The Sister Surprise

by Abigail Mann

  Mum slips on a pair of mittens, the wind buffeting her wild hair, like she’s in the epicentre of a hurricane. ‘I think you’re getting more use out of my old raincoat than me.’

  ‘Mum, I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you I was coming here. I don’t know how much you—’

  ‘Ross explained some of it. It started with that video, didn’t it? The day you came back with a migraine?’

  I nod and fold her hat back so she can see properly. I lighten my voice in an attempt to diffuse awkwardness.

  ‘The fun news is that we’re a tiny bit Russian and Great-Grandma might well have been secretly working for the KGB. The not so fun news is that I found out I had a sister during a live broadcast and then I vomited everywhere, which is now preserved on the internet, for time immemorial.’

  Mum’s lips are pursed, but her eyes are doleful and soft. She cups my jaw and looks at me like she’s trying to recognise the parts that belong to her.

  ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ she says.

  ‘Because I knew you’d be upset. And you are, aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course I bloody am,’ she says. She shoves her fists in her pockets and scowls. ‘I’m fuming.’

  ‘This is why I didn’t mention it at the time,’ I say, forcing a smile as Jenny the Wink walks past, a bag of M&Ms poking out of her raincoat pocket. ‘I was going to, the night before the live stream, but then Ginger came in and it wasn’t the right time. I knew basically nothing about my father and whenever I brought him up you got all weird and sad.’

  ‘We didn’t need him,’ says Mum with an edge of stubbornness.

  ‘The fact that you’re the one who gets to say that is exactly the problem. But this isn’t about him anymore. It’s about Moira. Oh, you’re not going to like it, but there’s someone else here—’

  ‘Who? Oh …’

  ‘Ava!’

  I turn around, looking up the street to where Moira stands with one foot out of the tearoom. She waves with a swooping arm, giving us a double-handed thumbs-up before disappearing back inside.

  ‘Let’s get on with it then,’ says Mum, picking up her suitcase.

  ‘Don’t be like that.’

  ‘I’m not being like anything.’

  ‘Let me carry it,’ I say.

  ‘No, I’m fine.’

  ‘Please let me carry it.’

  ‘I said I’m fine.’

  ‘Stop being difficult!’

  We jostle on the spot, each with a hand on the suitcase, our fingers curled tightly around the handle.

  ‘This is like one of those god-awful episodes of Chucklevision,’ she says, putting on an accent. ‘To me, to you—’

  ‘How dare you take the Chuckle Brothers’ names in vain. I won’t stand for it. Not on my watch.’

  We stop jostling, the suitcase poised between us. She stares at me and I stare back, unblinking, until we crack and burst into laughter. We laugh for so long that my cheeks hurt, the wind pulling tears from my eyes. Overhead, seagulls squawk at a pair of fishing boats. The sound is just as shrill as the two of us, gasping for breath on the cobbles below.

  ‘Stop. I’m not wearing my TENA ladies,’ says Mum, clutching me for support, one leg crossed in front of the other.

  ‘This is why I wanted to bring you up here,’ I say, when we’ve both composed ourselves. ‘Moira wants to meet you. Jacqui’s had less warning, but I’ve got a feeling she knows who I am, so …’

  ‘Oh, Christ. Is she here?’

  I clench my teeth and nod. ‘Like it or not, we’re a family now, of sorts. A blended family. Actually, a curdled family might be more accurate. It depends on what happens when we get in there,’ I say, nodding towards the tearoom.

  ‘And this Moira … she’s Andrew’s daughter? His other daughter?’

  ‘Yep. She talks about ten different things at the same time, is totally bananas, and completely brilliant.’

  ‘If she’s related to you, she’s going to be at least a little bit off the wall. You’re a two-person portion of banana split yourself.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’

  I zip my jacket up and try to rub warmth into my hands. The wind blows up the cobbled hill from the bay, where the oil rigs sit on skeletal haunches, crouched behind a veil of sea mist. ‘I didn’t mean to drag you into this,’ I say. ‘But I couldn’t think of how else to move forward. I can’t unknow the results of that DNA test.’

  Mum tucks her hand into my pocket as we walk up the hill.

  ‘If anything, I dragged you into this. Twenty-eight years ago.’

  ‘No need to go into the biology of it …’ I say, twitching with a smile. ‘Wait a second, there’s something else I need to brief you on.’

  ‘Can we do it inside? My toes feel like ice cubes. Come on,’ says Mum. She steers me by the shoulders before I get a chance to object, a bell tinkling above our heads as we step inside the tearoom.

  Chapter 37

  I push a chain-link curtain to one side and head through to a small back room. The shelves are lined with industrial-sized bags of flour and sugar, unusual cake tins, and flattened takeaway boxes. In the corner, there’s a wooden table that Moira has laid with crockery and napkins, a tiered stand of fresh scones, and two huge ramekins of cream and jam. A quiet hubbub of overlapping chatter, clinking teaspoons, and babbling toddlers filters through from the main room. It’s comforting to know that there are witnesses a few feet away if I have to grab a handful of flour and launch it as a smokescreen to sneak Mum and myself out in one piece.

  Moira turns to greet us, a half-folded tea towel in her hands. I can tell she was in a rush when she washed and dried her hair because it’s fluffy like a baby blackbird. Mine has stuck to my scalp, the unfortunate result of wearing a fleece-lined hat for nearly ten hours today.

  ‘Mum, this is Moira. Moira, Lorrie.’

  Moira barrels forward and squeezes Mum to her chest.

  ‘Lorrie, it’s so nice to meet you! Ah, this is amazing. And odd. I barely know what do with myself. I made scones. Ava said you like them, so I gave them a go and I think they turned out all right, but if you pile up the cream you won’t be able to tell either way.’

  Moira laughs and pulls back. Beaming, she slips her apron off and hooks it by the back door. Mum stays in the doorway, reluctant to come further inside.

  ‘I am sorry for intruding on you. I don’t think any of us expected the day to turn out like this,’ says Mum, clearly nervous.

  ‘It’s not an intrusion,’ says Moira, batting flour off her jumper. ‘It’s nice to have you here. Ava’s told me so much about you.’

  I stand beside Moira, my heart thudding beneath my fleece.

  Mum’s eyes jump from my face to Moira’s. ‘Look at you two. Sisters. I mean … I can’t quite believe it. All this time and you were at opposite ends of a train line. I never considered it, which is bizarre, really, knowing your father.’ Mum catches herself. ‘Sorry, sweetheart. I shouldn’t have said that.’

  Moira’s about to reply, but instead she looks past Mum’s shoulder to the kitchen archway. Jacqui stands behind us, her raincoat unzipped and a shrink-wrapped crate of milk tucked under her arm.

  ‘I went to get some milk from the McCulloch farm,’ she says, sliding the crate onto the counter. Jacqui’s expression irons out as she looks Mum up and down, a hand resting squarely on her hip. Mum pulls off her hat, stuffs it into the pocket of her coat, and fluffs her hair up with her fingertips.

  ‘I’ve got half an hour,’ says Jacqui. ‘Dot said she’d hold the fort until half past, but she can barely work the toastie machine without setting the fire alarms off, so I can’t be away any longer than that.’

  Mum walks forward and extends a hand. After an excruciating couple of seconds that sees Jacqui analysing it, she shakes it slowly like she’s pumping water from a well.

  ‘It’s a shame you’ve got to head back so soon,’ says Mum. ‘I gather there’s a fair amount the girls want to talk about.’

  ‘Yes, wel
l. I can’t afford to take the whole afternoon off to sit about chatting over tea.’

  Jacqui pulls the nearest chair out and sits down, her body language hunched and stiff like she’s been called into a tribunal. We follow suit, our elbows almost touching around the circular table.

  ‘These scones look lovely,’ says Mum, ‘did you use baking powder? I’m always in two minds …’

  ‘Mum,’ says Moira, her voice soft and insistent.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ says Jacqui, throwing her hands up. Her tone suggests this is a preface to something she’s not sorry about at all. ‘But I thought we’d all left this in the past. I’ve done my best. I know we’re not perfect, your dad and me. I made a choice when we got married and I’ve had to make a lot of them over the years but I have the family I have and that’s the family I’d do anything for. I know he’s had some slip-ups, but we’ve taken it on the chin.’

  ‘You don’t need to defend him, that’s not what this is about.’

  ‘Isn’t it? That’s why you came here, Ava? To find him?’ says Jacqui, looking at me.

  ‘No, not at all,’ I say, my stomach flipping over itself with adrenaline. ‘I didn’t even know that Andrew was alive.’

  ‘He’s what?!’ splutters Mum, her cup dancing in the saucer as she places it back down.

  ‘I’ll get onto that,’ I garble, putting a hand on Mum’s forearm. ‘I came here for Moira.’

  Moira splays her hands on the table. ‘This is why I asked Dad to be here, so he could speak for himself. There’s been too much left unsaid.’

  ‘You could be right, but there we are. He’s not here,’ says Jacqui.

  ‘Hang on,’ says Mum, swallowing her mouthful. ‘Can we go back a few steps? Andrew is – in fact – alive and well?’

  ‘Yeah … I’m just realising that I should have told you this before we came inside,’ I say.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ says Mum, lifting an eyebrow.

  ‘That explosion you thought he was in? He wasn’t on the rig,’ I say.

  Mum looks to the window and shakes her head, her fingers tapping out a beat on her cardigan.

  ‘Ah. I mean, that wouldn’t explain why the child support payments never came through, but I’m sure he’ll be able to explain that when he gets here.’

  ‘Christ, I don’t know where to start with all this,’ says Jacqui, hanging her head.

  ‘I do,’ says Moira. ‘Mum,’ she says, looking at Jacqui. ‘You keep saying that you’ve left things in the past, but you haven’t, otherwise you wouldn’t have treated Ava like she’s an invasive grey squirrel set on wiping out the native species.’

  Jacqui sits back and folds her arms across her chest.

  ‘You have to admit that Dad hasn’t –’ she pauses, chasing a crumb around her plate with her little finger ‘– that he hasn’t exactly stepped up to the things he should have.’

  ‘He’s had his problems. He’s been working on it,’ says Jacqui.

  ‘I know,’ says Moira, choosing her words carefully. ‘But that’s just one part of it. Things have to be different now. You’ve got to stop blaming other people for the choices Dad made.’

  Jacqui bites the inside of her cheek and glances up at Mum.

  ‘I’m one of those mistakes, aren’t I? That goes without saying,’ says Mum, her eyes glassy. ‘Truly, I did not know that you were together at the time him and I … you know. Think what you like, but I’m not that kind of person.’

  I let out a breath that I didn’t realise I’d been holding in, relief unplucking the tight thread of worry stitched between my ribs. Mum looks at Jacqui, her chin held high.

  ‘I thought he had a right to know, so I sent a couple of letters. It’s not like I knew where he lived, so I looked up the firm he worked for and sent them there. I called his office to check he’d picked them up, which he had. I stopped trying after that. I’m no homewrecker.’

  Moira clutches my hand under the table and glances at me. I squeeze her thumb in the hope that it communicates that the bulk of this is new information for me, too.

  I assumed that Mum left Kilroch in a hurry because she’d stepped on someone else’s turf and wanted to flee before the pitchforks were out. If Andrew was the one who adopted an ‘Ask me no questions and I’ll tell no lies’ approach, he needs to shoulder the consequences. When it comes down to it, he didn’t want to know me. At that point, what other choice did Mum have? I think back to the times we’d awkwardly sat through adverts for Father’s Day on TV, the over-compensating when it came to birthdays, the obstinate self-reliance. She was trying to protect me from the disappointment she’d already borne the brunt of. In a different way, that’s exactly what Jacqui had protected Moira from too.

  ‘How much did Andrew tell you?’ Mum asks Jacqui.

  ‘He told me that you and he had … been familiar. And that was that. You were gone, he was back, and I didn’t want to think about it anymore. I didn’t know about Ava until I saw her on the cliffside, then I guessed your age roughly and put two and two together.’

  Jacqui tilts her head to the side and looks at me. ‘You said you came here for a change of scenery, but the only folk that come up here to work on farms are the fruit pickers and the farm tourists who think it’s all bottle-feeding lambs and drinking home brew. They don’t last as long as you have. I underestimated your sticking power. That’s a compliment,’ she says, although she’s still scowling.

  ‘Oh right. Thanks,’ I reply.

  ‘Then there’s the small matter of you looking like him,’ says Jacqui, her voice less clipped and curt.

  Mum nods in agreement.

  ‘I needed to know. Whatever the circumstances were,’ I say.

  ‘I still can’t believe you came all the way up here and didn’t tell me. You won’t even go out at the weekend without giving me an itinerary of where you’ll be and when to expect you back,’ says Mum.

  ‘I didn’t want you to worry about me,’ I say.

  ‘It’s the other way round, sweetheart. You worry about me worrying and it causes this angsty cycle of hand-wringing that’s not good for someone your age.’

  ‘Aye, that sounds familiar,’ says Jacqui, propping her elbow on the table. ‘This one does the same thing,’ she says, pointing to Moira with a butter knife. ‘I tell her all the time. Take when she was on placement down in Inverness, she came home every weekend,’ says Jacqui.

  ‘Yeah, but there was a good reason for that. You took on way too much between the tearoom and keeping Braehead afloat before Kian came back,’ says Moira.

  ‘I know, you bonnie thing. But Moira – you mother me too much. You need to get away for a while, see some different things. I don’t know what’s holding you back.’

  I look at Moira, knowing exactly how she feels. If there was ever a perfect time to bring up the equine dentistry course, it’s now, but her candour is failing her. I can see it in the way she pulls her sleeves over her hands, her hair tucked tight behind her ears. I find her foot under the table and kick backwards with my heel, clipping her shin.

  ‘Ouch!’ she yelps.

  ‘Sorry! The rubber on these boots are so thick I can barely feel the floor,’ I mutter. ‘Tell her.’

  ‘About what? Oh. No, not right now …’ she trails off.

  ‘I think you should.’

  Moira screws her face up as though she’s trying to teleport somewhere else.

  ‘Christ, there isn’t another sister, is there?’ says Jacqui.

  ‘No! I don’t think so. It’s something else. A course I’ve been offered a place on, but it’s down in Surrey and—’

  ‘Stop right there, lassie. Don’t go into any “buts” until you’ve told me all the good parts.’

  Moira’s words tumble out of her mouth in a tangled mess, like nylon tights in the washing machine. She pauses, closing her eyes as though she’s lost a bet and is waiting for the consequential slap in the face.

  ‘It sounds great, you silly goose. When do you start?�
� says Jacqui, her cheeks pink. ‘A dentist! Oh, me!’

  ‘Not a proper dentist, a horse dentist,’ says Moira.

  ‘I don’t care. Horsey people throw money at their animals, especially in Surrey. Sounds good to me.’

  ‘Yeah, but I still can’t afford it. Even with a bursary the rent down south is bananas, and—’

  ‘Let’s talk about it later. We’ll figure something out,’ says Jacqui. ‘You’re holding yourself back and I won’t be the reason for it, all right?’

  Moira bites at a hangnail and nods.

  ‘So,’ says Jacqui with purpose. ‘Are we going to eat these now, or shall I wait for them to go stale for the magpies?’

  Chapter 38

  The four of us step out onto the flagstones, seagulls gliding in gusts of wind like shrill kites. Moira and I walk a few steps ahead as Jacqui speaks to Mum in the porch. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but when Jacqui puts her arm on Mum’s shoulder and it’s not to steady herself in preparation for a headbutt, I relax.

  ‘Our mums are laughing,’ I say, my arm hooked through Moira’s. She follows my gaze.

  ‘No … Oh, they are!’ says Moira.

  Jacqui folds her arms and nods. They look down the hill towards us, a look of quiet affection etched on their faces.

  ‘They’re definitely talking about us.’

  ‘So obvious.’

  Mum says goodbye and trots down the hill, pausing as she joins us.

  ‘Has it changed much?’ Moira asks Mum. ‘Compared to last time you were here?’

  ‘Not at all. Feels a bit like déjà vu. We weren’t that popular with the locals. I can understand why, but it did mean we couldn’t nip in the shop for a can of Coke and a packet of Monster Munch.’

  On the corner, the sign above The Wailing Banshee creaks in the wind, the roughly carved wood of a screaming woman with hollow eyes staring uphill. The kind of laughter that accompanies back slaps and bad jokes leaks out into the street as the door swings open. Out steps Andrew, raising a hand to someone inside as he turns on the pavement towards us. Mum stiffens, but she’s composed, as though she’s about to dive off a high board.