The Scrapbook (10 page)

That's the great thing about being sixteen, isn't it? You really do believe that you can unhook yourself cleanly from a future dictated by blood and conditioning, simply because you want to, because you've decided to. I even had the audacity to pity my mother a little, for her helplessness in love and her lack of strength. So different from me, I thought. In the years since then, of course, I've been too busy repeating all of her patterns to have time for pity, for either of us.

I lay in bed that night with my hands laid across my stomach, kneading at the tiny soul that squirmed and somersaulted beneath my palms. Tomorrow I would go to the doctor and ask him to help me destroy it. The next morning the cramps hit, and by the next night I had nothing left to show for my first love affair apart from bloodied bed sheets, a taste for olives, and a silver-framed photograph of strangers buried in a tree.

*

The standoff lasts for three days. I tend to mum's needs with exaggerated care, checking and double-checking that she's got enough cushions behind her back, or preparing meals from Granny Ivy's old recipe books that neither of us enjoy. For her part, mum winces and gasps theatrically whenever I lift anything heavier than a mug and tries to lever herself from her chair every evening to take her own plate into the kitchen.

‘I can do it, love. You just sit there and rest for a bit.'

She's determined that my pregnancy should trump her dodgy heart and I have to reluctantly concede that she's scoring more points in our little competition. She's clearly a pro. Neither of us has mentioned the argument that brought us to this and I'm guessing she feels as righteous and wronged as I do about the snooping accusations.

I finally snap on the third evening when she follows me into the kitchen, intent on warming me a mug of milk (‘You need the calcium, lovey') whilst I'm just as intent on mixing her a weak gin and tonic to wash down her bedtime painkiller. We use our hips as weapons as we jostle next to the fridge, both scrabbling to get the door open. I don't want to knock her bad arm around too much but she's not hampered by such qualms. Her nails are longer than mine and she doesn't baulk at employing them to her advantage.

I snatch the milk bottle from her and slam it onto the sideboard. ‘For god's sake. Will you just go and sit down and leave me to do this? I can manage basic tasks.'

She smiles at me sympathetically and wipes at the spilled milk with a piece of kitchen towel. ‘Hormones?'

I open my mouth to scream and she pats me on the arm, shuffles quickly out. When I join her a few minutes later she's gracious in victory, accepting her glass with a word of thanks and marginal smirk. I want to kill her. We sit in silence and I strain to think of some way to redress the balance.

‘Where's that bloody old woman gone now?' she asks. She frowns down at her feet, wiggles her toes. ‘What if he comes and I need to go out? I can't leave you alone.'

I forget my scheming. ‘What bloody old woman?'

She shrugs and is sullen. ‘You know exactly who I mean.'

I watch her for a moment. ‘Are you talking about Granny Ivy?'

She ignores me. Her toes tap and roll constantly inside her slippers, her face is a twist of concentration.

‘Mum?'

And then she jerks and covers her face as the present reasserts itself. I move to hug her but she clears her throat and then thrusts her empty glass at me. ‘I want to go to bed now.' She heaves herself up, stumbling slightly as she turns to leave the room.

I can't resist the malicious impulse to rush forward with pronounced concern and help her, seize her around the shoulders and walk her towards the door. ‘There we go, mum, one step at a time. That's the way.'

She doesn't even seem to notice my presence, let alone bridle at my tone. The competition has clearly ended and I feel cheated that she was the one to score the last direct hit. I steer her towards the stairs and then stand back and watch when she shrugs me away bad-temperedly. ‘Bugger off, Fern. I can get myself to bed, you know, I'm not completely helpless.'

From my vantage point in the very centre of the car park I can see the full sweep of the dock below me. I get out of the car and walk past the clutter of picnic benches, swinging my binoculars. Just in time to hop over the barrier and settle myself onto the heather. I'm alone up here today, pressed between the sulky violet of the sky and the fidgeting grey of the sea. The approaching storm is vivid against the horizon, the distant loom of Sorel no more than a bruise in the mist.

Through my binoculars the last mainland ferry of the afternoon carves its way towards the safety of Spur's harbour. It races the billowing clouds, occasionally tangles in them before tearing itself loose and surging on. There's no one on deck.

Below me the taxis are lined up along the dock, hopeful of their fares. I try to locate Tommy and think I recognise the back of his head when he turns and stretches. Yes, it's definitely him. I watch for a while as he chats to the other drivers and smokes a cigarette, until a blast from the ferry's horn distracts us both.

There aren't many passengers for this crossing and I reckon there'll be even less for the evening one. The sea is starting to fling itself against the harbour wall in great, angry fistfuls, arcing spray over the cobbles. I stay where I am, hunched amongst the heather and above it all, dry for the moment, until the last car and the last foot passenger have reeled onto solid ground, and then I lower the binoculars and get up.

Tommy beeps into the car park and stops alongside me. ‘I thought it was you, love. You're going to get yourself a reputation, lurking up here every day. What are you watching for?'

I lean in through the window to hug him. ‘Hopefully more
French Lieutenant's Woman
than
Play Misty For Me
. I have a cloak if you think the distinction should be clarified.'

He laughs and gets out of the car. ‘How are things going with your mum? Did she get the potatoes I left on the step the other day?'

‘Yes, and she said to thank you if I saw you before she did.' I hesitate for a moment, torn between wanting to confide in him but also keep my mother's secrets. The desire to shift a little of the burden wins out. He'll still be here when I've gone, after all, and she'll need someone to keep an eye on her.

He nods when I tell him about her heart. ‘It doesn't surprise me, Fern. And if that's her choice, to let it take her without a fight, there's nothing we can do.'

I decide not to say anything about crushing up the tablets and putting them in her food.

‘But don't you think she's being selfish?' I ask. ‘To just lie back and accept something she can change if she wants to? I suppose that's the way she's always been, though. Why choose life, and happiness, if you can lock the world out and do a Miss Havisham instead? So much more glamorous. So much easier.' I want him to feel some outrage, or at the very least fake a little, for me.

He shakes his head at me. ‘Don't sneer at her, love.' And I'm immediately chastened. We start to walk to my car.

‘I found some photographs of my father a few days ago,' I say. ‘She'd hidden them away. Some were of him and me together and we both looked really happy. I'd forgotten that, that there was ever anything good between us.' I glance at him. ‘It made me feel sad, but in a nice way. It made me realise how much I want to find him, or at least find out what happened to him and why he left. I've spent most of my life denying that I ever had a father, or taking the blame for him going. Now I want to hear
him
tell me it was my fault. I think I want to hear him tell me it wasn't.'

Tommy takes my keys from my hand and opens the car door for me. I wait for him to say something in response but he lights a cigarette and looks up at the sky, holding his palm out as if he fears rain. I touch his arm. ‘Tommy?'

‘I've got to go, love, there might be customers waiting in town. You should get back to your mum.'

I get into the car like an obedient child, but then swing round and plant my feet back on the ground so that he can't shut the door. ‘I thought you could help me. I know it's probably the last thing you want to do but mum's not letting on that she remembers anything at all. You were always driving around the island in your taxi, though, so maybe you saw where he went when he left her. And you were so close to Granny Ivy, you must have talked about him.'

He drops his cigarette and stamps on it. ‘I don't want to get involved, Fern, it's not my business.'

‘But if you know anything…'

He turns away and flicks a hand out in farewell. ‘You give your mum my best, and I'll be round to see you both soon.'

I don't shut the car door until he drives out of the car park. It starts to rain and I hope he can see me in his rear view mirror, getting wet, waiting for him to turn round.

Mum's in a foul temper when I get home. I don't think she's moved from her chair at all in the last couple of hours since I've been out.

‘Where have you been?' she hisses as I lean past her to close the window. ‘Fat lot of help you are, disappearing off for hours and leaving me sat here in a draft all by myself. I don't know why you bothered to come home at all. What if I'd needed a drink?'

I kiss her on the cheek. ‘Stop your whining, you old bag, and I'll get you a drink now. Orange juice?'

She jerks her head away and glares at me. ‘What do you think?'

I look at my watch. ‘I think you can wait another hour or two for anything stronger than that.'

She reaches for the tv remote and I wink at her and leave the room before she can throw it at me.

The glass of juice, decorated with a paper umbrella and straw, doesn't conjure up a smile. Mum refuses to even unfold her arms to take it so I slide it onto the coffee table by her side and take a seat opposite her.

‘I saw Tommy today, when I was out,' I tell her. ‘He said he'll be round soon to visit.'

Mum doesn't look up. I dip forward in my chair and prod her quickly on her good arm. ‘Oh, come on, cheer up.'

She lets out a squawk and folds her upper body around her sling, rocking backwards and forwards. ‘You just hit me. I can't believe you just did that.' She cowers away and clutches at her blanket when I shift towards her. ‘Don't touch me.'

‘Oh, for fuck's sake.' I settle back and reach for my own drink. ‘Shall I get you a gin? Is that going to put you in a better mood?'

I can see the hesitation, the brief calculation, but her spite is greater than her thirst right now. She stops rocking and looks straight at me. ‘Don't you dare use that word at me. I think you should go. You've been here long enough.'

We sit for a while in silence and I follow the swirls and patterns of the rug with my eye, noting the patches where the wool has thinned, and the colours dimmed. Those patches where decades of heels and toes have trod and rubbed and laid tiny bits of themselves down. My grandparents, my parents, myself, we're all there in the weave of the fabric, layered one on top of the other. Soon my child will be added to the jumble, and maybe, in time, my grandchild.

I clear my throat so that my voice won't break or falter. ‘You can't send me away. You'll never be able to cope without me. You'll drink from the moment you get up until the moment you go to bed.'

She snorts at that. ‘I only drink as fast as you pour. And how do you think I've managed for these years, when you took off and didn't look back? I've been just fine, Fern. I'm still here aren't I? I don't need you.'

As if to emphasise her point she hoists herself out of her chair and bends to pick up her glass. She sways as she straightens, but we both pretend not to notice. I hear her shuffle around the kitchen, opening and closing cupboard doors. She won't be able to reach the gin but I know she won't ask for help now. I stay in the front room and listen out in case she attempts to climb on a chair, but she obviously decides not to risk her dignity and returns with the glass still full of juice.

I try to take her hand when she sits back down. ‘But what about looking for dad? I thought you wanted that more than anything. If you make me leave now then you'll never get to see him again. You'll never know why he left.'

She shrugs. ‘I've changed my mind about looking for him. Leave the past in the past. And I already know why he left, don't I?' The look she gives me makes my fingers itch to give her another prod, and on the bad arm this time.

‘Well, tough,' I tell her, ‘I'm staying and I'm looking for him, just like I promised. Because the past isn't just the past for you, is it? It's your present and your future, and it's time that all stopped. If you want me to leave then try and make me, I'm not budging. I'm going to look for him and I'm going to find him, and there's nothing you can do about it.'

I stand up, wait for her to respond, then walk over to switch the television on. ‘I'm going to make dinner now. You stay in here and have a good sulk. Yell out if you need anything.'

‘You always were a contrary little bitch,' she shouts as I leave the room.