Things I Want My Daughters to Know (28 page)

Fortunately, and inevitably, Marissa lost interest in them when her own daughter was born a couple of years later. She’d only 204 e l i z a b e t h

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ever been practicing. With hindsight, Lisa suspected that persuading her father to have another baby might have been quite a task, and presumably, demonstrating her maternal qualities on them was part of her charm offensive against him. Olivia never felt like their sister, of course.

She was . . . well, she must be about twenty-one now. Lisa hadn’t seen her since their dad died. Olivia had been sixteen then. She was the spit-ting image of her mother. Lisa didn’t know, and had rarely wondered, whether her dad was a better, more interested father to Olivia than he had been to them, but she hoped so.

They never had a summer holiday with their dad, after they left. Or spent a Christmas. He never came to visit them at the university, and they didn’t invite him to attend their graduations, although his checks had arrived regularly throughout their time there. It sounded cruel now, but it hadn’t felt it. It wasn’t as if he was chomping at the bit to come. It wasn’t that he didn’t love them. Lisa believed that on some level he did—at least Jennifer and her. Not Amanda, perhaps—they’d never known each other at all. He just didn’t love them very much. And Mum loved them enough for two.

Jennifer had been on the horns of a dilemma, engaged to Stephen and planning a wedding eight years ago. Should Dad walk her down the aisle?

Should he even be there? Mum said it was up to her. She hadn’t seen him herself, at that point, for more than a decade. She promised to behave (although Lisa hadn’t been convinced she was capable, especially if he brought Marissa with him). Jennifer compromised. She sent an invitation, but implicit within that was that he was to be an invited guest, not a member of the wedding party. Whether it was that demotion which made him decline, or really the booked summer holiday he used to le-gitimize his refusal, they never knew. But everyone felt relieved at his absence. Mum had walked Jennifer down the aisle in the end. In that huge beautiful hat.

When he died, neither of his older daughters had seen him in more than six months, and Amanda hadn’t seen him for years. Amanda was
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supposed to be on a school trip to the Tower of London on the day of his burial. Barbara said she should go ahead and make the trip with her friends, and Amanda had agreed gratefully. His funeral was completely uncomfortable. Lisa remembered feeling like a fraud. Marissa had awkwardly insisted that Barbara, Jennifer, and Lisa sit in the front pew with her. She’d almost pleaded with them. Lisa knew almost no one else in the church. She didn’t associate the hymns with her father, didn’t know any of the readings or poems selected to be read. She could tie nothing about the service to the man she had known. There were freesias on his coffin, and she supposed that such an unusual flower must have been a personal preference. It seemed funny—her dad had been such a big man, and freesias were such little flowers. Marissa and Olivia had worn the hollow, vacant expression of the properly grieving. Marissa sniffed and cried quietly. Olivia had violently twisted a lace-edged handkerchief in her hands throughout the service, staring intently at the embroidered kneeling cushion at her feet. Lisa wished she hadn’t come and wondered why she didn’t feel more.

Lisa often watched Andy with Cee Cee, as she had watched Mark with Hannah. These were fathers. She knew, with both of these men, that their daughters were their world. That they felt all the things that songs and literature and films said you were supposed to feel. That they lived for them, would die for them in a minute, cared about the happiness of their children above their own. Donald was nothing like that.

Amanda

Nancy asked them both to go to the supermarket while she was at the hospital; she had no food in, she said, but she couldn’t concentrate on doing it herself. Ed drove them to the giant Tesco on the edge of town.

When he wasn’t changing gear, he kept his hand on her knee, and she liked him doing it.

It felt very grown-up, doing the grocery shopping with him: it was coupley, in a nice way. He kissed her, hard, in the cereal aisle. Opening 206 e l i z a b e t h

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her eyes, Amanda watched a young mother watching them, leaning heavily on the double trolley she was pushing, filled with nappies and white bread and babies.

Afterward, they went to a café for something to eat before they went to see Ed’s dad.

She was getting used to him sitting so close to her. She liked that, too. They ate croque monsieurs and drank coffee, and when they’d finished, Ed said, “You haven’t mentioned anything about what was going on with you when I left.”

Amanda met his gaze.

“Is that because you don’t want to talk about it?”

She shook her head and smiled gently at him.

“Afraid of returning to the subject that made me go psycho on you last time. . . .”

“That’s stupid.”

“Sorry.”

“I care about you, Amanda. I thought you got that.”

“I’m starting to.” She put her hand up to his cheek, and he caught it there, pulled it round to his mouth, and kissed her palm.

“So what’s happened? About your ‘dad’?”

“Nothing’s ‘happened.’ ”

“But you’ve talked about it to someone. To your sisters?”

“To one of them. My sister Lisa.”

“That’s the one you’re closest to, right?”

“I’m probably closest to Hannah, but she’s the youngest one, the daughter Mum had with Mark, my stepfather. She doesn’t need to know.

Not right now, at least. Lisa’s my ‘cool’ sister. She’s the one who was closest to Mum. I thought she might know. I talked to her.”

“And did she? Know?”

“No. It seems Mum really had kept her little secret completely to herself all those years. Lisa was as shocked as I was. Almost.”

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“What did she have to say about it?”

“Well . . . she said all the right things, I suppose. She kind of defended Mum to me, which was a bit weird. And pretty brave of her, given the mood I was in when I told her. But she said all this stuff about nobody being perfect, and all of us making mistakes and I suppose she’s right. . . .”

“What about your stepfather? Are you going to talk to him?”

“I don’t know. The thing is, when I left your place, when it was all fresh and new information, I was . . . so incredibly angry. I wanted to
do
something. But there’s nothing I can do, is there? I mean, I can’t have it out with her, because she’s dead. I can’t talk to Donald—he’s dead, too. I can’t find my real father, and try and figure anything out through him, because I haven’t got any clues about who he is or where he is. . . . I can’t
do
anything.”

Ed nodded.

“So, I have two choices, I think. I can either forget about it, or I can let it eat me up. Stay angry, you know? And I can’t see the point in that.”

“That makes perfect sense on paper. I’m just not sure how easy that would be to do. I mean, if I try and imagine myself in the same position.”

“That’s a quantum leap for you, my friend. You’re from the original perfect family.”

Ed snorted. “We’re not so perfect.”

“You could have fooled me!” She smacked his arm playfully.

“Okay. I’m pretty lucky. I know that.”

“Well, you know what? I’m pretty lucky, too. In the big scheme of things.”

“Really?”

“Really. I might wish it was different. But it wasn’t so bad.”

“And that is what you really think? Not just what you’re saying?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “What? You think you know me well enough to say stuff like that to me, do you?!”

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“I think I’m starting to.”

And, of course, he was.

Ed’s dad looked just like Ed. Silver haired, but otherwise just the same. Down to the twinkle in his eye. Amanda hovered near the door of his private room while Ed embraced his father, kissing him on the cheek.

“How are you, Dad?” He dropped the copy of the
Times
he’d bought at Tesco onto his father’s lap. “Thought you’d rather have a paper than a bag of grapes.”

“Absolutely. Hate grapes. Love news. Thanks, son.”

“Feeling better?”

“Feeling fine. Doctors are talking about letting me out tomorrow or the day after. Bloody good thing.” He held up a small collection of plastic spoons he retrieved from the top pocket of his stripey pajamas. “I’ve been saving these things—Christ knows I don’t need them to eat the rice pudding, which is utterly inedible—and I’m going to tunnel my way out by myself if they don’t sign the ruddy papers.”

“Mum says you’ve got to behave yourself.”

“Hah!” He raised a cynical eyebrow. “Now—enough about me.

Even I’m bored to tears, and I’m an egomaniac. Who is this lovely you’ve brought to cheer me up? This must be Wilhelmina.”

“Amanda, Dad.”

He laughed at his own joke. “I know, I know. Amanda, of course. The girl from the coffee shop. Come here, my dear. Don’t hover about over there.”

Ed must have been talking about her. She liked that he knew about the coffee shop. Amanda, enchanted, came up to the bed, and held out her hand.

“Hi. It’s really nice to meet you, Mr. . . .”

“Call me Jeremy. Much nicer for me to meet you, I’m sure. You’re ever so pretty.”

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Amanda blushed at the simple compliment. “Thank you. You’re ever so kind.”

He was still holding her hand. They smiled broadly at each other.

Without looking at his son, he issued instructions.

“Ed—bring the girl a chair. Then go and get her a drink, will you?

There’s a machine out on the ward. Tastes like hell, but it’s hot. And it comes in plastic, disposable plastic. Cuts down on your MRSA risk. The place is riddled, I expect. I’m going to boil wash myself when I finally get home.” Ed complied obediently, rolling his eyes at Amanda as he backed out of the room.

“I saw that,” Jeremy said.

“No point getting old if you can’t get cantankerous and eccentric, I say,” Jeremy said when Ed had gone.

“Now, Amanda . . .” He said her name slowly and deliberately. “I see why my son was so smitten.”

“He was, was he?”

“Instantly. He’s told me everything. All about you. I hope you don’t mind.”

Amanda didn’t. She loved it.

“Nancy says you’re a complete poppet, and she is never wrong about people.”

“I think she’s lovely, too.”

“She certainly is. Best thing that ever happened to me. Ed’s just like me, you see. My theory is that he needs someone just like her. . . .”

He let the unspoken question hang in the air.

This craziness didn’t bother her, and that was the craziest part of all. She was just meeting this man, for the first time, in his pajamas in a hospital bed. Somehow, though, she desperately wanted his approval.

Ed came back with two plastic cups of tea. “Is he talking nonsense at you? I’d like to say it was the drugs, but he’s always like this. . . .”

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“Bugger off, you cheeky so-and-so. I’m getting to know Amanda. I hope you’re staying a while, love. I look much more handsome in clothes.”

“Look,” Ed said later, when they were walking back through the hospital car park, “I adore him, but he’s an acquired taste.”

“I think he’s completely wonderful.”

“You do?”

“I absolutely do. He’s warm and funny and kind.”

“I think you’re completely wonderful.” Ed stopped and kissed her.

“What did he say about me, when I went to the loo?”

He picked her up and spun her around. “Oh no—I’m not telling you that. Isn’t one male conquest in the family enough for you?! . . . Will you stay?”

“And do what?”

“Just stay.”

“I don’t want your family to think I’m a freeloader.”

“They won’t.”

“What about you? Don’t you need to get back?”

“Not yet. I’ve spoken to them. I can defer the whole term, if I need to.”

“Do you need to?”

“I’m not sure. I want to get Dad home and settled in. Make sure everything is okay. I want to spend some time with him.”

“Won’t I get in the way?”

“No. I want to spend some time with you, too. And, if it’s not too scary, I want you to be a part of all of this. I really want that. It feels right. Is there somewhere else you need to be right now? Somewhere you’d rather be?”

There wasn’t.

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Barbara’s Journal

Me and My Empty Nest

I hated it when my big girls went away. I felt bad about hating it. I had Amanda—I was better off than a lot of women I knew. My

“staggered family” was supposed to save me from loneliness. It was supposed to make it easier for me to let you go.

But I still hated it.

We’d been such a unit. Do you remember Carlton Close? It was just the four of us. We had so much fun in that house. I hate it when women say their daughters are their best friends. That seems so suffocating. That’s not what mothers and daughters are supposed to be to each other. I was always the mum. I was always in charge. But it didn’t stop us from having fun. I sometimes wonder if you remember it as well as I do. I don’t suppose that you can. Childhood distorts things, I know.

And then you left. I was so proud—prouder even than you knew—that the two of you both went to university. (And you, Amanda, and . . . you, Hannah, but only if that’s what you want. I’ll be proud whatever you choose to do unless, in the immortal words of Joyce Grenfell, you should choose to blow at Edgar. You probably don’t even know what that means. But trust me—it’s funny and I’m laughing right now while I write . . . see if you can download her onto your iPod sometime.) I almost couldn’t believe it. It was something that had been so far beyond my grasp. It just wasn’t ever a possibility, for me. I even wondered if I was jealous. You had chances I didn’t have. Back to that living through your kids stuff. But you wanted to go, you weren’t pushed. . . . Lisa first, then Jennifer. Did you know that after I dropped you off, that first day, both times, I had to park around the corner, out of sight, and sob my eyes out. I told Amanda they 212 e l i z a b e t h