That Girl From Nowhere (29 page)

‘I’m going for a shower,’ I say loudly. And without waiting for a reply, I go into the bathroom, shut and lock the door.

Hi Clem. How’s it all going?

We haven’t had a catch-up in so long.

What’s new with you?

Listen, if you’re trying for a baby, let me know.

I’ve spoken to lots of fertility experts for the blog,

so I can give you lots of tips.

Talk soon. N x

Her hair in my bed, the latest posts on her blog, this text sent out of the blue. It still wasn’t the right time to deal with this, I was too exhausted, too tapped out by what was coming with Dad, but I had to make plans. I had to talk to Seth, but first of all, I had to have a Plan B because I couldn’t sleepwalk into Nancy ruining another part of my life.

They’re like three generations of a family. When I finally emerge from the bathroom, I stand unnoticed at the doorway watching this family tableau. The daughter reclines on the sofa with a glass of wine in a red goblet, the mother sits in the armchair, her glasses perched on her nose as she goes through her latest Sudoku puzzle, the granddaughter lies on the floor eating a bowl of sweetcorn, tuna and pasta with her fingers while glued to CBeebies. I’m the outsider in this place, there is no space for me here.

This was what it’d been like at the Zebilas, my other family’s house, except they had four generations and there’d been a lot more crying. I looked like them, I had the same blood, but I was an outsider, someone who had to be welcomed in and even then, didn’t quite fit.

What I am looking at now, just as I was looking at with the Zebilas, is a family. And I don’t really fit into either one. Like the outsider I am, I retreat, return to my room before anyone can raise the issue of Nancy taking over my room because it has a desk and I already have a space in my workshop to work. That’s what will happen. That’s what’s always happened. When it comes to Nancy – not so much Sienna but Nancy – Mum often thinks being in my thirties is just like it was when I was eight and I gave Nancy my doll because she cried so hard that my one had prettier, nicer clothes than hers. And Mum believes that being in my thirties is like it was when I was twelve and I let Nancy ‘borrow’ my brand new raincoat because hers had a rip in it even though I knew I’d never get it back. And Mum is certain being in my thirties is just like when I was sixteen and I had to give Nancy my revision notes because she hadn’t had time to do them, what with all the dates she’d been on. Mum thinks it’s just like being thirty-two, calling one of my best friends to congratulate him on knocking up my cousin and having him tell me that it was all a mistake and he wished he’d used contraception, no matter what she’d said about being on the Pill. And when I wouldn’t let him get away with that because he was just as responsible as she was, him saying that he wished he could get out of it, or failing that, if she was going through with the pregnancy, that she’d have ‘it’ adopted or something, so he didn’t have to be involved. (To my silence on the phone at that, he stammered, ‘Oh, Smitty, I didn’t mean— I just— I’m sorry, mate, that was out of order. But you know what I mean.’ I knew what he meant, yes, and I was so relieved at that moment I wasn’t still in love with him.)

I retreat to my bedroom before the scenario that has played out in my life so many times starts to unfold here, too. I’m also sure to lock the door. It makes me feel safer from the monster outside.

To: Jonas Zebila

From: Abi Zebila

Subject: Sod this for a game of soldiers

Monday, 20 July 2015

Nothing new here, really: Clemency is still freezing me out despite the bullshit ‘how are you’ text every day. Mummy and Daddy are still not talking about anything beyond everyday surface stuff. Ivor has, thankfully, stopped his insane theories since I roared at him that we’d done a DNA test and he could see the results if he wanted. I’ve never shouted at him like that before, but he caught me at a particularly hormonal moment.

Lily-Rose continues to be the light of my life. I’m attaching a scan of the picture she drew of you and Meredith the other day. She just suddenly drew it without any prompting from me. I think knowing about Clemency has reminded her of you and Meredith. I’m not sure about your hair being so big, but I can see a likeness, can’t you? Oh, wait, you won’t be replying so you can’t tell me if you see a resemblance or not. Yes, you’re pissing me off as well.

All this is not helped by how bad Gran is right now. She seemed to rally for a couple of weeks, she seemed to have a new purpose, but now she’s sliding again. It’s so distressing, especially as there’s no one who understands. She’s alienated everyone and even now, she can turn on you so suddenly, be so vicious, everyone is just cautious around her and I can’t explain how scared I am about the thought of her not being here any more.

Declan has had his monthly meltdown, asking why we won’t get married. I couldn’t even be bothered to reply. I’m feeling low, J, really low.

Abi

xxxxx

Mum has insisted I bring her to Beached Heads. Since we met my other family I am her new special project. She has been carving out time for us to spend together, and she wants to know about my life.

She lurks outside my room, probably listening to my phone calls, she comes into whichever room I am in in the house to see what I’m up to and so we can spend some time together. With Nancy and Sienna here, I’m amazed she is bothering so much with me. But they’re hers, I suppose, already permanently bonded by blood. I am now an unknown quantity. Which is nonsense because Mum does know me. Every time she successfully guilt-trips me proves she knows me, every time I bite back at one of her ridiculous statements proves she knows me, every day that I am on this Earth and she is too proves she knows me. She’s my ‘Mum’ but it seems she’s the only person who needs convincing of that.

Mum, though, doesn’t feel like my ‘Mum’, the entity who I love more than most people on Earth, and is on a mission to reassert herself. Part of that involves invading my space here at Beached Heads.

Tyler is working. He moves easily behind the counter, smiling, humming quietly, generally infusing the place with the kind of joy you don’t often find in places where you spend money. My crush on him is slowly becoming out of control. Ever since he taught me to make coffee, gave me a place to forget who I am for a little bit, I have managed to become as giddy and fizzy as a teenager around him. Instead of being imbued with the feelings for another that a thirty-seven-year-old would have, emotions that can be analysed and categorised, written about and discussed, whenever I step in the glass doors of this café on the beach, all my other worries fall away and I am plunged into a vat of raw, unfathomable, delightful nonsenseness. I am too old to be feeling this and that’s wonderful.

Mum and I sit in one of the sofas by the window. ‘This is a lovely place, Clemency. I can see why you like it here.’

‘Hmmmm …’ I reply. Tyler wipes the spout of the milk steamer and frother with his ubiquitous white cloth and it’s suddenly, irrationally, the most erotic thing I’ve seen in weeks.

‘Welcome, welcome, faces old and new,’ Tyler says. He stands in front of our table like a tall sentinel – ready and waiting to do our bidding.

‘Interesting choice of words there, Tyler. Care to elaborate which one of us is which?’

He claps his hands quietly together then hangs his head with his hands still clasped. ‘And there we have it, my foot firmly in my mouth with no chance of getting it out without causing too much damage.’ He rotates rapidly and marches away, back behind his counter. A few seconds later, he returns. With a flourish, he says, ‘Hello, Clemency. Or would you prefer I call you Smitty today?’

‘Either is fine with me.’

His apron is well-starched, navy blue with an elaborate BH embroidered on the front in gold thread, like the one he put on me when we made coffee. ‘Well, it is lovely to see you again.’ He turns his attentions to Mum. ‘Hello, it’s fantastic to meet you, too.’

I have to introduce them and I’m going to have to suffer the silence, the stare, the sudden need Mum will develop to root through her bag for something important while the awkward moment passes. This is why I keep my worlds apart. When you separate pieces of yourself like the sections in a cutlery drawer, things don’t bleed and merge into each other, things don’t need complicated explanations.

‘Tyler, this is my mother, Heather. Mum, this is Tyler, he owns Beached Heads and makes the best coffee ever.’

‘You’re too kind,’ Tyler says, and extends his hand to my mother. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Smittson.’ Mum will like that: introduced by her first name but he instantly defers to the formal and altogether more respectful way of addressing her.

Mum takes his hand. ‘How do you do?’ she says. I’ve never heard her say that, ever. She sounds like she’s the Queen meeting a lowly subject.

‘Do you share your daughter’s obsession with coffee, or are you more of a tea drinker?’ Tyler asks. He hasn’t missed a beat, hasn’t thrown one questioning or incredulous look our way. ‘If I may be so bold as to suggest my special, loose-leaf tea blend? If you don’t like it I’ll happily serve you any other beverage
and
a piece of cake free of charge. Not that I was going to charge you for the drink anyway. Your daughter holds some influence round these parts.’

I almost giggle.
Giggle!
I am an out-of-control teenager. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ I say when Mum does not speak. ‘Do you want the tea, Mum? Or a normal cuppa?’

‘I do not know where you have conjured up the idea that I drink “cuppas”,’ Mum says. ‘However, yes, the blend sounds promising. I will indeed sample a drop.’

‘
Hello, Mum, Queen Elizabeth called – she wants her accent back
,’ I say to her in my head.

‘Excellent choice,’ Tyler says. He grins at me. ‘And you, Clemency?’

‘A double mocha, easy on the cream, heavy on the cocoa.’

‘Another excellent choice.’

Mum doesn’t speak until he is safely behind his counter. Her gaze constantly strays in his direction, checking, I think, whether he is close enough to hear her when she leans towards me, lowers her voice and says, ‘Is he always that forward?’ Her ultra-posh accent has gone. ‘It’s most inappropriate.’

‘Yes, he’s always like that. And, as you can see by how popular this place is, it generally works. People keep coming back for the friendly, personal service.’

‘I’m sure the café’s location has a lot to do with that,’ she replies.

‘Wild horses and no amount of sea views would keep me coming back to a place if the person in charge was rude and dismissive.’

‘I agree, it’s all fakery to drum up business. I can’t abide false people.’

‘I didn’t say that, Mum. I said he was always like that.’

‘And you went on to say that it was a way for him to drum up trade.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘You did. You said he was like that to keep people coming back.’

‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

‘But that is what you said.’

I have forgotten my golden rule: there is no point arguing with my mother. Even if she is wrong and I am right, there really is no point arguing with my mother. And just in case I’ve forgotten the first part of the rule it is this: there is NO POINT arguing with my mother.

‘
What. And. Ever
,’ I say to Mum in my head.

‘Pardon me?’ Mum says, her face stern and shocked at the same time.

There is a chance – a rather large chance – that I said that out loud.

‘Is that what you’re learning now? How to speak to me like that?’
Is that what your new family is teaching you?
She adds silently.

‘No,’ I say remorsefully. ‘I’m sorry. You were deliberately misunderstanding and then misinterpreting what I was saying, though.’

‘That is not my idea of an apology, Clemency Smittson.’

‘I’m sorry, Mum. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.’

‘Thank you for your apology,’ she says with good grace. It’s easy to show such grace when you’re technically in the wrong and you’ve managed to get someone to apologise to you TWICE in under thirty seconds. If that happened to me, I’d have all the grace in the world, I’m sure. I wonder why Mum thinks she isn’t my mother when our relationship is full of moments like this. These are the moments you only share with your truly beloved ones.

‘One pot of my special blend, and one double mocha, easy on the milk, heavy on the cocoa.’ He’s used my favourite daisy cup and for Mum he has selected a lilac cup that matches the scarf she has draped around her neck. With me, in jewellery making, the perfect finish is everything; with Tyler and his café service, the detail is everything. I’m embarrassed at myself for how desperate I am to find any sort of connection between us no matter how tenuous. It’s all kinds of pathetic. And fun.

‘Thank you, Tyler. I’m sure it will be delightful,’ says my mother, the Queen.

I decide to ignore her and concentrate, instead, on my crush on the man walking away from me.

I have been expecting Mum to ask me if I have heard from the Zebilas, and if we have a time to see them again. When she asks, I will tell her everything, but she hasn’t asked because I suspect she thinks she knows everything since she has gone back to doing what she did whenever I lived at home: listening in on my phone calls by lurking around my door. (Whenever I catch her at it she does a good job of looking as if she was innocently passing.) I leave this moment between us silent, give her the opportunity to ask and be answered. I will be relieved that I can talk about who I have seen and why. The moment passes, undisturbed and unruffled.

‘Mum, did you and Dad ever talk about how he felt towards the end?’ I ask, as a roundabout way of starting the conversation I probably should have with her.