Postcards from a strange.., p.23
Postcards From a Stranger, page 23
And she does. Long, dark hair contrasting sharply with her pale skin, dark make-up, lots of jewellery.
‘What are you doing round here?’ asks Annie.
‘I was flying through in a taxi on my way back from delivering a contract. I saw the post office and remembered that I hadn’t posted my mum’s birthday card. Bad girl!’ She slaps herself playfully on the wrist. She has a tattoo, Annie sees, and feels at first shocked and then delighted by the riskiness of it. It’s a unicorn inked skilfully on to her forearm. In Annie’s very narrow experience only sailors and prostitutes have tattoos. And Tilly. ‘It probably won’t get there in time now anyway but at least she’ll see the postmark and know that I tried. Come for a drink with me,’ she adds. ‘Let’s have a proper catch-up.’
Annie’s heart sinks. ‘Oh, I can’t,’ she says. ‘I only popped out for a minute. Joe’s got the kids and I’ve got to make the lunch.’
‘Who says? Surely Joe can make his own lunch and they’re his kids too. They are his, aren’t they?’ she adds, her eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘He can look after them while you have a quick drink with an old friend. Come on.’
‘Next.’
The man at the counter calls Annie forward and she digs in her bag for her Child Benefit book.
‘Well . . . I’m not sure . . .’ she says to Tilly.
‘Next!’ says the man again.
Annie waits outside the post office, the Child Benefit money tucked carefully in her purse out of sight. Seconds later, Tilly skips out into the street, grabs hold of Annie’s arm and starts to pull her along the pavement.
‘Come on. Just a quick one. I won’t take no for an answer.’
And she won’t. Annie can see that and what harm will it do? She could have a quick drink and then rush back. She could tell Joe that she called to buy some bits for lunch. He might not even notice how long she’s gone. Her heart is in her mouth as she tries to decide what to do but she can feel a tiny spark of rebellion firing in her veins.
‘What’s the worst that can happen?’ asks Tilly. She is laughing and Annie remembers why she liked her so much when Katrina first introduced them. She decides to go for the drink and feels immediately liberated by her decision.
‘Are you still working at Selfridges?’ she asks, allowing herself to be propelled along the street in the opposite direction from home.
‘God no! That was just while I was a student, to keep the parents happy. I’m working for the BBC now. Researcher on Wogan.’
Annie gasps.
‘Really? Do you meet all the stars then? Do you know Terry Wogan?’
Tilly waves her hand dismissively. ‘Yes, but most of them aren’t worth knowing. Except Terry. He’s a real gentleman.’
They reach a pub, The Coach and Horses, and Tilly pushes the door open. Annie hesitates for a moment and then follows her.
Inside it feels very dark after the bright sunshine and Annie’s eyes struggle to adjust.
‘What’ll you have?’ asks Tilly. ‘My treat.’
Annie dithers. She can’t have a proper drink. Joe will smell it on her. She’s already wondering how she’s going to explain the cigarette smoke on her clothes.
‘I’ll just have a lemonade,’ she says.
Tilly pulls a face, scoffing. ‘You are joking!’
‘No, really. I have stuff to do and I can’t stay long.’
‘Okay,’ says Tilly over her shoulder. She returns a moment later with a pint of lemonade and something tall in a highball glass. ‘So,’ she says, putting the drinks down and dropping on to the stool. ‘Tell me everything.’
Tilly generates an energy about her, just as she had done back when Katrina first introduced them. It’s like static electricity and Annie imagines that her skin will spark if they touch.
‘There’s not much to tell. I married Joe. Remember him?’
Tilly nods appreciatively. ‘Nice.’
‘And we have two children. Michael is six and Cara is two.’
Tilly yawns theatrically. ‘You done too much, much too young,’ she sings. ‘Children. Really? I’m sorry but I’m just not ready for settling down any time soon. Too much living to do first. I have to travel some more and I get invited to some amazing parties you know, through work.’
Annie nods but really she can’t imagine how Tilly’s life must be. As Tilly chatters on, mentioning film stars and musicians as if they are people she knows from school, Annie listens and tries to stop her jaw from crashing on to the table. Tilly isn’t namedropping or showing off, though. It seems rather that the rich and famous have become such a part of her lifestyle that she’s forgotten that it’s not the same for everyone else. Annie tries to absorb it all, as if there is nothing unusual about hearing Tina Turner dropped into conversation, but inside she’s fizzing with vicarious excitement.
‘And what about you?’ asks Tilly after a while. ‘Do you still see Katrina and the old crowd?’
Annie shakes her head. How can she explain that she doesn’t see anyone anymore without making her life sound horribly dull next to the glamour that Tilly carries with her? ‘No. We kind of drifted apart after I got married. I don’t really have much time to see people anymore, not with the children and everything.’
She is so proud of her beautiful children but now, talking to Tilly, she can already see that her old friend won’t understand the choices she’s made, will think she has thrown her opportunities away, grown up too fast. Thinking of the children now makes Annie realise, with a start, that she has been gone far longer than she said and she looks at her watch. It’s almost one o’clock. She has to leave. Now.
She stands up so quickly that her stool clatters to the floor behind her and everyone turns to stare. As she bends to pick it up, embarrassed, Tilly salutes in the air to acknowledge the attention.
‘I must go,’ says Annie, gathering her bag close to her. ‘Joe will be wondering where I’ve got to. Thanks for the drink.’
‘No problem,’ says Tilly and Annie notices that she doesn’t try to persuade her to stay. But then she adds, ‘Let’s do this again sometime.’
Annie assumes she is being polite but Tilly scrabbles round in her bag and pulls out a business card. She hands it to Annie. ‘Ring me,’ she says, drawing dialling in the air with her finger. ‘I mean it,’ she adds, holding Annie with her dark eyes. ‘Ring me.’
Annie nods her goodbyes and rushes out into the street, where her eyes have to readjust again as she quietly slips from one world to another. Anxiety races through her system and she almost runs back to the house, thinking through excuses for her lateness as she goes.
At the front door, she straightens her hair and tries to slow her breathing. Then she puts her key in the lock and goes inside.
‘I’m back,’ she calls out, her voice artificially bright.
No one calls back. Joe must be angry with her. He is just waiting until she appears and then she will catch it for being gone too long. She braces herself for what is to come and then pushes open the door to the lounge.
Michael is sitting exactly where she left him in front of the television.
‘Hello, Mummy,’ he says without looking away from the screen.
Annie looks into Cara’s playpen but it’s empty. Panicked, she scans the room and finds her little girl on the couch, lying propped on Joe’s chest. They are both sound asleep.
CHAPTER FORTY
Cara, 2018
My body clock must be righting itself or I’m just exhausted, because by the time I turn my head to find the neon numbers of the radio alarm it’s already well past nine. Even before I look in the mirror I can tell that my eyes are a mess. The skin around them feels wrong, pulled too tight by the puffiness that my tears have left behind. It’ll be dark glasses for me this morning, I think. Not that it matters, as no one I know will see me in this state. No one here knows me or cares why I went to sleep with swollen eyes.
No one except Skyler. She flits across my mind with a shiver of guilt. I picture her sitting cross-legged at her tidy desk in the dark gallery waiting for news of the grand reunion with the introverted Ursula Kemp. Some reunion. I tussle briefly with my conscience. I should really report back, let her know that the meeting was not a resounding success. It’s the least I can do, given the part that she played in setting it up in the first place. Right now, though, I can’t face the idea of recounting it to her, explaining my own part in the shoddy little tale. I push Skyler out of my mind.
Thoughts of her are replaced by pangs of hunger as I remember that, for reasons that I’d rather not dwell on, I didn’t have any dinner last night. Ideas of breakfast are enough to drag me from the bed and into the shower, where I stand for longer than I would have had Dad been paying for the water in an attempt to steam my eyes back open. I almost miss the ringing phone and even when the unfamiliar tone wafts through the billowing steam to me, it still takes me a while to recognise it for what it is. I grab a towel as I drip on the carpet to answer it.
‘Hello?’ I say.
‘Miss Ferensby?’
‘Yes.’
‘We have a lady waiting for you in reception. She says she’s your aunt. Should I ask her to take a seat?’
I don’t speak as I try to process what I’ve just been told. I wonder how Ursula has found me until I remember that I put the hotel details in my letter. Then I wonder what she wants. I don’t speak for so long that the receptionist on the other end asks whether I am still there.
‘Sorry. Yes. Could you ask her to wait there and I’ll be down as quickly as I can,’ I manage.
I put the phone down and stare at the handset. My feet are making damp prints on the carpet. What is this? Has she come back for round two? Initially, my still-raw anger makes me think that she can whistle. It would probably serve her right if I crept out through a back entrance, leaving her there to stew, but I know that I need to speak to her if I ever want to discover what happened to my mother. With heart pounding, I pad back to the bathroom and start to get ready.
Ten minutes later I’m heading down to reception in the lift. My hair is wet again, just as it was last night, but this time I don’t care about how I look. Ursula is no longer worth making the effort for.
When I reach the lobby I hold back a little, casting my eyes around for her. At first there’s no sign but then I spot her sitting half-hidden by a potted palm. She is worrying the skin around her thumbnail with her teeth and biting away the hangnails. I watch her for a moment, enjoying the knowledge that she is unaware of my presence. As I watch, I wonder if I can see something of myself in her; in the fall of her shoulders, the shape of the chin, maybe. We aren’t obviously alike, though. I’m probably imagining a similarity because I’m half hoping to see something familiar when I look at her. Perhaps she looks like her sister? Could I see my mother’s face staring out at me from my aunt’s cragged features, if only I knew what to look for?
She must sense me staring because she raises her eyes in my direction and then sees me. For a moment neither of us moves. We just stare at each other. I am very conscious of my swollen eyes, but as I look into hers I see that she too looks like she might have passed at least part of the previous evening crying. Is this atonement then, this unannounced appearance?
Then she raises her hand: not high – a little movement that suggests a degree of contrition. I don’t respond straightaway. Her half-smile slips slightly and she raises her eyebrows questioningly, imploringly. Still I don’t move. I feel like I’m standing on a train station. I have two choices. I can stay where I am and let the doors of the train close in front of me or I can climb aboard and see where the journey takes me. Ursula’s hand drops into her lap. She looks down. I take a step towards her.
She is no longer the woman of the night before. The languid self-confidence is gone and she seems to be occupying much less space. Even her sharp, pixie haircut looks as if she is just coming through a health scare rather than making a fashion statement. Despite the anguished night that I have just spent, the hurt that she caused me, my bruised sense of self, I find that I’m still drawn to her.
I forgive her in a heartbeat. I know that this is dangerous. Who’s to say that she won’t do exactly the same to me again? Yet as she sits partly obscured by the potted palm, I see in her a vulnerability that something buried deep inside me recognises. She is protecting herself from harm and I know all about that.
As I approach her, she stands up. I stop a couple of feet from her, too far away for any awkward physical contact. We are definitely not at the kiss-and-make-up stage. There’s not even a whiff of an air kiss. It’s apparent that Ursula is as uncomfortable with that kind of casual contact as I am.
Neither of us speaks. We look into each other’s eyes. Hers are perhaps puffier than mine but that might be how she always looks this early in the morning. Then, at the corner of her mouth, the glimpse of a crooked smile. I don’t respond. Not yet.
‘I think we might have got off on the wrong foot,’ she says. I hold her gaze. ‘Shall we start again?’
I note, with slight irritation, that there’s not even a hint of an apology, but that’s okay. We’ve given each other a second chance; I can overlook the social niceties. She must feel sorry, otherwise why would she be here? Maybe saying it out loud is more than she can manage?
So I smile. I give her a real Bobby Dazzler just to show her that I can forgive her, even without an apology. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Let’s start again.’
She nods her head but there’s clearly going to be no excuses, no post mortem, no blaming of the red wine. Nothing. ‘There’s a bakery down in Fisherman’s Wharf,’ she says. ‘They do great sourdough and the coffee’s not bad. Shall we go for breakfast?’
I agree.
We leave the hotel. Outside the air is cold but crisp, with a deep-blue sky and no sign today of San Francisco’s habitual morning clouds. A beautiful day for new beginnings. We walk side by side but the pavements are already filled with sightseers and any conversation is too stilted to be worth having so we don’t even try. The bakery stands right on the waterfront. Its huge glass windows are filled with piles of loaves in different shapes and colours. A woman in white overalls and a hairnet stands in the window making tiny dough hedgehogs. They stand in rows like a little army.
Ursula guides me in and points at a mezzanine.
‘You find us a table and I’ll get breakfast. What do you want?’
She speaks as if she is issuing orders but I’m beginning to think that this is just her manner so I try not to let it rile me.
‘Cappuccino to drink but I’ll leave the food up to you. Just get whatever looks nice.’
It all looks lovely and she looks at me as if I am a simpleton, the arch of her eyebrow giving a hint of the high-handed woman I met last night, but she doesn’t say anything and heads off towards the queue.
The café is filled with a mixture of tourists and people in business-wear who are presumably on their way to work. One wall is all glass and behind it the bakery is in full swing, with people in white aprons emptying ovens and pushing trolleys piled high with bread. They remind me of Oompa-Loompas even though they are neither tiny nor orange. All around the perimeter there is an overhead track that carries wire baskets filled with bread from the bakery to the shop, although when I settle on one basket and watch its slow progress around the building no one stops it at either destination to empty or refill it. Maybe they are just for the tourists.
I climb the few steps to the mezzanine and find an empty table that looks out over a service yard and then on to the bay. I can just glimpse the bridge.
Ursula approaches carrying a tray with two white cups and two pastries, which she puts down in front of me without a word.
‘Thank you,’ I say, reaching to take a cup. The pastry doesn’t look big enough to make even a dint in my hunger but it will do for now. ‘Nice place,’ I say, not quite sure how to begin.
Ursula nods. She takes one of the pastries and cuts it into tiny little cubes, which she begins popping into her mouth like sweets. I just cut mine neatly down the middle and tackle a half at a time.
‘So,’ she says after she has eaten about a third of the pastry. ‘To recap. You thought your mother, my sister, was dead. You have recently learned that this is not . . .’ She pauses as she considers her sentence and then continues. ‘Or at least might not be the case. Your father has some form of dementia and is unable to answer your questions and so you have sought me out. Is that about it? Did I leave anything out?’
There’s no emotional engagement. To her this is simply a list of facts rather than the complicated and very sad story of her own family history. However, I suppose in many ways her distanced, offhand approach might make the situation easier to deal with. This emotionless summing-up does manage to capture the essence of it all. I nod, not quite trusting my voice to work. My stomach knots tighter and tighter and my chest constricts as I sit and wait for her to tell me the truth about my entire life.
‘Well,’ says Ursula, searching out my wide-open eyes with hers and locking her gaze on to them. ‘She didn’t die. She’s still with us, God bless her.’
Her tone is scornful, derisory almost, like she has no time for her sister. But I can’t focus on that. I am working too hard to process what she just told me. My mother is definitely alive. She did not die like they all said. She left us. Of course, I have considered this possibility endlessly since I first found the postcards but it is only now that I know the truth. I find that I have only one word.
‘Why?’
Ursula picks up her coffee cup and starts to swirl the contents around. The dark liquid gets higher up the side of the cup, closer to the edge. Just as I think she is going to send it out over the table, she stops.
‘You do realise, don’t you, Cara, that when I tell you what it is that you think you want to know, then that’ll be it. There’s nothing that you can do to un-know it, no matter how hard you wish that you could. Are you sure that you’re ready for that?’
This is something that I’ve thought about a lot. Ever since I found the postcards, I’ve been tossing the problem of what to do next around in my mind like a toy boat caught in a typhoon. Sometimes I think that it would be better to forget all about it and just carry on with things as they were before, but really, in my heart of hearts, I know that’s not an option. I have to understand. There is no way back now.
