The Other Family

Amy put the flute down beside her, and laid her hands flat on the duvet. She looked directly at Chrissie.

‘Because I rang him once.’

‘And why did you do that?’

Amy thought for a moment. She was conscious of a dangerous energy beginning to surge up inside her, an energy compounded of apprehension at Chrissie’s imminent anger and distress, and excitement at defending her own position.

She said slowly, ‘It was an impulse.’

‘Inspired by what?’

‘Newcastle,’ Amy said truthful y.

‘ Newcastle?’

‘I Googled it.’ She got off the bed and reached up to slide the envelope from behind the Duffy poster. ‘And I also found this.’

Chrissie took the envelope and opened it. Amy watched her. Chrissie glanced at the photograph, and then held it and the envelope out to Amy.

‘Please put that away.’

‘It’s Dad!’ Amy said.

‘I know it’s Dad.’

‘But—’

‘Look,’ Chrissie said, suddenly agitated. ‘Look. I know he came from Newcastle. I know he was born on North Tyneside. I know his parents struggled for money and his mother adored him. I know al that. But I can’t bear to know it. After everything that’s happened, after everything he’s done and we’ve discovered, al his life in the North, al his loyalties in the North just seem like a betrayal to me. Perhaps you can’t feel it because he never let you down, but, Amy, having you talk to that man, having you making plans with that man, and without tel ing me, just makes me feel worse, it makes me feel that I can’t trust you, that you’re taking sides with people whose existence has made my life so difficult for so long and stopped me having what I real y wanted, what I should have had, I should, I should.’

Amy sat down on the edge of the bed and held the photograph between her hands.

‘I wasn’t making plans.’

‘But you were, about the piano, Tamsin—’

‘Tamsin answered my phone,’ Amy said. ‘I was in the loo, and she answered my phone.’

Chrissie began to wind her pearls in and out of her fingers.

‘Did you hear a word I’ve just said?’

Amy nodded.

‘Do you have any idea of what I’ve been through?’

Amy looked up.

‘Of course.’

‘Then how can you? How can you talk to that man about the piano behind my back?’

‘He’s not that man,’ Amy said, ‘he’s Dad’s son. He’s our half-brother.’

‘Don’t you care at all?’

‘Of course.’

‘You said that already.’

‘Mum,’ Amy said, suddenly al owing the dangerous energy to spurt out like hot liquid, ‘Mum, it’s not al about you, it’s not al about Tam or Dil y, or me, either, it’s about other people too, who never did you any harm except by existing, which they couldn’t help, and who didn’t ask for the piano or expect the piano, they just politely wondered when it would suit you to have them arrange for it to go. Don’t take your anger at Dad out on them, it isn’t fair, it isn’t OK, it isn’t like you.’

‘Amy! ’

Amy slid the photograph back into the envelope.

‘How dare you,’ Chrissie said. ‘How dare you speak to me like that?’

Amy’s head drooped. She felt the energy drain away and be replaced by a tremendous desire to cry. She put the back of her hand up against her mouth and pressed. She was not going to cry in front of her mother.

Chrissie stood up.

‘I want you to think about what I’ve just said to you. I want you to think about family loyalty. I want you to use your emotional intel igence and feel the shock this has al been.’

She moved to the door and put her hand on the knob.

‘Amy? ’

‘Yes.’

‘Wil you?’