Coming Home (33 page)

‘How come? Where was she?’

‘Well, it turned out she’d buggered off on holiday with her boyfriend. She claimed Dad had been fit and healthy and had given her his blessing to go, but it was obvious from the state of him that she hadn’t been looking after him very well at all. He was frail, filthy and sick.’

‘Oh my God. So then what happened?’

‘Well. I blamed myself. I shouldn’t have put so much responsibility on her. I quit the job in Manchester, and took Dad home with me to Oxford, where I concentrated on trying to nurse him back to health. He never really did recover, though.’

‘So is that why you and Mum don’t speak?’ I nodded to myself, trying to piece it back together.

‘No, no. That’s not it at all. I told you. I blamed myself for that. It got worse when Dad died.’

My eyes widened. Both my grandparents had died before I was born, but I’d never really given a thought as to how or why. For me, my grandparents were imaginary, almost historical figures. I didn’t know much about them at all.

‘He didn’t last long,’ Uncle David continued. ‘I think he died of a broken heart.’ He looked sharply at me. ‘No, don’t laugh. He adored Mum and, ultimately, I don’t think he had much will to carry on without her.’

‘That’s so sad.’

‘That wasn’t the end of it, though. In fact, it was after he died that it all started to go wrong. The autopsy showed a small amount of damage to his liver and kidneys that was consistent with having taken low doses of arsenic over a period of time.’

‘What? Had he been trying to kill himself?’ I imagined a heartbroken old man tipping arsenic into his coffee every day, waiting to die.

Uncle David shook his head. His voice was so quiet I strained to hear him. ‘No. I didn’t think it wasn’t him.’ He leaned forward and clasped his hands together. ‘Forgive me for saying this, Evie. It was a difficult time. But I thought Carole had done it.’

‘No!’ I gasped, shaking my head vehemently. ‘No! She would never have done that! You were wrong. You must have been wrong!’

But Uncle David lifted a hand to quieten me, and carried on. ‘I thought she couldn’t cope with having Dad there. Or
maybe she’d thought she was being kind to him, giving him a quick way out or something. Trust me, I’ve thought about this constantly over the years and I’m not so sure now. But, at the time, I thought she’d given him a tiny bit every day and then gone away when she’d thought he was about to die.’

‘Oh my God! You thought she tried to poison her own dad? Did she?’ I thought of Zoe’s accusation. ‘Did anyone else ever find out?’

David looked bleakly at me. ‘I’m afraid we’ll never know if she did or not. There was an investigation. Carole and I were both questioned and let go. The police found a small bottle of arsenic hidden in the back of the wardrobe in Dad’s room at Carole’s so they couldn’t prove that he hadn’t actually taken it himself—grieving widower and all that. Ultimately, though, we were let go because the arsenic wasn’t the cause of his death—the amount hadn’t been enough to kill him, and it had obviously stopped when Dad had moved in with me. It was all very tenuous; the damage was slight. As I said, I think he died of a broken heart.’

I slumped back on my chair. ‘Oh my God. I had no idea. No one ever mentioned this at home.’

‘Well, why would they? It’s not something Carole would ever have wanted dragged up. She probably tried to bury it as best she could.’ Uncle David looked out of the window for a bit, even his normal eye looking glassy. Then he turned back to me. ‘After it was all over, I confronted Carole.’

‘And?’ I couldn’t believe all this had happened in my own family. Dad must have known—it must have been he who’d told Zoe, but I’d never heard a whisper about it.

‘She went ballistic. Accused me of doing it myself. Tried to scratch my other eye out. Said she’d never forgive me for even thinking she would try to poison her own dad. Then she told me to get out. “I have no brother” were her words, if I remember correctly.’ His voice was flat.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly through my mouth. ‘I’m in shock … So you not only lost both parents, but your sister as well.’

He closed his good eye for a moment, then opened it. ‘Well. What can I do? Life goes on. My conscience is clear. I did all I could for Dad. I don’t know about Carole, though. I wonder now if I was wrong about her. Maybe Dad
did
take the poison himself. I think about her. I thought about getting in touch, but …’ His voice tailed off.

There was a silence. I was aware of the sounds of the coffee shop in the background. ‘So you’ve never seen her since that day?’ I asked.

Uncle David took a slug of tea. ‘Not technically.’

‘What on earth does that mean?’

‘Well …’ He smiled sadly, his voice cracking a little, his eye roaming towards the window again. He steepled his fingers under his chin. ‘I did sort of go to her wedding. A friend we’d known growing up told me where and when, so I hid behind a hedge across the road from the church and I watched her arrive. I watched her get out of the car, arrange her dress and walk in. She was wearing ivory—not a big monstrosity of a dress, just a simple thing, and carrying pink roses. She looked beautiful. I waited to see her come out, married. That’s the last time I saw her.’ There was a long
silence. ‘Your dad looked like a nice chap. Was it a happy marriage, Evie? Did he make her happy?’

I put my head in my hands. ‘Oh God. If you’d asked me this last week, I’d have said yes; yes they were very happy considering what they went through. You know about my brother, right?’

He nodded. ‘I did hear. I sent flowers, a card with my number, but she never replied.’

‘She was sick,’ I said. I explained about Mum’s suicide attempt and her incarceration. Uncle David sat there taking it all in.

‘You’ve been through so much. I had no idea,’ he said.

It was my turn to shrug. ‘That’s not the half of it. Since Dad died I’ve found out he had another family—a mistress and a son. He was leading a double life, staying with us all week and with them on the weekends.’

‘Oh good God. You are joking, aren’t you, Evie?’

‘I wish. I wish I was joking. Nope. It’s all true. I’ve met my half-brother. He told me.’

David let out a low laugh. ‘You couldn’t make it up. I’m guessing Carole doesn’t know. I wouldn’t have fancied your father’s chances if she’d ever found out! As I said, she’s very competitive.’ He laughed again.

‘She knew. She told me yesterday.’

Uncle David stopped laughing and leaned towards me. I could see tiny specks of cappuccino froth on his beard. ‘How did you say your father died?’

‘In his sleep. Heart failure.’ I narrowed my eyes at him. ‘Are you saying …? No-no-no-no-no. Mum had known
about this for
years
. Like eighteen years or something. Seriously. I think she’d actually got used to it. Maybe the arrangement even suited her. She was very calm when she told me about it yesterday. She got over it years ago. Don’t even go there!’

David sat back. ‘Sorry, Evie. I wasn’t implying that at all. But, look, I’m glad you got in touch. If you need me, you know where I am.’

‘Need you?’

‘In any way, Evie. I’m always here for you.’ He patted my hand awkwardly. ‘In any way at all.’

I spent the majority of the journey home staring into space in a daze, replaying my conversation with Uncle David in my head. He thought my mother had killed her own father! Every time I got to that bit of our talk, I shook my head. ‘No!’ I muttered. ‘Just—no!’

I didn’t know what had gone on between David and Mum when they were growing up although, from the sounds of it, it had clearly been a more combative relationship than I’d had with Graham. Goodness, I’d heard of sibling rivalry, but taking out your brother’s eye? I could imagine, then, that David must have had his own agenda; put his own spin on what had happened between his dad and his sister. He was a musician, for goodness’ sake. I knew these creative types: he probably wasn’t unfamiliar with alcohol, maybe even recreational drugs. Who knew what hallucinations he might have had? I didn’t doubt the facts of what he said,
just his analysis of what had happened. Maybe he felt guilty for not being there when his dad needed him, and blaming his sister was a way of exonerating himself.

Far from putting my mind at rest, the conversation with my uncle had made me feel uneasy. On the one hand, I was glad to have met him at last, and his assurances that he’d be there for me were good to hear, but, on the other hand, I still felt apprehensive about Mum. Did Zoe really have good reason to be scared of my mother? I shook my head again. Oh please.

I transited London on autopilot, still lost in thought and, before I knew it, I was on the local train back down to Woodside. As I stared out of the window, the back gardens of south London slipping past in a jumble of broken trampolines, uncut grass, rain-soaked patios, conservatories, garden sheds and washing lines, the germ of a thought, as yet unformed, knocked at the edge of my consciousness.

I
’d grown up seeing Benny’s Removals trucks around town but, having lived in the same house all my life, it was a company that ‘other people’ used. Now, as my taxi pulled up outside my parents’ house, the huge red-and-blue van parked outside looked out of place—it made the house look like someone else’s house. It made me realise, too, that the days of calling this house ‘home’ were coming to a close. There was a certain poignancy to the moment.

There were eight packers (‘That’s the only way we’ll do a job this size in two days, love.’) and they were fast. They moved like a swarm of locusts around the house, wrapping everything in paper, placing each item in boxes with unexpected care before scribbling with thick marker pens on each box which room it was from. One even moved through the house with a camera, taking pictures of every room from every angle, ‘to ‘elp wiv the unpacking, love’. His accent was pure South London. ‘Makes it easier.’

‘That’s a good idea,’ I said. Mum and I didn’t know what to do with ourselves. We perched in the living room, pretending to read magazines; Mum kept jumping up and offering to help.

‘Look. I’ll be honest,’ said the man with the camera. ‘It’ll be much easier for us if you can go out for a bit, get out of our ‘air. We’ll be able to work quicker. Just make sure you’ve got yer valuables safe—jewellery, cash, passports—show us where the tea is and go for a late lunch and a bit of shopping, like?’ He mimed a lady shopping, mincing along with bags in her hand and her nose in the air.

‘You’ll leave the beds till last, won’t you?’ I was anxious. ‘We’re sleeping here tonight.’

‘Yep. Don’t you worry about anyfing.’ He grinned at us. ‘I’ll leave yer the beds and the microwave. Believe it or not, we’ve done this before. More than once.’

Upstairs, I looked into Graham’s old room. Already it was missing the bed, bedside tables and lounge chair. All that remained was a slim dressing table and a chair. My chest tightened. This was where I came to speak to Graham; where I felt closest to him. Without this room to anchor my memories, would I forget the real Graham? Would he become just an ethereal idea; the floating concept of a boy who’d once existed?

‘I think it’s going to be all right,’ I said to the room. ‘She seems OK, doesn’t she?’

I got down on my hands and knees and crawled under the dressing table to the point where the carpet met the skirting board in the far corner of the room. With my palm on the carpet, I felt around until I found a small lump. It was still there. I felt for the edge of the carpet and gently pulled it up, feeling with the other hand until it found what it was looking for.

I pulled out the plastic bag, reversed myself out from under the dressing table, pushing my hair back out of my eyes, and sat on the chair. I couldn’t believe it was still there. Twenty-one years ago, when I was seven and Graham nine, we’d become fascinated with the idea of time capsules and had spent much of that entire summer first stripping the house and digging the garden in the hope that we’d find one someone had hidden, and then planning what we’d put into our own. This little sandwich bag was the result. Through the plastic, I could see a fraction of amateur joined-up writing in blunt pencil: ‘1992 … Woodside, Kent, England … Robert, Carole, Graham, Evie … no spaceships … terrestrial car … Vauxhall Vectra … John Major …’ The bump was from the 1p, 2p and 5p coins we’d put inside as an example of currency, along with a second-class postage stamp we’d stolen from our parents’ desk drawer.

‘What shall I do with it?’ I asked the room, but I decided almost immediately to leave it. Crawling back under the dressing table, I pulled up the carpet again and slid the bag back underneath. I hoped the new people would have children who’d find the thought of a message from twenty years ago as exciting as we had.

We took the bus into Bromley and, after a quick mooch about the shops, Mum and I found ourselves facing each other over the scrubbed wooden table of one of my favourite cafés. We ordered smoked salmon wraps and a bottle of water but then, as the waiter turned to go, Mum suddenly
asked for a bottle of Pinot Grigio and two glasses as well. ‘Why not?’ She shrugged as I pulled a
faux
shocked face at her. ‘I’m not driving and we’ve nothing else to do.’

It was a good call—the wine went down well, making Mum a little giggly. Under the lunchtime influence, she became the mum I remembered from before Graham’s death: a more carefree, happy Mum; a Mum who’d played on the floor with me, putting my Sindy dolls into ridiculous outfits and thinking up silly things for them to do. Not the tense, fragile Mum of later years.

‘So tell me about Luca,’ she said, leaning towards me over the table as if we were two girlfriends out for a gossip. ‘Is he moving to Dubai, or can we expect to see you moving back here?’

‘Would you like me to move back?’ I studied my plate as I spoke. ‘I mean … I could …?’

‘Move back for yourself, Evie,’ said Mum. ‘Move back for Luca. But don’t move back for me. I’m fine. In case you haven’t noticed.’

‘Really? I worry.’

Mum rolled her eyes. ‘You don’t need to worry about me. But Luca? If I were you, I’d be doing everything I could to give that relationship a chance. You don’t meet men like him every day.’