Coming Home (22 page)

‘Get out of my way!’ She lifted her hand as if to strike me again and I dodged backwards. Moving faster now, she started grabbing things and lobbing them out of the window. ‘Happy, Evie? I mean it! Just watch me! It’s all going! All of it! I’m keeping nothing! Everything’s going! And don’t you
dare
try to stop me!’

I watched, unable to move, as my father’s possessions were jettisoned out of the window. His tuxedo—the one he’d
put on for the awards ceremony he’d never made it to—his work shoes, his slippers, his glasses, photos in frames, a dusty box of birthday cards from me—Mum was merciless.

‘Mum, please! They’re mine! Let me keep them!’ I ran over and tried to grab the box of cards from her. ‘Let go!’ I shouted. ‘They’re mine! You’ve no right!’

‘No! Get out!’ Mum shouted. ‘It’s none of your business!’

We wrestled with the box until the ancient cardboard split and cards rained all over the carpet, my childish handwriting visible. Mum scooped them up and Frisbeed them out of the window by the handful.

‘Mum! You don’t know what you’re doing! These are my memories too! You’re upset! Stop it!’

‘Don’t try to stop me, Evie! I’m warning you!’

Our eyes locked and I saw it was no use: she was insane. Stifling a sob, I scraped up the few cards I could and left the room clutching them to my chest.

‘You’ve no idea!’ she screamed after me, her voice rising even higher. ‘No idea!’

When I finally ventured downstairs, long after the last light had faded from the sky, I found Mum asleep on the sofa, an empty glass next to her on the side table. I didn’t need to smell it to know she’d had a whisky; it was her usual evening tipple. Her mouth was slightly open and she was snoring quiet little snores. Grabbing bin bags from under the stairs, I crept past the living room door and out to the driveway, where I started gathering up Dad’s things from
the places where they’d landed: on the rose bushes, in the flowerbeds, on the gravel, in the hedge.

I picked up every last thing I could find, packing it all into bin bags, which I dragged around the side of the house, out of sight from passers-by. When I finally went back inside, Mum was no longer on the sofa. I smelled onions frying—she was in the kitchen. I didn’t want to talk to her; I had nothing to say and I felt the onus was on her to apologise, to make the first move. I turned on the television, got out my knitting and waited, paying absolutely no attention to the screen. My fingers moved fast in the rhythm I found so calming. As the needles clicked and new rows appeared, my mind was going in circles: how would Mum and I move forward from this? It was a hurdle almost too big to negotiate.

‘Dinner!’ called Mum. My fingers stopped moving, but I kept holding the knitting. I sat completely still. I hadn’t anticipated this: I’d thought Mum would come over to me, full of remorse. Maybe bring us a couple of drinks, apologise. My cheek still smarted.

‘Did you hear me, darling? Dinner!’ I heard Mum put the plates on the table, pull out her chair, uncork the wine, pour it into two glasses.

I sighed. I didn’t have the luxury of a big family; of others behind whom I could hide. I put down the knitting and went to the downstairs bathroom, where I splashed cold water on my face and washed my hands. Then I took a deep breath and headed for the dining room. If she wasn’t going to face this head on, I was.

‘Care to explain what that was all about?’ My voice was clipped, controlled.

Mum looked me in the eye. ‘I was clearing out, Evie. It’s what you do when people die.’ Her tone was that of a primary school teacher explaining something to a class of five-year-olds. ‘It helps you move on.’ She picked up her glass. ‘Cheers.’

We ate in silence.

I was woken in the night by my phone buzzing underneath my pillow. I’d set the alarm for 2 a.m. but, really, I needn’t have bothered because I’d lain awake since midnight. Silently, and by the light of my phone screen, I got dressed and padded downstairs.

Letting myself quietly out of the kitchen door, I went round the side of the house and retrieved the bin bags from where I’d left them. I held my breath as I turned the key in the conservatory door, the click sounding way too loud for the time of night. I waited a moment, listening intently for sounds from upstairs, then quickly pulled the bags inside. The conservatory was at the back of the house—crucially, it was completely out of sight of Mum’s room. I’d be able to sit in it with the light on and go through everything bag by bag. It wasn’t my ideal scenario, but I didn’t see what other choice I had.

It was nearly 4 a.m. when I retied the last bag. I hadn’t
taken much stuff—certainly none of Dad’s clothes—but I was happy with what I’d managed to salvage. I now had Dad’s old-fashioned SLR camera with its boxes of additional lenses; his silver business card holder with a few of his old business cards; just for memory’s sake, his wallet; his watch; the box of birthday cards I’d sent him; the cufflinks I’d bought him and a couple of pairs of his favourite ones. I’d also retrieved all of the family photos from the broken frames.

As I sorted through the bags, it had occurred to me that, if I met Tom and things went well with him, he might also want something of his father’s so I put aside Dad’s watch, a good pair of cufflinks and a couple of photos for him, too. It seemed like a long shot, Tom probably wouldn’t want anything, given he’d never known Dad, but it seemed only right that I offer.

When I was completely done, I carried the bags back into the front hall, and stacked them neatly there, ready to take to the charity shop. I didn’t want to leave them outside because the foxes had a habit of ripping open bin bags: the last thing I wanted was Dad’s things strewn all over the garden a second time.

Finally, I locked up then I took the stuff I’d saved upstairs with me. I put it carefully into my suitcase, locked the case and hid the key.

In what little of the night was left, I dreamed about Graham. We were out on our bikes. Even in the dream, I knew how
it ended: dread lurched in my stomach as we cycled up to the crossing. It was a dangerous spot as cars came flying off the roundabout on the dual carriageway, so we pressed the button for the pedestrian crossing and waited not just until the traffic light was red, but until the pedestrian man was green, just like Dad had taught us.

Then we kicked off from the kerb and, even in the dream, I knew that something bad was about to happen. The speeding BMW came from nowhere, shooting around the corner so fast that no one had a chance to react. As I watched, Graham was tossed in the air, thrown thirty metres down the road, his body landing back on the tarmac with the dull crunching thud of flesh and breaking bones.

Tonight the dream was different to usual: when I rushed over, it wasn’t Graham lying on the tarmac. It was Tom. I woke pinned to the bed, my limbs useless and glazed in sweat, the image of another broken brother imprinted on my mind.

‘Tom,’ I whispered into the darkness.

I
was tired when I woke later that morning. Tired, and nervous of what the day would bring. Ideally, I wanted an apology from a contrite and sane mother, though I didn’t fancy my chances—apologies for emotional outbursts were not the Stevens family’s style. We Stevenses were like ostriches: heads in sand as far as they would go. Sighing deeply, I rolled over and stared at the curtains, wishing I could climb out of my window and run away without having to see Mum. In fact, I wished I could keep on running, all the way to the airport.

But, much as I might dream about running back to my little life in Dubai, there were three things that were keeping me in Woodside: Mum’s behaviour—conversely, the more unhinged she acted, the more I felt I couldn’t just leave her; Luca—I smiled to myself as I thought about Luca; and Tom. I needed to see my new brother again. Not to talk to—just to see. Harry’s Café was like a beacon to me. I had to go back.

With another sigh, I dragged myself up and wrapped myself in my dressing gown before treading carefully down the stairs, listening all the while for signs of my mother. Although the scent of coffee hung in the air, the house felt
empty. I padded through the living room. There was no Mum, but a note lay on the kitchen counter.

‘Thanks for clearing up outside. I’ve got to hit some balls at the club. Back after lunch. Mum xx’. She’d even drawn a smiley face.

‘Aaargh!’ I shouted at the note. I scrumpled it up and hurled it across the kitchen.

Later that morning I pushed open the door of Harry’s Café and stopped in my tracks: far from being the quiet haven in which I’d imagined myself reading the paper, the café had been ambushed by a mother-and-toddler group. They’d taken over almost every table I could see. Pushchairs blocked every available space; Lilliputian children ran around between tables; the noise level was unbelievable. I hesitated. Coming back to Harry’s had seemed like a good idea two hours ago when I’d stepped out of the shower, my head full of steam, but I wasn’t so sure now. I felt a touch on my arm.

‘Looking for a table?’ It was a waiter—the blond guy, Sebastian I guessed, with a tray of dirty cups balanced in one hand.

‘I guess,’ I said, shrugging at the chaos.

‘Here, follow me.’

With a glance back at the door, I took a deep breath and followed him through the maze of high chairs, buggies, toys and toddlers to a small table by the window. I could see his badge now. He was indeed the real Sebastian.

‘I’ll just clear it for you. Gimme a sec.’ Sebastian loaded the cups from the table onto his tray, disappeared off to the kitchen, then reappeared with a cloth. I stood awkwardly next to the table while he gave it a quick wipe.

‘There you go. I’ll send someone over to take your order.’

‘Cheers.’ I looked around quickly. I couldn’t see Tom in all the disarray. I pulled out my iPad and the newspaper, arranged them on the table, put my bag on the other chair, rearranged the iPad and the newspaper, picked up the iPad, remembered it wasn’t connected, put it down and picked up the menu. It could have been the weather report. Nothing registered. A shadow fell over me.

‘What can I get you?’ I knew without looking that it was Tom. Hiding behind my hair, I pointed to the menu. ‘An Americano, please. And a palmier. If you’ve got them?’

Only then did I look up, a stiff smile pasted on my lips. I’d gurned to myself a block away from Harry’s this morning, trying to loosen my facial muscles from the nerves that had threatened to paralyse them. Tom was standing over me, pen scribbling over the order pad.

‘Oh hello!’ he said. ‘Welcome back!’

‘Thanks,’ I mumbled. There was a pause.

‘Eating in today?’ he said.

‘Yep. I have some work to do.’

‘Great.’ Another pause. ‘Well. I’ll bring you over a Wi-Fi token. You get an hour.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Ask me if you need more.’

‘Thanks.’ He walked away. Even his walk was like Dad’s. I pulled my eyes off him.

Even without looking, I knew precisely where Tom was all morning. You could have spun me around blindfolded and I’d still have been able to point him out. When he moved behind me, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. But my not looking didn’t last long. My eyes slid back and followed him around.

He did his job gracefully, moving fluidly around the café taking orders, getting bills, taking money and returning change. He clearly enjoyed chatting with the customers, and the mums loved him. I cringed to see the way they exchanged glances with each other and acted coy, twirling their hair around their fingers, and beaming at him, all teeth, lashes and lips. ‘Get your claws out of my brother!’ I wanted to shout to them. ‘Pick on someone your own age!’ It was strange to feel protective.

After an hour, I closed the iPad, the Wi-Fi token expired. The café had quietened considerably. The coffee-morning mums had gathered their belongings and left as one, as if they’d been sucked through the door by an enormous vacuum cleaner. I watched Tom buzzing about, gathering crockery and cutlery, reuniting chairs with tables, mopping spills and restacking high chairs in the corner. There was something about the way he moved that reminded me not only of Dad, but of Graham. I half shut my eyes and looked obliquely at him: it was like seeing Graham’s ghost grown up. Tom caught me looking and smiled.

Wi-Fi?
he mouthed across the tables.

I nodded. He disappeared behind the counter then came
over, acting as if he were on some sort of stealth mission. He looked around, eyes wide, and leapt theatrically between the tables. Sebastian, behind the till, rolled his eyes, clearly used to such behaviour. Eventually Tom made it to my table and tucked the slip of paper under the salt cellar.

‘Don’t tell everyone!’ he whispered
sotto voce
. ‘I could be forced to work
in the kitchen
!’

‘OK!’ I whispered back. Tom looked around again with wild eyes and made his way back across the café. I smiled to myself, feeling old in the face of his teenage jinks.

At midday, I looked up again, the newspaper finished and the iPad battery threatening imminent death. The café was starting to fill up with customers once more, but Tom saw at once, and walked towards me, normally this time.

‘Can I get you anything else? Some lunch?’

‘No … no, I’m good, thanks. Just the bill.’

‘Sure.’ He nodded at the iPad. My Twitter page was open. ‘You on Twitter?’

‘Yeah. It’s kind of handy. I live abroad. It’s a good way to stay in touch with friends and family. Not that I have much family. Small family. No siblings.’ Stop blabbering, Evie. I rubbed my hands together vigorously then steepled them in front of my mouth to hide my nervousness as much as to shut myself up.

‘Where do you live?’ Tom asked, writing out my bill and placing it on the table.

‘Dubai.’

‘Wow. I have family there.’

I froze. ‘Really?’

‘Yeah. Never been, though.’

‘Why not?’

‘Oh …’ His eyes hooked into mine and I couldn’t look away. Time stretched, went saggy in the middle, like chewing gum pulled between shoe and pavement. ‘Long story,’ he said eventually. ‘It’s complicated.’