The Seven Rules of Elvira Carr

by Frances Maynard

  41.

  Google never forgets.

  —Charlie Hargreaves (Carr), half brother

  Charlie, his face contorted, pushed away a Telegraph. “Dad did all this, so what does that make us? Are we going to become criminals too?” He knelt on the living room floor, sorting through the yellowed newspapers. He was doing it so roughly that I thought they might tear, although that wouldn’t matter. Accounts of your father’s crimes weren’t the kind of things you treasured.

  Until this morning, when Charlie had driven down from Bath, I’d thought I’d been hallucinating. All my old mistaken thoughts about Father’s identical twin brother and his spying career had rushed through my mind. But Charlie had an active brain. He understood what was true. He’d read all the Telegraph articles on Father’s court cases so closely, making notes as he went through, marking the dates and background details with Post-it Notes, so there couldn’t have been a mistake. I had gotten it right; Father was a criminal. The headlines called him Corrupt Civil Engineer and The Fraudster with Film-Star Looks. Underneath were blaring subheads: Man Abused Position of Trust to Line Own Pockets! and Confidence Trickster Exploited Friends.

  Father had not been with a third family. (Charlie thought that the postcard from D—Still remembering Brighton—must just have been from a woman he’d had a fling with a long time ago. I flinched at the word fling.) He hadn’t rejoined the Army. He’d been in prison, had written the letter that marked the page in Mother’s Mozart: Master of Illusion from there. He’d been caught on five separate occasions, committing the same sorts of frauds and deceptions, and had served three sentences, the first before either Charlie or I was born.

  I thought of Coronation Street episodes where I’d seen prisoners smoking rolled-up cigarettes, rather than cigars. They’d worn denim workwear and eaten their dinners from plastic trays with compartments, metal doors banging and jangling in the background. Poor Father, having to spend month after month in places like that. Then I remembered that he’d broken the law. He was being punished!

  I stretched my sweater over my knees, staring at the carpet, my eyes glazed. “I don’t want to be a criminal.”

  “Nor me.” Charlie snorted. “It would make sense, though, wouldn’t it? We’re both children of, effectively, single-parent families, and our father’s a liar, a thief, and a jailbird! We should be out robbing a bank now!”

  My eyes stung. “I don’t want to rob a bank.”

  Charlie turned toward me and ran a hand through his hair. “Nor me, Ellie. We’re both far more decent than anyone would expect. You’re the most moral and truthful person I know.” He piled up the newspapers, thumping each one down. “Do you know I find this harder to take than him having two families? This time I’m really ashamed! I mean, he was exploiting the vulnerable here. Taking advantage of people he was friends with.”

  I wiped my eyes. “I don’t know if I can get any more ashamed.”

  “I phoned Mum as soon as I got your email. When I asked her outright if she knew about all this”—Charlie made a pushing-away gesture with his hand at the Telegraphs, lying forlorn and ashamed on the carpet—“she admitted it. She knew, although it had taken her a long time to find out. Thought Dad’s schemes were standard business dealings, at first. Believed him, of course, like everyone did, like we did. That kind of optimistic way he had—‘Of course I know what I’m doing, of course it’s going to be successful…’ Well, you just sort of got swept away.”

  Charlie shook his head with an expression that meant he was feeling sick. “Mum thought she could change him. But as soon as he came out of prison, he seemed to be starting some new scheme. One that was going to be a winner this time—yeah, right. And when it wasn’t, when people lost money, he just washed his hands of it. Avoided people, didn’t answer letters.”

  I thought about the shaven-headed men that Mother had been Not At Home to. They could have been people trying to get their money back. And there was Mother’s briefcase, not filled with pencils and notebooks for her Opera research, but with cigars and chocolate and English Leather aftershave. Those must have been presents for Father in prison! That was what made it seem true, remembering those sharpened pencils I’d put in her briefcase.

  Charlie threw the pile of Telegraphs back into the chest. A small cloud of dust drifted upward. I thought of Mother’s jar of ashes and wondered if Father featuring in these dusty newspapers made him part of the Cosmic Swirl. I jumped as Charlie slammed the lid.

  “I asked Mum why she’d stayed with him, once she knew. I mean, he’d been to prison, and he was married to someone else! She said, first time I’d heard of it, she’d been planning an escape route. Once I’d got into uni, got settled, she was going to leave. They’d had that dreadful row the night before Dad’s heart attack. Mum had gone on about having no future with him and still being young enough to start again.”

  “She was right,” I said, “about having no future, because he died the next day.” It was annoying that Ms. Katharine Hargreaves had correctly predicted the future.

  “She was looking into opening a wool shop, a knitting shop, in Spain,” Charlie said, “for expats. It was going to be a fresh start. She’d already started learning Spanish at evening classes.”

  I saw Ms. Katharine Hargreaves, red-faced, frowning as she failed to remember the Spanish words for “Can I help you?” wearing a fluffy pink bolero and sweating in the heat. The window of her tiny shop would be plastered with red Special Offer! and Half Price! signs, because of no one wanting to buy her wool.

  “She wasn’t going to tell me about Dad’s past until I was settled. And then he died before I even got to uni, the day after that row. I don’t think she had the heart after. She said his saving grace was that he’d been a good father, and him going to prison hadn’t changed that.” Charlie, for some inexplicable reason, mimed playing a violin.

  He sat down on the sofa. I shifted along it, shoulders hunched. I wasn’t interested in Father’s relationship with Ms. Katharine Hargreaves. Except for Charlie. It was still hard to share, even if Father was a criminal.

  “Well, it’s changed things for me! My whole life feels a tissue of lies,” Charlie said.

  I nodded, but Father’s lies felt stronger and more hard-wearing than a tissue to me, more like a piece of canvas or leather.

  “Mum started crying, because of having kept it all a secret from me”—Charlie put his head in his hands—“and I ended up feeling like shit for telling her off, when it’s him”—he jabbed a finger at the chest, the Unlucky Dip, the No-Treasure chest—“it’s Dad who should have felt like that. And didn’t, obviously. Amoral bastard.” He laughed without smiling. “No, sorry! Forgot. It’s me who’s the bastard.”

  There was another silence and then Charlie turned to me, frowning. “Why the hell did your mum keep taking him back?”

  “They were married. He was her husband.” Mother had been obeying Laws and Commandments, reliable, definite things.

  “Not a very good one.”

  No. You were only supposed to have one wife at a time. I was silent.

  “And it didn’t even sound like a marriage anymore. Sorry, Ells, but you did say they had separate bedrooms. And that she went away practically as soon as your dad arrived.”

  Yes. It had been as if she didn’t want to see him.

  Mother had gone Away to teach Opera, or to stay with Jane and visit Ancient Buildings with her, if Jane’s spine was up to it. Father had stayed to look after me. We’d done the shopping together in Asda and bought extra things like french fries and Jammie Dodgers, throwing away the packets before Mother got home, although I’d saved one for my collection. Father and I used to watch Lowbrow Television and Classic Horror Films together in the living room and eat chocolates even though it wasn’t Christmas or anybody’s birthday.

  “You said your mother had to protect her own money,” Charlie went on, pacing t
he living room now. “She must have come to her senses, after her fingers got burned.”

  I blinked at the burned fingers. They’d talked about money, and stopped when I came into the room. I saw Father reaching out to put his arm around Mother’s waist, and her, upright, drawing back.

  “But why stay with him? And why keep all…all this evidence? It’s almost as if she wanted you to find it.”

  “You said”—I twisted one of the red sofa tassels—“people always do find out in the end. Perhaps going over what Father did helped her make sense of it. I have to do that with things.”

  “Maybe rereading the details of Dad’s crimes inoculated your mum against his charms.” Charlie held up bent index fingers to make quotation marks around charms. “Made him having my mum as his bit on the side easier to bear. Perhaps, when you weren’t around, she whipped one out to remind herself why she should keep him—Dad, Father—at arm’s length.”

  I was silent. Whipped. “Mother…”

  “I meant, took one out,” Charlie said.

  Oh. Yes, I nodded. “Perhaps she kept them as evidence, like in a mystery novel, to show to anyone new who was taken in by him. A new Bridge Club or Civic Society member. To make it clear she wasn’t responsible for any of it.” I could imagine Jane giving Mother that advice. “And then, after he died, well, maybe she just forgot about them, forgot they were still in the chest.”

  “Mmm,” Charlie agreed. His pacing came to a sudden halt. “Tell you what, Ells, we’ll give ourselves another little treat, shall we? Inoculate ourselves. Find out the worst. We’ll Google him.”

  “But”—I struggled to my feet—“I've done that already. I tried it months ago. There wasn’t anything about Father. It was all about a footballer called Gregory Carr.” I scurried after Charlie, hope rising, “Does that mean all those things in the Telegraphs might not be true?”

  “I doubt it very much.” Charlie tossed the tribal throw onto the floor. He typed in Gregory Carr, his fingers jabbing at the keys, and pressed Search.

  The Irish professional footballer’s varied career came up on-screen. Charlie scrolled down impatiently and aimed the mouse at page two.

  “Oh.” I bit my lip. “I didn’t do that. Micky said it was a waste of time.”

  “Yeah? Google never forgets, though. Dad’ll be hiding in there somewhere.”

  Dad…Father was hiding at the bottom of page two. I screwed up my eyes as his name appeared with links to the Telegraph stories: Suave Fraudster, Shamed Civil Engineer, Corrupt Civil Engineer Faces Second Jail Sentence. The computer, so often my best mate, was my enemy now, a hostile machine, spreading Father’s crimes and misdeeds worldwide. My whole body trembled as the awful, increasingly familiar words about Father flashed on-screen.

  Charlie scrolled through all the references to Father’s crimes. It took a long time. Near the bottom of the third web page were articles from the Sandhaven Courier. I covered my face with my hands. Our local paper had written about him four times! Mother had managed to keep it a secret from me, but other people must have known! Sylvia sometimes bought the Sandhaven Courier, and there was always a copy at the Library, so Juliet Underwood would have read it. It was on sale in Asda, so Janice and Clive probably knew about Father too. My teeth chattered although I wasn’t cold.

  Charlie clicked on another link. He stopped to stare at the screen, squinting. “Oh no!” he groaned, banging his head down on his folded arms. “I don’t believe it! Gregory wasn’t even his real name!”

  I heard a long, shuddering sigh and was surprised that it came from myself. Little snaps of electricity tingled up and down my arms. My whole body seemed to vibrate. I began to rock to and fro, and then I couldn’t take any more. I ran upstairs.

  42.

  Things are better out than in.

  —Mrs. Sylvia Grylls, neighbor

  “Ellie! Ellie, where are you?”

  Charlie’s voice was muffled by the duvet. I pulled it higher over my head and stuck my fingers in my ears.

  “Ellie, are you there?” His voice came upstairs. I remembered Roxanna searching for me and opened my eyes a crack. But Charlie was a grown-up. I didn’t have to look after him. I screwed my eyes tightly shut again. There was a knock on the door.

  “Ellie! Are you in there? Are you all right? You just vanished!”

  The door opened. I wished I’d hidden in Mother’s wardrobe. Then he’d never have found me.

  “Ellie,” Charlie whispered. “It’s dark in here. Are you feeling ill?”

  I stayed still, my body rigid, fingers blocking him out, telling him silently: Go away! Leave me alone!

  “Ellie,” he whispered again.

  I flinched. Was he going to shout up here too? In my bedroom? Where would I go then? Why had I ever contacted Charlie in the first place? I’d had nothing but shocks and unpleasantness since I’d met him.

  “Ellie!” He was bending over me. “All this about Dad, Father… It’s really upsetting. I can’t get my head around it either.” There was a soft, sweeping sound of him running his hand through his hair. “We both need time to take it all in.” I heard him moving toward the door. “I’m going to give you some space, Ellie.” He was speaking slowly. “I’ll get off now. Back to Bath. I’ll email you.” He paused. “But first, I’m going to make you a cup of tea.”

  For a moment I wondered if Charlie had been to a Special School too, but, no—I swallowed a bitter taste at the back of my throat—that was unlikely. His brain was far too active.

  • • •

  I trembled under the duvet, my brain spinning. Father had accepted bribes from building firms to get them council work, and from foreign governments for engineering contracts. He’d defrauded members of the Cricket Club and the Bridge Club, which is why they didn’t speak to Mother (not because she couldn’t make conversation). Charlie had said he was amoral, which sounded even worse than immoral, but I had no intention of going downstairs to look it up in Father’s dictionary.

  In the future, I’d look all my words up online. Sylvia said I used too many long words anyway. Knowing lots of words and what they meant was one of the few things I was good at, but Sylvia had said people might see it as showing off. I’d had to add a note about it to the Rules spreadsheet, under Rule Two (If you Look or Sound Different, you won’t Fit In): Using very long words and formal language can intimidate other people.

  • • •

  My brain felt as tangled as a plate of spaghetti before I’d found the end of a strand. Father had been a good person At Home. It was when he was Away that he broke Rules. If he’d had the spreadsheet, it might have stopped him. I opened my eyes to think about this. Would it have? Actually, Father had seemed to know the Rules really well. He had been diplomatic and charming, but definitely not honest. He’d never worried about his mistakes. He could get around anybody, adjust to any situation. And the reason he’d been so good at fitting in was because he’d lied all the time. What was the point of me trying to be normal when this was how a NeuroTypical behaved? Badly! Why follow Rules if they were designed to help me deceive people?

  • • •

  “Yes, I did know, pet.” Sylvia held my hand. “Your mum told me when he went to prison the last time. She knew it would be all over the papers anyway.” I stared at the carpet, listening to Sylvia explaining, again, the reasons behind things. “But your dad, you see”—she squeezed my hand—“he always looked so innocent. You’d either have to believe him or forgive him. You couldn’t help yourself. Nobody so good looking, so smartly dressed, can be a wrong ’un, can they? But that was me, pet. Your mum, well, she had to face the consequences, didn’t she?”

  Sylvia leaned closer, her eyes on my face. “I think she was bewitched by him at first, you see. And in the beginning, he did make money out of what she’d inherited. Then he got into debt, had to remortgage your posh house, then bankruptcy, prison. That�
��s it. I’m not taking him back, your mum would say, but then he’d turn up again, always so confident, and he only had to put his arm around her…” Sylvia trailed off. “Of course, in the end, what with the affairs…Charlie. She kept things civil for you, of course, protected you. Let your dad keep visiting.” She looked at me, her eyes soft. “It’s a shock, pet. Hard to take in.”

  My body was rigid and stiff, except for my lip, which was trembling. “I wish I’d never replied to Charlie’s card. It hasn’t been just one shock; it’s been lots of them, one after another.”

  Sylvia patted my arm. “That's not poor Charlie’s fault, though, is it, pet? Most of it’s been a surprise for him too. Anyway, things are better out than in, I always say.”

  • • •

  “Wow!” Shelbie’s mouth hung so wide open I could see the wad of chewing gum on her tongue. She’d popped in for Sylvia to look after Roxanna, because of a last-minute salon appointment.

  I’d told her about Father straightaway, before she’d even sat down. Things are better out than in (Sylvia), and People always find out in the end (Charlie).

  “Was he inside for violence?” Shelbie asked. “No?” She closed her mouth. “Oh well, there’s some men that’ve done a lot worse than that, and they’ve never even been to prison. Bankers and that. And a couple of the travelers I was brought up with.” She chewed for a moment. “We look up to our dads, don’t we? And, sometimes, they let us down. My dad stood in my way at the beginning, with the hairdressing.”

  • • •

  “Karen.” I twisted the corner of the sheet I was folding. “My father was in prison.”

  Karen didn’t look up from her screen. “All right, all right, no need to boast.”

  “I’m not boasting.” My throat tightened. “I wish he hadn’t. He was in prison three times.”

  “Blimey.” Karen whipped round. “What for?”

  I stared at a row of orangutan photos. “Doing fraudulent things with money.”

  “Golly! He must have made a bit of a habit of it. Did you find that out from Charlie?” Karen pushed back her wayward crest of hair.