by CE Rose
I felt breathless as reality smacked. I wasn’t a teenager or living a fantasy. There were still a lifetime’s belongings and this house to sort out. And George, his mother… Oh God. What on earth would happen now?
‘Thank you, Joan,’ I said again. ‘And thank you for being just down the road. You and Tom are… well, the closest thing I have to relatives here.’
As though looking into my soul, she regarded me closely, but didn’t say anything. Instead she collected her handbag and patted my shoulder.
Tom appeared, yawned and stretched. ‘Littl’un’s asleep; I’m nearly too.’ He held out his arm to his wife. ‘Come on then, my love. What did you say we were having for lunch? There’s that nice beef gravy in the fridge from yesterday. What about your best Yorkshires to perk us up?’
Following them outside, I watched Joan shuffle away with small steps. They hadn’t driven here as I’d supposed. I glanced at my car. Should I offer them a lift? No; Tom had said Joe was asleep and I’d have to wake him. And quite honestly, I needed ten minutes to gather my thoughts and work out what the hell had just happened.
* * *
Too agitated to do anything constructive, I sat in the lounge, listening out for Joe and waiting for George. My febrile mind kept me busy. What had gone on after I left the cottage? Did George and his mother have a frank exchange? What, exactly, had been discussed? Did he explain what he’d said to me? That he felt alive and exhilarated, not like a bad person? The permutations were ten-fold, but I was certain about one thing – George would turn up here as soon as he could.
After an hour, Joe woke. As though he hadn’t seen me for a week, he reached out his arms, all smiles.
‘Oh Joe,’ I said, holding him close. I was so lucky to have this gorgeous little boy, and yet I still wanted more. The situation was so complicated; I couldn’t shape what that ‘more’ might be, but it felt as though George and I had jumped a different hurdle outside the Swan Inn. One of honesty. He hadn’t declared love exactly, but he’d sincerely set out how he felt, despite the difficult circumstances and his obvious internal conflict. If we were frank with each other, surely we could find a way forward and work something out?
I gazed at my son. Oh God, what could that something be? I was married to this beautiful boy’s father, a good man who I loved. What on earth was I hoping for? A clandestine relationship with my brother? An affair? The whole notion was preposterous and yet… George had wanted to hold me; I’d so wanted to be held. And if it had gone further, what then?
Noticing the dent in my duvet cover, I gave a little shudder. Joan had clearly been right about Tom’s napping. But I had to be more charitable. He’d left a blue inhaler on the spindle chair; like his wife, he was elderly; it had been good of them both to come. They’d walked up the hill especially, for goodness’ sake.
I returned to the lounge and played with Joe, biding my time. The afternoon dragged into evening, but the grounds remained silent. When I finally heard the doorbell from the kitchen sink, I had almost given up hope. But George was here, thank God. My instinct had been right.
I dried my hands, smoothed my hair, scooped Joe from his highchair and trotted to the front door. Before I reached it, my heart fell. The figure through the glass panes was no taller than me. Part of me wanted to hide, but Mum had brought me up well: the ‘pleases and thank yous’ were already under my breath.
‘May I come in?’ George’s mother asked.
Although not his flesh and blood, on reflection I could tell they were related by her accent. ‘Posh Leeds,’ as Mum would’ve said. Not ‘posh Sheffield’, like us. Both were Yorkshire accents, but distinctive if you knew. Like St Agur and Danish blue, one was a little softer than the other.
Standing back, I let her in. Holding my son like a shield, I nodded to the lounge.
As grave as she’d been several hours ago, she sat in the armchair and I perched on the sofa.
‘This won’t take long,’ she said.
George had told me she’d been a secondary school Headteacher. More homely than the suited, younger staff who’d taught at my school, she still had a shrewd, intelligent look behind her glasses. I couldn’t imagine she’d taken any nonsense from pupils or their parents.
‘I know what’s been going on and it has to stop,’ she said bluntly.
‘Nothing has—’ I began, but she lifted a plump hand to stop me.
‘Oliver hasn’t said anything to me. He’s barely spoken since you left. But I’m not a fool. I saw you both from the cottage. Your body language, your expressions, your smiles. He’s been my son since he was two days old, and I know him better than anyone ever will. For one glorious moment I thought he’d found somebody…’
The steeliness fell from her face and for a second I glimpsed a mother who loved her child, but the shutters soon closed again.
‘Perhaps nothing has happened, as you say, but it’s clear what might unless I intervene.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I believe you’re a lawyer, so I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that relations between siblings is wrong. Legally, ethically and morally. Incest isn’t condoned by society and it won’t be condoned by me.’
Flinching at the word, I hung my head. There was no point in protesting. I’d had lascivious thoughts; I suspected we both had. Part of me still wanted to argue, the barrister part, I suppose. To say something about deep connection and finding a soulmate, despite the short time we’d known each other, but the words would have sounded risible and besides I couldn’t speak. Tears were rolling from my chin, splashing onto Joe’s head.
I came back to her speech. Though only a touch, her tone had softened. ‘And even if you were able to live with the condemnation of family and friends…’ She paused and took a breath. ‘You have to see it’s not fair to Oliver, and if you really care for him…’
I looked at her then, wiping my cheeks with a trembling hand.
She gazed for a beat, then sighed and moved next to me on the sofa. ‘When Ben died,’ she continued softly, ‘Oliver was beside himself with grief. He was so angry and bleak I thought he might harm himself. He left Emma and came to live with us and I was glad. I could watch him. A razor blade, the end of a rope, pills; I could see it coming.’ Her pale, clear eyes were intent. ‘I was certain that one day my son would go to bed and never wake up, just like Ben.’
She put a hand on my knee. ‘Outwardly he’s so much better, but I think he’s still grieving. I don’t think he’s… right yet, and it’s affected his emotions. Why else would he have got himself into this dreadful position? He’s usually so measured and controlled in everything he does. Even you must see that it’s an almighty lapse in anyone’s judgement to have romantic feelings for someone you are related to…’
An almighty lapse in judgment. Like Mum and Mr Lang. Her words hurt, but I knew from her solid gaze she was willing me to understand. She had given the lecture of condemnation and now was speaking to me as a mother who loved her son. As distressed as I was, I couldn’t help but admire her.
Pulling away, she straightened her shoulders. ‘If you persist in this stupidity – even friendship – you’ll ruin his chances of moving on, finding someone suitable to love, and most importantly, having more children. Ben was the making of him. Oliver had a nice life with us and his sister, but Ben filled the missing piece, that of flesh and blood. Blind eyes and pretence might feel appealing, but a child of his own is something you can never, ever give him.’
She stood up and nodded at Joe. ‘You have your lovely little boy, but Oliver lost his. He was a wonderful father and he will be again but you must free him. I don’t care how you do it, but please do it now. Nip this foolishness in the bud. Not for me, but for him.’
Chapter Fifty-One
It didn’t take long to pack up; I hadn’t brought much with me, just Joe’s things, mainly – his travel cot, changing mat, chair, carrier. And his clothes, which were suddenly too small. What took so much longer was the note I had agreed to write to George. Ironic, I t
hought, as I searched for writing paper. Letters. Who’d have thought they’d make such an impact on my life?
Sitting at the kitchen table, I doodled for some time. What to say? I barely knew him, yet it was as though he’d been part of my life for years.
I wanted to describe the ‘magnetic’ connection I felt for him. An old chestnut, for sure, but that’s exactly how it was: compulsive, compelling and secure. I longed to add that I’d never forget my exhilaration as the river led us home. That walking away left me empty inside. ‘It’s all your mum’s fault,’ I scribbled. ‘If she hadn’t been there at that moment…’ But I wouldn’t say that because she was right. I had to kill any hope of an ‘us’, even friendship. Though I didn’t want to be unkind, I had to be harsh to give him the impetus to move on from his grief – and from me. And yes, give him the chance of having another child. In the end the message was hurried and brief. It read:
Dear George,
On reflection it would have been a sordid mistake. I’m going back to Manchester tonight. I won’t be coming back, so here are all the keys to The Lodge. It’s yours to do with as you wish. I’ll ask the solicitor to deal with the formalities.
Ali.
* * *
Careful not to wake Joe, I slipped him in his seat and fastened him in the back of my car. I climbed behind the wheel and handled the blue inhaler thoughtfully. Now I’d made all my decisions, I wanted to start the long journey home, but Tom might need his medicine, he may not have a spare, so with a sigh, I turned left at the gates. It was only a small detour; I’d post it in his letterbox.
The Rolls-Royce was parked in Bureside’s driveway – not just parked, but pretty much pressed against the double garage. I pulled up behind it, grabbed the inhaler and hurried out, but as I passed the silver car, I noticed its bonnet. The night was dark, but from the beam of my car’s headlights, it looked as though Tom had smashed it into the garage doors.
Concern set in. That was odd. I glanced at the inhaler. Was he OK? Should I knock, and wake the household up? I hovered, undecided. Nancy had mentioned the Roller being in for repairs; maybe it was the brakes which hadn’t been properly fixed; or perhaps Tom had been drinking. Was that really my business? But something alerted me to movement, so I turned to the rippling, dark river. A figure was on Sylvette’s bow. I squinted through the gloom. It was Tom.
‘Hello Alice,’ he called. ‘Thought I heard something.’
I moved forward. ‘You left this at The Lodge. I thought you might need it.’
‘That’s kind of you, love. Joan’ll appreciate it.’ He looked up to his house. A light was on in an upstairs room. ‘She’ll be asleep by now.’ He raised a tumbler. ‘Join me for a nightcap? I’d appreciate the company for five minutes.’
‘Joe’s in the car…’ I began, but Tom’s eyes seemed rheumy, sad. The happy photograph of the two of us on that very spot flashed in. I inwardly sighed. ‘But he’s fast asleep, so a quick one will be fine. I’ll just get him.’
By the time I was back, Tom was in the saloon, preparing drinks. I popped Joe’s seat on the rug, sat and glanced around. Bloody hell; it was exactly as I remembered. Though the teak cabinets looked a little dated, the dark wooden flooring was polished, the leather sofas were still plush, cream and littered with cushions. And there was the well-stocked bar, the soda syphon still where I’d last used it.
Tears stung the back of my eyes. My life had gone so dreadfully wrong since then. Sure, there’d been wonderful parts in between, but one way or another, my father’s death had tainted everything. Cancer, bloody cancer, such a brutal, insidious disease.
Looking concerned, Tom tilted his head. ‘Thinking about your mum?’ His expression a little strange, he glanced at the ceiling. ‘Eve, oh Eve, why did you—’
‘I know, the seatbelt.’ I didn’t want to open that can of worms, but the old question suddenly surfaced. ‘When I was eighteen, she moved here. To Norfolk. Have you any idea why? I mean, why then?’
‘I don’t know, love, but I expect it was your and Laura’s happiness which counted until then. You were at school, you had your friends, Sheffield was your home. So she waited until Laura had gone and you were settled at university.’
I frowned. It had been Mum’s home too. She’d loved everything about her birth town. And she’d left her sisters, who were also her best friends.
‘Why leave even then?’ I asked.
Tom shook his head. ‘Bad memories.’
I frowned. Bad memories… Everyone was different, but I’d never associated the Kellogg’s box with Dad’s death as such. I was surprised Mum had; if anything, it would have been his final weeks here, wouldn’t it?
‘Lord, I miss him.’ Tom’s spluttered words made me jump. ‘I tried to help. But it was too late. He’d buried his head…’
His comment was so similar to before, I wondered if he might have dementia.
He blew his nose but his eyes welled again. ‘If he’d told me, it might have been different. But I was here and he was in Sheffield, so I didn’t see him. If I’d seen his face, I’d have known something was wrong and got it out of him.’ He sighed. ‘He wanted to do it his own way. He didn’t want your mum to know…’
‘What?’ I frowned, confused. ‘Mum must have known. How could she not?’
‘Not until later, when it was all too late.’
Gaping, I thought of Laura and her disappointment with Mum for not confiding in her as a daughter. Bloody hell, how must a wife have felt about being kept in the dark?
‘Really? Are you sure? Mum must have been deeply offended. And horribly shocked.’
‘Aye, she was. She took it pretty badly, if I’m honest. It doesn’t have the, the… the shame it once had. But in truth, she was. She was ashamed of him. You know what your mum was like; a proud lady. She was humiliated by it; she was very angry.’
What the hell? Perplexed, I stared. But memories were tugging…
Tom groaned. ‘If he’d just told me. Money wasn’t a problem; he knew that. He was the son I’d never had; it was coming to him anyway. But he tried to handle it himself.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Then he got in deeper.’
The clamour of my heart was loud in my ears. At ten years of age, I had covered them with tight hands, but I’d still heard the quarrel:
‘Come on, it’s only money. I’ll get back on track.’
‘Everyone knows, Doug. I’m ashamed, humiliated. I can’t bear to go out.’
‘No one else cares, love. Come on, Eve, give me a smile. What do we always say? You can’t take it with you.’
‘This isn’t a joke, Doug. I can’t bear to look at you. Take Ali with you and get out of my sight.’
Realisation smacked. The court judgments and statutory demands, letters from the official receiver and London Gazettes in that old file. Tom hadn’t been made bankrupt, Dad had. Could a bankrupt still work? Certainly not as a chartered accountant.
It all added up: Mum had hardly left The Lodge that last summer; she didn’t join us on river trips, the village fete or the pub. She stubbornly stayed in the house. ‘So Dad was here for the whole holiday because he couldn’t work?’
‘Aye. Pretty much.’
Mum had hidden from the shame in Norfolk. The ignominy must have been even worse in Sheffield with her well-to-do friends, let alone the smirking aunties. ‘But we returned home in September…’
‘Kids come first, like I said. You and Laura had school and your friends. You couldn’t stay here forever.’
I breathed deeply. Oh God, how I’d longed to go back to that summer when life had been perfect. But it hadn’t been perfect at all, had it?
Removing his glasses, Tom wiped his cheeks. ‘His arrest…’
Arrest? I reeled at the new shock, but Tom was still speaking, his voice clotted with emotion.
‘… wasn’t fair, not one bit. They said it was theft, but it was just panic, knee-jerk panic. Juggling so many financial obligations. He’d buried his head, that was all.’ Reaching
for my hand, he squeezed it. ‘He was never dishonest like they said, Alice. Never.’ Then, as though to himself: ‘That’s when he stopped laughing. Aye, it was then.’
I closed my eyes. Pictured ‘the smiling idiot’, my lovely, lovely dad.
‘The arrest,’ I croaked eventually. My throat was so dry, it was an effort to speak. I knew I was clutching at straws, but I still had to ask. ‘Didn’t the police take into account his illness, his—?’
‘There was no cancer, Alice. The police investigation, then the charges… well, they broke him. He wasn’t in his right mind.’
That memory of my Slinky toy came hurtling back. I could picture it so clearly: Mum glancing to the upper landing, seeing it swinging, then her expression abruptly changing and yelling, ‘Stop it, Laura. Just stop it. Never do that again. Do you hear me?’
‘He hanged himself. He hanged himself from our top bannister,’ I stated.
Tom nodded. ‘Aye, love, he did.’
Part Three
Chapter Fifty-Two
An embarrassing torrent of tears had come then. Not just tears but sputtered misery between my chest-jerking sobs. It was sheer, devastating grief for my mum and dad, but also for the loss of George. ‘Why me? Why have I lost both my parents? Why do all the people I love get taken away? Make me feel safe and loved one minute, then they’re gone. What have I done to deserve it?’
Joe had stirred and I’d stared, suddenly terrified I’d somehow be deprived of him too. ‘Oh God, will my life always be like this? Devastation waiting around the corner?’
Hovering with concern, poor Tom had clearly not known what to do, but at that point he’d sat next to me and spoken firmly. ‘Nothing bad will ever happen to the littl’un. Or you. Do you hear me, Alice? Nothing.’
It was said as though he’d had the power to ordain my life, so I’d pulled myself together then, taken the proffered orange juice and given Joe a quick feed. When I’d finally left Sylvette I’d given Tom a small, shaky smile, but I was now at the other side of the village. Pulling up outside George’s cottage, I gazed for a minute. There were no lights on downstairs, but a dull beam glowed through the front bedroom window. George or his mum? I hadn’t discovered where he slept and it was just as well.