After the Fall

by Norman, Charity

  Charlie and Finn hadn’t throttled one another, thank God, and no passing do-gooder had called the NSPCC to report neglected children. They were listening to a Mr Men story tape.

  ‘Hey, Sacha. Whadya call a Smartie in a combine harvester?’ asked Finn as we got in.

  ‘Shredded sweet!’ crowed Charlie, and both boys fell about.

  ‘Listen to your story,’ I warned them, ‘or I’ll put on Radio 4.’

  Sacha and I travelled in a loaded silence as it began to rain. I didn’t ask how she felt; didn’t try to jolly her up. I was tired of her anger. I was tired of feeling guilty. I was tired, full stop. And all the while my mind was scurrying in exhausted circles, fizzing dyspeptically with lists—things to do, things to remember, things I’d just remembered I’d forgotten to do.

  Oh, bugger. Muffin. She was going to Dad’s until we were settled, but there was a mile of red tape before she could join us in New Zealand. Must get her to the vet’s for a microchip. Oh my God, I hadn’t phoned the lawyer back about that wretched easement. Maybe Kit had done it? No, I’d said I’d do it because Kit had flown across to Ireland.

  Oh bugger bugger bugger—the goldfish! Perhaps the nursery school would like them? The tank was so encrusted with slime that I hadn’t actually seen a fish in weeks. From time to time a flicker of piscine movement would stir, like Jaws, in the green gloom. I’d have to clean it.

  ‘If anyone cares, that was the worst day of my life,’ announced Sacha.

  I braked for a lollipop lady, my mind on the fish. And the dog. Oh God, and the easement. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, doll.’ Bloody hell, what if the sale falls through? ‘You’re feeling sad about leaving your friends.’

  ‘Do me a favour,’ snarled Sacha. ‘Listen to yourself.’

  ‘Sorry?’ I drummed my fingers on the wheel, wondering if I should just drop in at the solicitor on the way past.

  ‘Turn off the professional busybody language, Mum.’

  My mobile rang as we were pulling away again. With one eye on the road, I checked the number.

  ‘It’s the removal people,’ I moaned. ‘Oh God, what’s gone wrong now?’

  Sacha’s hand whipped out. She snatched the phone out of my fingers and held it to her ear. ‘Yes? . . . Oh, hello. Yes, speaking.’ She sounded calm, mature and utterly charming. ‘Yes. No. Actually, you can cancel the whole thing because we’re not going after all. Yes, I’m afraid you did hear right. Cancelled. Sorry for the short notice, but it can’t be helped. Change of plan. Thank you. Goodbye.’ She switched off the phone and tossed it over her shoulder.

  ‘Ouch!’ yelped Finn. ‘That bloody phone bashed me in the ear.’

  ‘Sacha Basher, Sacha Basher!’ sang Charlie.

  I pulled into a bus stop. We sat side by side, staring at the windscreen wipers.

  Swipe, swipe.

  ‘Pick it up,’ I hissed. ‘Now.

  ’ Sacha began to fiddle with her own phone, texting.

  ‘That wasn’t a request,’ I said. ‘It was an order. Just phone them back, Sacha. Tell them you were joking.’

  ‘But I wasn’t joking. You’re acting in breach of my fundamental human rights. I’ve asked a lawyer. We’re going to apply for an injunction.’

  She pressed send as a snorting bus loomed in my rear window. Harassed, I pulled into the road only to be hooted at by a harridan in an Audi. The whole world hates me, I thought. The world, including my own daughter.

  ‘The lawyer is also going to find my father,’ said Sacha. ‘She says I have a right to a genetic and cultural heritage.’

  ‘For God’s sake!’ I slapped a hand to my brow. ‘How many more times?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. You shagged a bloke after a party, and you didn’t even ask his surname?’

  ‘Yes, actually! I didn’t ask for a name or address or phone number because I thought there was time for that. Your father was the love of my life for about five hours, until he staggered off to the shower and never came back. I’m sure he was a decent boy, and I’ve forgiven him. He left me the most precious gift in the world.’

  ‘Did he also leave a glass slipper?’

  I screeched in frustration, but she wasn’t moved.

  ‘Some married man, I’ll bet. MP? Doctor? Vicar? You’ve stolen my identity to protect his.’

  ‘Have you really seen a lawyer?’ I asked, but she’d begun typing another text. These were her friends, these people who flashed upon her screen with their indolent spelling and acronyms.

  ‘Have you seen who?’ chirped Finn, from the back. ‘Who, Sacha? Who, who, who?’

  ‘Look at that sporty car with no woof,’ cried Charlie. ‘They’re getting wet!’

  Sacha twisted in her seat. ‘One day, you two little loonies will have a sporty car with no woof. You’ll share it. The boy with the hottest chick gets to use the wheels.’

  ‘We’ll take you for rides,’ Finn promised kindly, while his brother made a variety of sporty car noises.

  Sacha hadn’t been to a lawyer. I knew she was winding me up, once I’d thought about it calmly. I turned in at our gate, thinking uneasy thoughts about Sacha’s father. I wished he knew he had such a daughter. I wished she knew she had such a father. They both had much to gain, and much to lose.

  I really didn’t want to read the bit of paper that Rothman tart had given me.

  In the good old days at primary school, Sacha’s class used to waste their Monday mornings, week after week, writing What I Did at the Weekend. It’s an inane exercise. When I am dictator, it will be banned in all schools.

  But I still kept those little exercise books. Sometimes, when clearing out the attic or packing to emigrate, I flicked through them. They recalled those halcyon days through a soft-focus lens. It was like living in a chocolate box.

  At the weekend my Mum and me went to a caffay. I had hot choclat with white and pink mashmalos. We sat at a tabel by the fire. It raned outside but we were cosy. It was luvly.

  At the weekend my Mum took me rideing. My pony was calld Wendy. Mum showed me how to feed Wendy appels. She sed Wendy likes me.

  At the weekend I got stung by a be. My Mum cuddled me and put speshal creem on from her hambag. It made me beta.

  At the weekend my Mum got marryd. I was the brides made. I had a yelow silk dress, white shoes and gorjus flowers in my hair. Mum lookd like Cinderella at the ball and everywon wanted to kiss her. She said she still loves me most in the wurld. I said I love her more.

  Compare and contrast:

  You know what? My mother has no humility. She thinks she’s perfect. People don’t realise this simple fact about her.

  When you’re small, your mother’s a goddess. But when you grow up you realise she’s anything but. My friends reckon she is cool. Some of the guys even think she’s hot, which is just plain sick. People think she’s so HUMAN. She laughs about her legs and her double chin. Well, she’s safe to go on about those things, isn’t she? Because there’s nothing wrong with her legs, or her chin. Nothing at all. What she doesn’t giggle about are things that really are MORTAL SINS. Like sacrificing your daughter to the great god Emigration!!

  She is ruining my life. Everyone says this about their parents, but in my case it is actually true. My mother IS ruining my life. My feelings don’t seem to come into it any more. She’s selling my happiness to buy a dream. I’m just a commodity.

  She’s always trying to hint that I’m jealous of Kit and the boys. But this isn’t one of those wicked step-parent things. Yes, Kit’s got his faults and he can be scary when he’s drinking. But we get on brilliantly. It’s great the way he says things that are really funny, really crack me up, but he doesn’t laugh. And he stands up to Mum when she’s being ridiculous. He doesn’t let her perform. It was terrible when the agency went bust. It hit him really hard. It must have felt as though he was no use to anyone. He looked bent over, as though he’d been kicked in the guts. I never said this to anyone, but I was afraid I’d come home from school and find him swinging from the b
anisters.

  And how could I be jealous of the twins? They’re my little brothers! I’d kill anyone who hurt them. I truly would. I wish I was four years old too. You’ve no worries at that age. They think they can pop back for tea with Grandpa every Sunday, like they do now.

  So NO, this isn’t about Kit and the twins taking Mum away from me. This is about Mum putting them first, which is a completely different thing.

  This is about me losing everything.

  I’ll be leaving Ivan, and he makes me feel safe. He’s kind and gentle and he truly cares about me.

  I will never, ever again have friends that I have known since we were tiny little kids.

  I will never again have friends who laugh at the same things as me.

  I will never have friends that I can truly trust.

  All the things I know are being torn out of my hands. I’m trying to hold on but I’m losing everything. It feels as though there’s an earthquake in my life.

  I am so scared.

  *

  I walked into Sacha’s room uninvited. She was making an album of photographs, hampered by tears and a running nose. Pictures of friends and family lay scattered on the desk. Muffin sprawled across her mistress’s feet.

  I sat down on the bed. ‘Need any help?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘I read your essay.’

  ‘Huh.’

  ‘This feels like the end of the world, doesn’t it? But it’s not.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Hey, maybe you could have your own horse. You’ve always wanted a horse! It’s going to be an adventure.’

  ‘I don’t need an adventure.’

  ‘We’ll all be together, that’s the main thing. The five of us. Actually, six—even Muffin’s coming.’ At the sound of her name, the soppy animal sighed blissfully.

  Sacha was trying to cut out a photo of Ivan but seemed unusually clumsy. Mermaids frolicked all around us in the calm water of Kit’s sea. When Sacha was small I often found her lying half-asleep, gazing at the scene as though her bed was adrift on the silvery blue. When she got older, Kit offered to paint it out and give her something more adult, but she refused point-blank.

  ‘Ivan loves me,’ she said now. ‘He’s special. How can you do this?’

  ‘Listen,’ I urged. ‘Your friends will always be your friends. It’s easy to stay in touch nowadays on the internet. And it needn’t be forever—you could even come back to university here.’

  ‘Oh yes, great!’ Sacha dropped the scissors with a clatter. ‘You’ll make me choose between my family and my country. That’s the thing, you see? You’re splitting me in half.’

  I sagged. ‘Yes. Yes, I see that.’

  ‘Grandpa,’ she cried, dissolving. ‘How will we ever manage without Grandpa?’

  ‘He’ll come and visit. Look,’ I added in desperation, ‘please will you just give it a couple of years? If it isn’t working, I promise we’ll come home.’

  ‘We won’t have our home! This is my home.’

  ‘Doll, please. I’m actually begging you. The thing is . . .’

  ‘Yeah. I know, I know. We’ve got money troubles, gotta sell the house and live in a cardboard box. You want a better life for us children, and Kit needs to indulge his midlife crisis.’

  I looked down at my hands. I didn’t want her to despise Kit, but surely she had a right to know more. ‘Remember that last trip to London? Well . . . I had to fetch him from the police station that night.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He was in a cell. He was . . . well, they’d scraped him off the High Street. They said they’d charge him next time. It was awful. I’ve been really worried about him, Sacha. I know you have too. You said as much in that essay.’

  She chewed her lip, thinking about it.

  ‘We’ve made a deal,’ I said. ‘He is not to binge ever again. We’re going to give it two years—he feels that’s a fair crack of the whip, and without a mortgage we can scrape by on my income. Then, if the painting isn’t going anywhere, or if we hate it out there, we’ll think again.’

  ‘So you slave away while he’s a kept man? Marvellous.’

  ‘That’s really unfair. This house was bought with Kit’s money, much of it made before I ever met him. For the past nine years we’ve been bankrolled by his income. He’s been a father to you in every way, school fees and all, never quibbled. Maybe it’s my turn to be the main breadwinner. Marriage is a partnership: you take, and you give.’

  She was silent, blinking tearfully up at her mermaids.

  ‘I’ve had enough,’ I whispered. ‘I want my man back. You and I both know he’s worth this risk. A filthy old lag in a police cell, laughed at by a bunch of coppers—that isn’t our Kit, is it? Our Kit’s beautiful. He’s got an artistic temperament, okay, but he’s brilliant and kind and fun. He’s . . . well, he’s Kit. I love him, and I want him back.’

  ‘Me, too.’ She dropped her forehead onto the desk. ‘Okay. I’ll come quietly, but I hope you know what you’re doing, because I’ve never been so scared in my whole life.’

  I hope you know what you’re doing, too, needled Mum. But I doubt it.

  I was on my way out of the room when Sacha held up the photo album. ‘This is just about finished.’

  ‘Well done.’

  ‘I’ve left a blank page at the end. I’m saving that for photos of someone, but I’ve still got to take them. Someone special.’

  Caught off-guard, I waltzed straight into the trap. ‘A special someone! Who’s that, then?’

  ‘My dad. My actual, factual, biological father. Because sooner or later I’m going to find out who he is.’

  Mum laughed. Bitch.

  Late in July we said a sad farewell to our home, closed the front door for the last time, and went to stay at Dad’s.

  Muffin came too. We spent those last few days stroking the old dog’s gentle face and wondering if we’d ever see her again. Muffin had been a fixture since Sacha was four, when I stopped our car for a quivering fluff ball abandoned beside the A5. One floppy ear was dark grey, the other white. The little creature immediately clambered onto the back seat, whining and licking bleeding paws. Girl and dog grew up together.

  On our final morning our friend was anxious, troubled, shambling round and round Dad’s kitchen table. She leaned her head against each of our knees in turn, graphite tail miserably sweeping the floor.

  ‘Don’t worry, Muffin. You’re coming soon,’ said Charlie, kneeling with his arms around her neck. The other children joined him, showering her with kisses. Kit and I exchanged glances. Muffin was twelve years old and shaggy as a polar bear; her eyesight was dodgy, her joints arthritic. Secretly, we thought it might be best if she ended her days peacefully with Dad.

  Suddenly, time ran out. Kit looked at his watch, then at me. I stared around the kitchen, my chest constricting, longing to stay for just one more hour, one more cup of tea. Dad had given us lots of homeopathic pills for jetlag and a home-brewed recipe for stress, but he couldn’t give us a homeopathic version of himself, which was what we really needed.

  ‘C’mon, guys!’ Finn shouldered his miniature backpack and tugged at the front door, flinging it wide. ‘We’re goin’ to New Zealand!’

  Sacha settled Muffin in her bed by the stove, and Bernard curled beside her. Then Dad drove us to Heathrow in a borrowed van. Lou and the family weren’t coming to see us off. Too sad, she’d said. They were going to wait in their garden and wave at every plane that flew overhead.

  I remember those final moments so vividly; that last, worst goodbye. The boys were wired, rocketing around the terminal as though they’d drunk a gallon of Coke each. They were intrepid explorers, and each carried his most precious treasure for the voyage. Buccaneer Bob travelled in Finn’s pack, his knitted head sticking out so that he could see everything. Charlie had stuffed Blue Blanket up his jumper. This priceless rag used to be satin-edged and luxurious, but by now it was quite disgusting because I never dared to wash it.
What if it shrunk? Throughout his toddlerhood Charlie dragged it along like Linus in Peanuts; towed it through muddy farmyards and chewing-gummy streets. When tired or bewildered, he held it against his cheek. In contemplative moments he would pull off pieces of blue fluff and stick them up his nose.

  Dad and the twins played paper-scissors-rock in the check-in queue until Finn fell over the luggage and screamed like someone who’s been bitten by a rattlesnake. Deflated, Charlie sat down and sucked his thumb. He looked forlorn, a curly-headed evacuee child. Kit knelt on the floor to comfort his boys while I tried not to meet the sidelong glares of other passengers. I could tell what they were thinking, and I didn’t blame them: Please don’t be on my plane, family from hell.

  Sacha had plugged herself wordlessly into her iPod, unbrushed hair jammed into a messy knot. She was wearing a red t-shirt Lydia had given her, and the slogan said it all: EMIGRATION SUX. Her flute was in her carry-on bag; we hadn’t dared trust it to the shipping container. She was texting all her friends and crying quietly.

  ‘How much does a jumbo jet weigh?’ asked Finn, pulling at Kit’s ear.

  ‘Dunno. A million tons?’

  ‘Well anyway,’ Charlie took his thumb out of his mouth, ‘it’d really hurt if you dropped it on your toe.’ The thumb went back in.

  There was a heaving, chaotic queue for security. It was like dying a slow death, waiting with Dad, shuffling our bags forward a few inches at a time. In the end I suggested he should get going.

  ‘I’ll go back to Muffin,’ he agreed reluctantly. ‘It’ll be easier for you once I’ve left. You’ll be able to concentrate on shoving your toothpaste into little see-through bags.’

  So that was that. Suddenly, it was time to say goodbye. Dad pulled a box out of his pocket. ‘For you,’ he said, handing it to me. ‘It was your grandmother’s.’

  ‘Grandma Norris?’

  He dipped his head. ‘It still works, and I’ve had it serviced and cleaned.’

  I opened the box to find a delicate gold watch. It was painfully familiar. I’d seen it on Grandma’s wrist thousands of times: an exquisite thing, with all the craftsmanship and elegance I’d expect of my grandmother.