If You Knew My Sister Read online

  ‘She is dead now,’ she reminds him. ‘She doesn’t care if I touch her now that she is dead. Irini, take a look. Come on, don’t be shy, she won’t bite.’ She urges me on with a nudge from a bony elbow in my side, but her eyes don’t leave our father. ‘Don’t you think she looks like you?’

  ‘Eleanor, I really think perhaps we should give Irini a little time alone with your mother.’ My father steps forward. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think Irini has a tongue,’ Elle says. ‘She can tell us if that’s what she wants.’

  But I’m not listening to them. I am focusing on my mother. I see the look of the embalmed before me: typical plumped-up features, overly pink skin covered in clown make-up. A beautiful pearl necklace looped around her neck. At first I don’t spot anything that resembles the face I see when I look in the mirror. But as I carry on studying it, taking in each feature, I start to wonder whether something might be familiar. The curve of the eyebrows perhaps, and the way they arch up towards the outer eye. The square tip of her nose, and the little bone that appears crooked just at the bridge. My features. I glance back at the man who is my father just as he looks up at me. I know he sees it too. I am her and she is me. Just like Matt said. We are our parents. We are what they make us, through either their presence or their absence.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, my grip on the edge of the coffin strengthening. ‘I do look like her.’ And then the image of me dragging myself across the kitchen comes back to me. Well done! Brave girl! Now spread your wings. Push up, I know you can. Do it for Mummy. The missing pieces of the memory come flooding back and I see her face. She is there, picking me up, smiling at me, encouraging me as if she loved me.

  I glance back down at the glued-together eyes and stitched-up mouth, sad that a person who looks so much like me physically has absolutely nothing to do with my life. I look up at Elle, and then at my father, and I see that she doesn’t resemble anybody.

  ‘I’ll give you some time,’ my father says.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Elle snaps as he tries to push past her. She grips his arm, the same way she did mine when she wanted to drag me in here. I see the whites of her knuckles, the intensity with which she is holding him. I have placed one hand across the open coffin, protectively covering my dead mother. I look up as my father takes a step forward, but Elle switches her footing and manages to block him.

  ‘Now, Eleanor, stop this. Remove your hand from my arm. I only want to give you some time together. Irini and I can talk later.’ Then he looks to me. ‘I would like that, Irini, if you and I could sit down and talk.’ I don’t say anything. All this time I have wanted to speak to him, but yet here in this moment I am lost for words. ‘Just the two of us.’

  ‘Without me?’ Elle asks, but nobody answers her question. My father is still staring at me, and for the first time I see something other than fear, shame or guilt on his face. It looks like an apology. An I’m sorry that you have to see this. For the first time ever in my life I can really believe that it was better that I didn’t grow up here, that perhaps, maybe a one-in-a-million chance, he gave me up because he wanted something better for me.

  ‘I should go,’ I say. ‘I shouldn’t be here.’ It is perhaps the most truthful thing I’ve said since I arrived, and the first time I might actually believe it. I forget my fear and craving for the truth and take a step forward, but Elle holds out a hand and shoves me backwards. I hit the corner of the coffin and feel it wobble again. I reach behind me instinctively to steady it. My father takes hold of my arm to catch me. I don’t need his help, but I let my weight fall into his grasp.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere,’ Elle says. ‘You are our guest.’ Only then does she seem to notice our father holding me, and with that, he lets me go.

  ‘It’s for the best,’ I plead with her. ‘For me, and for him.’ Because I want to protect him too. From her. I want this horrible scene to be over. ‘I don’t know why I came here.’ I push forwards, but again she shoves me back.

  ‘Yes you do. You came here because you want to know why they gave you away. You said it in the car. You just asked me, remember?’ She turns to our father. ‘So? Are you going to tell her?’ she spits, a finger wafting in his face. ‘Is that what you want in your little tête-à-tête? To tell her the truth? Do you want her to stay? She would want it after all, wouldn’t she? That’s what she always said. Always said she wanted her here and not me. I used to hear you, you know that?’ I realise that Elle is crying and I reach out to try to help. She knocks my arm away. I turn to look at my father and see that his gaze is unfocused, guilty, unsure. ‘Whispering at night when you thought I was asleep. But voices travel through the vents as clear as day. Couldn’t bear me to touch her, could she? She never stopped resenting you for the choices you forced her to make.’ She slips into a nearby chair, her body shaking, curled up like a baby. Tears run down her cheeks, and suddenly she seems so small. Weak in a way like never before. I look at our father and see him holding back. He knows as well as I do that this quiet won’t last.

  ‘Eleanor, don’t get yourself worked up.’ He holds out a hand, yet still he is cautious. He takes a step forward and I follow his lead. But then he swings his hand towards me, uses it as a barrier, ushers me back. He crouches down at her side and I stay where I am, my back against the coffin.

  ‘Always her, right?’ Elle says, her voice weak, shaky. ‘I need to know, Daddy. That’s why I got her here. So I could know. So I could know if you still think you made the right decision.’ She reaches out and clutches at his arm, desperate. ‘So? What is it? Do you still feel the same?’

  He doesn’t say anything to Elle; he doesn’t even look her in the eye. Instead, he maintains his broken gaze in my direction, the weight of a defeated army on his shoulders, and tells me something I knew all along. ‘You should never have come here.’ Then he leans in, cradles Elle in his arms as her crying intensifies.

  Never have I felt less a part of anything than right now. There was a point just a short while ago when I thought my father and I shared something of worth, something that set us apart from Elle. But now I see they share so much history, and I am once again little more than a spectator.

  I step forward. ‘But you still want to talk, right? Just the two of us?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Can’t you see that now is not the time?’

  I look away from them both, and with my eyes cast to the floor, I rush from the room.

  13

  Sometime during the night, my father came to my room. He whispered my name, his deep voice hoarse but instantly recognisable. I gave no answer. I didn’t want to see him, not after what had happened. He tried the handle, opened the door a crack. I closed my eyes, pretended to be asleep. After a few seconds he retreated, left me alone.

  When the earliest birds begin singing, I am already awake, watching the darkness retreat to the shadows of the bleak northern countryside as an invisible sun rises in the sky. Even at this hour I feel sticky and warm, hot like an overdressed baby in the summer. I hear the cook, Joyce, who brought me drinks and sandwiches as room service last night, rattling about in the nearby kitchen. More than once I hear footsteps on the gravel of the driveway, and even at times in the hallway outside my room. Now I just want out. Yet still I am here.

  When I venture downstairs, I find Joyce in the kitchen. She spots me at the bottom of the stairs looking hesitant, so pulls out a chair and sets a glass of juice on the kitchen table. A get-out-of-jail-free card so I don’t have to go to the dining room. If she was in the house, there is no doubt she heard what happened yesterday afternoon. So I proceed to eat a plateful of salty eggs in the kitchen with Joyce scurrying around me.

  ‘I’d love a coffee,’ I say quietly, not wanting to be heard beyond this room. She sets down a giant mug, and I sip at it, burning my lips. When I hear footsteps in the hallway I make an urgent but silent move to stand. But Joyce is straight to my side. She places her good hand on my shoulder and I sit back down.

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sp; ‘He went out early, and she won’t come into the kitchen,’ she whispers.

  I watch as she wheels the serving trolley away, loaded with coffee and juice. I wonder if he instructed her to keep me away from them, now that he has admitted I shouldn’t be here. Either way, I am grateful for Joyce’s help, and I slip back up the stairs to grab my bag. I remember how brave I was on the first day here, creeping downstairs to find him. It feels like a long time ago. The memories of my mother are strangely silent today.

  ‘Thanks for breakfast,’ I say as I walk back into the kitchen. She smiles at me from across the room as she dries a beaker with a soggy tea towel. ‘I’m going to go out for the day.’

  She steps towards me and gestures to the back door. ‘On your own?’ I nod. ‘Well, she won’t hear you leave if you go out this way,’ she mumbles. I try to smile but I just feel ashamed. I can feel my cheeks flushed pink, my eyes red and swollen.

  ‘Why are you helping me?’ I ask.

  She looks down at the glass, balanced over a useless, gnarled hand. ‘The funeral is tomorrow. Just stick it out until then. You never know, you might want to hear what he has to say about her.’ I fight not to cry. ‘Then you can go back to your life and forget about it all.’ She backs away but I reach out and grip her arm just like Elle did to me.

  ‘What life? I’ll never be able to do that. Not now I’ve been here.’ I wipe a tear from my cheek and tell myself I have got to get it together. ‘I need to know what happened. Did he tell you to help me today? Did he tell you to keep me away?’

  She gently pulls her arm free and I loosen my grip. She casts a quick glance down at her reddened wrist but doesn’t make anything of it. I spread my fingers to show her I mean her no harm. ‘Some doors are better left closed,’ she whispers. She drops the glass to her waist and lets out a sigh. ‘And some are better left closed, locked and stuck behind a cupboard full of photographs. Never to be opened again. It’s for the best,’ she says patting me on the arm. She hasn’t answered me, but she is quick to get her good hand on the door handle.

  ‘But I need to know why they gave me away.’

  ‘No you don’t. You just need to be strong for another day or so.’ She ushers me out with her weight behind me before I can ask anything else.

  I slip through the gates, dodging Frank and his cheery demeanour. I keep my head down and push on along the dusty driveway. I look up only to see where I am going as the path twists and turns. Which is when I see my father up ahead, a newspaper tucked underneath his arm. Up until yesterday I was desperate to talk to him; now I look behind me in search of a way out. But the path only leads to the house, cast in a grey shadow, visually impregnable. By the time I turn back around he has seen me too. He has stopped, his body tight with fear. He takes a step forward, me a step back.

  ‘Irini,’ he says as he holds out his hands. The newspaper drops to the ground, forgotten. He is only a few metres away from me. I could almost reach out and touch him.

  ‘Don’t you…’ I say through uncomfortable breaths. But I’m not sure what it is I don’t want him to do. So I cross to the other side of the driveway, head down, unable to look at him.

  ‘Irini, please. Wait,’ he says as he glances to the house. ‘About last night. I’m so very sorry.’ He nibbles on the inside of his lip and I back away. ‘Bloody hell, that sounds so trite. Please forgive me, Irini. You must’ve been able to see how she was behaving. We have to talk, now, while she’s not around. Come quickly.’

  I am shaking my head. I try to walk away but he steps forwards to block my path. ‘Let me get past,’ I say. He reaches to grab my arms but I back away towards the trees, my pulse racing.

  ‘Come on, Irini. There’s not much time. I need to explain so many things. Like why I thought it best to let you settle with Aunt Jemima, not to disrupt you by turning up out of the blue. You must try to understand, we had to keep you apart,’ he says, edging towards me. This time I don’t move. ‘Surely you must understand that.’ He tries again to reach out. Again I back away, but this time with less conviction. ‘Irini, I have something I want to give you. It’s important. But I can’t do it while she’s around. It’s not good for her,’ he stammers. He takes a look back at the house. ‘She mustn’t know that we are talking, I realised that last night more than ever. You must understand what she is like. There’s not much time,’ he repeats.

  ‘I never wanted anything from you but the truth, and now I’ve got it. I shouldn’t be here, remember? Your words.’ I am almost shouting. ‘What happened all those years ago?’

  He winces, looks back to the house. ‘Please, keep your voice down. If you are quiet, we can talk. Come on, let’s go for a walk together, away from the house.’

  ‘Irini, are you still there?’ We both hear Elle calling. We look to the house and see her standing on the porch. My father pushes me behind a conifer tree.

  ‘Just me, Eleanor. Irini’s already halfway to the village,’ he shouts, and then turns back to me, whispering so quietly that I can barely hear him. ‘It’s too late now, there’s no time. But I have to give you something. Later on. We must find a moment.’ He swallows hard, wipes a bead of sweat from his brow. He reaches out a hand and touches my hair. ‘Your mother, she loved you, but the depression, it was—’

  ‘No.’ I pull away. I don’t believe him. Nobody would give away a child because they were depressed. ‘It’s just another one of your lies.’ I break into a poor effort at running, putting as much distance between us as I can.

  As soon as I step on to the main pathway that heads towards Horton, I take out a cigarette and smoke it fast. I manage two more during the twenty-minute walk to the centre of the village.

  The green blanket around me is broken up by a multitude of grey houses, all made fancier than they once were with the addition of garages, hanging baskets and neatly trimmed lawns. The sickly scent of honeysuckle drips through the air. The church stands proudly in the middle of the village, flanked by green fields and punctuated by decrepit gravestones covered in ivy and moss, as if nature is trying to reclaim them.

  I rest against the church wall and watch the activity at what I think is the post office. Beyond that I can hear the cries of children. Perhaps a school or nursery nearby. Perhaps the school I might have attended, should I ever have been allowed to live here. After a few minutes and one more cigarette I push on, past the village pub, the Enchanted Swan. I’d be in there if it wasn’t closed. There is a man outside it, ruddy-faced and rough around the edges. He looks like what I would expect from this part of the world: weathered by the winters, battered by the wind. If he was a boat, his sails would be torn and his paint peeling. Yet still he would sail true, returning his passengers to shore. He tips his flat cap to me and hollers, ‘G’morning.’ He sets out a stand that advertises Haggis pie with neeps and tatties, stretches an overworked back with his hands on his hips.

  ‘What time do you open?’ I ask, waving back across the road from the edge of the graveyard. A good measure of whisky would really help, maybe followed by a wine or vodka. Whatever they’ve got. I had a glug of sherry before I left the house, but I kept off the Valium and there is still an edge that could tip the wrong way if I was pushed.

  ‘Twelve today, usually eleven.’ He taps the board. ‘Do a nice dinner too.’ He offers a half-wave and I check my watch. That gives me two hours to kill.

  I follow the noise of the children, letting my hand drag along the cold, sharp surface of the stone wall. I’m drawn by their cheer, and the carefree sound of childhood happiness. I pass the post office and corner shop, arriving at a small grey-brick building with a sign outside that reads Foxling’s Nursery and Infant School of Horton. I glance past the fencing and see little red jumpers charging around in the school yard. The teachers who stand along the perimeter look casual and relaxed, not a care in the world as they sip at their cups of tea. I rest against the fence a while, watching and listening to the sound of a childhood I never knew. After a few minutes I take a step away, wo
ndering where I can kill a couple of hours. But curiosity gets the better of me. Maybe this place would have been my school. I could have grown up here, had I stayed. Behind these walls I might have become somebody different.

  I push open the front door to the school and a little bell rings out. Inside the overheated lobby there are children’s self-portraits taped to the walls. The eyes are misplaced, the mouths drawn gaping wide. The hair is shaped with wool, glued in place. Gavin, 6. Isabella, 5. Theo, 7.

  ‘Can I help you?’ a voice asks from behind me as I gaze at the children’s work, suspicious of the stranger who has entered the school. I think about running but decide that will most likely result in a worried phone call to the police. So instead I stay, turn around, smile at the wiry receptionist, and begin with a lie.

  ‘Good morning. My name is Gabriella Jackson.’ I reach out my hand as the lie glides easily from my tongue. She takes it, but I see that she also takes a good look at my chewed thumb and the four nail marks on my wrist from where Elle dragged me in to see our mother last night. ‘I was hoping to discuss schooling for my children. We are moving to the area.’

  Her suspicious attitude softens, and the worry is replaced by a smile. She is thinking, How dangerous could she be? She is a mother, after all. The international stamp of goodness.

  ‘Oh, in which case, please forgive me. You know, you can never be too careful.’ She shakes my hand with extra vigour to negate any offence she might have caused. ‘I didn’t realise you were a mother. Let me fetch our headmistress.’

  The woman scurries away, and after a moment of mumbled conversation behind a partially closed door, she returns with a fierce-looking schoolmistress. Not head. Not teacher. Mistress, her torso overtaken by breasts, tamed behind a tight, high-necked blouse. Her thick calves balance on wide ankles, bound in sensible shoes. Proper, unrelenting.