Tangled Lives (11 page)

‘Are you an only child?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’ She found it odd that he didn’t know even this about her. ‘And you too?’

Daniel nodded. ‘Dad probably thought Mum wouldn’t cope with two. She was … quite a nervous person.’ He looked uneasy as he spoke, as if he felt disloyal telling her this.

‘I wish I’d had siblings. It would make dealing with my mother so much easier.’

‘Is she that bad?’

‘Oh, worse! Much, much worse. But I shouldn’t be mean. She went through a lot when my father died. Anyway, you’ll meet her one day and you can make up your own mind.’

‘Do I want to?’ he asked, laughing.

‘In for a penny …’

He nodded. ‘I suppose.’

The atmosphere between them relaxed over the afternoon. She found him easier to talk to as they began to unravel their separate histories. As the day wore on, the warmth of the sun disappeared and she was glad of her jacket. Daniel had only a T-shirt on.

‘Aren’t you cold?

He shook his head. ‘But perhaps we ought to get going.’

‘Yes. Oh, I forgot. Before you go …’ Annie pulled the photograph album she had selected out of her bag. It was her own childhood album her father had compiled from holiday snaps, but it also included a few photos of her mother and her father when they themselves were young.

The record came to an abrupt end when her father died; Annie had never seen Eleanor with a camera. She had considered bringing along more recent albums, to show Daniel her other three children and Richard, but that seemed too much like rubbing salt in a wound.

‘Mother … my father.’ Annie pointed to a photo of Eleanor and Ralph, arms linked and looking uncharacteristically happy, on a terrace in the south of France – so the caption, in her father’s flamboyantly cursive script, stated. ‘Them as children … this one’s me …’ She turned the page. ‘That’s Daddy’s mother, Grandmother Westbury … Uncle Terence and his friend Paul – they lived together for nearly thirty-five years, and Mother always referred to Paul as her brother’s “lodger”! But look, can you see?’ She pointed to Terence’s face. ‘Can you see the resemblance to you?’

Daniel peered more closely and nodded uncertainly. ‘I suppose. But it’s always hard to know what you look like to someone else.’

She continued to leaf through the album, stiff and creaky with age, the faces staring out from the black cardboard pages, similar in kind to millions across the globe, yet also entirely specific to herself, and now to her son.

Daniel scrutinised each face with great care, going back and forth through the pages as she talked, asking questions about each one. This was his first proper glimpse, she realised, of his ancestors. There was silence as she closed the book.

‘So do we pass muster?’

Daniel laughed. ‘Definitely. I think I do look a bit like your … well
my
great-uncle.’ He seemed pleased by this connection. ‘But the others … I have to keep telling myself that these people are my bloodline.’

‘Yours and mine,’ she said with a smile.

‘May I borrow it for a while?’ he asked.

They began to gather up the remains of the food and pack it away in the cool-bag. There was a lot left; she had eaten virtually nothing. As they walked back the way they had come, this time in a companionable silence, Annie enjoyed the evening light, the golden radiance beautiful across the spring landscape of the Heath.

‘I asked my mother, not telling her why I was asking, about your father … your biological father.’

‘Oh?’ Daniel looked at her eagerly.

‘She said
his
father used to be a member of Brooks’s club. Like Uncle Terence. And if Carnegie Senior was a member, then Charles’ll quite probably be one too – it’s the old male bonding ritual, helped along by too much brandy, butlers and mulligatawny soup.’

Daniel chuckled. ‘You’re just bitter because they won’t allow you to join in.’

‘God forbid! Mulligatawny is filthy.’

‘I don’t even know what it is.’

As they joined the main path which led to the park’s exit they were slowed down by the steady procession of people strolling home. Families mostly, trailing small children on scooters, dogs, buggies, all displaying that weary
contentment brought by a day out in the fresh air and sunshine. She had a sudden urge to take Daniel’s arm, to stroll with him as she might have done with Ed. But she didn’t have the confidence.

‘So I could write to him at the club,’ she went on, ‘and see if it throws up anything.’

‘That would be great … but are you OK with it? Seeing as he doesn’t know about me.’

He’s so polite, she thought. I wish he’d say what he really thinks. Just tell me that I let him down, that he’s angry. He must be a bit angry, surely.

‘Of course I’ll do it … for you.’

‘It might be a can of worms.’

‘That’s no way to talk about your father!’ she retorted, and they both started to laugh. As she watched him laugh, she tried again to remember clearly what Carnegie had looked like.

‘But, Daniel, I have literally no idea what he’s like. As I told you, I never knew him really, and I haven’t seen him in over thirty-five years. He might be horrible and refuse to see you. Or he might simply be horrible. Or you might loathe him and regret ever meeting him. Are you sure you’re up for it?’ She found herself repeating a version of Marjory’s caveat.

‘I’ve risked it once,’ he grinned at her. ‘And that’s worked out better than I hoped.’

She blushed. ‘I’m so glad you did.’ But she wasn’t looking forward to confronting Charles Carnegie.

8

Annie stretched her thin rubber swimming cap over her head and began the usual struggle to contain her thick hair within it. It was seven in the morning. She had posted the letter to Daniel’s father that morning – care of the ridiculous gentlemen’s club – on the way to the gym. But part of her hoped, cravenly, that he might be dead.

She stood at the edge of the pool, looking at the fast swimmers’ lanes, bodies pounding up and down in each other’s wake. They were all men with strong, clean, rhythmical strokes, but she could sense their frustration at being penned up like this. Normally she came later, when these young bloods had taken the Northern line to the office and the pool had a more relaxed clientele. She glanced at the slow lane, where two middle-aged women were climbing out of the water, then dropped into the shallow end, fastened her goggles and set off at high speed in the empty lane. As soon as she got into her rhythm, she began
to review the picnic, and what Daniel had told her. They had talked about his work.

‘How do you finance yourself?’ she’d asked.

Daniel had shrugged. ‘Not easily, if I’m honest. Apart from the plays, which are hardly a source of income, I do articles, reviews for papers and mags, any writing work I can get. But it’s freelance of course – which means you die of starvation before anyone pays you.’

She had been asking because she was interested in how an artist survived, but Daniel had looked at her cautiously.

‘I don’t want your money, you know.’

‘Mother thinks you do, but that’s Mother for you. I didn’t mean to seem nosey. I was just curious.’

‘Look, I could have stayed in my mind-numbing but lucrative copywriter’s job at JGW. But no, I chose to suffer for my art. The play I’ve just written is being put on with two others at the Edinburgh Fringe by this small theatre company.’ He’d pulled a face. ‘I’m terrified. It’s such a chance if the critics like it. But they might not even see it, let alone review it …’

‘I wouldn’t have the faintest clue about how you go about putting on a play.’

Daniel had shaken his head. ‘Yeah … and I wouldn’t have a clue about making a celebration cake.’

‘Thanks … but that’s a very polite comparison. Anyone can make a cake. I could teach you in a second. You’d never be able to teach me how to write a play!’

She swam on. Twenty lengths, thirty. Charles was young
back then, we both were. I didn’t give him a chance. And even if he’s rubbish, Daniel has a perfectly good father. Although perhaps not so good. She sensed Daniel was keeping something back about the science teacher. It was clear he adored his mother, but he seemed to clam up whenever she asked about his dad.

As Annie got out of the pool, slightly breathless, her heart beating pleasantly fast from the exercise, she vowed not to be childish about meeting Carnegie. Daniel deserved to know what everyone else knew. She didn’t remember ever being specifically aware that those two people she called her parents represented what Daniel had termed her ‘bloodline’, yet the sense of family had been part of a natural cohesion, a grounding, that she had taken completely for granted. The photograph she had shown Daniel, of her parents leaning against each other on the balcony in the south of France – something Daniel would never have of his own mother and father –
that
was her origin. For better or for worse, Annie knew where she came from.

‘Daniel’s working so hard on this play he’s writing. Every time I call him he says he’s polishing it, or seeing designers or actors, talking to the director. It’s bloody impressive. I’m lucky he’s taking time off to meet up tomorrow.’

‘You’re seeing him
again
?’ Richard asked, from the bathroom. ‘That’s about five times in two weeks. You’re always on the phone to him.
And
he’s coming to lunch next weekend.’

Annie exhaled slowly as she stood in front of the mirror, rubbing night cream into her face. ‘Don’t exaggerate. This’ll only be the third time. Surely you don’t mind?’

There was a tiny pause from the bathroom.

‘No … I just thought we might go and see a film, or do an exhibition, play some tennis. We haven’t had a game all year.’

She refused to feel guilty. ‘We could do that on Sunday.’

‘You’ve forgotten.’ The reply, almost accusatory, echoed to the sounds of splashing water. ‘It’s the Andersons’ silver-wedding lunch.’

‘You won’t mention Daniel to them, will you?’

‘They’ll have to find out sooner or later,’ she heard him say, his tone still sounding sulky.

Was he really jealous of Daniel? She hoped not, because she wasn’t prepared to pass up time with her son; she had a lifetime to catch up on. She went through to the warm, steamy bathroom. Richard lay with his eyes shut, his arms crossed peacefully over his chest, like a corpse. He’d taken his rimless glasses off and hooked them over the edge of the bath. Her husband had a good face. Nothing remarkable, but his regular, open features spoke of honesty and quiet humour. His short hair, brown mixed with grey now, and slightly receding at the front, was damp from the bath, his cheeks pink. She’d taken a long time to fall in love with Richard. She had seen him every lunchtime as she chopped and stirred and baked for him and his colleagues, but there had been no spark at first, just a friendly banter between
them. She’d known he liked her, of course; he made that very clear, even with his shy, diffident manner. But she was wary, well defended against attacks on her heart. Richard had persevered, however, and gradually, without her being aware, she realised she had begun to look forward to seeing him each day. The love, when it came, had been a quiet, grounded love. Not the trembling, churning obsession that Charles had represented.

‘Richard?’ He opened his eyes. ‘I know I’m focusing a lot on Daniel at the moment. But it’s important to me. You understand, don’t you?’

Her husband pulled a face and reached for his glasses. ‘I do, but I think you’ve got to get a balance, Annie.’

His self-righteous tone made her bristle.

‘I mean, all you ever talk about is Daniel these days. Daniel said this, Daniel said that, Daniel did the other … you’re obsessed with him.’ He paused to rub the steam off his glasses. You’ve still got three other children, you know. And a husband.’

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

‘Richard—’

‘Of course it’s important that you get to know him. I’m not stupid, I understand that,’ Richard interrupted, drawing himself up, sending water sloshing over the back onto the black and white tiles, not looking at his wife. ‘But everyone’s sick to death of the subject. You’re not doing the man any favours by turning us all against him.’

Annie’s eyes widened. ‘“Everyone”? What are you
talking about? OK, Ed’s still not happy with it, but the girls …’ She wondered if what he was saying was true. But they hadn’t seemed annoyed when she talked about their half-brother. ‘I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t realise I was being such an obsessive pain in the neck.’

‘No need to be nasty,’ Richard retorted, heaving himself out of the bath and reaching for the large white towel.

‘I’m not the one being nasty.’ She stalked out of the bathroom and plumped down hard on the bed. A moment later, Richard sat down beside her.

‘I’m sorry, Annie. Maybe I was being harsh. If I’m honest, I suppose I feel a bit left out. Childish, I know. But it’s like you’ve suddenly fallen in love with another man.’

His arm went round her. For a moment she resisted, then she leant into his embrace.

‘I suppose, in a way, I have,’ she whispered. ‘But not in the way you mean.’

Maybe when they meet him, she thought, he and Ed will both relax. Daniel will stop being this bogeyman. They’ll see there’s nothing to be jealous of.

It was a warm, breezy late-spring day, perfect for lunch outside. Annie hadn’t slept well the night before, and got up early to begin preparations for the family event. She’d checked the weather forecast online at least twice, not believing the weather would hold for a barbecue. But by eleven o’clock it seemed set fair.

She began by marinading the spare ribs, then moved on
to the pastry for the
tarte tatin
, setting it to rest in a plastic bag in the fridge while she scrubbed the new potatoes for the salad and put them on to boil. Lucy had said she would be down to help her mother, but there was no sign of her yet.

Please, she sent thoughts upwards into the blue sky as she wiped down the wooden table on the deck and scrubbed off a large patch of dried-on pigeon mess. Please let them all get on.

‘Hi, Mum.’ Lucy looked washed and smart in a flowered skirt and white cotton T-shirt. ‘How’s it going?’ She looked round at the already advanced preparations. ‘Looks like you’ve done it all already.’