One Good Thing, page 32
The central heating in the bungalow felt toasty and warm after being outside and, removing his layers, he went into the kitchen to start brewing the tea. Olivia joined him, reaching for the tray on top of the cabinets and getting out cups and saucers. She was taller than him, so she didn’t need the little stepladder, and she knew where everything was now. As she reached for the cutlery drawer, he felt a reassuring companionship that comes from someone else knowing where you keep your teaspoons.
She was just putting them on the saucers when there was a chirping noise. It sounded like a cricket.
‘What’s that?’
‘Oh, it’s my phone. It’s to say I’ve got a new email.’
‘Well, I never.’ Valentine watched as she pulled it out of her pocket and tapped the screen.
‘You know, we should get you a smartphone, Valentine – you’d love it.’
‘I’ve got a mobile phone.’
‘Which you never turn on. Plus it’s about a hundred years old.’
Choosing not to hear her, he reached for a canister of loose-leaf tea. All these newfangled gadgets. He couldn’t understand the obsession. They only lasted two minutes before you had to buy a brand-new one. ‘Upgrade’ – that’s what the sales assistant had called it, when he’d popped into the phone shop in town to see about a new battery, only to be told they didn’t make them for that model any more. ‘Daylight robbery’ more like. Now tea: that had been around for thousands of years and the practice was still the same as it always was.
‘Ooh, look, it’s from the genealogy website – you’ve got your results.’
‘I’d forgotten all about that.’ His finger curled around the Orange Pekoe, but at the list minute he changed his mind. Today called for Lapsang Souchong with its smoky pinewood flavour, which always reminded him of autumn.
‘Great news! The moment you’ve been waiting for is here. Click the link to see the results and your matches.’ Olivia read aloud from her phone while the kettle boiled and then flicked off.
‘Matches – what kind of matches?’
‘Oh, they always find distant cousins.’ She tapped the screen of her phone. ‘But you never know, it might really help you with your family tree.’
‘Well, that’s the thing. I’ve been wondering what’s the point, what with Gisele and Helen both being gone now.’
Olivia raised her eyes to him then, her face sympathetic.
‘Does there have to be a point to everything?’ she asked, shrugging her shoulders. ‘Can’t you do something simply because you enjoy it? Like dancing. Or birdwatching. Or trainspotting.’
‘Nay, it’s not that bad – let’s not go that far,’ Valentine grumbled, and she laughed as he poured the water into the teapot and added two scoops of tea.
‘Anyway, I think genealogy is far from pointless. I love finding out about our ancestors. How we’re all interconnected. It’s fascinating.’
‘So tell me, am I related to royalty then?’
Lifting the tray, he carried it into the living room. Harry had made himself comfortable on the blanket that he’d put on the sofa, and was asleep in the patch of sunlight streaming in the window. Olivia pretended not to notice.
‘Hang on, I’m logging in . . . I just need to remember your username.’
‘Username? What’s that for?’
‘It’s an alternative to using your real name, for security purposes.’
‘Bloody hell, they don’t half make it complicated.’
Sitting down at the table, he poured the tea while she peered at her screen.
‘It says your ethnicity is forty per cent British, thirty-five per cent Scottish, twenty per cent Irish—’
‘Well, that’ll be on my mother’s side.’
‘And there’s even five per cent Iberian Peninsula.’
‘Where’s that, then?’
‘Spain and Portugal.’
‘Well, the Spanish Armada did capsize off Ireland,’ he nodded, passing her the milk.
‘Ooh, and you’ve got some matches.’
‘What did I tell you? I’m landed gentry. Duke Valentine of North Yorkshire,’ he chuckled and sipped his tea, only Olivia didn’t laugh.
‘Well, that can’t be right.’ Her forehead creased into a sharp frown. ‘There must be some mistake.’
‘Why, what’s up?’
‘It says you’ve got a ninety-nine per cent match.’
Now it was Valentine’s turn to frown. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Hang on, there’s a thumbnail photo . . .’ She peered at her screen. ‘No, but that’s impossible.’ She turned the phone to him, so that he could see, but he shook his head.
‘It’s all blurry – I need my glasses.’
There was a pause and he noticed Olivia looking at him funnily.
‘It says parent/child . . .’
‘What?’
‘It says you’ve got another child.’
Silence. It was as if someone suddenly sucked the air out of the room. Valentine felt his cup slip from his fingers, the china splintering as it crashed onto the table, the tea spilling onto the carpet.
‘Oh God!’
‘It’s OK, don’t worry, I’ll get a cloth.’ Olivia jumped up.
‘What I have done? I’ve made such a mess.’ He tried to scoop up the pieces of broken china, but a shard pierced his skin.
‘Oh no, you’re bleeding.’ Quickly grabbing a napkin, she reached for his hands.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t worry. It’s nothing.’
‘No, you don’t understand.’
She looked up at Valentine then, holding his hands tightly in hers, stopping him from falling, as shame washed over him.
‘I had an affair.’
WhatsApp with Naomi
Can you and Danny swing?
Is this a sex
question?
No! I’ve organized a dance at the
village hall for the grand opening.
Do you want to come?
Yes.
I’ve hired a band
and there’ll be a bar.
I’ve already said yes.
Great! Btw you won’t have
to sleep in a tent this time.
I loved sleeping in a tent!
Not in December.
Brrr. Good point.
What’s the band called?
Shake, Rattle and Roll.
That sounds like your sex
life when you’re fifty.
Ha!
I’m serious.
You sure it’s not a sex thing?
Forgiveness
With the opening night of the village hall drawing ever closer, the next few weeks are taken up with preparations to make sure everything is ready in time. November passes in a bit of a blur. Bonfire night comes and goes. I stay home with Harry because of the fireworks, although I’m glad of the excuse; after the fire at Ben’s house, I worried it would bring back too many painful memories.
The days are much shorter now, but I wake to beautiful misty mornings. Trees shed their leaves while the rest of us pull on layers of gloves and scarves and jumpers. I rake the leaves into a big pile in the garden and harvest the last of my vegetables. The slugs ate the beans, but I have so many carrots and beets that I find myself googling how to make chutney. Me, making chutney! Who would have thought it?
As the nights draw in, I’m thankful for my new log-burner and spend my evenings cosied up in front of it with Harry who, despite the no-dogs-on-the-sofa rule, has now taken up residence next to me on the sofa. Though technically he’s not on the sofa, as I cover it with a blanket. And yes, I know I’m fooling myself.
But mostly my life is spent at my kitchen table drawing up endless lists, which seem to grow ever longer. As quickly as I cross one thing off, another is added. In a way I’m pleased I’m so busy as it stops me thinking about Ben. He gradually stopped replying to my texts, so in the end I stopped sending them.
In between organizing caterers, printing posters and finalizing the calendar of events, at the beginning of December I make a quick trip into town to try to find a dress for the dance. The high street is decorated for Christmas and there’s a steady stream of shoppers. I duck away from the crowds and into the quieter back streets and narrow Victorian alleyways, where there’s a string of vintage and charity shops, selling clothes and jewellery.
It’s there I run into Ajay. We smile and say our hellos. He read about the fire in the newspaper and asks how I am. Fine, I say, asking how he is. He’s good, finally having decided to take the plunge and do what he loves: I’m looking at a personal trainer now. We laugh about something that I can’t remember. I tell him I’m looking for a dress for the dance and invite him to come. He replies that he’s looking for a present for his girlfriend and I invite her too. Is that weird? I don’t know. It doesn’t feel weird.
We say our goodbyes and he gives me a hug. I hug him back and we go our separate ways – our lives like train tracks, crossing briefly and crossing over again. Which makes me think about Valentine. Is that he how he felt about his affair? Just a brief encounter, someone with whom his life fleetingly crossed over, before crossing back again. Never knowing that it had produced a child.
With December come the plunging temperatures and wet weather that the forecasters have been promising. It rains for days, and I skip my morning walks as it’s too cold and wet for Harry’s arthritis. One morning, watching the rivulets run down the panes of my bedroom window, I notice a familiar flash of pink-and-white polka dots bobbing through the graveyard. It’s Valentine with his umbrella. I wonder how he’s feeling. It was all such a shock that day. I’d sent off the DNA test with such casual curiosity, as a fun way of helping with his hobby, but now his life had been rocked with an emotional fallout that neither of us could have imagined.
Since then we haven’t seen much of each other. He’s been busy too, in charge of an army of volunteers helping to finish painting and decorating the village hall. But in truth I think we’ve both been avoiding the consequences of our actions. He unknowingly fathered a child, and I unintentionally found that child. And, like a genie that’s been let out of the bottle, a secret has been discovered and Valentine needs to decide what to do about it.
‘You had an affair?’
I think back to our conversation that day several weeks ago in Valentine’s living room. I remember my disbelief. How he’d gone pale, almost grey, as he tried to explain.
‘It was after Helen was born. Gisele wasn’t herself. They’ve got a name for it now, but they didn’t in those days. She’d just sit on her bed and cry.’ He started speaking, his voice low. ‘She wasn’t interested in the baby, or me, or anything. I didn’t know what to do. I was out working all hours to try and pay the rent. At first I was sympathetic, but after a while I lost patience . . .’
He swallowed hard, the guilt in his eyes palpable.
‘I got frustrated. I told Gisele to pull herself together – that she had a daughter to look after.’
‘You were probably tired.’ I tried to make excuses, but he wouldn’t let me.
‘There’s no excuse for what I did.’ He shook his head, his voice almost breaking. ‘If that wasn’t bad enough, when she did finally bond with Helen, instead of being happy I felt rejected. It was like I didn’t exist and I got jealous. Jealous of my own daughter: what kind man does that make me?’
Pain flashed across Valentine’s face and my instinct was to comfort him, but I couldn’t find the right words.
‘And there was this woman I was doing some decorating for. She lived on the other side of town. She paid me attention. Flattered me, I suppose. And I was weak and stupid and . . .’ His voice trailed off and he couldn’t bear to look at me. ‘It only lasted a couple of weeks, if that. One evening I walked into the house and Gisele was in the chair rocking Helen, fast asleep, and they looked perfect. They were perfect. And I suddenly realized I risked losing everything I’d ever wanted.’
He hung his head with shame then, while I absorbed his story, trying to make sense of the emotions being triggered in me.
‘I swore I’d never take them for granted again – never do anything like that again – and I swear to God I kept my word. I never saw the woman again.’
Valentine was asking me to believe him and I did believe him. And I believed that he was sorry. And yet I couldn’t help thinking how he’d cheated on Gisele, just as David had cheated on me, and that his confession felt almost like a personal betrayal.
‘But then when Helen died all those years later, I felt like it was my fault. Like I was being punished. I’m not a religious man, but it felt as if God was making me pay for what I’d done – for being unfaithful, for being jealous of my little girl.’
‘But that’s nonsense.’
‘Is it, though?’ His face was racked with pain and, despite my own hurt, I felt a sudden need to protect him.
‘No God worth believing in is going to sit in judgement,’ I told Valentine firmly and, even as I said it, I knew that I couldn’t, either.
‘But I did something very wrong. I betrayed Gisele. I was jealous of my own daughter.’
‘Helen had an asthma attack,’ I said firmly. ‘She didn’t have her inhaler. It was nothing to do with you. It was an accident. It’s not your fault.’
‘But if I hadn’t cheated on my wife . . .’
‘What? Helen wouldn’t have suffered from asthma? She wouldn’t have forgotten her inhaler?’ I looked at him then across the table, my face stern. ‘You know that’s not true, don’t you? You loved your daughter, and she loved you. You mustn’t blame yourself. It was a tragic, tragic accident. You have to believe me.’ I heard my voice rising and felt a sense of urgency.
‘Why?’
‘Because if you’re responsible for what happened to Helen, then I’m responsible for what happened to my sister, Josie,’ I blurted out.
He stared at me, his attention caught.
There’s a beat and then, ‘What happened to your sister?’
I hesitated and swallowed hard. ‘That’s just it – I don’t know. She’s been missing for two years. She could be dead, for all I know.’
It was the first time I’d said those words out loud, so terrified had I been that by articulating my worst fear, I’d make it come true. Yet at the same I felt suddenly unburdened, freed of their crushing weight.
‘Missing? You never said.’ Valentine’s face creased with concern. ‘But why is that your fault?
It was a question I’d asked myself a million times.
‘Because I was supposed to look after her,’ I said simply. ‘Before my mum died, I always remember her telling me to be a good girl. “Look after your sister for me, she’s not as strong as you are—”’ I break off, casting my mind back. ‘My sister’s older than me, but she’s always been more fragile. Though you’d never think it.’
I stared down at my hands, twisting them in my lap.
‘She was always so creative and witty; all the boys wanted to be with her, and all the girls wanted to be her. But she’d get so homesick on school trips that Dad would have to bring her home. We used to share a bedroom when we stayed at my grandparents, and she used to cry in the night . . . I’d crawl under the covers and spoon her until she fell asleep.’
Reminded of her soft warmth, I drifted back for a few moments. ‘I don’t know why I’m telling you all this – it’s not important.’
But Valentine shook his head. ‘Yes, it is,’ he urged. ‘It is important. Memories are important. It’s what we’re all made up of.’ He blinked hard and I knew he was thinking of Gisele and Helen. ‘I want you to tell me about her.’
There was so much to say. Where did I start?
‘Josie’s like a bright light. She’s either on or off.’ I conjured up my big sister, starting with the broadest strokes. ‘She’ll get ideas and be so excited; she was so much fun when we were growing up . . .’ I smiled, remembering. ‘But then she’d exhaust herself and get in these dark moods where I couldn’t reach her.’
I paused, the memories painful.
‘When we were young we didn’t understand mental illness, nobody spoke about it then; it would be years till she was finally diagnosed with bipolar.’
I raised my eyes to meet Valentine’s. He was looking at me, his face filled with concern.
‘She got a scholarship to art college to do photography, but she fell into the wrong crowd, drinking, doing drugs . . . For a while it was like we lost her, but then she got on the right medication and won a prestigious award and moved to New York.’ I smiled, remembering her excitement. ‘Dad and I were so proud – it’s what she’d dreamed of, yet we were worried . . . but America seemed to suit her. Everything here always felt too small for Josie, like wearing clothes that don’t fit. She seemed to find it constricting, too claustrophobic. But there it’s like she bloomed; she made friends, had boyfriends, she seemed happy—’
I broke off, feeling the familiar pangs of guilt. Was she really happy or had that just been me, newly married and projecting my own thoughts?
‘But after Dad died, everything seemed to unravel. Josie stopped taking her medication and started drinking again. She asked to borrow money. I was always helping her with her rent and David and I used to argue about it. He said she was old enough to look after herself, that she had to sort herself out, that we couldn’t keep bailing her out . . . Thing is, I’d never admit it, but I knew he was right. I was just enabling her.’
I’d gone over this in my mind so many times, replaying the chain of events.
‘So the last time Josie asked for a loan, I said no. I offered to fly out there instead, to go and see her doctors, help her get the right treatment, but she said she didn’t want my pity. We got into a big row and she slammed the phone down. I think she was drunk or high, or both. A week later I got word from her landlord that she’d moved out of her apartment without paying the rent. No one knew where. She wouldn’t answer emails, texts . . . After a while her phone was disconnected . . .’
I had a sudden memory of the panic.
‘I tried contacting her friends, her ex-boyfriend, but no one’s heard from her. I even filed a missing persons, but the police aren’t interested; she’s a grown woman, and as far as they’re concerned, she can take care of herself.’
