We Are Family Page 8

  ‘You’re too young for boyfriends,’ he said.

  ‘And you’re too old not to have a girlfriend,’ she countered.

  ‘How about me? Am I the right age to get served?’

  Bill turned round to see a woman standing behind him. There was something familiar about her face and, for a moment, he thought he’d seen her before, but then he decided he was mistaken.

  Like Bill, she was in her mid-twenties. In her hand was a small black leather suitcase, plastered with shipping stickers. She looked impossibly modern. And . . . stylish? Was that the right word, Bill wondered, to describe a woman like this? Because her clothes – a distractingly short skirt with a matching shiny blue jacket, tapered in around her waist by a wide white belt – were cut in a way he’d never seen outside of magazines, and certainly not here in the shop, close enough to touch. Not, it occurred to him with a sudden blush, that he should be thinking about touching it at all.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, smiling brightly.

  Bill opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

  She took a step closer to him. Then another. Then she peered into his eyes. ‘Are you OK?’ she asked. Her accent sounded American, only softer. Perhaps Canadian, he thought.

  ‘Er . . .’

  As she stared at him, into him, he suddenly felt that it was vital that he say something interesting in reply – that she was the kind of woman who deserved an interesting reply, expected one even – and that she’d be so, so disappointed if he let her down.

  ‘Er . . .’

  ‘Is he always like this?’ the woman asked Rachel.

  ‘Only on days with a Y in them,’ Rachel answered.

  The woman grinned. ‘Very droll,’ she said. ‘I like that.’

  Putting her suitcase down, the woman seemed to lose interest in Bill and, instead, started looking around the shop. Her hair was short, blonde and tightly curled, and she wore a bright red hat perched on top of it which matched her lipstick and nail polish. She had a beauty spot on her jaw to the left of her wide curved lips.

  ‘Candy,’ the woman then announced, stopping in front of the glass-topped section of the counter, beneath which the more expensive sweets were displayed. ‘I mean sweets,’ she corrected herself. ‘I need to buy some. As a gift.’

  ‘Allow me to –’ Rachel began.

  ‘– help you,’ Bill said, completing his sister’s sentence for her. He walked behind the counter and brushed firmly past Rachel, ignoring the indignant look she shot him. He stood opposite the woman, and as she stared down at the neatly aligned bars of chocolate laid out beneath the glass screen, he gazed at her reflection.

  ‘I’m going for a break,’ Rachel announced behind him.

  ‘Take your time,’ Bill answered without looking round.

  ‘How about that big bar of Rowntree’s York chocolate?’ the woman decided, tapping the glass with her fingernail.

  ‘Of course.’ Bill smiled at her. The woman smiled back. Gosh, he thought. Having her smile at him felt pretty good. ‘You’ll need to register first,’ he then said, remembering himself.

  ‘Register?’

  ‘Your ration book. Before making a purchase.’

  ‘You’re kidding, right?’ she said.

  ‘Er, no . . .’

  ‘You mean I can’t just give you cash?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Rationing still applies to sweets.’

  ‘Well, Jesus H. Christ,’ she declared, ‘if that doesn’t take the biscuit – not that I imagine even he could actually take the biscuit,’ she reflected, ‘not unless he had his ration book too, right?’

  ‘Right,’ Bill said, trying not to smile.

  ‘Well, shit, shit, shit to that. Oh, God,’ she said, ‘and sorry . . .’ She waved her arm apologetically. ‘Sorry for swearing. And for blaspheming. They’re both habits I guess I should kick now that I’ve come back home.’

  He shrugged. He didn’t know what to say. The truth was he rather liked the way she swore. ‘Home?’ he enquired.

  ‘Yep.’ Her grey eyes scanned the shelves behind him. ‘Don’t suppose a tin of pilchards would make much of a present, now, would it?’

  ‘No.’

  Her gaze switched back to him, suddenly serious. ‘I’m at a loss. All the way from New York without a gift. God, I’m such a jerk.’ She took a final lingering look at the Rowntree’s bar, then sighed, turning to go.

  A thought occurred to him. ‘No, wait.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve got an idea.’

  She looked at him expectantly. ‘So shoot.’

  ‘I could let you choose some chocolate and take it off my rations for next week.’

  ‘No.’ She was adamant. ‘I couldn’t possibly.’

  But this was suddenly something he really wanted to do for her. ‘I insist.’ He took out the red-and-white Rowntree’s bar and held it out to her.

  She stared at the chocolate. ‘Well, I’ve got to admit,’ she said, ‘you would be getting me out of a scrape. But what about you?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll survive without. I haven’t got much of a sweet tooth, to tell the truth,’ he lied.

  ‘Yeah? Well, OK then,’ she said, beaming at him. She took the chocolate bar and slipped it into her jacket pocket. ‘But only if you let me pay you back.’

  ‘I’m not allowed to take money for –’ he started to explain.

  ‘No, I mean when I register here. You know, after I get my ration book all worked out.’

  ‘Oh. How long are you staying?’

  ‘A while.’ She laughed nervously. ‘Maybe even a long while, who knows?’

  He walked round the counter to join her. ‘How far is it you’re going?’

  ‘Not far.’

  ‘Let me take your bag,’ he offered.

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’

  He lowered his eyes, embarrassed.

  ‘Sorry.’ She touched his arm. ‘I didn’t mean it to sound like that. I mean, I’d be happy to walk with you any other time, only, like I say, I’ve been away a long time and, well, I’d rather arrive by myself.’

  ‘It’s all right. I understand.’

  She smiled at him sweetly, then patted her pocket. ‘Thanks for the loan of the chocolate.’ She reached out her hand. ‘I’m Emily, by the way.’

  He shook her hand. Her skin was cold to the touch, but he could have held it longer. ‘Bill.’

  She looked him straight in the eye, before adding, ‘Emily Jones.’

  He shrugged, acting like it meant nothing, even though it did. Emily Jones. The daughter of Alun and Mavis, the owners of the Sea Catch Café. Emily Jones, who’d briefly scandalised the town by defying her parents and running off with an American navigator near the end of the war when she’d just turned eighteen.

  So he had recognised her, after all. Even though she’d changed so much in the eight years she’d been away. He’d never spoken to her while she’d been living here, but he remembered all right, how people had gossiped at the time and how her mother had acted like she’d been in mourning ever since. He wondered if Emily knew about him, and his father, and the far greater scandal which had taken place here at the shop barely a month after she’d left. But the brightness of her smile said no.

  It was a smile he’d be thinking about for the rest of the day. ‘Well, welcome home, Emily Jones,’ he said.

  ‘Assuming that my mother agrees that I do still have a home to come back to,’ she said. ‘So knock on wood, hey? For luck.’ She did just that, rapping her knuckles hard against the counter.

  ‘Good luck,’ he said, meaning it. ‘Hopefully I’ll see you around,’ he added, meaning that, too.

  ‘Thanks,’ she answered. ‘You will.’

  He followed her to the open doorway and watched her as she walked away.

  Behind him, he heard Rachel coming back into the shop.

  ‘So who was she?’ she called out.

  ‘Just someone new,’ Bill answered, not taking his eyes off Emily Jones until
she rounded the corner at the end of the street.

  Chapter V

  Somerset, Present Day

  Peering through the rain-drenched windscreen, Sam Delamere could smell the cigarette smoke on Claire from when she’d chain-smoked two Marlboros between the airport arrivals hall and the car park.

  ‘What do you think this is, National Village Idiot Day? Pull over! Get out of the fucking way!’ Claire yelled at the oblivious driver of the rusty red Mini which was trundling along the potholed road in front of them. ‘Do you know why I hate the stupid English countryside?’ she demanded of Sam, who was driving. ‘Because it’s full of stupid English cu—’

  ‘Please stop,’ Sam said.

  ‘Stop what?’

  ‘You know what.’

  ‘Well, obviously I don’t. Because if I did, then I wouldn’t be fucking well asking you, would I?’

  ‘That,’ said Sam. ‘Swearing. Saying fuck. Whatever. In front of Archie. Just don’t, OK?’

  ‘But you just said it yourself,’ she scoffed.

  ‘Only to illustrate what I was talking about.’

  ‘You still said it.’

  He sighed, pushing his straight sandy-brown hair back from his tanned brow. Here it was: the same old thing: her trying to reduce their conversation to the level of childish bickering the moment she was put on the defensive. She was twenty-eight, only seven years younger than Sam, but sometimes she made him feel more like the father she’d never known, than the husband he was.

  His instinct, of course, was to fight his corner, but he bit it down. Claire thrived on conflict and, given half a chance, would only use his reaction to escalate their argument into a full-blown row. And he wasn’t going to let that happen, not today, not when what she really needed was his support.

  Instead, he tried to see the situation for what it was: her just picking a fight; him just happening to be in her firing line. She was angry and upset about the death of her grandfather, Tony, and lashing out at Sam was her way of dealing with it. He understood. He was upset, too.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘So I swore. So I was wrong.’ He knew that the easiest way to bring this conversation to a close was to make her think she’d won.

  ‘Wrong,’ Claire chimed in confirmation.

  Sam’s pale blue eyes darkened. ‘So I won’t say it again. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t either.’

  Claire twisted round and stared at Archie, who was strapped into a black baby seat in the back of the rented MPV, which they’d picked up from Luton airport two hours ago.

  ‘Little Archie doesn’t understand, anyway. Do you, babe?’ She addressed their son in the awkward, sing-song baby-talk voice she always used with him. Reaching out, she smoothed down the two-and-a-half-year-old’s wiry brown hair, and watched as it promptly sprung back up again, like bracken after a storm. ‘Clucking, chucking,’ she said, ‘mucking, fucking . . . they’re all the same to you, aren’t they, sweetie? Just silly grown-up words . . .’

  ‘I got yo-yo,’ Archie announced, holding up the fluorescent-yellow plastic toy which Sam had picked up at a store in Palma airport. ‘I want Gramps and Nanna,’ he added.

  These were the names Archie had given Sam’s parents.

  ‘Not today. We’re going to see Grandma Rachel today,’ Claire said.

  ‘Gramps and Nanna,’ Archie repeated.

  Claire’s voice grew terse. ‘I said not today.’

  ‘Gramps and –’

  ‘That’s enough, Archie,’ she snapped. ‘Now be quiet.’

  Archie started to wail.

  ‘What Mummy means,’ Sam soothed, ‘is you can go and see them another time. Soon. Daddy will take you soon. OK?’

  ‘They spoil him, you know,’ Claire said. ‘That’s why he’s always whinging about going to see them.’

  ‘How would you know?’ Sam was referring to the fact that Claire had only visited his parents once since Archie had been born. Sam brought Archie to see them every few months, but Claire always managed to find somewhere else she needed to be.

  Claire groaned. ‘Please let’s not get into this now,’ she said.

  Sam accelerated past the Mini and into the winding country lanes.

  ‘I love you, Mummy,’ Archie said.

  Claire reached back and squeezed Archie’s knee. ‘I love you, too, sweetie.’

  Sam glanced in the rear-view mirror to see Archie beaming him a crooked smile, which melted Sam’s heart.

  ‘Still,’ Claire continued, ‘at least your parents have the decency to live in a town. Why Grandma and Pops insisted on buying this dreary old pile out here in the middle of nowhere is something I’ll never understand.’

  So they could send you to the expensive Catholic girls’ school down the road, was the answer Sam knew but didn’t say. Because you got yourself expelled from the International School in Mallorca for dealing grass to your friends. Because your grandparents were terrified that you’d turn out like your mum, who walked out on you right after you were born and OD’d in a Parisian squat a year later.

  Not that either the relocation or the expensive school had done Claire any good, Sam reflected. She’d been expelled from her new English school, too, after having been caught wrapped around a handsome guitar teacher in the photography darkroom. She’d moved back to Mallorca, then. Instead of punishing her, the ever-indulgent Rachel and Tony had set her up in a back-street apartment in Palma old town, overlooking the flying buttresses and sandstone pinnacles of La Seu Cathedral. Which was where she and Sam had met.

  Sam turned off the country lane and on to the long, straight, frost-pocked driveway which led to Dreycott Manor. Gravel crunched beneath the tyres. He turned to Claire and saw tears streaming down her face. Pulling over, he took her hand and gently squeezed it. Rain rattled on the roof.

  ‘I never thought he’d die. I never thought about it once,’ Claire said, rubbing at her eyes, smearing mascara across her cheeks. ‘I thought Pops was indestructible.’

  ‘I know.’ Sam had worked for Tony for almost a decade. And just as Tony had treated Claire like his own daughter, so he’d come to treat Sam like one of his own sons. Or even better than his sons, Sam remembered Claire having once remarked.

  Sam kept hold of Claire’s hand. They stared up the avenue of emaciated, wintering chestnut trees to Dreycott Manor’s wide and symmetrical Georgian façade. Only the beat-up blue Ford, belonging to Brenda, the housekeeper, was parked out front, which meant the other family members – Rachel, Nick, Christopher and Lucy, in their Aston Martins and Mercs – had probably already left for the church, to be there in time to greet their fellow mourners as they arrived.

  ‘Do I look awful?’ Claire asked.

  ‘No.’ Her long black hair was piled luxuriantly on top of her head, but her sallow complexion worried Sam. As did the ash-grey bags beneath her eyes. She was skinny from too many cigarettes and late nights. He squeezed her hand tighter. ‘You look beautiful, the same as you always do,’ he reassured her. ‘You’re as beautiful as the day I met you.’

  Sam and Claire’s relationship had started with a bang. Literally. They’d jumped into bed within five minutes of meeting each other on a warm afternoon in September 1994.

  Looking down at her in the cool tiled hallway of her Palma apartment, as she’d set about unbuttoning his Levi’s, the last thing Sam had imagined was that they’d still be together nearly a decade later.

  He’d thought it was just casual sex. It had happened to him a couple of times before, after evenings spent kissing smoky, often drunk strangers in noisy London nightclubs after he’d left university. But it had never happened to him sober, never this quick, and never in the broad light of day. Not like now.

  As she swept her long dark hair back from her face – ‘she’, because he hadn’t yet learnt her name – and he let out a low groan, he thought how pretty she was and about how her brown eyes and tanned skin made her seem impossibly exotic compared with the quiet, pale-skinned girl he’d broken up with in London a
month before.

  He glimpsed the tiny tattooed on her bare ankle and wondered if it had hurt, and who she’d been with when she’d had it done. He wondered, too, if the new aftershave he was wearing possessed an aphrodisiac quality which might explain this otherwise totally inexplicable, yet fortuitous, turn of events. He also thought about her age.

  ‘When was the last time you had sex with someone fit, foxy and nineteen?’ she’d coyly asked him only a minute before.

  He hadn’t slept with anyone aged nineteen since he’d been nineteen himself, seven years earlier. He’d always imagined that girls aged nineteen wouldn’t have much to say that would be of interest to him, and vice versa. Nearly all of his friends were older than him, a lot older. He’d always cultivated the friendships of people already at the top.

  Only now, as this nineteen-year-old stranger stood up and told him how much she wanted to go to bed with him, and led him down the hallway and into her bedroom and pushed him down on the crumpled white sheets and switched on the overhead fan, and told him he looked incredible, and told him that she wanted him to take her right here right now, he discovered that he was actually very much interested in hearing every single husky nineteen-year-old syllable she had to say.

  ‘Claire,’ she answered, as they lay toe to toe in the bath two hours later.

  ‘Sam,’ he introduced himself back (although she hadn’t asked). He’d only come over to her apartment to get the phone number for the gas company, who hadn’t yet connected up the apartment below into which he’d just moved. That the remainder of his afternoon had segued into a barely credible plot line from a soft-porn film was something he was still attempting to fathom. He stared at Claire through the steam and breathed in the scent of aloe. ‘Do you, er, normally –’ he started to ask.

  She finished his question for him. ‘– sleep with guys before I’ve even told them my name? No. But it’s always been something I wanted to try.’

  The tap dripped, sending rippling rainbows out across the oily surface of the water. Maybe she was lying, he thought. Maybe she did do this kind of thing all the time. Maybe she was a nymph and this was how she got her kicks. Or then again, maybe she was telling the truth. Maybe she was just nineteen and curious about whether the racy romances she’d seen enacted on TV could be replicated in reality. He knew three things: she had a winning smile; it was still directed at him; and he was curious, too.