The Truth About Melody Browne (27 page)

Melody had been here for almost half her life, yet had formed no allegiances and barely a handful of acquaintances. People came and people went. And the people who stuck around were somehow just beyond her reach; single men she’d avoided, in case they got the wrong idea, couples she’d avoided because she thought they might look down upon her, elderly people she’d avoided, in case they took advantage of her, and foreigners and immigrants she’d avoided because she couldn’t speak their language. She’d kept herself very much to herself over the years and it was only now, as she unpeeled the layers of her own personal history, that she began to wonder why she’d allowed herself to become so cloistered. And then she realised – she kept her distance because the closer people got to you the more questions they asked, and the more questions they asked, the more inadequate she felt and now, although they were still unformed and only half-baked, she finally had some answers. Now, she thought, now she was almost someone.

She turned back to the letter and she started writing.

The following day, Melody did two more remarkable things: first, she left a message with a PA at the LA agency that represented Jacqui Sonningfeld. ‘My name is Melody Ribblesdale,’ she’d said. ‘I’m sure she’ll remember me. She used to be my stepmother.’ And then, half an hour later, she slid the letter to Seth Stone into a letterbox on Endell Street, her fingers crossed tight for luck. She sat for a moment on the fire escape after that and breathed in deeply, savouring the calm before the storm. She’d set the ball rolling, put the cat amongst the pigeons. Nothing would ever be the same again.

Every waking moment of Melody’s life was now taken up with questions. Her head was constantly bubbling over with things she’d like to ask, mentally composing letters to Jane Ribblesdale, to her parents, to Jacqui Sonningfeld and to her sister. There was a whole cast of characters out there, all lined up and waiting to meet her, but that’s all they were, characters.

Until 9.17 a.m. on Tuesday morning.

Melody was in the living room, watching breakfast TV and trying to decide what to do with the rest of her day when her mobile phone rang. It was an unknown number.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, is that Melody?’ It was a strident female voice, slightly salty, and underlain with a Transatlantic twang.

‘Yes, speaking.’

‘Oh my God, this is unbelievable! It’s Jacqui here, Jacqui Sonningfeld! I just got your message!’

‘Oh God, Jacqui, I …’ Melody jumped to her feet and pulled her fingers through her hair.

‘I haven’t got you up too early, have I?’

‘No, no!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s fine! I’ve been up for –’

‘My God! How are you?’

‘I’m fine, I’m good.
I’m excited
! How are you?’

‘Yeah, I’m fantastic. Couldn’t believe it when I got your message. Just such a shock. I’ve been wondering about you for years, always wanted to know what had become of you. Listen, Emily’s in London! She moved over about two years ago, working for the BBC. You must track her down. You’re like a mythological figure in our house! She talked about you her whole childhood! Here, take her number down, call her, she’ll be totally amazed!’

‘Oh, right, yes …’ She scrabbled around in the drawer of the coffee table to locate a pen and take down the number. ‘And Charlotte?’ she said. ‘How is Charlotte?’

‘Oh, Charlotte is Charlotte, you know. Just filing for divorce from husband number two, still hasn’t given me any grandchildren, still waiting for her big break, still a pain in the arse. And you? Tell me what happened to you?’

‘Oh, nothing much to tell. I had a son, very young, I work in a school, I’m single.’

‘And what happened to you, after, you know …’

‘What, after my dad died?’

‘Yeah, after your dad died.’

‘Well, I don’t know, I’m not really very sure. My childhood’s all a bit of a blur. I mean, I only just remembered you, and Emily. I walked past a house, in Goodge Street …’

‘Oh, wow, the old place in London! How did it look?’

‘It looked fine, it looked great. I went in and they told me that Charlotte had sold them the house …’

‘They’re still there, then, the American family?’

‘Uh-huh. But it’s taken me a while to put the pieces together.’

‘I should say. You had a very disjointed childhood. But what happened to you after, you know, your mother … ? You were with your aunt, right?’

‘Yeah, I think so, but then I ended up living with a couple called Clive and Gloria Browne.’

‘You mean you were adopted?’

‘I don’t know. I think so …’

‘Wow …’ Jacqui’s voice trailed off. ‘Jees, I’m really sorry, I didn’t realise, I …’ She paused, and Melody could hear her inhaling on a cigarette. ‘Well, look, it’s late here and I’ve got to be on set in four hours. I have to go get some zeds. But listen, call Emily, call her now. She’ll be the happiest girl in the world! And stay in touch. Please. I mean, in a strange way, it’s almost like you’re family …’

Melody switched off her phone and let it fall on the sofa. Lorraine Kelly was still gabbling excitedly about a fake tan product, just as she had been before Melody’s phone had rung. Melody switched off the television. And then she squeaked with excitement.

‘Oh my God!’ she whispered to herself. ‘Oh my God! I’ve found my sister! I’ve found my sister! Oh my God!’ She ran around the flat a few times, unable to settle or rest in one spot before screaming again and running to the next place. Eventually she sat breathlessly on the edge of the sofa and stared at her phone in amazement. She could pick it up right now, press eleven buttons and one minute later she’d be talking to her sister, her actual sister. And then, as she stared at it, it suddenly began to ring, loudly, aggressively. She jumped and picked it up. She didn’t recognise the number. Could it be her? Could it be Emily? She pressed ‘answer’. ‘Hello?’

‘Hi, is that Melody?’ It wasn’t Emily. It was a man, with an accent that suggested the London suburbs.

‘Yes.’

‘Hi! This is Seth. Seth Stone.’

‘Oh God, Seth, I didn’t think you’d get my letter …’

‘Yeah, our PA opened it this morning, got all excited, phoned me straight away. How are you?’

‘I’m fine. I’m … having quite a morning. I mean, do you even remember me? I don’t suppose you do.’

‘No, I don’t remember you, seen you in photos, though.’

‘You have?’

‘Yeah, my mum had a few from the days of the squat. There’s this great one of you that my dad took, down on the beach at Viking Bay. You’re wearing red sunglasses and pink jelly shoes. It was always up on the pin-board in our house …’

‘What, seriously?’

‘Yeah, my mum loved that picture. She used to touch it when she passed by. I think she felt bad, you know, that you got taken away, that she lost touch.’

‘So your mum, is she, still … ?’

‘Alive? Oh God, yeah, well and truly. She’s coming up for seventy now, but she’s still teaching yoga.’

‘In Folkestone?’

‘Yeah, in Folkestone. How did you know that?’

‘I found her on the internet, on a website about yoga teachers.’

‘Oh, right, well, yeah, she’s still teaching, she can still do the splits, still full of zest, you know. God, you’ll have to call her. She’ll be so amazed to hear from you. She’ll be so happy, I swear …’

Melody took a deep breath before asking the next question, her heart fearing the worst. ‘And what about your dad? What happened to Ken? Does he still live in Broadstairs?’

‘Ah, no, not quite, dear old dad lives in Spain now, moved there when I was about three, after the squat got repossessed. Had it with the UK. Gave up trying to make a difference, and then he and his mates Kate and Michael bought an old farmhouse for about ten quid and turned it into an eco-lodge, and this was like decades before it was fashionable. Growing their own food, killing their own meat, living off the land, no chemicals, all that business. He’s married to a Spanish woman now, they’ve got about six kids, plus there’s always loads of people moving in and out. I think there might have been another couple of Ken sprogs along the way.’

‘So, do you still see him?’

‘Yeah, of course, I’m there every other Christmas. I always stop by for a few days when I need to wind down, after a tour or whatever. You should go over and see him – he’d be over the moon, seriously.’

‘Does he remember me then?’

‘God, yeah, of course. I think he always half expected you to just walk into the room at any moment. He always said you and he had this bond, that you’d find each other again. And looks like he was right …’

Melody smiled victoriously. Of course. Of course! The sense of significance that she’d had about her relationship with this man called Ken, from the very first moment he’d re-entered her consciousness two weeks ago, the feeling of a deeply shared love, of kindredness, it was all real!

‘And what about Matty? What happened to Matty?’

‘Oh, yeah, Matty. He’s, well, things didn’t turn out so great for Matty. He kind of lost his way a bit.’

‘Oh, why, what happened?’

‘Oh, lots of things. His dad died, his marriage didn’t work out, he started drinking.’

‘Like his dad?’

‘Yeah, just like his dad. He lives with Mum now, mostly, except when he’s on a bender.’

‘Then what?’

‘Well, then he just goes AWOL, missing, no one sees him for a few weeks, living rough, I expect, down in Broadstairs.’

‘Oh!’ said Melody, suddenly putting two separate pieces of her jigsaw together. ‘Matthew!’

‘Yeah, he’s Matthew now, been Matthew for years.’

‘But I know him! I mean, I met him, in Broadstairs. He’s the man with the curly hair, the man who talked to me.’

‘And how was he? How did he seem?’

‘Well, drunk, mainly.’

‘Yup, that’s Matthew.’

‘God, I can’t believe I didn’t recognise him.’

‘Yeah, well, he’s a long way from that little kid with the bag full of scalpels and rabbits’ feet.’

Melody thought about the scraps of memories she had of the boy in the squat, the serious, olive-skinned boy, always looking for the drama in life, always searching for a narrative. Now it appeared he’d abandoned his search and allowed his life to unravel completely.

‘That’s so sad.’

‘Yeah, it is. It’s a bit of an unhappy ending, really. I don’t know what happens to him after Mum goes, you know. I fear for that day, because then there’ll be nowhere safe for him to be, no one to look out for him …’ He paused. ‘Look, I’ve got to go now – we’re at the studio, the guys are waiting for me – but give my mum a ring. She’ll be made up, totally.’

‘And your dad, how can I get in touch with him?’

‘Well, that’s a bit trickier – no phones – but drop him a line or, better still, book a flight. Turn up on his doorstep. Make his dream come true.’

Melody hung up a moment later and stared at the notepad by her hand. She had collected, within the space of half an hour, a phone number for her sister, a phone number for Grace and an address in Andalusia for Ken Stone. She had spoken to her former stepmother and a boy she’d lived with in the squat in Broadstairs, and discovered that she’d already met Matty without even realising it. But in all the excitement and fluster of new discovery she’d failed to do the most important thing of all. She hadn’t asked anyone what had happened to her mother.

That night in bed, filled with a sense of encroaching completeness, Melody picked up her mobile phone and opened the last text message from Ben. She pressed reply and wrote: ‘Hi. Sorry been out of touch. Too much to deal with right now. How about dinner here one night next week?’

She had just put the phone back on her bedside table when it lit up.

‘No worries about going AWOL. Totally understand. Would really like to have dinner at yours. Monday night too soon?’

‘Monday good. Ed will be here too. Hope that’s OK.’

‘That’s cool. Are you too tired for a chat?’

Melody stared at the message for a while. This was fine, this texting business. This was within her control. She texted back: ‘Yeah, a bit. Need to sleep. Let’s chat on Monday.’

‘Sure,’ came Ben’s reply. ‘Sleep tight. Etc. etc.’

‘Zzzzzzzzzzz’

‘Xxxxxxxxx’

Melody smiled, switched off her phone, and turned off the bedside lamp.

Melody stood in front of the small neat house in Spinners Way and appraised it. It was very new, very modern, the ground floor built from red bricks, white plastic cladding on the first floor, and a chimney built out of bricks that were lots of different colours. It sat in a neat circle of similar houses in a road shaped like a horseshoe. It had a small driveway, leading to a garage with a blue up-and-over door, and a monkey puzzle tree in the front garden. It was a nice house, it looked clean and fresh and happy.

At Melody’s feet were her possessions: a small suitcase filled with all the pretty clothes that Aunt Susie had bought for her, her painting of the Spanish girl, tied up with string, and a small rucksack filled with schoolbooks and mementoes, including a dried mouse that Matty had given her.