Tuesday
Rolling thunder woke me from a dream of being chased through a dense forest by a faceless girl, the sound of her breathing heavy behind me.
I jerked upright, face damp with sweat. Maisie was crying in her bedroom, while Greg snored lightly beside me, and he barely stirred as I brought her in to bed with us.
I stroked her hair and whispered reassurances until she fell asleep, but my own eyes refused to close. I stared at the ceiling as lightning flared, listening to the rain, thoughts flitting through my head, though I couldn’t have said later what they were.
A little after seven, Maisie rolled towards Greg, mumbling drowsily, and started poking him. I eased myself out of bed and went downstairs to make tea, but there was no power. ‘Shit.’ I kept flicking the switch on the kettle as though, like magic, it would come on, then tried the overhead light and the microwave.
Nothing.
I grabbed my phone off the worktop. The battery was dead. My only thought was, I couldn’t check Facebook to see if Colleen had replied.
I switched on my laptop and my heart gave a little leap as the screen sprang to life. It still held some charge from the day before, but the broadband wasn’t working.
‘Morning.’ Greg wandered in, his face bleary with sleep. Normally, he leapt straight into the shower, but he was in his bathrobe, a layer of stubble on his jaw.
‘We’ve no power,’ I said, slamming my laptop closed. I felt nervy and put out, as if I’d been tricked. ‘There was a storm last night.’
‘Sure a fuse hasn’t blown?’
I hadn’t thought of that and my spirits rose.
Greg went off to check, but came back seconds later shaking his head. ‘Not to worry,’ he said. ‘We can get some coffee at work.’ He moved to the window and looked at the rain-sodden garden. ‘I didn’t hear a thing.’
‘It woke me up,’ I said shortly, forcing myself into action. Maisie would be down soon, clamouring for breakfast. ‘Didn’t you wonder why our daughter was in our bed?’
‘That’s nothing unusual,’ he said, turning, perhaps hearing an undercurrent in my tone. His robe had fallen open and I stared absently at his tanned chest and the soft dark hair on his belly. ‘Ah.’ He nodded, as the penny dropped. ‘No internet connection.’
‘Colleen might have left a message. My phone’s flat.’
‘I’m sure the power will be back on soon.’ He closed the gap between us and took the carton of milk I was holding. ‘You can’t use that,’ he said, emptying it down the sink and running the taps. ‘The fridge must have been off for hours.’
‘For God’s sake.’ I slumped against the worktop and pushed my hands through my hair. It needed washing, but I wouldn’t be able to dry or style it. I couldn’t even have a shower. ‘Everything in the freezer will be ruined,’ I said. ‘And what can Maisie have for breakfast?’
‘A banana, or a peanut butter sandwich.’ Greg opened a cupboard and retrieved a loaf of bread. ‘She’s not a fussy eater.’
‘I need to work on my photos from yesterday’s shoot.’ But that wasn’t why I was fretting and Greg knew it.
‘Once Maisie’s at nursery, you can go to a café and use their Wi-Fi.’ He was speaking in his sensible voice, as though I was the child. ‘I know your password. I can check your phone messages when I get to work, if you like.’
‘No,’ I said, more sharply than I’d intended.
His eyebrows shot up. ‘Just trying to help.’
‘Sorry.’ I managed an apologetic grin. ‘I didn’t sleep very well.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ he said, steering me to the table and pressing me down in a chair. ‘Let me make breakfast and drop Maisie off, then you can get on with whatever you need to do.’
As he gently massaged my shoulders, he cleared his throat. ‘Just don’t get too excited about hearing from Colleen, that’s all,’ he said, and a surge of irritation rose inside me.
‘Why not, Greg?’ I turned from his grip. ‘This is the most amazing thing that’s happened to me in a very long time.’
‘OK, sorry.’ He stepped backwards, hands raised. ‘I just don’t want to see you upset, that’s all.’
‘I won’t be,’ I said. ‘She sounds great. I feel as though I know her all ready, Greg. Don’t ruin this for me.’ I suddenly wanted him to leave. ‘You were the one who told me where she lived.’
‘Maybe that was a mistake,’ he said quietly, turning to grab the bread from the fridge, and something about the set of his shoulders told me not to pursue it.
*
After they’d gone, I made a half-hearted attempt to empty the freezer, before abandoning it in favour of a lukewarm bath. Then I tied my hair back, pulled on a fresh pair of jeans and a clean top, grabbed my things and headed out. I wanted to find the letter from the shoebox, and couldn’t shake the feeling it was still at Dad’s house.
Using the charger in the car, I called Dad to let him know I was coming, but as usual he didn’t pick up. He was probably out walking Charlie, and never remembered to take his phone. It would be lying on the table in the hall, out of battery.
I called my agent, Jenny, to let her know I would forward the photos from the restaurant shoot later on, and to cry off a job she’d booked for me that afternoon. I wouldn’t be able to concentrate. ‘I’ve got a migraine,’ I said.
‘I didn’t know you suffered with them.’ Jenny’s voice was warm and compassionate. I pictured her rosy round face and felt another twist of guilt. She’d become a good friend since I joined the agency. I felt bad for not being honest, but didn’t know where to begin, or even whether I was ready to tell people about Colleen.
‘It’s the weather.’ In the rear-view mirror, my cheeks were pink. I was hopeless at lying, even on the phone. ‘There was a storm last night.’
‘Oh yes, it was awful. I hate thunder,’ she said, her voice clearing. ‘Don’t worry about this afternoon, Ella. I’ll put someone else on it. You take care of yourself.’
By the time I parked outside Dad’s, my temples really were throbbing.
I got out of the car, my laptop under my arm, hoping the power cut hadn’t extended out here. The sun had emerged, pushing aside the clouds, and the ground was already dry.
The red-brick walls of my childhood home glowed a welcome. As I pushed through the gate, past neatly clipped hedges and billowing flowerbeds, roses scenting the air with their sweet perfume, memories lined my mind: Mum at the window, hanging curtains; sitting at her easel in the garden, her curly hair tucked under a scarf; up a ladder in baggy dungarees, clearing the gutters in autumn.
‘I’m not afraid to tackle men’s work,’ she’d tease Dad, who was hopeless at anything resembling DIY.
In my memory her violet eyes were always smiling, but what had really been going on underneath? Had she secretly looked at the spaces around her, where her other daughter should have been? Had she regretted giving her up?
I hated that I couldn’t ask her and a flicker of anger ignited then quickly died. I was certain Mum had meant me to find the contents of the shoebox and that was all that mattered.
I unlocked the door and stepped into the hallway.
‘Dad?’ I knew he wasn’t there. His dusty old Fiat wasn’t on the drive, and there was no sign of Charlie. He must have gone shopping and taken the dog with him.
The house smelt stale and had an abandoned air. I missed the soothing, homely sounds that used to accompany my visits, when Mum would greet me with a hug and homemade cake.
Despite my best efforts to keep the place clean, the hall looked shabby. The carpet was worn in places, and clusters of dog fur had gathered along the skirting boards.
A few paintings were propped against the wall in a higgledy-piggledy fashion and I stooped to pick one up. I hadn’t seen it before. It was of a robin, perched in the tree in the back garden, the colours muted and dreamy. The colours were typically Mum’s style and had won her some critical acclaim through the years. I could vividly recall the thrill of seeing a feature about her in a glossy magazine, and from the time she’d appeared on an arts show on BBC2, looking shy as she discussed her technique, tucking her hair behind her ear in a subconsciously nervous gesture. She hadn’t sought the limelight. She’d been happiest in the studio she shared with a group of artists, or teaching students at the university where she’d met Dad.
Another picture caught my eye, of a small girl on a swing, her head tipped up to the clouds, which I suspected was me. It had been framed, but the glass was cracked, as though it had been dropped at some point, and my breathing quickened as I spotted the painting beside it. Two young girls were playing on a beach, one taller than the other, both with buckets and spades and wearing matching, orange swimming costumes patterned with white spots. They were blonde beneath their straw hats, smiling at each other against a backdrop of frothy waves and pale blue sky. It had obviously been painted with a loving hand, the colours rich yet delicate, and was intricately detailed down to every freckle, and I knew, even before I turned it over and saw the initials E&C pencilled on the back, that the girls were Colleen and me. Or, at least, how Mum had pictured us.
Tears blurred my vision as I traced a finger over their faces, trying to imagine what must have been going through Mum’s mind back then. Had she hidden it in the shed away from Dad, in case it raised questions? Perhaps she’d sneak out to look at it, wondering about the child she’d given away.
I quickly put it down and looked at the remaining two paintings, but they were landscapes, the colours a little too subdued. I replaced them gently and ran upstairs to scour the bedroom, trying not to dwell on the empty wardrobe, its doors still standing open, and Mum’s bedside table, cleared of her books. The bed looked unslept in and I guessed Dad was still sleeping on the sofa.
There was no sign of the letter and I wondered if it might have slipped out of my bag when I was returning to the car. If so, the rain would have turned it to pulp and there was nothing I could do.
I returned to the hallway, and after checking the electricity was working, sat on the stairs and connected to the internet, my heart kicking when I saw that Colleen had replied.
I opened her message and read it quickly, a smile spreading over my face. She was in Ireland and wanted us to go there!
For a second, my mind galloped ahead, picturing us meeting, crying and laughing and talking at the same time, but I couldn’t quite bring her into focus and my smile faded as reality rushed in. Flying to Sligo with Greg and Maisie suddenly felt like too much, too soon. I had no idea whether Greg would even want to go.
I read her message again.
We could book a hotel perhaps. Maybe you could book it for us both, and I’ll pay you when you arrive.
For some reason, I heard Dad’s voice in my head, saying, ‘If someone you’ve never met asks you to pay for something, don’t. It’s a scam.’ But that had been after a news report we’d watched, about vulnerable, lonely women being conned out of their life savings by men professing their undying love.
This was my sister.
I noticed she hadn’t responded to my questions about her film-editing career, and there was still no mention of her husband, but perhaps she’d rather wait until meeting before revealing the private details of her life.
I thought for a moment before replying, keen to get the tone right.
I’d love us to meet, Colleen. I can’t wait! Would it be possible for you to come here to start with? We could meet at the airport, and go somewhere for lunch and get to know each other. Then I’ll introduce you to Greg and Maisie. How does that sound? Let me know soon. I can’t wait, and Maisie will be thrilled to meet her auntie! Love, Ella x
I read it twice before hitting Send, feeling brighter again, as though the sun streaming through the window by the door had reached inside me.
After logging off, I picked up Mum’s paintings and took them out to the car, laying them carefully in the boot and covering them with a blanket. I would find somewhere to hang them, and maybe show Colleen.
My headache had finally receded. The sun was warm on my neck and I debated visiting Mum’s grave, but although I went at least once a month to refresh the flowers, I could never quite connect with her there. I much preferred remembering her as she’d been, vibrant and full of life, not lying cold in the ground.
I realised I was fizzing with an energy I didn’t know what to do with. I should go home and see if the power had returned and finish emptying the freezer. After that, I could go online to research somewhere suitable for a grand-reunion lunch with Colleen – somewhere we could talk in private.
I pulled out my phone and tapped in Greg’s number. He answered on the second ring, as though he’d been waiting for my call.
‘I’ve invited Colleen over,’ I told him, excitement building once more. ‘You’d better prepare to meet your sister-in-law.’