Griff relieved Evie of Dylan, tickled his tummy and held him up high above his head. After a brief flight around the swings, he seated him on his hip, and turned to Evie. ‘Do you think she’s after Dad’s money?’
Evie pursed her lips. ‘Honestly? I think she’s after you.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
Tess
The drive home from Portland was quiet. I don’t think Mum and Griff had rowed, but there was a difficult, stilted atmosphere in the car.
We’ve eaten a late lunch and Griff’s gone out. I don’t know where, but he’s a man on a mission. His jaw was square and tight and his brow was low. Broody. Can a forty-year-old man be broody? I thought that was reserved for my age group. Anyway, someone’s got him riled and they’re going to experience the Griff Hendry whirlwind at full force.
The fresh air’s wiped out Dylan. He almost fell asleep at the table. I had my mobile ready to film him in case he nodded off and face-planted in to his cheese on toast, but Mum took pity on him and told me to put the phone away. Before Griff left, he took Dylan up to bed.
Now it’s just Mum and me in the living room, and she keeps giving me sideways looks.
‘You’re sorting things out with Griff, then?’ I say, wondering if that’s the subject she’s hoping to broach. ‘You’re both a lot happier.’ I’m not mentioning how tired they look, because, quite frankly, I have no desire to know the reason behind their black circles and jaded appearance. I don’t think Griff needs any more of my help in the chocolates and flowers department.
‘I think we will be,’ Mum says. ‘Happier.’
What an odd response. ‘Have you told him about Dad?’
Mum’s nodding.
‘Everything?’
She’s shifted round on the sofa we’re sharing. ‘I had to, Tess. I couldn’t give him half an explanation.’
‘So he knows about what Dad did and what happened to him. And what I did?’
‘Everything.’
Griff’s sudden exit after lunch has me worried now. ‘Is this what you were talking about at the park?’ I saw them, close one minute, apart the next. And whenever I was within earshot, they fell silent. ‘I knew something was going on,’ I say. ‘Is this storming out his reaction?’
‘You have nothing to worry about, I promise. And he didn’t storm out. He’s gone to see Logan.’ Mum settles back and taps the seat beside her. ‘Huddle up.’ I’m a little reluctant to take up her offer as my warning signals are still flashing. ‘Please,’ she says. ‘Indulge me.’
‘Is this about Stephanie?’
‘Would you like it to be?’
I approach Mum’s side of the sofa with caution, just in case she’s laid a trap. ‘I’m not sure.’ I reverse into her and she loops an arm over my shoulder. She’s the same height as me when we’re sitting down. I tug my sleeves to their full length. ‘What do you think of her?’
‘I think she’s charming.’
‘Pretty?’
‘Yes. Attractive.’
‘Girlfriend material?’ Our game of word ping-pong falters and I’m wishing I’d just come right out and told Mum how much I like Stephanie. Seeing her at the café set my mind at rest. My feelings are genuine, and she likes me. There’s definitely something going on with us.
I haven’t seen her in what feels like forever. It was agonising being on Portland this morning and driving straight through Chiswell. I waved at her mum’s café.
We’re going to get together as often as we can before she goes back to France.
We Skyped last night. Talked non-stop for nearly three hours. I told her I went out with a boy, but it ended badly, and she said she’s had one long-term girlfriend, but is single now. She came out to her parents two years ago. I was curious about their reaction – were they shocked? Did they tell her she was wrong? That she hadn’t met the right boy yet? Stephanie looked directly down the camera, smiled, and said, ‘You’ll be okay.’ It blew me away. It knocked the air out of my lungs, and I could feel my heart pulsing. Banging. I had an internal bass drum kicking out my rhythm. It was the best rush ever and I thought, I’ve got to hold onto this feeling, because until last night, cutting was the only thing that gave me that sort of release.
I’ve been clean a whole week and that’s good. It’s not that I haven’t felt the urge, or thought about cutting, but I’ve managed to control it by occupying my hands and distracting myself. I went online, too, and got back to the girl from Manchester. She said the urge will decrease in time, and it might even go away completely. Wouldn’t that be great? But until I deal with the cause, I may never lose the compulsion. She said I sounded as if I was serious about stopping and if I could find the courage to tell someone, their support would mean the world.
There was a point last night, when Stephanie and I were sharing all this personal stuff, when just for a second, I thought about telling her. But then I had this picture whizz through my mind of a poster with my photo on it and the words Crackpot Girlfriend stamped across the front in big, bold Playbill type, and I realised it would be a mistake. It’s way too soon to reveal that side of me.
Manchester girl said the thing that’s made the biggest difference for her is attending counselling. She said that could be a way forward for me, and I think she could be right. I’ve already told Mum I need to talk Dad out of my system.
‘Tess? Are you back in the room?’
Oh. Yeah. I was about to come out to Mum. She’ll be cool, but I’m still nervous. ‘I was talking about girlfriend material, wasn’t I?’
‘We were discussing Stephanie,’ Mum says. ‘And I suspect that’s who you were with just then. You had the smile going on.’ Mum uses both hands to exaggerate the upward arc of her mouth.
‘Yeah. I was. I can’t stop thinking about her.’ I guess this is me coming out. I’m going to run with it. ‘So … what do you think? Good girlfriend material? For me, I mean.’
‘I didn’t think you meant for me.’
I’m craning my neck to see Mum’s face. She’s smiling. Stephanie was right. I am okay. I’ve not fainted. Nor has Mum, and the fact we’re still upright and conscious will make the conversation even easier.
‘I hope she’s good girlfriend material,’ Mum says. ‘But that’s for you to find out.’ She kisses my temple. ‘And you have all the time in the world to get to know her. If she’s kind and treats people with respect, and you’re the first person she Skypes when she gets back to France, what more could you ask for?’
‘And you’re okay with this?’
‘Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘It makes me different.’
I’m pulled in to a tight hug. It’s nice. I decide we should do this more often and then remember why we don’t. I sneak a peek at my arms. They remain covered.
‘We’re all different,’ Mum says. ‘If we weren’t we’d all fancy the same person. Can you imagine the stampedes that’d cause? It would be a bloodbath. It came close at school when my friend and I lusted after the music teacher.’
‘But he was a man, right?’
‘Yep. The music teacher was too.’
It’s taking me a moment to work out what Mum’s implying, but I’ve got there and I can’t help laughing. She’s made her point well.
She’s released me from her clutches and has wriggled into a position where she can see me. It occurs to me she might be going to talk about Dad, but she seems to be assessing me. I’m not sure I’m keen on my mother assessing me. I go to challenge her, but she speaks first.
‘From the day you were born, you’ve amazed me with your courage, and your wit, and your love, and I thank God for sending you to me. You’re the one thing Neil and I got right.’
I disagree. ‘He didn’t care about me, Mum. He was nothing more than a sperm donor. A violent, sadistic, controlling one, but a donor all the same.’
‘Is that how you see him?’
Mum’s pushed back into the sofa, as if the force of my statement drove her there. W
hen she gets up, I’ll expect to see an imprint of her body.
‘Yeah.’ I shrug. ‘You’ve done all the nurturing and teaching and loving. You need to take credit where it’s due.’ I pause. Mum’s lost in her own world. I imagine it’s the one Neil MacDonald inhabits. I’ve ventured there a lot lately, especially when I’ve been thinking about Stephanie. Last night, once I’d decided not to tell her about my cutting, I avoided talking about Dad, because I realise the two are linked. But I can’t do that forever. ‘You don’t think people will judge me because of what Dad did, do you?’
Mum blinks and returns to the safety of our bubble. ‘Judge you? What is there to judge?’
My hands are sticky and clammy, and I blow on them. It doesn’t help – they’re still hot, and now I’m light-headed. And my arm itches. I huff and carry on. ‘It’s not the case as far as I’m concerned, but it crossed my mind people might assume I’ve chosen to like girls because my dad’s behaviour towards you put me off boys.’
‘If by people you mean the person you’re with, then you’re with the wrong person. If they question your motives and can’t accept you for who you are, they need to go, regardless of gender or orientation.’
Mum’s moved to the edge of the sofa, her knees are together and her arms are on her thighs. She’s totally focused on me. It’s intense, but that’s okay. I can do intense. Besides, I started this particular bout.
‘They’re suggesting you’ve chosen to like girls.’ Mum’s frowning. ‘Was it a conscious decision? Because I know I didn’t choose to like men. It just happened. And you know what? It’s nobody else’s business anyway.’ She’s shaking her head. ‘You deserve to be safe, Tess, and happy and loved, and though it breaks my heart to say it, you’ve seen enough atrocities to know what’s wrong.’
I’m not sure why, perhaps it’s a subtle change in Mum’s tone, but I get the feeling I’ve been steered in a different direction.
She sighs and bites her lip. ‘If I ask you to do something, will you promise to try?’
There it is. The handbrake turn. ‘I’ll do my best,’ I say. ‘But I need a drink first.’ I have a bitter taste on my tongue and my mouth’s dry.
It’s a relief to feel the cool kitchen air on my face.
As I’m downing a glass of water, Mum comes in and sits on the table.
‘Okay?’
‘I’ll let you know in a minute,’ I say. I believe we’ve left Stephanie in the living room, so I’m thinking this is about Dad. I hop up onto the worktop and lean into my hands. I’ve braced myself physically and mentally. ‘Go on.’
‘A short while ago, you spoke about scars left by your dad. Do you remember?’
I nod. That was an easy question to answer, but my insides are fluttering. ‘He left his mark,’ I say, pointing to my forehead.
‘For which I’m partly responsible.’ Mum’s eyes are flicking left to right. She’s accessing her memory banks. ‘I made a mistake, Tess. I made the wrong call about keeping our past between us. You’re right to want to talk about it, and I promise to tell you what I can, but I’m not the person who can help you heal those wounds. I can’t be objective. My entire being is screaming at me to protect you, and that means I’d want to keep stuff from you. That’s not going to work. It’s not going to help you.’
Wow. I wasn’t expecting that.
‘We’ll find a way forward, a way to talk about this in a manner which won’t cause more harm, because it’s too important to ignore. The truth needs to be uncovered.’
She’s holding her wrist but I don’t know if she’s seeing Dad bleeding to death or if her subconscious is giving away what I’m beginning to think she knows. She’s using keywords – scars, harm, wounds – and I wish she wouldn’t. They’re acting as triggers and all I can see is my blade and all I want is to feel the cold metal cut through my skin so I can release the pressure in my head.
‘Tess?’
It’s her quiet, gentle, understanding voice and I don’t want to hear it because I know I’ll do whatever she asks. And I know she’s going to ask to see my arms. Then what will happen? She’ll be upset. Disappointed. Sad. I don’t want to make her sad, because sadness is complete. Whole. It consumes every part of your being, every inch, gap and space in your brain. And it makes every breath heavy.
I don’t want to make her sad. I want to make her proud, but how can I when I’m pathetic and weak and embarrassed. She’ll see the real me. The Tess who tries to cut her dad out of her life.
I’m tugging at my sleeves, hooking the cuffs over my thumbs, and folding my arms.
Mum’s off the table now and walking towards me. I’m staring at my feet, but she’s giving me no option but to look at her. She’s lifted my chin and the full weight of her concern is crushing me.
‘Tess,’ she says, her breath falling on my face. ‘I learnt something recently. I say yes to others because Neil taught me that turning someone down would lead to the loss of their love. I’ve lived with that state of mind for years. He took away my right to say no. Then Logan asked me to help him die and I didn’t want to do it. I want him to live. But I risked losing his love if I said no.’
She’s pausing to take in air and although she’s looking me in the eye, I don’t think it’s me she’s seeing.
‘It took me a while to work things out, but I realised I had to take charge of my life, and I had to say no. I had to take back the control Neil had beaten from me. And do you know who gave me the strength to do that?’
She’s sweeping my fringe from my face. I give no reply.
‘You and Griff and Logan. You’ve shown me I can say no and still be loved.’
She smiles and kisses my cheek and I can feel she’s on the cusp of asking me her question. My heart’s gone crazy and I’m dizzy. I’m either going to be sick or pass out.
Mum’s hand is on my forehead. It’s soothing and my breathing slows down.
‘I’ll do whatever it takes to put things right for you,’ she says, ‘but it’s down to you to set the pace, to tell me what you want, and to show me how I can help. All I’m asking is that you take control. Claim back the power stolen from you. Do you understand?’
I do.
She wasn’t going to ask to see my scars. She wasn’t even going to ask if I cut. Not because she doesn’t care, but because she does.
And because she believes in me.
She trusts me to take charge of my destiny.
And I love her so much for that.
I roll up my sleeve and show her all the other places Dad left his mark.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Griff
‘Griff. Come in.’ Imogen retreated from the door. ‘We weren’t expecting you.’
‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware I had to make an appointment to see my father.’ Griff strode past her and into the living room. The green chair was empty. ‘Where’s Dad?’ He doubled back into the hall to find Imogen with a foot on the first stair.
‘He’s in his bedroom. I was giving him a treatment.’
‘What sort of treatment?’
Imogen laughed. ‘You’re serious today. I was giving him a massage if you must know. Would you like one? You seem tense.’
Griff relaxed his jaw and studied Imogen, trying to determine whether or not she was flirting with him. He’d assumed her tactile nature was part of who she was, but in the conversation he’d had with Evie, it became apparent Imogen used all the artillery in her arsenal to win her battles.
In hindsight, it was obvious he’d been played a little – the kiss to the mouth, the leg brushes, the hand rub – and Imogen had admitted to having a schoolgirl crush on him, but no harm had been done. What Griff didn’t understand was why Imogen resorted to such tactics to secure his friendship. Unless, as Evie had said, Imogen thought they could be something more. ‘When you’re done, can we talk?’
‘Of course.’ Imogen climbed three steps, stopped and peered at Griff through the open balustrades. She smiled. ‘I’ll look forward to
it.’
He waited for her to leave before spinning round and making his way through the living room to the kitchen. ‘That didn’t go to plan,’ he said, opening the rear door. He shrugged off his jacket, threw it on the counter, and loosened his shirt collar.
He wasn’t looking forward to their talk one bit.
He breathed in the soothing scents of his father’s garden. Lavender. It was known for its relaxing properties. It was one of Marilyn’s favourite plants. She’d dry out the flowers and make potpourri, or stitch them into palm-sized sachets to put in her clothes drawers. No wonder Logan kept the plant in his garden. He’d enjoy having sweet memories of his wife blown to him on a breeze.
Griff rolled back his sleeves. The south-facing garden was quite the suntrap, and the afternoon April sun was making no effort to escape.
Stepping over the door bar, he unreeled a foot of hose from its rack and gave it a tug. It didn’t yield. ‘Something else to fix.’ This was exactly the sort of problem he needed to get on top of. These were the jobs he could do that would help Evie to help his dad. Using brute force, Griff freed enough pipe to reach the shrubs at the back of the garden. ‘Someone’s got to take care of you,’ he said, thinking how thirsty the ground was. ‘It’s not like you can ask for help.’
Logan had. He’d asked for Evie’s help, but such was the gravity of the question, she’d not been at liberty to discuss it with Griff. By rights, Griff should have been furious with Logan, but Evie asked him to be kind and to understand his father’s reasons for privacy.
He did understand, but that wasn’t going to stop him trying to talk his father round. There was a chance, now he was on board with the care plan, and with him and Evie working on getting back together, that his father would think differently about life. By pitching in and supporting one another, they’d prove to Logan he wasn’t a burden; that looking after him was a privilege. They’d take trips out as a family of five; organise late days, when Logan could have lazy, lie-in mornings; spend whole days with him, rather than just mealtimes, and always show they’ve listened to him. If after that he still insisted he’d had enough of this world, then … Then what?
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