Messy, Wonderful Us

by Catherine Isaac

  ‘I love you.’

  He glanced over and ruffled my head. ‘I love you too. Shall we get fish and chips on the way home?’

  Fish and chip nights – when Dad hadn’t had time to go to the supermarket – were my favourite. They summed up everything about our messy, wonderful existence. We’d arrive back home an hour after the central heating timer had kicked in and would snuggle up on the sofa next to each other before unwrapping the paper, unleashing the mouthwatering smell of vinegar and salt. When we’d finished, he’d pick up his guitar and play a song that I only discovered years later was ‘Ain’t No Sunshine’ by Bill Withers. He didn’t sing and, in those days, I didn’t know the lyrics to that aching, melancholy tune. I just knew that I loved the way Dad’s fingers gently picked at the strings, filling the space around us with music while the rain pummelled the windows outside.

  *

  It was only later on, as I got a bit older, that I became aware that Dad hardly ever went out anymore, not for fun anyway. When Mum had been alive they were always at concerts together; she’d loved music and, according to Grandma Peggy, had had a vast and precious collection of records, which burgeoned after she got a Saturday job in a chemist and spent all her money on everything from Prince’s first album to The Cure’s Seventeen Seconds. She and Dad had seen dozens of bands live – The Smiths, Erasure, Transvision Vamp – and, in between those concerts, simply had lots of friends who they’d go to the pub with; Sally and Tim from over the road, Uncle Peter and Aunt Sara.

  Grandma Peggy still looked after me every so often so Dad could go out, but it was nothing like as much as before as they’d largely socialised with other couples. Grandma said it wasn’t as enjoyable for Dad anymore. Besides he preferred to spend the money on paying the mortgage and saving up for our holidays.

  He did occasionally see his friends Steve and Mark, with whom he’d previously spent each Friday night when he was off duty playing cards and drinking beer at the pub down our road. Every couple of months or so, they would arrive carrying plastic Thresher’s bags filled with lager cans and a Yorkie bar for me.

  I liked those nights, even though they kept me awake because they were always shouting at the football on the TV. Although they would never swear in my presence, as soon as I got upstairs they’d start using all kinds of words that I knew Grandma would call ‘choice language’, while Dad tried to tell them to shush so I couldn’t hear. But I could hear – and expanded my vocabulary quite significantly during those nights. Mainly though, I liked those Friday evenings because it put Dad in a good mood for days afterwards, as if he’d remembered what it was like to be the real him.

  It took until the age of nine though before I really became aware of how little back-up he had. Whenever he was sick – just a cold or whatever – there was nobody to take over. Parents work in a tag team, stepping in when the other can’t. But in Dad’s case there was just him and my grandparents. Grandma Peggy was always keen to help, leaping in at a moment’s notice. But she had other things on her plate, not least the fact that my great-grandma – her mum – was in a nursing home slowly dying of Alzheimer’s and she would visit most days after work. And Dad only ever conceded when he was desperate, as if doing so made him less of a parent.

  It was at about that time when he sat me down gently and asked if I knew anything about the Facts of Life.

  ‘Yes, I know everything,’ I replied confidently. He looked alarmed.

  ‘Okay,’ he swallowed. ‘Well, would you like to start by telling me . . . everything? Then I can fill in any gaps.’

  ‘Okay. Well, the largest land-based mammals on earth are elephants.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Also, unlike humans, cows and horses sleep while standing up.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s quite—’

  ‘The Amazon rainforest produces half the world’s oxygen supply.’

  ‘Allie, when I said the facts of life, that wasn’t really what I meant.’

  ‘Why? They’re all true. I’ll show you my Amazing Science Facts book if you like.’

  But it wasn’t just the touchy-feely stuff for which he had to step up. There was one incident I recall when the PE teacher, Mrs Benson, thought I’d broken my jaw after Louise Watson had done a handspring without checking the vicinity for other pupils. Her foot clipped me on the mouth and the resulting blood loss made Serena Ahmed pass out.

  There was a lot of fuss and they called and called Dad at work, but couldn’t reach him so they had to leave a message while Mrs Benson drove me to hospital. We arrived at the reception desk at exactly the same time as Dad, looking even more flustered than he did on the after-school club nights. Mrs Benson was midway through explaining the situation when the receptionist looked at Dad.

  ‘Are you the father?’ she asked.

  Dad was in such a state that he couldn’t even answer the question. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I was just asking you to confirm that you are the father?’ the receptionist answered.

  ‘Oh. Sorry.’ Then we all waited for Dad to actually answer the question but he didn’t say anything.

  ‘Yes, he is,’ Mrs Benson finally replied and put us all out of our misery.

  Chapter 28

  We stroll along the neat cobbles of the promenade towards a clutch of fishing boats tied up at the edge of the water, as I look up the address given to us by the waiter on my phone. Ed pauses to take in the view of the castle, a behemoth of a construction that demands to be looked at, with its honey-coloured medieval ramparts and brooding, mountainous backdrop.

  ‘It’s a few miles outside Verona,’ I tell him, as I search for the best way to get there. It turns out not to be a straightforward journey. ‘We’d have to find the station here, to get a train to Peschiera. From there, we’d travel to Verona, then it’s quite a long walk to the house itself.’

  Ed appears to be deep in thought, his eyes fixed on the chestnut trees on the horizon. ‘Let’s look for a taxi,’ he says.

  We make our way through the town, navigating narrow streets with crumbling pastel walls and balconies that tumble with flowers. We find a cab on the outskirts, and settle in to the back seat, taking quiet refuge from the heat. The car winds up a series of gently rising hills, towards the main road and it’s when we are half an hour away that my phone rings. I reach into my bag and, when I see Julia’s number, silence the handset and slip it back in. ‘Just Petra, probably wanting to fill me in on the gossip at work.’

  He looks out of the window as the driver turns into a dusty road, and I text Julia back:

  With Ed. I’ll phone soon. x

  A message lands shortly afterwards:

  Is everything okay? How is he right now? xxx

  I bite the skin on the inside of my mouth, feeling increasingly uncomfortable at the idea of discussing him with her. Then I remind myself what she’s going through, that she’s clearly desperate for some reassurance.

  He seems to have perked up a little today x

  I feel Ed’s eyes on my hands as I tuck the phone back in my bag.

  ‘Tinder,’ I lie.

  He raises an eyebrow. ‘You’re choosing now to check out the local talent?’

  ‘There was just someone there who seemed nice. Quite a catch actually.’

  He fixes his eyes on the road. ‘Now I know you’re lying.’

  When the driver’s sat nav says we’re less than half a mile away from our destination, I spot a sign for a shopping centre. I unscrew my bottle of water and down the final third of it. ‘Could we pull in here to get something to drink?’ I ask. ‘We’ve run out.’

  Ed leans in to talk to the driver, who flicks on his indicator. ‘I’ll get us some,’ he tells me. ‘You wait here.’

  He steps out of the car and, as he walks away, I dial Julia’s number. She answers after a single ring.

  ‘Allie, thank you so much for phoning. I can’t stop thinking about you both.’

  ‘It’s fine, Julia. The least I can do.’

 
; ‘You said he was a little brighter today?’

  ‘Kind of. A little up and down, really. One minute he’s his old self, the next he’s a bit quiet.’

  ‘That’s been building up for weeks. I know how difficult it is to deal with, Allie. You’re a real saint.’

  ‘I’ve got a long way to go to sainthood, Julia.’

  She makes a ‘hmm’ noise, halfway between a smile and a murmur. ‘Have you visited many places? I love Northern Italy. We used to go there when I was child.’

  ‘We went to a place called Torri del Benaco today.’

  ‘Oh, beautiful,’ she sighs. ‘I bet he loved it. I so wish I could’ve been there with him myself.’ An uncomfortable silence hangs between us, until her gentle sobs become audible.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Julia,’ is all I can think to say.

  She sniffs. ‘Thank you, Allie. Has he talked to you about what caused this yet?’

  ‘Not . . . really, to be honest.’

  ‘So, he hasn’t told you about what has been happening between him and me?’

  ‘Julia, that’s your business,’ I tell her. ‘Ed and I are close but I’d never intrude on what goes on in your marriage and he’d never be anything other than discreet.’

  ‘Okay,’ she replies quietly. There’s something about the way she says it, as if all hope is lost, that makes an urge to comfort her swell up inside me.

  ‘So you know, Julia . . . I’ve made it clear to Ed that if he’s not careful he’s going to throw away the best thing that’s happened to him.’

  ‘Thank you, Allie. I mean that. We’ve had our ups and downs. We’ve both said and done things we regret. But, no matter what’s he’s done . . . I still love him. I can’t help myself.’

  Chapter 29

  The address on the business card takes us to an uninspiring neighbourhood on the edge of Verona. I realise that this is probably an unfair assessment; virtually anywhere would look uninspiring compared with the Villa Cortine Palace Hotel. We make our way through the car park of a boxy apartment block with balconies overlooking a sparse but well-kept garden, and find ourselves at a faded green door shaded by a plastic canopy.

  My heart feels tight in my chest as Ed knocks on the door and a woman answers. She’s in her late fifties, dressed in a pencil skirt, cardigan and orange flats, with a waved bob that frames her face.

  ‘Posso aiutarti?’ she asks.

  Ed shows her the picture and begins to talk. I follow little of the actual conversation, but her body language shifts enough through the course of it to make me realise that the photograph means something to her. Eventually she opens the door and with a convivial smile, invites us in.

  I glance at Ed. ‘Stefano is a friend of her husband’s,’ he tells me, following her inside. But he pauses at the threshold and adds quietly: ‘She’s asked me twice about why we’re tracking him down, whether Christine has left him some money. What would you like me to say?’

  With a bolt of anxiety, I fix my eyes on him. ‘Just say . . . at this point we, um . . . can’t divulge that. Really, it’s not about the money. I’m sure when he hears her name, he’ll be wondering what had happened to her. That’s why they’re so keen to find him. That and other reasons.’

  Ed’s brow wrinkles at this trail of nonsense and it’s clear he won’t be bothering to translate it. The woman invites us to take a seat on one of two small sofas arranged around a coffee table. The room is tightly packed with furniture and a sewing machine sits in the corner, surrounded by a mountain of fabric.

  ‘Mia figlia si sposa tra quattro mesi,’ she says, before settling her gaze on me and delivering a long and detailed story in Italian, none of which I understand.

  ‘She’s making her daughter’s wedding dress,’ Ed explains.

  ‘Ah, wonderful! Bueno!’

  ‘Complimenti,’ he adds.

  For half an hour, Ed translates and our host talks and talks, furnishing us with a glut of information for which we don’t even have to ask. Stefano, she says, has been friends with her husband Gino since they worked together at an award-winning seventy-acre vineyard, La Cavalletta, producing wine from Lugana grapes. Gino was a logistics coordinator until he retired early last year with ambitious plans to start up a wine festival in his spare time. Sadly, it didn’t work out. Her until now congenial expression changes as she launches into a tale of betrayal, back-stabbing and financial ruin for which she blames several individuals, judging by her liberal hand gestures and repeated use of the word ‘bastardo’.

  Ed gently guides her away from this tangent by asking her how often Gino sees Stefano. She says that they get together infrequently these days, but Stefano always makes time to visit Gino when he’s in the area. She vaguely remembers him saying he was half-British, but can shed no more light on his time in Liverpool.

  ‘E una brava person,’ she concludes.

  ‘He’s a good man,’ Ed translates.

  ‘Is she saying that Stefano doesn’t work at the vineyard any longer?’ I ask.

  Ed puts the question to her and she shakes her head, but as she begins to reply, she is interrupted by the crank of a key in the door.

  ‘Ah, Gino!’ She stands up to greet her husband, before starting to make some introductions.

  Gino steps forward silently, his eyes fixed on Ed as she continues talking, explaining who we are. He offers an unsure hand for Ed to shake, but when his wife mentions Stefano’s name, the curiosity knitted on his brow darkens into something else. He pulls away his hand and turns to his wife furiously: ‘Cosa diavolo ti viene in mente di parlare di alla gente di Stefano? Non ti rendi conto di cos’hai fatto?’

  I can follow none of the ensuing conversation as it billows up like a mushroom cloud into a full-blown argument. But we stand in silent, redundant astonishment, as Gino yells at his wife and she yells back, until Ed finally tries to interject, to protest strongly to something. Gino does not want to know. He simply opens the door, ordering us both out.

  ‘He thinks we’re up to no good,’ Ed explains as we shuffle outside.

  I spin round and try to explain, but the door closes in my face while the muffled sounds of marital discord vibrate through the windows.

  My first instinct is to get out of there as fast as we can so I quickly make my way back to the road. But as we turn the corner into the street, something makes my legs slow.

  ‘We’re getting nowhere fast here,’ I say, more to myself than Ed. I sit down on a low, concrete wall as heat rises from the tarmac on the road and my eyes blur onto the dusty bonnet of a Fiat Panda. The thought of returning to the UK with no more answers than those with which I arrived lies heavy in my stomach. ‘Maybe I need to be braver.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean . . . they know Stefano. They know him personally and are in touch with him. Getting hold of a current address clearly isn’t going to be easy, so perhaps the only way I’m ever going to resolve this whole thing is by trying to make contact, either through this couple or the letting agency.’

  ‘They didn’t seem too inclined to help,’ he points out.

  ‘No,’ I murmur. ‘But I can’t bear leaving them with the conclusion that we’re just a pair of charlatans. Have you got a pen?’

  I take a notepad out of my bag and tear out a page. Then I pass it to Ed and ask him to write a message in Italian for me:

  ‘Hello, I am sorry for the misunderstanding earlier, but our search for Stefano McCourt is for entirely honourable reasons. I am from the UK, representing the family of an old friend of his called Christine Culpepper. If you are in touch with him, I’d be very grateful if you could please pass on my email address.’ I hesitate. ‘And . . . also my phone number. Thanks, Allie.’

  ‘Sounds a bit informal. No surname?’ Ed asks.

  ‘I don’t want them to know I’m Christine’s daughter. Not yet.’

  While Ed orders a taxi on his phone, I return to the apartment. My footsteps are rapid and so is the fluttering inside my ribcage, but I’m
relieved to arrive at the door and find it in silence. I bend down and place the note on the floor, pushing it under the threshold. But before it disappears completely I pause and breathe. Then I nudge it inside, far enough that there’s absolutely no going back.

  Chapter 30

  In our final year at school, Ed and I had to apply for university. My first choice was Physiology at Cardiff, at their highly regarded department, which is ranked in the UK top ten. I’d fallen in love with the place at an open day during the summer, when I’d struck up conversation with a research associate in their neuroscience division and walked away feeling an almost magnetic pull back.

  In the meantime, Ed’s mum and dad had been contacted by the head teacher, who arranged a meeting at their home. He felt strongly that Ed should sit the entrance exam at Oxford, to study physics, and he wanted their full support. If he got in, he’d be the first boy in the history of the school to go.

  I couldn’t help but imagine my own dad’s elation if we’d found ourselves in a situation like that. His fierce determination to grasp every opportunity possible for me was partly instinct, but partly the fulfilment of my mother’s wishes. She’d never measured her own life as a series of stunted opportunities, but the twists and turns of history had snatched a great deal from her and she’d been determined to ensure the same would not happen to me. As a girl, she’d been bright, ambitious and focused. She’d wanted to be a journalist and would no doubt have ended up at university if she hadn’t fallen pregnant in her final year of A levels.

  ‘She loved how clever you were,’ Dad once told me. ‘The fact that you always had your head in a book and could count before all the other kids at playgroup. She wanted to give you the world. When she knew she wouldn’t be around to do so, she made it clear that it was up to me.’

  Ed’s mum and dad would have wanted to give him the world too. But a parent’s means don’t always match their hopes, no matter how fiercely held. And I always suspected money might be an issue for them.