I touch her arm. “Is it true? Is my father a gyppo?”
She drops to her knees, her eyes suddenly fierce. She still loves him. Desperately. “He’s not a…gyppo. He’s a traveler. A wild and beautiful gypsy.”
I stare at her face curiously. How transformed it is when she speaks of him. “Where is he now?”
She shakes her head. “It’s not important.”
“Tell me about my father, mom. Please.” I look at her with begging eyes.
“When you grow up I’ll tell you.”
I shake my head in frustration. “Why should Mary Mayweather know more about my father than me. If you don’t tell me I’ll never be able to protect myself against the lies of Johnny Matteson and the other kids.”
For a long time she says nothing. Then she nods. “Come,’ she says and takes me to her room. It smells in mom’s room of stale sweat and alcohol. She sits on the bed and pats the place next to her. I position myself beside her. Taking a deep breath, she opens her drawer and pulls out an old Bible. From between the pages she pulls out a polaroid strip. One of those you get from photo booths. She strokes the length of it lovingly before she hands it to me. “That’s your father.”
I take it in my hand and stare at the picture. I cannot believe that young laughing girl who looks so full of life and vitality is my mom. She is unrecognizable. I stare at the man, drinking in his features. He has the same coloring as me, straight dark hair and bright blue eyes.
“Does he know about me?”
“He knew I was pregnant.”
“Where is he now?” I gasp. My voice is awed. All my life I’ve wondered about my father. My mother never wanted to speak of him. Every time I asked she would start crying so I stopped asking, even though the questions burned inside me.
She smiles sadly. “He lives in Chertsey.”
“Can we go and see him?”
Tears start rolling down her eyes. “No.”
I take her hand in mine. Already mine are almost as big hers. “Don’t cry mom. Please, don’t cry.” I hate to see my mother cry, but I have to know about my father. I want my father to come and save us. I want him to make my mother stop drinking. I want her to go back to being the happy girl in the picture. “Does he not want us?”
She shakes her head.
“Why?” I whisper.
“Because …” her voice trembles, “because … he already has another family.”
My eyes widen with astonishment. “Another family?” I echo.
“Yes, he has a wife and children,” she sobs.
“Children? He has other children.”
“Yes.” She closes her eyes and tries to compose herself.
“How many?”
“Three boys and a girl.”
“I have three half-brothers and a half-sister.”
“Yes,” she admits.
“Do they know about me?”
She shakes her head vigorously. “No. No one knows about us. And you must promise never to tell anyone about this.”
“What’s my father’s name?”
“It’s not important.”
“Tell me. I must know. I have a right, Mom.”
“What difference would it make?”
“I want to know. I deserve to know.”
She bites her lip.
“Please, mom. I’ll never tell.”
She hesitates.
“I promise I’ll never tell anyone.”
“You must never tell anyone,” she cries.
“I’ll swear I’ll never tell.”
“Your father’s name is Patrick Eden.”
(One week later)
“What d’ya want with xxx Eden?” the man growls. His eyes are black and full of suspicion.
I look up at him without flinching. “I’m a friend of his son?”
He narrows his eyes. “Which son?”
“Jake. Jake Eden.”
“It’s the house with the blue curtains.” He points a dirty finger down the road.
“Thanks Mister,” I say and set off down the road. The house is opposite a field and beyond woods. There are caravans at the end of it. I walk past the house and make for the trees bordering the field. It has been raining. I cross the rain soaked grass and lie down on my stomach in a hollow in the ground. The smell of the wet earth fills my nostrils. The scent of the leaves is fresh and good. This is a good part of the world. Not like Kilburn. Where it smells of traffic and smoke and despair. The grass is cold on my bare legs.
Lying on my belly, I wait.
The sun comes out and the blue door of the house opens and out runs a little girl. My sister! She is wearing a yellow dress. She stands just inside the gate and jumps up and down with impatience. From inside the house a woman shouts.
“Shane, go out and watch your sister.”
A boy with dark hair comes out. He opens the wooden gate and immediately the girl rushes out. She is holding a kite. He is taller than me. I watch them fly the kite. Then an even older boy comes out. There is no doubt that he is my brother. He looks a lot like me. In fact, he just looks like an older version of me.
“Jake,” the girl screams. “Look at me. Look how high my kite is.”
He laughs and starts walking towards them. Another boy, he smaller than Jake, but bigger than Shane or the girl, appears at the doorway.
“Dom, come and see me,” the girl screams delightedly.
The oldest boy, turns and waits for Dom. As I stare at my half-brothers and sister in fascinated astonishment a car pulls out and my breath catches. A tall man walks out. Instantly, the girl lets go of her kite and it flies off into the clouds. She runs towards him with arms outstretched and screaming, “Daddy.”
My father!
I see him pick her up and swing her around while she squeals and howls with laughter. I watch the family gather around their father, my father. I watch him open the boot of his car and take out presents for them all. I hear their excited voice. I see the woman that comes out of the house and how she smiles proudly at her happy family.
I feel a sting of hatred for her. What about my mom?
And I feel the hot tears that slide down my cheek. A long time after they go into their home and close the door and I lie on the cold, damn ground. It’s not fair. They’ve got everything and mom and me have nothing.
(Nine Years Old)
I pour the hot coffee into the flask and press the stopper lip on its mouth and screw on the cap. I put it on the breakfast tray next to the buttered toast, pop out two headache tablets into a small plastic cup, and carry the tray to my mother’s bedroom. This is my ritual everyday before I go to school. By the time mom wakes up the toast will be cold, but she says she doesn’t mind. The most important thing are the two headache tablets and the hot coffee.
I open her door and set the tray on her bedside table. The smell in my mother’s room is intolerable. Especially now in winter when the windows cannot be opened much and the stench is all pervasive. As a rule, I never linger. I turn away, but something catches my attention.
Mom’s hand.
Hanging over the edge of the bed. Even in that fleeting glance my brain instinctively notes the stillness, the blue of the fingernails. Slowly, I turn back and look at her face. It is buried in the pillow. I touch her shoulder and jerk back.
Her body is as cold as ice.
Terror grips my body. “Mom,” I whisper. My voice is hoarse with fear.
I stare at the still body.
“Mom.”
The body doesn’t move.
“MOM.”
Nothing.
I grasp her shoulders and shake her. Her body is stiff. I turn her around. There is vomit around her mouth and down her chin, neck, clothes. Her eyes are closed. I stare at her dead face for the longest time. Then I put her back on the pillow and go the living room. I call the police. I tell them my mother is dead calmly and give them my address. Then I go back to my mother’s room and open the windows. Cold air rushes in.
I cannot have the police smell my mother. I cannot have anyone think less of my mother. I clean off the vomit. I change her nightdress. Her underwear look yellowed and dirty. I pull it off her thin legs. Her smell is now overpowering. I run some hot water into a basin and squeeze some shower gel into it. Gently, I wash her body with a hand towel. Then I take a fresh set of clothes from the cupboard and dress her in them. I comb her hair and powder her face. I find a case of pink lipstick and carefully drag it over her cold lips. I liberally douse her body with perfume. Lily of the Valley. It stings my nose.
I spray her bedclothes and the entire room with the same bottle.
I don’t close the windows, because I’ve learned that her smell gathers very quickly when the windows are shut. The scent of her perfume is overpowering. There is no way for the other smell to overtake it. The police will be here soon.
She looks quite pretty so I don’t cover her face.
I don’t feel fear or pain. Comfortably numb, I sit on a chair and wait for the police to arrive. They come with an ambulance. The men pronounce her dead immediately and take her away on a stretcher.
A policewoman sits me down at the kitchen table. She smiles kindly at me. “Where’s your father?” she asks.
“I have no father.”
She looks concerned. “Do you have grandparents?”
I shake my head.
“What about uncles and aunties?”
I shake my head again. My mother was an orphan. She grew up in a foster care system that she hated. She always swore that she would never let the state get their hands on me. When social workers used to come to visit both my mother and I would pretend that she had stopped drinking.
She frowns. “Do you have no one at all?”
I think of my father holding my half-sister high above his head and swinging her around. I think of them laughing. I think of them going into the house with their presents. I think of the promise I made to my mother. I will never betray. Not as long as I live.
“No,” I say quietly.
That slight hesitation makes her frown. “You will have to go to a foster home if you have no one. Are you sure you have absolutely no one?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” I say flatly. My voice rings in my head.
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The Heir: A Contemporary Royal Romance Page 50