Drawing with Light (15 page)

‘Not much.'

‘How's the Photography project?'

‘OK,' I say. ‘I can show you if you want.'

When she's got everything in the pan and has turned down the heat, she wipes her hands and sits down with me at the table.

Cassy looks thoughtful, flicking through the pages of my journal. She doesn't say much.

‘I like this one.' She points at the photo of birch trunks making silvery shadows. ‘It almost looks like a painting, instead of a photo,' Cassy says. ‘How do you do that, then?'

I explain about using filters, on the computer.

Cassy goes back to check the rice. Outside, Dad's car bumps across the field and he parks up next to the caravan. The doors slam.

Kat tumbles in through the caravan door with armloads of stuff, followed by a fit-looking dark-haired bloke in neat glasses, and then Dad.

‘Better clear the table, Em.' Cassy gets up to greet everyone.

Dan's very polite: he even shakes hands with me, and makes Kat giggle. She's all bubbly and manic.

I put my things away in the bunk room, and lay the table for supper. It's a squash with five people, but Dan doesn't seem bothered. I like him. I can tell he really likes Kat, and that's what matters most to me, more than him being clever or good-looking. But he's both of those too.

‘How was London?' Cassy asks as she ladles bean casserole on to five plates. ‘Help yourselves to rice.'

‘Awesome,' Kat says. She grins at Dan. ‘The best time ever.'

‘Well, soon be back to the grindstone,' Dad says. ‘Won't you have exams this term?'

Kat rolls her eyes. ‘End of semester exams, that's all. Not for ages. They don't even count towards your degree.'

‘Still, you want to do your best,' Dad says. ‘No point doing anything else. What are you studying, Dan?'

‘Marine Biology.'

‘How fascinating,' Cassy says. ‘Do you get to dive and go to coral reefs and swim in lovely exotic warm seas?'

‘Later, I can choose to study abroad,' Dan says. ‘Canada or New Zealand. It costs extra, though.'

‘Worth it,' Dad says. ‘You'll already be in debt up to your armpits, I expect!'

‘Dad!' Kat frowns at him.

‘Tuition fees. Student loans,' Dad says. ‘That's all I mean.'

In my head, I'm trying to work out where everyone's going to sleep tonight. Dad and Cassy in the main room, me and Kat on the bunk beds . . . there's not even floor space for Dan. When Kat takes the plates into the kitchenette I follow her.

‘Where's Dan going to stay?' I hiss at her.

Kat sighs. ‘Duh! We're going on to a party at Mara's, after supper. We'll both stay over there.'

‘How was I supposed to know? You never said.'

And that's the end of my chance to tell her about Seb and me. She hardly notices me, she's so set on talking to Dan the whole time. She wants to show him Moat House, but Dad says not in the dark, in the wet.

‘You'd better clear up the stuff you've left all over our room,' I say to Kat. ‘It's a mess.'

She half-heartedly pushes the bags and rolled-up sleeping bag and stuff on to her bottom bunk, and most of it spills out on to the floor again. And then it's already time for them to go, and with Dan standing right there I can hardly get cross with her about some petty thing like a messy bedroom, so I keep my mouth shut.

‘It was good to meet you all,' Dan says. ‘Thanks for a lovely supper.'

‘You'll be back tomorrow?' Cassy asks Kat.

‘Briefly. Then we're getting a lift back to uni from someone who lives near Bath.'

They've disappeared again all in a whirlwind. Dad drives them to Mara's. Cassy and I are left behind, surveying the general chaos.

‘I'll wash, you dry,' Cassy says.

‘She doesn't care about anyone except herself, these days,' I grumble.

Cassy laughs. ‘Don't take it personally. She's a girl in luuuurve.'

Once we've finished all the piles of washing-up, Cassy lies down on the sofa. She puts both hands on her tummy.

‘I'm going to bed,' I say. ‘If I can get through the heaps of rubbish she's left.'

‘OK, love. School in the morning. Set your alarm, yes?'

I hear Dad come back, not long after, and his low voice talking to Cassy. I hear words like ‘essays' and ‘she's supposed to be there to study', and Cassy laughing. ‘You're such an old crosspatch. Stop stressing about everything. She's just fine.'

Now I'm missing my stupid sister on top of everything else. Even though she is so selfish and horrible sometimes.

Still no texts.

Nothing from Seb.

Nothing from Rachel, even, who's supposed to be revising for her Physics exam.

I lift the curtain to peer out. The rain's stopped at last.

The sofa makes horrible creaking sounds as Dad and Cassy pull it out to make their bed. Cassy giggles softly. Dad grunts and fusses around.

The fox is back, somewhere beyond the field, calling into the night. I put my hands over my ears.

5

I'm still in a mood when I get back from school the next afternoon. Everyone's out. Kat has left me a note.

Hey dearest Em,

Sorry we didn't get a chance to talk properly. Why don't you come up to York? Bring beautiful Seb! Have a good term. Good luck with everything. Love you.

And then she's drawn a little cat and two kisses.

PS Sorry about the mess.

I push open the bedroom door. Most of her clothes and stuff have gone, but the duvet's in a tangled heap, and a load of papers and books and things have been shoved half under the bottom bunk. I'm so furious with her I could cry.

But what's the point? So I start sorting it all out. I smooth out the duvet and sheet and put the pillows back in the right place. I stack the books more neatly on the floor, and then I sift the paper into ‘rubbish' or ‘might be important' piles. It's mostly rubbish, and pages of notes written in blue biro on narrow-lined paper. I put the notes into a plastic sleeve in case she needs them for revision or whatever. I sort through some make-up in case there's anything nice (one lip-gloss, an eyeliner pencil). Then I find a plastic bag with important stuff like her passport and an EU health card, and in with them is her birth certificate. I open it right out. I don't recall ever seeing one before. Dad keeps that sort of thing for all of us in a special file.

The first thing I see, leaping out at me, are the two parents' names handwritten in black ink, one beneath the other.

Father: Robert Michael Woodman

Mother: Francesca Davidson

I stare at the words.

My brain can't make sense of what my eyes are seeing.

Davidson?

I flip out completely.

I don't know how long I sit there. An hour? Two? I get cramp from sitting squashed on the floor for too long. I'm cold to the bone.

All my life – sixteen years of it – I've thought of my mother as Francesca Woodman. Woodman – like Dad and Kat and me: the name that joins us all together, whatever happens.

Davidson?

Why didn't Kat tell me this before? Or Dad? Or
someone
?

Why didn't I think about her using her old name, from before she got married?

I feel totally stupid. Humiliated.

It begins to seep through, the realisation of what this means. How easily I can track her down, now, if I want. Simple as typing a name into a search engine.

I could do it right now.

No wonder nothing came up when I tried before. I was typing in the wrong name.

My heart's thudding.

What am I so scared of?

I fetch my laptop from the table and put it on Kat's bed and switch it on. I take a deep breath. I start to type
Francesca Davidson
.

Francesca Davidson. b. 1971 Canada

Paintings, photography and sculpture:

Natural landscape and domestic portraits form the main subjects of Davidson's work. A bold sequence of paintings of women in domestic settings were exhibited in the Musée d'art moderne 2007 . . .

I find five references to her work in total. All her exhibited work is in France. So that's where she must be living, mustn't it?

I'm shaking all over. My head's a jumbled mess. I switch off the laptop, shove the birth certificate back with the other stuff in the bag, grab my coat and phone.

I try Seb's mobile one more time. Nothing. So I dial his home number.

Avril answers. I can tell she's surprised to hear my voice.

‘Is Seb there?' I ask.

‘No , Em. He's not coming back here at all while he's on the course. It's good that it's going so well, isn't it? We're so pleased.'

Course?
When did he decide on that?

I don't know what to say.

‘So,' Avril says. ‘How can I help, Emily?'

I think fast. I can't bear her to know that Seb has told me nothing about what he's doing. ‘His mobile doesn't seem to be working. So I thought I'd check with you . . .' I know how feeble I sound even as the words come out.

‘That's odd. He phoned us yesterday without any problem. He's probably run out of credit or something. I can give you Ruby's number, if you hang on,' Avril says. ‘Try him there, Emily. He's probably busy during the day, but later this evening he'll be at Ruby's, I should think. Unless they all go down the pub at the end of the day!'

I write down the number. ‘Thanks,' I say. ‘Bye, Avril.' My hands are shaking.

So.

Seb's doing his stone-carving course. The one he talked about.

Seb's away, for six weeks? Or longer? And he didn't tell me?

I'm trembling all over.

I can't bear it.

I sit there for ages, frozen.

I phone Rachel. ‘Can I come over?' I say. ‘I need to talk to you. Please? I won't stay long. I know you've got your exam tomorrow.'

I start the long walk up to the bus stop.

Rachel's sitting on her bed, surrounded by bits of paper and small notecards with tiny writing on in different colours. I pick one up.

‘You can test me on those,' Rachel says.

‘OK. What's the formula for Work?'

‘Work equals Force times Distance.'

I pick up the next card. ‘Power equals?'

‘Power equals Work (energy transferred) over Time.'

It makes no sense to me whatsoever.

‘So. What's happened? Seb?' Rachel asks.

‘Seb, and something else.'

‘You're pregnant!'

‘NO! How could I possibly be . . . Honestly, Rachel!'

‘What, then? Your eyes are all bloodshot. You look terrible.'

‘I've found out something about my real mother . . .'

‘Your mother Francesca?'

‘Yes.'

‘About time!' Rachel says. ‘How come?'

I tell her about the birth certificate, and about what I found on the internet. ‘She's an artist. I think she lives in France. Her real name is Francesca Davidson.'

‘That's it?'

‘So far.'

‘Great. Well, it's a start.'

‘I feel all shaky and funny. Like, it's made her real. She's a real person, and out there!'

‘Of course.'

Rachel's phone bleeps. She checks the message. ‘Luke,' she says. ‘Hang on a minute; I'll just answer him quickly.'

I wait.

She turns back to me. ‘Why's her name different, do you reckon? Perhaps your dad and her weren't actually married.'

‘Or she kept her own name. Like, lots of artists and writers and people do that, don't they? Why should you change your name, anyway? Just because you're the woman?'

Rachel shrugs. ‘What's the big deal about a name? So, are you going to contact her or what?'

‘Do you think I should?'

Rachel makes a big effort. Half of her brain is still thinking
Luke,
or possibly (unlikely)
Physics.
‘Of course! I've thought that for ages. You're bound to feel a bit strange, right now. So let it sink in. There's no hurry, is there? You've waited all these years. A few days won't make any difference. Wait till after the exams.'

She's so sensible and rational I begin to calm down too. She's right. What's the rush?

‘And Seb's gone away,' I say. ‘We had a terrible row.' I tell her what happened. All the sordid details.

‘Why didn't you tell me about this before?' Rachel asks. ‘You are such an idiot, sometimes, Em. I knew something was the matter with you. I assumed it was the exams, or the caravan or something.'

Amanda comes upstairs with two cups of tea. ‘Revision?' she says, looking at Rachel. ‘Don't blow it now. Sorry, Emily, but Rachel needs to do some work.'

I get up. ‘I was just going, in any case,' I say. ‘I've got work to do too. And my bus goes in five minutes.'

Cassy and Dad are in the middle of supper by the time I get back to the caravan.

‘All right?' Cassy says. ‘I assumed you'd eaten? Wherever you've been.'

‘Rachel's,' I say. ‘And I'm not hungry.'

‘It's not too much to ask, is it, that you leave us a note at least, to say where you are?' Dad says through a mouthful of spaghetti.

‘Sorry,' I say. ‘Sorry sorry sorry. That enough?'

I slam the bedroom door. It clicks to, annoyingly softly.

I try talking to Kat on MSN.

– I found your birth certificate. Our mother's name is on it. Why didn't you tell me??????

– You've been going through my stuff?
she types back.

– YOU left it in a mess. In MY room.

– What's the matter?

– The name. Francesca DAVIDSON??? I never knew.

– And the big deal is?

– How can you say that? It's a HUGE deal. It changes everything.

– I don't see why. It's just a surname, for God's sake.