The Sister Surprise

by Abigail Mann

  ‘Yes, but only for a week or so. We did ancestry tests at work for a video I was presenting. I didn’t think anything would come up. Moira did one too. That’s how we were linked up, but the only thing I knew was her name and the village, that’s all.’

  ‘Aye, I did one a while back. A friend at college gave it to me for my birthday.’

  I nod and swallow the prickly lump in my throat.

  ‘I know you grew up with Andrew, for a while anyway, but you have to understand that I came into this blind. I didn’t know anything; not his name or how he met my mum. I thought if I got some clarity first, then I’d have a handle on it and be able to introduce myself in the right way, but the more I’ve learned, the messier it’s got. I held back because I didn’t want to cause any more hurt, not after finding out how hard it’s been for your family and how much Jacqui has put up with because of him.’

  ‘I saw your video,’ says Moira.

  ‘The one with the, err … vomit?’ I ask. Moira nods, her expression unreadable. ‘Mm. Not my finest moment.’

  ‘A lot of this is not your finest moment,’ snaps Moira. As though shocked at her own brazenness, she turns on her heel to break eye contact.

  ‘Moira, wait!’

  Moira turns back and takes one step closer, poised to speak. When she doesn’t, I fill in the gap.

  ‘I held back from saying anything because I really, truly care about you. I didn’t want to send you a message out of the blue and risk it being taken the wrong way. Then when I met you during the pig vaccination, it didn’t seem like the right time to bring it up.’

  Moira swings her arms back and forth, her cheeks a little brighter.

  ‘Does my mum know?’

  ‘Honestly? I’m not sure. I’ve had suspicions because she’s been quite … standoffish around me ever since I got here. Eileen doesn’t seem to like me either, but that one’s more of a mystery.’

  ‘It’s because Ross fancies you and not her,’ chirps Kian, grinning.

  ‘Feeling better, are we?’ I ask. He gives me a thumbs-up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘I feel like I’m intruding, but I don’t think I can stand up yet,’ he says.

  Moira takes a deep breath in and shakes her head. ‘This is mad.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And really weird.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And I’m still angry.’

  ‘Understandable.’

  ‘But …’ Moira pauses. Foot stomping and big-bellied whoops drift outside, popping the delicate bubble around us. ‘It’s completely amazing,’ she says, scuffing the floor.

  I break into a smile.

  ‘Can I give you a hug?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m still mad.’

  ‘OK, yep, too much.’

  She steps forward, her jacket saturated and stiff like the damp canvas of a tent.

  ‘Are you going to go inside?’ I ask.

  ‘Not sure. Not really in the mood.’

  ‘Neither am I,’ I admit.

  ‘I’ve got a lot to sort out in my head, but I think this one needs to go home,’ she says, gesturing to Kian.

  He shakes his head in defiance before thinking better of it, circling round to a nod of agreement. We lift him up by his armpits and walk round the side of the hall like uncoordinated competitors in a three-legged race. Our reflection is mirrored in the window, lit alternately in pinks and purples from the mobile disco that accompanies the band.

  When we reach the porch, Moira stops abruptly. Her hand grips the back of my jumpsuit so tight that it’s stretched across my chest. I follow her gaze to three men grouped around the open passenger door of a pick-up truck.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I ask. Moira blinks. Kian’s head slumps against my shoulder.

  ‘That looks like … No. It can’t be,’ she says.

  One of the men licks the paper of a roll-up cigarette, sealing the tobacco inside. He slides it behind his ear and taps the arm of a tall man beside him, jerking his head in our direction. Realising they have an audience, the tall man turns to face us, his turtle-neck jumper strained over broad shoulders. His salt-and-pepper hair peeks from under a beanie hat. Although covered in week-old facial hair, the chin is distinctive as ever.

  Moira drops Kian’s arm. I stumble, my hip jerked to one side as I try to distribute his weight in a way that’s easier to manhandle.

  ‘Dad?’ says Moira.

  Chapter 33

  ‘Oh my God!’ I say, my hands jumping to my mouth. Unsupported, Kian slumps to the floor beside me. ‘Moira! That’s Andrew?’ I hiss.

  ‘Ava, chill out, he can hear you,’ says Moira, muttering through gritted teeth.

  ‘Why aren’t you freaking out?’ I ask, as it dawns on me that she’s not reacting like her father has just come back from the dead.

  ‘Why are you freaking out? Just say hello like normal and we’ll figure out how to do the introductions later.’

  ‘I can’t. Oh God. What the fuck? Moira, I thought—’ I grab her hand as she steps towards him. The door of the truck is slammed closed, as the motion sensor flicks off the outside lighting, the amber glow from a cigarette jumping at mouth height in the dark. ‘I thought he was in there,’ I say, gesturing behind me.

  ‘What, the ceilidh?’

  ‘No, the graveyard.’

  ‘What?!’ says Moira, turning towards me.

  ‘I thought he’d … passed away. Blown up. In the oil rig explosion? My mum said … Oh God, I feel light-headed.’

  Moira pinches my arm. ‘Shhh, he’s coming, just—’

  ‘Guys, I think I’m going to be sick again,’ says Kian.

  Andrew joins us underneath the porch light, his posture stooped and softer than I remember from the photograph. He wears jeans tucked into steel-capped work boots; arguably a hazardous choice of footwear for a ceilidh, more so than my bog-stained trainers.

  Moira hugs him, but Andrew doesn’t make it easy for her. He lifts his elbows to allow her space as though he’s getting frisked, his eyes unfocused, staring into the middle distance as though willing himself elsewhere.

  ‘I didn’t think you were back until next month,’ says Moira, releasing him.

  ‘Job ended early. They switched the crew at Aberdeen, so I drove up with Albie. Who’s this then?’ says Andrew, glancing me up and down. ‘I recognise you … Did you use to work behind the bar at The Black Sheep near Melkirk?’

  ‘No …’

  Andrew’s eyes narrow. ‘Nah, you’re too young now I think on it.’

  ‘This is Ava. Are you sure you don’t recognise her?’ says Moira, her words tumbling out, froth-like.

  ‘Oh, sweet Jesus, give me some warning,’ I say, clutching my forehead.

  ‘Eh?’

  I turn to face the wall. There’s no point avoiding it now, especially considering my terrible track record when it comes to issues of timing. I take a deep breath and ball my hands, my little fingers interlocked at waist height. My heart beats so hard I can hear it pounding in my ears.

  We stand in an awkward triangle, the sound of frantic accordion playing and periodic whooping forming an ill-fitting soundtrack. I can’t believe this is him. I’ve spent my whole life not knowing he was alive. It never formed a big, traumatic milestone, because his absence featured far more heavily than his inclusion ever did. He can’t know I exist. If he did, he’d have reached out at some point. That’s what a father would do, isn’t it?

  ‘I know this is weird, but you know my mum, Lorrie. Lorrie Atmore?’

  Andrew chews his lip, his jowls pronounced as he ponders my statement. ‘No … I think you might have got me muddled with another bloke. Name doesn’t ring any bells. Not loud ones, anyway.’ He scratches his chin, the sound like a match on striking paper.

  ‘You don’t remember?’ I ask.

  Andrew shakes his head and shrugs. ‘When would it have been?’

  ‘1991.’

  ‘Christ, that’s a while ago. Met all sorts of peopl
e back then. Sorry, I can’t help you out.’

  I know that Mum and Andrew’s relationship was of the brief kind, but even so, at the very least, I would have thought he still remembers her.

  ‘Is your mum inside?’ Andrew asks Moira.

  ‘Yeah, she’s in the kitchen,’ she says.

  Andrew nods slowly, rocking back and forth on his heels. He looks between the two of us and turns to walk away, his mullet flicked up like a duck’s bum at the nape of his neck.

  ‘No, hang on. I’m not wrong,’ I say.

  Andrew stops. He folds his arms and scratches the corner of his eye, as though I’m making a fuss over small change.

  ‘You do remember her, don’t you? She worked in a bar when she was here with The Earth Mamas and I think you know that.’

  ‘Look, can we not do this here?’ says Andrew, looking over his shoulder to where his friend stands smoking by the pick-up truck.

  ‘It’s coming back now, is it?’ I say, shivering so much I can barely keep upright.

  ‘Ava,’ says Andrew. He runs his thumbnail down his palm, cleaning muck out of the creases. A long breath hisses through his teeth like a punctured tyre. ‘If I’m honest, this has caught me off guard. I didn’t think for a second you’d be turning up here.’

  ‘You knew?’ asks Moira.

  ‘Eh, it’s not quite as simple as you think. Her mother told me, back when she first knew about the, err … situation,’ he says, looking to me.

  ‘So why does she think you died in the oil rig explosion?’ I ask, my throat tight.

  Andrew shrugs. ‘I can’t answer that. She knew I worked on them. It’s how we came across each other. Don’t look at me like that, Moira, it’s complicated,’ he says. Moira drops her gaze, but I can feel her bristling.

  ‘It’s a long way to come. London is it? I don’t know what your mum has said –’ says Andrew, waving his hand between us ‘– but after she wrote and told me about you, I thought it would be best to leave it.’

  ‘It?’ I say, stung.

  I’d imagined this situation so many times growing up, but not once was it like this.

  ‘Albie, I’ll be back in half an hour. I’ve got to run the lad back. He’s had too much to drink. Typical Brody,’ says Andrew, gesturing for us to follow him.

  Kian appears at my shoulder, frowning.

  ‘What did he say? I thought I heard my name,’ he asks, swallowing a belch.

  ‘Nothing. Dad’s giving us a lift, that’s all,’ says Moira, her eyes tight.

  I can’t do anything but frown, because if I relax a single muscle I’ll start crying and I won’t know how to stop. I reach for Moira, who wraps an arm around me as we help Kian over to the truck. We’re both hurting, I can feel it. The worst thing is knowing I caused it all.

  Moira pulls open the back door, but Andrew flaps her away.

  ‘I’ve got bits in there that I’ve got to drive over to the McCullochs’ in the morning. If you want a lift, you can get in the back.’

  ‘Seriously?’ says Moira. We both look at the flat bed of the truck, where a folded tarp sits next to a gas container and half a dozen lobster pots.

  ‘I’ve got one seat in the front and you can’t all pile in there. Get in or don’t get in, but you’ll not find a taxi at this time.’

  ‘All right. Thanks,’ says Moira, far more appeased than she ought to be, considering the ridiculous demand Andrew’s just made. She gives Kian a leg up into the back. He grips the sides and immediately rocks onto his face like a baby attempting to crawl for the first time. I grab hold of the railing to climb up too.

  ‘Get in the front, Ava. I’ll keep Kian upright,’ says Moira. ‘I’m used to this anyway.’

  ‘Oh. Are you sure?’ I ask, largely hoping that she’ll say no. The thought of sitting up front with Andrew for a whole ten minutes is daunting to say the least.

  ‘Yeah. Go on,’ says Moira. She sits back against the cab, pulls the tarp over her legs, and guides Kian’s head onto her shoulder.

  As soon as I slide into the passenger seat, Andrew flicks the ignition on, reversing the truck with more haste than I’d recommend, considering that there are two adults perched in the back.

  We lurch forward and I hear Moira shout an obscenity through the glass as her head hits against the back windscreen. Andrew and I both open our mouths at the same time, followed by ‘You go first,’ then silence.

  ‘Why did you never call us?’ I blurt out. My brain dial has ticked from pain to anger so quickly I’ve surprised myself. ‘Do you realise how fucked up it is to let someone think you died in an explosion?’ I turn to look at him side on. Andrew’s fingers clench and unclench on the steering wheel, knuckles white.

  ‘It’s a bit bloody hard to tell someone you’re alive when you never realised you were dead in the first place.’

  ‘But … nothing? You didn’t think I was worth getting to know? That was acceptable for you, was it?’

  ‘That’s down to Lorrie, Ava. Not me,’ he replies, equally sharp. ‘We weren’t in a relationship. She didn’t seem the settling type, to be straight with you. I didn’t know who else she was familiar with and I wasn’t keen to fork out for a baby that might not have been mine.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint, but I took a DNA test so it’s pretty conclusive.’

  ‘All right, if you say so. But back then there was no way of knowing for sure.’

  We bump along the road in silence and sway in time with the motion of the truck. If vitriol frothed at my mouth before, a trapdoor has now slammed it shut. Poor Moira. No wonder she walks on eggshells around Andrew, worrying if the wrong word could set him off. Sod him. There’s no way I’m going to grovel.

  ‘Ava,’ he begins, but I turn my face to the side and look out of the window. I don’t want to hear anymore, not when it’s a straw man defence that manages to slut shame Mum in the process. The headlights map our journey back in silence.

  We pull up at Braehead a few minutes later. I open the door before we’ve come to a full standstill.

  Andrew hops down and unlatches the back for Moira and Kian as I hover by the gate. They both look shellshocked, with pink cheeks and wide eyes. It’s clear that the journey has slapped Kian sober. He slides out, stumbling a little as his feet hit the tarmac.

  ‘What’s the story, then? You staying or going?’ says Andrew, as Moira swings her legs over the side. She looks between us, her usual sunny disposition muddled beneath a cloud of doubt.

  ‘Just putting it out there,’ says Kian, far more coherently than before. ‘I know for a fact that we have all the ingredients for a shit-ton of cheese toasties inside.’

  Moira nods, her lips pressed tight.

  ‘I’m going to stay here tonight,’ she tells Andrew.

  ‘Suit yourself. I’ll let your mum know,’ he replies, pulling himself back into the driving seat.

  ‘Ava, I – I guess we’ll talk?’

  I don’t have the energy to reply. An intention that woolly doesn’t deserves one. Andrew clearly agrees, because it’s not long before his taillights retreat down the lane, tracing a thread between the dry-stone walls that lead back to the village.

  Moira breaks into a weak smile and rubs her thumb on the back of my hand. ‘Duvets on the sofa?’

  I nod. ‘Let’s go.’

  Chapter 34

  The next morning, Moira and I wake up in a duvet cocoon. After Kian’s insistence that he’d see to the animals himself, I uncurl myself from the covers to make tea and another round of cheese toasties. Moira lifts the duvet to let me back in, my laptop balanced on a pillow between her knees. My original, pre-edited articles are on display, one tab behind the other.

  ‘It still feels proper weird reading about everyone I know,’ says Moira, scrolling down the page. ‘You’re sure there’s no way you can get the edited ones taken down?’

  ‘I’ve tried, but Duncan’s not budging. I’ve phoned every day since I found out, but he’s screening my calls. Oh, and he replied to my compl
aints email with a copy-and-pasted section from my contract, highlighting the part: “editorial changes are the sole discretion of the employer”. Seeing as he’s my employer, there’s not much I can do about it. If all else fails, I’ve got a Plan B.’

  Moira frowns, distracted. She scans the screenshots on her phone. ‘What does “yokel” mean?’

  I groan and try to think of a diplomatic way to say it. ‘Umm, someone who doesn’t know much about the “real world” because they’re a bumpkin.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound so bad. I am a country mouse, really.’

  ‘It also implies they’re really thick.’

  ‘Ah, OK,’ says Moira, her lips pursed. ‘Objectively, I disagree, but sometimes the country lets itself down. I knew this one guy, right. He did a naked belly-flop into a hay baler a few years back. That was pretty stupid.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He chopped off all the fingers on his left hand because he didn’t realise there was a rotating blade in the machine. Idiot. It’s swings and roundabouts really, because he won £250 for getting the clip featured on You’ve Been Framed. Nowadays, it’s the first result that comes up when you Google him, so it hasn’t made job applications easy, I’ll bet.’

  I lean over to the coffee table and rip off a corner of my cheese toastie, snatching glances at Moira, who reads the rest of the articles in silence, unlocking her phone every so often to compare extracts. After a few minutes, she shuts the laptop, puts it on the floor, and leans back with her fingers interlocked in her lap.

  ‘Do you see what I mean?’ I ask, trying not to sound desperate. ‘I may have exaggerated little things here and there, but not to the extent that Duncan did. He ran a bulldozer through everything I wrote.’

  Moira looks at me like a cocker spaniel puppy, her head tilted to one side as she weighs up her words.

  ‘OK, three things. One: you’re right, your boss has made a lot of changes. Two: no one actually says “Och, aye” in Scotland. It’s a common misconception. Three: I like how impressive I sound in your version of the diaries,’ says Moira, ‘Particularly the section that said I had “the core strength of a Californian yoga instructor and the finesse of a matador for the new age of pig vaccination”,’ she says, using a 1950s broadcasting voice. ‘Lastly, can I put that on my CV?’