The Sister Surprise

by Abigail Mann

  Of the 212,857 linked family members listed under my DNA tree, there’s an aunt I already knew about in Peterborough and a bunch of third and fourth cousins scattered across Western Europe and the USA, all decidedly less interesting than Moira.

  I click on her avatar. The rough coastline of the Scottish Highlands zooms past jagged peninsulas and land spliced with lochs until a lattice of single roads converge by a harbour. I tap my plastic keyboard and think. If Moira is listed as an immediate relative of mine, does that mean I’ve come up on her list too? I double-check my preferences and am strangely relieved to see the default settings flicked to ‘private’. I’m not quite ready for that.

  I’ve never felt deprived growing up as an only child, but I have wondered what it might have been like to know there was someone else around, especially as a kid. Mum and I were so often like bookends, seeing each other at the beginning and end of a day. I spent a lot of time with sticker books under committee tables, crawling out when orange juice and Kit Kats were on offer. Adults liked me, an accolade that ensured other kids didn’t. I convinced myself I didn’t mind because adults made sense to me; I knew what to ask, when to ask it, and they didn’t play made-up games with confusing rules that changed all the time. Mum sometimes arranged sleepovers with the daughters of her friends, but Rory was the only one that stuck. She found me funny for the same reason others found me awkward, like when I laminated the Monopoly rules and founded The Sandwich Club, a lunchtime group that involved tidying school classrooms for fun. For fun.

  I bring up another internet tab and Google ‘Kilroch’. An extract from its Wikipedia page says it’s a ‘civil parish in the Highland area with a population size of 319’. Bloody hell. You could house the whole village in our local Wetherspoons and still have a few packets of pork scratchings left over. I drop the orange pin onto a lane called Little Vennel, where a series of squat, whitewashed houses materialise on a hill that tips down towards a broad, steel-coloured bay. In the distance, light reflects off the metallic arm of a crane bent over a series of deconstructed rigs.

  Rigs … Mum’s mentioned them before. They’ve got something to do with a pod of dolphins she and the other activists were trying to protect, which makes sense because her dolphin obsession is extreme. Our house is a two-up, two-down but packed into the living room is a dresser full of dolphin memorabilia that Mum has collected over the years: glass-blown dolphins, hand-whittled dolphins, laser-cut crystal dolphins, and, worst of all, a second-hand nail brush shaped like a dolphin. If these are the rigs she spoke about and she was there in the Nineties, my father must have been too.

  My stomach flip-flops and my heart races like I’ve mainlined one too many espressos. I snap my laptop shut. Nothing about Kilroch seems wild enough to justify Mum being so coy about it. It feels like a mosquito bite that I’ve tried not to touch, but now that I’ve scratched it, the itch is worse than ever. I don’t want to upset her by bringing it up, but I don’t want to be lied to either.

  Roused by the change of activity, Pickles crawls out from under my bed and leaps onto the window sill, knocking a row of books to the floor. I pull a jumper out from the linen basket and throw my arms into it, nudging him with my foot. ‘Go on, go and chase some birds,’ I say, pushing my window open and manhandling Pickles onto the garage roof, where he yawns and stretches in the dwindling autumn sun.

  In the bathroom, I squint at the mirror. I need some time to figure out what to do with this new information, but the seed of it has planted in my head and I feel full of energy. I arm myself with a hot flannel and a bottle of micellar water. I look like a Picasso portrait. The foundation used to contour my nose is smudged across my cheek, thick and dark. I lean over the sink to scrub and rinse until the water runs clear.

  Back in my room with a mug of tea and a fully charged laptop, I’m settling in for another armchair exploration of Kilroch, but as I flick through pictures of seafront houses flanked by fields and a grubby lighthouse, my pillow vibrates. I pull out my phone. Mum’s picture appears, flashing on the screen. I slide the bar to answer it, my stomach tight. From her end, there are sharp instructions over a background din of jabbed piano keys and the periodic shrieking of children. At some point I’ll have to explain why I need to find a different line of work, something entirely anonymous and preferably remote so I never have a chance to reappear on the homepage of Snooper whilst covered in sick. I try and push this thought to the back of my head, quietly raging at whichever web editor decided to punish me with this much coverage. Take a breath, Ava.

  I haven’t got the capacity to lend my anxious brain to work when the sensitive subject of my unknown sister is on the line.

  ‘Ava?’

  ‘Mum? Take me off loudspeaker, I can’t hear you properly,’ I say.

  ‘Sorry, I’ve got you balanced on the paper plates. One sec.’ I tentatively sit up, my head hollow like a barren pigeon egg. ‘You sound awful. Where are you?’ she says.

  ‘In bed. Well, I was in bed. Migraine.’ No need to go into detail now. Or, perhaps, ever? ‘I think I slept it off.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a nuisance. Didn’t you have that big thing at work today? No – get Geoff to bring round the coffee urn, otherwise it won’t be hot by the time the parents turn up.’ She must be at the school. Shit.

  ‘You’re feeling better, though? Good. Wonderful.’ She sighs. ‘I tried calling earlier, but … I’m sorry to do this to you.’

  ‘Do what?’ I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral.

  Mum shifts to a whisper. ‘I can’t think of what to do that’ll get us back on track. Not tonight, anyway.’

  My stomach lurches. I didn’t see ‘The Dad Conversation’ happening like this. What was I thinking? After years of tiptoeing around the subject like a cat on hot tiles, I’ve made the whole thing far messier than it was before. Making hints about the other side of my family never worked in the past, so why would it now? I feel six years old again, standing at the top of the stairs in an oversized dressing gown to eavesdrop on Mum and Ginger talking about something I couldn’t understand. Even today, the stakes are a mystery because I’ve got no idea if she knows about Moira’s existence either. Realising I’ve got a sister in Scotland is one thing, but now there are a hundred other questions I need the answer to. How many of those would hurt Mum?

  ‘Ava?’ she says, ‘Are you still there? Shall I come home?’

  ‘No, Mum. I’ll be all right,’ I reply, my breath shallow. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Mum sighs. ‘Nothing’s ready. We had the biggest faff trying to get the bloody leaves up. Father Carmichael has gone over to Blackheath because he needs to read the last rites to an ancient parishioner who’s had the audacity to catch pneumonia. Inconvenient, but you can hardly ask him to postpone. We’ve got the deacon from St Mary’s down instead.’

  ‘Dandruff Dan?’ I say, clasping my forehead with relief. She hasn’t seen the video. Of course she hasn’t. Mum still uses a brick-sized Nokia that plays polyphonic ringtones and only needs charging once a fortnight.

  ‘That’s him. Let’s hope he’s not wearing a black cassock. I was going to ask if you could pick up two or three boxes of wine on your way over. Laura was meant to do it, but her youngest ate the top of a glue stick so she’s had to go to A&E.’

  ‘Um, I can—’

  ‘I only ask because I thought you’d be leaving soon. Oh, make sure you’re here before the little ones are on stage. The dancing is spectacularly bad,’ she says, stifling laughter. ‘Possibly because Miss Burford’s choreographed it and she’s eight months pregnant, so the movements are fairly limited. Anyway, we’ll have a giggle if nothing else.’

  ‘All right. I’ll be there soon,’ I say, biting my hangnail.

  I hang up and drop my phone onto the bed. The lock screen lights up; a picture of Mum and me behind a stacked plate of scones laden with clotted cream, our faces covered in crumbs and contentment. I swallow, but it feels as though a pine cone is lodged in my throat.

 
Chapter 6

  The smell of overcooked rice pudding hangs in the air as I step through a side door propped open with a breeze block. My Doc Martens squeak on the parquet as I sidle across the hall towards Ginger, who spots me from a distance and makes a swooping gesture at Mum to let her know I’ve arrived.

  On stage, a group of children dressed in vegetable costumes dance in a wobbly circle, heads whipping round to find their parents in the crowd. A carrot with neat French braids accidentally jabs a broccoli in the eye and he clutches his face as though it’s fallen off, his mouth held open in a silent scream. There’s a ripple of muttering through the audience as a frazzled woman in a beaded necklace scoops the wailing boy off stage. The remaining vegetables shuffle together to fill the gap, as though this is a practised manoeuvre.

  A woman in a neatly pressed linen jacket walks towards me with the short, purposeful stride of a person whose most used phrase is ‘Yes, I would like to speak to the manager.’ She mouths something at me, but I can’t make it out, distracted as I am by the singing.

  When she gets closer, I recognise who it is: Mum’s arch-nemesis, Vanessa. Mum usurped her chairperson position and Vanessa’s run against her at every AGM since. Rumour has it that she bribed the headteacher with a hefty supply of black-market book tokens, but when the head moved on, the new board weren’t so easy to influence. The dog poo we had posted through our letterbox in 2003 had to have come from Vanessa; she’s the only person we know who has a dog small enough to produce such a turd (an inbred, yappy dachshund with bulging eyes and a nervous disposition).

  ‘Are you Lorrie’s girl?’ she says, her veneers sparkling.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She said you’d be here an hour ago.’

  ‘Well … I’m here now,’ I say, handing her a carrier bag with the wine in it before scooting around in my rucksack to retrieve my camera. I pull the strap over my head and flick the power on.

  ‘We need some pictures of the children, mid-song, cherub-like, that sort of thing. You better be quick – they’ll finish in a moment. Avoid Charlotte on the second row; she’s got chicken pox and we don’t want to advertise it. You’ve done this before, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘All right, off you go then.’

  Vanessa shoos me towards the children and hovers by my shoulder until I start clicking, her many bracelets tinkling as she dumps my bag on the trestle table Mum is trying to clear of used napkins and plastic cups.

  I snap a few photos before the show ends, wildly clicking to ensure there are enough pictures to pacify demands for the school calendar. When the lights are switched on, a horde of oversized vegetables dash towards their parents, most of whom have formed a line in front of the cheap wine I picked up. Vanessa lets Mum serve, using the time to apply a particularly garish shade of mauve lipstick, which smears on the front of her pearlescent teeth. I make a choice not to tell her about it.

  ‘You’re a star, Lorrie,’ I hear Vanessa saying, as she glances over at Mum. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever experienced the total fucking nightmare that comes with maintaining acrylic nails. The upkeep is such a burden, you know. Forty-five pounds every three weeks. Nigel can’t understand it. You’re lucky in that respect, darling. Must be nice not to worry about keeping up appearances.’ Vanessa picks her teeth with the corner of a blunt-edged nail. Mum straightens, pink-cheeked, and pulls her Per Una cardigan a little tighter around her waist. ‘Is there anything left for me to do?’ Vanessa adds, her voice dwindling with reticence.

  Mum takes a moment to think. ‘Well, there’s the—’

  ‘Oh! Look who’s turned up when everything’s finished!’ interrupts Vanessa, barking out a laugh as she pretends to spot me for the first time. She squeezes my elbow. ‘Do excuse me. I must catch Giles before he heads off. We’re at couples’ golf on Sunday and I haven’t had a chance to ask about a luncheon. You don’t mind, do you, Lorrie? Nothing keeping you?’ Vanessa unclasps her stiff handbag, runs a wide-toothed comb through her bob, and rubs her lips together, smearing the colour in a clown-like rim around her mouth. ‘You are good,’ she says, swerving around a caretaker who wheels a stack of chairs behind him.

  Mum’s smile twitches and she blows her fringe out of her face.

  ‘You shouldn’t let her speak to you like that,’ I say.

  ‘Ah, it’s nothing. Vanessa’s like an orange; from a distance you’d assume she’s sweet inside but you soon realise she’s ninety-nine per cent pith.’

  ‘She’s definitely got a mean Carol Vorderman vibe about her.’

  ‘She’s also the reason we acquired eight M&S sandwich platters for tonight. You have to pick your battles.’ Mum pushes her palms into the small of her back and sighs. ‘Help me with the tablecloth, will you?’ We lift the corners and walk towards each other. She takes it off me and tucks it under her arm. ‘You’re on edge today,’ she says.

  ‘I’m just …’ I look at Mum. She seems older in a way I hadn’t noticed before: dark eyes, stooped shoulders, standing with her right hip jutting forward. ‘I’m just annoyed with people like her.’

  ‘People like what?’

  I nod towards Vanessa, who is busy accepting compliments for the glittering leaf display that she contributed nothing towards. ‘All this stuff that you do for the school, and the WI, and the play group – they don’t realise how much you take on for them. Vanessa’s only here because her husband can’t stand her being at home.’

  I bite my hangnail and look around the hall. I don’t like this version of myself. I shouldn’t be able to say how many times the wall displays have changed, or when they re-laid the parquet flooring. You’re meant to remember your first school as a golden haze of sugar paper, poster paints, and pudding-faced dinner ladies, blue crash mats, cloakrooms, and wearing Hula Hoops as wedding rings. With the amount of times I’m pulled back, I’ve never had a chance to grow nostalgic.

  Mum has sewn herself into this community. Her presence isn’t remarked on, but assumed, otherwise how would anything function? She loves it. There’s nothing that gives her greater joy than arguing over the correct placement of sausage rolls at a finger buffet. But is it my thing, too? Other than work, this is what I do the most. Her social life is my social life, because it’s only ever been me and her. Until today. Now there’s Moira and God knows who else up in Scotland. If I go there to find out, is it like I’m abandoning her?

  Mum ties up the handle of a bin bag. ‘You know, Vanessa never spends time at home because her husband has been having an affair since 2003 and she can’t leave him because he tied up their finances in the pre-nup.’ I scuff the floor with the toe of my boot. I can feel Mum’s eyes on me, but I don’t look up. ‘We’ve all got different reasons for doing things.’

  We stand side by side and lean against the wall bars at the same time, Mum sighing with weariness. We look out in comfortable silence as the last few parents sing goodbyes and wheel scooters towards the exit, miniature rucksacks swung over adult arms. Mum bumps her shoulder against mine and my stomach flip-flops, as though physical proximity might increase the likelihood of her accidentally absorbing what I know.

  ‘Are you happy?’ I ask.

  ‘Jesus, Ava. What, right now? In life? In spirit?’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound so … meta. Like, generally?’

  ‘Yeah, more or less. I’ve got a few good reasons to get up in the morning. Pickles would starve rather than catch anything to eat, for starters. Then there’s Ginger, who would probably be the third wife of a serial polygamist if it wasn’t for my intervention on those God-awful dating apps. And I’ve got you,’ she adds with haste, feigning an afterthought.

  ‘I’m actually shocked that I come after Pickles,’ I say, disguising laughter.

  ‘It’s not personal, sweetheart. He keeps my bed warm and doesn’t flail about half as much as you did when you were little.’

  ‘Unbelievable.’

  ‘Would you get those for me?’ says Mum, gesturing
to the bin bags. I pick them up as the caretaker stacks chairs around us, whistling through his teeth. Back in the hall, we collapse tables.

  ‘Oh, before I forget – I said you’d come to the Hastings beach trip with the Brownies Saturday after next. We have to allocate one adult to eight kids now, so we could do with the extra body. Anyway, I thought you might like to get out of the house. Sea air and all that good stuff.’

  ‘I, err … Can I get back to you on that?’

  Mum looks at me, her head tilted to the side like a confused spaniel. A shrill laugh bounces off the walls, flicking our attention to the furthest corner of the hall. Vanessa is trying her best to cordon Giles off from his wife, a woman whose irritation is made obvious through her clipped responses and the persistent tapping of a crocodile skin shoe.

  ‘I thought she was after Simon the Hotelier?’ I ask.

  ‘His wife came out of a coma, so she’s had to move on,’ Mum mutters, flashing a fake smile in their direction.

  ‘Are we sure Vanessa didn’t have anything to do with Simon’s wife going into a coma?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s the mystery plaguing Dulwich,’ says Mum. We put the bin bags down by the door step and say goodbye to a mum who clutches the sleeve of her son’s coat as he tries to wriggle out of it.

  ‘Imagine if I didn’t have you around? I’d end up like Vanessa, drinking expensive gin at eleven in the morning, wondering why the house was so quiet.’

  My pocket buzzes with a text message. It’s Max. I scowl and shove it back in my jeans. Mum nods towards the door.

  ‘You get home. I’ll finish up.’

  ‘You sure?’ I say, not used to being let off early.

  ‘Yep. Just make sure the kettle’s filled up if you’re going to bed. Ginger’ll be round later and I’m keeping her off the wine.’ She squeezes my hand, walks to the front of the hall and slots herself next to Vanessa, giving Giles the chance to slip away. A stellar manoeuvre from our Lorrie Atmore.

  I open a message from Max as I step outside.