Strays and Relations

by Dizzy Greenfield

  ‘Just a few thoughts, love,’ she said. ‘Take no notice of me… You know how I worry… Now I’m not interfering…’

  I watched her leave from the safety of the house. My mum, a vision in beige, walked up the garden path towards her car. Even though she was in her seventies and had been driving for decades, she was still unable to coordinate her feet and hands at the same time to steady a vehicle. One of Ellis’s recent comments came to mind, ‘She’s not particularly safe behind the wheel. She drives everywhere in second gear.’

  After spending too long trying to reverse in a space large enough for an aircraft, she positioned her little silver car like she was ready for take-off. Then, she drove away at the predicted thirty-three miles per hour. This was the speed she adopted for all situations, whether on the motorway, country lane, roundabout, or simply driving into the garage. She could park in an instant by slamming on the brakes with no warning.

  The advice note was telling us to get rid of the inflatable paddling pool we had put in the garden for Sasha, as rats could fall into it and give you Weil’s disease. There was no mention of Tommy, Nick or Peter – but I bet she was tempted.

  Chapter 18

  The Yorkshire Dales

  Later that summer, Sasha and I travelled to the Yorkshire Dales to visit Tommy. Busy falling in love with the scenery, I didn’t notice until it was time to leave that I had also been busy becoming fond of my parent.

  Tommy’s little home, his chicken shed as he called it, was nestled in a tiny hamlet, surrounded by magnificent moorland. Beyond the village, the gorse, known locally as The Whins, gave a yellow hue to the hillsides. The landscape was almost deserted, apart from several hundred sheep. This was a stunning place to live and I could see why Tommy had chosen to settle up here, but it was in stark contrast to my other birth parent’s city dwelling.

  To Sasha’s delight, Tommy had a secret room, which was hidden behind a bookcase in true Harry Potter style and it was going to be her bedroom. That first night she climbed happily up the ladder onto the top bunk bed, exhausted after the long train journey. When she was safely tucked in, I walked outside to have a smoke, perching on the wall of the small bridge as the sun set, enjoying the views and the peace. All I could hear was the sound of the trickling brook below me and the faint bleating of sheep way up on the hills. As the evening settled, a flight of housemartins swooped home. Inky blackness soon followed, folding itself over the moors, quietening the river, but heightening the screeches of the owls in the nearby wood. I heard the door of the little chicken shed close. Footsteps.

  Tommy joined me on the bridge. Hanging his arms over the wall, he stared down at the now almost invisible river.

  ‘You coming back in? There’s cheese and biscuits. I got some Wensleydale in, there’s a creamery not far from here…’

  ‘Tommy, I’ve never met anyone else who likes cheese as much as I do.’

  ‘Well, you’ll find that girls tend to emulate their fathers.’ With his elbows on the bridge, he bent his head down so that his chin rested on the backs of his hands. ‘I wish you’d give up them fags.’

  ‘I wish you’d been around earlier, I’m a bit long in the tooth now for advice.’

  ‘I’m not telling you to give up smoking because you’re my daughter, I’m asking you to give up because you will, eventually, kill yourself.’

  The silence that sat between us wasn’t uncomfortable.

  After a while he spoke again. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t around for you. I just wanted to try to make it up to Marie by finding you, so she got you back in some way.’ He paused. ‘I know I never can... my actions all those years ago were unforgivable. But I’ve told her, you know. I told her when I met her recently on that night in Sheffield that we’ve got a daughter to be proud of.’

  We stayed on the bridge, and let the river beneath us run its course.

  Back inside “The Chicken House”, Tommy made a supper of Wensleydale and whisky and we settled ourselves for our own bit of storytelling. I enjoyed hearing about Tommy’s life. We sat up way into the night, until the fire had burnt away, leaving the last of its embers with just a hint of red in the grate. He told me all about his travels across the world. He seemed less guarded now we were on his patch.

  ‘You know, the first I’d heard of you and your twins’ arrival was a few weeks after you were born. I got into terrible trouble with the army. I was marched in front of my officer, told to tie a knot in it, then given three days of extra duties. That was the way they dealt with these things.’

  ‘Did you ask about us?’

  ‘Yes, of course, but I was told to shut up. I wasn’t allowed to speak,’ he carried on. ‘Can you see how I appreciate you giving me a chance to explain – coming all this way. It must be costing you a fortune with the visits to us all.’

  ‘You’re worth the effort and the journey,’ I replied.

  Sasha and I felt strangely at home with Tommy. Sasha was enchanted with the secret room, delighted with its bunk beds and had slept well in what she called the “hush-hush” bedroom. She was just as enthralled with all the ducks that Tommy kept, especially the ducklings. What with the wonderful countryside, Radio 4 chatting away in the background of his kitchen and – of course – all the cheese, the location was beguiling. But it was Tommy’s company that I really enjoyed.

  Over the next few days, we dashed about all over the place in his little blue car. We went to beaches and waterfalls; we drove across mountain roads, hardly able to see out of the windscreen because of the mist that lurked around us, distorting the trees and shrubs, making them appear larger than life in the gloom. The bleakness of the moors was captivating, the scenery so similar to Southern Ireland.

  Our last journey with Tommy found us heading towards the train, but we weren’t feeling quite ready for home. It was unexpectedly difficult to leave him – but that’s what happens when you let down your guard. Tommy had worked his charm on us, too – it was obvious to see why Marie had loved him. My birth father had made his mistakes but, at that moment, I chose to recognise his more endearing traits, those that were apparent to me now, those of a gracious, benevolent man.

  Nevertheless, after a couple of days of being home with my thoughts, I rang Marie to check my parentage.

  ‘Of course there’s no doubt. We were engaged.’

  ‘Oh dear, I’m sorry, Marie. I just had to check out that you are absolutely sure that Tommy is my father.’

  ‘Whatever next! There’s absolutely no doubt. I can’t believe you’re asking me this. My God! What do you take me for?’

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s just… he seems so lovely, I find it hard to think he abandoned you.’

  ‘Well he did, love, he did and no doubt about it. I’ve lived it. He went off to South East Asia in the army, so he wouldn’t have any commitments. That’s what happened. I was a Catholic. I was seventeen and I was naive. There was no contraception for me – I left that to Tommy. I thought he knew what he was about.’ Her voice softened. ‘But it was more than that – I loved him, I truly loved him. He is lovely, isn’t he, Dervla?’

  ‘He’s a charmer all right, I’ll give you that.’

  ‘What he did for me, by finding you, is the kindest thing anyone’s ever done for me,’ she said.

  It was a very exciting time. There were so many people to get to know. Marie’s now grown-up children, Patrick, Carla and Helena came, each in turn, to stay at the farm. First to arrive was Carla. We watched as she deftly manoeuvered her two children and all their luggage off the Friday evening train. Her dark hair and big green eyes made her look even more beautiful than I’d remembered. The black cap that was perched jauntily on her head suited her well. She didn’t have the appearance of a woman who had been trapped in a carriage with two young children for several hours. Holding her sticky-fingered toddler in her arms, she made steady progress across the platform, Her other boy, Keiron, la
gged behind, grizzling as he tried to cling onto her leg.

  ‘Hello, love,’ I said, ‘you all right?’

  ‘I am, love. But the kids have driven me nuts getting here.’

  Although it must have been torture for her, a city girl, to stay with us in the village that time appeared to have forgotten, she tried hard not to let it show. We lived in a rural location without even a shop, we had an erratic heating system and animals inside the house. Our world couldn’t have been further from hers. We were short on child entertainment too; we didn’t have a Wii, or a PlayStation or the seemingly essential Xbox. The mobile phone only worked if you hung yourself – and it – out of an upstairs window, and, as Carla remarked with surprise, there were no street lights. Instead there was the constant hammering from the blacksmith’s forge. By the time we had battled through another day of trying to entertain her electronically-minded children in the middle of nowhere, Carla and I were both exhausted.

  Merlin, however, showed no signs of fatigue – he misbehaved daily, and was enjoying himself hugely, trying to scare the Northerners. At night, he tried to creep into Carla’s bedroom by limbo dancing under the gap at the bottom of the door. He finally succeeded in gaining entry by discovering a new trick – jumping up and placing his front paws on the door handle while pushing the door open with his nose so he could snuggle up next to her.

  The constant stream of customers, relatives and visitors were all accompanied by torrential rain, which made it almost impossible to go anywhere. We eventually braved the wildlife park, but the animals were cold and hiding from the weather.

  ‘Where are the lions, Auntie Dervla?’ asked Keiron.

  ‘Too cold to come out of their den, and who can blame them when they haven’t got umbrellas?’ In fact, the only wildlife we witnessed on that day’s outing was native to these parts – two deer, a crow, and a dead badger, spotted later, on the way home.

  ‘It’s boring just driving around,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, it is. Let’s go to the café.’

  ‘Can we, pleeeese? I’m starving,’ he pleaded.

  Keiron was starving because of my stubbornness. Every evening I had refused requests from Carla’s children for takeaway food. Instead, I had gone in pursuit of making the perfect casserole from unidentified meat that I found lurking in the bottom of the freezer. After the unsuccessful trip to the wildlife park, though, a mix of guilt and desperation sent me out through the never-ending storms to drive to the local Chinese takeaway.

  In the mornings, we collected our eggs from real live ex-battery hens that roamed freely about the place. Carla’s only previous dealings with poultry had involved a trip to Kentucky Fried Chicken, and I was sure they didn’t use free range. I teased her endlessly, telling her that we had recently eaten one of the sheep. We were clearly both products of our upbringing, nurture not nature. Carla’s idea of primitive was if the shops in Sheffield shut early on a Sunday.

  By the third day, Carla was feeling like she needed the familiar security of the city.

  ‘Where’s the nearest shop round here, love?’ she asked.

  ‘Three or four miles, love,’ I replied.

  Oh my God, that’s awful!’

  On Sunday afternoon I unloaded Carla and all the children at the train station. We were a little early for the train to take them back home, but the place was already heaving. The station master paraded down the platform, looking important.

  ‘The carriages are packed,’ he told me. ‘It’s going to be a job to fit any more on.’

  ‘She has to go,’ I replied, glancing at Carla. ‘The kids want to go home.’

  ‘She’ll have a job – it’s always the way with these special rugby trains.’

  When the train arrived, passengers were crammed together like refugees, looking like they were trying to flee from the West Country before winter set in. Faces were pushed up against the misted glass of the doors.

  ‘We’ll never fit, love,’ Carla said, looking doubtful.

  ‘Yes you will, you have to. Leave it to me.’

  I worked my way to the front of the platform, pulling the toddlers behind me. Carla followed with the bags and the buggy.

  ‘Sorry, sorry, love,’ she said as she squeezed through the grumbling crowds.

  The carriage doors opened, but nobody got out.

  ‘I need help!’ I called to the rugby-goers, who jostled and joked, swigging cans of pre-match beer. ‘It’s vital my sister gets her kids home.’

  Like a parting of the waves, the crowd moved to the sides of the doorway. Huge hands reached out to help manoeuvre Carla and the kids towards the overloaded carriage. Burly men lifted her, the children and the luggage inside, I pushed from the rear, forcing them through the open doors into a space that wouldn’t have passed an inspection, out of harm’s way, just before the doors shut.

  The conductor’s whistle blew its final signal, and I watched with relief as the fully-packed train headed off to Bristol, then the North.

  I was sure Carla was relieved too. She surely couldn’t face another meal without chips.

  But, despite our differences, I was enchanted by her. Carla was the very best thing to happen since the birth family’s arrival into our lives.

  Chapter 19

  A chat with Marie

  Of course, while I was getting to know Tommy, I was also continuing to get to know Marie…

  ‘Hello?’ said the voice on the other end of the line.

  ‘Is that you, Vernon, how are you?’

  ‘Oh, Dervla, nice to hear from you. D’you want Marie?’

  ‘Yes please, if that’s okay?’

  ‘Well, it is, ‘cept we have two of the grandchildren ‘ere tonight. They’ve run her ragged all day, so she’s in the bath having some peace. And she isn’t very happy since the incident. I expect she’ll tell you all about it.’

  ‘Incident? Well, don’t bother her…’

  ‘No it’s okay, it’s just she’s a bit worn out, she can’t stop cleaning because of her COD.’

  ‘OCD, I think you mean?’ I said.

  ‘Appen it’s summat like that. Hang on.’

  There was a clatter as he put the phone down.

  ‘Marie, love, are you decent? Phone… it’s your Dervla.’ Then he called ‘You’d better tell ‘er what happened.’

  ‘It’s all right, love,’ Vernon finally shouted into the receiver, ‘she’s here now.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  There was a kerfuffle; noises of muffled conversation.

  ‘Hold on Vernon, I’m just putting my hair in a turban. Hold on, can’t you?’

  ‘Marie?’

  ‘Love?’

  ‘It’s me. Are you all right?’ I asked

  ‘Yes, ‘cept I just got out the bath. Sorry love, we’ve got Jed and Keiron staying. Keiron’s five now, but looks thirteen. Bless him, he’ll be a tank of a man, but our Jed is like a dwarf.’

  ‘You shouldn’t say that these days.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s not exactly politically correct…’

  ‘Well, whatever you want to call it, he isn’t right growth wise,’ she replied.

  So Keiron’s like a bulldog, and Jed’s more like a whippet?’

  ‘Perfect description, love.’

  We giggled.

  ‘How’ve you been?’ I asked.

  ‘Suicidal after my hair cut last week. Jesus, when I came out of the salon I felt desperate.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘Janine, the hairdresser, was going through trauma. Her husband Tim drowned a few months ago.’

  ‘Oh dear, how awful.’

  ‘Yes, all that. And I was sympathetic and all, but every time I asked anything about her well-being she cried and cut more of my hair off. With every cut from them scissors of hers she was more d
istraught. When I finally plucked up enough courage to ask if Tim had been given a good send-off she went into a decline – left me with a receding hair line, two bald patches and no fringe. I only went in for a trim.’

  ‘Annie Lennox has a short hair cut. She has an amazing face.’

  Marie paused.

  ‘She does love, she is very lovely,’ she sighed, ‘but you’re missing something. I’m not like feckin’ Annie Lennox, am I? I haven’t got her face.’

  ‘Right…’

  ‘Anyway, it’s okay,’ she continued ‘because Vernon has ordered me two fringes off the Internet. They’re only £2.75 each. He’s ordered them from Hong Kong!’

  ‘Hong Kong? But you’re blonde.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Most people from Hong Kong are dark haired. Anyway, how do you apply them without a wig fitter or hairdresser. With Velcro?’ I asked.

  ‘Clips.’

  I felt desperate.

  ‘That won’t work Marie.’

  ‘It has to, I’m going to our Courtney’s wedding a week Saturday.’

  ‘Hat?’ I suggested.

  ‘It’ll be too hot.’

  ‘Better to be hot than wear a wig that’s completely the wrong colour for your skin,’ I replied.

  ‘It’ll be fine. I’m off to town tomorrow to get a back-up fringe. Vernon’s looking on the Internet to find me a place locally.’

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  ‘You have such shops do you, in Sheffield?’ I asked.

  ‘Eh? Don’t you?’

  ‘Round here I could get you some sheep food, a castration band for a male lamb, a bale of silage and a pig feeder, but back-up fringe? No chance.’

  She moved the conversation on.

  ‘I feel terrible for those people near you, on the Somerset levels, with the floods. It’s a national emergency.’