Lemonade and Lies (21 page)

“Jesus!”

“What?” asked Sergeant Patterson, hovering over my shoulder.

“Ayr Hospital,” I said.

“I’ll drive.”

“My car won’t start,” I said.

“I’ll get a squad car.” The words sounded comical on his lips, for he’d come on his bicycle.

And ten minutes later we were headed for Ayr. With the siren going and blue lights running. And me, stiff like a statue in the back. One thought in my head. If Viktor Kabak had hurt my little girl, I’d kill him. I didn’t care if I died in the process, he would pay for this.

Ayr District General Hospital lay on the southern outskirts of the city. It was a modern hospital, busy too. For it had taken over the duties of three others that had been closed. Conveniently, it had been built right next to a psychiatric hospital
convenient for me that was, because any day now I was going to need one.

Andy Patterson reeled off all this stuff to me as we made our way there. He wasn’t attempting to be a tour guide. I knew exactly what he was trying to do, take my mind off the gruesome scenarios it was writing. In his way, he was trying to help. But it didn’t. Nothing would, not until I could see Millie. Touch her.

We made a dramatic entrance, blue-lighting it. And because everybody knew Sergeant Patterson, we were quickly directed to exactly the right part of the building, something I was glad of. It was a large building.

My father was sitting in a chair outside a small sideward, his head in his hands; big hands, working hands, hands you could trust in an emergency. I’d never thought of that before, but now I was grateful that he was such a practical, if unimaginative, sort of man. He was sobbing.

He saw us and dug at his eyes, pretended he had something in them and pointed to the seats beside him. He didn’t speak right away. He’d be embarrassed that we’d caught him looking vulnerable. He was old school, men had to be strong for their women, take the lead. Hell to that. The man had every right to cry. But I could see that Sergeant Patterson felt uncomfortable. He looked away. He was old school too.

“Dad,” I said. “What happened?” And put my arm round his shoulder.

Dad
? If he thought that was odd, he didn’t say so. And neither did I. It had just come out.

“We’re waiting for her to come back from surgery.”

“Jesus. Surgery!”

He looked at me funny. He didn’t approve of women swearing. But he didn’t pull me up about it.

“They’ve just told us that it went okay and she’s in the Post-Op room.”

“Thank the Lord.”

“Yes.” His voice cracked and he seemed to be groping for words. He looked over at his friend Andy Patterson in surprise, like he’d only just realised the man was there. “It’s been one hell of a night.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Look, why don’t I go and bring you both a nice wee cup of tea?”

My father smiled. “That’d be good, Andy. Thanks.”

“She started vomiting last night. She’d been off her food for a couple of days, but we never put it down to anything serious. You know what kids are like?” He looked at me anxiously, for some clue that I didn’t blame him. “If I’d known, we’d have got her down to the doctor right away. But you know children and stomach aches?”

“Stomach aches?”

“Then when she got a temperature and started complaining of pain that wouldn’t let her walk. Well – I got her here right away. I’m sorry we weren’t there when you arrived, but Appendicitis, you can’t fool around with that.”

“Appendicitis? That’s what she’s got? Thank God.”

“What?”

“That came out wrong,” I said and reached for his hand. Not for him, more for me. “What I mean is . . . just that I thought it might be something else, something more serious.”

“More serious? How much more bloody serious do you want?”

I didn’t flinch. Didn’t protest. For I could see what he was getting at and for someone supposed to have a sound command of the English language, I was verging on the moronic. But I was tired. Upset. Relieved. All of the above at the same time.

“What I was getting at was that when I saw you all missing like that, I was terrified it was something else. Something more sinister.”

“But my message. I told you we were at the hospital with Millie.”

“But you didn’t say why, and I thought after what happened before – what happened to you.” I left him to fill in the rest. He was an intelligent man. He’d get to it.

He flinched. “Dear God. I never thought of that.” He patted my hand. An awkward and embarrassed gesture. He still wasn’t good at the touching thing. At least not with me, it seemed.

We both turned round at the sound. A bed being pushed in the direction of the ward. My daughter looked like a corpse. White, ill. But a corpse doesn’t lift a small hand and wave and give you the hint of a smile. The orderly who was steering the bed, spoke.

Said “She’ll be fine. She’s already put her ice-cream order in.”

“That’s our Mills.” I could feel myself grinning like some demented idiot.

“Mum! Stop that. I’m not a baby.” But she seemed happy to see me all the same.

“No you’re not,” I said. “You’re definitely not.”

*

“You’re all very tired.”

This was my father, and although he didn’t include himself in it, he looked drained. The man wasn’t young.

“Look, why don’t you guys take Tom back home,” I said, “and all have a few hours sleep? I’ll stay with her.” I was exhausted after last night’s stressful drive and the shock that met me, but she was my daughter and I didn’t want to be separated from her.

“I’m staying too.” My mother’s jaw was set firm.

“Jilly’s right, dear. We need to get the lad back and it wouldn’t hurt to catch a couple of hours rest. We can come back this evening. She’ll still be here.” He looked over at Millie, now sleeping peacefully.

“
You
take Tom back. I’m staying.” My mother surprised me. It wasn’t often she questioned his authority, not in front of an audience at least. Maybe we were all changing.

“Right. We’ll be off then – if you’re sure.” He stared at me and I nodded. He didn’t need my approval, but it was sort of satisfying that he’d asked for it.

He picked up my sleeping son, and after I’d planted a kiss on Tom’s forehead, left the small room. The place felt different when they’d gone. My mother sensed it as well, for she seemed restless.

“I thank God for these kids every day, you know. And you – for trusting us with them,” she said.

What do you say to something like that? I couldn’t think of a thing that wouldn’t sound cloying and insincere. Or even worse, flippant. I’d only taken the kids to them because there was nowhere else to go.

“It’s been great for us to have this time with them. Not that we didn’t have a good life before. Your father’s a good man.” She must have noticed my odd look for she hurried on to qualify her words in some way. “Oh, I know he may have seemed a bit rigid to you at times when you were growing up. But that was done for the best of motives. He wanted to make a good job of it, especially after . . .”

She stopped suddenly, like she had given too much away.

“After what?” I asked.

She became quiet. And I sensed that she was thinking about the days pre-Harry Webster.

“What was he like, my real dad? I’ve built this picture in my head,” I said. “But I can’t remember him. I guess I was too young. I always thought of him as this golden angel - blond hair, green eyes, always smiling.”

“God Almighty!”

“What?”

“You’ve given him sainthood,” she said. “I never realised.”

“Well, maybe if you’d kept a picture of him, told us about him, I wouldn’t have had to invent my own version.”

She didn’t answer and I could see I’d hit some kind of nerve. One that could still produce pain.

“It’s true, I never kept his picture. But all you’d have to do is look at your Bill.”

“Bill? That scum who used to be my husband?”

“As God made them, he matched them,” she said, quietly - as if the idea had only just come to her, and that it was some kind of insightful revelation.

“He looked like Bill?” I said, dumbfounded.

“Looked like him. Acted like him.”

“Did you love him? Did he love you?” I asked, worried now that the person I’d constructed might not have existed.

“Love?” she said, and seemed to be analysing what that really meant. “I was infatuated by him. The way you were with Bill.” A wistful look passed across her face, but it didn’t last long. It was replaced by resentment. “He, on the other hand, didn’t know what the word love meant.”

I wanted her to stop. She was ruining everything. But she wouldn’t. I’d pulled the cork from the bottle and we wouldn’t be able to get the genie back in.

“Have you any idea what it’s like to take on another man’s family? Children who aren’t your own? And try to bring them up decently. Put food in their mouths, when you owe them no allegiance.” My mother’s eyes flashed defiance at me. “That’s what your father did. Oh, he may not have been your
real
father, but then your real father didn’t know a thing about caring – or responsibility.”

“Christ, Mum. Why didn’t you tell us all this before. Why keep it bottled up?”

“Tell you what, exactly?”

“That you hated him.”

“It’s not the sort of thing you discuss with your kids,” she said and her voice had a belligerent edge. I wondered if I’d gone too far. Broken the spell and that she wouldn’t want to talk about him anymore. “You think it would have made you feel any more secure?” she asked. “You were an edgy kid anyway. I did what I thought was best. That’s all we can do in life.”

“What about when he died? Didn’t you feel any sadness?”

“When he died . . .” she sounded distracted, maybe she was living the events over again. And I felt guilty I’d asked her, that I was hounding her like this. But I needed to know.

“Yes, when he died. Did you mourn him? Or were you glad to get rid of him?”

I couldn’t take my words back. And I realised too late how brutal they were. But he was my dad. That was something special. I’d shoved him on a pedestal all these years, and now she was telling me that he wasn’t this superman I’d imagined.

“Did I mourn him? Ha!”

“You saying you didn’t?”

“I was relieved when we were separated. That he couldn’t . . .” She searched for the right words. “Get at me any more. He was like your Bill in many ways. His temper.” She leaned in and touched my cheek where the bruise had been. It was gone now.

“You mean he hit you?”

“More than once. I was scared someday he’d start on you pair. But I’d have killed him if he had.” Her eyes were intense with fury, maybe even hatred.

“Shit.” My whole world shifted. My hero had not only fallen off his pedestal, but was a downright bastard who’d brought my mother only sadness and fear. “I can see why you never talked about him.”

She seemed to find some kind of resolve from somewhere. Her whole face changed and she grabbed both my hands urgently, holding them firmly in her own.

“I did what I thought was best for you kids. You have to believe that. If I’d told you the truth, it wouldn’t have helped. The man was not nice.”

“Nice?” I said. “He seems like a proper asshole, no wonder you didn’t grieve when he died.”

“Died? The bastard didn’t die. He abandoned us. Left me with broken ribs and two small children to bring up.”

A chasm opened up in front of me. My mother sat shaking and the noise of her sobs in the quiet room gutted me. But I couldn’t do a thing to comfort her. The world I’d built my life on had been a lie.

My mother went off somewhere. I don’t know where, and right then I didn’t much care. My dad was alive. She’d betrayed me. Allowed me to believe something that wasn’t true.

But the guy was scum. Had used my mother as a punch-bag. I might even have treated the man who took over his place differently.
If I’d known.
But the time was gone. It was in the past and none of us could have those years back. Or undo them. Or the hurt that both my mother and I had caused. She to me. Me to Harry Webster, the man who’d found no way to connect with me. Until now.

“Shit. What a waste of time – and life.” I said. To no one in particular.

“You swore! You’re always telling us not to swear.”

“Mills, you’re awake.” I hugged my daughter gently. She still had a drip in.

“Where’s everybody gone? Will I have a scar? When can I have my ice-cream?”

“Whoa! One thing at a time. Tom’s gone home with Grandpappy. They’ll be back later. I don’t know about the scar bit, I haven’t spoken to a doctor yet. Maybe they did keyhole surgery and that means you won’t have a great long scar. And as for the ice-cream - I’m not sure about that.”

“And what about Grandma, where’s she?”

“I don’t know where she’s gone.”

“You don’t know much, then.”

My daughter’s face was innocent. So apparently this wasn’t a criticism. Still, I guess she was right. In the scheme of things, I didn’t know much.

“Mum, you know what?”

“What? “Not more revelations. I didn’t think I could handle them.

“I’m glad you’re here. Grandma and Grandpappy are pretty neat. But I miss you.” She hesitated. “You won’t get all mushy if I tell you something, will you? That wouldn’t be cool.”

“What?”

“If I tell you I love you.”

“I love you too,” I said and tried not to blub, or get all mushy and be uncool. But it was a while since anyone had used those words around me.

“And I’m sooo happy that we’re all having Christmas together.”

I couldn’t speak. Just nodded. For I wasn’t sure if I was still welcome to stay for Christmas, not now. How would my mother feel about that? Would I be able to paper over the cracks and try to pretend that nothing had happened, at least for my children’s sake?

But that wouldn’t be good enough. We’d need to clear the air, be honest with each other, for there’d been enough lies. Millie went back to sleep. And I sat bolt upright. A guard dog. No one would get near my kids again.

*

The faint buzzing in my pocket jolted me awake. I couldn’t remember nodding off. Had promised myself that I wouldn’t, that I would keep a constant vigil over my daughter. But right now the idea that only I had the power to keep her safe from harm, seemed embarrassing and slightly OTT.

I fumbled for the mobile that I’d put on vibrate.

“You’re not supposed to have that thing on in here,” said a nurse who’d come in to remove the drip from Millie’s thin arm. “But if you keep it short, you’ll be fine.”

I smiled at the woman. It was always good to find someone willing to go against the flow.

Alice’s voice screamed at me in excitement. “Yes. Yes. And yes! We’d love to come. Both of us. But isn’t that a lot of work for you guys?”

“What?”

“Christmas! Hey girl. You okay? Ellen told me about poor little Mills. Bummer, eh? Still, she’s in the right place.”

“Yeah. She’s in the right place.” Why did people say that? I mean, where else would you go to have an operation? And ‘Ellen’ had told her? When was that? Had my mother phoned her?

“Anyway, we’re stoked.”

Stoked? She was still a surf-chick then.

“Great,” I said, feeling my way through the bizarre conversation.

“Can’t make it till late Christmas Eve though. Stack of work on here right now. Tell your mum thanks for the call.”

“She call you just now?”

’”Bout twenty minutes ago. Left a message on my phone. Why?”

“She’s got your mobile number?”

“Your mother’s one of the most organised women I know. Have you seen the size of that address book of hers? And the birthday book? I mean who keeps stuff like that anymore. But she’s a cutie. Even sent me a card on my birthday which is more than
you
did.”

“I been kind of busy lately, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Okay, don’t get your knickers in a knot. It was a joke.”

“Sure.”

“What the hell’s wrong with you? I mean, if you don’t want us coming for Christmas just say so.”

“Sorry Al. This thing with Mills and all the other stuff. Can’t seem to get my head straight. Christmas’ll be cool. Be good to see you guys.”

“Great. We thought about going on from your place to Edinburgh. Fancy it? Or do you want to spend the night with your family?”

“Eh?”

“Hogmanay. The Scots do the thing properly. Always wanted to bring the New Year in in Scotland. Heard it’s wicked up there.”

“Sure.”

“Jilly, look – you sure you’re okay? You sound kind of . . . flat.”

“Just tired,” I said and looked across at Millie. She was smiling and doing a funny little mime. She pointed at me to make sure I got it. It looked like someone digging a spoon into a bowl. Ice-cream! “Got to go, Al. Be great to see you and I’ll think about the Hogmanay thing. But right now I don’t want to let the kids out of my sight.”

“’Course. You take care, girl.”

“You too.”

I closed the phone and nodded at the nurse. “Thanks. How does it look?”

She knew what I meant. “She’s coming on a treat. Just need to make sure she stays hydrated now.” She smiled at my daughter. “You like squash? Maybe Mum can go and get you some from the shop. Kids don’t like drinking water,” she explained, like I was new to the business of parenting.

“I don’t mind – if it means I can have the ice-cream afterwards.”

“Hey, Mills. It’s not some kind of penance, drinking water. It’s good for you.”

“Mum’s right, “the elderly nurse agreed. “The nectar of life.”

“Yuck.” Millie made what she calls her ugly face. Probably figured we were both ganging up on her. Said “what flavour’s the ice-cream?”

“Any flavour you like, Madam. But not for a while yet. “The nurse winked at me. I was an ally.

“Awe, that sucks.”

I let her away with it. She’d had a rough time. Besides, I was always pulling the kids up over their language, maybe it was time to cut them some slack. (Once a teacher, always a teacher).

“Grandma! I thought you’d gone home. Can
you
get them to give me my ice-cream?”

“Soon,” my mother said. For she was a fast study, could always pick up on situations and the atmosphere in a room. She stood in the doorway looking tired and I could tell she’d been crying. Still, she carried her head high and there was a dignity about her. The one thing she’d taught me in life was that you took everything it threw at you on the chin. The bad as well as the good. And didn’t make a meal of either of them. She’d read the Kipling poem
If
to my brother and I when we were probably too young to understand it. It resonated with her sense of the world, her optimism.

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster/And treat those two impostors just the same.

“Right, all done.” The nurse gave Millie’s hand a final pat. “Brave girl.”

My daughter glowed with the praise. And my pride in her soared. She hadn’t complained once about the pain or the operation. My kids were small walking miracles and remarkably well adjusted, considering they were fatherless and had a mother who specialised in disappearing tricks.

“I’ll leave you to it,” said the nurse. “Don’t forget the squash. She needs to keep drinking.”

“I’ll get that.” My mother riffled through her massive handbag. Stick wheels on the thing and it would have made a small tank. But she believed in being prepared for every eventuality and her handbag was proof of that. “You two stay here.”

“Grandma, don’t be silly. I can’t go anywhere.”

“You know what I mean,” she said and looked sad.

*

“Just saw the doctor,” my father said. “Couple of days he reckons, and she can go home.”

“That seem a bit fast to you?” I asked him.

“I’m not a medical man, but look how they fussed over me. Wouldn’t let me leave till they were sure I was up to it. I trust their judgement.” He smiled. “Soon be back together in the old homestead.”

I was actually looking forward to that. Being together. The excitement of Christmas. Getting stuff ready for it. Digging out the decorations, and sitting in the parlour playing games like Charades that you’d never think of doing any other time of the year.

“Another tea?” He pointed at my empty mug. “Kit Kat?”

He had a weakness for chocolate biscuits. So did I.

I guessed he’d invited me to the cafeteria to talk privately away from Millie and Tom and my mother. Millie was finally tucking into her ice-cream, and Tom was too, as well as reading a comic book. My father had introduced him to those, but I suppose there were worse things.

And my mother? She was doing her usual. Looking out for the kids. Trying to keep things normal, patrolling her beat, making her lemonade, but this time I figured it would be more difficult for her. She’d have to squeeze those lemons pretty hard.

Some of that had been my doing, for I hadn’t made it easy for her. But by now I’d had time to think about what she’d done. And was it really any different from me? I mean, I’d tried to protect my kids in the same way that she had my brother and I. Told them lies about their father. Maybe not direct lies. But lies of omission. I’d tried to shield them, especially lately when I’d said nothing about the kind of man their father was, and the fact he was now in jail waiting trial, had attacked their grandfather, hit me. Like mother like daughter. We were both guilty, so how could I blame her when my crime was equal?

“No?”

“What?”

“Don’t say what, say pardon!” He laughed. “You know how hot your mother is about that.” He pointed at the empty mug. “I just asked if you wanted more tea, was all. But you went off into one of your daydreams – a Jilly special.”

“Sorry.”

“Right,” he said, and the word was a signal. Now we were about to get down to the real reason we’d come to talk. And the hairs on the back of my neck did a small dance as a ripple of expectation and fear passed over them.

I’d been putting things on hold, but that didn’t mean they’d gone away. Nothing had changed. The strange things that had happened during the last few months, still existed, their cause unresolved. All I’d managed to do was put them on some cold back-burner of a cooker that could be relit at any time. But then my daughter, Millie, had been my one and only thought. Without my children there was nothing.

“You seemed excited when you phoned me. You’d found something,” he reminded me.

“The Mangle Board.”

“You did it! You opened it. Good Lord.” His eyes lit up with excitement. I’d never seen him so animated before. He was like a kid at Christmas. “I was right, wasn’t I?”

I smiled. Why take the victory away from him? He’d been half-right. “You were right,” I admitted. “There was something hidden in it. But I’ve no idea what it means.”

“What kind of thing?”

“Papers. Documents. Someone had scanned them, saved them as a zip and dropped the stuff onto a computer flash drive.”

“And you’ve brought this flash drive with you?”

“It’s in my case, that and a print-out I made of the documents. Belt and braces, like you’ve always said.”

He smiled, but it turned to a frown. “And that’s all back home, right?”

“Sergeant Patterson left my case in the parlour.”

“I put it in your bedroom when I went back with Tom,” he said. The expression had deepened to one of concern. And I knew why. We were here at the hospital. It was there. And I reminded myself how easy it had been to break into his house.

“I never thought to bring the stuff with me,” I said.

“’Course not. You were far too worried about Millie. Only natural.”

“We need to get it now. Keep it safe. It could be important,” I said, stating the blindingly obvious. “But how?”

“If it’s the reason all this madness started, it must be very important to someone.” He left a pause that might be described as ominous, and I guess we were both filling in the name in our heads. “I’ll phone Andy,” he said. “Get him to go to the house.”

“He shouldn’t go alone,” I warned.
More blindingly obvious stuff. But hell, I was on a roll.

“Certainly not.”

“He said he might be able to pull in some more bodies from Ayr,” I told him, remembering our phone conversation. “But don’t you go!” I realised that I truly meant it. And my father nodded in acknowledgement.

“No. Once bitten. I’ll never do that again.” His hand automatically strayed to where he’d been stabbed. “I think it’s important now that we all stay together until this is over. Let’s leave the police to do their job.”