The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs (50 page)

THE RAIN WAS
now falling in cold sheets against the dark sky, rapping threateningly on the windows outside. Caroline ghosted into the room, which was lit only by the glow of the television set. She could barely make out the form of her mother, crushed into the big easy chair.

On the mantelpiece, through the flickering light, she could intermittently see the image of her father as a young man. She walked up to the framed black-and-white portrait picture and studied it as never before. There
was
something different about him; the eyes had a hitherto unnoted manic restlessness, the mouth was cast in an intemperate pout. Now it seemed to reveal him not as the quiet man who sat in the armchair, the upright, sober, churchy man, but as someone driven by great and sometimes terrible urges he struggled daily to repress.

She moved into the chair next to her mother’s; the innocuous-looking John Menzies notebook, which contained those amazing confessions, pressed hard against her thigh. — Mum, what was Dad like when you met him?

Joyce looked up, interrupted from the steady anaesthetic drip-feed of the cathode-ray tube. The charge of the alcohol was running down, leaving her bleary and disorientated. In maudlin guilt she was now thinking that she had desecrated Keith’s memory by drinking. And now there was something in her daughter’s tone, something threatening . . . — I don’t know what you mean, he was just your dad, he was –

— No! He was an alcoholic! He had a child by another
woman! She stood up and dropped the journal into her mother’s lap.

With wide, pained eyes Joyce looked from notebook to daughter, and then broke down, weeping uncontrollably as the journal fell to the floor. To Caroline she now seemed more of a dark, shapeless mass than ever. — He never loved her . . . he loved me! He loved us! Joyce said, her desperate timbre somewhere between a plea and a declaration. — He was a Christian man . . . a good man . . .

Caroline’s stomach churned nervously, heavy with the food and drink. She exited to the hallway where a phone was mounted on the wall and a phone book and Yellow Pages sat on a shelf below it. She found Beverly’s business phone number quickly enough, and just hoped that Bev Skinner kept her name in the residential phone directory.

There were quite a few B. Skinners, but only one listed for the Leith postal area of EH6: Skinner, B. F. She dialled the number with trembling care, and a woman’s voice came on the other end. — Hello?

— Is that Beverly Skinner?

— Aye it is, came the aggressive reply. — Whae wants tae ken?

— Are you Danny Skinner’s mother? Caroline asked, the woman’s anger fuelling her own sense of indignation and giving her strength.

There was a sharp exhalation of breath down the phone. — What’s he been up tae now then?

— Mrs Skinner, I think that I might be Danny’s half-sister. My name’s Caroline, Caroline Kibby. I’m Keith Kibby’s daughter. I need to see you, to talk to you.

There followed a silence so long and deafening that Caroline wanted to scream in rage against it. Just when she suspected that Beverly Skinner might have put the phone down in shock, she heard the voice again, as pugnacious as ever. — How did ye get this number?

— The phone book. I need to see you, Caroline repeated.

There followed another silence, before a more resigned voice said, — Well, if it’s in the phone book, you ken where I live.

Caroline Kibby did not even go back in to say goodbye to her mother. Joyce sat in a daze with the John Menzies notebook at her feet. As the front door slammed shut, she flinched only slightly.

Beverly Skinner put the phone on its cradle and sat back in her armchair. Cous-Cous the cat jumped up on her lap and Beverly found herself stroking the animal, which began to purr, a loud snoring noise, and then salivate over her.

For so long she’d been waiting for this day with a strange, gnawing dread. She had expected that when it came along it would be extreme: traumatic or even cathartic in some way. But in the event it was a total anticlimax. Beverly felt disappointed. She’d wanted to keep Keith Kibby’s malign influence from her Danny for as long as possible. But Danny had managed to mess things up for himself, without that prick’s help. The drinking, the fighting . . . well, she’d done her best with him.

That girl on the phone was the Prick’s daughter. Him, that violent, drunken psycho! Him who’d dunked her beautiful Donnie’s head into the chip fat. Disfigured him. That had finished him; he’d left the band, left his home, left her . . . and they found him dead. And now the Prick’s daughter was coming down here to see her, no less! And it struck Beverly that the lassie sounded well spoken, not like the Prick, although he could be quite plausible sober. Mind you, such occasions were few and far between.

He’d probably given some other woman a life of hell as well. Perhaps we’ll be able to compare notes. But it would be so bad for Danny if he knew about his father, if he knew he was . . .

Beverly heard a car pull up outside her house. By the heavy, tumbling sound the engine made, she knew immediately that it was a hackney cab. Knew who would be inside it.

She got up and opened the door to see a young blonde girl heading up the stair, looking up at her from the landing.

From Caroline’s vantage she could see Danny in Beverly straight away, across the eyes and around the nose. — Mrs Skinner?

— Aye . . . come in, Beverly said. Her first impression of Caroline was that she was a very good-looking girl. But then the Prick was handsome too, it had to be said, when they first met. Even then, though, it was evident that the drink was beginning to destroy his appearance.

— So you’re Keith Kibby’s lassie? Beverly said, unable to prevent herself from making it sound like a challenge.

— Yes I am, Caroline said evenly.

— How is he? Beverly attempted to force a genuine equanimity into her tone. Once again she suspected that she had failed.

— Dead, Caroline said steadily. — He died just after Christmas.

For reasons she couldn’t immediately ascertain, this information made Beverly feel oddly raw inside. After all, for years she had thought, albeit in the abstract, about dancing on Keith Kibby’s grave. Yet in reality, she’d never actually thought of him as being dead.

But his daughter seemed genuinely sad at this state of affairs. And Beverly Skinner suddenly saw what was really upsetting to her; it was the idea that this terrible man might have somehow been able to redeem himself. That she had spent all those years hating someone who, in a real sense, had long since ceased to exist.

And as she talked with this young stranger, Beverly Skinner saw the evidence of that redemption with her own eyes, in the beautiful, poised and graceful young woman who sat opposite her.

It was the guest who eventually summed things up. — It seems like he was two men, Mrs Skinner, the one you knew and the one I knew. He never drank at all, he was a very gentle
and loving man. But I read stuff in his journal . . . stuff I couldn’t believe . . . he was never like that with . . . me . . .

Caroline was about to say ‘us’ but something stopped her. Brian. Did he ever have it different, ever see another side of their father?

Beverly let the words sink in. Tried to comb her memory to find another Keith Kibby, and just about succeeded. — Aye, we did have some good times at first. The Clash concert at the Odeon; that was where we met. A bunch of us were jumping around together, all out of it. I bumped intae him and spilled his cider. He laughed and chucked some at me. Then we were snogging each other’s faces off . . .

Beverly stopped, noting that Caroline gulped at the thought. Then the older woman reddened at having inadvertently paraded a younger, unrestrained self.

— Aye . . . but Keith was that jealous, so possessive . . .

Caroline flinched again, aware that her father had never demonstrated this sort of passion towards her mother. It was a quiet love, between a strong, stern and sober man and a nervous homemaker, and it was based on shared values like duty and a commitment to family life. But passion, no . . .

Then Beverly was talking about how they used to go swimming together and it was bringing so much back for Caroline. How sometimes at the pool her father would lift her up and look at her and say with a ferocious intensity that almost scared her, like it wasn’t him:
You’re gaunny dae great things, lassie.

There was almost a phantom ‘or else’ tacked on at the end, the idea that failure was not an option. Did Brian feel this more than her? Was he made to feel this by their father?

— Who was Danny’s father, Mrs Skinner?

Beverly sat back in her chair and looked at this young woman. A stranger, asking that question of such impertinence, in her own home. Like many people who were overtly outlandish in their outward behaviour and appearance, Beverly Skinner was in constant flight from the part of her soul that was
mind-numbingly conventional. Now there was no escape from it. She felt offended. Not angry, but simply offended.

— Was it the man with the burned face, or was it my dad?

Now the anger was present. In a rush it almost overwhelmed Beverly, forcing her to turn away. Not to do so would have meant her flying at Caroline Kibby with her fists. Instead she gripped the armchair.

The man with the burned face. That’s my Donnie they’re talking about. We had just got back together, patched things up properly, when that fuckin vermin Keith Kibby . . .

—
Please, Mrs Skinner. Danny’s with my brother Brian. They don’t like each other and they’ve both been drinking heavily. I think that they might be planning to hurt each other in some way.

Beverly took in a sharp breath and panic rose in her chest as she thought about Keith Kibby’s anger.

What that Kibby had done to ma Donnie in drink
 . . .

. . . and ma Danny. My wee boy. He’s always had a temper.

As for that other one, the Kibby laddie, God knows what he’s capable of!

Beverly grabbed the phone on the table beside her, called her son on his mobile number. It was switched off. She left a message on his answering service. — Danny, it’s Mum. I’m with Caroline, Caroline Kibby; and we need to talk to you. It’s very important. Call me when you get this message, she said, then added in breathless urgency, — I love you, darlin. In some anxiety she turned to Caroline. — Go and find them, hen. Tell Danny to call me.

Caroline was already rising but as she got to her feet she stopped and looked Beverly in her eye. — Is he my brother?

— What do you think, Beverly snapped. — Go on, go and find them!

Caroline had no time for any more diversions. She quickly left the house, running down the stair and into the night, heading towards the Shore.

Beverly looked at the
London Calling
album on the wall, the signature and the date, and remembered with fondness and guilt that over the course of that bizarre evening she’d taken not one, or even two, but three lovers.

THE SCORCH OF
the hard liquor enlivened his spirit, and in the toilets he’d also sneaked down a big line of cocaine. Perversely, Danny Skinner had the notion that he’d share it with Brian Kibby, then realised just how daft that would be.

His heart was thudding steadily in his chest, like the jungle drums of tribesmen preparing for war. But even through those rushes the stupidity of the situation was starting to eat at him. What was he doing here with Kibby? What could they possibly say to each other? Then, as he returned to his stool, Kibby noticed powder on the hairs of his nostrils. — Have you been taking drugs?

— Just a line of coke, Skinner said nonchalantly. — Want one?

— Yes, Kibby replied, trembling at the abruptness of his response. He was anxious to try the powder; it seemed important to experience it, important to keep up with Skinner.

Skinner moved back towards the toilet, bidding Kibby to follow him. They got into a cubicle and he closed the door behind them, chopped out a big line, then rolled up a twenty-pound note. The two men were crushed together in uncomfortable proximity. This was crazy, Skinner thought ruefully, as he watched Kibby snort it back; they were only going to suffer for this later on.

— Whoa . . . that feels fuckin good . . . Kibby gasped, his eyes watering as the cocaine rush fused through him, stiffening his spine. He felt so strong, like he was made of metal.

His reaction didn’t escape Skinner. — People criticise the
criminals . . . until it’s them who want to get a hold of class-A drugs, he said in affected pomposity.

Brian Kibby had to struggle to repress a chuckle as they left the toilet and headed back to the bar.

Skinner caught the young barmaid’s eye with a smile, and got one back. Kibby saw this, feeling something seethe inside of him. — It comes easy tae you, eh, he said bitterly, nodding towards the girl.

It made Skinner stop and think. In the past, when he was out with his mates, he – more often than not – was the one that pulled. Since he was sixteen, he had been more or less continuously sexually active, either with a girlfriend or through a series of casual flings. From the point of view of someone like Kibby, he considered, he
would
be regarded as highly successful with women.

But the real problem is relationships, which fucking social retards like Kibby can’t grasp, because they’re just so obsessed with getting their hole.

Skinner realised that he’d seldom thought about a woman in purely sexual terms. Even if somebody was an object of his desire, he invariably found himself thinking about her level of intelligence, music, clothing, film and book preferences, the sort of friends she had, her social and political views, what her parents did for a living. Yes, he had got involved in one-night stands, but casual relationships were always unsatisfying to him. He looked searchingly at Kibby.— I’m just interested in women, Brian.

— So am I, Kibby whined in urgent complaint.

— You
think
you are, but you’re not. You read sci-fi magazines, for fuck sakes.