1982
The last few days of the holiday were made miserable by the threat of moving house. Gabriella refused to discuss it. ‘It’s not going to happen,’ she kept saying. ‘They always say we’ll do things and we don’t.’ I listened but I didn’t agree. In my opinion our parents did the opposite. If they made a decision, it happened. Maybe not this year because of Gabriella’s exams, but next.
I convinced myself moving was a good idea, listing the things that were bad about the village and imagining instead being in London and finding the grammar school Dad had talked about. I imagined a grand new church for us to go to, like St Paul’s Cathedral. I might even learn to play the organ. I wasn’t sure why London would be able to offer me that, but I liked the idea, so I kept it.
On the first day of the autumn term, I stepped into the concrete school block and comforted myself with the thought that I’d be leaving soon. I was an alien jostling along with the rest of the reluctant kids, through corridors that already smelled of sweaty PE socks and the fear of first years trying to blend in.
Lessons were my refuge as I hid between the pages of the textbooks. In English we had a new teacher, a thin woman with dark hair and pale skin who had a passion for Joyce, Shaw and Yeats. Her name was Miss O’Dell and she was as Irish as they come, or so she told us when she’d come into the classroom and found the words IRA scum scrawled across the board. She introduced Shakespeare: ‘Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions?’ she recited, fixing us with her needle stare.
The following Saturday was the day of the fête and for that I was happy to be in the village. I woke up and ran downstairs to the kitchen. Mum and Rita were packing jam into cardboard boxes ready for Dad to load into the van and transport to the green. There were jars all over the kitchen table: glossy yellow, red and black, each topped with different-coloured chequered hats according to its contents.
I waited for instruction. Mum seemed harassed. She shoved a packet of Rice Krispies in my direction and told me to sit down and eat. I sat quietly, one eye on the proceedings and the other on the poetry book lent to me by Miss O’Dell. At least Mum had forgotten the rule about no reading at the table. Upstairs, the thud of Gabriella’s music signalled she was awake.
Mum glanced at the ceiling, but didn’t comment. She closed one of the boxes. ‘Where’s Albert?’ she said. ‘He should be here by now.’
Jasper made an appearance instead, sliding around the open back door, leaping onto the table and licking his paws. Rita pushed him down. ‘Sorry, puss,’ she said. I narrowed my eyes and finished off my cereal. It was all right for one of us to do that, but Rita? Surprised and disgruntled, Jasper leapt onto my lap. I stroked him, trying to make him stay. Every now and then he made a bid for freedom. I knew Rita would give him another push if he jumped up again, so I clung on hard and coaxed him into submission with quiet words I read from my book. ‘Tread softly because you tread on my dreams,’ I said as Jasper kneaded my thighs.
They carried on packing the boxes while Mum fussed about the time and Rita told her to stay calm and that getting worked up wouldn’t help. ‘It’s only a local delivery,’ she said.
‘If that’s where he’s gone,’ muttered Mum.
Looking up from my book, I caught the two of them exchanging glances. Where would Dad be if he wasn’t working?
At last the boxes were sealed and Mum sat at the table with an exaggerated thump. She twisted her wedding ring, taking it off, putting it on again, while Rita tried to distract her, talking about her latest murder mystery evening. ‘You’d never have believed it,’ she said. ‘Stuart Henderson with the lead piping in the library.’ I believed it. Mr Henderson was squat and hefty. If his wife was a vinegar bottle, he was a flagon of beer.
The front door opened and slammed. Heavy footsteps in the hall. Dad marched into the kitchen, straight to the sink, turned on the tap and stuck one hand under the water.
‘What have you done?’ said Mum, rushing forward while Jasper leapt down with a yowl as my hands automatically gripped his fur.
Dad was breathing heavily, his back rigid as he leaned across the sink. ‘Nothing I shouldn’t have done before,’ he said. His voice was tight as if his mouth was full of things he didn’t want to say. He didn’t sound like Dad. He didn’t look like himself either when he turned to face the room, his eyes sparking anger. My heart thumped. What had happened?
‘I told you to stay away,’ hissed Mum as she grabbed his hand and examined the back of it.
He didn’t answer. I glanced at Rita. She was standing too, her lips pressed closed and her hands clasped. She didn’t speak, and yet, the way she looked, her eyes full of knowledge, I thought she knew exactly what my dad had done. Had he had a fight? Was that possible? Dad was the negotiator, the pacifist. That’s how Mum always described him.
Now Mum was wrapping his hand in a tea towel. Both of their faces were white and Mum was swallowing, trying not to cry.
‘We need to go,’ said Dad abruptly. ‘Anna, fetch Gabriella.’
I got up, my legs trembling as I walked to the door.
‘We should stay at home,’ said Mum. I stopped.
‘No, Esther. Damn it, no. Why should we change what we do?’
‘We’ve got no choice. We need to speak first.’
‘Not yet.’ Dad stopped and looked at me. ‘Anna. I asked you to get Gabriella.’
I stepped into the hall and, leaning my forehead against the wall, took a breath. They were still talking. Dad’s voice low and insistent. Mum’s uncertain and afraid.
‘Nothing’s going to happen,’ said Dad.
‘You don’t know that. You don’t know anything. Everything’s changed. We need to speak first.’
‘No. Trust me. I’ve sorted it out.’
‘With a threat? With violence? How’s that going to help? It will make things worse. Rita, tell him.’
Rita said something I didn’t catch. Dad ended the conversation. ‘All right. Tonight. Now, we’ll carry on as usual. Please, Esther. One more day.’
I peered through the gap in the door. Mum nodded briefly before taking off her apron and placing it on the side.
It was warm for September and the green pulsed with people. Women wandered about in loose print dresses; men in shirtsleeves stood in groups; children weaved amongst the tables and the bunting. The noise intensified as we pushed our way through. People yelled above the jangling of the merry-go-round and the music from the stalls. ‘That’s the way to do it,’ shrieked Punch from the puppet stand.
I grabbed Gabriella’s arm, afraid she’d slip away. Mum had told us to stay close and now, after what had happened, I intended to obey. We talked about the incident with Dad. I described the scene, but I could tell that Gabriella wasn’t taking me seriously.
‘Have you ever seen Dad get angry?’ she said. ‘Let alone punch anyone?’
She was right, it was difficult to believe. And by the time I’d been through all the people in the village he might have had a fight with, the idea was wearing off. Gabriella wasn’t even listening. She was too busy looking around to see if the boy with the drowsy eyes from Our Price had come. I hoped not. There were enough boys hanging around as it was. Not surprising. Gabriella looked amazing, like she should be on an album cover, in her black and yellow polka-dot dress and boots, a slash of red on her lips.
We arrived at the centre of the fête as the brass band struck up. Men in red uniforms and peak hats marched in formation, playing trumpets and trombones. A group of Gabriella’s friends appeared and tried to call her away, but she shook her head as I clung on. And I was grateful for that.
The band stopped and was replaced with a troupe of country dancers. We moved to the sweet stall – jars of rhubarb and custards and pear drops and aniseed twists. We chose a selection and crunched our way to where the tug of war was assembling: beefy men rolling up their shirtsleeves, leaning backwards in red-faced unison.
At around three o’clock, Dad, who’d been walking alone, doing circuits of the green, caught up with us at the jam stall. He was going to the beer tent. Mum gave him a look and opened her mouth as if to protest, but he stopped her. ‘We do the same every year and this year will be no different.’ He turned to us, ‘Stay together, you two.’ As he moved away, Gabriella rolled her eyes.
It was true that the men, including Dad, always escaped to the beer tent – a few lone stragglers at first, and then crowds of them, piling in. There was shouting and lots of laughter; the occasional argument that slid up the pole of seriousness as the afternoon wore on, like a game of ring the bell.
Now we bought candyfloss and ate it next to the coconut shy. I’d persuaded Gabriella to go on the merry-go-round when a figure appeared. The sun was behind her, but I knew it was Martha. It was the way she stooped low as if trying not to be seen.
I hoped Gabriella would ignore her. Instead she chatted, offered candyfloss, asked her to go on the ride. I gritted my teeth waiting for Martha’s reply. Luckily, she shook her head and refused, although she stayed anyway, fiddling around with the pocket in her dress, looking like she wanted to speak, even though she had nothing to say. Finally, she mumbled about meeting her mum and disappeared. Gabriella gave me a look as if it was my fault, but for once I didn’t care.
It was the same merry-go-round as last year, and the year before that and probably the year before that. I recognised the red and yellow dome criss-crossed with bright coloured bulbs, and the column in the centre decorated with organ pipes and golden cupids. It was the same boy in charge too. Black-haired and dark-eyed with a wide grin and a wink for Gabriella. We paid and I got on first, choosing a blue and white horse with startled eyes. In front of me a small girl with a short white dress and frilly knickers was scrambling onto a pink pony. Her mother was hovering, jumping off at the last minute as the music came on and we started to rotate.
The pace picked up. I swivelled in my seat, searching for Gabriella. A man in a cap sat behind me, quietly smoking a pipe. A boy in shorts was beside him, clinging to the twisted silver pole. I looked about me anxiously. Where had Gabriella gone? And then I spotted her standing at the side chatting to the dark-haired boy. I swallowed hard and held back my tears. She’d changed her mind, or else she hadn’t wanted to get on in the first place.
The ride spun faster. The volume of the jangling music grew. Gabriella disappeared again. I craned my neck to see where she’d gone and caught a glimpse of her figure walking across the green, back the way we’d come, to look for the boy from Our Price, I guessed. She was always leaving me on my own. Like the time she’d gone off to Martha’s.
And now the music jarred. The horses were shabby and seemed smaller than they’d been the year before. The spin was sluggish. The merry-go-round was childish. No wonder Gabriella hadn’t bothered. And when the ride finished at last, I peeled myself off the horse and stumbled to the edge of the platform, pushing past the anxious mother. I was stupid. The ride was for babies and their parents.
The mood of the fête had changed. Young women paraded past the beer tent waving at the young men inside. Older women and children sat under trees on blankets, delving into picnic hampers for last-minute treats. Off to the side, a group of boys were playing football. Teenagers lay on the grass listening to a ghetto blaster: ‘Come on Eileen’ full blast. The band had come to a standstill; its members shading beneath the stretch of the cedar tree, hats off, instruments resting beside them. Even the merry-go-round had stopped and a man in overalls crawled between the horses.
I spotted Dad in the beer tent, showing no sign of his earlier rage. I wandered closer. Martha stood to one side of the entrance, with her back to me. I scowled. Did she know where my sister was? I didn’t want to ask, but I had no choice.
‘Have you seen Gabriella?’ I said.
Martha turned. She seemed different somehow. Her hair was tied back awkwardly with a scarf. She reached up self-consciously, took a strand that had fallen loose and wound it around her fingers. I recognised Gabriella’s gesture and my anger ignited. ‘So, where is she?’ I snapped.
‘How should I know?’ she said, glaring back resentfully.
I looked away, trying not to give Martha the satisfaction of thinking she had information that I wanted. Clenching my fists, I counted in my head. I wouldn’t ask again.
Shouting came from the beer tent. The sound rose as a glass smashed. Women were gathering nervously, standing on tiptoe, pushing closer to the entrance. Mrs Ellis appeared, her grey dress hanging on her broomstick body, her face pinched and white.
The argument spilled out. A thin man came first clutching a bloody nose, his glasses knocked askew. He staggered and fell on the ground. Mr Ellis followed, his hands clenched in two great fists. A dark-haired woman rushed forward with a handkerchief and dabbed at the victim’s face. ‘You should be ashamed,’ she yelled at Mr Ellis, her small face defiant. Dad stepped into the arena and spoke quietly to Mr Ellis. Others came forward, remonstrating. Women were involved. ‘He’s not worth it,’ one of them yelled. I wasn’t sure who she was talking about.
Next to me Martha watched the scene with her father at its centre with no change of expression. I was about to move away and carry on my search when she spoke. ‘You should take care of your sister,’ she said. ‘He could be a pervert for all you know.’
‘Who?’
She was silent for a second as if deciding whether to reply. ‘The one she was speaking to.’
I waited a beat and said again, ‘Who?’
She glanced away and then back as her face hardened. ‘It’s none of your business.’
‘It’s more my business than yours.’ I tried a different tack. ‘What did he say to her?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t hear, did I?’ She paused and now a sly smile crept across her face. ‘But he gave her something.’
‘What?’
She leaned towards me until her breath was hot on my neck. ‘A letter.’
I stared at her, open-mouthed. ‘A man gave my sister a letter?’ She nodded and I scowled. Martha was a liar. Everyone knew that. I made a great show of shrugging and looking around as though not interested before I said, ‘It’s probably someone from church.’
She laughed. ‘No, it isn’t.’
I flushed. ‘Well then, it’s our Uncle Thomas. He’s visiting today.’ It was a stupid thing to say and Martha was bound to know it wasn’t true.
‘Why would your uncle give Gabriella a letter?’
‘Because that’s what he does.’ I was burning to know who she was really talking about, but I didn’t want to show it. And now she was staring over my shoulder as if she saw the man right there. I wouldn’t look. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. Instead I gave her one more glare of contempt and strode away.
A few minutes later, I scanned the green. There were no suspicious men, of course, although how could I tell since I didn’t know who I was searching for? Maybe the letter was from the boy from Our Price, or someone from school. Or else Martha had written the letter herself – a pathetic note telling Gabriella how much she liked her.
At the jam stall Rita was busy packing up. Mum was standing alone, shading her eyes as she searched the green. I skirted her vision and kept on walking, in the direction of the lake, hoping to find Gabriella.
She was standing alone beneath the cedar tree. Relief surged through me. There was no letter. There was no man. Martha had invented him. Martha with her stupid dirty clothes and her stupid hairstyle. When had she ever worn a scarf? A scarf! Heat rose until my cheeks burned. Realisation struck. Gabriella had given it to her. She’d taken it from her own hair and given it to Martha. And Martha had been trying to make me jealous, flaunting it. I bit my lip. Gabriella was no better. Why did she have to feel so sorry for everyone?
Stepping closer, I called out Gabriella’s name, but she looked across and her eyes were blank. I wasn’t sure she even knew I was there. I stayed anyway, frozen by her indifference, waiting for acknowledgement, until finally she set off across the green without a backward glance.
Feeling helpless, I watched her walking, arms loose at her sides. And then my throat went dry. A sheet of paper dangled from her hand. It was the letter. Martha had told the truth. And if she’d told the truth about that, why would she have lied about the man? I looked around uneasily. The crowd was thinning out now, people traipsing away from the green. I followed slowly, my mind whirling. Who was the man?
That evening, Gabriella stayed in her room. Mum went to church, to pray, she said, and Dad shut himself away in the kitchen.
I grabbed my book of poetry and lay on the rug, reading and not understanding ‘Leda and the Swan’ until the doorbell rang. When Dad opened the door, Rita’s voice filtered from the hall. I crept across the living room and listened.
‘They were together at the fête,’ said Rita.
There was a pause. ‘How do you know?’
‘Mrs Henderson. The old gossip. I heard her talking about Gabriella to her cronies.’
‘Well, she can’t know anything.’ Dad’s voice was sharp.
‘No, she can’t. But . . . you must realise what this means.’
Back inside the kitchen, they closed the door.
Frowning, I returned to Yeats, but now the poem seemed even more confusing. I tried reciting the lines out loud, and from memory, but my concentration had gone. Throwing the book down, I switched on the telly. The news was all about the funeral of Princess Grace. It was too sad to be thinking about death, so I switched it off and paced the floor until, at last, the front door opened. Rita was leaving. Tiptoeing back into the hall, I peered into the kitchen.
Dad was trying to light a cigarette, but the flame wouldn’t catch. He stopped when he saw me and gave a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Was that Rita?’ I asked awkwardly.
He nodded and tried the flame again. ‘Rita. Yes. She was looking for your mother.’
‘Is something wrong?’ I said carefully, seeing how his hands were shaking.
The flame caught and he inhaled. He met my gaze and looked away. ‘Nothing for you to worry about, Annie,’ he said. ‘Nothing that affects you.’
It was the second time he’d said that to me, and this time I definitely didn’t believe him.
As soon as Mum came home, she and Dad disappeared into Gabriella’s room, closing the door and shutting me out. I stood at the foot of the stairs yearning to follow, but not daring to interrupt. Sinking onto the bottom step, I hugged my belly, trying to unfreeze the ice that had formed there. I was an outsider. An orphan. A changeling. Different somehow. Shut out from my family. I closed my eyes and imagined the three of them connected by a cord that didn’t include me.
It was quiet in the house for a long while. The pendulum swung. Jasper appeared and mewed for his food. I took him into the kitchen, opened a can of Whiskers and spooned out chunks into his bowl.
Silence exploded. A door banged. Feet stamped on the landing. ‘She had no right,’ yelled Gabriella. ‘It’s nothing to do with her. Who does she think she is?’
‘She was trying to help,’ said Mum.
‘She was telling tales. You’re all against me.’
Dad spoke. His words inaudible.
‘For Christ’s sake. How can you say that now? For Christ’s sake. Leave me alone.’
Silence came back. It was Mum’s turn to shout now, to tell Gabriella not to blaspheme, but she didn’t say a word. There was only Dad again, speaking quietly, trying to keep the peace, like he always did.
I crept up a few steps, ears straining to hear. ‘Nothing’s changed,’ Dad was saying. I imagined him taking Gabriella’s hand, pulling her close and stroking her hair. ‘We’ll talk. We’ll work things out.’
‘No we won’t,’ said Gabriella, her voice breaking as she spoke.
‘Of course we will. You know we will. Come back inside.’
The door clicked as he persuaded her. And once again, I was left alone, standing on the stairs, feeling dizzy as the carpet seemed to shift beneath my feet. Gripping the banister, I raked through my mind trying to understand.
Gabriella didn’t come down for tea. Mum laid the table and ladled out stew – meat and vegetables, dumplings on top – but she spilled sauce on the cloth and then played with her food, pushing it around with her fork. Eventually, she cleared her throat. ‘Were you listening, Anna?’
Shaking my head, I speared a dumpling that wasn’t cooked properly and tasted of grease and salt. A piece lodged in my throat.
‘You must have heard something,’ she said, fixing her gaze on mine. I shook my head again.
‘Now’s not the time,’ said Dad, intervening.
‘That’s what you said before.’
‘It’s different.’ He spoke quietly.
‘Different how?’
‘One thing at a time.’
‘Is that the best you can say?’
I held my breath, wanting them to tell me what was wrong. Dad remained motionless, with only a pulse throbbing at his temple.
Mum cleared the table and took the plates to the sink. ‘Anna,’ she said. ‘We need to—’
‘Esther. Stop. That’s enough.’
‘No, it isn’t. If we don’t say, Gabriella will.’
‘No, she won’t,’ said Dad, suddenly shouting. ‘I’ve told her not to.’ He turned to me, his face white, his jaw clenched. ‘Leave us, Anna, please.’
I was glad to, walking heavily up the stairs to find Gabriella.
She was kneeling on the floor, stuffing clothes into a suitcase. A hot wave of panic moved through me as I grabbed her arm. ‘What are you doing?’
‘What does it look like?’ She shook my hand away.
‘You’re packing,’ I said, but my voice was raw.
‘So what?’
‘You can’t leave me. What’s happened?’
She shook her head, but her shoulders slumped. ‘Nothing’s happened.’ She pushed another jumper into the case.
My tears welled. Gabriella had secrets. She’d never had them before. But instinct told me if I kept on, she’d never tell me anything again. ‘All right,’ I said miserably. ‘But you won’t go, will you?’
Gabriella sighed. ‘I will, one day.’
A tear slid down my face. She came across and slipped an arm about my shoulders. ‘But I won’t forget you, small person,’ she said. ‘You’re my sister. Nothing changes that.’
I stared at her, taking in her words. ‘Then stay,’ I said. ‘Sisters stick together.’
‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘I told you. Nothing changes that.’
I nodded and rested my head on her shoulder, but in a moment she’d moved away and gone back to her suitcase, squeezing shut the lid and shoving it under the bed.
The days stumbled forward. Each morning, Gabriella missed breakfast and instead of protesting, Mum didn’t speak. Dad insisted on taking us to school, until the day that Gabriella screamed in his face that she wanted to go alone and if he didn’t let her, she’d leave home for good. I listened with my heart thudding, thinking of the suitcase tucked under her bed. Dad froze for one moment at the onslaught before he gave in and let us walk.
At school, I hardly came across her. And when I did, she barely acknowledged me, surrounded as she was by spiky-haired boys who jostled for her attention. Martha was there too. Snapping up Gabriella’s smiles, grabbing titbits of affection. There was nothing left for me.
In the afternoons I waited at the gates, rushing to get there early before Gabriella disappeared. Sometimes she talked, answering questions about her day, or letting me chatter, exaggerating stories to make her laugh. Most times she was silent. And the atmosphere was dense with a layer of sadness I couldn’t pass through.
On those days, when we got home, Gabriella stayed in her room, refusing my attempts to persuade her to come down for tea. I yearned for Mum to yell and make her. Instead, she’d take up a plate of sandwiches that she’d later fetch untouched. I watched with a mixture of resentment at the special treatment Gabriella was receiving and sadness for the absence of my sister.
Dad’s birthday came. It was Saturday and the family were invited. It was a tradition and although Mum grumbled as she busied herself in the house, cleaning, checking there was enough food, the visit wasn’t cancelled. Uncle Thomas and Donald arrived first. ‘Surprise!’ said Uncle Thomas when I opened the door and he produced an egg from behind my ear. It was a trick I’d seen him do a hundred times before, but I laughed anyway as he chucked me under the chin and strode off to the living room to join my parents.
Donald stepped past, chewing his pipe, stopping to press an object into my hand. An ammonite. I grinned. He was a geologist. He was also Uncle Thomas’s closest friend. At least that’s how my parents described him. I followed and watched them settle on the sofa next to Dad. ‘This is nice,’ said Uncle Thomas, pushing off his shoes. He had a big hole in one toe of his sock.
Grandma Grace was a large woman with a robust frame, who moved clumsily, in a direct contradiction of her name. She sat on the hard-backed chair, leaning heavily on her stick as if it were a staff and she was about to go on a pilgrimage. Granddad Bertrand, who was as large as she was, shuffled in behind, plonking himself into the armchair, sinking downwards, letting his arms hang over the sides, as if he’d melted.
Gabriella was absent, as I knew she would be. I’d tried to prise her from her room, but she’d refused and given me the listless look I’d grown accustomed to. Surely Mum and Dad would insist she socialised – family was important, Mum said, the mainstay of society (along with church) – but still Gabriella didn’t appear.
Settling on the rug in front of the fireplace, I watched Mum, with a painted smile, handing round fish paste sandwiches and fruitcake on the best plates, along with English tea in gold-rimmed cups. The conversation ranged from Uncle Thomas’s magic shop in north-west London – an Aladdin’s cave of whoopee cushions, loaded dice, and fake beards – to the Falklands War. Even Dad, who’d been as brooding as Gabriella over the last few days, roused himself and joined in the discussion. ‘The Belgrano might be a Thatcher triumph now,’ he said, ‘but next election . . .’ He waved his hand. ‘For whom the bell tolls, all right.’ Meanwhile Granddad Bertrand dozed and Donald, apart from sending the occasional wink in my direction, remained aloof, refilling his pipe.
‘You’d think,’ said Grandma Grace, thumping her stick down as if to put a stop to the conversation, ‘they’d have had enough of wars and suchlike.’
The adults noisily agreed with her. There was a lull and I think we all knew what was coming next because we couldn’t have a family gathering without Grandma Grace telling the story of how my parents met. Mum cleared away, banging plates together, stacking them unevenly. Dad stood and fumbled in his pocket, muttering about tobacco.
‘Love stories are so much nicer,’ said Grandma Grace as both my parents left the room. ‘It was 1966.’
I stifled a yawn, looking away and shoving my fist against my mouth, and only then realising that Gabriella had come in. She sat next to me and I nudged her, hoping to get a reaction, but she didn’t smile. She wore a ripped T-shirt that dropped from one shoulder, a crumpled black skirt and purple make-up. Her hair was backcombed. Electric. Donald, I noticed, was glancing at her curiously. Uncle Thomas, who was busy scratching his stomach, had adopted a glazed expression, preparing for the story to come.
‘There was a summer storm in London.’
I closed my eyes and pictured an exaggerated version of the scene with the wind snarling through the Button family’s garden, ripping out plants, dislodging parts of the shed and the roof.
‘We had to find someone to get rid of the rubbish, all those fallen branches and suchlike. I went to the newsagent’s and there was the card: Flores Rubbish Removal. It sounded so nice. Flores.’
Such a lovely name, I mouthed to Gabriella, but she wasn’t looking. She was picking at a thread on her skirt, winding it round her finger.
‘Such a lovely name,’ said Grandma Grace. ‘Esther was poorly that day. She had a stomach bug. So when Albert came along in his little van there she was waiting for him.’
‘Hardly,’ said Mum, coming back into the room. ‘I happened to be there, that’s all.’ She noticed Gabriella and took a hesitant step towards her. They looked at each other, a silent communication that excluded me. Donald glanced across. He must have realised something was wrong, unlike Uncle Thomas who was still scratching his belly, his head tipped back, eyes closed.
‘Well, you hurried down to the garden fast enough when you saw how handsome he was,’ said Grandma Grace, carrying on her tale.
Mum shook her head, picked up an overflowing ashtray and, with another glance at Gabriella, left the room.
‘The truth is, your mother was miserable until she met your father,’ said Grandma Grace. ‘She was going through a phase, wasn’t she, Bertrand?’ No reply. ‘She was staying in her room, making excuses not to go to work. She did the accounts for a business. A foreign business. Note that, accounts. She wasn’t just a copy typist. Still, it wasn’t a good place to be, was it, Bertrand? That place. Central London. Too busy.’ She nodded as if agreeing with herself. Uncle Thomas scratched his shoulder. Donald reached for the newspaper.
London. How serious had Dad been about living there? The more I thought about it now, the more I wanted to go. Things would be better if we moved away. There were so many things to do. We’d been on a day trip a few months before. Visited the National Gallery and fed the pigeons in Trafalgar Square. We’d bought seeds from one of the stalls and stood like scarecrows, counting the birds that landed on our arms to see who attracted the most. Mum had taken a photo. Click. The birds had flown away.
I looked across at Gabriella, but she didn’t notice me, too busy with the thread. She’d wound it so tightly round her finger the skin was bulging and red.
Grandma Grace had stopped talking and was smiling, trying to remember. ‘Do you recall, Thomas?’ she asked. ‘Esther was transformed when she met your brother.’
Uncle Thomas was pulling at his jumper. ‘Is it hot?’ he said, ignoring her. ‘Or is it me?’
‘It was a fact,’ said Grandma Grace, taking up her tale again. ‘Esther mooned about like a sick child from the day she fell in love.’
Snap. The thread gave way. Gabriella kicked out her leg. She caught the coal scuttle, which crashed against the irons.
‘Dear God,’ said Mum, coming in as Gabriella jumped up and ran out of the room. The front door slammed. There was silence as Mum looked around at the five of us.
‘Hormones,’ said Uncle Thomas, his voice muffled as he pulled his jumper over his head.
And then everyone was talking again as if nothing had happened. I knew better. I saw the pain on Mum’s face. What had upset Gabriella now? Was it something Grandma Grace had said? I tried to think back, but it was the same old boring story she always liked to tell. I studied Grandma’s face for an answer, but she showed no sign that anything was wrong, too busy instructing Donald to take the cup and saucer from Granddad Bertrand’s drooping hand as he nodded off to sleep.
Uncle Thomas was folding his jumper. He placed it to one side and exchanged a look with Mum. A tingling sensation shot through me as I realised. Uncle Thomas knew exactly what was going on. He was as much a part of the secret as I was not.