The House We Grew Up In Page 12

  ‘But he’s my uncle. I’m, like, nearly sixteen and I’ve never met him.’

  ‘Well, you have met him, actually. Once. When you were about three or four. When Alfie was a baby. Here. You met him here.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Ha! Of course I’m sure! I’m totally sure. There’s no way I would forget it. Because it was the last time I ever saw him.’

  April 1999

  Vicky pulled the curtains apart and smiled. ‘Darling,’ she said, glancing at the slumbering figure in the bed, ‘it’s gorgeous out. Absolutely beautiful.’

  Lorelei opened one heavy eyelid and peered over the top of the bedspread. ‘In a minute, Vick. Not yet.’ Then she closed her eyes and turned over.

  Vicky gazed at her for a moment. Her beauty. Her love. She still couldn’t quite believe that she had her. That after all those years of aching and wanting and desiring, Lorrie was now hers and hers alone. That she got to wake up with her in the mornings, lie down next to her at night. That they were one. Lorrie and Vick. Vicky and Lorelei.

  Lorrie’s waist-length hair, streaked with grey and almost-grey, was spread about her head on the pillow, one long, chiselled arm hanging over the edge of the bed, her bony shoulders in the strappy, silky stuff she wore to bed. Who would have guessed, during all those years of not knowing, of yearnful wondering, that Lorrie Bird wore such things in her bed. Peach and ivory, lace and silk, tiny pearly buttons and flibberty ribbons. All wasted on her great lanky nonsense of a husband.

  Vicky had seen it, from the very first moment she stepped into their house. The pair of them had that look about them: ashen, cloistered, given-up. And that was before their boy had done what their boy had done and made sure that they would never again feel comfortable laying a hand on each other in this house.

  And Vicky had known, from the very first moment she set foot in this house that this was where she belonged, in this charming mayhem, with this charming, peculiar woman with her heaps and piles and colour and passion. Nobody appreciated her. Her older daughter, Megan, so stern and unyielding, so resolute in her disdain for her mother and everything that mattered to her. Rory, unfocused and footloose, disloyal and uninterested, off with his hard-faced Irish princess without a backward glance. He never called, except to ask for money. And even lovely Beth, pretty little thing, soft and pliable, she was only here because she didn’t have the guts to be anywhere else. Because she felt like the last guest at an unsuccessful party, too guilt-ridden to leave.

  Vicky loved them all, she did, almost as though they were her own. But she hated them too, for the lack of love they showed their mother, the looks they threw each other over her head, behind her back, the whispers and the conspiratorial giggles. She’d felt so desperately sorry for Lorrie, stranded in the middle of it all, looking for rainbows and seeing only disparagement and scorn.

  It was just over two years ago, their first kiss.

  It happened when Beth went down to London to stay with Meg, when Alfie was born. She’d dropped Sophie at nursery, picked up some Danish pastries from Sainsbury’s like she did every Tuesday – pecan for Lorrie, raisins for herself – and let herself in with the key that Lorrie had given her many years earlier. There they were, just the two of them and an empty house (Colin had been somewhere else, who knows where else – Lorrie had stopped wondering a long time ago); they sat in the garden in the spring sunshine, drinking tea from mugs, admiring the new blossoms, discussing the children – her children, Lorrie’s children – as they always did, and Lorrie had begun to cry. It was perhaps strange that after all these years of admiring Lorrie’s joyful outlook, her sunny demeanour, her ability to skim across the grimy surface of life looking only for the bits that sparkled, she should desire her more than anything for her tears. She’d put an arm across her shoulder, as she would do for any soul who cried in her company, and Lorrie had flopped her head against Vicky’s soft bosom and there it had been, something Vicky had forgotten about in all these years of marriage and men and mothering and being what everyone thought she should be. There it was again, like a lovely forgotten object found at the back of a drawer.

  Lorrie had been surprisingly unsurprised. The timing had clearly been impeccable – Vicky could no longer even remember why she had been crying and neither could Lorrie. All they could remember now of that afternoon was the delight of finding each other at last.

  Well, it was hard to imagine now, two years later, how awful it had all been at the time, telling Tim, telling Colin, telling the children (only the big children – the little children would work it out for themselves sooner or later). Oh, the screaming and the terrible rage-filled voices, the tangible distaste, the venom, the rawness of it all. Awful. Beyond awful. Tim lived in the next village now in a little two-bed cottage. He still didn’t talk to Vicky at handovers. ‘You are dead to me.’ He’d really said that to her. The way someone in EastEnders might do. Vicky had never suspected him of being so theatrical. Colin had been an easier proposition. He’d left Lorrie years ago, in reality, and he’d made a show of being terribly cross, but really Vicky thought he’d been relieved. He still lived in the house – they put in a partition wall and a separate front door (the house had originally been two cottages, so it had been easy enough to do) – and he came and went, civil enough.

  But Bethan, wide-eyed little Bethan, well, she had thrown up. Not metaphorically, but really, genuinely, spat up some regurgitated food into the sink. Quite revolting, really, but also terribly sad. A grown woman of, what, twenty-five, twenty-six she’d been at the time? Still so firmly battened down to the floor of her childhood that she would physically evacuate her stomach at the suggestion of her mother having a female lover. Not that Vicky would ever say that to Beth. She always trod very carefully around her, tried to respect her sensitive nature, make it as tolerable as possible for her to live with them. No PDAs. No overt shows of the way she felt about Lorrie. Just business as usual so far as was reasonably possible.

  But here, in the sanctuary of their room (yes, the room that Lorrie had once shared with Colin, the very bed that she had slept in with Colin, but it seemed an irrelevance to both of them, it was just furniture, after all) they could be exactly what they were. Without shame or embarrassment. Vicky and Lorelei. Lorrie and Vick. She sat down upon the edge of the bed and she kissed her beloved softly against her lips.

  The last Easter Sunday of the Millennium held secrets. Secrets and surprises. Vicky was keeping them as little gifts for Lorrie. The first secret was on its way, right about – she checked her watch again – right about now. Pandora in a rental car, direct from the airport, a surprise visit from her home in Corfu, with Ben and Ben’s son Oscar in tow. The second secret was still unconfirmed. It was nigh on impossible communicating with the weird house in Andalusia, the strange man called Ken who occasionally answered a phone at the bar at the end of his dirt track and promised, unconvincingly, to get a message back to Rory and Kayleigh, who had a modem that appeared to run on donkey pee or somesuch, as reliable as it was. (‘I sent you an email on Wednesday. Did you get it?’ ‘No, our modem’s been a bit temperamental.’) But, all being well, Rory and Kayleigh were also heading back home. Who knew what time they were due. Vicky certainly didn’t. Meg and Bill were already here. They’d arrived last night and were staying next door with Colin. Vicky didn’t blame them. Less clutter in his place, a big room with four beds in it and its own en-suite bathroom, perfect for a family. Nothing personal, Vicky knew that. Meg, being the oldest and the most pragmatic of the Bird children, had no issue with Vicky and Lorrie being together. Once she’d ascertained that her father was not about to fall apart like an over-baked pastry case, she’d been fine about it. Vicky suspected that Megan thought she was a good thing, a force for the good. What was it she’d said? Yes, that’s right, she’d said, ‘I’m glad she’s with someone who cares about her.’

  Precisely.

  Colin had not been a bad husband, he’d not been a drinker or a liar or a fighter
or a controller, but neither, it had to be said, had he really cared a terrible lot.

  Vicky could hear the little ones next door, through the thin partition wall. Somebody was having a tantrum. She could not make out the details of it, but the general shape was that of apoplectic rage. It sounded like Alfie. She smiled, not smugly, but with some satisfaction, that she had passed through that phase. Her girls were eight and nearly six. She was in the gentle stage of the parenting journey known as ‘middle childhood’. Her children were solid, predictable, safe. They didn’t scare her any more as they had when they were small, when there had been the ever-present fear of a public tantrum, a broken night, a dash off a kerb, an unannounced bowel movement in a public pool. And neither were there the fears to come: the failed exams, the bad friends, the late nights and the journeys home in unlicensed taxis. Here she could exhale for a while, pause to admire the view, think fondly of her babies but know that she would never have to go back there again.

  Poor Meg, still at the starting posts. Grumpy, bossy Molly, hyper Alfie and now another one on the way; a veritable baby machine, a glutton for punishment. She heard the front door of Colin’s cottage open and close and then she heard small fists on their door. She checked the time again. It was seven twenty-five. Her girls were still fast asleep. Good sleepers, her girls. No, she wouldn’t want to go back there again, not for all the chocolate in Belgium.

  She pulled on a smile and opened the door. ‘Hello, sweethearts,’ she cooed, clocking Meg’s thunderous face behind them, ‘have you come for your breakfast? I’ve got strawberry yogurts – are they allowed yogurts?’ It was always best to check, especially, Vicky had found, with Megan, who had some very hard-and-fast rules about the contents of her children’s stomachs.

  ‘Perfect,’ said Meg, grimacing. ‘Anything. Just please, would you mind keeping an eye on them for a few minutes while I try and have a lie-down?’

  The smile froze on Vicky’s face. What about Bill, she thought but did not ask, what about your partner? Or your father? Or have they both died in their sleep? She kept the smile in place – it was vital that she remain utterly charming at all times when it came to her dealings with Lorrie’s family – and said, ‘Absolutely! Of course. Come in, lovely little people, come in.’ And she thought, but did not say, And please do not wake up my big, proper slumbering children who, left to their own devices, might well sleep through until nine o’clock, giving me another hour and a half to prepare for the massive family reunion which I have so rashly chosen to undertake this afternoon. Meg’s little ones were still in their pyjamas, Alfie’s rather soiled already with something garden-related, Molly in lovely, and very expensive-looking, white cotton things with lace edging. Alfie’s eyes were red-rimmed from his recent tantrum and Molly was looking thoroughly unimpressed with her lot. Meg was wearing a stretchy maternity top that had clearly seen her through both previous pregnancies, and leggings that showed the solid set of her long but rather shapeless legs. Her brown hair was cut shorter than she’d ever had it before and her eyes were dull with sleeplessness. ‘Thank you, Vick,’ she said. ‘I really, really appreciate it. I’ll be back in an hour.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Vicky. ‘Longer. As long as you need. Go. We’re fine.’

  Alfie raced through the house and out towards the garden. Molly looked at her mournfully with those big blue eyes of hers. Then she looked pleadingly at her mother. ‘I also have chocolate spread,’ Vicky said, not making eye contact with Meg, not giving her the opportunity to grimly pronounce, ‘Actually, I don’t let them eat sugary spreads – here’s a pot of organic sprout paste.’ ‘You can have it on toast, or even,’ she smiled playfully, ‘on a crumpet!’

  Molly’s demeanour softened – so easily bought – and Vicky led her by her small, eager hand towards the kitchen.

  Molly’s mouth loosened with every nibble of chocolate-covered toast. Vicky had made herself a slice too and they sat side by side outside the kitchen door watching Alfie forage for snails, quite companionably, almost as though sharing a bottle of rosé.

  ‘So,’ said Vicky, ‘are you looking forward to your new brother or sister?’

  Molly wrinkled up her pretty little face, considered the question for a while and said, ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Vicky. ‘Why’s that?’

  Molly shrugged, tiny shoulders going up and down in their sockets. ‘Don’t know. I just am not looking forward to it. I’ve already got a brother.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Vicky empathetically, ‘one brother probably is more than enough.’

  Molly nodded and ate some more toast. She had a chocolate-spread crescent bisecting her mouth which looked incongruous against her serious expression. ‘Why is Nana’s house so messy?’ she asked after a moment.

  Vicky smiled. ‘Ah, well, you see, your nana is a very special lady – she is really quite magical, you know – and when she looks at the world she sees it in a very special way, like it’s a party bag, or a toy shop, and she likes to keep bits of it. And she feels sad when she throws things away.’

  Molly nodded again. ‘My mummy throws away everything.’ She said this with a roll of the eyes.

  ‘Yes, so I hear.’

  ‘Really,’ she emphasised, ‘everything. It’s really annoying.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Vicky, ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘But,’ said Molly thoughtfully, ‘I think I prefer it living in a house that is tidy than in a house which is untidy. Like Nana’s house.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Vicky, with a hint of sadness, ‘well, everyone is different. Some people like a lot of things around them, and some people like it all put away.’

  ‘I think,’ said Molly, ‘that I would like it all put away. But not thrown away. When I am a grown-up I will be tidy, but I will not throw things away. Especially not my toys.’

  ‘That,’ said Vicky, ‘sounds like a very good compromise. Very sensible indeed.’

  Vicky had not been to Meg’s house. Lorrie still refused to spend a night away from home even twelve years after the burglary. But she had heard much about it from Beth. She had heard about the sparkling antibacterial surfaces and the cupboard full of sprays, the storage boxes labelled with stickers and the multitude of coasters. It was obvious to Vicky that Meg’s fastidiousness was not a genetically inherited trait, but a direct reaction to the way she felt about her mother. Meg was disgusted by her mother, despised her childlike ways, her dreamy outlook, her love of stuff and things and bits and bobs. All the things that Vicky loved about her. Living with Lorrie was like living with a person formed from your favourite grandmother and the kooky girl in the sixth form and the teacher who let you off homework because it was her birthday. It was like living with all the best and most colourful people you’d ever known all rolled up into one. But then, Vicky had always liked weird people. She’d always happily made conversation with drunks on the tube, chatted to the strange man at the party who everyone else was avoiding, befriended confused old ladies at bus stops and got to know the homeless guy with the voices in his head who sat outside her office. Nothing fazed her. She was utterly fearless. The only person who scared her was Meg.

  Meg terrified her.

  Vicky was forty-five.

  Meg was twenty-eight.

  They were both tall women, five foot eight, and big-boned. They both had loud voices and strong opinions. They were both matriarchal and bossy.

  But still. When Vicky was with Meg she felt like a shrimp.

  Absolutely ridiculous.

  That fear was currently manifesting itself into a frantic dash for a wet cloth at the sound of Meg at the front door, and a rather rough-handed removal of the chocolate smile from Molly’s face. Meg had taken precisely the hour she’d said she wanted, not a minute more, not a minute less. Vicky could hardly see the point of asking for time for a nap if you were just going to lie there watching the clock.

  ‘Come in, come in!’

  Vicky stationed the little ones in front of a Teletubbies
video in the sitting room. Megan seemed momentarily vexed about this, then looked very tired and resigned, left them to it and followed Vicky back into the kitchen.

  Everyone else was still asleep: Lorrie, the girls and Bethan. So, until one of them surfaced, it was just the two of them. Vicky and Meg. She made a fresh pot of tea and opened a packet of croissants.

  Megan peered suspiciously at them.

  ‘When were they bought?’

  Vicky smiled patiently. Meg always thought that everything in this house was past its sell-by date, festering with unseen mould, wriggling with invisible mealworms, noxious with lethal bacteria. ‘Yesterday,’ she replied genially.

  Meg nodded and picked one up.

  ‘This house …’ she began, looking about herself awkwardly. ‘Christ. It gets worse every time I come.’

  ‘Well,’ said Vicky, in the smoothest voice she could arrange for herself. ‘It’s since the house was split. You know. We’ve less space now and you know your mother, she just won’t countenance …’ She trailed off, feeling her customary surge of loyalty bubble to the top. ‘Although, I must say, in her defence, she has let a few bags of stuff go. Recently. A load of clothes. To the charity shop.’ She rubbed nervously at her elbows. Of course, she wasn’t being quite honest. She’d done it herself, while Lorrie was at a doctor’s appointment for her alopecia (a bald spot the size of a ten-pence piece that had appeared virtually overnight on her crown). And she’d felt so terribly nervous doing it, as though she were committing some dreadful crime, as though there were a dozen surveillance cameras focused in on her, beaming her activities directly into Lorrie’s head. Possibly through the bald patch.

  What had it been in the end? A jumper, a scarf, some old work shirts of Colin’s and a pile of really, really unreadable-looking paperbacks. Not a lot. But as much as she thought she might be able to get away with.

  ‘Well,’ said Meg, ‘that’s better than nothing, I suppose. And how is she? Generally?’ Meg pulled down the cuffs of her maternity top and smoothed her brown curls behind her ears, which were decorated with small and annoyingly discreet diamond studs.