Coming Home (24 page)

Tom replied the next evening, his answers more guarded than I’d imagined from what I’d seen of him—one-liners. He’d found out about me at sixteen; he’d seen pictures of me on the internet; he wasn’t sure when I walked into Harry’s, but then Luca had called me ‘Evie’ and he’d suddenly thought ‘OMG, maybe that was her’. He’d Googled me again that night and, when I’d walked in again the next day, he’d been sure. He’d love to stay in touch; he’d love to meet me again, but was already back in Warwick. ‘Exams … bet you don’t remember what they are!’

I replied and we fell into a routine. As I got to know Tom, it became increasingly important to me to share as much of my father with him as I could, as if to make up for the childhood that he’d never had. I was the only person on earth who could tell him what it had been like to be a child of Robert Stevens. My need to chronicle our history for Tom became a fire in my belly. I needed desperately to let my new brother in on everything that he’d missed. I suppose the upshot was that I felt guilty that I’d grown up with my father while Tom had not. Guilty that Dad had chosen to stay with us, not him. I spent the long evenings in Woodside writing down my memories for Tom.

I tried to put myself in his shoes and think what I’d want to know if I were him. I imagined he’d want to know what type of a father ours had been, so I told him little stories and
anecdotes to illustrate. I was tempted to make Dad out to be perfect, but I tried to keep it realistic. I told Tom about the Mastermind championships, about the bike rides and the family trips abroad that always had a historical bent; how there was never just a simple beach holiday—there always had to be ruins and history lessons disguised as fun.

I wanted Tom to know, too, what it was like growing up with a famous father, a man who was revered by both his peers and the media, so I talked about how absent Dad had become after Graham’s accident; how badly affected he was; how he retreated from family life and spent every weekend on lecture tours. ‘That was probably why he became so successful,’ I wrote, suddenly realising that, for my dad, some tiny good could have come out of Graham’s death after all. ‘He was devoted to his career; he spent so much time touring and making his name that, by the time I was ten, I didn’t see much of him either!’

To be honest, though, it was me who did most of the writing—Tom mentioned that he had exams coming up, so I didn’t really expect replies. But I hoped my emails provided him with some light relief between exams; I hoped that he enjoyed hearing from me, enjoyed finding out about me and his father. He sent me the odd message on Twitter, but I knew he had better things to do in the evenings than write long emails back to his sister. I understood that.

It was Tom, however, who made the next move in our game of sibling chess; it was Tom who picked up a castle and
progressed the game two squares while I was still shuffling my pawns. I’d just sent him an email when a reply dropped into my inbox with a ping.

‘Hey, Evie,’ it read. ‘Thanks for the emails. I really appreciate what you’re trying to do and I’m sorry I haven’t had time to reply. But my exams will be over next week so I wondered if you’re ready to meet up for a proper chat now? We really need to talk; there’s stuff I want to tell you, too. Much better face to face than on email. Can you come up here or shall I come back down?’

As soon as I read it, I knew a trip to Warwick to meet Tom was exactly what I needed. Not only was the time now right since I’d got to know him a bit, but I needed to get away from home and away from Mum. She hadn’t mentioned the bin-bags saga since leaving her ‘thanks’ note that morning and I needed to clear my head in a different setting. I was running in ever-decreasing circles here in Woodside, panicking about what to tell Mum, worrying about Tom, worrying about Mum’s mental health, worrying about her getting over the loss of my father and wondering, too, whether I should meet Uncle David or if that was a whole different can of worms. What I needed was some space, some clarity and an independent viewpoint. A trip up to see Clem—and Tom—was the perfect solution. Excited, nervous and full of trepidation, I dialled her number.

‘Clem! How are you?’ I smiled into the phone when she picked it up—she always had that effect on me.

‘Evie? Is that really you?’ she asked. ‘It’s so great to hear from you! You got my reply, right? I’m so sorry to hear
about your dad. Are you all right?’ A micro-pause and then, ‘How’s your mum?’

‘We’re fine, thanks. Mum’s … Mum seems OK. But, oh God, Clem, so much else has happened.’

‘What do you mean? Is everything all right?’

‘It’s a long story. How long have you got?’ I asked, listening for squawks from her twins in the background—there were none.

‘Ages,’ she said. ‘The beasts’re at nursery and the shop’s covered. So tell me.’

And so I sunk to the floor and explained as much as I could on the phone, wrapping the cord around my finger as I talked. Clem was unflappable. I loved that about her. You could tell her you’d murdered someone and hidden the body in her car and she wouldn’t panic; she always knew what to do. The news of my father’s death she’d taken well, but the story of my new half-brother took her by surprise.

‘Bloody hell, Evie. I wasn’t expecting that. Your dad was definitely a charmer, but he always looked so strait-laced! But, listen, this is too big for the phone. Can you come up? We need to talk about this in person. Come up and spend some time with me. Please?’

‘Well, actually, that was why I was calling. Tom’s asked me to meet him in Warwick and I wondered …?’

‘You don’t ever need to ask, Evie.’

We agreed I’d come up the next day.

I
’ve always liked train journeys. I don’t see them as dead time; for me, they’re time to think, to daydream, sometimes to read. Today, though, on the train to Coventry, I was too keyed up for any of that. I tried to relax: I bought myself a cup of tea and settled back in my seat with my knitting, my iPad and my book to hand, but I couldn’t focus on anything. I knitted a few stitches but my heart wasn’t in it, the iPad wouldn’t connect to the in-train Wi-Fi, and I certainly couldn’t focus on my book. Tapping my fingers on the table, I stared out at the passing countryside.

My entire body was fizzing with so much nervous energy I could have lit up London. I was dying to see Clem again, but I was even more desperate to see Tom, properly this time. He hadn’t said much to me in the scant emails he’d sent, so I had loads of questions for him: How did he feel about me? Did he want to stay in touch? He’d lived his entire life as an only child—maybe there wasn’t room in his life for a sister, even part-time.

We’d agreed to meet the following day at Clem’s tea rooms. I was trying not to overplay it in my head, trying
not to get too keen, to expect too much, but I couldn’t help but let thoughts about how it might go run through my head as I looked out of the window, watching the landscape slowly change from urban London to the Home Counties, then the washed-out fields of the countryside dotted with sheep so static they could have been painted onto the muddy grass.

After what seemed like a lifetime, the train pulled into Coventry Station and there, jumping up and down with excitement, was Clem, her curly brown hair whipping around her face in the wind. The last time I’d seen her was when James and I had dropped her and Patrick at the doors to Dubai International Airport and I’d watched her walk away with an ache in my throat.

‘Darling, buck up,’ James had said, pulling away from the kerb, as I’d craned my neck backwards for a last glimpse of my best friend. ‘She’s only moving to England, not Outer bloody Mongolia. You’ll see her every summer and no doubt we won’t be able to beat her and Pat off with sticks when it comes to visiting us.’

And although in theory he was right, it hadn’t happened in reality and now, for the first time in a couple of years, here she was.

‘Hello, gorgeous!’ said Clem, flinging her arms around me as I dropped my bag to hug her. ‘Welcome to Coventry.’ She said it with a perfect, but ironic, Midlands accent. ‘How was the journey?’

‘Oh, you know—on time.’ I was too excited for small talk. ‘I can’t believe I’m here! Look at you! You look amazing!’
And it was true. I’d worried about how Clem—the biggest sun-worshipper I knew—would reacclimatise to life in the UK. She’d once joked that, in Dubai, all she owned was work clothes and twenty-eight bikinis. Given she spent every single weekend at the beach or by the pool, it was probably true. But looking at her now, she glowed with health and happiness.

‘You look so healthy!’

‘It’s all the fresh air. Pushing the twins around in the buggy all the time! I walk everywhere here.’ She held me at arm’s distance and looked me up and down. ‘So sorry to hear about your dad, but, wow, it’s so good to see you!’

She led me through the car park to a silver estate car, the back of which was stuffed with baby paraphernalia: two baby car seats inhabited the back seats and a double stroller filled most of the boot. Clem flicked her eyes at it all. ‘Kids. Take over your life. No more sexy cars for me—just the Mummy-wagon. Is there space for your bag?’ I could see, though, that having the twins had been the making of Clem. She was a natural mum, one of those women with unending patience and unlimited kindness to give. She was in her element. Was I jealous? A bit—of the direction she had in her life; the purpose.

‘Where are the twins today?’

‘They go to nursery. Now they’re running about and into everything, I couldn’t run the shop with them at home. They love it, anyway. Once a week, the whole nursery decamps to the woods for “forest school”, where they look for insects, chase squirrels and do bark tracings, even in the rain—it’s
probably far better for them than sticking around with me yelling at them not to bug the customers. You might not see them, though—they’re terribly excited to be going for a sleepover at Mum’s tonight.’

We pulled out of the station car park onto the Coventry ring road.

‘So,’ said Clem. ‘Have you ever seen Warwick University?’

My heart quickened and I looked at her sideways. Did she mean what I thought she meant? Had she read my mind? She gave me a cheeky smile, her brows raised in innocence, but she had that mischievous look on her face that I remembered from the crazier of our nights in the past.

‘It’s a lovely campus university.’ Her tone was light, innocent. ‘You can drive right through it. It’s on our way, just a small detour.’

‘And you’re telling me this because …?’

‘Just thought you might like to do a little sightseeing on the way to Warwick?’

‘Sightseeing?’

‘Yes? You know, drive through the university, take a look around—see the students, get a feel for the place. You don’t need to get out, we’ll just drive through?’

I smiled. Clem didn’t need me to reply.

The chances of us seeing Tom randomly walking to class must have been next to nothing. But my eyes were swivelling right and left as Clem drove us slowly through the heart of the university campus. Forget forest school,
I couldn’t believe I was looking at the natural habitat of my half-brother. This is where he lived; where he worked and played. This was the air he breathed. Maybe we’d see him.

We didn’t see him.

A
fter the concrete of Coventry, Warwick High Street looked picture-postcard pretty, its mix of Georgian, Tudor and Victorian architecture so quintessentially English I couldn’t believe it really existed. Clem’s tea rooms took up the first two floors of a Georgian townhouse in the middle of the High Street. Behind a large picture window at street level, she’d packed wooden tables and chairs in tightly to accommodate the rush of tourists that flooded the shop each time a tour bus disgorged its occupants—already her cream teas, with their generous pots of luscious clotted cream and home-made strawberry, raspberry and blackcurrant jam, were gaining a reputation. As we walked through, I looked around for Tom. I knew it was silly—what would a student be doing in a place like that?—but I couldn’t stop myself.

Clem took me upstairs to what she called the drawing room—it was a more intimate, quieter space frequented by locals looking for a calm spot. One wall was covered in bookshelves, the books there for the taking.

‘It’s a sort of exchange,’ said Clem. ‘People take what they want and drop off when they’re done.’

I slumped into an armchair by the open fire and Clem asked the waitress to bring us each a cup of English Breakfast tea and a slice of her Victoria sponge.

‘Oh, Clem,’ I said. ‘How do you always manage to get it so right?’

She raised her eyebrows at me, questioning.

‘Your life, I mean. Your life choices. First Dubai—the perfect choice at the time. Then Patrick, marriage, the twins—this?’ I flicked my hand at her tea rooms. Clem had the life I knew my parents had wished for me. They’d have loved me to be married with kids at thirty, happily settled in Britain. My life went wrong, though, when I thought I’d be the one who could tame James. Even then I’d known that there wasn’t a single ex-girlfriend that meant a thing to James. How I’d thought I’d come out the other side of an encounter with him smiling, I don’t know.

Clem, on the other hand, had chosen well with Patrick, James’s wingman. What Pat lacked in sculptural good looks, he made up for in personality, loyalty and staying power. I was proud of Clem for getting it right that night at the wine bar, when I got it so spectacularly wrong.

‘Right, I’m desperate to talk about your new “brother”—’ Clem said the word carefully, trying the feel of it in her mouth—for so long it had been a word people were scared to say around me,’—but, before we get to that, can we talk about James?’

Clem knew we’d split up, but I hadn’t gone into details on Facebook—just changed my status to ‘Single’ and mentioned I was loving living in my own little place—

and I doubt James had bragged to Patrick about what had happened. To be honest, I hadn’t really spoken to many people about the break-up—I’d withdrawn a bit from the social scene, become more private.