In Another Life, page 28
71
2022 – Ripon
Natalie had been in Bronte’s shop now for almost an hour, but Bronte didn’t feel she knew much more than she had done before she arrived. Natalie fidgeted, picked at her nails, fiddled with her cuffs. She took hold of things, twirling them round in her fingers and then putting them back down in a different place. She seemed reluctant to make eye contact. Bronte couldn’t remember ever meeting anyone who was quite as agitated.
‘Shall we go for a walk?’ Bronte said suddenly. ‘It’s a lovely afternoon. I’ll shut the shop and we can wander down to the canal. Or a pub? Would you rather go for a drink?’
‘A walk,’ replied Natalie. ‘I don’t drink much. Not at all really. It never seemed wise.’
‘Why not?’ asked Bronte. Under normal circumstances she wouldn’t have been so direct, but it felt that every time Natalie opened her mouth the mystery of why she had been missing got deeper.
‘At the start, I needed to keep my wits about me,’ she said. ‘And then, well, I was on and off medication for a while.’
Despite her frustration, Bronte didn’t feel she could ask what the medication had been for, but she stored the detail up for examination later.
‘A walk it is then. Just give me a minute to get locked up.’
Bronte closed the shop without leaving a note of explanation. If anyone came, they would just have to be disappointed. Getting to the bottom of things with her aunt was more important than any potential lost sale and she still had the feeling that Natalie might bolt at any moment if she wasn’t careful. She couldn’t risk turning her back for even a second.
They stepped out into the bright street and headed away from the market square and down towards the canal. With the traffic noise and the busy pavement it was difficult to talk, so they simply walked side by side in silence. When there wasn’t room for two abreast Bronte took the lead, resisting the temptation to keep checking behind her that Natalie was still there. However, once they got to the canal they could stroll along the quieter towpath, which was much more conducive to conversation.
The time had come, Bronte felt, to be honest. If her questions scared Natalie away then so be it, but they couldn’t keep dancing around one another forever.
‘Why don’t you just start at the beginning,’ she suggested, ‘and tell me all of it.’
And to Bronte’s surprise, Natalie did. She told her of the summer when her parents, Bronte’s grandparents, had died. And then about Loretta going to work on Fleet Street, how proud Natalie had been of her but how she had struggled to pull her own life back on track. After that, she had taken a job looking after some children in Sicily. She talked about how she thought she had found her place in the world, how much she loved the colours of Italy after the drabness of London.
‘It sounds idyllic there,’ said Bronte wistfully. ‘I’d love to live abroad. Don’t suppose I ever will though.’
‘You’re only twenty-nine, right?’ asked Natalie.
Bronte was taken aback that her estranged aunt would know this detail, but she nodded.
‘Then how can you say that you’ll never live abroad?’
Everything that Bronte knew about herself told her that the idea of living anywhere other than Yorkshire was preposterous. However, Natalie didn’t know the first thing about her.
‘It’s just not very likely,’ she began. ‘There’s the shop, and Dad, and, well, where would I go? I don’t speak any languages and I’m not that practical. I can’t see how it would ever work.’
‘So you’ve written it off. Closed your mind to the possibilities?’ Natalie said baldly.
Had she? Wasn’t it rather that she was being pragmatic? Bronte had always liked to think so. She was nothing if not realistic, but now she began to wonder whether she might not be using practicalities as an excuse. After all, if she had really wanted to live abroad, what had been stopping her?
‘Maybe,’ she conceded. ‘I haven’t really thought about it, but yes. I suppose you might be right.’
They walked on in silence, Bronte very aware that nothing Natalie had told her about her past so far would explain the apparent estrangement. The dark waters of the canal lay very still and the reflections of the clouds scudded across its surface. On the opposite bank a duck quacked noisily, shattering the tranquillity.
‘And why did you and Mum lose touch?’ Bronte asked.
‘Well, we didn’t,’ snapped Natalie. ‘We never did. But it wasn’t safe to come out into the open. I had to protect her.’
Then Natalie explained and Bronte listened, her incredulity barely hidden. The story sounded like something out of a novel, running from the Mafia, hiding out for years, for decades. That Natalie hadn’t been well was clear, but what struck Bronte was the extraordinary lengths her mother had gone to, to make Natalie feel safe. Then again, hadn’t her mother always done that, for everyone she met? She had been so loved because she made everyone feel that they were the most important person in the room. Why wouldn’t she have done this for her own sister too? Viewed in those terms, what Loretta had done did make a crooked kind of sense.
‘And you had no idea that I existed?’ asked Natalie.
‘None,’ replied Bronte. ‘She never said a word.’
Natalie stared off towards the distant hills.
‘She kept my secret for all those years,’ she said, shaking her head slowly. ‘What I made her do was farcical, looking back, but she did it anyway. And she never complained. Not once. She loved that job at the paper, but she gave it all up because I asked her to. Demanded, really. And now she’s gone and I can never say thank you.’
Natalie’s voice cracked and Bronte glanced across at her aunt. Tears glistened on her cheeks and Natalie wiped them away brusquely with the flat of her hand. Bronte swallowed down the lump in her own throat.
‘It took me years to see that I had made a mistake,’ said Natalie. ‘I was so convinced that I was right, running and hiding, moving on every few months before I could put down any roots. Etta kept telling me that it was safe, that I was safe, but I didn’t believe her. I made her move north – well, my paranoia did. She gave up everything for me.
‘And then I suppose it became a habit, the running. Once I’d started, I couldn’t find a way to stop. I’ve always been a bit of a drifter. Even when we were girls it was Etta that had the drive.’
‘Really? You kept hiding for all those years,’ countered Bronte. ‘That takes guts and determination. It looks to me like you both had your share of gumption.’
Natalie grinned at her.
‘Do people really still say that?’ she asked. ‘You’ve said it twice. Isn’t it really old-fashioned?’
Bronte raised one shoulder.
‘I’m an old-fashioned kind of girl,’ she said. ‘But I’m right. You didn’t give up. That shows massive resilience.’
It was Natalie’s turn to shrug.
‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘I’ve never thought of it like that.’
Bronte let her mind float to her own self-image, how she was still shouldering the things that had been said to her as a girl as if they were true. And it seemed that Natalie had done the same, believing that she was somehow adrift and directionless when her entire life gave the lie to that idea.
‘But then Etta met Garth and had you three kids,’ Natalie continued, ‘and eventually I stopped feeling so guilty. She made a real life for herself away from London, here. That cathedral was packed. All those people there to say goodbye.’
An image of Loretta came into Bronte’s mind. She was smiling. Her mother was always smiling as she threw one hundred and ten per cent of herself at everything she did. Bronte had assumed that was just who she was, but now she had a new idea. Could it be that her mother had been overcompensating for the loss of her old life, for what she had left behind?
‘She had a wonderful life,’ Bronte replied. ‘She was amazing. No one had a bad word to say about her. She gave so much to everyone.’
‘And the journalism?’ Natalie asked. ‘Was she a journalist up here too? That was her real passion. All she ever wanted to do really.’
Bronte shook her head sadly.
‘I had no idea that Mum had ever been a journalist until I tracked down her friend Liz after the funeral.’
Natalie’s head snapped round.
‘Liz? Liz from school?’
Bronte nodded.
‘Dad found her address when he was sending out the funeral notices. I went to see her. She didn’t tell me much and she’s a terrible liar. It was obvious that something wasn’t adding up. I just didn’t know what it was.’
Natalie’s face lit up in a grin.
‘God bless Liz,’ she said. ‘I always liked her.’
When she smiled, she looked so much like Bronte’s mother that it took Bronte’s breath away. She thought of Marc and his conviction that Natalie was an imposter, but when you saw her smile like that there could be no question that she wasn’t a relative.
Thinking of Marc gave Bronte an idea.
‘You should meet the rest of us,’ she said. ‘Marc and Annie and Dad.’ Then another thought crossed her mind. ‘How did you know how old I was?’
‘I know quite a lot about you all,’ she said. ‘I’ve usually had a post office box, or the equivalent in whatever country I was in, and I always made sure Etta had the address, just in case . . .’
Natalie tailed off, as if she couldn’t imagine what emergency her sister might have needed to tell her about.
‘She used to write to me every month, tell me what was going on. I didn’t always read the letters,’ she added sheepishly. ‘It depended where I was in my head. Sometimes it was too much. There were times when I didn’t check the box for months on end and the letters just piled up. It could be overfacing. I threw quite a lot away unopened. I regret that now.’
They were passing a run of moorings for the long narrow houseboats that stayed on the canal. Usually, Bronte liked to try and peep in, a fascinating window on to a way of life that was so entirely different to her own. But today they walked past, barely even registering that the boats were there.
‘I always thought I had more time,’ said Natalie. It sounded as if she were talking to herself now rather than Bronte. ‘I thought I would get well and come home, and me and Etta could just pick up where we’d left off before I got ill. And then, this.’
The tears were streaming down her face now. Bronte stared at her and tried to work out how she felt. She didn’t really understand what had gone on between the sisters, but from what she could gather so far, this woman had made her mother blow up her life, give up on the one thing she loved and move to a place where she hadn’t known a soul. And all for something entirely illusory.
Should she be angry, lay into her aunt for what she had done? She felt certain that that was what Marc would do, maybe Annie too. But she found that she had only empathy. Whatever had happened, it was clear that Natalie had been punishing herself over it for years. What was to be gained by Bronte taking a pop too? But she didn’t want to carry this, whatever this was, on her own any longer.
‘I think you should meet the others,’ she said firmly. ‘You probably owe them that.’
72
Bronte didn’t ask where Natalie was staying. If she asked, she would feel obliged to invite her to stay with her instead and Bronte didn’t feel ready for that. Her confidence that Natalie wouldn’t disappear overnight had grown a little, although she couldn’t be sure. She would have to trust that her aunt didn’t lose her nerve and disappear. If she did then Bronte would be in exactly the same position her mother had been in for all those years with no way of getting in touch, simply waiting for Natalie to make contact. It wasn’t an ideal way to proceed but it was all she had.
Natalie said she would leave Bronte to make the arrangements with the family and would call back to the shop to find out what they were. She didn’t say when she would call, unable to break the habit of the best part of a lifetime, it appeared.
As soon as Bronte’s front door closed behind her, she dived on her phone and opened the family chat. Without her mother to drive the conversation, the group had been much quieter than usual. Bronte wanted to kick-start it back into life, but she didn’t want the others to think that she was trying to step into their mother’s shoes. However, they didn’t seem to think it was their place to step up either and so the chat remained quiet.
But that was all about to change.
‘Big News!’ she began. ‘The woman from the funeral turned up at the shop. She’s definitely Mum’s sister. I think we should all get together with her for a proper conversation.’
She waited for a response, desperate to share what she knew but concerned about the reaction.
Annie was first to reply.
‘WTAF??????’
‘It’s true. She’s the dead spit of Mum.’
‘Where the hell has she been?’
‘It’s complicated. She’s been ill. Mum was protecting her.’
‘What from?’
‘Not sure. All in her head I think. Can you come up, Annie?’
‘Yeah. Maybe. Need to check. Did Dad know?’
Their dad wouldn’t reply to the chat. He was the sort who had a mobile phone for emergencies and then left it switched off in the kitchen drawer. They could be pretty certain he would never see their conversation.
‘I’m not sure. I’ve not spoken to him yet but I don’t think so.’
Marc appeared in the chat.
‘What does she want?’
Bronte rolled her eyes. The question was so typical of her brother.
‘She hasn’t said she wants anything.’
‘Not yet. Funny how she’s targeting you.’
As the weakest link? That’s what he was not so subtly saying.
‘Bron’s shop has her name over the door. Easiest to find.’
Bronte smiled gratefully at her sister in her absence.
‘Exactly that. She asked around and found the shop.’
‘What are you proposing?’
Bronte stopped typing to think. What was she proposing?
‘Invite her to Dad’s? Hear the story?’
‘I can come up tomorrow night if I cancel something else. Can stay until Saturday night. OK?’
‘What about you, Marc?’
‘Are we talking Saturday p.m. then? I can do that. Am reserving judgement. Still reckon she’s up to something.’
‘I’ll tell Dad.’
So it was arranged. Now Bronte had to hope that Natalie would come back to the shop in time for her to let her know. It was too complicated to factor Natalie’s uncontactability into the plan, but it would be awful if Annie came all the way back and Natalie still hadn’t shown up to be invited to the family meeting.
That just left her father. Bronte knew that she couldn’t ring him. This was a conversation that needed to happen face to face.
She abandoned any idea of cooking tea. She wasn’t hungry anyway after the excitement of the day. Instead, she walked the short distance to her parents’ house. It was less than a mile. That was how far Bronte had strayed from where she had been brought up.
As she walked, she thought about Natalie, who had left everything she had ever known when she was just twenty-one to go and live with strangers in a foreign land and had never made it back home. The thought made Bronte feel inadequate, her life small and unfulfilled. Marc had gone to university, Annie too. But Bronte had stayed close by, working at small, safe jobs until she had taken on the shop. That had been a brave decision, she was prepared to acknowledge, but it had been her mother’s doing. Left to her own devices, Bronte would probably still be the receptionist at the dentists’ practice just up the road, a job her mother had arranged for her by calling in some favours.
She remembered how vehemently Natalie had leapt in to defend her each time she had put herself down. The response reminded Bronte of her mother, but with Natalie it had been a little different. Instead of trying to protect Bronte, she had been empowering her.
Her father was in the garden, pottering. He had a pair of secateurs in his hand but there was no evidence that he had used them. He was lost, Bronte knew, his tethers untied, leaving him floating without direction or destination. He had always imagined that he would see out his days with Loretta at his side. For her to die first had been on no one’s agenda.
‘Hi, Dad,’ Bronte called over to him. She was aware that she was making her voice brighter than usual, still overcompensating.
‘Ah, Bronte. How lovely.’ Her father’s reply was equally cheerful, belying the melancholic air that lingered around him. When he smiled it no longer showed in his eyes as it had once done, and his shoulders were more hunched as if the weight of his grief was bending him in half.
‘How are you? Listen. I have some news.’ She wanted to get it out first before she lost her nerve. But her father also had news.
‘Me too,’ he said. ‘Shall I go first?’
He seemed keen to do so and as he hadn’t been interested in much lately, Bronte let him take the stage.
‘Mine is a little odd,’ he said once he had her attention.
I bet it’s not as odd as mine, thought Bronte.
‘Go on,’ she said.
‘Well, I found your mother’s will. It was in her desk filed under “Will”, as you’d expect. But there was a letter with it. A most interesting letter.’
73
Bronte held her breath. Would the letter be about Natalie? She hoped with all her might that it was and that it would rescue her from having to explain her own news.
‘That sounds intriguing,’ she replied. ‘What does it say?’
‘Come inside, come inside. You can read it for yourself. It’s addressed to me, of course, but I can’t see the harm in you reading it, Bronte.’ He emphasised the ‘you’ as if there might be harm if anyone else were to.
