The Truth About Melody Browne (38 page)

Melody sat for a moment, entirely motionless, the letter held in her open hands and tried to piece together a person from the jumble of words, the bundle of unpretty clothes and the photos she’d seen in the newspapers. There was something childlike about her haphazard style of dressing, her explanation of the cycle of unhappiness that had brought her to incarceration in a mental facility and her eventual suicide, and even her floral wash-bag. It was clear to Melody that this woman would have been incapable of looking after her properly. There would have been no Brownies, no cakes, no visits to professional hair salons, and perfectly executed birthday parties. But more than that, Melody felt overwhelmed by a sense of empathy. She thought back to the first few months of Ed’s life, the constant fear of losing him that had accompanied every simple afternoon nap or trip to the supermarket. This woman, Jane Ribblesdale, had experienced the worst thing that could possibly happen, she had held her baby in her arms and then watched that baby die. There could be nothing worse, Melody thought, nothing worse in all the world.

She put the letter to one side and then she brought the third envelope onto her lap: Romany’s envelope. This, as Emily had told her, was where it had all begun. She peeled it open and then gasped at what she saw: another white plastic ankle band, a red rosebud, dried to the colour of sediment, and a photograph. She hadn’t been expecting a photograph. And there she was, her baby sister, tiny and pale, skin the colour of distemper, head bald and blotchy, hands held in tiny fists, staring directly into the camera with enormous dark eyes. On the back were the words: Romany Rosebud, 4 January 1977. The picture had been taken when she had just been born, perhaps before they knew that there was something wrong with her, when her parents were still happy and life had been set on a different course altogether.

Melody brought the photo closer to her and stared deeply into her sister’s eyes. ‘Hello,’ she whispered, ‘hello, Romany. I’m your big sister. It’s lovely to meet you, you’re very lovely, very lovely indeed …’

She sat like that, for a while, her dead mother’s clothes bunched up in her lap, emitting a strange, damp aroma, her sister’s photo in her hands, and she let herself cry for a while.

She glanced up at the portrait of the Spanish girl beside the window and she smiled at her. ‘You knew,’ she chastised gently, ‘you knew everything, and you never told me.’

Then, she put the objects back in the box, slid the photo of her dead sister into the glass of her dressing-table mirror, next to her mother’s necklace, and went to find her son, to take him out for lunch, to tell him the whole story.

True to the forecast, the next day dawned bright and warm. Melody let Ed sleep until midday and then she awoke him with eggs and bacon on toast, a mug of tea, and a pile of gifts. He smiled when he saw her sitting on the end of his bed. ‘Morning,’ he said.

‘Morning,’ she replied. ‘How does it feel to be a man?’

He smiled again. ‘Kind of cool,’ he said. ‘How does it feel to be the mother of a man?’

She laughed. ‘Bloody weird,’ she said. ‘Not sure how we got here so quickly.’

‘Doesn’t feel quick to me,’ said Ed. ‘I feel like I’ve been a kid all my life!’

He took the mug of tea from her and balanced the tray on his lap. ‘Everything feels different today,’ he said, ‘not just because of my birthday, but because of all that stuff you told me yesterday. I just feel all kind of …
excited
.’

‘You do?’

‘Yeah! I mean, my whole life’s been full of all this missing stuff – you know, my dad, my grandparents – and I was all right with all that because of you, and now it’s like, suddenly, all these new people, all this … history. Makes me feel like life’s just starting, you know what I mean?’

Melody stroked the top of his hand and nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I know exactly what you mean.’

‘Did you ask her?’ he said.

‘What, Emily?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes. And she’s coming. She said she’s going to pull a sickie. She can’t wait to meet you. And Ben’s coming too. He’s got a hospital appointment about his wrist anyway, so he’ll just come straight on from there.’

‘Cool,’ said Ed, picking up his cutlery.

‘You not going to open your presents?’ she asked.

‘Do you want me to?’ he asked.

‘Yeah,’ she smiled. ‘Go on.’

He unwrapped the iMac first. ‘Excellent!’ he said. ‘Thanks, Mum.’

He pulled her to him and kissed her on the cheek. And then he opened his other gift. Melody held her breath. It was a small photo album that she’d filled the night before, with precious, irreplaceable pictures. There was a picture of Ed in her arms, the night he was born, the photo of Melody on the beach at Broadstairs that Grace had given her, a photo of her father that Emily had posted the day after their meeting, a photo of Ed with Cleo and Charlie when they were all tiny, pictures of Jane Ribblesdale, Ed’s real grandmother, taken from the news cuttings, a printout of a picture of Melody and Emily she’d taken on her phone, and there, on the last page, was Romany Rosebud, his perfectly formed little auntie.

‘I want you to keep this for ever,’ Melody said, ‘and fill it with photos that really mean something to you, not just nights out with your mates, but the important things, your first love, your first baby, treasured things.’

Melody looked at him. She knew it wasn’t as exciting to him as the iMac and that he was probably wondering why she’d given it to him, but one day, when he was older, when he had a history of his own, she knew he’d appreciate it, he’d show these pictures to his own children and tell them about the aunt he never had a chance to know, the grandmother who let tragedy pull her under and the grandfather who never had a chance to make things right.

‘Thanks, Mum,’ he said, leafing through the pages. ‘Next page …’ he pointed at the blank page, ‘
Tiffany Baxter
!’

‘If she’s got any sense at all,’ Melody agreed. She put her arms out towards her son, she pulled him to her and hugged him as hard as she knew he’d let her.

Stacey, Pete and the kids were already there when they got to Lincoln’s Inn two hours later. They had installed their Swingball, laid out blankets and had already opened a bottle of Champagne. One of Stacey’s many extravagances, for which she always seemed to have just enough cash, was Champagne. There was little in the way of celebration that she would consider unworthy of the uncorking of a bottle of Champagne.

‘Gorgeous day!’ she trilled, heading towards Melody with a full glass and outstretched arms. They hugged and Melody noticed that her breath was minty fresh. She took the glass of Champagne from Stacey’s hand and looked at her quizzically. ‘Any news for me?’ she said.

‘Well, yes,’ she smiled, ‘I am officially pregnant. Six weeks today. And feeling like shit. Yay!’

‘Yay!’ agreed Melody and squeezed her best friend. ‘That’s fantastic! Are you happy?’

Stacey shrugged. ‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘I am. I’m not looking forward to getting fat again and all I can think about is booze and fags, but another baby, yeah – I can’t wait!’

And neither, thought Melody, could she. There hadn’t been a new baby since Clover, three years earlier, and now, with her heart full of little holes where babies should have been, Stacey’s news couldn’t have come at a better time. ‘That’s brilliant!’ she said, squeezing her again. ‘I’m so happy for you, I really am. Am I allowed to tell people?’

‘Yeah, of course you can. Everyone’ll guess the minute they see me without a fag in my hand anyway, so you may as well. And what about you?’ She gestured at Melody’s hand. ‘Are you still off the fags?’

‘Yes,’ said Melody, ‘I had one a few days ago, just made me even more sure that I really don’t like it any more.’

‘Weird,’ said Stacey, ‘really weird.’

‘I know,’ said Melody. ‘The whole thing’s been weird, really weird indeed.’ And she was about to start trying to explain what had been happening to her for the past fortnight, when someone tapped her on her shoulder and she turned round and it was Emily.

‘Hi!’ she smiled. ‘Sorry I’m early!’

Stacey looked from Melody to Emily, and then back again, her eyes wide with incredulity. ‘Oh my God,’ she said, before Melody could squeeze in an introduction. ‘You two look like twins!’

Melody and Emily smiled at each other and then at Stacey.

‘Emily,’ said Melody, ‘this is Stacey. My best friend. That over there is Pete, her husband, and her kids, Cleo, Charlie and Clover. And in there,’ she pointed at Stacey’s stomach, ‘is another little one on the way.’

‘Oh,’ said Emily, ‘congratulations!’

‘Thank you,’ said Stacey, throwing Melody a curious look.

‘Stacey,’ she said, ‘this is Emily. Emily is my baby sister.’

Stacey looked at both of them again, her face a picture of confusion. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I think I could have guessed that. And the reason I’ve known you for eighteen years and you’ve never told me about a baby sister before, is … ?’

Melody smiled and took her friend’s hand. ‘I’ve had quite a couple of weeks,’ she said. ‘Help me get this food unpacked and I’ll tell you all about it.’

The afternoon unfolded before Melody’s eyes like something out of a dream. The sun shone without a pause, the Champagne and beer flowed, and for once Melody wasn’t using Stacey and her family as a kind of prop. She had her own people here today. Ben, tall and handsome in his business suit, pared down in the hot afternoon sun to a pale blue shirt, unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, smart suit trousers and bare feet; Emily, giggly with Champagne and the excitement of being somewhere she’d always dreamed of being, and Melody’s own, beautiful son, stripped to the waist and leaping high into the sky to reach for a Frisbee, his young body taut and furled, ready to take on the world.

She saw Pete gently cup his wife’s tiny stomach while Cleo and her boyfriend sat entwined beneath a tree, sharing a bowl of strawberries. Clover was being spun in circles by her big brother, Charlie, and Ed’s friends from school, kids she’d been serving beans and chips to every day since they were eleven, hung around in little groups, tucking into the buffet that Melody had provided, drinking beer from bottlenecks and flirting with each other.

Behind a tree, hidden from view, Melody and Stacey lit the candles on a huge chocolate cake, made by Stacey and Cleo, and brought it out to a chorus of ‘Happy Birthday To You’. Melody stared in awe at her son’s face as he blew out the eighteen candles. She thought of that face over the years – three years old, five years old, ten years old – those same cheeks filled with air, that same look of concentration, that same beautiful profile that had once made her think only of his estranged father and now made her think of a man called John Ribblesdale and a woman called Jane Newsome and she felt even prouder than she had before.

The cake was divided into large blocks and passed around on paper plates. Ben sat down next to Melody and draped his arm across her shoulder. She liked it there, and gently pushed her body closer to his. Across the blanket, she could see Ed talking to Tiffany Baxter, the object of his affections. How much more he had to offer her now, she thought – not just a mother, but a mother with roots, a mother on the brink of something new and wonderful, a real family.

Emily sat down next to her and Ben, and crossed her legs. It amazed Melody to think that for Emily it was completely normal that Melody should be sitting here with a man, that to Emily, Melody having a man in her life was unremarkable and entirely to be expected.

‘Wow,’ Emily said, looking around her, ‘I really
love
your world!’

And that was it, thought Melody, that was exactly it, succinctly and completely. Melody had always loved her son, always loved her friends and her flat, but until this exact moment, she had never loved her world. And more importantly, until the doors to her memory had been unlocked two weeks ago by an over-tanned prat in a mohair suit, she had never really loved herself.

Melody brought her other arm around her sister and sat there for a while, safe, and happy, full of Champagne, chocolate cake and hope for the future.

Melody Browne is Dead! she thought to herself. Long Live Melody Ribblesdale!

The taxi driver refused to take his car up the potholed dirt path that led to the farmhouse, and dumped Melody and her rucksack on the side of the road. She gave him a tip anyway, primed as she was to give everyone she met at every juncture of her first trip abroad a tip, just to be on the safe side.

She eyed the road ahead warily. It didn’t seem possible that there could be a house up there, with people living in it, but this was definitely the right place, unless there was another dirt track next to a wind farm with a sign outside saying ‘El Durado’. She slung her rucksack over her shoulder and started to walk, the afternoon sun burning overhead like a ball of fire, sweat trickling down her spine and dampening the underarms of her T-shirt.

The rucksack was Ben’s. It was scuffed and weathered and festooned with old airline tags. Ben’s rucksack was more widely travelled than Melody. He’d seen her off at the airport at five forty this morning, bleary-eyed and full of sleep, but insistent. ‘I want to see you go,’ he’d said. ‘I want to watch you so I know what it looked like when you finally found your wings.’