by Amanda James
My eye is caught by a cocktail called an Old Cuban which has lots of interesting ingredients including Prosecco. I plump for that and say, ‘Only for the simple reason that I have never owned a house with a garden. When I do, then such a cat will be very high on my list.’
‘A nice ambition to have,’ he says and decides he’ll have the Bustopher Jones Espresso Martini. I look at the ingredients and suggest that he has nothing else alcoholic after this, or driving will be out of the question.
He says he wouldn’t dream of it and points to a chalkboard listing hot chocolate and coffee of various intriguing types. Caleb also says that perhaps we might have an early something to eat here later if we like. I am non-committal because my churny stomach is sending little prickly messages of anxiety to my brain. The little prickly messages are concerned that I don’t quite know where to start with the big fat secret, and worried that I might make it sound more dramatic than it is. Then I reassess and realise that it is dramatic, well at least the consequences of it are/were… you see – I can’t even decide on the tense. I suspect I could use both as the consequences/fallout are/is still with me today, though not as demanding and forceful as when I was a teenager, and the consequences/fallout are/is most definitely under my control.
Can I see you raising your eyebrows in surprise because you’re guessing that one of the consequences was, let’s say, my less-than-planned departure from teaching? The guess would be correct, but no need for the raised eyebrows. I am extremely pleased how that worked out, and the situation was never beyond my control. If I’d have wanted to return to teaching I would have, simple as that. Or as many people tend to say nowadays, ‘simple as.’ Another similar phrase is ‘end of’. Not end of story, just ‘end of’. Perhaps soon we’ll start to miss bits off all our sentences, until through the process of evolution we’ll have to use sign language because all our words will have disappeared. End of.
We are now sitting on comfy leather wrap-around chairs at a private corner table – well, as private as it can be, given we’re in a bar. I couldn’t let my secret out perched on a bar stool. All that emotion wouldn’t be able to cope shoved up against clinking classes and too loud laughter. The little prickly messages aren’t as anxious now, either. That might be because we’ve changed seats, or because the cocktail is smoothing their spikes.
Into a tiny breath of a gap left by Caleb in a conversation we’re having about the walking holiday, I say, ‘So the big fat secret wasn’t really mine. It belonged to my parents. The secret was that they’d had a baby boy when they were sixteen and then had him adopted. He knocked on our door when he was twenty-three and I’d just turned thirteen.’
My heart rattles about a bit and I suck in a breath, but apart from that, I don’t feel too bad at all. Caleb on the other hand looks like someone has shoved two fingers up his nose and tried to pull his brain down. His brows are up, his eyes are round, his mouth is open, and he makes a noise in his throat that sounds like a cough but is probably ‘God’.
‘Sorry, you weren’t expecting that, were you?’ I say and swirl a blue plastic stick around some ice in my glass while he has chance to gather his thoughts.
‘No… not really, and not just like that, in the middle of a discussion about the holiday.’
My fingers stir the stick faster and irritation pulls my eyes to the table. What did he mean – not just like that? What did he want – a fanfare, an announcement by the town crier? What? Does he think it’s easy for me to spill this shit? In fact, why am I bothering? Then I remember it’s because we’re friends and it’s nice to share stuff with friends, so they can ‘get to know you a little better’, that’s why. He’s mumbling something, and I look up.
‘Sorry, what?’
‘I said that it must have been a hell of a shock for you and I’m here to listen,’ he says and puts his hand over mine on the table. It feels warm and heavy and big and encourages me to give him a break.
‘Okay,’ I say and take a mouthful of Old Cuban’s minty bubbles that kick the back of my throat as they slip down. ‘So, this is what happened. My parents were boyfriend and girlfriend since the age of fourteen, and Mother found herself with child at fifteen. She gave birth to a baby boy the day after her sixteenth birthday and was persuaded by my dad’s parents and her own dad to give him up for adoption. Gwendoline was the only one who said they’d work something out, even though Gerald, my granddad, was adamant they wouldn’t.’
‘Did your mother tell you all this?’ Caleb says.
‘Yes, in theatrical fanciful instalments after James, that’s my brother, tracked them down, but Gwendoline told me most of it. Hers was the unadulterated, sugar-free version.’
‘So, James didn’t make contact beforehand, just turned up?’ Caleb finished his drink in what I think is a very quick time considering the alcoholic content. This could indicate that my big fat secret is too fatty for his system to absorb and he needs an injection of booze to help it go down. Or it might just be that he likes the taste.
‘Yes, he just turned up one Wednesday teatime. I was doing my homework at the kitchen table and my mother went to answer the door. I heard a muffled cry from the hallway and poked my head round the kitchen door to see what was going on. From behind, my mother looked a bit like a manikin, all angly arms and elbows silhouetted against the porch light, then she slumped against the wall and I watched her shoulders shake up and down. Her sobs came out some time afterwards, as if there was some kind of time lag.’
My words dry up and I’m back in that scene. The smell of toad-in-the-hole drifts from the kitchen, Mother sobs and James is outside, one foot on our step, the other on the driveway, his hand hovering over Mother’s shoulder like a trembling bird afraid of alighting. He looks like a younger version of Dad, only his face is pale and crumpled. Dad’s face has never been crumpled. Well, hardly ever. The only time I saw him cry was when Alfie had to be put to sleep a few years ago.
‘What happened next? You don’t have to go on if it’s too upsetting,’ Caleb says and pats my hand.
I’m not a fan of hand patting; it always feels patronising somehow, even though it’s not meant to be. ‘No, I’m perfectly okay, just thinking.’ I remove my hand in case he’s inclined to do more patting and fold my arms. ‘Mother shouted Dad and he ran in from the living room, startled by the tears in her voice. Then Mother flung herself into his arms and sobbed something into his ear that I couldn’t catch. I came out into the hall and stood behind them all. Dad looked at James and unpeeled himself from Mother. He stepped out and hugged James so tight that he coughed.’
‘Hello, there. Can I get you more drinks at all?’
The waiter’s voice startles us, and we look at each other and pull ‘shall we?’ faces.
Caleb asks for a hot chocolate and I ask for the same again. Even as I do, it occurs to me that it might not be wise. Lunch was at least five hours ago, and a warm buzzy cloud is settling behind my eyes already. Impulsively I ask Caleb to order food too and say that anything he chooses will be perfect. I have never asked anyone to choose food for me before. The thought would normally horrify me; I like to be in control. Never mind, there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?
Food ordered, Caleb says, ‘So what did they say to you? Did James know that he had a sister?’
‘They didn’t say anything to me at the time. And no, he didn’t know, apparently. When James had finished being hugged by Dad he waved at me. My parents turned around and Mother gasped as if I was a fucking apparition or something. I asked who James was and she said, “Never you mind,” and told me to go to my room and stay there until I was called.’ Though I speak quietly there is a rage building inside me that is noisy and strong and indignant, and I want to smash my fist on the table.
Caleb articulates how I feel by saying, ‘What? She shut you out? For fuck’s sake – what was she thinking?’
‘I have no idea. Dad looked a bit unsure but kept his trap shut as usual. I ran upstairs but peepe
d through the spindles on the landing. I saw them all go into the living room and I crept onto the stairs – halfway down so I could try and hear, but if one of them came out I’d have time to run back up before they saw me. I didn’t hear an awful lot though, just snatched words. I seem to remember adopted, search, emotional, and lots of oh my Gods, and Mother sobbing, of course, she’s good at that. When he’d gone we just ate a slightly burnt and cold toad-in-the-hole, while my parents covered the mammoth in the room with a plethora of small talk in helium-high voices.’
‘No wonder you don’t get on with your mother. How could she be so thoughtless? Didn’t she realise that you would want to be included, want to know what had just happened?’ Caleb says through a tight mouth.
‘I don’t think she really cared. She had her son back. A son that made her proud, a son that had almost completed a medical degree, a son that had spent his life wondering about her, a son that she’d abandoned and didn’t really deserve, and I’d been sent to punish her. She thanked God she’d been reunited with James – it made having such a pain in the arse for a daughter more bearable.’
‘WHAT!’ Caleb says just as our drinks arrive. The waiter hovers, unsure. ‘She told you that?’
I smile at the waiter; he does his job and skedaddles. I smile at Caleb too to let him know that I appreciate his anger on my behalf. ‘No. I overheard her talking to Dad the next day. They thought I was at a friend’s, but I came back early and listened at the French windows, peered through a gap in the blinds. They were outside, gardening. After I’d heard her say what I just told you, Dad said something like, “Oh come on, Jen, that’s unfair. Yes, Lottie can be headstrong and yes, odd sometimes. But we still love her, don’t we?” Mother pushed her floppy gardening hat back from her forehead and looked at the sky. Then she said, “Yes I suppose so. But not like I love James. James is my salvation, Lottie is my penance.”’
‘Jeez. Is she religious or something?’
‘No. Just a dramatic, self-centred, Grade A bitch.’
The word ‘bitch’ hangs in the air between us like thick smoke on a windless day. Society would frown upon that word being applied to one’s mother. A part of me frowns, too, but there is no escaping it. The way she behaved back then, and to a large extent now, means that she deserves the title.
‘You say Gwendoline told you all about what happened?’
‘Yes. As I said, Gwendoline said they’d all manage somehow, but my grandfather Gerald said it would be better if they had James adopted. Mother was always one for an easy way out. Of course, she was devastated, loved the boy, but she was easily swayed, apparently. Gwendoline said that she just didn’t try hard enough and put it all behind her quicker than was good for her.’
Caleb sighs and nods, and I’m not sure he understands – but why would he? Like I said before, you can’t know other people’s lives, not really. I say, ‘I think she just flits from one thing to another, she’s no staying power, or real fight, you know? Like she was when Bowie died. She barely acknowledged it, as if it was irrelevant, she’d moved on, forgotten how she felt when she was a teenager. Mother is and was shallow and self-seeking. Dad was pressured by his parents and they were in cahoots with Gerald.’
Our food arrives then, and we eat in silence for a few moments apart from the obligatory mms and nods to indicate that it’s good. Caleb says, ‘What did your parents eventually tell you about James?’
‘A few weeks later Mother told me who he was and that it had nearly killed her when they wrenched him from her young arms. She said she was overjoyed that he’d found her, that he’d ignored the advice about contacting birth mothers by letter, because he’d just wanted to see her face. That’s because he’d known instinctively that she’d want the same, that he was deeply connected to her, had always been, even though they had been apart for twenty-three years.’
‘Did she ask how you felt about it all?’
‘No. She just drip-fed me information, flung her arms about dramatically while doing so, and cried prettily during performances. Mother seemed to think that I should share in her joy at her long-lost son’s return and was most put out when I was less than enthusiastic. I asked Dad about how it all happened, but he just lowered his newspaper and said, “Ask your mother, she’s dealing with this one.” Then he raised the paper again and no more was said.’
‘Unbelievable. Why did they send you for counselling, then?’
‘I refused to see James, said I liked the way it was before he came into our lives, and Mother went crazy. She said all the stuff directly to me that I’d overheard and more. Hateful stuff, wounding stuff. I was a nasty little bitch, hadn’t the brains of my brother, wanted everything my own way, hard to love…’
I stop and pretend to have trouble swallowing a piece of seafood pie. It isn’t the seafood pie. All of a sudden, I don’t want to tell Caleb the reason why I’d been sent to counselling. It makes me feel unsettled. Perhaps some secrets shouldn’t be shared, aired, dragged up from the bottom of an emotional well and spewed out for all to see. ‘I think it’s safe to say that my behaviour after she said those vile things got a bit erratic,’ I say into my glass and take a large swallow.
‘The rudeness to Mr Baldwin?’
‘Yes, but… look, do you mind if we don’t dig it all up? I had counselling… I had anger management issues and unpredictable behaviour issues, let’s leave it there.’ My words have sharp edges and I don’t mean them to.
Caleb looks away and says quietly, ‘Sure, of course. Sorry.’
I don’t want him to feel sorry. It’s not his fault that I can’t tell him the reason, is it? ‘Don’t be sorry. Anyway, the counselling made things worse – made me feel like I was some kind of alien living in a world of nice, normal humans. Yes, I like to be different, but alien was pushing it a bit. From the time I underwent counselling, I never called Mother Mum ever again. As I said before, around the time of the calico cat day, I sometimes used to annoy her by calling her Mother for the sake of it, but normally called her Mum. To call her Mum now might be desirable on occasion, but impossible. It would be giving her more than she deserves.’
‘Yes, Mum is more affectionate, warm, isn’t it? I call my mother Mum or even Ma sometimes,’ Caleb says and grins. Then he hides the grin quickly as if it’s something unseemly. ‘Oh sorry. That was really insensitive, wasn’t it?’
‘No, it’s nice. I don’t want you to change your behaviour because of what I went through.’ That makes me sound like I have been in an accident, or had a terrible illness or something, an attack, a victim. I am so not a victim.
He nods and blinks sympathy from his eyes. ‘What did James say when you eventually met? Do you like him?’
‘Doctor James Vincent, Consultant Dermatologist and I have never met.’
‘Never?’ Caleb has stopped chewing; his knife and fork poised in mid-air makes him resemble a praying mantis – a very surprised, tortilla-eating one.
‘That’s what I said. I refused to be around when he visited. I barricaded myself in my room or ran out. In the end my parents met him elsewhere. Oh, I’m sure he’s nice enough, and none of it was his fault, but I know I couldn’t meet him. I’d be reminded of how my parents feel about him and how they feel about me. That’s not a good basis on which to build a relationship.’
Caleb swallows his mouthful and says, ‘Has he never tried to contact you over the years?’
‘He did phone me once. Mother had reluctantly given him my mobile number. I think it must have been about ten years ago now. She told him there was no point and she was right. The conversation didn’t last long. I said it was nothing personal, but I couldn’t meet him. James encouraged me to explain how the whole situation made me feel. I said it made me feel like I was the old piece of broken crockery shoved at the back of a cupboard and kept for sentimental reasons, while he was the revered best dinner service brought out on special occasions.’
Caleb stares at me intently across the table until I feel like he’s re
aching into my mind. Then I see his eyes fill with tears and heat rises up my neck. I don’t know what to do about it – I’m not good with tears unless they’re mine, and I certainly don’t allow those out much.
He says, ‘Oh, my poor Lottie. How you must have suffered.’
There is something about his manner and words that make me think I’ve strayed onto the set of a period drama. I don’t know what to do or say, but I know that laughter is on its way into my throat. What would you do? I guess you would force the laughter back down, say, ‘Please don’t get upset, I’m okay, really.’ You might even reach out and pat his hand once or twice. I, however, make my excuses and flee to the lavatory where I can laugh in peace.
Caleb looks more like himself when I return, and we agree to leave my past alone for the remainder of the evening. We talk about lots of different things, and, as we do, in a different compartment of my brain, I simultaneously assess the success of the big fat secret reveal. Overall, I think it has gone quite well. Caleb must now be able to add more information to his ‘getting to know me better’ collection, and my heart tells me we have grown the closer for it. Yes, Caleb is definitely a friend. He’s certainly the best friend I have ever had.
8
A Great Idea
An old 1960s song has somehow got itself lodged in his consciousness. It was there at 3 a.m. when he went for a pee and it’s still there now. Caleb stretches out under his duvet and yawns into the pillow. Sod off, pretty flamingo, la, la la. Why would anyone liken a woman to a flamingo? They look awkward; they have a huge beak and tiny beady eyes. Lottie for one would tell him to sod off if he called her a pretty flamingo. That’s par for the course with her though; any kind of compliment earns him a frown rather than a smile.
Like the song, Lottie is always lodged in his head these days. He throws off the duvet and looks through the curtains. Another glorious day and a Sunday, too. He wonders if Lottie has made a start on the other eye of the calico cat yet. She said she wanted an early start on it and that he shouldn’t come over because she wanted to spend the day painting.