Cuckoo Page 13

  I pulled it out, giving a sigh as I withdrew the contents. Hidden – they’d been hidden. All this time. By whom, my father?

  A few minutes later, coffee mug beside me, I spread the contents over the kitchen table, a cluster of old photographs.

  I sifted through the black and white images first. A woman sat formally on a chair, in a long plain skirt with a high-necked cotton blouse. Her head was stiff and uncompromising. Behind her stood a man in a bowler hat. They weren’t smiling, in the way that people didn’t smile in photographs in those days. I turned it over, ‘Great Uncle George and Aunt Annabeth Lumley, 1910’.

  There were more stiff, grainy photographs, startled babies in christening gowns like fishtails, repressed children in sailor dresses and miniature suits. There was a family group clustered around a small table. The men were standing, the women seated on wooden chairs. The table was bedecked with a lace tablecloth and flowers. One picture, its corners peeling, showed a grand-looking farmhouse: from the windows, the arrangement of the front door, I could see it was this house in better days. I pressed the photograph flat, smoothing away the years, trying to feel the shrubs growing under the windows, to stroke the cat sitting on the stone wall – it was a black cat with a smidgeon of white on one paw, exactly like my cat. I smiled. Of course, there had always been cats on the farm, in the barns in particular. Cats with a white sock. It must run in the cat family, that sock. I liked the idea that generations of cats had lived on the farm. Their house, not ours.

  I reached in the envelope again. There was another envelope, ‘1989’ written in faded blue ink. I slipped my hand inside and drew out a cluster of more recent photographs.

  They were pictures of the seaside, the bright colours in contrast to the last ones, like stripy jumpers hanging from a washing line. There was a man and a younger woman laughing at the camera, carefree, feet splashing at the water’s edge, shoes clutched in one hand, fingers entwined with one another. I could smell the salt sea air, hear seagulls screeching overhead, dive-bombing for ice-cream cornets and crisp packet crumbs. His face had that long nose, her face had my wild hair. My parents. I held the picture in my hands for a long time. Eventually, I set it down to one side on the table.

  I searched through the rest of the contents. There were more like that, happy pictures. I felt a stab of envy. There was one of her on her own, in profile, gazing out to sea. Her flapping skirt was as joyous as the bunting on a fairground roundabout. A picnic, a boat on a lake, the pile on my side grew. A bedroom – she, my mother, was lying back against the covers of a bed, fully clothed, her arms stretched out, relaxed and happy, looking right at the camera. She looked so young, much younger than I was now.

  These photographs had been my father’s or even my mother’s. He must have kept them, here in the study, hidden under the crate where Elizabeth wouldn’t have thought to look. His previous life, before her. I’d hit upon a treasure trove of memories. Good memories. I thought of Steph and how she would feel when I told her. I ransacked the envelope with the same feverish clumsiness of a fox raiding bins in the street.

  The last picture pulled me back. It didn’t look like it belonged with the others, the paper was different and it was torn in two, the other half missing. It was me, in the garden. The summerhouse was in the background, sleek and shiny and new. I hadn’t seen many pictures of me as a child, so at first, I wasn’t quite sure. It was confusing because there were other children in the shot, a birthday party perhaps? But I thought it was me judging from the hair, standing in the foreground, not quite smiling.

  I looked about six years old, in a brown and white print dress smudged with grass stains, grey socks wrinkled about my ankles. Steph was behind me, taller, looking past me to the other half of the picture. I knew it was her, not yet grown up, her floral sprigged dress smooth and clean, her hair hanging straight down her back. Her eyebrows were knitted together, her lips clenched. She looked furious. What was making her so cross? The ragged edge of the photograph teased me. What was in the rest of that photo?

  I tipped the remaining contents of the envelope onto the table. There wasn’t much left, no more photos, and my fingers shook as I sifted through scraps of paper, bent paperclips and old photograph mounts. A hint of colour peeped from underneath, the colours of a garden, green lawn and blue sky. My fingers tugged more urgently.

  I laid the two segments side by side, sliding them into position. The torn edges were a perfect fit. Why had it been ripped up and not thrown away? Had somebody changed their mind? We, Steph and I, were looking at Elizabeth, a younger Elizabeth, smiling the first genuine smile I’d ever seen on her. She wasn’t looking at us though. She was looking down at a small boy, maybe two or three years older than me, his hand tightly enclosed in hers. A long-haired boy in a bright red Power Rangers costume.

  The clothes were different, he was not so pale and this time he was grinning, but he was the same. The same little boy I’d seen only two days ago, sitting in the middle of the bedroom floor, playing the pear drum.

  CHAPTER 19

  I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

  ‘Have you been bad enough, Caroline?’

  That thin, reedy little boy voice grated in my ears. A parody of my stepmother’s.

  My hands were shaking as I reached for the phone. I didn’t care if she was in New York, or Timbuktu, I needed to speak to Steph right now. It was almost four pm here, so it would be, what, eleven in the morning over there? I still had no laptop so Skype wasn’t an option. She’d be at work, I reckoned, but could answer her mobile.

  The tone rang out, tortuously long in the wait.

  ‘Hello?’ Her voice quivered over the phone line.

  ‘Steph? Is that you?’ I was so relieved to speak to her.

  ‘Caro?’

  ‘Yes, yes it’s me.’

  ‘You alright? You don’t sound okay.’

  ‘No. I mean, yes, I’m fine.’

  Like hell I was. I closed my eyes, trying to picture Steph’s face, her cool classical features, her frizz-free golden hair, perfectly swept back from her head.

  ‘Listen, I’ve been sorting through the house and I found a load of photographs, you know, from when we were young.’

  ‘Oh, Lord, really? I looked dreadful when I was young,’ she said.

  Actually, Steph had always looked stunning in photos, a child beauty. But then one’s sense of self is always relative and it occurred to me that even Steph must have her insecurities.

  ‘You look fine,’ I said, a little impatiently. ‘There’s pictures of Mum and Dad! You know – before her.’ I waited for Steph to respond but she didn’t speak. ‘And there’s this photograph I’ve found. We’re at some kind of party, outside. Maybe it’s a child’s birthday party. I look about six years old and you’re standing behind me.’ I left out the bit about Steph looking cross. ‘Elizabeth is there and we’re both looking over towards her.’

  ‘Really?’ Steph didn’t sound too enthralled. ‘Where was this?’

  I thought about it for a moment. ‘It’s here. I’m sure. In the garden.’

  I looked at the photograph on the table. Yes, of course it was here, the trees, they were younger, smaller, but they were the same trees, in the same configuration.

  ‘She’s holding the hand of another child, a boy a little bit older than me. And … she obviously loves him!’

  It was in her eyes, the slant of her head, her whole-body demeanour. I could see Elizabeth really loved that boy. Then it struck me, that look of fury on Steph’s face was jealousy.

  She’d gone quiet. I thought I knew the answer before I asked the question.

  ‘Who is he, Steph? The little boy, who is he?’

  I could hear the rustling of papers over the phone, footsteps and a door slam, as if Steph had stood up and closed her office door. Her voice was quieter but clearer when she replied.

  ‘What’s he wearing?’

  Was she playing for time?

  ‘A red Power Rangers costume.’<
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  ‘Oh.’ There was a pause. Then Steph spoke slowly, as if each word was cautiously pushed through her lips. ‘He loved dressing up. That was his favourite costume.’

  Another pause. The silence screamed in my ears.

  ‘That would be Danny,’ she said.

  ‘Danny?’ I jumped on the word. ‘Who’s Danny?’

  ‘You don’t remember?’ Steph didn’t sound surprised. Yet there was something about her voice. Frustration? Pain?

  ‘No, I don’t remember! I wouldn’t be asking otherwise, would I!’

  ‘It was his birthday …’

  The line crackled, then it went dead.

  I punched the number into the phone again, scratching the kitchen table with my nails as I waited for Steph to pick up.

  ‘Caro …? Is that you?’ Her voice sounded different, distant.

  ‘Steph? Yes.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Caro. I … I don’t think I can do this right now. I can’t talk about Danny.’

  I felt shock shooting through me. The name, her voice.

  ‘I’ll ring you again. Soon,’ she said. The line went dead.

  This time, when I rang back, all I got was an engaged tone. I flung the phone on the table in disgust and it skidded to a halt against the butter dish.

  Who the hell was Danny?

  I paced the kitchen, holding the photograph in my hand, staring at it with the intensity of a stalking predator. Danny, Danny, Danny. The name meant nothing to me. And yet … the boy’s face, his hair … it was almost there, hovering at the back of my head, a lurking monster of a memory. But whatever it was, was dangerous, like a shark circling under a boat, its body disappearing beneath the shadow of the hull and back again. I thought of the image I’d painted of the girl on the lane and the bird in her mirror. I pressed the photograph down against the table.

  I wanted to remember more. If this house, the bedrooms, were bringing back the past, I thought maybe if I went outside into the garden, where the party in the photograph had taken place, I would remember.

  I dragged my arms into a coat and pulled on my boots, unlocking the back door in the kitchen. It was almost dusk, streaks of blue gold lingering on the horizon, the colours sucking me out into the falling night, feet sinking into the snow. I ploughed my way across the middle of the lawn, swinging round to look at the house and then surveying the garden; the shrubs by the kitchen window, the stone patio with its ironwork bench, a table and chairs and various tubs, all darkening silhouettes capped with snow.

  I tried to picture the scene in the photograph. The lawn in summer, green and lush, dotted with children like grazing sheep. A gazebo stood underneath the trees, dappled sunlight backlighting the canvas, balloons bobbing at the corners, shading a table heaving with food. Adults clustered together in small groups, wind chimes tinkling, laughter and screeches rising up with the heat.

  The snow was up to my knees, spilling in over the top of my boots. I struggled to cross the lawn and my feet stumbled. I felt myself tip forward onto my knees, the breath knocked from my lungs. My hand swept down and I touched something. Wet and sticky, snow, but stained with red. A half-buried lump. I swore, my hand snatching back. It was the rat. The same rat? Surely, not, I’d put it in the bin. How …?

  I looked at it, memory edging into my head. He’d done it: the boy. The boy with a paper crown on his head. Dropping it onto my bed – not a proper bed but a sleeping bag, in a tent? – and laughed. He’d watched from the doorway of the tent as I discovered it, me screaming so loud that all the other kids could hear, and he’d laughed again.

  Suddenly the memory of the party in the photograph grew. The black and white of the snowy garden around me melted away and lucidity swung like a beacon into my head.

  ‘Caroline! Limpy, lumpy Caroline!’

  How that reedy voice had rattled on my nerves, even then.

  I’d spun around. He had a stick and was prodding it at the backs of my legs. A boy with overly long hair and a malicious glint.

  ‘Happy birthday to you, squashed tomatoes and poo!’ he sang.

  It wasn’t my birthday party in the garden, it was his, yet he was singing that song, mocking me. I stuck out my tongue and made a grab for the stick. He swung it up and out of my reach, laughing at me.

  ‘Made you look, made you shit, made you fuck the juicy bit!’

  I had no idea what he meant, but I knew it was rude, that it was naughty. He’d always swear when he wanted to wind me up. He knew it was rude too, of course he did, but I bet he didn’t know exactly what it meant either. He sure liked the sound the words made though, and the reaction they got.

  His head bobbed up and down as he whacked the stick against the grass at my bare feet, taking a swipe at my legs whenever an adult wasn’t looking. He was clever that way.

  ‘Give us a kiss, Caroline!’

  This time he threw the stick to the ground and lunged at me. I ducked my head away and lifted up an arm. One small pint-sized punch landed him on the nose.

  ‘Waargh!’ He was running away. Finally. ‘Waaaargh!!’

  Right into the arms of Elizabeth. She swept him up off the ground, the blood gushing from his snotty nose staining her lovely linen dress.

  ‘Caroline Lucy Crowther! You nasty little girl!’ Her eyes pinned me to the lawn. ‘Get inside, right now!’

  The boy was crying, piteous tears rolling down his ruddy cheeks, one eye slanted towards me as he buried his head in her dress. All I could feel was righteous indignation and a burning rage. Somebody, another woman, the one from the church perhaps, had caught up with me. She grabbed my arm. I felt my shoulder hoisted out of position as I was dragged into the house, out of the sunlight. Through the hallway and up the stairs, round and up the next lot of stairs, to my bedroom on the top floor.

  The room was on the north-west side of the house, hidden from the sun. It smelt stale and damp, a pair of curtains at the window left over from the 1970s, bright orange and white interlocking circles. The curtains were partly closed as if to reflect my shame. I refused to look at the woman who’d dragged me there, but already she was gone. The door slammed shut behind me and the key turned in the lock.

  My phone rang, breaking the cold silence of my snowy kingdom. I clumsily pushed at the glass screen, walking towards the house.

  ‘Steph? Steph, is that you?’

  I tripped over my boots, fumbling to take them off one-handed, leaning against the stone wall by the back door.

  ‘Hello Caro.’ There was a coolness to her voice, her old British accent briefly slipping through.

  I blundered into the kitchen with its warm orange glow and smell of freshly ground coffee grains.

  ‘Thanks for calling me back …’ The words were queuing up to spill from my lips – who was he, this Danny? But already Steph was interrupting.

  ‘Look, Caro, I really think you should get some help. You look drained when I see you on Skype and you sound so stressed. What’s going on? Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea you staying in the house, sorting through all that stuff. Old memories and all that. I know it’s an awful job. I didn’t think, you know, with everything that’s happened. It’s been years. Leave it, Caro, leave it all and get out of there.’

  ‘But I can’t,’ I said, stunned.

  How could I leave now? Being here was bringing it all back – things I had buried in my brain. I didn’t want to leave, not now. Despite everything. I needed to know.

  ‘It’s like I said, I’m snowed in. No one can come in or out.’

  She knew that, didn’t she? I pushed the phone under my chin, slapping one glove after another onto the kitchen table.

  Steph had gone quiet. I could hear whirrs and clicks in the background to the call. We were going to get cut off again, any minute now.

  ‘Who is he? Who’s Danny?’ I cried. ‘That’s what I was trying to ask you!’

  More silence, except I could hear Steph’s breathing on the phone. It came in short anxious rasps. Another quick change of manner. O
r was that me? I picked up a stray pencil rolling on the table, pressing its newly sharpened point into the soft pad of my thumb.

  ‘Steph?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m sorry. I thought you knew. That you would remember. But I guess you were too young.’ Steph’s voice was normal again, slow and measured.

  ‘Danny, that little boy in the photograph,’ she said. ‘He was hers. Elizabeth’s. He was our brother.’

  CHAPTER 20

  ‘I don’t understand. Our brother? Our … stepbrother?’

  My voice was quiet, I was surprised that Steph could even hear me.

  ‘Sort of. He was three years older than you. From before they got married, Dad and Elizabeth.’

  ‘What, Elizabeth was married before? I didn’t realise.’

  ‘No. You don’t understand, do you? He was theirs – Elizabeth and Dad’s. They had an affair before they were married and she got pregnant. I was only about three at the time, so I don’t remember anything about it, but Elizabeth took great delight in telling me later. She couldn’t wait to marry Dad, once, well you know …’

  Once our mum had died, she meant.

  ‘… Danny was our half-brother.’

  I glanced at the stairs. The lamp was on in the hall, on the table near the door, a circular pool of yellow fanning out across the floor. The stairs wound up to the levels above, plumes of dust gathering in the corners of each step. I’d had no idea. But it made sense, the memories of that long-haired boy, Elizabeth’s evident fondness for him, her child. The boy I’d seen, imagined, in the bedroom next to hers – a memory of Danny.

  ‘He had an affair – our father – before Mum died? Whilst he was still married to Mum? With her!’

  ‘Yes.’ Steph sounded defeated, ashamed even.

  ‘Jesus! Is that why he married her? So soon after Mum died?’

  ‘Who knows? Perhaps he wanted to be a father to his son. Perhaps he wanted a mother for us?’ I almost spluttered. ‘Perhaps …’ and now she spoke softly, ‘perhaps he loved her, Caro.’