I was their child.
Although I sometimes wondered…
I tore another chunk of bread and spread it with a comfortingly thick layer of butter.
‘As a matter of fact Roxy is pregnant,’ I said, trying to guide the conversation along a more normal path.
‘Now that is one lucky man,’ said my father, clicking his tongue.
I grimaced.
‘Unlucky for her though. That tight body of hers will spread in all directions and then there’s all the wrinkles that set in from the sleepless nights and the stress. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, motherhood.’
‘How lovely, mother of mine,’ I said incredulously.
‘Yes, Jem, you’re being unfair,’ said my father in what I thought was a rare moment of fatherly emotion.
I smiled tightly at him.
‘Once you popped out this great lump,’ he continued, ‘your vagina twanged right back into shape as did the rest of you.’
‘Oh please,’ I balked.
My mother tittered and shimmied her breasts towards the table. I nodded at her bent up legs and growled – ‘Should you be sitting like that at your age? You’ll give yourself arthritis.’
My mother grabbed her right ankle with her right hand and pulled her leg straight up past her ear. I dropped my spoon into my lap.
‘Woo, go Jemima!’ my father hooted.
‘Bloody hell, put it down! Who do you think you are, Madonna?’
‘Actually,’ my mother winked, thankfully lowering her leg before she relaxed and broke wind, ‘I was going to talk to you about that.’
I pushed my plate away and steeled myself for what was about to come.
‘You’re not releasing a pop single are you?’
‘Good idea but no,’ she grinned.
‘A workout DVD?’
She pressed a skeletal finger to her nude lips.
‘I like it. Jango, that’s plan of action B.’
I cringed, which was something my parents had always had the innate capacity to make me do.
‘What’s plan A? And before you answer, do I really want to know?’
My mother sat up straight, clasped her hands and opened her mouth to speak but before she could, the bread maker alarm buzzed to announce the curried fruit loaf was ready. (I wouldn’t be rushing to taste it judging by the smell). Not a second later, the kitchen door flew open and a man in his twenties skidded across the lino. I shrieked and pressed myself against the back of the bench but when no one else flinched, I lowered my knife and stared at the man. He had shiny long hair, a skinny body and short legs. He wore no top, revealing a washboard stomach and hemispheric pectoral muscles, his skin a deep, leathery brown. He sang to himself while he switched off the bread maker, opened the lid and inhaled the aroma of freshly baked bread. He shoehorned out the loaf with a plastic spatula, turned it towards us and beamed a giant white radiator smile. My mother and father applauded, at which point he put down the loaf, bent forward and then performed a standing back flip. I gasped.
‘Clover, meet Julian,’ my mother hooted delightedly, ‘we’re going to adopt him!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Turn out onto wire rack
Julian, my new stepbrother apparently, had to scrape me off the floor with his plastic spatula as my head span and I slid off the bench and under the table. My father rushed to fetch a herbal fainting remedy from the greenhouse while my mother decided the best course of action would be to roll everyone a giant spliff to calm the proceedings.
‘Get your hands off me,’ I squealed at Julian whose naked torso gleamed in front of my teary eyes. ‘I don’t even know you. Stop touching me.’
Julian stepped back and raised his hands in a ‘don’t shoot’ pose.
‘You’re right, she’s a fierce woman,’ he said to my mother with a nod.
I clambered back up onto the bench and glared at him.
‘What do you mean by that? I’m not bloody Beyonce. And why aren’t you wearing more clothes?’
It was very distracting trying to have an argument with a young man who had a xylophone for a stomach.
‘I mean you are independent,’ Julian said, reaching for a T-shirt that was tucked into the back of his jeans in the manner of a chef’s tea-towel.
‘Which can not be said of you,’ I growled. ‘Who are you and what are you doing in my parents’ house and, more to the point, what the fuck is all this about an adoption?’
Julian, it emerged (after some admittedly intense questioning on my part) was from Sri Lanka. He had come to live with a ‘rich’ uncle in Newcastle after the Boxing Day tsunami had all but wiped out his village in 2004. His father had died, along with three of his four siblings, leaving just Julian, his mother and a baby sister. Julian was sixteen at the time and had never been out of Sri Lanka but his mother had decided the best chance of a future for her son would be for him to live with the eldest of her own seven brothers who was a millionaire in England. She used her savings to buy Julian a one-way ticket to England and sent him off to greener pastures in search of his pot of gold.
Upon arriving in the UK with his passport, a rucksack of belongings and enough money to eat Happy Meals for a week, he had soon discovered his rich uncle had been economical with the truth he had filtered back to his proud sister in Sri Lanka. He was not, never had been and, from what I could gather from Julian’s description, never would be rich. He lived in a squat in a rough area of the city that was frequented by drug dealers, which Julian’s uncle aspired to be. He worked as a part time cleaner, full-time criminal and had no desire to share what little he did have with a clean-living pretty boy from the beach who enjoyed surfing, fishing and painting much more than pick-pocketing, dealing and the occasional ram raid. Less than a month after his one-way journey to the end of the rainbow, Julian found himself out in the rain with no shelter. He took refuge in one of the only places in the big, scary city where he felt safe; an art gallery. It was there, at an exhibition for one of my father’s more successful contemporaries, that Julian met my parents.
‘He was sitting sketching cross-legged on the floor of this pristine, prissy place full of la-dee-da art appreciation types who all stepped around him as if he was something the cat dragged in,’ my mother explained, her eyes shining at the memory, ‘and not one of them stopped to look over his shoulder at what he was drawing. And it’s not just the drawing and painting, he’s incredible with his hands.’
Oh please, don’t go there.
‘He builds things and he’s an incredible sculptor and he invents things too to bring installations to life. He has it all as an artist.’
‘There they were thinking they all knew about art,’ my father carried on placing one arm around my mother’s shoulders and the other around Julian’s, ‘when all the time the best artist in the room was sitting on the floor. Thanks to Jemima, we found him.’
I blinked at them bewildered. This was my mother and father, who had never praised any of my artwork or told me they were proud of me, swooning over a twenty-something Sri Lankan stranger as if he were the son they had never had.
But soon would have, by the sounds of it.
I pressed my fingers to my temples and shook my head. There was a painful whistling noise in my brain. It seemed my blood, which had been simmering for most of the day, had finally reached boiling point.
‘This is ridiculous,’ I spat, ‘you can’t adopt him.’
‘Why not? Madonna did it in Malawi and she’s fifty odd.’
I gawped at my mother.
‘And she was chastised for it.’
‘I don’t care what people think, Clo’, I never have.’
‘Don’t I know it,’ I tutted.
I left the table and walked across the kitchen to gather my thoughts. I leaned against the work surface where the curried loaf was cooling.
‘Just because you wear a pink leotard does not make you Madonna. She is an internationally renowned, extremely rich megastar and she adopt
ed a child. You don’t have two pennies of the same currency to rub together and he’ – I pointed at Julian, who thankfully now had his top on – ‘is a young man. He doesn’t need adopted by you or by Madonna for that matter.’
Julian nodded, his shiny hair tickling my mother’s face, which made her smile.
‘Just because Madonna’s famous, doesn’t make her better than Jemima. I would rather live with Jemima and Jango.’
‘You say that now,’ I muttered, ‘try eighteen years of it.’
Julian stood and patted my parents on their backs.
‘I think you should go paint and let Clover and I have a talk, brother to sister.’
‘I’m not your sister,’ I growled as my parents trotted obliviously from the room, ‘and my fucking name is Chloe!’
I didn’t want to talk to Julian. I wanted him to bugger off and let me fume, blame and hate my parents in peace. However, in contrast to our usual family gatherings which involved me becoming irate, my mother recommending the calming properties of marijuana, which only served to make me more irate and my father painting a depiction of our feuding auras, Julian was determined to talk the issue through to its conclusion. He closed the kitchen door, checked the coast was clear then produced a tin of coffee from the far reaches of a high cupboard.
‘I think maybe you need this,’ he said, winking at me and shaking the tin like a man offering a child sweets.
‘My parents don’t have coffee in the house,’ I replied, crossing my arms, ‘and anyway, I thought Sri Lankans drank tea.’
He spoke while he filled the kettle, plugged it in and lifted a one-cup filter, filter papers and two mugs from the same cupboard.
‘Sri Lankan coffee, or Ceylon as it was then known, used to be sold around the world in the nineteenth century. It was considered to be superior to Javanese coffee.’
Julian opened the fridge door and peered inside.
‘I baked a cake too.’
‘Ooh aren’t you just Mary Bloody Poppins,’ I huffed.
He retrieved a clingfilm-wrapped cake from the top shelf of the fridge, kicked the door shut and smiled at me. His smile was so bright it took all the strength I had not to smile back.
‘I bake cakes too,’ I said moodily as he unwrapped the fluffy iced sponge (which, I had to admit had risen impressively well) and pulled a knife out of the drawer.
‘Oh I know this,’ he said, slicing into the cake, ‘I follow your recipe. Really, Clov… Chloe, I think your cakes are magical.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I frowned.
My interest piqued, I took a step closer to the cake and sniffed.
‘This is your banana cake, so light and moist. I top it with your peanut buttercream icing.’
He gently laid a generous slice of cake on a plate and pushed it to the edge of the table. I took another step. Julian served himself a slice then left the plates side by side while he returned to the kettle to make the coffee. When I was sure he wasn’t looking, I dragged my finger through the buttercream and shoved the dollop in my mouth. The unmistakably comforting flavour of peanut butter lit up my tastebuds. I glanced over my shoulder at Julian who was filtering the coffee one cup at a time. Taking one final step, I lifted the plate and took a bite of the cake. I groaned. The banana sponge was moist with a deliciously real banana flavour. The combination of the banana and peanut was unexpected but so moreish, I just had to take another bite. I groaned again and felt my hips expand by the mouthful.
‘I see you like your cake.’
Julian appeared beside me with two mugs of aromatic coffee. He grinned at my empty plate. Despite wanting to hate him, I grinned back. Cake was my weakness and he had found it.
‘It’s very good, Julian. I admit I wouldn’t have thought of putting the peanut butter icing on the banana cake.’
Julian set the two cups down on the table and shook his head.
‘But you already did, Chloe. This is not my idea, this is yours. I never take credit for another artist’s work. You are my inspiration.’
I shuffled my feet.
‘Er that’s very nice of you, I’m sure, but how can I be your inspiration if I’ve never met you before?’ I raised my palm. ‘And don’t go telling me my parents raved about every cake I’ve ever made and told you the recipes because the only cakes they took an interest in when I was at home were the ones made from hash.’
Julian’s smooth forehead furrowed.
‘They did not need to tell me the recipes, Chloe, they just let me use your book.’
‘My book?’
He nodded and jumped across the kitchen to fetch something from the shelf above the kettle, that was loaded with paint pots, brushes in jars, objects made out of washing up bottles and loo rolls, and piles of paper. I watched with intrigue as he returned with a book carefully wrapped in a see-through plastic bag to protect it. He smiled and held it out towards me.
‘Your book,’ Julian announced.
I reached out slowly and took the book from his hands. I gazed at it through the plastic then began to unwrap it.
‘My first cake recipe notebook,’ I gasped. ‘I wrote everything in here. All my ideas, all my sketches, all my plans for being a cake designer back when I was a child with a dream.’
I sat down hard on the bench and placed the book in front of me.
‘I didn’t know they had this. How did they even know about it?’
Julian sat down opposite me, took a sip of coffee and then lifted the cake knife.
‘Parents sometimes surprise us but sometimes the surprises stay hidden. Does not mean they are not there,’ he said with a profoundness that indeed surprised me, ‘Oh yes, your mother has treasured this book. She tells me how creative you are in your own way and I see this from your sketches and your ideas, but it is in the flavours that you really excel.’
A tear rolled down my nose and dropped onto the cover of the book before I looked up at Julian.
‘Another slice of cake?’ he said and pushed the knife deep into the banana sponge.
Brick by brick, I took down my protective wall and let Julian in. He was a sweet young man who had been broken by what had happened to his home. Seemingly, the first wave had been cruel but then the ocean had sucked out to the horizon and had returned with devastating force to wash away houses, cars, people, animals, even a train from its tracks. Julian had not wanted to leave home but he respected his mother’s wishes and so England had become his new home. I did not ask whether he had stayed legally, it was not my business to know. Nor did I ask whether he missed home; it was painfully obvious in his hazel eyes that watered when he spoke of his childhood. I felt a pang of guilt for one of my first preconceptions, which had been that Julian had found a ‘better life’ and was taking full advantage of it. This stemmed from my British arrogance that coming to the UK was automatically ‘better’. It wasn’t always and it definitely had not been for Julian. I imagined a young, sun-loving, beach boy finding himself stranded among Newcastle drug dens and I realised that in some ways, I had had it very easy.
‘Jemima and Jango, your parents, have been so kind to me, Chloe. They are so passionate about art, which was always my dream and they have encouraged me from the moment we met in this gallery. Without them, I would not be selling my work.’
I quickly swallowed a mouthful of cake.
‘Gosh, you sell your work? That must be a new concept for my father.’
Julian topped up my coffee.
‘Your father just will not bow to the commercial art world. I respect him for this. He has his voice, he speaks through his work and he will not change for anybody. He is strong willed and independent, I think very much like you.’
I lowered my cup from my lips.
‘I hadn’t really thought of it like that.’
I silently pulled my knees up close to my chest, brought the cup back up and took a gulp.
‘I’m going to build them the most beautiful Christmas tree this year to repay them.’
‘That thing? What are you doing with it, throwing it in the bin?’
‘No, I am going to attach huge black and white feathers and beads that will make it sparkle. Your parents love this tree, it’s a family tradition they say, so I am just going to give it a boost and make it artistically beautiful. It will be my new work of art.’
‘Good luck with that,’ I snorted.
I sipped my coffee.
‘I still don’t understand why they need to adopt you, Julian. I’m their daughter and they have never really given me anything much, so I don’t know what they’ll be able to give you.’
He laughed and ran both hands through his hair, pulling it into a ponytail. His cheekbones were very defined beneath his oval eyes.
‘I think Jemima has got, what would you say? Carried away?’
I nodded.
‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘carried away with this idea. I am twenty-one years old this year, I do not need adoption. Anyway, I have a mother and she would kill me.’
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