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And honestly, I think she is. This is why she needs to get a job again. It’s been ages since she was made redundant, since she professed she was ‘done with science’ and ‘done with teaching’. She has too much time for all these mad thoughts to run around in her head. So, I look like a pianist. So, I identify with his music so much that I feel like on some level I’ve been listening to it my whole life. So, my parents used to live in the same part of the country as Max Reigate. So, there’s a crib with some letters that match his initials. So, my parents have been acting weirdly.
So, a little voice inside me says, you can see where she’s coming from.
I shake my head. It’s nonsense. I’ve had the most stable upbringing of anyone I know, with two parents who love me. Ellie just can’t get it into her head that I’m not some spoilt object of guilt – I’m just loved. Maybe she’s still mourning for her own parents, and wants to deny everyone else a cosy family too. But killing other people’s happiness can’t increase her own.
She’s not giving up, though. She’s following me up the stairs. I only notice because the voice saying ‘It’s true’ is too feminine to be coming from inside my head. I should turn round to her, laugh it off, but do you know what? I’m pretty angry right now. Not only is it a slur on my mother, it makes Dad seem like an idiot too. We’ll row it out later, it will all be fine, but for now I’m going to focus on this crib. The crib for my son with his crazy mad mother.
When I get to the top of the stairs, Dad is standing halfway up the loft staircase.
“What kept you?” he asks.
“It was my fault, Mr S,” says Ellie, all smiles and politeness. “I was reminding him what to look out for on the crib.”
“As long as it’s structurally sound, I don’t care,” I say. “Thanks, Dad, for helping me get it out.”
I follow him up the stairs into the loft. Ellie comes with us.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather wait downstairs, Ellie?” I ask. “Seeing as you’re already so well acquainted with the crib?”
“No,” she smiles. “I’d like to see your reaction to it.”
If Dad has noticed the tension between us, he doesn’t let on. He is over in the far corner of the loft. I follow him. And there it is. The crib.
There is no heart-stopping moment. No sense of realisation. I do not turn to Ellie and say ‘Darling, you were right’. Because it is just a crib. It is white, wooden, with slats. It is designed to keep a baby secure and asleep.
“Wow, Dad, it’s amazing!” I say.
He turns round and looks at me, carefully.
“It’s just a crib, son,” he says.
“Yes, but, you know, it’s my old crib – triggers so many memories, you know?”
“Does it?” he asks, quickly. There is intensity in his voice, concern.
“Not really,” I concede. “But it might do, in time.”
Dad turns and looks at the crib. “Yes,” he says, thoughtfully. “I suppose it might.”
“Perhaps of his father’s face, hanging over him in the cot, hey, Mr S?” Ellie says. There’s a false warmth in her voice.
I change the subject. Dad would be humiliated if he knew what she was driving at.
“How shall we get it out, Dad?” I ask, glaring at Ellie.
“It’s true,” she mouths, taking advantage of Dad’s turned back.
I turn away from her, to face Dad.
“Let me take one end,” I say. “We can take it down together. Bit of father and son removal work, hey?” Then I have a thought. “By the way, while I remember – you don’t happen to have the hammer from our toolbox do you? We were trying to find it yesterday.”
Dad looks at me strangely, like I’m mad.
“Why would we have that?”
“Well, it wasn’t in the toolbox, so I thought maybe you’d borrowed it, before you gave us the toolbox.”
Dad shrugs. “Not me,” he says.
“Maybe Mum?” I ask.
He nods slowly. “Maybe. Bit of an odd thing to…but maybe. I’ll ask her. See if we’ve got a spare, anyway, downstairs.”
Hammer question sort of answered, we turn our attention back to the crib. We each pick up one end. As I lift up mine, I catch sight of the initials. They are as Ellie said: M.C.R. – engraved into the wood. As we bring the crib into the light and down the staircase from the loft, I see something else. I lose my footing on the stairs.
“Will!” shouts Ellie, putting a hand to my back to stop me falling. It’s enough for me to recover my footing.
“All right?” asks Dad, from his end.
I nod and we carry on. I don’t want to trip again. So I avert my eyes from what I saw. A small sticker, next to the initials, of a piano. Ellie is right. This crib was his.
But that means nothing, I tell myself, as we carry the crib into the living room. So, maybe the crib belonged to Max Reigate at some point. Maybe he gave the crib to my parents as a christening present, complete with a piano blessing. Maybe anything.
We all assemble in the living room and stare at the crib. Mum joins us.
“It’s rather dusty,” says Dad (because I’m still calling him that, strange crib notwithstanding).
“Not dusty enough to hide those initials!” says Ellie. I turn to her and shake my head.
“It’s a lovely crib,” I say. “Thank you.” I give Mum a squeeze on the shoulder. She lays her chin against my hand. We stay a moment like that.
Then Ellie breaks the peace.
“Now, time to look at these photo albums!” she says. She is still clutching the third, unfamiliar album.
“I’ll get the others from the dining room,” I say. I don’t know what is in her mystery album, but I don’t trust it, or her. If she has some idea of a family showdown to end the evening, assembled round her ‘proof’, I don’t want any part of it.
“No need,” says Ellie, waving the album.
“Where did you get that?” demands Mum.
“From the loft, with the others,” says Ellie, all innocence.
“It’s a personal album,” Mum says. “There’s nothing of Will in there.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Ellie says. “I had a quick look, and I thought there’d be some stuff he’d like to see. You in the 70s, the old Dartington family home. Your friends.”
Ellie’s eyes are shining. She is working up to a Poirot moment, I can tell. The right timing as well – Sunday evening, prime ITV3 crime viewing. And à la the famous sleuth she assembled us all here, in what could pass for a drawing room. She’ll show us whatever photo she’s found, list a stream of mad conjectures, probably produce a murder from somewhere, and then she’ll never be welcome in the house again. At least Poirot’s ‘little grey cells’ functioned properly, unaddled by whatever pregnancy hormones are taking hold of Ellie’s brain.
Ellie is starting to open up the pages.
“You know,” I say, “I’d much rather just see the pictures of when I was little. Not sure I need to study Dad’s kipper ties.”
“No, Will. I think you really need to see your father’s kipper ties.”
Mum is advancing towards the album. “Ellie, darling, Will’s right. And it’s getting late; some of us have to work tomorrow, remember?”
Oh – Mum shouldn’t have done that. Play the ‘job’ card. Guaranteed to piss Ellie off.
“OK, Mrs S,” says Ellie sweetly. “To speed things up, how about I just show Will the particular photos I found that I think would be of special interest to him?”
She begins flicking through the album.
Mum leans in and snaps the album shut. “No. Borrow the other ones. It’s late, and we need to get the crib in the car. John will drive you home.”
She pulls the album away from Ellie. As she does so, the pages open slightly, and something flutters out to the floor.
It’s not a photo. It’s a letter, with a little red ribbon tied through the top of it. A love letter. I reach down to retrieve it for Mum, but Mum is quicker than me. The letter is in her hands before I can touch it. But not before I can make out the signature.
It is from Max. Max Reigate.
And it’s signed ‘fondest love’.
Chapter Eleven (#ulink_bd0fc89d-eb29-5d78-8a51-6ec43d470008)
-Ellie-
Will is still in denial, even after he sees the letter.
All the car journey home, he prattles on to his ‘Dad’ about how excited he must be to be a grandfather. If fake dad is excited, he hides it pretty well. Most people I know don’t display excitement by biting their fingernails and giving monosyllabic answers to questions.
Fake dad and Will install the crib in the nursery. There’s a hammer nestling in the crib too, now, retrieved from Will’s ‘parental’ home. Didn’t hear fake dad ask Will’s cheat of a mum about it; he must just have found it himself. Maybe he figured Will’s mum couldn’t take any more accusations in one night. Its easy-grip handle shines out in the dark, like a little metal baby with an orange muffler. Finally, fake dad leaves.
“Well?” I say to Will.
“Never put me through an evening like that again!” he says.
Oh. I see. We are having a testosterone reaction. This happens sometimes. Apparently his mum’s sleeping around is now my fault. We’ll go for calm, docile – not the usual shouting back approach. Calm it down.
“Sweetie, I’m sorry if I upset you. It’s just there are certain signs – ”
“The way you were doing all that manoeuvring, that manipulating, it was – ”
“How I got you in my clutches in the first place,” I say, aiming for coquettish.
I see from the shocked look on his face that I have missed the mark.
“OK, forget I said that.” Moving on. “Look, I know it’s a bit disorientating, a bit – ”
“Disorientating? Listen to yourself! You are trying to say that my dad isn’t my dad at all, I’m some, some bastard child, from a sex romp between my mum and a random composer!”
“Not a sex romp. You saw how that letter was signed off. And there was a photo, in the album, of them, together.” If only he’d listen. If only I didn’t have to cope with this male reaction. Anger is not an appropriate response to logic.
“What, on a date?”
“No, a group of them, your mum, your fake dad – ”
“Cut that out!”
“OK, Gillian and John, if you prefer, in a group shot, at a picnic, including Max Reigate.”
“Which proves nothing. Absolutely nothing. Jesus, Ellie – why are you so determined this should be right?”
“It’s not a case of me being determined. It’s just right. It stacks up.”
Will leaves the nursery and moves into the bedroom.
“Look, I have to go to work tomorrow, this talk and die lecture is coming up, I need to put some good hours in…” he says.
“I just wish we could see that letter,” I say. “That would prove it.”
“Ellie, leave it, OK? I’m tired,” he says, doing a fake yawn.
“I bet she’s locked it away on one of those study drawers,” I tell him. “All we need to do is break in, prise them open, and – ”
“‘All we need to do is break in’!” Will repeats back at me. “Do you know what?” He glares at me. But then I never do know what. Because he leaves this long pause and it’s like he’s making himself be calm. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, softer. “We’re both tired. Let’s just get some sleep, OK?” And he kisses me on the forehead.
So that’s it, fight over? I feel vaguely disappointed. Where do I go now with my theory on his father, if we’re not going to shout about it? Actually, screw ‘theory’ – I’m pretty damn sure I’m right about this. All the evidence is there. Plus it just feels right, you know? Otherwise, why would Will be so in love with that music? It’s in his blood.
As Will brushes his teeth, I consider as I lie in bed going into the bathroom to continue the discussion. Because it’s for his benefit, not mine. What do I care who his father is? I just feel he has a right to know. But I don’t move, I just stay where I am in bed. Otherwise, I might end up telling him all I know about Max Reigate. What I learnt, when I Googled him. It would be too much for Will, at this stage. Better get him to accept the main fact, before I move onto the others. Other.
Besides, it will all be all right in the morning, as Mum used to say, when she tucked me in. Any remaining tension will be gone. She had this almost pagan belief that the sun coming up for the start of a new day cleansed all the trouble that had gone before – whether that was mean girls at school or a fight with a boyfriend. I told myself that when I heard about their crash, that night. ‘It will all be all right in the morning.’ Except it wasn’t, of course. Because in the morning, they were no longer there. There’s an exception to every rule though. That was it. For all the other mornings, everything will be all right. By the power of my mother’s word.
So I turn off the light, position myself on my left side (good for the baby) and drift away to sleep. When Will comes back to bed, I wake for a moment as he settles behind me, arms looped round me in our usual sleep-spooning. Not holding me quite as tight tonight, but maybe he’s just worried about hurting little Leo. Or maybe we haven’t quite made up yet. But I still feel myself drift off towards sleep. I don’t have any guilty conscience that would stop me. Why, after all, would I? I just want the best for Will, and the truth is always the best. For us, anyway.
I awake in the night to the sounds of music. At first, I think I am imagining it, that it’s a fragment of dream that’s wafted over into my waking world. But no. I am fully awake. And it’s really there. And Will really isn’t; the bed next to me is empty and cold. The sound is coming from downstairs. I get out of bed and open the bedroom door. The music gets louder. I tiptoe downstairs to the living room. The door is shut. I push it open, as gently as I can. Will is curled up on the sofa in foetal position. His eyes are shut. In sleep or in contemplation, I don’t know. On the coffee table lies the Max Reigate CD case. His concerto is the music I heard. I look at the CD display indicator. Still on the first track, so he can’t have been listening long.
“Will?” I say softly. No answer. I wait a moment. How that piano hammering away can act as a lullaby, I don’t know. But then, the pianist’s not my father. I tiptoe out of the room again. The music can offer more persuasion than I can.
In the morning, I go downstairs to find Will already at the breakfast table. He looks up when I come in. There’s a smile. Small, but enough. The anger is gone.
“Let’s find that letter,” he says.
Chapter Twelve (#ulink_42f699b3-5cb6-5bb4-a634-2adca1158ab5)
-Will-
I can see Ellie thinks that she’s convinced me.
