by Hilary Boyd
‘Ed!’ Marsha glared at her brother.
‘Look, I’m only saying. For Mum’s sake as much as anyone’s. She should make sure.’
‘I think we can be sure, Ed,’ Richard intervened.
‘Have you met him, Dad?’
‘No, but —’
‘He’s not after my money,’ Annie interrupted. ‘He just wants to know who his parents are, which seems fair enough. His adoptive mother is dead.’ She hated the thought that Ed was essentially taking her mother’s position.
‘So did you never tell the father about him? Even later on, I mean,’ Marsha asked.
‘I haven’t been in touch with him since that night.’
‘But you know him … you know his name?’
‘Of course I know his name.’ She didn’t say any more.
‘What is it then?’ Ed asked, his voice still carrying an edge of hostility.
She hesitated before naming Charles, unwilling in the last resort to bring him into the family consciousness.
‘You won’t know him,’ she stalled, then caught the look on her husband’s face. It was tense, waiting.
‘OK … his name’s Charles Carnegie.’
She saw Richard relax; obviously the name meant nothing to him. None of the children said a word.
‘Daniel wants to meet him too,’ she added.
‘Wow!’ Lucy leant back, tipping her chair precariously on two legs. ‘Must be too weird, not knowing your real parents till you’re thirty-five.’
‘I think he sees his adoptive parents as his real parents,’ Annie corrected her.
‘Yeah, but you’d still feel the genes, or lack of them, I reckon.’
Richard laughed. ‘Good way of putting it, Luce.’
‘It’s not going to be fun, having to tell this Charles person that you forgot to mention the baby.’ Marsha’s look was full of sympathy, ‘Don’t envy you that, Mum.’
Annie nodded in agreement, not wanting to think about Charles right now. She felt suddenly tired. What a strain it had been, holding her children at arms’ length since the letter had arrived.
‘I think it’s great, Mum,’ Lucy said. ‘It must be amazing for you, finding him again after so long.’
‘What did it feel like, seeing him as an adult?’ Marsha asked.
But before Annie could answer, Ed pushed his chair back loudly, the wooden legs screeching on the tiles, and, without a word, stomped off up the stairs.
The others looked at each other, each face registering surprise and bewilderment.
‘He was bound to take it badly,’ Richard said.
‘Was he? Why?’ Lucy asked.
‘Mum’s only son … then not her only son,’ he explained.
‘Don’t understand why it’s different for him.’
Marsha was looking after her brother with concern. ‘I’ll go and talk to him,’ she said, also getting up.
‘Perhaps I should go,’ Annie suggested.
‘No, Mum. Let me. He’s probably just a bit shocked.’
They watched Marsha leave in silence.
‘I still don’t see why he should be more upset than us,’ Lucy went on stubbornly. ‘You hardly know Daniel … he can’t be jealous of someone you’ve just met, can he?’
Annie shrugged. ‘I suppose it is different. You’re my daughter, and you’ve always shared me with Marsha in that respect. Whereas Eddie, he’s been my one and only.’
Marsha, breathless, came back into the room. ‘He’s gone. I went out, but he was already driving away.’
‘Leave him,’ Richard counselled. ‘He’s being a brat.’
‘Dad! He’s upset. It’s not an easy thing to find out.’
‘You and Lucy aren’t upset … are you?’
‘No,’ Lucy said quickly.
‘Nooo …’ Marsha’s response was more equivocal. ‘But it is a bit of a shock, finding out you’ve got a half-brother out there you’ve never met. Perhaps if we’d known earlier …’
‘That was a mistake … not telling you all. I’m sorry about that, but, as Dad said, there never seemed a good time while you were growing up.’
‘It doesn’t matter now, Mum. Although it might have been a problem if me or Luce had met him and fallen in love with our own brother!’
‘The chances of that happening are about as likely as winning the lottery,’ Richard said.
‘Yeah, and someone does that practically every week,’ Marsha countered. ‘What shall we do about Eddie?’
‘I’ll ring him later, maybe meet up if he wants to,’ Annie replied, wondering how she could have handled it better. She didn’t want to show the girls that, although she and Richard had predicted Ed might be the one most affected, she was taken aback by her son’s response – it had seemed almost mean-minded. He’s never been as demonstrative as the girls, she thought, but surely he must know how much I truly love him.
Emma came round as soon as she got Ed’s call. He took two beers from the fridge, and they settled on the sofa. Mike was at a video-games convention at Earl’s Court so they had the place to themselves.
‘Mum was cool as a cucumber … oh, by the way, I’ve got another son who’s totally gorgeous … and he went to Cambridge. Oooh, well, how clever is that?’
‘Eddie … stop it. She was probably freaked out having to tell you. It’s a fuck of a long time to keep that sort of massive secret.’
He looked at her in exasperation. ‘This isn’t just about Mum though, is it? Everyone’s feeling sympathy for my mother, but what about me?’ He knew he sounded peevish, but he didn’t care, he was furious.
Emma put her arm round his shoulder. ‘Come on, it’s not the end of the world. What exactly is it that’s upsetting you? Having a new half-brother? Or the fact that he went to Cambridge?!’
He didn’t know. All he knew was that he felt hideously jealous, like a stabbing, painful feeling, which was too ridiculous to say out loud. Sad to say, but Emms might be right, he thought. It was Daniel’s degree that got up his nose as much as his relationship to his mother – university, especially bloody Oxbridge, rang a very sour note for him.
He thought back to the terrible day he’d got his A-level results. He’d suspected all along that he wouldn’t do brilliantly. Not that he’d slacked on the revision, he just found it hard, but he hadn’t been prepared for the disaster of two Cs – and an F in economics. Economics: his father’s favourite subject! His mother had been a bit too effusively kind and ‘it doesn’t matter’ supportive. But his father … he still winced when he remembered the anger and disappointment on his face. They’d wanted him to do retakes – his father had argued with him for weeks about it – but he’d stubbornly refused. Do the year again and probably still fail? That was so not going to happen, even though it meant giving up any chance of uni – where all his friends were headed.
And then he’d had to watch his sisters shine. Both of them getting As and Bs, Marsha with a couple of A-stars.
He didn’t begrudge them, of course, but the comparison with his dismal results was painful, even today. Added to which, he hated his poxy job at the bar.
‘Being able to earn enough money is what’s important in life.’ His father’s tone had finally been stalwart, making the best of a bad job. And what he said was partially true. But you had to enjoy how you earned it, didn’t you? The trouble was that he didn’t know exactly what he did want to do, even at the ripe old age of twenty-six.
‘It was the way she spoke about him, as if he was this god. So good-looking and clever and charming and just like Great-Uncle Terence …’ He mimicked his mother’s voice. ‘Almost as if she was in love with him.’
‘Don’t be dumb, Eddie. Of course she’s not. You’re jealous!’
‘I know I am … and I know it’s pathetic,’ Ed mumbled.
Emma kissed him firmly on the lips. ‘I’m sure he’s totally grisly. Probably up himself and fake sucky to your poor mum. I loathe him already!’
Ed laughed. ‘Yeah, me too.’<
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‘Will you have to meet him?’
‘I walked out before we reached that point. But I’m sure Mum will do one of her lunches and we’ll all have to gather and play nice. You can bloody well come too.’
‘Oooh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I shall hiss at him from the sidelines.’
Ed’s mobile rang. He checked the display. ‘Mum. That’s the third time. I don’t want to speak to her.’
‘Oh, go on, answer it … don’t be mean.’
When Ed made no move to do so, Emma grabbed the phone from his hand.
‘Annie … hi. Yes, sure, he’s right here.’ She mouthed, ‘Be kind,’ as she handed him his phone. Ed made a face but took the call nonetheless.
‘Ed seems to have calmed down a bit, thank goodness.’ Annie closed her phone. But she had heard the tension in her son’s voice and it cut directly into her heart.
‘What did he say?’
‘He said it had been a shock. He said … well, not much really. He didn’t sound particularly happy – or sorry, for that matter – but at least we spoke.’
Richard took her in a firm embrace which put a stop to her slightly manic clearing of the table. ‘You must be pleased it’s all over, that you’ve finally told them.’
‘I am, very … except for Ed. He’s never done that in his life before. I can’t remember even having a row with him, except about tidying his room.’
‘There was bound to be some fallout, Annie. And we did predict it would be Ed. Leave that, I’ll make some tea.’
She sat down reluctantly and watched him fill the kettle and pick two matching mugs from the mug rack, take the lid off the Chinese-pattern tin caddy, rinse out the teapot with warm water, open the fridge for the milk and the drawer for the spoon. The familiar ritual itself was as comforting as any tea would be.
‘It’ll be better when they’ve met. I’m sure they’ll get on. It’ll be good for Ed to have a brother … and for Daniel too.’
Richard turned from his task. ‘Whoa, don’t get too carried away here. They might get on, of course, but you can’t manufacture family.’
‘You sound like Marjory … manage your expectations blah, blah.’ Why did everyone have to be so cautious, so negative? Daniel was charming. She couldn’t imagine anyone not liking him.
‘Marjory’s a wise old bird. You should listen to her.’
‘I do! But I just want everyone to like Daniel, to welcome him into the family. That’s not so much to ask, is it?’
Richard didn’t reply and went back to measuring out the spoonfuls of tea.
They carried their mugs up to the ground-floor sitting room. This was Annie’s favourite room. She had painted it in very pale cornflower blue, more a wash than a colour, the sofa and deep armchairs were rich cream, the stripped pine floor covered partly by a Turkish rug in a darker blue and rust. It was always peaceful, and was now flooded with afternoon light as they settled in their chairs.
‘So this Carnegie guy,’ Richard began, not looking at Annie. ‘Will you get in touch with him?’
‘If Daniel asks me to.’ Daniel had replied to her text. They were meeting the following Saturday.
She watched her husband’s face go still. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’
Richard raised his eyebrows, gave a quick shrug. ‘No … no, of course not. Why would I?’
‘Obviously I hate the idea of seeing him, but it’ll just be once, to fill him in. Then it’s up to Daniel.’
He nodded slowly. ‘What was he like? Charles? You never said.’
‘I thought you didn’t want to know. I’d have told you if you’d asked.’
Richard was silent.
‘Richard?’
‘Were you … were you in love with him?’
She stared at his bent head, felt the tension behind his question. Please, she thought, don’t make this more difficult than it already is.
‘I was eighteen. I thought I was. As you do at that age.’
‘But you don’t regret your decision not to tell him about the baby?’
She still, after all these years, found it hard to answer that.
‘Charles is the long-dead past, Richard. I’m married to you and we have three beautiful children. How could I regret something that might have prevented that?’
He nodded, but still there lingered a measure of tension in his face.
‘I wouldn’t see him if I didn’t have to,’ she assured him, her voice quiet but firm in her attempt to assuage his fears. ‘But you can’t tell a man over the phone that he has a grownup son he’s never met.’
Richard gave a rueful grin. ‘I suppose not.’
7
Annie saw her mother through the window from Jermyn Street, sitting at her usual table in Fortnum & Mason’s Fountain Restaurant. She loved this place. She could remember when it had been styled as a soda fountain, with dark red plush decor and a bar with high stools, from the times when she’d been brought here as a child, a special treat before returning to boarding school. She would have a Dusty Road sundae, with vanilla and coffee ice cream, macaroons, whipped cream and delicious butterscotch sauce. They still had it on the menu, but the taste had changed. Or maybe she had, and she never ordered it now.
‘Darling, how lovely.’ Eleanor Westbury smiled briefly as Annie bent to kiss her mother’s cheek.
‘This place,’ Eleanor made a dismissive gesture with her right hand, eyeing the most recent refurbishment with rank disapproval. ‘I simply don’t understand it. They spend all this money, and it’s still beige.’
‘It’s not quite … more greeny …’ Annie looked around. ‘No, you’re right, it’s definitely beige. They probably did a psychological survey and discovered beige was the most sympathetic colour for digestion.’
Eleanor snorted. ‘It’s not sympathetic, it’s enervating.’ She wagged her finger at her daughter. ‘And it’s everywhere. Maybe there’s a glut, like fish in the days before those dreadful foreigners stole all our stocks.’
Annie laughed. Her mother was awful, but in this instance she was also right. The colour, or lack of it, was a bit depressing.
‘You should write and complain.’
‘And have the place close again for months while they find another shade? Where am I supposed to have lunch?’ Eleanor sighed. ‘No, one must put a brave face on it. Just accept this is the way things are nowadays.’
‘Beige?’ Annie teased, to receive a sharp look from her mother.
The waiter, a plump, older Italian in a dark suit, who had been corralled by her mother to do her every bidding on her weekly visits, came to the table and bowed obsequiously to Annie. ‘Madam, it’s good to see you again.’
‘Hello, Giorgio. Good to see you too.’
‘Are you ready to order, or shall I give you a minute?’ Giorgio asked with a broad wink – their private joke. Annie and her mother always had the same thing: Eleanor, a single Welsh rarebit with a tomato, mayonnaise on the side; Annie a double with bacon. They would share a green salad, and Eleanor would finish with a black filter coffee, Annie a strong cappuccino.
‘I’ll shock you one day and order a ham sandwich.’ Annie smiled at Giorgio as he removed the wine glasses from the table.
‘Now,’ said Eleanor, settling comfortably in her beige chair, ‘to what do I owe this honour?’
‘Does a daughter need a reason for having lunch with her mother?’
‘She doesn’t need to, but she usually does.’ Eleanor’s smile was benign.
Annie couldn’t help laughing. ‘OK, you win.’
Her mother’s blue eyes, faded now by age but just as beady, watched her daughter expectantly. Eleanor, for all her protestations to the contrary, loved gossip.
‘Well, I saw him. My … my other son.’
Eleanor raised her eyebrows.
Annie waited while Giorgio poured tap water into the two tumblers. ‘He’s the spit of Uncle Terence.’
For a moment her mother’s expression clouded. Eleanor had
been very close to her brother. Closer, Annie had often thought, than she was to Ralph, her husband. Annie knew Eleanor still badly missed Terence, ten years after his death. Eleanor’s brother was all that she complained her husband was not: a man of distinction and probity.
Annie remembered her father as charismatic, certainly: handsome, tall, blond, a chain-smoker, always laughing, and twanging his scarlet braces to amuse her. But probity, it turned out, was not one of his virtues. He hadn’t been home much, but when he was, he brought energy and a semblance of happiness to the stifled atmosphere of the house. Annie couldn’t say she had known him properly – not like her own children knew Richard – but then neither parent had been particularly involved in her early upbringing. That had been left to a succession of nannies, none of whom lasted long under Eleanor’s iron hand.
At six o’clock, after she’d had her tea of bread and butter, cake and warm milk, the current nanny would take her down to see her father, on the rare days he came home in time. Just in from work as a headhunter in the City, he would already have a whisky in his hand, the ice cubes clinking merrily in the cut-glass tumbler, the high-ceilinged drawing room pungent with smoke. For a while he would be all hers, balancing her on his pinstriped knee, teasing and tickling her, and playing Strauss waltzes very loud on the gramophone as he danced the length of the parquet floor in his silk socks, Annie high in his arms. Her mother would sit and watch from her armchair, but make no move to join in. Then, when she’d been there barely half an hour, the drawing-room door would open slowly.
‘Time for bed,’ the nanny would say. And her father would wrap her in a tight, smothering hug, whisper on his smoky, whisky’d breath, ‘I love you, Annie-bee,’ then hand her over. She never wanted to leave him, but knew better than to cause a fuss.
But to Eleanor, as Annie later discovered, Ralph was a useless drunk, a waster who’d been over-indulged by family money, who spent most nights boozing and losing his fortune at illegal gambling parties which one of his aristocratic friends set up. And her mother had a point. Her father died leaving his family nothing but massive debts.
Giorgio arrived with the Welsh rarebits, setting them down on the white tablecloth with a Mediterranean flourish. ‘Salad and mayonnaise on its way,’ he said, before Eleanor had a chance to remind him.