The Son-In-Law (37 page)

While we were sitting there, a load of motorcyclists roared into town and parked in the square. They looked threatening until they took their helmets off. Their average age was about sixty. I’m not kidding—I’ve never seen so many grey heads and wrinkles in one place, apart from at Christmas when my school choir went to sing in a rest home.

‘Heavens Angels,’ said Dad. ‘They used to be Hells Angels. Then they became accountants. Then they grew old.’

I spread my hands on the warm stone step. ‘They’ve probably got Zimmer frames at home.’

Dad stood up, brushing pastry crumbs off his jeans. ‘Ready to move on? There’s a place I want to show you.’ He managed to get Ben to disengage from his girlfriend, took his hand and led us across the road and down an alleyway.

‘Where are we going?’ asked Theo.

Dad smiled up at the sky. He seemed a bit nervous. ‘I’ll explain when we get there.’

Soon, we were walking along a lane. It had a strip of grass running down the middle, where the cars’ wheels hadn’t squashed it. On one side there were fields with sheep, and also the backs of some big warehouses; on the other there were five-barred gates leading into long gardens. We saw a bald man mowing his lawn. Next door to him, some toddlers played on plastic motorbikes (
Hells Cherubs
, I whispered to Dad, and heard him chuckle). A massive dog lay in the shade of a lilac tree with its tongue hanging out.

The next gate was a wooden one, wide enough for a car to get through. Dad stopped. ‘Here we are!’ he announced.

We were looking down a long, narrow garden. It was a hell of a mess. There were rolls of barbed wire, oil drums and tumbledown sheds with corrugated-iron roofs. The nettles were about four feet high in some places. At the end we could see a brick house, joined to the one next door.

‘Who lives here?’ asked Ben.

‘Nobody, at the moment. It’s been empty for a while. Actually, I was thinking of living here myself. Shall we take a closer look?’ Dad unhitched the gate and swung it open—not easily, because grass had grown up all around. In the garden, Ben found a rusted swing and demanded that someone push him. Dad obliged, while Theo and I shinned up a big apple tree. There was a fork halfway up, and we both sat there surveying the place.

‘You can see the moors from here,’ I called to Dad. There they were, rolling away beyond the tiled roofs. The heather wasn’t in bloom yet, but there was just a shimmer of purple.

From our vantage point we could see the whole garden. Brick walls ran down both sides. Under all the weeds and mess, you could tell it had once been cared for. There was an orchard and a paved circle with some wooden chairs and a table. Someone had built a trellis over that, and it was covered in white climbing roses.

‘We’re allowed to look in through the windows,’ said Dad. ‘But I haven’t got a key.’

So we climbed down from our tree and pushed through the long grass to the back of the house. Dad carried Ben on his shoulders. The windows were covered in cobwebs and dust and smears, but we cupped our hands to the glass and squinted in at an old-fashioned kitchen with its own fireplace. A flock of sparrows scolded us from the chimney-pot; they seemed to be telling us that this was their garden.

‘It’s like something in a fairytale,’ I said. ‘A little lost house. Where’s the witch? Where’s the gingerbread?’

‘Are you really going to live here, Dad?’ Theo moved to the next window. ‘You haven’t got any beds. Or chairs. Or . . . anything.’

‘Well, yes. I think I might. D’you like it?’

‘Nn . . . yes. But I like the caravan.’

Ben wasn’t listening. He was sitting up there on Dad’s shoulders, making clip-clop hoof noises. ‘Giddy-up, horsey,’ he yelped, kicking Dad’s chest with his heels. ‘Giddy-up and off we go!’

‘You shouldn’t put up with that,’ I told Dad. ‘It’s naughty.’

‘He’s just having fun.’

‘He’s being a monster. You shouldn’t let him get away with it.’

Dad ruffled my hair. ‘Don’t worry. He’ll grow out of it.’

We spent quite a while exploring the garden and looking in through the windows of the cottage. Gradually, a suspicion came sneaking up and bit me on the behind. Once it had taken a bite, I couldn’t forget it. I sat down on the back step and tried to get my thoughts together.

From next door we could hear the shouts of the Hells Cherubs. Ben climbed onto the wall and had a long and very silly conversation about their enormous dog whose name, apparently, was Yoda. Theo was lying with his stomach across the swing, turning himself around and around until the chains creaked. Then he let go and spun like a top. Meanwhile, Dad was poking about among the sheds. He’d hung his jacket up on the lowest branch of an apple tree, and rolled up his sleeves. He was wearing a pale blue shirt with no collar. I thought it looked romantic. He smiled as I walked up.

‘They’ve had chickens in here. Geese as well, judging by these feathers.’

‘Oh,’ I said.

‘And pigs, I think.’

‘Oh.’

‘Fancy keeping pigs? I’m sure Abigail would help us. Might be fun.’

When he got no reply, he straightened and looked enquiringly at me. His eyes were battleship coloured, grey-blue. A heavy lock of his hair had flopped in front of his face. He was definitely Mum’s Russian prince today; a lost Russian prince, who might even keep pigs. He seemed as though he was doing his very best to be happy.

‘You’re showing us this house for a reason, aren’t you?’ I asked.

He looked wide-eyed and innocent, like Ben when he’s been into the biscuit mix.

‘Aren’t you, Dad?’ I persisted.

‘I just wondered whether you’d like it.
Do
you like it?’

‘You wondered that because you want us to come and live here. With you. All the time.’

He leaned against the chicken hut. Sunlight flickered through the apple tree and made water patterns on his face. ‘Would that be a terrible thing?’

I pictured Hannah and Gramps with nobody to wake them up in the mornings, nobody to kiss goodnight. I pictured them eating supper. Just the two of them. Quietly. Sadly. Alone.

I imagined growing up with a real dad.
My
dad. I imagined living in this house with its apple trees, having him to take care of us and being there when things went wrong for us. I wouldn’t have to worry about Ben and Theo anymore; Dad would do the worrying.

And all the time Leonard Cohen sang ‘Hallelujah’, and Dad’s fist smacked into Mum’s face, and she hit the ground with that final clunking sound.

It was just too much. It meant too much. I felt as though the earth was moving under my feet, and I was losing my balance. I was going to fall.

So I said nothing at all.

Thirty-two

Joseph

The children’s last day at Brandsmoor was a masterstroke. Joseph didn’t want them to spend it thinking about how they’d be leaving that evening. He didn’t want that for himself, or for them. Together, he and Scarlet planned the ultimate day out for a railway enthusiast like Theo—a journey to Whitby on the North Yorkshire Moors Railway. Rosie refused to come at first, insisting that she shouldn’t intrude, but the children nagged so desperately that she dived into the car at the last minute, wearing sandals to display the lurid patterns Scarlet had painted on her toenails.

Theo was struck completely dumb when he saw the massive shining dragon, snorting and hissing by the platform at Pickering Station. He stood transfixed. Scarlet took a picture of him with her phone.

‘Oh my God, Dad,’ she breathed, as they settled into a wood-panelled carriage. ‘This is amazing. It’s the Hogwarts Express.’

For that one day, their family seemed almost normal. The steam-powered journey across the moors landscape was an adventure (though Ben and Theo came to blows over who would look out of which window); Whitby awaited them with a sandy beach and fish and chips (though Ben bit his tongue and cried); and the five of them were singing at the tops of their voices as they drove home. Rosie was conducting.

She’ll be coming round the mountain when she comes

(WHEN SHE COMES!).

She’ll be coming round the mountain when she comes.

Joseph turned into the farmyard, ducking his head to avoid the blast of Ben bellowing in his ear:
WHEN! SHE! COMES!
As he parked, Abigail was emerging purposefully from the house.

She’ll be wearing pink pyjamas when she comes!
sang Rosie.

Theo giggled. ‘I bet Abigail wears pink pyjamas.’

‘Now, now. Show a bit of respect,’ said Joseph mildly, and pulled on the handbrake. ‘Last station,’ he called, in the nasal voice of the guard who’d been in charge on the train. ‘All change, please. We’ll have to leave for York in an hour, if I’m to get you home in time.’

Rosie, Theo and Scarlet set off through the kissing gate, but Joseph waited as Abigail approached. Ben was holding his hand.

‘Afternoon,’ called Joseph. ‘All well with the happy campers?’

‘One of the toasters blew up and set off the fire alarm. Then a toilet got blocked. Don’t fret, it’s all been taken care of. You’ve got a message.’

‘A message?’

‘Your sister.’

‘Marie—really?’ Joseph whistled in surprise.

‘Says to contact her. Urgent.’

•

The phone rang only once before it was answered. Marie’s voice, her accent stronger than ever. ‘Hello, Joe.’

‘Marie! What’s happened?’

‘You’ve continued to wreak havoc, that’s what’s happened. Frederick Wilde had another stroke today.’

‘Oh no,’ groaned Joseph, and meant it. ‘How bad?’

‘They’re at the hospital.’

‘He’s conscious?’

‘Apparently. It’s often drip-drip-drip with strokes, isn’t it?’

Joseph looked down at Ben, who lay by the range with Digby in his arms. ‘You wouldn’t wish it on your worst enemy.’

‘Frederick’s your worst enemy? Well, anyway. Hannah asked me to ask you to keep the children another night. Naturally, she hates the idea, but she’s got no choice. I’d come and get them from you but I’m on duty at the refuge.’

The line crackled with animosity. Joseph almost felt the heat on his ear. ‘Why did she phone you?’ he asked. ‘How come you’re the go-between?’

‘Who else is prepared to talk to you?’

‘I’ll keep them forever, if she wants.’

Marie’s voice sharpened. ‘Don’t you dare even suggest such a thing.’

‘Maybe it would be better for everybody. Freddie’s going to need a lot of nursing care soon, if he doesn’t already.’

‘Back off, Joe!’ Marie sounded ready to explode. ‘I’m warning you. Back off. You hear me? You bloody well take them home tomorrow. Then you back right off and give them all some space. Jesus, man, have you no compassion?’

It was useless to argue. ‘Ask Hannah to text me,’ sighed Joseph. ‘You’ve got my number. I’ll climb the hill and check my messages last thing tonight. Ask her please to send a progress report on Frederick, for the kids’ sake. Could you do that?’

‘Okay.’

Unspoken words hung drearily between them. Neither brother nor sister seemed keen to end the conversation. ‘So,’ began Joseph, ‘how are you?’

‘I’m fine, Joe. Just fine. Now, if you’ll excuse me—’ ‘Still busy at the refuge?’

‘Very. There’s plenty of abused women out there. Plenty of men who never grew up.’

He ignored the jibe. ‘Are you . . .? You know. With somebody?’

‘Are you?’

‘No.’

There was a long pause while Joseph racked his brains for some way to prolong the conversation. Marie wasn’t gushing with warmth, but at least she was talking. It was a breakthrough of sorts.

‘Did you hear about Gus?’ he asked. ‘He’s left.’

‘Abigail tells me you’re Gus now. She says you’ve been sprucing everything up and it’s all running like clockwork. No bad thing—the place was looking scruffy last time I was there.’

‘I’ve had to do a bit of DIY on our own caravan. The roof was leaking.’

Marie laughed shortly. ‘It always did. Mum used to put saucepans out.’

‘Did she? I’d forgotten. That would explain the smell of damp. Anyway, I think I’ve plugged all the holes. Um . . . have you heard from Dad at all?’

‘I phone him once a month. He never bothers to return the favour.’

‘Any news?’

Marie snorted. ‘Nothing but moaning. From what I can make out, he spends his life drinking rum with other losers.’

‘So after all that dreaming, money didn’t make him happy?’

‘Nope. Bored to tears.’

‘Poor old Dad.’

‘He’s a fool.’

Marie might think their father a fool, reflected Joseph, but she phoned once a month to check up on him. It was more than he’d ever done. ‘Anyway. Thanks for letting me know about Frederick,’ he said.

‘Yeah . . . well. Bye.’

The call ended with a curt little snap.

‘Whooo was that?’ asked Ben, imitating an owl from his prone position by the range. ‘Whoo? Whoo?’

‘Your Aunty Marie.’ Joseph replaced the receiver. ‘Let’s go and find the others.’

They crossed the farmyard, Ben swinging from his father’s arm while he long-jumped the cowpats. He kept up a running commentary—
three two one take off! Ooh, that’s a slushy one,
I think that cow had a runny tum . . . Oops, stepped in it.

Joseph barely paid attention. His mind rattled with thoughts of Frederick, and how he should tell the children. Scarlet met him halfway up the hill, her hair shining like copper wire in the sunshine.

‘They’ve built a new rope swing while we were out,’ she announced. ‘D’you want to come and see it? Do we have to go yet?’ She looked more closely at his face. ‘What’s up?’

‘Gramps was taken ill today,’ he said, and saw fear widen her eyes. Poor Scarlet. She seemed always to be shrinking from the next blow.

•

Late that evening, once the three children were in bed, he sat on the caravan steps beside Rosie.

‘What a way to go,’ he said heavily.

‘You like him very much, don’t you?’

‘A gentleman. Bloody clever. Bloody nice.’ Joseph blew out his cheeks, picturing the angular figure who’d greeted him with such courtesy at York Station a lifetime ago; the father who loved Zoe with a passion that never faltered. That man was changing. He was leaving. ‘He’s been the best thing in the children’s lives since their mother died. He’s wise and affectionate and . . . God knows how they’d manage without him.’