‘Could I speak to Tara, please?’
‘Hold on.’ She put her hand over the mouthpiece and bawled, ‘Tara … telephone …’
Tara came flying down the stairs and Wendy wordlessly handed the phone over. It was a well-practised manoeuvre as the majority of incoming calls were for Tara.
‘Hello,’ she heard her daughter say as she went into the sitting room, closing the door behind her. Bruce was in his usual chair, flicking through the Radio Times. The window was open admitting birdsong and the scent of flowers from the front garden.
‘Who was on the phone?’ he asked, with no particular interest.
‘Someone for Tara. I’m not sure who it is.’ As she spoke, a memory clicked in her head, of an accent which had once been part of her everyday life – yet that made no sense at all. She picked up a stray glass which had been left on the coffee table and headed back into the hall, closing the sitting room door behind her.
‘Yes,’ Tara was saying. ‘And when they threw her in … oh, I know, it was brill.’
A silence followed. Evidently the caller was speaking. Wendy went into the kitchen where she put the glass into the dishwasher. As she moved away from the machine back in the direction of the kitchen door, she heard Tara’s voice, coming from out of sight round the corner in the hall. She was speaking more softly now and in a very different tone.
‘It was special for me too … Of course I will … You know I do …’
‘Ma-a-am,’ Jamie’s voice came from the upper landing. ‘I can’t find my Flintstones book.’
‘Hold on, I’m coming up,’ Wendy called. ‘Have you cleaned your teeth yet?’
Tara was still glued to the phone ten minutes later, by which time Wendy had settled Jamie in bed, having first inspected his teeth and retrieved his favourite bedtime reading matter from under the bed.
‘Is Tara still on the phone?’ Bruce asked, as Wendy re-entered the sitting room. ‘I wish she’d think of the bill.’
‘Don’t worry, this one’s on his parents.’
‘Oh, it’s a him, is it?’
‘Yes.’ She hesitated. Ought she to provide a more concrete identification? But then she herself was not absolutely certain.
At that moment the door opened and Tara entered the room. ‘That,’ she said, evidently making what she perceived as an important announcement, ‘is the new love of my life.’
‘Is it anyone we know?’ Bruce smiled. It was his first genuine smile of the evening, but Wendy suddenly knew that she ought to have forewarned him.
‘Yes, you’ve both met him loads of times. It’s John.’
Bruce was clearly none the wiser. ‘John who?’
‘John McIlroy. He worked on our house.’
‘One of those brickies?’ Bruce looked as if he couldn’t believe his ears.
‘Yes, John.’ Tara sounded impatient. Her announcement had clearly not generated the effect that she was hoping for.
‘You are joking, of course.’
Wendy wanted to shout, Oh no Bruce … Don’t go at this head on … That will be a terrible mistake … But she had no opportunity to say anything at all.
‘Of course I’m not joking.’ Tara was full of seventeen-year-old haughtiness and outrage.
‘Are you trying to tell me that you have been seeing this John? Behind our backs?’ Bruce seldom ever got angry with Tara, but this was an exception.
Tara raised her voice to match his. ‘I’m not trying to tell you anything. I am going out with John. I spent most of today with him, as a matter of fact.’
‘You told us you were going to spend the day with friends.’ The accusation in Bruce’s voice was inescapable.
‘I did spend the day with friends. John happens to be one of my friends. I don’t see anything wrong with that.’
‘Don’t you? Don’t you?’ Bruce had gone red under his sunburn. ‘Well, I’ll tell you what’s wrong with it, shall I? To begin with, he’s years older than you. Secondly, he’s the type who’s out for only one thing. A pig-ignorant yobbo, who goes around picking up naïve young girls while he lays cement and fixes up other people’s toilets.’
‘You snob!’ Tara yelled. ‘There’s nothing wrong with laying bricks or cement, or doing an honest day’s work. For your information, John is really intelligent and sensitive. He’s a good person. You’d have found that out if you’d taken the trouble to get to know him.’
‘I don’t “get to know” people I’ve paid to do jobs at my house,’ Bruce sneered.
‘I’m sure he is a very nice person.’ Wendy managed to put in a word. ‘It’s just that you’ve sprung this on us, Tara. We’re used to your boyfriends being from college, or lads you’ve met at the ice rink. People of your own age. Your dad and I just want what’s best for you. We don’t want you to get into bad company. It isn’t that we object to John in particular.’
‘As a matter of fact, I do object to John in particular,’ Bruce interrupted. ‘And I forbid you to see him again.’
‘I’m old enough to please myself who I see,’ flashed Tara.
‘You’ll do as you’re told!’ shouted Bruce.
‘Don’t try to come the heavy-handed father with me,’ stormed Tara. ‘You’re not even my real father.’
‘Tara!’ Wendy was horrified. How had things helter-skeltered into this? Bruce had always been Tara’s father – she’d known no other.
‘Well, he’s not.’ Tara turned her ire on her mother. ‘It’s no use you trying to pretend. I’m a big girl now, you know.’
‘Tara,’ Wendy pleaded. ‘There’s never been any pretence. You’ve always known that Bruce isn’t your biological father, but he’s the person who’s brought you up—’
‘I don’t have to do what he says. I’m eighteen soon and after that I don’t have to do what you say either.’ She turned back to Bruce. ‘I don’t have to listen to your pathetic, snobbish lecturing. I shall go on seeing
