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***
December 2005
The first Christmas at Anna’s was not something Megan had been expecting. When she awoke that morning, Skye cuddled in beside her, cooing and gurgling in delight, she’d thought they’d tiptoe down, make some tea and toast, and wait for Anna to wake up. Most days she was a late riser. Megan was embarrassed about the present she’d bought for Anna, but she had so little spare cash, even working that bar job right up to Christmas Eve, that it was all she could afford. A small vintage-style compact mirror, which hopefully looked more expensive than it was. Nothing was going to be good enough, when Anna had taken them in, supported them, looked after Skye whilst Megan went to work. Encouraged Megan to start thinking about part-time university courses. She’d saved them.
‘Merry Christmas, little girl!’ She tickled the baby’s stomach. ‘This is your first Christmas!’
The sadness tightened her stomach as she thought of her family, sitting around Piney in the living room, all in their Christmas pyjamas that they would have opened the night before, and put on especially. Matty would be snarling, roused from his bed with kicking and desperate pleas. Except he wouldn’t, because she was the one who always woke him up. Even as they’d grown older, she still insisted on waking him up and opening their Christmas stockings together in the early morning.
She looked to the small fireplace in her beautiful bright room in Anna’s house, where she’d hung two stockings – one of her old socks that she’d sewn a red trim on, and a phantom red baby sock that had no partner, that she’d sewn the number ‘1’ onto. Next year, she would afford a real stocking, and great presents. For now it was lucky that Skye didn’t really understand the concept of gifts, or the concept of Christmas at all.
‘We are going to have a great day, little miss!’ she said, buoying herself up. That had been her biggest lesson of motherhood so far. Learn to seem happy. She hitched the baby up on her hip, and trundled down the large wide staircase to the kitchen. Anna’s huge fake tree was in the hallway, looking like something out of a movie, which was, of course, what she had been going for. They stood briefly together, looking at the lights twinkling, and Megan felt her heart fill as Skye’s chubby little face broke into a grin, the lights reflected in her eyes. They were lucky, they were so lucky.
‘Merry Christmas, darlings!’ Anna appeared in a long red kimono, perfectly made up. ‘Come on, come on!’ She pulled on Megan’s hand, giving Skye a brief kiss on the cheek.
She brought them through to the kitchen, where there were two fluted glasses of champagne and orange juice, and Skye’s bottle with orange in it.
‘There’s no champers in hers, is there?’ Megan asked with a grin. But sometimes with Anna you had to check these things.
‘Of course not, darling, I just wanted her to feel involved.’ She handed Megan a glass and they clinked in a cheers.
‘Merry Christmas, Anna,’ Megan smiled, ‘this is wonderful.’
‘You have no idea, darling!’ Anna grinned.
***
After a couple of days dwelling on it, and trying to figure out what one bought for one’s parents at Christmas when you’d been estranged for ten years, Megan gave up and called Matty.
‘Hello?’ He sounded exhausted.
‘Matty, it’s me…Megan.’ She paused here, unsure of the last time she spoke to her brother.
‘Meg!’ His voice was slightly more invigorated. ‘I hear you’re joining us for Christmas this year.’
‘Apparently so.’
‘I’m glad,’ he said warmly. ‘They are too, you know. Mum won’t say anything, but…’
Megan shook that thought away, the same knot of dread building up in her stomach again.
‘Well, they’re actually why I’m calling – I’m trying to find Christmas presents. Also wanted to know what Jasper was into, and Claudia, obviously,’ she added, thinking of the ice-cold blond that Matty had introduced her to only a few weeks before she’d had to leave home, and the weird fact that somehow that woman was now her sister-in-law.
‘Maybe if you ever replied to any of my invitations, you’d know both of them well enough,’ he said pointedly.
‘Matty –’
‘And maybe I could buy my niece something she’d actually like, instead of sending her an array of impersonal gender-specific pink gifts that Claudia picks out every year, because she’s upset we never had a girl.’
‘She’s a smarty pants,’ Megan said, because talking about Skye was easier than trying to explain to her brother why she’d cut him out with her parents, when he’d never done anything wrong. ‘Anything that lets her learn something new – books, art stuff, science set. She also wants to be a detective when she grows up.’
‘Private investigator!’ Skye shouted from the other room.
‘Sorry,’ she said to Matty, ‘private investigator. Apparently I’m smart enough to know the difference by now.’
‘Jas is a little more difficult. He’s one of those kids that saves up his pocket money for months and months for the one thing he wants. And rarely wants anything else.’
‘So what’s he saving for?’ she asked.
‘A time machine.’ Her brother laughed. ‘He’s good with books. He’s a little quiet, always has been, but he’s a good kid. I’m glad you’ll get to meet him.’
‘Me too,’ she said, ‘I’m really sorry, Matty –’
‘Hey,’ she could hear him shrugging, that same docile look he always had, like nothing could upset him, ‘shit happens. You made good, kid. Come back home and show off about it.’
She grinned, and was about to say goodbye when she suddenly had a thought.
‘Matty, are Mum and Dad… Well, has there been any health scares or anything?’
‘Well.’ He considered it. ‘The fact that they’ve made a move to get things going with you again would suggest it, wouldn’t it? I’ve not heard anything, but there has been some hush-hush, whisper-whisper stuff going on. I thought all was revealed when I found out you were coming to dinner.’
‘Huh.’
‘Don’t worry kid, you know if it was serious, Mum would be running around playing drama queen for all she could get. No point letting something run its course when you could have a big to-do about it all, is there?’
‘Good point!’ She really did feel much better, and spared a guilty thought for how much better she might have felt over the years if she’d reached out sooner. Still, no time for that now.
‘I’ll see you next week then,’ she said, wondering why after all these years, when she’d been striving to be a real adult for so long, being called ‘kid’ was so very comforting.
Chapter Two (#u8194b739-f568-5d3a-a19d-d99904262bf6)
September 2001
‘Megan, you’re acting like a child.’ Her mother’s voice was cold.
‘But I’m tired!’ She sighed, resting her head on the table. She’d finished school, had been handed a cereal bar in the car as she went on to her French lesson, her ballet and jazz class, and then advanced art. She was aching, exhausted and her mum just didn’t seem to get it.
‘Tired!’ Heather snorted, clanging things around the kitchen. ‘Do you know how lucky you are that we can provide these classes for you? Your father works hard so we can give you everything, and I arrange all these things, and drive you all over the place to secure you a better future…’
‘I know,’ Megan said softly, not lifting her head up. There was no point arguing. They’d been here before, many times. Megan McAllister was on her way to Cambridge University, whether she wanted to or not. That had been decided long before she’d been able to speak her mind. And now it didn’t matter what she said.
‘I would have loved to have done these things as a child!’ her mother continued, and Megan felt herself zone out, hovering on the edge of sleep, mentally protecting herself. It was nine pm and she still had homework to do. And it was only Tuesday. Tomorrow was gymnastics and physics and piano lessons. There was something planned every day, every hour, for the rest of her life. Until she left to go to Cambridge, where she would study every hour, until she got a job and worked all the time. Megan did a mental calculation…so she’d have no free time until she was twenty-five? That didn’t really seem fair.
‘I just can’t believe how selfish you’re being,’ her mother’s voice was grating, running up a high scale until it echoed its disapproval.
Megan lifted her head up to look at Heather, who was glaring at her, pausing to check her appearance in the reflection of the glass windows. Her mother was wearing her usual array of designer clothes, though she hadn’t been anywhere that day, as far as Megan could tell.
‘I’m sorry,’ Megan said.
‘Well, that’s not good enough.’ Her mother inspected her perfectly manicured nails. ‘Your ballet teacher said you were in another world today, and you can’t just blame lack of dedication on tiredness. Don’t you think every other person applying to Cambridge gets tired? They just decide to be better than that, and you can too.’
‘I know,’ Megan replied, in that moment realising that she did actually, truly, hate her mother, and that’s what the acid in the pit of her stomach was. She shook the thought away before it took hold.
‘In fact,’ Heather clapped her hands, ‘this is a good learning opportunity, I think. If you’re so tired, you probably don’t need to have dinner, do you? You should probably just go up to your room now and sleep.’
Megan didn’t have the energy to argue, just stared at the pot of mashed potato sitting on top of the stove, her stomach growling. There was no point even begging once Heather had decided that Megan was being difficult.
‘You’re right, Mum, it won’t happen again.’
‘I should hope not,’ Heather replied, the glow of a parent who knows they’re right emanating from her. Megan knew she’d relay the whole account to her dad when he came in, and he’d congratulate Heather on such excellent judgement. ‘Now off you go.’
Megan trudged upstairs, thinking that she wished people had to pass a test before they could become parents. Half the time it felt like her mum was just repeating things she’d heard parents say on TV.
She glared at the cabinet on the landing, heaving with trophies and medals and certificates. Never enough. It was never, ever enough for them. She walked into her room and flopped onto her bed face first, hand rooting about under the bed for her secret stash. Inside her box of trainers, and actually inside the shoe, was a sandwich bag, containing the remains of the posh chocolates her Auntie Anna sent from London. They’d at least get her through the English assignment she had to write for tomorrow.
She lay back and thought about leaving home, about packing her bags, and living somewhere quiet and calm, where she could just breathe. Where it was okay to do nothing once in a while, to sit with your thoughts, and just be. Freedom. One day.
***
‘Anna, I think this is the worst idea ever,’ Heather McAllister pleaded with her sister, ‘she’s never wanted to come back. She hates us!’
‘Now darling, you know that’s not true,’ Anna said, sucking on her thin cigarette, ‘Christmas is a time for family, and it’s been long enough now, don’t you think?’
Heather sighed. Of course she wanted her daughter back, she wanted to meet the little genius whose pictures she’d seen hundreds of times, wanted to hear her voice, see how she laughed. But there was a dark little part of her that shivered every time she thought about Megan, and the night she ran away, and she thought it might have been shame. Shame at Megan, shame at what the neighbours might think. And then later, shame because she couldn’t do the one thing a parent was meant to do: support your child no matter what. Shame that the neighbours might find out that Heather McAllister was the sort of woman who wouldn’t talk to her daughter for ten years.
‘I just…I don’t want everyone upset,’ Heather said staunchly.
‘Between you and me, darling, one of Megan’s colleagues’ parents died recently, shook them all up a bit. Made her realise how short life is, you know? We’ve found a crack in the wall, let’s let the light in now, shall we?’
‘I’ve always hated your bloody analogies,’ Heather grumbled at her sister.
‘You just hate when I’m right,’ Anna laughed. But that wasn’t really it. She hated Anna for getting to see them grow up and change, for getting to look after that tiny grandchild of hers, for being part of their life when she’d never been able. But like everyone had told her, that was no one’s fault but her own.
‘Tell them to stay for longer,’ Heather said suddenly, ‘stay for a week.’
‘Going for the storming and forming approach?’ Anna said, thinking back to their days as summer school counsellors when they were girls. Always had to have a storm for friendships to form, the camp guide had shouted each time they worried about a brawl or argument.
‘Something like that,’ Heather McAllister said, thinking that she was not going to lose her family again.
***
‘Please tell me you’re not working tonight?’ Megan begged Jeremy as he walked into the kitchen.
‘If I were I’d look a whole lot more sparkly by now. Takes a lot of preparation, being fabulous!’ Jeremy winked salaciously, then shrugged. ‘What’s up?’
‘I need chocolate and wine, and ice cream, and you to be here for a massive bitching session,’ Megan whined. She was really only whiney with Jeremy, she’d noticed. Somehow, it was allowed with him, but no one else. Everyone else had to see strong, capable Megan, who was handling everything.
‘And what has caused this necessary meltdown?’ he asked, filling up the kettle.
‘I’m going to my mother’s for Christmas.’
Jeremy stopped, turned the tap off and abandoned the kettle.
‘Why the fuck are you doing that?’ Occasionally, Jeremy’s Essex roots escaped, his eyes wide in incredulity.
Megan shrugged. ‘Reasons and stuff?’
‘Like the end of the world?’ Jeremy nudged her with his hip so she’d move out of the way of the cupboard, reaching for the wine glasses.
‘Life’s too short,’ Megan shrugged again, watching Jeremy nose through the wine rack for the perfect red. On his days off, Jeremy was your average guy, with his tousled blond hair and smiling eyes, padding around barefoot at Anna’s, reading intently, writing his play furiously, in all the hidden nooks and corners of the house. One day Skye found him in a cupboard, trying to write a monologue in the dark. Well, so not so average. But when you saw him on stage, he was this glittering dame, all sparkle and song, innuendo and sass.
‘It’s too short to be fucking miserable, that’s true,’ he nodded, pouring the wine and holding out a hand to stop Megan grabbing a glass, knowing she rarely waited for it to breathe before downing it in a few gulps. After a few moments, he handed the glass to her, watching with narrowed eyes as she sipped it delicately.
‘Lovely,’ she nodded, and he nodded back.
‘So…you’re freaking out,’ Jeremy stated, ‘understandably. But surely it’ll be great for Skye?’
‘She’s excited, and I’m glad she can meet my brother and his kid…but something about that village just feels toxic. Like I’m going to walk down to the cornershop for milk and someone will look at me and know that I’m that McAllister girl who got knocked up and ran away.’
Megan circled the rim of her glass.
‘I thought they chucked you out?’
‘Same difference, really, isn’t it? They wanted me gone, so I went.’ Megan felt like her primary form of communication seemed to be shrugging. She was regressing before she even got to Hertfordshire.
‘Just…’ Jeremy rested a hand on hers, ‘make an escape plan just in case, and you can always come back here and join me and the Elderly Poets Society on Christmas Day. I’m sure one of them is going to try to do a solo seated on the piano, fall off and break a hip. It’ll be an entertaining night.’
‘You’re awful.’
‘Well, why can’t they get old gracefully and let the rest of us claim some of the spotlight?’ Jeremy grinned. ‘Besides, it’ll be me flapping about fetching their drinks and hearing all about theatre back in the day.’
‘And you love every second of it,’ Megan pointed out.
‘I do indeed,’ Jeremy grinned, giving her arm a squeeze. ‘You’re not that McAllister girl who got knocked up and ran away. You’re that McAllister girl who made an amazing life for herself and her kid. Even if you are a bit of a moany cow.’
***
December 24th 2004
‘You’re lying,’ her mother spat, ‘you’re annoyed because you’re not the centre of attention and you’re lying to us. It’s pathetic.’
Megan closed her eyes, drawing on some reserve of calm that she didn’t even know she had. She’d said it once, the worst was over. She could say it again.
‘I’m not lying. I’m pregnant.’
Her mother’s face, for once, had become ugly. Twisted with every emotion that she never let herself express, for fear of the ageing lines that might mar her complexion if she laughed.
Her father stood there anxiously, twisting his hands but saying nothing. Like a dog waiting for his owner’s command. His face was pitying, but as Megan had always expected, he was more concerned about Heather’s response than anything to do with Megan. What would her mother do next, she wondered, narrating it in her head like a gameshow. Ladies and gentlemen, which way will Heather McAllister go next? Will it be fury, a fainting spell, or a stream of cursewords? Find out next week on ‘Our Daughter is a Failure.’
