here.
He shakes his head and smiles ruefully. ‘Didn’t have a plan really. I’ve just been watching the house a bit, you know, trying to figure out the best time to approach you.’
‘Right,’ I say, not knowing quite what to make of that either. I’m pretty sure what he’s just described amounts to stalking, not that it seems to matter very much somehow.
He slides the glass doors open a fraction and as he does the rain howls in again. As I watch him pull on his still wet coat, it occurs to me that I hope he has somewhere warm to go to. And that confuses me even further because a big part of me hates him, and yet this instinct contradicts that. He’s just about to disappear into the stormy night when he stops, turns and says one final thing, and of all the things I hadn’t expected about tonight, including seeing my dad for the first time in decades, finding out he went to prison, discovering he killed someone and is dying of cancer, the thing he says to me as he vanishes back into the storm is the thing that surprises me the most.
‘By the way, I heard you playing earlier Marianne. Through the window. You play beautiful. Bach wasn’t it?’
‘Um … yes,’ I whisper, wondering how on earth my dad, the murderer, could possibly know that.
I wander back to my room in a trance, mind racing as it desperately tries to compute everything it’s found out. My violin’s still lying on the bed where I left it, so I put it and the bow back in its case before sliding it underneath my bed. Then, utterly drained and emotionally spent, I collapse onto the bed and stare at the rain as it smashes against the window-pane, letting the tears slide quietly down my face and onto my pillow.
Seconds later I hear a key in the front door downstairs. Mum and Martin are back. Quickly I switch off my bedside light, plunging my room into total darkness. I can’t face Mum. If she sees me she’ll instantly know something’s up and I’m nowhere near ready to discuss what’s just happened.
I can hear her and Martin giggling and shushing one another, clearly pissed after an unusual Sunday night out to celebrate Sheena and Dave’s wedding anniversary. I’m hoping they’ll go straight to bed, but Martin spends what feels like hours making sure the house is locked up, while Mum crashes and blunders her way around the kitchen, burning toast by the smell of it – it’s always the same when she goes out with Sheena. In front of her she pretends she has the appetite of a sparrow, but then makes up for it when she gets home by eating her body weight in carbs.
What feels like hours later they eventually start making their way up the stairs, though their progress is painfully slow and agonising to listen to.
Mum seems determined to stop on every stair, wheezing with laughter, while saying things sporadically like, ‘Stop it Martin’ and, ‘Don’t, I’ll pee my pants Martin.’
Five long minutes later, they’re finally ensconced in their room, presumably passed out because the house falls silent once again, at which point I succumb to a proper sob. Perhaps a good cry is what I need? It’s been a hell of a weekend. And with that final thought I drift off into restless sleep, wishing I’d appreciated the relative simplicity of life before today.
The next morning I wake up feeling drained. My very first thought is that I can’t handle work today so I phone Jason and pretend to be ill.
Once I’ve got him off the phone I find the tatty receipt my father wrote his number on and stare at it, trying to absorb what it means. My heart aches in my chest. I’ve spent my entire adult life missing having a dad, wondering why he didn’t love us enough to stay in touch. I’ve coped by repressing as much of these emotions as possible while pretending to the world that I’d have no interest in seeing him again. But him showing up has exposed this lie for what it is. Now he’s come back I am forced to admit it’s all I’ve ever really wanted. Only not like this. As I stare at the unfamiliar handwriting, I find myself thinking how little I know about the person it belongs to. Is my dad evil? He did kill someone after all, and yet if that’s the case, why do I feel so desolate about the fact he’s going to die? It’s all so overwhelming and gut-wrenchingly disappointing. Over the years, in my mind I’ve built him up into a romantic sort of Heathcliff-type figure. A good-looking, charismatic cad. It’s hard to admit, but I’ve often wondered whether Mum was to blame for him leaving. I thought she might have driven him away. One psychic prediction too many, perhaps?
I’ve invented everything though, convincing myself along the way that I’ve based these notions on more than just my own pathetic daydreams. As it turns out, Ray’s more roguish looking than handsome and now that he’s really here it’s obvious that the truth is far more unpalatable and complicated than I could ever have guessed. I’m going to have to reappraise everything I’ve ever thought. Do I even want to get involved? If he’s telling the truth, he’s only going to end up dying on us anyway.
As this incredibly bitter thought enters my head I feel ashamed. God it was all such a mess. What the hell was Hayley going to say when she found out? Should I even tell her given that she’s pregnant? I don’t want to stress her out. I decide then just to sit on it for a while. My head is too scrambled to make any decisions.
Downstairs the usual morning chaos is in full swing. Martin’s leaving for work and Mum’s nagging Pete to eat more than just a piece of toast for breakfast.
‘My little soldier can’t survive on toast alone. Do you want me to make you a quick bacon sarnie my lovely? Or how about a bit of scrambled?’
Pete grunts by way of reply and looks annoyed when she ruffles his hair, which he’s clearly spent hours doing. Moments later he gets down from the breakfast bar, picks up his rucksack of books and drags himself off to college, giving me a cursory glimmer of a smile in passing, oblivious to Mum’s incessant commentary and fussing. As ever Mum seems to feel it’s necessary to see him right out, so that she can yell her goodbyes from the drive.
Once this daily ritual of over-the-top mothering is over, she makes her way back into the kitchen and sighs contentedly before asking brightly, ‘So, how are you this morning?’
Today Mum’s dressed in a bright turquoise tracksuit, which she’s accessorised with beads and her favourite silver and Perspex wedges. She simply doesn’t do flat shoes and only takes her beloved wedges off if she’s about to get into bed, the bath or a swimming pool. Sometimes she even wears them on her exercise bike. ‘Not working today, Marianne? I thought your day off was Wednesday.’
‘No,’ I mumble, as I fix myself a bowl of cereal while wondering how on earth to broach the subject that her ex-husband is out of prison and has reappeared, in our back garden. ‘Are you a bit happier about Hayley’s news now you’ve had a chance to think about it?’ I enquire disapprovingly, buying myself time more than anything.
Mum tuts and rolls her eyes despairingly at the mention of my sister. ‘Course I’m happy Marianne, I’m ecstatic,’ she says, sounding anything but. ‘And if that didn’t come across, well then I’m sorry. I just don’t want Hayley to wake up one day and realise she’s missed the boat. She’s so talented but if I’m totally honest, sometimes I wonder whether she’s got the right attitude for showbiz, you know?’
‘If she hasn’t got the right attitude for showbiz,’ I say, spooning Shreddies into my mouth, head still whirring, ‘She’s probably not cut out for it, is she?’
Mum’s face looks tired underneath all the make-up. I can tell she’s hung-over from last night. ‘Look,’ she says as she flaps around, tidying up. ‘Is it wrong that I want you girls to do something exciting? Something glamorous, obviously. I haven’t turned into one of those feminists with hairy armpits or anything, but I want you to be fulfilled. I want you to do something worthwhile, like beauty therapy or ideally, in Hayley’s case anyway, performing. As it is I’ve got two daughters in their thirties, one with bags of talent but no ambition and another who wants to be some sort of hippy. Frankly Marianne I’m praying you’re going to get