Vince ignored the question but lifted a crêpey hand from the bedcover and pointed a quivering finger.
‘Where’ve you been?’ he said. His voice was thick, as if he had a mouthful of porridge, but his words were still audible and his tone clearly accusatory. Andrew laughed, trying to be cheerful, though Vince’s expression had turned grim.
‘At home, in Byron Bay,’ Andrew said. ‘It’s a long way away.’
‘You only went out for a loaf.’
‘Come again?’ Andrew leaned forwards, releasing Blake, who immediately stepped away out of reach and stood in front of the noiseless television, arms folded, watching the screen.
‘You went out for a loaf, that was all.’ Vince looked now at Annie, appealing to her for sympathy. ‘She never came back,’ he said. Horrifyingly, his voice cracked and tears began to stream down his cheeks.
‘Oh come on,’ Annie said. ‘Let’s go.’ But Andrew said, ‘Hey, Dad,’ and placed a gentle hand on the old man’s head. Vince just turned his face to the wall. He made guttural, staccato sounds of grief.
‘Leave him,’ Annie said. Her voice sounded too harsh, so she added, more softly, ‘It’ll do him no good, getting worked up.’ She tugged at Andrew’s sleeve. ‘Come on,’ she said again. ‘We can come back tomorrow.’
Andrew ignored her altogether.
‘Dad?’ he said, and he took Vince’s hand, folding it in his own and stroking it with his thumb. The gesture was so tender, so natural, that Annie, watching, felt at first a pang of pure jealousy and then a swift rush of dislike for Vince, the old conman, up to his tricks again. So like him to rouse himself just enough to cause trouble.
‘I said leave him.’
This time she didn’t bother to hide her feelings and Andrew shot her a startled glance. Even Blake paid attention, slowly turning his head from the screen and regarding her dispassionately, like a cool little owl.
‘It’s all show,’ Annie said, unrepentant. ‘They’re crocodile tears.’
Everyone looked at Vince. Under the covers, his fragile body made barely an impression, as if he had only two dimensions, front and back. With what seemed a gargantuan effort he shifted position so that he was looking directly at Annie, and then he snarled, drawing back his top lip and showing sharp yellow teeth. Very cautiously, Andrew slid his hand away from Vince’s.
‘See?’ Annie said.
Blake laughed. ‘He’s growling,’ he said. ‘Awesome.’
‘You,’ said Vince, glowering at Annie and speaking through gritted teeth, ‘make me sick.’
‘Dad!’ Andrew said. He stood up, sat down again, then looked at Annie, who was white as the sheets on his father’s bed. She took a few hesitant steps backwards, towards the open door.
‘And you, Martha.’ This was Vince again, looking at Andrew with a softer expression, though not a loving one; rather, he seemed weighed down with disappointment. ‘Never thought you’d do that. Never in this world.’
Andrew gave a small, desperate laugh of relief. ‘Dad, it’s me, Andrew. I’m not Martha. Mum, who’s Martha?’
He turned to Annie for the answer, but she was gone.
15
All the way home it was Martha this, Martha that, as Andrew and Blake speculated who Vince might have had in mind. Blake found it hilarious that his grandfather had taken his dad for a woman. Andrew took the matter more seriously, searching the past for a lost Martha who may have drifted into Vince’s fractured mind. Annie, put out by the episode, said she knew nothing that could shed light on the matter, and anyway she couldn’t care less. Pointless to speculate, she said. Why, only two weeks ago he’d introduced her to Moira as the tooth fairy.
‘Well, that’s different,’ Andrew said. ‘That’s just nonsense.’
‘Yes, and so’s this,’ Annie said. She would be drawn no more on the subject, and drove them back in a tight-lipped silence which neither Andrew nor Blake seemed to notice.
At home there was a mud-caked Land Rover parked exactly where Annie’s car had been.
‘Who the dickens …?’ Annie said. She huffed and tutted as she edged her little Nissan into a different space behind the towering Defender, which looked entirely out of place in the tidy, regular proportions of Beech Street. So rude, thought Annie, to plonk a great filthy beast like this outside the wrong house: outside her house. She felt tired and a little tearful, and Michael’s padlocked bike was leaning against the side of the house, which only meant there was more trouble in store. She found, as she walked up her own garden path, that she was dreading going in, but then the door flew open and Riley stood there, with a smile on his face that acted on Annie like a ray of sunshine.
‘You’re my grandma,’ he said, in an informative manner. ‘I’m Riley.’
He had a sweetly piping voice. Two of his front teeth were missing and his hair was blonde and thick, just like Andrew’s had been when he was six. He had Andrew’s soft grey eyes, too; the likeness filled Annie’s heart with a strange sorrow, a hopeless longing for something she’d lost. He reached up to her with both arms for a hug, and she was smitten, captivated.
‘I know exactly who you are,’ she said, bending down to receive his clumsy embrace. ‘Did you have a good sleep?’ He smelled of yeast and sugar, like a newly baked teacake. She wanted to gather him to her and inhale his little-boy essence but she was afraid she might alarm him, so instead she stood upright again, and only left a hand on his narrow shoulder.
‘There’s a man here,’ he said, ignoring her question.
‘Uncle Michael?’ Annie said. Oh, she hoped Michael was being amenable.
‘No, he’s upstairs, but there’s another man. He’s with Mummy. Hi, Daddy!’
He edged around Annie and ran to Andrew, who swooped him up and swung him round so that his skinny legs trailed out like streamers, and Blake started clamouring for a turn. Annie went into the house, tentatively now that she knew there was a visitor. No one ever came to call, apart from canvassers in gaudy rosettes on polling day and, occasionally, Jehovah’s Witnesses selling The Watchtower. But there wasn’t an election, and who would invite a Jehovah’s Witness into the living room? She could hear Michael playing a feverish violin solo in his room upstairs. She could also hear the rising lilt of Bailey’s voice through the living-room door, so she pushed it open and saw Mr Dinmoor settled comfortably on the sofa, and Bailey cross-legged on the floor with Finn prostrate at her side, his head in her lap, eyes closed. Annie’s mouth dropped open. Bailey looked up at her and registered her arrival with a lazy smile.
‘Hey, Annie?’ Bailey said. ‘Alf here’s been telling me about his travels in Australia? Quite a guy.’
Mr Dinmoor flapped a dismissive hand and beamed. He said, ‘Good to see you again, Annie,’ as if it was a perfectly natural occurrence for him to be sitting here in her front room: as if they were friends, when in fact she barely knew him. He glanced down at Finn, whose eyes were still closed in perfect bliss as Bailey scratched the top of his head. ‘He looks all right anyway,’ Mr Dinmoor said. ‘Forgotten all about it, I expect. How about you, though? What a shock for you.’
Bailey looked puzzled. ‘What’s happened?’ she said.
‘I thought you were allergic,’ Annie said. She couldn’t look at Mr Dinmoor, so instead she glared at Bailey. ‘You’ve dog hairs all over your clothes.’
‘He’s such a sweetheart? And I guess Andy’s right, it’s just cats?’
‘I rang last night, no, Wednesday night,’ Mr Dinmoor said. ‘Talked to a fella, your son, I think. Said I’d try to pop round. Didn’t he say?’
‘So what’s happened?’ Bailey asked again.
Annie found she couldn’t speak. How could she say that her sweet Finn was now a savager of sheep? Just like that perhaps: straight out with it, bold and brutal. But she wasn’t in the habit of outright honesty so she didn’t answer and instead allowed the silence to grow as she refused to meet Mr Dinmoor’s friendly gaze or Bailey’s curious one, then behind her Andrew saved the day
by sticking his head round the door.
‘Hey, guys,’ he said chirpily.
‘Alf Dinmoor,’ Mr Dinmoor said with evident relief, standing up and offering a hand.
Andrew came into the room to greet him. ‘Andy Doyle,’ he said.
With four of them in there, and Finn stretched out like a living hearthrug, it was beginning to feel crowded and hot. Annie swayed slightly where she stood, and pulled the woollen turtle neck of her sweater away from her throat. She felt distinctly queer: wondered, in fact, if she might be hallucinating.
Bailey uncrossed her legs and Finn shifted position too, pulling away momentarily then lolling heavily against her when she settled again. Annie caught his eye and at once he stood up and walked to her side, where he panted up at her with an anxious, love-struck expression, although she didn’t fuss him, only folded her arms and regarded him coolly.
‘Alf knows Byron Bay?’ Bailey said, to Andrew. ‘And Brunswick Heads?’
‘Is that right?’ Andrew said, with a lively interest that Annie found irritating.
‘Ah, now,’ said Mr Dinmoor, sitting down again. ‘I wouldn’t say I know them exactly.’
Bailey shot him a puzzled look.
‘I mean, it was a long time ago …’ He trailed off, seeming uncertain how to proceed, and at last Annie turned to look at him, but he was staring down at the carpet between his sturdy brown brogues. He looked a good deal smarter than he had at Josie’s last week; he had on a pair of grey trousers, a discreetly checked flannel shirt and a navy V-neck sweater, all of which were quality garments, meticulously pressed as if he meant to make a favourable impression. Still though, she hoped he was sorry he’d come; his intentions were undoubtedly kind, but if he thought she was going to discuss Finn’s misdemeanour with him, and in front of everyone, he was sorely mistaken. Perhaps he aired his business to all and sundry, but it didn’t mean she had to. She cleared her throat to speak.
‘Mr Dinmoor, Andrew and Bailey haven’t been here long, and we’ve some catching up to do.’
He leaped to his feet as though he’d been stung.
‘Yes, right, well, I’m sorry, I can see it’s not a good time.’
‘Ah no, it’s cool,’ Andrew said. He smiled, managing to include everyone in the warmth of it, and said he was making a pot of tea, and why didn’t Alf stay for that? But Mr Dinmoor had edged towards the door, and Annie was pretending Andrew hadn’t spoken.
‘Cheerio then,’ she said firmly, and she led him out into the hall. Upstairs the violin reached the summit of a violent crescendo then ceased dramatically, and Annie hurried Mr Dinmoor towards the exit with renewed urgency. The two doors gaped open, and a sharp winter wind disturbed the pages of Michael’s music magazine, which waited for his attention on the plant stand. Blake and Riley were leapfrogging each other down the path, their faces red with cold and exertion.
‘Grand lads,’ Mr Dinmoor said.
‘Come inside, you two,’ Annie said. ‘You’ve no coats on, you’ll catch your deaths.’ Riley looked at her wide-eyed and Blake scowled, but they filed obediently up the path.
‘Dunt feel the cold at this age,’ Mr Dinmoor said, ‘do you, lads?’
They didn’t answer, but squeezed past him into the hallway. Blake mooched sulkily into the living room, but Riley stood by Annie and stared at Mr Dinmoor.
‘Bye then,’ Annie said. She stepped forwards, forcing him into the porch.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘I was concerned about you, Annie, that’s all, and I—’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know you’re being kind, but there’s really no need. Everything’s fine.’
She was all but pushing him out onto the step because behind her she could hear the soft creak of stairs, which was the sound of Michael descending in his slippers.
‘Right. It’s just, Josie was concerned and I said—’
She closed the door on his sentence, feeling terrible and triumphant at the same time. For a brief moment they stared at each other through the panes, their faces oddly distorted by the whorls and swirls of the patterned glass. ‘Sorry,’ she mouthed, but she didn’t know if he’d understood because he just turned and walked away.
‘Don’t you like him, Grandma?’ Riley asked.
‘Oh well, I barely know him,’ she said. Together they watched Mr Dinmoor’s retreating shape.
Michael, who had paused at the foot of the stairs, said, ‘Shut that damned porch, it’s arctic in here.’
She picked up the magazine and stepped into the hall, followed by Riley, who closed the door. Annie could tell that the little boy already knew to be wary of Michael. His slight frame was poised for a hasty escape to his parents in the living room, but curiosity kept him by Annie’s side.
‘Do you want this Strad ?’ she asked, holding the magazine out to Michael like a pre-emptive peace offering. He ignored her and walked to the kitchen and her heart sank. His displeasure filled the hallway and soured the air they breathed. Beside her, Riley slipped a little hand into hers in a small gesture of solidarity.
The kitchen table wasn’t big enough to seat everyone – and anyway there were only two chairs – so the evening meal had to be taken in the living room, with plates on laps. Finn was banished to the back garden out of temptation’s way; he sat upright and noble on the patio like a stone lion. Annie busied herself with pans and plates, and Michael loomed, putting her on edge. She’d roasted six strips of salmon fillet, which she was serving with boiled potatoes and broccoli.
‘Only you would give us a summer luncheon for dinner on a night like this,’ Michael said as she plated up. She looked at him, appalled.
‘I didn’t think,’ she said.
‘Clearly.’
‘Bailey doesn’t eat meat, though.’
‘Or fish either?’ Bailey’s voice preceded her, but then suddenly there she was in the kitchen, pushing her thick blonde fringe away from her eyes and peering at the plates. Annie was confused.
‘You don’t eat meat and you don’t eat fish?’
Bailey shook her head ruefully.
‘Then what do you eat?’
‘Veggies, pasta, rice, pulses?’
‘Pulses?’
Michael snorted. ‘Edible seeds, Mother,’ he said. ‘Lentils. Chickpeas. Beans.’ He picked up his plate. ‘I’ll take mine in my room, by the way.’ He left the kitchen and carried his salmon carefully upstairs. Bailey watched him go then wrinkled her sweetly upturned nose at Annie in comradely collusion. ‘He’s cross as a frog in a sock, isn’t he?’ she said, sotto voce, and Annie was forced to laugh.
‘Is he often like this?’ Bailey whispered.
‘I’m afraid so, yes,’ Annie said, in the same hushed tones.
‘He’s not like Andrew, is he?’
‘Not at all, no. Quite a lot like Vince, though.’ Annie was speaking normally now, suddenly seized by a devil-may-care defiance. ‘Irritable,’ she said, in a voice he might overhear. ‘Unreasonable.’ She slid a salmon fillet off one of the plates. ‘It’s a funny sort of meal, Bailey, broccoli and potatoes.’
‘Ah, no worries, Annie.’ Bailey’s open countenance was entirely cheerful and Annie found she was almost smiling too.
‘Should I fry you an egg?’
‘Genius idea,’ Bailey said. ‘But I’ll do it, you go sit.’
So Annie carried plates through to the others while Bailey fried an egg for herself and sang in a clear, strong voice that filtered from the kitchen, sweetening the air, lightening the atmosphere. Annie couldn’t remember the last time anyone had sung in this house but Bailey belted out the lyrics in an unconscious, uninhibited way, and she obviously did it often, because neither Andrew nor the boys so much as batted an eyelid.
‘This is great, Mum,’ Andrew said, although it was on the dull side of ordinary and Annie knew it.
‘I don’t like it,’ Blake said at once. ‘I want an egg too.’
‘Oh, well …’ Annie began to rise from the armchair she’d just lowered herself into.
‘No you don’t,’ Andrew said, waving a fork at her. ‘Stay where you are, Mum. Blake buddy, eat your fish.’
The boy’s face took on a glowering, mutinous expression, which his father ignored.
‘You okay, Mum?’ Andrew asked Annie. The skin around her eyes felt tight and drawn, but Annie just said, ‘Right as rain,’ and gave him a quick smile that invited no further inquiry. Bailey joined them in the living room, drifting in with her plate balanced on one hand. She dropped fluidly into a cross-legged position on the floor. Blake eyed her fried egg covetously. Riley speared a new potato with his knife and licked it like a lollipop. The room was still too warm and smelled of salmon, and upstairs would be fishy too now, Annie thought. She pictured Michael eating at his desk, directly above them in his bedroom. She felt ashamed of his behaviour yet grateful that he’d absented himself, then she jumped as Riley appeared to read her mind.
‘Does Uncle Michael always eat upstairs?’
The question was innocently asked, Riley being too little to judge a grown man for cold-shouldering his only brother and rejecting his family in favour of a solitary meal.
‘No, love,’ Annie said. ‘Only sometimes.’
‘Can I see Grandpa tomorrow?’
‘He’s crazy,’ Blake said, perking up. ‘He snarled like a dingo and he thought Dad was a woman.’
‘He’s confused, buddy, not crazy,’ Andrew said. ‘Mind you,’ he added, talking now to Annie, ‘he seemed pretty insistent.’
Annie didn’t answer. Vince could die now, she thought. Tonight would be perfect. It’d be one less thing to worry about.
16
By the time Michael was three years old, Annie’s life in Coventry felt almost normal, even though most of the time it was just the two of them and he wasn’t much company for her either. He was an odd little boy, a paradoxical mix of independent spirit and needy reliance, so that in spite of an unwavering seam of cool and distant competence, he expected his mother to be always on hand. It was curious and unsettling, and most unexpected in a child so young. Annie couldn’t work him out; couldn’t fathom why he insisted on a story, many times a day, but would never sit on Annie’s lap to listen, choosing instead to place himself alongside her, with a small gap between, of precisely the width of his hand span. From time to time he checked this gap, and if it appeared to have closed, even fractionally, he edged away until his hand could once more spread out between them, unobstructed. From this distance he concentrated furiously on the book, glaring at the pictures and nodding curtly when he wished Annie to turn the page.
This Much is True: How far will a mother go to protect her shocking secret? Page 13