Coming Home (34 page)

I took a sip of wine. She had a point. It was difficult to imagine how anti-relationships I had been just six weeks ago. Luca had been a game-changer. For the first time in six years, I’d started to question why I was in Dubai. I knew I’d been running away from Mum and from the sadness that
had choked our family since Graham’s death, but things had changed. Maybe it was time to come back.

‘Look, Evie, everything else aside, Luca’s a nice guy,’ Mum said. ‘He lights you up. No more, no less.’

I played with my napkin. Mum cocked her head expectantly.

‘He’s lovely,’ I said finally. ‘I’m wondering if it could work after all. Now we’re older and all that.’

‘I bet it could! You could always come back. I really don’t know what keeps you over there in all that heat. And you of all people know how easy it is to move country. You’ve done it once before. Maybe it’s time to come back. What is it the Buddhists say? “Nothing is permanent”? “Everything is possible”?’

‘Hmm.’ I tried to look non-committal as a smile wound its way round my insides. ‘Anyway,’ I said. ‘I’m glad to see you looking so happy.’

‘I
am
happy. Honestly, Evie? I’m glad to be moving out of that house.’ Mum took another sip of wine and looked at her hands before continuing. ‘It’s a lovely house. And obviously it was your home, but there are too many bad memories tied up in it. It’s time to move on. I feel so liberated to be moving to the new place. I can’t wait. It feels like a new start.

‘It
is
a new start.’

‘But are you ready for it?’ I asked. ‘Are you sure it’s not too soon?’

‘I’m fine, darling. I’m stronger than you think. And Richard’s been ever so helpful. It’s very nice to have a chap
like that around when you live on your own.’ Mum looked carefully at me. It was the first time she’d alluded to Richard since I’d seen them on the doorstep that day.

I sighed. ‘I know. I understand. Really, I do. Especially now I know what, um … happened with Dad.’

‘He’s a nice man,’ Mum said. She smiled to herself. ‘He’s not an academic like your father but, if you got to know him, I think you’d like him.’

‘I know, I know. I wasn’t angry about him
per se
. I was angry that you didn’t tell me. Even when I asked. It was another secret. It just seemed like there were so many secrets. Massive secrets! It was as if you didn’t trust me with anything. That’s what I was angry about.’

‘I’m sorry, darling.’ Mum patted my hand.

‘You have to understand that it’s just you and me now,’ I said. ‘We’re all that’s left. And I’m an adult. You don’t have to shield me from this stuff any more.’ As if you ever did, I thought. ‘God! I mean, what could be worse than what we’ve been through in the last few weeks? A death, two affairs and a secret son! I swear, we could be on
The Jeremy Kyle Show
!’

‘We don’t have the tattoos,’ Mum said deadpan. She took a sip of her wine. ‘Anyway. You don’t need to worry about me getting married. I’m never getting married again. Once was more than enough.’ She laughed. Bitterly.

There are times in life when you’re not sure if you’re doing the right thing. As I rang the bell for the bus to stop a couple
of stops too soon for Mum’s road, I was full of doubt. If the wine hadn’t dulled my sensitivity, I would never have done this. It took a second for Mum to realise what I was doing, and she looked sharply at me. Surrounded by strangers, we had a conversation in glances as I stood by the bus door.
Seriously?
she asked me with her eyes.
If you want to?
I asked her back. A pause, then Mum shrugged, stood up and joined me at the doors.

I took her arm as we got off and then I kept hold of it. It wasn’t far to the crossing and our steps slowed as we got closer, both of us lost in our own thoughts. I was thinking, as I always did at this spot, how this view was the last thing Graham would have seen before he died. These trees, these buildings, this pavement. That pedestrian crossing button the last thing that he pressed. That spot of tarmac, which we were walking past now, was where he’d taken his last breath.

We reached the crossing and stood back from the road, our thoughts hanging heavy. The lilies I’d placed were long gone.

‘I come here every year,’ I told Mum.

‘Me too. I come here often. Sometimes there are flowers, not from me. I always wonder who else it is that remembers him. But it’s nice to know that someone else does.’

‘I didn’t realise you came.’

She shrugged. ‘Darling, he was my son. My firstborn.’

‘I didn’t realise you were … able to?’ I was referring to her breakdown, her suicide attempt.

‘It was a difficult time for me. It was all too much. Your father … his “thing” with that woman … was no help. I loved
your brother—both of you—very much. But he’s happy now. I know he’s happy now.’

‘I like to think so, too. He’d like to see us both here today. I wonder if he’s with Dad now.’

‘Probably not,’ said Mum. ‘I like to think your brother went to heaven.’ She paused. ‘Anyway, let’s hope we don’t find out for a long time. Right, come on. Let’s see how far those packers have got.’

Mum’s front door was propped open. Removal men scrunched back and forth across the gravel with boxes, fitting them into the back of the van like they were playing an oversized game of Jenga. I walked up the driveway and peered into the van as I passed—it was now about ninety per cent full, many of the big pieces appeared to be in. I asked how it was going.

‘Just fillin’ up with boxes now, love. Give us ‘alf an hour and we’ll be ready to take this lot over before we come back for more.’

I followed him into the house. Without furniture, the rooms looked huge. Without the washing machine, fridge, freezer and dishwasher, the kitchen units looked like a giant’s mouth with the teeth smashed out. Without Mum and Dad’s things, the house had lost its soul. Even the acoustics were different; my footsteps echoed. The house was just a shell. I breathed in the old familiar smell—that was all that remained, and even that was underlain now with the scent of old dust disturbed.

Upstairs, the rooms were largely clear. I blew a kiss into Graham’s room, then went into Mum’s. She was standing at the window, watching the removal men on the drive below.

‘How does it feel?’

‘Exciting, scary. Like the start of a new chapter.’ She paused. ‘A chapter that should have started years ago.’

‘I guess it’s the end of an era.’

I couldn’t summon the same enthusiasm: I loved my parents’ house. I loved the high ceilings and huge sash windows, the way the sun fell into the living room, the big, square bedrooms. I sighed. Maybe Mum was right: the house was too full of memories, and she wasn’t the only one who needed to let them go.

T
he move gave Mum a new lease of life. Out of the confines of the old house, she blossomed; almost become a new person—perhaps the person she’d always been underneath, but a person I hadn’t seen since before Graham had died. She was happy, outgoing, confident—she radiated from inside and it made her look younger, more beautiful. I hadn’t realised how much the old house—and Dad’s secret—had weighed her down. It really was a new start for her. A way overdue new start.

She amazed me with her energy. After the packers had put everything in roughly the right place, she’d attacked the unpacking with the enthusiasm of a child on a sugar high, waving away my offers of help.

‘Go, have fun with Luca,’ she’d said and I’d been only too happy to fit in as much time with him as I could before I had to leave.

Two days after the move, I marvelled at how settled Mum was. Apart from a stack of collapsed cardboard boxes waiting to be picked up by the packers, there was no evidence that she’d just moved in. Returning from Luca’s that morning, I walked through the hall noticing that pictures were up on
the walls, books were on the shelves and china was in the cabinets. There was even a vase of tulips by the phone. I followed the scent of freshly baked bread and found Mum standing at the hob, stirring something. It was as if she’d lived there all her life.

‘You’re just in time for lunch,’ she said. ‘Spicy pumpkin soup and fresh bread.’

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Richard, entering the kitchen behind me. He looked dishevelled, his lashes fringed with dust. ‘I’ll leave the toolbox under the stairs.’

‘Thank you so much, much obliged. See you later.’ She blew him a kiss then turned to me. ‘Richard put up the pictures and the curtain rails.’

He doffed an imaginary cap in her direction and left. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

‘Now I’m all settled,’ said Mum, opening the fridge, ‘how about a little celebration drink? Look what I’ve got!’ She pulled out a bottle of champagne and presented it like a game-show hostess. ‘Ta da!’

Before I could reply, she popped it open, plucked two flutes from the dresser in the dining room and quickly located some cheesy biscuits. The new dining table hadn’t been delivered so we sat in the kitchen, at a small folding table Mum had borrowed from Richard. We clinked glasses.

‘Cheers!’

‘Bottoms up!’ That was Mum. She took a big swig.

‘Here’s to you,’ I said. ‘I can’t believe how far you’ve come in six weeks. I was so worried when I first came over.
I thought you’d be a mess, but I’m so proud of the way you’ve handled everything.’

Mum laughed. ‘There’s life in the old goat yet.’

We sipped our drinks. ‘Do you think you’d have told me about … all that stuff with Dad sooner if I lived here? Would it have been easier?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know. It’s hard to say. Maybe.’ Mum took another glug, then looked pensively at her glass. ‘It’s not something I would have wanted to tell you over the phone. I suppose I could have told you when you were here one summer, but it never really crossed my mind. I was so used to suppressing it. I didn’t really think about it very much; not until I found out “she” was pregnant. But you were doing so well in Dubai I didn’t want to interrupt your life there and make you think about coming home. To be honest, I kind of hoped your father would tell you—it was his news to tell, not mine.’

She got up to check the soup, stirred it busily. ‘Have you heard from him again? The son?’

‘Oh y’know. We’ll stay in touch.’ I didn’t want to say any more. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. ‘Anyway, cheers! I feel we’re on the brink of a new era, we Stevenses. Here’s to no more secrets!’

‘Cheers! No more secrets!’ Mum lifted her half-empty glass, took another slug. ‘Ooh, heavens, that’s potent stuff on an empty stomach.’ She looked down at the table, then up at me. She pursed her lips and rested her index finger on them thoughtfully. Her eyes narrowed and she looked at me almost challengingly.

‘What?’ I asked, defensive.

‘Hmm,’ she said, tapping her lips. ‘Nothing.’

‘What? We just agreed no more secrets. What’s up?’

Mum looked down at the table, then back at me. ‘Oh nothing. It’s all worked out OK in the end, hasn’t it?’ She lifted her chin. A small smile played on her lips and suddenly I knew that there was something else she wasn’t telling me.

‘What, Mum? What do you mean “it’s all worked out”? What’s worked out?’

She gave a little laugh. ‘Oh, Evie. It’s probably better you don’t know.’ She took another slug of champagne and refilled her glass, nodding to herself as she did so. The half-formed thought I’d had coming back from seeing Uncle David suddenly took shape and I shook my head, trying to disperse it, but the clues were all there. Somehow, in Mum’s new kitchen, they went from dancing randomly in my head to standing in a line, like schoolchildren at whistle-time: Mum’s efficiency the day I’d arrived. Dad’s money transfer to Zoe. The ‘premonition’ Zoe thought Dad had had. My mouth turned dry, the cheese biscuit I was eating stuck in lumps on my tongue.

‘What are you not telling me?’ I said, slowly shaking my head.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘You heard me. There’s something you’re not telling me about Dad’s death. You knew he was going to die. You were ready for it. What was it? Did he commit suicide? Or did you have a hand in it? Did you kill him? I know all about you and Grandpa!’

Mum’s hand flew to her chest. ‘Oh, goodness, Evie. What a thing to say!’

I slammed my fist on the table, but my voice was quiet. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’ She shrunk from me, her hand over her mouth. ‘Tell me! Tell me what happened!’ My voice rose.

‘Evie … I …’

‘WHAT HAPPENED?’

Mum stared at the table and I waited, breathing hard. When she finally spoke, her hands were on her face, her fingers splayed over her cheeks. Her voice was fluttery. ‘Look. You know I told you Dad had a biopsy done on his prostate?’

I nodded.

‘I’m sorry, Evie. Sorry to say he did have cancer,’ she said. ‘The hospital called. The results came in.’

‘And?’

‘Well, your father was out at the time. I took the message. They gave me an appointment for him to see the consultant the following Monday.’

‘And?’

‘Well. I told Robert, of course. But we both knew what it meant. When you’re asked to go in and discuss biopsy results with a consultant so quickly it can only mean one thing. It’s not good news.’

I gestured at her to carry on. ‘And so what happened? What did the consultant say?’

‘Robert didn’t go.’

‘What do you mean he didn’t go? That’s ridiculous!’

‘He refused point-blank to go. “I’m not going to sit there
and wait to be told by some quack how long I have to live,” he said. He asked me to take a look at his file and see what it said.’

‘What? So you hacked into his file?’

Mum tutted. ‘It’s hardly hacking, Evie. I just pulled it up and looked. I’m his next of kin, after all, and I had his permission.’

‘And?’ My voice was a whisper. I couldn’t imagine what was coming, how this story was going to play out. I was thinking: he died of heart failure. How can this be relevant? ‘What was the result?’

‘Cancer, Evie. Far worse than either of us could have imagined. It had spread. Everywhere.’

‘No!’

‘He’d left it too late, Evie—by the time it was diagnosed, he was riddled with it. It was in his lungs, his lymph nodes and his liver.’ Mum’s voice was calm. It reminded me of the nights she read me bedtime stories. ‘The doctor had written “palliative care only” on the file. Robert would have had two, three months to live. And even that was optimistic.’