The Bad Mother (10 page)

Seeing Tamsin was already difficult enough. He never brought friends home unless he could help it; the B&B was too public, too hard to explain to people who lived in normal homes. Besides, he knew his mum would refuse to let him take a girl up to his bedroom, and there wasn’t anywhere else to hang out without Lauren sticking around, and she’d embarrass him by going on about which
celebrities Tamsin had met. But Tamsin wasn’t wholly comfortable in her own house either. Which was kind of strange, because everything in it had been designed to be just the way you’d want it. Lights dimmed, sound systems followed you from room to room, shutters adjusted to the movement of the sun, the sofas were huge and soft, the TV was the biggest plasma screen you could imagine, and the fridge was glass-fronted like in a supermarket – you didn’t even have to open the door to see what you fancied to eat.

Mitch had now been introduced to Charlie Crawford who, glued to his iPhone, had merely raised a hand and turned away. Mitch had also met Quinn, the improbably named nanny, who, as Tamsin said, didn’t seem to have caught on to the fact that she was no longer in La-La Land. Quinn’s one skill seemed to be making fruit smoothies, which were, he had to admit, delicious. All the same, he could see it wasn’t much fun for Tamsin spending so much time with only Quinn for company, especially as she’d told him how much she missed her mum and wanted her to come home, even though she knew the work she’d been asked to do researching costumes for a film was a fantastic opportunity.

Their best times were out walking Blanco, following the marshland and coastal paths. Tamsin had been anxious the first time she let the dog off the lead, and didn’t let him go far before blowing on the special high-frequency whistle the dog-trainer had given them. But Blanco responded immediately, and after that they’d relaxed and
let him bound ahead. She worried they’d get lost among the tall reeds, but Mitch reassured her how familiar he was with the various landmarks in sight along the higher ground, how he’d spent his childhood exploring the paths and waterways. Without thinking, he’d named an unusual warbler as it darted out of sight, and she’d been genuinely interested, even asking him to identify some other birds. She was so easy to be with, he almost forgot she was a girl – except that she was unlike any other human creature he had ever seen. He could look at her forever.

He couldn’t remember how it had happened, but during their second walk they’d ended up holding hands. And before he left her, he had kissed her. Just lips to lips, but hers were soft and warm and, close up, her skin and hair smelled like heaven. After that, slowly, every day, they’d touched a bit more. Faces, then arms, then his hands on her waist, hers on his shoulders. Everything was all the more precious for being chaste, for being a way of getting to know one another, the same as the long conversations in which they took turns to tell about their family, friends, school, likes, dislikes and dreams. There was nothing about her he didn’t want to know.

He knew Lauren was onto him. She’d even tried to follow him once, and he’d had to threaten to tell Tessa how the day Lauren took off school with ‘food poisoning’ had been due to drinking half a bottle of Bailey’s at a friend’s house the previous night. He knew he was being mean, that Lauren missed hanging out with him and that she wasn’t as happy as she made out about Nula being around all
the time. He could see that she always had her hand in a bag of crisps or the biscuit tin because she was bored and lonely, but he couldn’t help her. Being with Tamsin was like being on a different planet, and there simply wasn’t room to think about Lauren as well.

He closed his history file: European nationalism in the nineteenth century could wait. He picked up his phone and sent Tamsin a text asking if Blanco fancied a walk. He’d worry about his exams later.

FOURTEEN

Declan’s email was infuriating.
Hi Tessa
, he’d written.
I think I may have some information for you about Roy Weaver. But you may not like it. I thought about not telling you, but it’s your decision. What would you like me to do? Regards, Declan xx
.

Tessa got up from the desk, went down to the basement and started to take a load of washing out of the machine, giving herself time to consider her reaction. The kids were out and there would be no guests in the house until later. She hung the pillowcases on the pulley maid, tightened the rope to raise it back to the ceiling, and pushed the towels into the dryer to make them soft and fluffy, all the while allowing a decision to form itself in her mind.

She returned to the computer, and typed her reply:
Hi Declan, Thanks for your help. Whatever it is, I’d like to know. Best wishes, Tessa
. She pressed Send, and sat back. Whatever she had set in motion, her action recognised the impossibility of wondering for the rest of her life what Declan
had found out. Good or bad – and it clearly wasn’t unadulterated good – she had to know.

The computer pinged, and she was taken by surprise to see that Declan had replied straight away. Her mouth went dry and her fingers trembled as she opened his email. It contained three links. She clicked on the first one, and read the brief newspaper report. The second was another short report, dated about eight months after the first. The third, from a different newspaper, was slightly longer, and, with an accompanying grainy black-and-white photograph, reported the conviction for murder at Manchester Crown Court of Roy Weaver, forty-eight, a design consultant from Chester.

Tessa stared at the face in an indistinct newspaper photograph taken twelve or more years earlier. The phone on the desk rang and, automatically, she picked it up. ‘Sea-front B&B.’

‘Are you Ok?’ It was Declan. ‘I had to call. I feel terrible, being the one to tell you.’

‘How do you know it’s him?’

‘Geoff – he’s Head of Security for the whole UK operation – says he cross-checked everything.’

‘You’re absolutely certain?’

‘I wouldn’t have sent it otherwise. Born in Manchester in 1951. Studied architecture there. Turns up in the 1981 census in Salford as a college lecturer. Unmarried.’

‘He killed a woman.’

‘Newspaper says she was a girlfriend. Most murders are domestic. Could’ve been a crime of passion, a one-off.’

Tessa stared at the screen, not knowing what to say.

‘Geoff says if you want to hire a researcher, you should be able to get more detail on the trial.’

‘Ok.’

‘I think he pulled a few strings to get this far.’

‘Tell him I’m grateful. But it’s a shock.’

‘I’m so sorry, Tessa.’

‘Don’t be. Better to know.’

‘I guess. Look, I have to run. I’m at work, but my mobile number’s on the email, in case you want to talk later.’

‘Thanks, Declan.’

‘Ok, then. If you’re sure you’re all right, I’ll say goodbye.’

‘Bye.’

Tessa hung up. Somehow the idea of Declan, a man she hardly knew, having this knowledge about her seemed worse than possessing it herself. Women in Greek myths were always punished for their curiosity: well, now it had happened to her.

She tried googling some of the details in the brief newspaper reports, but could find nothing more online; had there been, she was sure Declan’s security expert would have provided it. Unless Erin was mistaken, or there was another Roy Weaver of the same age who had also studied architecture in Manchester, then the man in the indistinguishable photo was almost certainly her father. She wondered if Erin knew that he was in prison, but dismissed the idea. There were no lurid headlines to win syndication of the story in Australia, so why should she have found out? Tessa’s fleeting regret that the story of
summer romance had been tarnished gave way to curiosity: what on earth could have happened to the handsome young architectural student for him to end up convicted of murder?

Tessa stared again at the photo on the screen, willing it to reveal more. Embodied in this face was a new genetic blueprint, a whole new story about who she was and where she came from. Not only her, but also her kids; this one man gave them all new grandparents and great-grandparents and great-great-grandparents. Yet all she knew about him were the stark words of the crime reports, stubbornly reminding her that she was left with only one bare fact: she was the daughter of a criminal.

She looked at her watch. Hugo and Pamela were due for lunch. After their last meeting Hugo had taken Tessa at her word and left her alone, but the Easter holidays would soon end and Mitch and Lauren wanted to see their grandparents before school began again. Hugo had his key – they would let themselves in – so she closed Declan’s email and went downstairs to lay the table.

As she carried out the familiar tasks, she attempted to scan her reaction. Overall, elation at having identified Roy Weaver outweighed the – what? She wasn’t yet sure how she felt about his crime: disappointment, revulsion, distaste, fear, pity? The random images that came to mind – a lifeless body on the floor, bloodstains, a penitent or defiant man being led away in handcuffs – seemed overly dramatic, the stuff of movies. Surely, when all was said and done, he was still an ordinary man?

Tessa heard the front door open and close, and then descending footsteps. Pamela followed Hugo into the kitchen. Tessa knew her refusal to acknowledge Pamela’s hesitation was childish, but she felt justified. Any reminder of the obduracy with which Pamela and Hugo had held out against telling her the truth unleashed an unmanageable rush of grief and anger. It was up to them, not her, to make amends.

Once Mitch and Lauren drifted in Tessa was able to withdraw from much of the conversation and to observe her ‘social parents’ – a term she had learned from an adoption website she’d consulted – from her new perspective. They were no longer her mum and dad but adults who kept secrets, and she was not their daughter but a child they had lied to and misled. She wondered how much their shared secrets had formed the two of them, how far it was the dread of exposure that had left them so uptight and reserved, and how different they and their marriage might otherwise have been.

Observing Pamela unobtrusively move the carton of ice cream out of reach before Lauren could help herself to an extra portion, Tessa was struck by how much of her mother’s constant vigilance must stem from having always to navigate around the hidden rock of the adoption. But she continued to resist any pull towards sympathy for them: they had chosen to nurture their secret and she had been left helpless, out of the loop, forced to be ignorant against her will. They had not cared what happened to her.

As Mitch and Lauren got up from the table, Tessa remembered something she wanted to tell her daughter. ‘I ordered that film you wanted,’ she said. ‘The DVD came in today’s post. I’ll watch it with you tonight, if you like.’

‘Seen it already,’ replied Lauren as she gave Hugo a hug. ‘Nula had it. It’s fun though. You should see it,’ she added, turning to kiss Pamela.

Tessa couldn’t miss the sympathy in the look Pamela directed at her over Lauren’s shoulder. As soon as the kids disappeared upstairs, Tessa got up and began to clear the table. Her hands shook as she stacked the dishwasher. Hugo came up behind her, handing her more dirty plates. ‘All right?’

She looked into his kind, open face. He had aged since he retired, although it was only since Erin’s appearance that she had noticed. It gave her pause for thought: she didn’t really wish to hurt either one of them. She shook her head. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Just tired.’

‘You ought to talk to Lauren about how she’s putting on weight, you know,’ said Pamela. ‘It’s probably only getting into the wrong habits, but all the same you want to nip it in the bud.’

‘It’s just puppy fat,’ responded Tessa.

‘It may be as simple as not putting so much fattening food in front of her.’

‘I’ve got enough on my mind right now.’

‘I could make you a big batch of fruit salad if you like,’ persisted Pamela.

‘I don’t need you to tell me how to bring up my daughter!’

‘Hey,’ soothed Hugo. ‘Let’s not start a fight over it.’

‘You have no idea!’ Tessa slammed the dishwasher shut, rattling the crockery inside.

‘Then sit down and talk to us,’ he replied.

Tessa looked from one to the other: Pamela apprehensive and miserable, Hugo tense but determined to be reasonable. She could not help experiencing a defiant satisfaction that for the first time in her life she possessed knowledge that they did not, that the tables had been turned. ‘I’ve found my father,’ she announced.

She regretted her brusqueness immediately. Hugo dropped heavily onto the nearest chair, his mouth falling open in shock, and Pamela went to stand behind him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. She met Tessa’s eyes, a look of panic in her own. ‘Tell us, then. Who is he?’

Tessa sat down across the table from them, sorry now for dragging them into it. ‘Erin told me a few facts about him, and I’m pretty certain it’s the right man.’

‘What did Erin tell you?’ asked Pamela anxiously.

‘Not much, but enough to track him down.’ Tessa took a deep breath. ‘He’s in prison for murder.’

‘Oh no!’ It was Pamela who reacted first, her hand across her mouth. She gripped Hugo’s shoulder, supporting herself as she sank into the seat beside him. ‘What kind of murder?’

‘He killed his partner twelve years ago. That’s all I know.’

‘His partner? A woman?’

‘I can show you the press reports, if you like. They’re
pretty basic. They didn’t give any details so it can’t have been a very sensational crime.’

‘But you’ll stay away from him, now that you know?’ pleaded Pamela.

Tessa nodded. Seeing her paternity through their anxious eyes made her feel contaminated and dirty, made her want to repel the connection, unmake it, return to when Declan’s email had never existed.

‘If only Erin had stopped to think before coming back here,’ began Hugo, as if following Tessa’s own line of thought. ‘She’s no idea what she’s started.’

‘She’s paid her own price,’ said Pamela quietly. ‘None of this was Erin’s fault. If you have to blame someone blame my mother – blame Averil. Blame me.’