At several intervals during the rest of the day she took Roy’s letter out of the locked drawer and reread it, balancing the poignancy of Your real Dad against his apparent indifference. In the end she arrived at the conclusion that his slightly stilted words in fact revealed consideration for her, his tact in placing no pressure on her, and perhaps, she thought with a pang, his own desire to avoid rejection. She, after all, had a full life to lead; he had nothing.
The following morning, after the guests – all keen walkers anxious not to waste the best of the day – had paid their bills and departed and Carol was busy with the laundry downstairs, Tessa sat down to draft her response. She had not yet fully decided if she was ready to go back to the prison, but it would be discourteous not to reply. She wasn’t sure what to say. She tried to imagine how she would feel if she had first encountered her biological father in different surroundings. Yet it was his very ordinariness – quietly spoken, polite, confident – that made it so hard to comprehend that he had violently taken a woman’s life or to glean insight into how he lived with such terrible knowledge of himself. She would be a fool to ignore the reality of his crime, and at some point he would have to account properly to her for what he had done, but she should avoid judging him too hastily: she must be patient and take time to get to know him.
She could not remember when she had last written such a personal letter and realised she had forgotten what it was like to compose and direct her thoughts in this way. To begin with her sentences were stiff and self-conscious, but gradually she started almost to write to herself, to enjoy the one-sided conversation in her head. Reaching for a third sheet of paper, she paused to ask herself how wise it was to open herself to him in this way, then reprimanded herself: if she wasn’t prepared to go to her father with a clear and loving heart, then she might as well not go at all.
Roy’s reply came on a day when Declan was booked in for his next monthly trip to the county, and Tessa awaited his arrival with jittery anticipation, glad of someone to whom she could speak freely. Roy’s letter, although brief, was warm and encouraging. He told her how wonderful it had been to receive hers, that he had indeed feared she would not want to continue their relationship, explained that his daily routine did not lend itself to eloquence but that he would attempt to describe his own emotions: The only way I can say it, he wrote, is to ask whether you believe in love at first sight? It’s that moment of recognition, isn’t it? Something beyond the rational. Makes me rather shy! Yet he still made no mention of a second visit.
‘So you’ve met him already?’ asked Declan in astonishment, as they settled in the guests’ sitting room after dinner. ‘You sure as hell don’t hang about!’
‘You’re the only person I’ve told.’
Declan had brought his customary bottle of red wine, and now raised his glass to her. ‘I’m honoured.’
‘I don’t want the kids to know.’
‘I understand. So what’s he like?’
Knowing the question was bound to arise, Tessa had given some previous thought to her answer. ‘Normal. Pleasant. A bit cagey, but that must be a reaction to what he’s done. I mean, something so extreme, it must change him, mustn’t it? Though obviously I don’t understand enough to tell in what way.’
‘So what happened? What exactly did he do?’
‘He’s not told me yet.’
‘There’ll be other ways to find out more. Geoff – the Head of Security at work – could probably get hold of the original court records or whatever if you wanted them.’
Tessa shook her head. ‘I’ll wait to hear Roy’s side of the story first.’
‘You won’t want any unpleasant surprises.’ Declan gave her a straight look. ‘If he starts telling you she tripped and fell on the carving knife, or her head just snapped off in his hand, m’lud, you want to ask yourself why he’s still locked up.’
Tessa felt rather offended by his levity. ‘He didn’t mention when he’d be released.’
‘No.’ Declan appraised her over the rim of his glass. ‘A life sentence for an average bog-standard murderer is usually about thirteen years. How long has he been in?’
‘Twelve. This is my father, Declan. Whatever he is, may also be me.’
‘Did you like him?’
‘We had a much stronger sense of connection than I expected. Really uncanny how we just looked at one another and knew we were related.’
He nodded. ‘I’ve a second cousin who looks like he ought to be my twin. We don’t have much else in common though,’ he said with a laugh. ‘Do you trust him?’
‘He’s watchful. Careful of his dignity. To be honest, I was just relieved he wasn’t some scary monster!’
‘It’s been a lot to take in, I imagine.’
‘Yes. Does it make you feel different about me?’ Tessa asked boldly.
She could see he was taken aback. ‘In what way?’
‘Now you know I’m the daughter of a murderer.’
‘It’s hardly a Cromwell Road scenario, now is it? Even if he were as evil as Fred West, he had zero influence on you growing up.’
‘Do you believe in evil?’ She was curious to hear his answer.
‘Original sin? No. No way. Why? Do you?’
‘I certainly don’t think Roy is evil. In fact, given the situation, he’s far more vulnerable than me.’
‘What I do think,’ said Declan, ‘is that when people are bad, they generally stay that way.’
‘He said prison had given him time to think.’
‘So he’s seen the error of his ways?’ Declan’s tone was mocking.
‘People change.’
He smiled, relaxing further back into his armchair. ‘You are different,’ he observed. ‘This has brought you out of yourself. I approve.’
He raised his glass to her again, and she responded gratefully, rather enjoying the novelty of being of such legitimate and intriguing interest to someone else.
‘It’s like I’ve embarked on a journey,’ she admitted, recalling the thought she’d had sitting in the car outside HMP Whitemoor, that there was a glamour attached to life at the edge – that by entering a prison, she had survived a test.
‘It’s been fascinating,’ she went on. ‘In one way prison is just a tedious box-ticking exercise, but it’s also the banality of life there that holds the lid on. I mean, if you think of what all those men have done, all the violence, jealousy, greed, revenge, somehow it makes all this …’ Tessa waved a hand around her cherished blue walls, seagrass flooring and linen covers, at Averil’s doll’s house standing like a reliquary in its corner, ‘it makes all this just a desperate attempt to cower away from that reality.’
‘But this is what’s healthy, surely? Who wants a reality of murder and mayhem? I’m Irish, remember. My people have had plenty, and there’s nothing alluring about it, I can tell you. This …’ he waved his hand in turn at the peaceful room. ‘This is normality and security. Even your toy house there,’ he added, following her gaze. ‘It’s good. This is what people fight for.’
Tessa smiled, feeling an unaccustomed wisdom. ‘But the very reason you appreciate this is because you realise how precarious it all is. I’ve lived by the sea all my life. The most terrible storms can blow up out of nowhere.’
Declan leaned forward for the bottle and refilled her glass, smiling up at her cheekily. ‘You never used to talk like this.’
‘No.’ She took a drink of her wine, holding his gaze, enjoying the effects of her newfound confidence, that fleeting sense of power she’d experienced several times since Erin had first dropped her bombshell. ‘I’m losing my fear of secrets, I think. What’s the point of life if we don’t share the stuff that’s real, that matters?’
‘Agreed.’ Declan raised himself from his chair and came to sit beside her on the couch, leaning back against the arm, a decent space still between them. This was not what Tessa had intended by her confession, but she lulled her nerves. It was a long time since her body had made its own
independent response to a man; too long since any man had looked to her for such a response. But she was determined to remain open and relaxed, to stay on the edge.
‘So what did the two of you chat about, you and your daddy?’ Declan asked, with facetious emphasis.
‘We didn’t have a lot of time. I hadn’t realised how long it would take to get past all the security. I guess we were just sizing one another up.’
‘Will you go again?’
‘We’re writing to each other. Maybe that’s enough for now.’
He nodded. ‘And if he weren’t in prison?’
She smiled. ‘That’s what I keep asking myself. I don’t know. What do you think?’
‘In a funny kind of way, maybe it’s easier for you this way. If he were out and about, he’d not be much more than someone you’d meet for a drink. Someone who sooner or later you’d be introducing to the other folk in your life. Just an ordinary guy.’ He looked at her astutely. ‘Not this mythical beast locked away from everyone.’
Despite his smile, Tessa felt exposed, even a little humiliated.
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ he went on. ‘This is a huge thing for you. I get that. But in the end it’s about you, not about him.’
Tessa was reassured by his irresistible sincerity. ‘Thanks, Declan. If not for you, I’d never even have found him.’
‘No. Well, don’t make me live to regret that! Finish the bottle?’ He held it up.
‘No,’ Tessa decided. ‘Not tonight, thanks.’
He reached out to stroke her bare arm with one finger. She could sense him willing her to meet his gaze. ‘Not tonight?’ he echoed teasingly. She moved her arm away, but he caught her hand and carried it to his lips.
‘Mitch and Lauren are asleep upstairs,’ she protested.
‘Can’t tempt you? We could be very quiet.’ His eyes danced. ‘No strings.’ When she did not recoil, he leaned a little closer. ‘Final answer?’
‘Final answer!’ She attempted a shaky laugh, the sharpness of her body’s disappointment taking her breath away. He got to his feet and pulled her up by her hand.
‘Maybe next time they’ll be at Sam’s?’ He looked down at her suggestively, his lips not far away.
‘Maybe. But now I’m going to tidy up and put the lights out,’ she added firmly.
He nodded and let go of her hand.
‘See you in the morning, Declan. And thanks,’ she added. ‘Really.’
‘No problem. Sweet dreams.’ He gave her a friendly smile and left the room.
Tessa wrapped her arms around her body and grinned foolishly to herself, invigorated by his admiration and elated by this further proof that she was slowly uncovering her lost self.
TWENTY-FOUR
It had become an annual custom, before the full onslaught of the summer season, for the proprietors of Felixham guesthouses and B&Bs to meet for lunch away from town to compare notes and streamline the system they had of passing on bookings when one of them had to turn away guests. Tessa usually enjoyed the event, although she knew that some of her colleagues, especially those who remembered the Seafront B&B in her grandmother’s day, disapproved of her refurbishment. One was jealous of her prices, while another made no secret of his opinion that her style was pretentious, unlike his own establishment’s home-from-home cosiness. Tessa took the view that there was plenty of room in the market for all tastes.
This year’s lunch was to be held in Orford, where those who could spare the time could make a day of it, and some friends had offered Tessa a lift because they knew she’d be coming on her own. She put on a final touch of lipstick then went to check on Mitch, who, now that his exams had finally begun, was allowed to stay home from school to revise. For the past week he’d moped about the house, dark shadows under his eyes, stooped like an old man. The only time he perked up was when his mobile rang.
She found him lying on his bed, reading from a big lever-arch file. When he looked up, his face was a picture of misery. ‘My brain won’t take in any more,’ he told her. ‘I’m going to fail the lot.’
‘Go for a little walk,’ she advised. ‘Or a bike ride. Try and distract yourself, even if only for ten minutes.’
‘It won’t help.’
‘It’s important to take a break. Are none of your friends around?’
‘No. We’ve all got different papers on different days.’
As he sat up, he seemed to Tessa to have grown suddenly longer and thinner. Even his bare feet seemed spectrally elongated. ‘Are you eating enough? Bananas are good energy food.’
‘Not hungry. I’m never going to get the grades I need.’
She sighed, experiencing a mixture of sympathy and exasperation. He saw, and hung his head, his soft hair flopping. Abashed, she reached into her handbag and pulled out some cash. ‘Tell you what,’ she strove to speak more kindly, ‘go and get a haircut. Here.’
He came to take the money, giving her an ambivalent look that made her feel cheap. She reached up to smooth back his hair, kissing his exposed forehead. ‘No good sitting exams if you can’t see out.’
Mitch nodded. ‘Ok. Thanks.’
‘I have to go. Bobbi’s coming to pick me up.’
Mitch followed her, lingering in his doorway, fingering the paintwork on the door-jamb, obviously making up his mind about something. ‘Are Grandpa Hugo and Grannie Pamela coming over again soon?’
‘There’s been a lot going on,’ countered Tessa.
‘Only we never seem to see them.’
Tessa sighed. ‘It’s been difficult, this stuff about my being adopted.’
‘But you’re not adopted,’ he protested. ‘They’re your family. It was Erin who left home, not you.’
‘Yes, but it’s also complicated. We’re taking a little time to adjust, that’s all.’
‘Family is family,’ he said doggedly. ‘Finding a second mother doesn’t mean you lose your first.’
Tessa was touched by the earnestness with which he spoke, as if he were willing her to understand something more behind his words. He had always possessed such a sweet nature, and she was sorry for her impatience. ‘You’re right,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘Family is family.’
He nodded as if something had been settled between them, and disappeared back into his room.
Twenty or more familiar faces were gathered in the private dining room of one of the pubs in Orford. Tessa found it hard being expected to act as ambassador for Sam’s brasserie, which was a sufficient novelty to be a major topic of conversation. Although most people already seemed to know that Sam and Nula were living together, they still pumped Tessa for information, asking if he would be offering an introductory commission to those who sent guests his way. Several assumed Tessa would join in the general praise for the design and decor, most of which was due to Nula’s firm, and directed rather too sharp-eyed remarks at her about the lucky combination of talents. And so, tired after all the chat and two glasses of wine, she found it dispiriting to travel home again with Bobbi and her husband, sitting in the back of their car like a child behind the grown-ups.
Entering Felixham, Tessa steeled herself as the car approached the brasserie.
‘Oh, look,’ cried Bobbi. ‘There’s Sam!’ Bobbi waved as the car sailed past, but Sam did not notice. He was hand-in-hand with Nula, laughing and almost dancing with her. She too was laughing, her head tilted back so her long wavy hair swung loose and free. Tessa shrank into herself, feeling flimsy and transparent, invisible to the husband she had lived with for seventeen years.
Bobbi twisted around to speak to Tessa. ‘When does he open?’ Not waiting for an answer, she turned back to her husband, who was driving. ‘We must go for lunch. We should book right away, or we’ll never get a table.’
Five minutes later Tessa waved them off and went indoors. The house was silent. Mitch must have gone out as she suggested, Lauren was at school, and it would be an hour or two before the first guests rang the bell. There was no one waiting to ask her about her
day, and she was struck by how, immersed in her own small-town world, she had seldom looked outside the family-run business to find friends of her own. The place seemed suddenly cavernous, too big for her yet offering no shelter.
Picking up the post, she went into the office. She could not bear to go upstairs to the bedroom she had once shared with Sam. She longed to believe that there could still somehow be life and love in their marriage if she could only explain how they could be different together now that she was beginning to know her real self; that, if only he could face the difficulty of telling Nula, he could prevent the waste of all their years together, put a stop to the final break-up of the family they had created. But she knew this was make-believe. She had witnessed the truth right there on the street beneath Nula’s jaunty blue-and-white signage.
Although Tessa had remained invisible behind the car window, she’d been close enough to witness the happiness shining in Sam’s face, to watch the unhindered way he laughed. She did not think she had seen him so carefree since they’d been at college. Had he even been like that then? She felt like an outcast, discarded by a marriage that had not worked because she had failed to grasp this one small subtle thing which, dancing hand-in-hand in the street with Sam, Nula appeared so abundantly to have mastered. Tessa’s sense of failure left her neutered and diminished. The final shreds of renewed confidence she had enjoyed for a few days after Declan’s flirtation faded away: that sort of urge, however vital, was not the subtle, precious intimacy she had just – cruelly, obscenely – witnessed between Nula and Sam.
Tessa wondered now if maybe she should have accepted Declan’s invitation after all. Even with ‘no strings’, sex might have offered some sense of connection, some evidence that she was still desirable. But the image she conjured up of herself in bed with Declan merely threw into greater relief the absence of what she’d been forced to witness between Sam and Nula. How had she failed to realise how sterile and unlovable Sam had found her all these years? He had taken the line of least resistance, as he always did, to escape from her, but his betrayal there in the street could not have been more public. The recognition of her loss was terrible, a grief that made her want to cry out in fury and lament.
The Bad Mother Page 13