t answer. He opened the front door and then, without a backward glance, he went down the steps.’ As my mother said this I remembered the steps – they were steep, with smooth black tiles. Mum exhaled. ‘As I followed him out I saw him throw his case into the back of the car. I called to him, but he didn’t answer
– it was as though he was sleep-walking. Then he got behind the wheel and turned the ignition. The car was moving away. So I ran down the steps after him …’ Mum paused. ‘But I was so distraught that as I reached the last step I slipped, and felt my ankle buckle. Then I was in agonising pain.’
‘Oh, Mum …’
She was shaking her head. ‘I must have screamed, because our neighbour, Penny, came running out. She called the ambulance then stayed with you until my mother got there in the early hours. I’d broken my ankle
– the surgeon who operated on it told me that it was a very bad break – a “complicated fracture”.’ Mum looked at me in despair. ‘So that was the third blow of the hammer on that terrible day, by the end of which I felt that everything in my life was … shattered.’ She laid her hand on mine. ‘But I consoled myself that I still had you. You were my only solace in those dark days, Ella.’
I stared at Mum. ‘I remember how sad you were. You used to sit in the kitchen, for hours, barely speaking, or you’d lie on your bed, your face to the wall.’
Mum turned up her palms. ‘I felt as though I’d been hurled into an abyss. What I would have done without my mother, I don’t know. But it remained my belief that John would come back, because he’d always come back, and I’d always forgiven him – and I would have forgiven him again, even then.’
‘Oh, Mummy …’ Now I understood the depth of her feelings for my father.
‘But this time there was no word from him. And when I at last felt composed enough to phone his office, his colleague Al said that John wasn’t there. Al seemed embarrassed,’ Mum went on. ‘I presumed that this was because he knew that John had left me.’ She pursed her lips. ‘But that wasn’t the reason at all. It was because Al realised that I had no idea that John no longer worked there. When he told me this I was … stunned. I asked him why, and where he’d gone – it was so humiliating, not knowing where my own—’ Mum drew in her breath, shudderingly. ‘Then I heard Al say, “You don’t know, Sue? That he’s gone to Perth?” By now I was in turmoil, but desperately trying not to show it, so I asked him if John had gone there for work, adding that I knew he’d once done a project in Dundee. There was a pause. Then Al said, very quietly, “Perth in Australia. He left ten days ago. He’s gone there for good.‘” Mum closed her eyes as if to shut out the memory.
‘But … it takes time to emigrate,’ I protested. ‘All the bureaucracy – and the interviews.’
‘It takes a lot of time,’ Mum agreed. ‘So he would have known for at least eighteen months beforehand, probably more.’
‘But how had he managed to hide it from you?’
She rested her face in her hands. ‘I’ve no idea – but he did.’
‘He must have kept all the papers at work.’
Mum shrugged. ‘But this is where he was so cynical, Ella.’ She looked at me bleakly. ‘He’d been planning it wi
th her, all those months, while continuing to talk to me about all the things that we were going to do, the three of us: he’d talk about the lovely house we’d buy, and the life that we’d live, the holidays we’d have, when all the time …’ Mum’s mouth quivered as she tried not to cry: then she looked at me with an air almost of triumph. ‘Now do you understand why I feel as I do?’
‘Yes,’ I said quietly.
‘You were almost five,’ she said. ‘Now you’re thirty-five. And your father says that he’d like to make amends – as though he believes that he can wipe the slate clean with a few e-mails. I don’t think he can. So …’ Mum looked at me imploringly, then she reached out her hand. ‘Are you going to answer him?’ I didn’t answer. ‘Are you, Ella?’ I felt her fingers close around mine.
‘No,’ I said, after a moment. ‘I’m not.’
‘So that’s that,’ I said to Polly, over lunch, a few days later. I’d already told her the bare bones of the story on the phone. Now, sitting in a quiet corner of the Kensington Café Rouge, I’d related it to her in more detail.
She sipped her mint tea. ‘So the memory that you had was of him swinging Lydia through the air; but you’d thought it was you.’
‘Yes. And now I know why I’d remembered it – because I was almost five, not three: and because of the emotion of it all, I suppose.’
‘But what a mess your father got himself into.’
I nodded bleakly. ‘I keep thinking of myself, aged six, seven and eight, asking my mother when I’d see him, not knowing that he was on the other side of the world with his other family – his other little girl.’ The pain of this was so sharp that it was almost like a physical injury. The fact that Lydia had been born two years after me was an additional stab.
‘It does make your mother’s attitude easier to understand.’ Polly shook her head. ‘Even so, for her to have kept all this from you …’
‘And now I feel confused; because, on the one hand, I feel angry with her for concealing something so … enormous, but on the other hand, I guess she was right. As a child, I don’t think I could have coped with knowing that my father had left me in order to live with his other child, thousands of miles away. It would have felt like the most terrible rejection – it feels like that now.’
‘But he didn’t leave you in order to live with his other child, Ella. He left you in order to live with his girlfriend. It was your mother he was rejecting – not you.’
‘No – he was rejecting me too, because if he’d loved me enough then no one could have seduced him away from my mother. Instead he went to Australia, leaving behind utter heartbreak – a complicated fracture,’ I added bitterly.
Polly lowered her cup. ‘You said that Frances was Australian.’
‘She was: “was” being the operative word.’
Polly looked puzzled. ‘What are you saying? That she’s …?’
I nodded. ‘Last night I Googled “Frances Sharp”; the first thing to come up was her obituary.’
‘I see … that must have been a shock.’
‘It was – he’d said nothing about it.’ I reflected that my father had said nothing about himself in any of his e-mails – only that he hoped that we’d meet. ‘It was in the Western Australian, from last December; it said that she’d been ill for some time. She was seventy-six – ten years older than my father.’
‘That’s a big gap. So he must have really loved her.’
‘He clearly did. Mind you, Mum said that the fact that she had money would have featured in his … calculations.’
‘Your mother probably would say that, whether or not it was true,’ Polly pointed out. ‘But what did Frances do, that she had an obituary?’
‘She owned a winery near the Margaret River, south of Perth – it’s called Blackwood Hills. I then did a search on it and on the website it said that Frances’s parents had started it up in 1970 when that part of Australia was first being cultivated for wine. It explained that in 1979 she’d gone back to Australia to help them run it and that she inherited it in 1992, on her father’s death. The site briefly mentioned my father, but it was clear that the estate was managed primarily by Frances.’
‘So who runs it now? Lydia?’
‘Yes. With her husband, Brett – they got married last year. There was a photo of them standing in a vineyard with the river in the background.’
‘Does she look like you?’
‘She does.’ I paused. ‘It was weird, Polly – recognising my own face in the face of a stranger.’ I felt a shiver run down my spine.
‘And … have you told your mother any of this?’
‘No. Because now that I know what my father did, I feel there’s nothing more to say.’
Polly stirred her mint tea. ‘A few weeks ago I said that perhaps there was another side to the story – that it might somehow be better than you thought: but it was worse.’
‘Yes – and the fact that he’s only contacted me now that Frances has died is another mark against him. Perhaps he promised her that he wouldn’t look for me while she was alive,’ I added bitterly.
‘But he didn’t know where you were until he saw that piece in The Times.’
‘I’m sure he could have found me, if he’d wanted to. So if I choose to reject him now, it’s no more than he deserves.’
‘And … would you want to get in touch with Lydia?’
I didn’t answer for a moment. ‘I’m still trying to get my head around the idea that she exists. It’s like discovering that I’ve got another arm – I can’t quite cope with it. But I can hardly contact her if I’m refusing to see him, so I guess the answer to your question has to be no.’
Polly sighed. ‘It seems … sad.’
‘It suppose it does, but lots of people have half-siblings that they never get to see. But at least my mother’s finally told me everything.’
‘Well …’ Polly grimaced. ‘Let’s hope she has.’ I glanced at her. ‘And presumably she’s told Roy too?’ I nodded. ‘What did he say?’
‘Not very much – he was shocked. But he texted me afterwards to say that he’d like to have lunch with me next week.’
Polly nodded then glanced at her watch. ‘We’d better go, Ella, or we’ll miss our appointment.’ She waved at the waiter.
I opened my bag. ‘So we’re having a pedicure?’
‘We are,’ she said as the waiter brought the bill.
‘But why would you ask me to have a pedicure with you when you’ve never wanted to have one with me before? In fact, I thought you never have professional pedicures in case they cut your nails all wrong and put you out of work.’
‘This pedicure’s different.’ Polly flashed me an enigmatic smile. ‘You’ll see.’
‘You’re being very mysterious,’ I said as we crossed Kensington Church Street. As we turned into Holland Street I remembered that this was where Iris had lived before she moved to her flat. I was looking forward to our next sitting.
We passed a patisserie and an art gallery then Polly stopped outside the last shop in the terrace. ‘We’re here.’
I read the sign. ‘Aqua Sheko?’ Through the window I could see a row of large clear tanks in each of which was a shoal of tiny dark fish. ‘What is this? A sushi bar? We eat fish while we have our feet done?’
‘No,’ she said brightly. ‘The fish eat us. My treat, by the way.’
‘Thanks,’ I said uncertainly.
We went in, and the proprietor, a young Chinese woman, took our shoes, then we sat down while she washed and dried our feet. ‘Okay,’ said Polly. ‘Up we go.’
We climbed on to the green leather bench. Polly dipped her perfect feet into her tank and I shuddered as the fish swarmed towards them in a writhing black mass.
‘Come and get it,’ Polly crooned at them.
‘They’re not baby piranha, are they, Pol?’
‘Nope – they’re tiny carp called Gara Rufa. They don’t even have teeth – they just suck.’ She nodded at my tank. ‘Your turn.’
‘Do I have to?’
‘Yes – they’re hungry.’
I peered at the wriggling black shapes then, grimacing, lowered my feet into the lukewarm water. The fish darted towards them and I felt their mouths dock against my skin. I shivered with distaste. ‘Ooh … It tickles. But … it’s okay, actually: in fact it’s quite nice.’
‘I thought you’d say that,’ said Polly. ‘In the wild they clean the scales of bigger fish, which is what human feet look like to them. They’ll nibble the dead skin off your soles and heels, then they’ll go between your toes and around your nails.’
‘Yum.’
‘And there’s some hormone in their spit that’s good for stress.’
‘I could certainly do with that.’
I was surprised at how quickly I was able to forget about the fish as Polly and I sat there, quietly chatting, sipping green tea. Occasionally a passer-by would stop and gawp at us through the window.
‘Have you had much work, Pol?’ I asked her.
‘I did a shoot at the British Museum last week. I had to hold this Ming vase. It was worth thirty-two million pounds, so they had security guards there to make sure I didn’t run off with it and a thick mattress underneath, in case I dropped it, but luckily I’ve got very steady hands. Then I’ve got a booking this Friday – I’ve got to run my hands up Pierce Brosnan’s naked back.’
‘Sounds nice.’
‘No,’ Polly protested. ‘It’s dull. These jobs always are. I’ve stroked Sean Connery’s chin, Sean Bean’s chest, Jude Law’s legs, David Beckham’s pecs, Clive Owen’s face,’ she added in a sing-song. ‘It’s so boring – especially when we have to do twenty-five re-takes.’ She stifled a yawn. ‘I’d love to stop, or maybe not stop, because the money’s quite good, but I’d like to do something new as well – something a bit more stimulating – not that I’ve any idea what.’
A woman walked, or rather wobbled past the window – teetering along on five-inch platforms.
‘See that?’ I said to Polly. ‘Why do women wear big platforms? They’re not even attractive – they’re just clumpy and ugly – and dangerous.’