‘Tell me about him, Kat.’
‘Who, my dad?’
‘Yeah. He sounds really interesting.’
‘I’ve hardly said anything about him.’
‘But his story’s so tragic. Really sad. And I’m interested in the whole family.’ He smiled at me the way Errol Flynn smiles at Olivia de Havilland in
Captain Blood
. I’d never seen such eyelashes on a man.
Across the room a grandma-type sat engrossed in
Peepo
while her toddler pulled out the contents of her handbag, one by one, and stuffed what would fit behind the nearest bookcase. Miss Mouse was returning videos to the carousel stand by the door, and glancing at the wall clock every ten seconds.
‘I thought you wanted to see this photo?’ I said, pulling it out of my carrier bag. I’d stuck it between the pages of my Emily Dickinson.
‘Yeah, I do, I do. Pass it over.’
I slid it across the polished table and he caught it with his fingertips and twirled it round so it was the right way up. The effect on him was extraordinary.
First he stared, sort of shook his head, then stared again. Next he flipped the photo over to look at the back, but there’s nothing there at all, it’s completely blank. He turned it over once more and I could see his gaze sweeping up and down it, from one side to the other. He leant right over it, peering, and when he raised his head, his cheeks were flushed.
‘Haven’t you seen a picture of your aunty before?’ I asked, surprised by the level of emotion he seemed to be feeling.
He was silent for a moment, then said, ‘This is your mum?’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘It was in the pages of my dad’s textbook. That’s why it survived; Poll threw everything else out after my mother left. She must’ve missed this.’
‘Right,’ said Callum, his colour fading a little. ‘Only, it’s a shock. To see her after all this time. Put a face to her.’ I thought his hand might be trembling slightly, but then he laid the picture down, grinned broadly, and leant back in his chair.
‘Does she look like your mum?’ I craned to see the figure again, even though it had been etched on my brain for years; in case seeing it here, now, might somehow have changed the detail.
‘Hmm. A bit.’ He still had this massive smile on his face. ‘It’s so nice to have found you, and this branch of the family. You know? Can you understand? It’s always been the two of us, Mum and me, so it’s amazing to discover all these other people in the bloodline.’
‘I can understand that.’ The tiny pale woman still leant against the scarlet Metro, still held her bump shyly. ‘I must get my dark hair from Dad, although Poll says I was blonde at birth and it all dropped out, typical. I wonder how many months pregnant she was there. It’s so strange both our mums, both sisters getting caught the same way.’ Except your mum kept you, lucky bugger.
‘Yeah, and both not having dads; I know. We’re sort of, linked.’ He rubbed his hands over his face as if he was washing, then dragged his fingers through his hair at the sides. ‘Look, Kat, I know I can’t take this—’ He held up the photo between his thumb and forefinger, and I thought his gaze would scorch the paper.
‘It’s my only one,’ I said. ‘I haven’t the negative or anything.’
‘Of course, yeah. Here. But I wondered, since we’re in a library, can I have a photocopy? A black-and-white one’ll do.’
‘I suppose so.’ I wondered if it was all right to let him share the picture that no one else in the world knew about. ‘You’re very serious about all this, aren’t you?’
‘It’s family,’ he said simply. ‘It’s important to me to know where I come from. And I honestly
don’t
know where your mum’s living, if that’s what you’re thinking. You have to trust me, I’m not about to track her down. Unless—’
‘What?’
He leaned towards me and spoke quietly. ‘Unless you want me to. I could have a go. Electoral rolls, the Internet; it’s how I found your grandma. I couldn’t promise anything, but there are Web sites where people leave messages . . . ’
For five seconds I felt as dizzy as I did when Callum first presented himself. My God: to ask her, to tell her, to see what she was like, see where I came from. But then anger flashed through me like a fireball and burnt every other emotion away. It always does. My mother
is
anger. To remember her existence, and what she did to me, is to throw me into instant rage. ‘God, no.
She
left
me
, why should I go running after her? I don’t care where she is. She stopped mattering to me the day she walked out.’
I paused and lowered my voice again to a more normal, appropriate-for-a-library pitch. ‘Sorry. I actually don’t care, she’s nothing. I only keep this photo to spite Poll. Do you want two copies, one extra for your mum? Or aren’t you going to show her?’
‘Haven’t decided,’ he said, retrieving his backpack. ‘Play it by ear.’
No one is allowed to even breathe near Bank Top Library photocopier, much less lift the lid and press the red button. Terrible catastrophe will ensue if a member of the general public runs amok and attempts his own copying. Besides, it’s 5p a sheet and Miss Dragon won’t have anyone swindling the system. She likes to be there to count you down. But Miss Dragon was now with the computers, helping a young man type out a letter of application; we went and hovered by his machine but she was pretty engrossed. We had a hunt round for Miss Mouse, and tracked her to the office.
‘Shall we knock?’ asked Callum.
‘I don’t think we should, no. She might be on her lunch break.’
‘Some lunch,’ said Callum, blocking the glass square with his head. ‘That is well odd. Oops. Come away.’
‘Why? Let me see.’
‘No. Shift.’
I let him lead me back to the photocopier. ‘What was that in aid of?’
‘Because she saw me looking in and she seemed a bit pissed off about it. Have you ever seen anyone eat a banana with a teaspoon?’
‘A teaspoon?’
‘Yeah, cutting teeny weeny slivers and sipping them off the end of the spoon. Like this. Really dainty. She must be sweltering as well, a long-sleeved jumper in this weather.’
It was true; even I had a blouse on. ‘I’ve never seen her in anything other than baggy tops and long skirts, now you mention it. I get the impression she’d like a big shell, along the lines of a tortoise, that she could creep into when threatened. She always looks happiest in a cowl neck—’ But I got no further because Miss Dragon was marching over, a nasty frown disfiguring her face. Surely it couldn’t be for us?
‘I’d rather you
didn’t
spy on my staff when they’re on their break,’ she snapped, using the scary voice she uses with ordinary customers. ‘What is it you want that’s so urgent?’
‘Photocopy.’
Callum tried a dazzling smile on her, but she took no notice, just whipped up the lid of the machine and slapped the picture face down.
‘Two, please.’ My voice was nearly a whisper.
She sighed heavily and pressed reset, then dip-dip for Number, then Start. The machine whirred, lit up, and two sheets skimmed out into Callum’s waiting hand. His attention captured once more by the grainy lady, he could only hold out a ten-pence piece in Miss Dragon’s general direction. She snatched the coin out of his open palm and stalked off to the till.
‘That was awful,’ I said. Out of all proportion I felt lousy. Poll could carp round the clock and it all rolled off me, by and large; but Miss Dragon was special.
I
was special. ‘She’s never cross with me. Why’s she in such a mood?’
Callum didn’t care about Miss Dragon. ‘She’s just an old bat. Never mind her. Bad day at Menopause City.’ He folded the pages carefully so the crease went around the edges of the image and not through it, then pushed it into a pocket of his backpack. ‘Right, come on, I’ve had enough of this place. Stop moping now and tell me where I can get a proper coffee. Because you were going to tell me about your dad, if you remember.’
‘Was I?’ I said miserably. ‘I’ll need to get my carrier bag.’
‘Go on then,’ he said. ‘Scoot.’
*
One day they’ll invent a drug that can locate and destroy specific memories. Or they’ll learn to shave bad times off your brain with a scalpel like slices of truffle.
I could have taken a chainsaw to my head. ‘That’s shock,’ the doctor said somewhere in my subconscious. ‘Or maybe concussion.’ Total shut-down, I’d have called it; walking around the ward, blank-eyed. Two days later they shone a light in my face and I came to screaming. Tak-tak-tak went the doctor’s shoes on the lino as he came to see me. He was pleased with the tears. ‘That’s healthy,’ he said. ‘We might be able to let you go before too long. Maybe when your hand’s healed. We’ll see.’ Clang went the chart at the end of the metal bed. Tak-tak-tak.
I looked at my hand, which was bound up in a fat white bandage. I remember that, I thought. I put out my hand to grab the steering wheel back and pull us back out of the way. Something sharp cut me. I did try to save him.
A nurse came later to change the dressing. ‘We’ve disconnected that hot drinks machine now,’ she said. ‘We don’t want any more patients sticking their fingers under boiling water. Whatever were you thinking of?’
Then Vince turned up, looking like a corpse.
*
As we walked out of the library I glanced up at the sky, and directly above us was a cloud-placenta with a trailing umbilical cord. Callum said, ‘Look at that cloud up there. It’s exactly like a tree, isn’t it? Freaky.’
‘My dad,’ I said, ‘was handsome and clever. He’d have been a doctor if he hadn’t died.’
‘I fancy being a doctor,’ said Callum. ‘Bit late now, though. Have you any pictures of him?’
I laughed. ‘No shortage there. We’ve got about two hundred stashed away in albums, and we’d have them all out on display if Poll’s eyesight was up to scratch. The best one’s in my room, him in his suit before he went up to uni for his interview. It makes Poll cry if she looks at it for long enough.’
‘And you? Does it make you cry?’
‘It’s not the same for me, I never knew him. But I wish nearly every day he was still around. He’d know what to do, about . . . the future and things. Do you fancy beinga Methodist for half an hour?’
‘A Methodist?’
‘Their coffee’s only instant, but they do make exceedingly good cakes.’ I pointed at the poster outside the church. ‘In aid of Lifeboats, 10.30 till 12.30. We’re just in time.’
Callum looked doubtful. ‘Don’t you have to be religious to go in there?’
‘Don’t be daft, they only want your money. Just
look
holy. Don’t start swearing at the top of your voice.’
It’s a modern building, square and functional, with thin grilles over the windows to stop kids chucking bricks through the panes. There used to be a lovely old Gothic chapel, built in the 1800s, further down the main street; there are prints of it in the library. But the chapel got knocked down in the seventies to make way for a mini housing estate.
The new place was light, full of blond wood, and the metal grilles didn’t stop the sun from flooding into the large foyer. Through a glass-panelled door you could see the church proper, a wall-hanging of a dove vomiting a rainbow, pews, a small plain altar covered with a white cloth. Here in the entrance there were children’s drawings, posters and leaflets advertising community events, and small tables dotted around with plastic stacking chairs. Most of the tables were now empty but there was a tray piled with dirty crockery in the corner.
‘Two coffees and two pieces of sponge cake,’ I said to the old bid behind the table.
‘My mother’s favourite hymn’s “For Those in Peril on the Sea”,’ said Callum piously behind me.
‘Go and sit down,’ I hissed. ‘I’ll get these.’
Beautiful World
said a poster behind the counter, featuring two little girls, one black, one white, picking buttercups in a field. Old Bid collected all the components slowly, but did the sum in her head like lightning. ‘Two pounds forty, and you’re Pollyanna Millar’s granddaughter, aren’t you? Little Katherine.’
I dropped my head and spoke to my shoes. ‘Yeah.’
‘You’ll not remember me, will you?’
‘No.’
‘Janey Marshall. I used to come round collecting catalogue money, d’ you not remember? And you once fell while I was there and split your lip on t’ step, and I gave you my hanky till it stopped bleeding? Are you sure you don’t remember? Mind, you’d only have been about six. You were in a state. And you’re getting a big girl now, aren’t you? A big bonny girl. How’s your grandma?’
‘Fine.’ I turned rudely away with the coffee but she came after me, passing
Let there be no strife For we be brethren
: picture of a happy football crowd, some wearing red, some wearing blue.
‘I’ll bring these plates for you, save your legs. And oh, who’s this young man?’
It’s at times like this I resolve to go and live in Australia. I’d write to Aunty Jean tonight about citizenship.
‘I’m—’ began Callum.
For a moment my heart stopped.
‘ – a friend from school.’
Old Bid Marshall put the plates down and looked at him over her glasses. ‘I thowt as you went to a girls’ school. Have they gone co-educational now?’
You cunning old bag, I thought. ‘Only a bit in the Sixth Form. But he’s my best friend’s brother.’
‘Kat’s helping me do a history project,’ said Callum. ‘Do you want to see?’ He started to pull open his backpack. Old Bid Marshall stepped forward. ‘It’s about prostitutes in nineteenth-century Lancashire,’ he explained, drawing out a folder and making as if to open it. ‘We’ve uncovered some fascinating facts. Here, take a look.’
‘Well, well. Eeh, very good.’ She stepped back with the expression of a woman who’s been handed a cobra to nurse. ‘They do some stuff in schools now. Eh, I don’t know.’
‘Go on,’ urged Callum, pushing the folder towards her. ‘Really. Be my guest.’
She gave an unhappy chuckle. ‘I’ve no time to be looking at projects. That won’t get the washing-up done, will it?’ And she scooted off back to the counter and started putting cups into towers.
‘What the hell did you say that for? God. That’ll be all round the Over Seventies by teatime. Why prostitutes?’
Callum pushed his chair back so he could tip it against the wall. ‘Why not? It came into my head and I said it. Got rid of her, didn’t it?’
I shall light a candle of understanding in thine heart
, said the poster behind him: photo of candle.