The Scrapbook (15 page)

Fern is grubbing about in the dirt at my feet as I write this and keeps bringing me worms to sex and tiny beetles to heal. I swear she has a touch of my own charm. They say it skips a generation and shows itself only on the female side so maybe I should be uncovering my spell book and wrapping it up for her for her next birthday.

Iris is away with
him
. I have no idea where they went but she packed her weekend bag so I don't expect her back tonight. I imagine he takes her to Sorel when they spend the night away, so you may well have passed them in town. It is strange to think they might even now be walking past our childhood home, without so much as a glance through the garden gate. Iris has never expressed much interest in my family (somewhat to my relief, as an honest telling of all that would have been difficult), though she was curious to see so many of his relatives at Edgar's funeral and I would have encouraged her in pursuing those bonds if there had been the slightest encouragement from them. As it was, they came to the service but barely acknowledged either of us, and we've never heard a thing since.

I'm more than happy to look after my little pumpkin while Iris gallivants with that man but I do wish they'd include her sometimes. I worry that Iris blames her for the sorry state of her life. If she'd remained childless then she wouldn't now have to work at the soap factory to bring an income into the home and she'd be free. Having his child has kept her locked in a box, which has worked out well for him as he has the key, but not for her. And not for Fern either.

I can't see an end to it now. It makes me gloomy to think of the years stretching ahead of us all: Iris losing her youth and her looks, the visits from him becoming more and more perfunctory, and Fern having to witness it all. It's so important for a child to have love and respect for their father, but how can she respect a man she barely knows and who sweeps down upon her home whenever the whim takes him, to snatch her mother away from her? The last time he came into the house she actually attacked him and I'm ashamed to say that I didn't scold her at all for it. Quite the opposite, if I'm honest. I know that won't have helped the situation any but the sight of his face all screwed up and scarlet was delicious!

There were times after Fern was born when I'd wake in the night, stiff with fear at the thought that she might actually be the prompt he needed to leave his wife, but his visits are as irregular as ever. I have to assume that they will continue with this affair until it wears them both out, and Iris is already showing a mental fragility that concerns me. She measures her life by his visits and mopes the rest of the time. I've caught her muttering to herself more than once, as if she's offering up prayers to the gods. She leaps out of her skin when she sees me, as if disturbed in the act of something intimate or forbidden.

It's nearly time for tea and I've promised the little pumpkin that she can have scones topped with as much cream as she can fit into her stomach. She's over by the oak now, hugging it as hard as she can. She seems to love it as much as I do, and as much as Iris used to when she was young. She's filthy from her fingertips to her elbows so I'll need to get her scrubbed before she can make a start on the scones.

I'll think of mother tonight when I'm in bed, and I'll think of you too. I hope her death hasn't affected you too badly.

With my love,

Ivy

*

Over lunch I'm so quiet that mum's interest is piqued. She's not used to being out-sulked. She sips the juice I gave her and watches me stir the food around my plate.

‘You've got to eat. There's more than just you to think about now. Though I don't blame you, this pasta tastes funny.'

I knew I hadn't crushed the tablet properly. To distract her, I bring up the subject of the great-aunt, though decide mum doesn't need to know about the letters.

‘Do you know why Granny Ivy and her sister never spoke?' I ask. ‘Was there an argument?'

She shrugs, disinterested. ‘Some trouble when they were young. Something unforgivable your granny did, no doubt. Why are you so interested, anyway? She's never been interested in us.'

‘But she is family. Don't you think it would be nice to put all that aside and make an effort while we still can? Does she still live on Sorel?'

Mum wipes pasta sauce from her plate with a piece of bread then drops it, uneaten, and pushes her chair back. ‘I have no idea. Family is more than just blood and bones, Fern. I know why you're curious, I was the same when I was pregnant with you, but take my advice and save yourself some heartache; the only family that matters are the ones who will take you in no matter what you've done, and never ask questions.'

She turns and leaves the room. I follow her through to the lounge. ‘Wait a second, mum, so by that definition Granny Ivy, your mother, is in the inner circle of your version of family.'

She settles herself in her armchair and turns the television on. ‘I'm going to have my nap now. Could you wake me at four, please?'

‘Admit it. She kept you fed and safe, she looked after you and your child and she left you, us both, well provided for. She may have asked a few questions that you might not have wanted to answer but she didn't turn her back on you. So, she was your family. The moment she died you started drinking. It was as if she was your lynch pin.'

Mum turns her face away and pulls her blanket up to her neck. ‘Why so sentimental all of a sudden, Fern? Yes, all right, she was family. Of course she was family. Now, I'm tired and I want to have a rest if that's okay with you.'

The yawn she forces is as infectious as it is irritating and I think how nice it would be to go to bed and shut my eyes for a while. Instead, I leaf through the letters again and then dial directory enquiries for the telephone number that corresponds with the most recent address. It's about fifteen years old but I may as well try it.

The voice that answers is sharp. ‘Yes?'

I imagine a meal cooling on a table, a bus needing to be caught, and stumble over my request. ‘I'm really sorry to bother you, but I was trying to trace a relative of mine, a Rose Atkins …'

‘She doesn't live here any more.'

I wince into the receiver. ‘Is there any chance you might know where she lives now?'

The briefest of pauses, then: ‘I think she went into that new nursing home that opened at the top of town. But that was a few years ago now.'

I take the name of the nursing home and look through the phone book until I find the number. The person that answers the phone this time is even more brisk. As I ask my questions I push the kitchen door shut even though I can hear the gentle purr of mum snoring.

I'm forced to wait while a manager is summoned, but it's finally confirmed that the great aunt does indeed live there and is willing to see me. As I juggle pen and paper to take directions mum growls in her sleep, breath whining through her nostrils. I peer through the crack in the door and watch her shift and open her eyes briefly, then moan and resettle. For a second I'm tempted to ask if they have any vacancies for foul tempered alcoholics, but I settle instead for arranging to visit the next afternoon. I can always check the rooms out while I'm there anyway, and maybe take home a brochure to leave on the kitchen table the next time mum plays me up.

She's smiling from the moment she opens her eyes. ‘Oh, Fern, I had such a lovely dream,' she tells me as I massage her clawed fingers and then reinsert her arm into her sling. She pats at me with her free hand, trying to keep me close, and I sit and listen. There's never much variation to her dreams: she's always young and beautiful, it's always summertime, and my father is always opening the garden gate or stretching out a hand to her. I'm never in them. I do suspect that they're more waking dreams or conscious fantasy than anything else because, come on, nobody has such perfect wish-fulfilment dreams over and over again. Do they? I know if I did then I'd spend a lot more time in bed. But maybe I'm just cynical because I'm piqued not to ever be given so much as a walk-on part.

I smile back at her, glad her mood has improved so dramatically. She's easy to be with when she's like this, so soft and tender.

‘I'll have to go out for a while tomorrow.' I tell her. ‘Don't change the locks while I'm gone, will you?'

She purses her lips and there's silence, then she grabs my hand and squeezes it. ‘You will come home, though?'

I squeeze back. ‘Of course I will. It's just for the day, mum, don't worry.' I kiss her head. ‘And you never know, I might have some good news when I come back.'

She smiles up at me, the same sly smile from this morning. ‘And I might too.'

I raise my eyebrows at her but she starts to unwrap herself from her blanket, face averted.

‘Mum, what are you planning? You know I've never liked surprises.'

Sunlight rushes into the room through a break in the clouds and she blinks and turns. ‘Oh, look, it's going to be a nice end to the day. Shall we go into the garden for a while? You can finish the weeding, like you promised.'

‘You just keep coming with the treats, don't you?'

I help her into her wellies and coat and we go outside. I find the rake and continue my never-ending task of clearing the leaves while mum shuffles around the borders and flowerbeds, pinching off dead petals. She pauses at the far end of the garden and calls to me. ‘Look how well your ferns are doing. Your grandmother used to pour the dregs of her afternoon tea on them every day to help them grow, but since you left home I've given them a pint of black coffee twice a week and they're thriving. Just look!'

I wander over. ‘Well, they've certainly grown tall. They must like the caffeine.'

She bends to look at the wooden markers. ‘That's the one we planted when you were born. Lady Fern. And that's the one your dad gave me to mark your fourth birthday. Hart's Tongue. And there's the Limestone Oak Fern. I tried a few others but none took like these. Aren't they magnificent?'

She's so pleased with herself that I can't bear to tell her the ferns are speckled with rot down by their roots, and though they may be tall there's something bedraggled and sickly looking about them. I watch her as she strokes the rustling fronds and picks off tiny flies. We could be any normal mother and daughter sharing an affectionate moment. For a second I waver on my plan to visit the great-aunt. Maybe I should just stay here instead, make more of an effort to be kind, to help her accept the loss of my father without resenting every moment she yearns for him. But then she steps back and looks up at me.

‘You never did like these ferns, did you? Do you remember me catching you piddling on them when you were little? It was because your father planted them for you, wasn't it? You wanted to ruin any effort he made for you.'

I turn away and pick up the rake, reluctant to admit that, yes, I always did hate the ferns, and yes, probably because of him. Definitely because of him. ‘I was a child, for Christ's sake. Why do you always have to do that, pick at the scab? It's as if you only want me to remember the negative things about dad.'

Mum jerks back. ‘What rubbish. I tried so hard to make sure you knew you were loved. It's not my fault that you took against him.'

‘No, you didn't. You didn't try at all. You were jealous, mum, admit it. You didn't want to share him even with your own child. You still don't want to. All of my memories of him are bad ones, and that's down to you. But I've seen the photographs now. He loved me in those photographs, and I looked like I loved him.'

For a second I think she's going to contradict me, so embedded is her impulse to paint me as a child-demon, but then she looks stricken. ‘Yes, you did love each other, and there were happy times, for all of us. I forget that sometimes.'

I'm not going to let her off the hook. ‘You forget it because it doesn't fit with your view of the past and of what you had with dad, but that doesn't make it right.'

She mutters under her breath and we move away from each other, stiff-backed. I go inside to use the toilet and when I come out I can hear her talking downstairs. She's sitting at the kitchen table by the time I get to the hallway, wellies dangling from her feet, gazing at the cupboard with the gin in it.

‘Who was that?' I ask as I go to the freezer for ice-cubes.

‘Who was what?' She watches as I pluck a lemon from the bowl on the dresser and get her glass from the draining board. Her hands are clasped together in her lap.

‘On the bloody phone, mum, who was on the phone?'

‘Oh. Nobody. A salesman. Don't know why I answered it.'

I put her brimming glass in front of her and move to the fridge. Unease gathers like migraine behind my eyes, blurring the shelves. I can't see the peppers. I shut the door and move to the cupboard.

‘Okay, beans on toast for dinner tonight. I can't be arsed to cook anything else. It'll be just like old times.' I smile at her and she gets the barb beneath the words, nods back at me.

She finishes her gin while I heat the beans. They taste a lot better than I remember.

A Pebble Shaped
Like A Heart.