Later, I showed Dad my short story. He was the third person to read it, after Mum and Mr Carlisle, my English teacher. He sat on the sofa, beer in hand, my story in the other. I watched the television, its volume on really low. It was a program involving good-looking people, animated conversation and close-ups of faces soaked in various emotions. It was tiring just watching it, but better than having to put up with the dialogue, I guessed.
I avoided the temptation to glance over at Dad from time to time as he read. That’s too needy. Why was I getting my parents to read it anyway? They were invested and therefore couldn’t be trusted. I remember a teacher once told my class that he thought every newborn baby looked like a cross between Alfred Hitchcock and a bulldog (I had to google Hitchcock – and bulldogs, if I’m going to be honest) and that struck me as hilarious and profoundly true at the same time. And then he said that when his own kid was born he thought she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. That was eight years ago, he said, and when he looked back on the early photographs he realised she’d looked like a cross between Alfred Hitchcock and a bulldog.
Emotional investment. Can’t be trusted.
Even Mr Carlisle had an axe to grind. I was his student, after all. When I asked him to look it over after class, he’d dutifully read it, took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes.
‘Well?’ I asked.
My teacher sighed. ‘It is …’ I waited while he tried to find the word. ‘Wonderful,’ he finished. Then he held my gaze. ‘And I don’t use that word lightly, Caitlyn. It is full of wonder. It is ambitious, it is superbly well-written, it is surprising. To tell the truth, it made me want to cry.’
‘Why?’ This was great. Of course it was, but I needed more. I needed reasons. And the story wasn’t overly emotional. At least, I didn’t think it was.
Mr Carlisle thought for a moment.
‘It’s words,’ he said. ‘You know the way some people cry at the beauty of a song? I do that with words. Sometimes – not very often, but sometimes – a sentence can strike me as so … perfect that it brings a lump to my throat and tears to my eyes.’ He laughed. ‘And I can’t stop it. Even when I know it’s coming – when I’m teaching it for the thousandth time – it will ambush me. Did I ever teach the poem “Fern Hill” to your class?’
I didn’t think so.
‘It’s by the Welsh poet Dylan Thomas and it finishes with the lines, “Time held me green and dying, though I sang in my chains, like the sea.”’ He laughed again and wiped at his eyes. ‘It’s done it to me again. For thirty years, ever since I discovered that poem, I’ve cried over those lines. Every single time.’
‘What others?’
‘Are you trying to make me into more of emotional basket case than I am already?’ He held up his hands in mock horror. ‘You’re torturing me.’ He thought. ‘Lots of Shakespeare. The ending of Ian McEwan’s Atonement. The line in William Golding’s Lord of the Flies – “Ralph wept for the end of innocence, the darkness of man’s heart, and the fall through the air of a true, wise friend called Piggy.”’
The words caught in his throat and he smiled, but it came out kind of crooked.
‘And my story made you feel like that?’
He got up from his chair and started to clean the whiteboard. It was the end of the day and we were all due to go home.
‘Not all of it,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘but bits. Yes. You have this ability to take words that by themselves are unremarkable, but when put together, in a particular order, make music that moves me.’ He turned to face me. ‘Caitlyn, would you mind if I entered this into a short story competition? I’m a member of a local writers’ group and we get news of national and local competitions. I’d like to enter this story in one competition I have in mind. I’ll get your parents’ permission, of course, if it’s okay with you.’
‘It’ll be okay with them, Mr Carlisle,’ I replied. ‘And it’s certainly okay by me. Thank you. It’s … good to know that my writing has something going for it. Sometimes I think I can’t write at all.’
‘Then you really are a writer, Caitlyn,’ said Mr Carlisle. ‘All proper writers grapple with self-doubt on a daily basis.’
Dad put the last page down.
‘This solves one question regarding genetics,’ he said. I cocked my head. ‘You get your creative abilities from your mother, that’s for sure.’
‘Stop it, Dad,’ I said.
‘It’s okay. After all, you inherited my fabulous good looks, stunning sense of humour and modesty, which is a big plus if I say so myself. But your imagination … well, I can’t take any credit for that.’
‘So you think it’s good?’
Dad turned up the television volume. Someone with a face saturated in misery asked, ‘But why, Joanne? Why would you do that to me?’ Even over that I could hear Dad’s reply.
‘Stop fishing, Cate. You know it’s good. To be honest, I’d like to say it wasn’t, because you’re getting to be a right pain in the arse. A talented pain in the arse, true, but one nonetheless. So shut up and listen to the dialogue in this soap. You might learn something about good writing.’
I didn’t, but we had a good laugh.
Mum and Sam were lying in wait when Dad dropped me off on Sunday evening. We’d had a quiet weekend after the serenading on Friday night. Took in a movie on Sunday and had lunch I couldn’t eat since I was stuffed full to bursting with popcorn. Even with not much on, Dad was still an hour and a half late dropping me off.
‘Did you have a nice time, Cate?’ asked Mum.
‘Are you guys getting a divorce?’ I asked. At least it stopped Mum’s line of questioning. There was a shocked pause.
‘We’re not married,’ said Sam.
I waved the objection away.
‘That’s small print,’ I replied. ‘Are we talking the big D?’
Mum glanced at Sam, Sam glanced at Mum. They both glanced at me. I waited.
‘What makes you think that?’ said Sam after a long time.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘My name drifting up the stairs and into my bedroom when you think I’m asleep. The way you look at each other when you believe I’m not looking. The fact you’re both lying in wait for me with cheerful expressions and an agenda in your eyes. Tell me. Am I close?’
‘No,’ said Mum.
‘Oh,’ I replied. ‘Well, that’s good then. So are we going bankrupt?’
‘What?’
‘Loud words,’ I pointed out. ‘Affairs of the heart or money. One of the two. So does Sam have a secret gambling problem and is up to his ears in debt to a person called Luigi with a shiny suit and an entourage of guys built like brick toilets?’
Sam turned to Mum. ‘Maybe we should get married, just so I can divorce you. Who needs a stepdaughter like this?’
‘Are you proposing?’ I said. ‘How romantic.’
‘We have not been arguing,’ said Sam. ‘Your mother and I have been having … robust discussions.’
‘Sam has been offered a job in the UK,’ said Mum.
That stopped me. Words rising through the darkness to my bedroom echoed in my head. London. Life-changing. Cate. Cate. Cate. I tried to work through the implications but they were … shadowy.
‘What job?’ I said finally. It wasn’t the greatest question, but the best I could manage under the circumstances.
‘An advertising agency in London,’ said Sam. ‘A good one. Actually, a world-leader.’ Though Sam was a personal trainer when he and Mum met, he’d gone back to his original profession in advertising sometime after. I’d gathered, from occasional conversations on the subject, that he’d been trying for a career sea change, but the money in fitness was crap, so he’d rejoined the rat race. Now, he spent his time coining jingles for breakfast cereals or investment banks.
‘And you’re going with him, Mum?’ The thought struck me and I felt like an idiot for not having grasped it before. Then again I’d had less than two seconds to think all this through, so I suppose I shouldn’t be hard on myself. ‘You want us to go with him?’
‘No, no.’ Mum waved a hand as if the question was among the most stupid she had ever been asked. ‘Well, yes. Maybe. We’re talking about it, that’s all.’
‘I haven’t accepted,’ said Sam. ‘It’s a big move and needs careful consideration.’
I couldn’t argue with that.
‘So we just thought we should bring it out into the open,’ said Sam. ‘You know, talk it over as a family before making any decisions.’
‘So why have you been arguing?’ I asked. ‘Sorry. Let me rephrase. Why have you been having “robust discussions” about it?’ It seemed a reasonable question, but no one was apparently prepared to answer it. At least, not then.