I haven’t got the capacity to lend my anxious brain to work when the sensitive subject of my unknown sister is on the line.
‘Ava?’
‘Mum? Take me off loudspeaker, I can’t hear you properly,’ I say.
‘Sorry, I’ve got you balanced on the paper plates. One sec.’ I tentatively sit up, my head hollow like a barren pigeon egg. ‘You sound awful. Where are you?’ she says.
‘In bed. Well, I was in bed. Migraine.’ No need to go into detail now. Or, perhaps, ever? ‘I think I slept it off.’
‘Oh, that’s a nuisance. Didn’t you have that big thing at work today? No – get Geoff to bring round the coffee urn, otherwise it won’t be hot by the time the parents turn up.’ She must be at the school. Shit.
‘You’re feeling better, though? Good. Wonderful.’ She sighs. ‘I tried calling earlier, but … I’m sorry to do this to you.’
‘Do what?’ I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral.
Mum shifts to a whisper. ‘I can’t think of what to do that’ll get us back on track. Not tonight, anyway.’
My stomach lurches. I didn’t see ‘The Dad Conversation’ happening like this. What was I thinking? After years of tiptoeing around the subject like a cat on hot tiles, I’ve made the whole thing far messier than it was before. Making hints about the other side of my family never worked in the past, so why would it now? I feel six years old again, standing at the top of the stairs in an oversized dressing gown to eavesdrop on Mum and Ginger talking about something I couldn’t understand. Even today, the stakes are a mystery because I’ve got no idea if she knows about Moira’s existence either. Realising I’ve got a sister in Scotland is one thing, but now there are a hundred other questions I need the answer to. How many of those would hurt Mum?
‘Ava?’ she says, ‘Are you still there? Shall I come home?’
‘No, Mum. I’ll be all right,’ I reply, my breath shallow. ‘What’s wrong?’
Mum sighs. ‘Nothing’s ready. We had the biggest faff trying to get the bloody leaves up. Father Carmichael has gone over to Blackheath because he needs to read the last rites to an ancient parishioner who’s had the audacity to catch pneumonia. Inconvenient, but you can hardly ask him to postpone. We’ve got the deacon from St Mary’s down instead.’
‘Dandruff Dan?’ I say, clasping my forehead with relief. She hasn’t seen the video. Of course she hasn’t. Mum still uses a brick-sized Nokia that plays polyphonic ringtones and only needs charging once a fortnight.
‘That’s him. Let’s hope he’s not wearing a black cassock. I was going to ask if you could pick up two or three boxes of wine on your way over. Laura was meant to do it, but her youngest ate the top of a glue stick so she’s had to go to A&E.’
‘Um, I can—’
‘I only ask because I thought you’d be leaving soon. Oh, make sure you’re here before the little ones are on stage. The dancing is spectacularly bad,’ she says, stifling laughter. ‘Possibly because Miss Burford’s choreographed it and she’s eight months pregnant, so the movements are fairly limited. Anyway, we’ll have a giggle if nothing else.’
‘All right. I’ll be there soon,’ I say, biting my hangnail.
I hang up and drop my phone onto the bed. The lock screen lights up; a picture of Mum and me behind a stacked plate of scones laden with clotted cream, our faces covered in crumbs and contentment. I swallow, but it feels as though a pine cone is lodged in my throat.
Chapter 6
The smell of overcooked rice pudding hangs in the air as I step through a side door propped open with a breeze block. My Doc Martens squeak on the parquet as I sidle across the hall towards Ginger, who spots me from a distance and makes a swooping gesture at Mum to let her know I’ve arrived.
On stage, a group of children dressed in vegetable costumes dance in a wobbly circle, heads whipping round to find their parents in the crowd. A carrot with neat French braids accidentally jabs a broccoli in the eye and he clutches his face as though it’s fallen off, his mouth held open in a silent scream. There’s a ripple of muttering through the audience as a frazzled woman in a beaded necklace scoops the wailing boy off stage. The remaining vegetables shuffle together to fill the gap, as though this is a practised manoeuvre.
A woman in a neatly pressed linen jacket walks towards me with the short, purposeful stride of a person whose most used phrase is ‘Yes, I would like to speak to the manager.’ She mouths something at me, but I can’t make it out, distracted as I am by the singing.
When she gets closer, I recognise who it is: Mum’s arch-nemesis, Vanessa. Mum usurped her chairperson position and Vanessa’s run against her at every AGM since. Rumour has it that she bribed the headteacher with a hefty supply of black-market book tokens, but when the head moved on, the new board weren’t so easy to influence. The dog poo we had posted through our letterbox in 2003 had to have come from Vanessa; she’s the only person we know who has a dog small enough to produce such a turd (an inbred, yappy dachshund with bulging eyes and a nervous disposition).
‘Are you Lorrie’s girl?’ she says, her veneers sparkling.
‘Yes.’
‘She said you’d be here an hour ago.’
‘Well … I’m here now,’ I say, handing her a carrier bag with the wine in it before scooting around in my rucksack to retrieve my camera. I pull the strap over my head and flick the power on.
‘We need some pictures of the children, mid-song, cherub-like, that sort of thing. You better be quick – they’ll finish in a moment.
