The Truth About Melody Browne Page 6

  Until one day, in early September when Melody and her mum were walking through Broadstairs with an envelope full of money that had arrived in the post that morning from Melody’s dad to buy her school uniform with. A man stopped them in the street, a man with grey eyes and a bunch of peachy roses. He asked Jane how she was and Jane flushed and said, ‘I’m fine thank you,’ in her prim, now-I’ll-be-on-my-way voice.

  ‘No, but really,’ he said, one hand touching the cuff of her cream sweater. ‘Really, how are you?’

  Jane squinted at him. Melody held her breath, wanting her mum to walk away because this was clearly a strange situation, but wanting her to stay too, to see what on earth would happen.

  ‘I told you,’ said Jane, ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You look like someone has put their hand inside your gut,’ he moved his hand from her sleeve to her belly where it retracted into a fist, ‘and pulled out your soul.’ He turned his fist ninety degrees clockwise and then let it drop.

  Melody gulped.

  Jane inhaled heavily, audibly through her nose and her head fell back slightly as if she’d been punched. ‘I …’ she began, but the man quietened her with a finger to her lips.

  ‘I’ve seen you before,’ he said. ‘I’ve been watching you.’

  Jane pushed his hand away from her face and grabbed Melody’s hand. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

  ‘I can help you,’ he called to her. ‘Whatever it is that’s hurt you, I can make it better.’

  Jane kept walking, squeezing Melody’s hand too hard inside her fist.

  ‘Here,’ said the man, appearing at their side. ‘Here. Take a flower. A rose. From my own garden. Take it. It’s fine. I’ve taken off the thorns. You don’t need any more hurt in your life.’

  Jane took the flower without looking at it and led Melody firmly, briskly, away.

  Melody turned as they reached the end of the street to see if the man was still there. He was. She smiled at him, just once and then they turned the corner.

  Melody couldn’t stop thinking about the man with the rose for days after that. She watched the rose in the vase at Susie’s house grow smaller and browner and wither away. And then, on the same day that the very last discoloured petal fell from the stem and onto Aunt Susie’s Formica-topped sideboard, Jane announced that they needed to go back to Broadstairs to buy Melody some new shoes.

  Melody didn’t say anything to her mum about the man with the rose, in case she changed her mind about going to the shoe shop. She hadn’t said anything about the man, in fact, since they’d seen him.

  She saw him the moment they got out of Susie’s car on the sea front. He was sitting on a bench, reading a book, the sun shining directly onto him. He looked up when he heard the car door slam and for a brief moment, he looked exactly like a picture of Jesus that Aunt Susie had on her kitchen wall.

  Aunt Susie drove away and they started across the road towards the shops. He got up off the bench and approached them. He was wearing a blue cotton shirt and ripped army trousers and his long hair was tied back from his face. Melody found she couldn’t stop looking at him, even when she wanted to.

  ‘Hello again,’ he said.

  Jane jumped at the sound of his voice. ‘Oh God,’ she began.

  ‘Listen up, listen up,’ he said. ‘First of all, an apology.’ He put his hand to his heart. ‘I was way out of line last week. I’m really sorry. That was no way to approach a stranger. But the thing is, I get these … insights. Instantaneous. Bam! Just like that. I see someone, I know them. And I get carried away. Can you forgive me?’

  He smiled at Jane and his eyes creased at the corners.

  ‘It’s fine,’ muttered Jane, ‘honestly. Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘I wanted to make it up to you. Let me buy you a coffee.’

  ‘No, really, it’s –’

  ‘You’re in a hurry?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where you off to?’

  ‘We’ve got to get new shoes for my daughter.’

  ‘Ah,’ he smiled, ‘school shoes?’

  Melody flushed and nodded.

  ‘Back to school. I remember that feeling. Which year are you in? One? Two?’

  ‘No,’ she shook her head, ‘reception.’

  ‘Reception!’ he smiled. ‘Wow. You look too big to be in reception. I thought you must be at least six.’

  Melody smiled and pushed herself against her mother’s body.

  ‘Well, anyway, I’ll let you get on. And if you change your mind about that coffee, I’ll be just here.’ He pointed at the bench, where his paperback still lay. ‘And again,’ he said, ‘a thousand apologies for the other day. I didn’t mean to freak you out.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ said Jane, a smile just forming at the furthest reaches of her mouth. ‘Really. Forget about it.’

  ‘Then I’m forgiven?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jane, ‘you’re forgiven.’

  The man smiled, wiped imaginary sweat off his forehead and headed back to the bench.

  ‘By the way,’ he shouted, as they rounded the corner. ‘My name’s Ken!’

  It was raining as they approached the address on the piece of paper Ken had given them last week, with their few meagre possessions in battered suitcases and bulging shoulder bags. Neither of them had thought to bring an umbrella and they were damp in their summer clothes. They stopped for a moment on the pavement and appraised the building. It was a battered Regency villa on a square just behind the sea front. Melody looked up at the circling gulls and moved out of the way as one of them released a large monochrome dollop inches from her feet.

  Ken appeared at the front door. He skipped down the front steps in bare feet and scooped up their luggage. ‘Hello, Jane,’ he said to her mother, ‘and hello Melody. Welcome,’ he said, ‘welcome to your new home.’ He showed them to a large room at the top of the house with sloping ceilings and small windows.

  It was furnished simply with a single bed dressed in a patchwork quilt, a set of white wrought-iron bunk beds and a wardrobe made of stripped pine.

  ‘In the eaves,’ he said, lowering his head to open the window. ‘Not great for us tall folk, but perfect for you little ones.’ He turned and winked at Melody and she smiled at him and wondered what eaves were.

  After Ken had gone, Melody and her mum sat on the single bed together and stared out of the window. Jane looked tired. Her eyes had changed colour over the past year, from an electric aqua blue, to a kind of disinterested periwinkle. When Melody looked at pictures of her mum that were taken before the baby had died, it was like looking at a picture of another person entirely. Her hair was dull, her eyes were dull and there were two big lines on her forehead, deep and painful, like they’d been carved in with a blunt knife.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ said Melody, who’d eaten only three wine gums since the previous lunchtime because her mother had been in such a hurry to get them out of Susie’s house.

  Her mother sighed. ‘Come on then,’ she said, ‘let’s see if we can find you something to eat.’

  The kitchen in Ken’s house was at the very bottom of the house, a warm subterranean room with a big green oven, an old pine table and a dozen mismatched chairs. Underneath a window that cowered below street level was an old sofa on which lay a large white dog with droopy jowls. A woman wearing a turban sat at the kitchen table slicing a huge carrot into discs. A black cat sat on a chair next to her, purring very loudly. On the floor by her feet sat a small baby with fat cheeks, chewing on a plastic teaspoon.

  Melody and Jane stepped gingerly into the room and the woman looked up.

  ‘Hi!’ she said. ‘Jane? Melody? I’m Grace, Ken’s wife. So lovely to meet you.’

  She raised a ring-laden hand towards them and squeezed their hands with it. ‘And this,’ she pointed at the baby on the floor, ‘is Seth. Say hello, Seth.’

  Seth looked up at them curiously and a long string of drool fell from his mouth to his chest.

  ‘L
et me make you a cup of tea. Sit down, sit down.’

  Melody watched Grace making tea. She was very surprised by the presence of Grace, by the existence of a ‘wife’ in the world of Ken. Grace was tall and slender in grey cheesecloth trousers, a tight black T-shirt and arms laden with clattering bangles. Her hair was pulled back tightly from her face by the red cotton turban. She was very beautiful indeed, with cheekbones that caught the light and dark-framed eyes. The only thing that spoiled her beauty was a big black mole, just by her ear, with a hair growing out of it, which made Melody think that maybe she didn’t particularly care about being beautiful.

  While she was at the sink, filling the kettle, the kitchen door swung open and another child ran in, a boy wearing camouflage trousers and a brown long-sleeved T-shirt. He stopped when he saw Melody and her mum and stared at them. After a moment, he said, ‘Hi.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Grace, turning from the sink, ‘hello there. Melody, Jane, this is my other son, Matty.’

  Matty had conker-coloured hair and bright hazel eyes and looked about ten years old. He smiled at them tightly, and then sighed. ‘Have you come here to live?’ he said.

  Jane nodded.

  ‘Great,’ he said, ‘just great.’

  Grace smiled apologetically. ‘Don’t worry about him,’ she said. ‘He’s just being territorial. Matty, why don’t you show Melody the garden?’

  He groaned and scuffed the toe of his shoe against the rug.

  ‘Please,’ said Grace.

  ‘OK.’

  Melody followed him through a door and into a small paved courtyard. A tall brick wall had been painted white and then decorated with strange paintings of peculiar creatures and flying children. There was a pine bench and an old rocking horse, and a box full of balls and ropes, and a bush of fat peachy roses. ‘This is the garden,’ said Matty. ‘It’s not very big. But we like it.’

  Melody stared at a blob of purple paint, on the wall, which had run and looked like a balloon on a piece of string. She didn’t know what to say.

  ‘You can play with anything in that box,’ Matty said. ‘That’s stuff for the kids. But don’t touch my bike.’ He banged his heel against the wall and put his hands in his pockets. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Four,’ said Melody, ‘five in November, though.’

  Matty nodded. ‘And where’s your dad? Is he dead?’

  ‘No. He’s in London,’ said Melody.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘so’s mine.’

  Melody thought of a question then that she’d like to ask, but she felt too shy so she stayed silent.

  ‘So your mum and Ken – are they, you know … ?’

  Melody didn’t know, didn’t know at all. Matty’s question meant nothing to her, so she just nodded.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Matty. ‘I guessed as much. Fuck, this place just gets weirder and weirder.’ He tutted and shook his head. ‘Still,’ he eyed her up broodily, ‘you seem like a nice girl. If you were a bit older, we could even be friends. But I’ll look out for you. I’ll make sure you’re OK. Because if I don’t, then believe me, nobody bloody will.’

  He turned then, took his hands from his pocket and walked back into the kitchen.

  Melody stood and stared at the balloon-shaped blob and wondered whether anything in her life would ever feel normal again.

  Chapter 12

  Now

  That night, the night she got back from Broadstairs, the night that Melody could have been having dinner with Ben, she decided to take her son to the pub instead. They went to the Cross Keys, their local, a tiny, fussy pub, spilling over with heavy-handed Victoriana and hanging baskets of petunias. Ed had a pint of Stella and Melody had a pint of shandy. They sat together on a small ledge around a tree on the pavement outside, squeezed between fifty overloud office workers unwinding at the end of the day.

  ‘So,’ said Ed, resting his pint on the wall next to him, ‘what’s going on with you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You? What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing’s up.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Mum. I’m not stupid. Ever since you met that bloke, you’ve been different. Is everything OK?’

  ‘Yes, of course it is.’

  ‘So, what’s happening with him? Is he treating you OK?’

  Melody laughed. ‘Ben?’ she said, trying to envisage big, soft, soppy Ben doing anything more offensive than failing to hold a door open for her. ‘Oh God, Ed, if you met him, he’s just a … he’s a sweetheart, he’s a gent.’

  ‘Then why are you acting so weird?’

  ‘What sort of weird?’

  ‘I dunno. Cagey. And why’ve you stopped smoking?’

  She shrugged. ‘Just seemed a good time to.’

  Ed furrowed his brow at her and it was all Melody could do not to fling her arms around his neck and hug him to her, her baby, her only baby, so concerned and so oblivious to everything that was going on in her life.

  ‘You mustn’t worry about me,’ she said. ‘Maybe I am going through some changes. Maybe it’s the idea of you growing up and leaving me that’s making me feel a bit … out of shape. You know, it’s just been you and me for so long, I haven’t had to think about anything else, and now I’m having to start thinking about the bigger picture, about what happens next …’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere just yet.’ He smiled and picked up his pint.

  ‘No, I know you’re not, not physically, but emotionally, you’ll need me less and less every day. And even my job – I only took it so I could be near you, so that I could be around at the holidays, but I don’t need to be a dinner lady any more. I could be anything now. I’m free, you see, I’m free. And I’m really, really scared.’

  ‘Oh, Mum, God, you don’t need to be scared! What are you scared of? I’ll still be around. And you’re brilliant – there’s loads of things you could do.’

  ‘Oh, yes, like what?’

  ‘I dunno, like teaching? You’d be a great teacher. I would never have got my GCSEs without you, and I wouldn’t have bothered with A levels. Or you could even get married to someone, have some more kids …’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Yeah, seriously. Why not? You’re only young. You should have some more kids. You’re the best mum out there – wouldn’t you want to? You know, like Stacey?’

  Melody smiled wryly. ‘No,’ she said, placing her hand on Ed’s knee. ‘No. One’s enough for me.’

  ‘But what about this Ben bloke? He hasn’t got any kids, has he? Doesn’t he want some?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She laughed again. ‘Probably.’

  ‘So, then, you know, maybe you and him …’

  She shook her head slowly. ‘No, there is no me and him.’

  ‘What – it’s finished?’

  ‘Well, no, not finished, but not really even started.’

  ‘But why not?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I just can’t quite get my head around him.’

  ‘Around him, or around having a man in your life?’

  Melody paused and glanced at her son in surprise. What an astute question. Was it possible, she wondered for just a moment, that she’d raised a good man?

  ‘Look, Ed,’ she said uncertainly. ‘There is something going on in my life now and it’s got nothing to do with Ben. It’s got to do with …’ She paused, feeling that she didn’t know enough to start sharing this with Ed, feeling that she wanted to be able to give him more: more absolutes, more facts, more black-and-whites. That was her role, as a mother, to paint the world in the cleanest lines, the brightest colours, to protect him from the vagaries and uncertainties of life. She took a deep breath, chose the right words. ‘It’s to do with my childhood and what happened at the Julius Sardo show.’

  Ed threw her a confused grimace.

  She sighed and continued, ‘Ever since I fainted that night, I’ve started remembering things.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure really. They’re more li
ke little snatches of time, rather than proper memories, but they’re to do with my life, you know, the bit I can’t remember, before the fire. I haven’t quite made sense of them but I know this much – I used to live in Broadstairs. I went there today. I found the house, and everything.’

  ‘What?’ said Ed. ‘You mean, where you lived with your mum and dad?’

  ‘Yes. No. I don’t know. I can’t remember. I just know that it was a squat and I remember this man called Ken. He had a motorbike. And there was a woman called Jane, and I think …’ She was about to say, I think I called her Mum, but stopped, as she still hadn’t properly absorbed the full implication of the memory. ‘I mean,’ she moved on, ‘I even recognised a knot in the floorboards, you know, that kind of detail. I can’t be imagining it. It’s almost like … like I lived a different life.’

  ‘You mean like you were adopted or something?’

  Melody caught her breath. The possibility had already occurred to her in the deep, muddy darkness of her night-time ruminations, but she’d discounted it as too far-fetched, even given the unusually pale outline of her childhood recollections.

  ‘No,’ she said quietly, ‘nothing like that. But I think I might have been sent away for a while, sent to the seaside, for some reason …’

  ‘Oh shit.’ Ed put down his pint and threw her a nervous look. ‘You don’t think, you know, like those books, that bloke, those, you know, those fucked-up things that can happen to kids?’

  ‘What, you mean abuse?’

  ‘Well, yeah.’ He shrugged unhappily. ‘What’s it called when kids forget bad stuff and then they go to a head doctor and it all comes out and then their dads get sent to gaol when they’re, like, really old men?’

  ‘Regression?’