Want to Know a Secret?

by Sue Moorcroft

  James sounded as if he’d been up for hours. Which he probably had. ‘I can drive you to Diane’s today, as it’s Saturday.’

  Unfairly, she snapped, ‘Oh, Dad, I can drive myself. It’s a good day. You can’t be in control all the time.’ And she pressed ‘end call’ on her phone.

  Then she felt mean. She wasn’t fair to him. She knew that. On bad days she wanted him to be the man with the answers even while she resented him for having them. But, on good days, she’d shoo him away.

  Still, half-an-hour later, she was parking beside the hedge outside Diane’s redbrick house. She knew, now, to knock on the side door. It seemed better manners to go to the front door but it was swollen shut and if you rattled the pitted brass knocker Diane had to come out of the side door and find you, or shout directions through the letterbox.

  ‘Great to see you, Tamzin.’ Diane beamed as she opened the door. She glanced over Tamzin’s shoulder.

  Tamzin giggled and gestured to the empty space behind her. ‘Look! No Dad.’

  Diane’s eyes returned to Tamzin and she smiled. ‘So I see. It’s great you could make it. Let’s take some tea up to the workroom with us and we can start decorating your jeans.’

  Tamzin whisked a bag from behind her back and flourished a pair of soft grey Levis. ‘I’m all ready.’

  ‘Wonderful – and don’t you look good, today? Your hair looks great with that pretty dress.’

  Diane’s approval puffed Tamzin up. The blue cotton dress was one Alice had bought in an optimistic moment. The ruching that had given her an elephantine bum suited Tamzin’s snakey hips.

  ‘Oh. My. God.’ Tamzin paused on the threshold to Diane’s workroom. It was more of an Aladdin’s Cave than even on her last visit. ‘Diane, I want bling-bling buttons like those.’ She pointed at six bright, glass-encrusted buttons knotted together with wool and hooked over a nail in the wooden shelves that could have been the store of a giant magpie. Folded fabric, funny felty white stuff, braid in twenty colours, sequins, buttons, beads, buckles … It was a treasure trove.

  ‘You have those, if you want. Don’t think they’re right for either of the tops I’ve fitted you for, though. Maybe something darker?’ Diane looked at Tamzin with her head on one side. ‘Dusky red? That would suit you. Do you like zips? Or, I know!’ Diane seized a pad and scrabbled for a pencil. ‘How about, instead of a normal seam we have a run of clear circlets up the outside of the sleeve? They’ll go well with the buttons.’ She sketched rapidly, then turned the pad to Tamzin.

  ‘Oh, yay, that’ll look so cool!’ Tamzin paused. She checked her sleeves were rolled down. ‘You’ll see my arms between the circlets –’

  ‘Only on the outside, here, from your shoulder. That’ll be all right. And we could make this a bib neck, three buttons either side running vertically.’ She sketched again.

  ‘Brilliant. You’re so kind.’ Tamzin gazed at the drawing. Her throat was suddenly tight with tears.

  Diane took the cream shirt from its hanger. ‘Kind! This is my business, Tamz. I send bills to Daddy. Now, you rootle through those shelves. There are catalogues on the bottom shelf, look through them, too.’

  Willing the tears to subside, Tamzin examined tubes labelled bugle beads and seed beads, silver, gold, scarlet, black and some blue that shone purple depending which way you looked at them. Depression was shitty. Sometimes she was so sad that she couldn’t cry, descending instead into a bleak and frozen landscape where tears might’ve been a relief. But make her happy and she cried? Er, right …

  She picked up a big black buckle that fastened with three circular plates like her old school belt, stroking the satin matt finish.

  Behind her, the sewing machine began to chatter. She glanced around. Diane was absorbed, pale head bent over the cream shirt as it passed smoothly under the machine’s foot.

  Hooks and eyes, poppers, Velcro dots, rings the colours of brass, pewter, silver, gold. Thin cord. Tamzin popped open an old circular biscuit tin and found a feast of embroidery silks, a hundred colours from the subtlest silvery blue to flaming scarlet and lime green. Broad black ribbon gleamed dully at her, and she put it aside with the buckle.

  ‘Got some stuff that appeals to you?’ Diane snapped off the threads and examined the stitching on the cuff.

  ‘These?’ Tamzin showed her the black buckle and the ribbon.

  ‘OK.’ Diane put the two things together on her work table. ‘Can you pass me that red tin? It’s filled with buckles.’ She flipped the top off and shook the contents. ‘What else do you like?’

  Tamzin peered in, her reflection slithering around in the battered silver interior. ‘This … and this.’ A silver S buckle, a black one without a prong but with serrations at the sides, a buckle that looked like a flower with six petals and one with two prongs.

  Diane picked up the original black buckle. ‘The obvious thing to do with this is to make a belt. Let me look for some webbing of some kind. The rest of the buckles can be threaded with ribbon and then fixed all over the jeans. The S should go in the small of your back, I think, and then down the side – Oh – here’s George.’

  Tamzin followed her gaze out of the window to where a tall lad with a baseball cap was locking up a deep blue car outside. The cap hid his face. He turned, took two strides, hurdled the hedge and loped up the path.

  Diane grinned. ‘You must meet George.’ She paused, wrinkling her forehead. ‘He’s your cousin. Or your half-cousin or half-second-cousin or something. Gareth is half-brother to both your mother and George’s father so you must be related, somehow.’ She beamed. ‘George is one of my favourite people.’

  ‘Oh.’ Tamzin felt suddenly flat. If Diane got chattering to this George about people Tamzin didn’t know, Tamzin would no longer have Diane’s attention. She glanced at her watch. ‘I’ll say hello before I leave.’

  ‘You’ll like George,’ said Diane, as if plucking Tamzin’s misgivings from the air. ‘Bryony adores him. They used to be in a band together, Jenneration. Do you like Indie Pop?’

  ‘Can’t bear it.’

  She skulked downstairs behind Diane and hovered silently while Diane stood on her tiptoes to hug George. ‘You jumped my hedge.’

  ‘Gates are for boring dudes.’ George flipped off his baseball cap and threw it on the seat of a chair.

  Tamzin felt her jaw drop.

  George’s hair was the colour of a lion’s mane and clung around his head in quills, framing his eyes and pointing up his impressive cheekbones. Soft, youthful stubble defined the slant of his jaw. His eyes were brown-gold. They settled on Tamzin and she felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

  Then his lips curved slowly. ‘All right?’

  She felt herself flush but she managed the accepted response. ‘Not bad. You?’

  ‘Yeah. Good.’ His gaze remained on her.

  She was glad all over again for Alice’s dress. And that she’d washed her hair.

  Diane began to explain. ‘This is Tamzin, who –’

  ‘Yeah, I get who she is. I’m still trying to get my head round Uncle Gareth having, like, this whole other family, though. Amazin’.’

  ‘I’m still getting my head around it myself. Sit down, you two.’

  Tamzin forgot all about leaving after saying hello and chose a kitchen chair. Presently, lunch was set before her and she didn’t even realise what she’d eaten until the soup bowl was empty and all that was left of her roll was crumbs. But, apparently, this had happened while George attempted to explain the Jenner family tree on the inside cover of Diane’s address book, and Tamzin put in the missing family on the other half of the page, beginning with Pops and ending with herself, Natalia and Alice.

  ‘So my grandmother was naughty with your grandfather,’ observed George.

  Facing one another over the kitchen table they talked non-stop whilst Diane cleared up and reflected on how it would reduce James’s stress levels if Tamzin had more days like this.

  Much of his conversatio
n over dinner, last night, had revolved around Tamzin. Parent’s Disease. Diane understood. She’d spent so many anxious years on tenterhooks over Bryony’s health.

  The restaurant James had chosen backed onto Stamford’s water meadows and from the rear terrace they’d watched the ducks flying circuits and coming in to land as the sky turned purple and dark pink. ‘When one of your children is ill it’s like a spiky burden you carry around with you,’ he’d said. ‘I think about Tamzin all the time. I expect I talk about her all the time.’ His dark grey eyes crinkled. ‘But you’ve seen her on a bad day.’

  ‘It’s such a shame for her – for you all. Hasn’t she worked or studied since she left uni two years ago?’

  ‘Some days she won’t get out of bed.’

  ‘But she has nothing to get out of bed for. I thought that one of the symptoms of depression is feeling purposeless – isn’t that aggravated by her genuinely not having a purpose?’

  ‘The therapist said occupation can help some people. But it’s a vicious circle. She couldn’t hold down a job or attend a college because she’s too ill.’

  They’d talked for hours: how excited Diane was about Bryony coming home – perhaps as early as next week – and how proud James was of Natalia and Alice. ‘Especially of how good they are with their little sister … And now I’ve brought the conversation back around to Tamzin.’

  He’d driven her home at a reasonable hour, the journey in the soft black night seeming woefully short. Diane felt the back seat like a spectre and she almost expected it to rear up behind her booming: ‘You can’t ignore what happened here!’

  But she had tried her best to, even when James kissed her goodnight. It had begun as such a quick kiss – his lips brushing briefly over hers. But then he’d gathered her up against him and let the kiss deepen, slowwww downnnn, sending goosebumps straight down her back. He was so warm. Her fingers had tangled themselves in his hair and she hadn’t wanted the kiss to stop.

  And all day she’d nursed the memory of the evening like a happy secret.

  ‘How about we go down to one of the village pubs? Fancy a swift half at The Dragon, Diane? Diane?’

  She jumped out of her daydream. ‘Not me today, George. Too much to do. I said I’d visit Gareth and I’ve just seen the time. Take Tamzin.’

  ‘Yeah, good one. OK?’ he said to Tamzin.

  ‘OK,’ she said, as if it didn’t matter one way or another.

  ‘So, are you into Indie pop?’

  ‘Oh, like, yeah,’ Tamzin breathed.

  ‘My band’s playing a gig on Friday. How about you come? We’re Jenneration.’

  ‘Could do. I’ll visit my mum in the afternoon then I’ll be free in the evening.’

  George banged open the kitchen door. ‘So we could meet up for pizza, if you don’t mind hanging around while we sound check? See you, Diane.’

  ‘Bye, Diane. Yes, that would be OK. I’ll give you my mobile number and you can text me …’ The door shut behind them.

  ‘Bye, then.’ Diane plunged the plates into white, glistening suds, letting the tangy smell of Fairy Liquid rise around her in a cloud of steam. Maybe a little attention from a looker like George would do more for Tamzin than doctor’s pills.

  It was brilliant to see Tamzin looking so much like a normal twenty-year old.

  Even if it meant that Tamzin hadn’t needed James to accompany her to Diane’s house when, actually, Diane had been looking forward to seeing him. Even though she knew it was quite the wrong thing to do.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chadda-chadda-chadda. The now familiar sensations of lift, the seat kicking against his legs and back as the helicopter pauses in hover and the rotor chops the air.

  Then they’re being snatched up and hurled towards the trees as if by a giant trebuchet. He bellows, ‘Put us down! Put us down! You idiot, why are you flying like this?’

  Valerie, chewing gum, turns. Gareth’s image is reflected in her aviator glasses but she ignores his howls.

  ‘Watch out, Alpha Zulu, you’re close to the Eastern perimeter trees,’ warns the unseen air-traffic controller.

  Higher, closer come the trees, thrashing, tossing in the wash from the rotor. ‘Climb. Climb. Climb! Climb now! Valerie, climb!’ Gareth clutches his seat and thinks of Diane, what she’d say if she could see him perched in this mechanical dragonfly.

  ‘Shut up. There’s only one pilot on this aircraft.’

  ‘Alpha Zulu! You are too CLOSE –’

  Abruptly, Valerie yanks the cyclic lever back until there is only sky. With horrible inevitability she shoves it forward again and grenades and rifles fill his head as the helicopter hits the trees, plunging and lurching like a furious horse. It pauses … then pitches earthwards as if spat from a cyclone.

  Valerie screams and screams …

  Gareth’s head snaps helplessly forward, back, and his legs and arms flail into Valerie’s as Valerie’s limbs windmill uncontrollably into his.

  The engine shrieks and the machine thrashes itself to death against the unforgiving earth.

  Sirens. Shouting, closer. Running feet. Panted words. ‘There’s fuel every-bloody-where. Valerie North has managed to miss the sky.’

  Gareth can hear himself groaning.

  A flash of high-viz clothing appears in a gap in what was left of the acrylic bubble. ‘All right, mate. You’re all right. The paramedics will have you out. Can you hear me? We’re the fire crew, and we’ll see you’re OK. You stay with me, all right? The paramedics will get you to a hospital.’

  The groans get louder. Hospital! Sensation floods in – the cage of his chest is on fire, his fingers have been slammed in a car door, his arms wrenched from their sockets, a giant has stamped on his legs before giving his head a proper kicking.

  Diane’s going to find out — !

  Gareth smashed into sweaty consciousness with his lips stretched into a silent squeal of fear, not the rotor but his heartbeat’s whump-whump-whump filling his ears.

  He couldn’t move – his fingers or his arm or his legs; he was fast in a giant spider’s web. He was paralysed, he was stuck, he was helpless … No. No, he was hurt.

  Gradually, he focused on the pins protruding from the ends of the fingers bound into plastic troughs and at the prison of white plaster immobilising his legs. The hospital bed. And then Stella, sitting on the edge of a visitor’s chair, her eyes huge, frightened, fixed upon him. ‘You were dreaming, Gareth.’ Her voice was an uneasy whisper. Moisture glistened in the minute lines that were beginning to hatch the soft flesh below her eyes.

  He licked his lips, trying to calm the galloping in his chest. ‘Yes. Yes, I must’ve been.’ His ribs ached; he’d probably been trying to flail around. Come to that, most things ached. Where was that bloody Tramadol?

  Stella neatened her blonde waves with nervous fingers. ‘I was scared you might hurt yourself. I nearly called the nurse.’

  ‘Glad you didn’t,’ he said, shortly. ‘I don’t want a load of nurses standing round while I squeak like a guinea pig, do I?’

  Stella pulled her chair closer. Her lips trembled. ‘Gareth – oh, poor you!’ She stroked his face with the back of her hand and then with her fingertips. Stella had sexy little hands and took care of them with hand cream and rubber gloves. He had a thing about Stella’s hands. They were white and soft where Diane’s were red and scratchy with housework and pins and needles. Whenever Stella touched him his skin would shiver in response.

  He closed his eyes and thought of her undressing him, stroking each part of his nakedness as it was revealed so that by the time she was ready to slide his boxers off he was primed to explode and would be quite unable to undress her slowly in return. Instead he’d haul her from her clothes, making her squeal and giggle. Marvellous skin she had, soft as rose petals and as fragrant, because she was a pampering sort of woman who moisturised her entire body every day. White and velvety as marshmallow, delicious little thing.

  Her soothing fingers stroked his cheekb
ones and what had been the hollows of his cheeks, his swollen chin and jaw line, his temples.

  ‘Poor you,’ she repeated. She stroked every millimetre of skin: face, neck, hands – so gently over the damaged one. The hip and thigh between gown and plaster, and Gareth felt himself sink into the bed as if it were angel hair. With him, all trace of Stella’s usual bolshiness evaporated to leave only softness and compliance. She was his indulgence.

  ‘You know that Diane knows?’ Her voice was still a whisper, her tip-toeing fingers still working their magic.

  ‘Yes.’ His lips barely moved.

  ‘She was lying in wait for me, all scary and sarcastic, you know how she gets. I couldn’t think of a credible lie. But … perhaps better that she knows? She seemed to take it quite calmly.’

  He thought back to Diane hurling threats and accusations at him like flaming arrows, lighting the room with her rage, searing him with disgust, her single plait rearing from high on her head and swinging like a grumpy cobra as she strode around the room. An in-built stressometer.

  Despite himself, he smiled. ‘She wasn’t very calm when I saw her.’

  The stroking fingertips returned to his forehead. ‘That must have been horrible for you. But the worst’s over.’

  ‘Where did you get the key?’

  The cool fingers halted momentarily, then returned to his cheeks, careful, soft. ‘The key?’

  ‘To my house, in Whittlesey.’

  The caresses moved to his ears. He had sensitive ears. If she wanted to get round him she always began there with her fingertips and perhaps her warm, quivering tongue. He let himself be temporarily distracted, even wondering whether the doctor had been right about the huge number of blood vessels around the pelvic area and a broken pelvis being likely to affect the ability to get an erection.

  He couldn’t make love to her. But perhaps her mouth –

  No, probably not.

  ‘It was the key you gave me, Gareth.’

  ‘Once. Once to let the carpet fitters in. You were supposed to put it back in the kitchen drawer.’ He kept his eyes shut.