Wronged Sons, The (22 page)

I enjoyed doing coupley things like visiting the cinema and the theatre; taking long walks by the canal with Oscar or visiting woodwork and textile museums. We took an interest in what interested each other and slowly, I began to develop real feelings for Tom, so much more than just a crush on the first boy who’d showed me a glimmer of interest.

The kids were the only part of my life I wasn’t ready to share. My relationship with them was as honest as it could possibly be, so I didn’t want to lie by keeping him hidden like a dirty little secret.

But I didn’t want to rock the boat either. James’ temper no longer had me on tenterhooks and he focused all his energies on his guitar. I was so proud the first time I saw him on stage playing in the school orchestra, that I embarrassed him by being the only mum to stand up and cheer when he finished his first public solo.

Robbie’s conversational skills were also gradually improving. I’d resigned myself to the fact he was never going to be a chatterbox like Emily. But when he started accepting invitations to school friends’ birthday parties, I knew we’d turned a corner.

So I began by slipping Tom’s name into conversations here and there, explaining he was a friend of Mummy’s from night school. But as our dates became more frequent, Emily was the first to cotton on there might be more to him than just the man who helped mummy with her maths homework.

“Can we meet your friend please?” she asked as we fed stale bread to the ducks in park.

“Which friend?”

“The one who makes you smile. Tom.”

“Why do you say he makes me smile?” I asked, and felt my face go bright red.

“Whenever tell us you’re seeing him, the corners of your mouth go up like this,” she replied, giving me a huge, cheeky grin. “You love him!”

“Yes Mummy, why can’t we meet him?” chirped James.

So to my delight and terror, the decision had been made for me.

July 9, 7.35pm

I’d both looked forward to and dreaded Tom meeting the children in equal measures. It’d just been the four of us for so long that I’d forgotten what it felt like to be a five.

The day before he came, I’d had a sit-down chat with the kids to explain Tom wasn’t going to replace you, and if they didn’t like him, they should tell me. I’d always put their feelings before mine so if it meant Tom and I were going to be prematurely nipped in the bud, then so be it.

By the time he knocked at the door, I was fully prepared for them to charge through the full gamut of childhood emotions like tantrums, awkward silences, hostility and general boundary pushing. How wrong could I have been? They were so inquisitive, well mannered and polite that I thought I might have to reassure Tom I wasn’t raising the Stepford Children. I also felt bad for not giving them more credit.

Tom was relaxed and had a natural chemistry with them, despite not being a dad himself. He paid each one equal attention and they couldn’t wait to show him their bedrooms and toys. Even Robbie spoke a little to him, a huge sign of his approval.

As I stood at the kitchen sink washing up the dinner dishes, I closed my eyes and took a moment to listen to our children’s laughter and a man’s voice echoing around the house.

I’d not expected me, or the walls, to hear that again.

November 24, 4.45pm

Introducing another ball into my juggling act was tricky, but I found a way to make it work.

I was winning in my battle against basic bookkeeping, and Margaret was winding down and dreaming of sunnier climes. Tom knew he was going to come third in line for my attention, after the kids and the boutique. And although we weren’t able to see each other as often as we’d have liked, he understood.

Twice a week he slept at our house, and once a week when Selena babysat, I’d stay at his. Most evenings he joined us for dinner and would end his day being pulled in three different directions by six hands for bedtime stories and baths.

Tom had been in a rock group during his university days but his attempts to seduce me away from my George Michael and Phil Collins CDs and towards his Led Zeppelin collection were wasted. But James was more than willing to soak up new sounds so Tom took him to see bands I’d never heard of at music venues in Birmingham and Cambridge and they’d arrive home, singing at the top of their voices and holding armfuls of tour merchandise and tat.

I let him move his tools and wood into your garage workspace and soon the smell of fresh sawdust wafted regularly around the garden.

Tom was aware you were a presence that would remain in the cottage for as long as his new family did. But if it bothered him, he never showed it. I grew used to having a man around the house and he reminded me of how much I’d enjoyed it with you.

And then from beyond the grave, you ruined it all.

***

San Francisco, America, Twenty-Three Years Earlier

January 7, 3.35pm

With Betty consigned to a smelted shell wedged into the desert floor, I relied on Greyhound coaches and railways to ferry me around. They carried me up through Canada, then back down into America and towards middle states like Utah and Nevada. But my surroundings were unimportant as long as I kept active. Solitude posed the greatest threat to my state of mind because it allowed me time to think.

On my arrival in France, I had a firm understanding of how my thought process operated and I’d manipulated it accordingly. If I didn’t want to think about something, it was consigned to a box and then closed tight. But I couldn’t shut Caroline away with such ease.

Her death began to eat at me like a cancer. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make the lid fit. Flashbacks of her fateful moments galloped around my head like lemmings; pulling me in a multitude of directions, always searching for the cliff’s edge.

My reaction eventually made me question whether I’d dealt with our confrontation correctly, otherwise why had it played so heavy on my mind? The others hadn’t made me feel like that. Why could I not stop hearing her voice as it screamed my name? Why did my cheek still sting from her slaps? Why couldn’t I blank out the terrified confusion in her eyes when I pushed her?

I reminded myself countless times it was Caroline who’d forced my hand, and not the other way round. But it wasn’t enough. Every town and city housed an area of dodgy repute making narcotics easy to source once you spotted the familiar signs of decay in its residents. Cocaine became the only thing that kept my thoughts of Caroline sedated.

I still enjoyed cannabis, but only as my night-time buttress. I’d smoke a few joints and delay retiring to bed for as long as possible, so the moment I slipped into my sleeping bag, I was too exhausted and relaxed to analyse anything.

I constantly kept moving, and crammed as many activities as I could into my weeks. I’d visit notable landmarks, seek adrenaline thrills like white water rafting and rock climbing, or spend time with other travellers discussing the next place to visit. The more unmarked paths I explored, the less opportunity there was to revisit those I knew too well.

The prospect of being more than a few days in one location and risk further muddling scared me. But I couldn’t spend the rest of my life running and eventually, something had to give.

Eighteen months in perpetual motion left my bones begging for rest and my mind longing for unclouded breathing space. And so on the recommendation of others, I settled on San Francisco as a bolthole for respite.

I stood at the summit of one of the city’s twin peaks on my arrival and understood why so many out-of-towners had left their hearts there. Its magnificent panoramic views; adorable Victorian-style houses and milky, misty skies were as beguiling as they were calming.

I stayed at the Height Ashbury Hostel, which nestled quietly in the centre of what, twenty years earlier, had been the heart of the hippie insurgence. With its broad-minded reputation and artistic bent, it wasn’t hard to spot by clothing alone those who’d once worn flowers in their hair and preached an ethos of peace and love. San Francisco’s compact nature enabled me to absorb its entirety by foot. It was a world away from the sprawling landscapes I’d scoped from inside train and bus windows. And as my body slowed down, gradually my brain followed suit.

There were plenty of parks, museums, galleries, architecture and coffee houses for me to relax in and to gawk at the absurd walking shoulder to shoulder with the elegant. I was at home in a city of misfits.

The hostel’s vibe replicated that of its surroundings, reminding me of the temporary peace and safety I’d found at the Routard International. Like its predecessor, it too was a former hotel that had witnessed better days.

However, the only restoration project I had a vested interest in, was me. Until someone made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.

April 20, 5pm

It was through my exposure to dozens of hostels with varying quality of facilities that I was able to advise Mike, the relatively inexperienced proprietor of Height Ashbury hostel.

I’d become an expert in the minimal requirements a budget traveller expected, and he leant a willing ear to my suggestions. But what began as a casual proffering of opinions over a jug of Budweiser escalated to an employment offer as manager.

I had drifted towards the city to gather myself, and three months of being in a fresh environment and my self-medication brought me back to whom I’d been when I first embarked on my adventure.

And my old self appreciated a new challenge. So a free reign to build a business from scraps was too interesting an opportunity to reject. It would also help my ever-active mind to remain focused with constructive ideas. I hadn’t felt such purpose since I’d walked along the Rue Du Jean as flames from a burning hotel nipped at my heels.

I held court at twice-weekly travel workshops, in which I’d advise guests of off-the-beaten-track destinations, where to find work without a Green Card and how to make their dollars stretch further. I liaised with hostels cross-country to set up discounts for mutual recommendations. And having briefly once been the guest of a homeless shelter myself in London, I encouraged our patrons to spare a few hours to serve lunches in the downtown soup kitchen.

But away from my distractions, sleep still proved elusive. So when I wasn’t inducing a nocturnal cannabis coma, I was leading guests out on bar and club crawls around the Mission district. Darren Glasper was a decade my junior, and I found it physically challenging to keep up with the partying of those even younger than him.

The only way to gain stamina for those interminably energetic nights was to up my cocaine intake. And when crippling hangovers ate too far into the following mornings or my nostrils felt too numb to snort any more, I introduced amphetamines into my daily routine via my gums to remain conscious and functioning. It was a sensible solution to the internal chaos of burning my candle at both ends.

It was much more rewarding to be Darren’s caricature than it was to be Simon Nicholson. I threw myself into the role with such gusto that I often struggled to distinguish where he ended and I began.

July 3, 2.30pm

My lips tingled as gusts of cold salty wind and water splashed against my face and ruffled my hair.

As the Ferry made its wavering return from Alcatraz towards its dock at pier thirty-three, I couldn’t stop thinking about the five foot by eight-foot cells I’d just visited. Although it had been decommissioned as a prison back in 1963 and had transformed into a major tourist attraction, it would never shake its ominous presence.

I sympathised with the thirty-six former inmates who’d attempted to escape its claustrophobia. Many had chosen death within the bay’s currents over spending the rest of their lives locked behind bars. I knew the anxiety of being trapped better than most, but so had my old friend Dougie, albeit for very different reasons.

More than twenty years had passed, but I’d never forgotten Dougie’s kiss or spoken of it with anyone else. Occasionally his disguise became transparent and I knew he’d retained feelings for me that went beyond friendship. It was small things like watching me a little longer than our friends when I spoke, or when he’d focus his attention on me at the pub instead of trying to woo girls like Roger and Steven.

Yet his attention neither bothered me nor made me uncomfortable. Quite the opposite, in fact. I was privileged to have had two people in my life that helped recompense my fractured family.

However, I worried for Dougie. Whether it was with a girl or a boy, I hoped he’d eventually find the happiness I had. I didn’t want to see him pained, or be the one to inflict it upon him. But our opposing natures meant it was inevitable.

“I’m getting married,” I blurted out on our way to meet you and Caroline at a disco in town. “I asked her last week.”

Dougie stared at me momentarily; then formed an instant, forced smile.

“That’s brilliant!” he shouted, leaning over to embrace me. “I’m really pleased for you both. She’s a smashing girl.”

“I’d like you to be my best man,” I replied; aware I might be adding insult to injury.

“It’ll be an honour, thank you. I’ll get the drinks in to celebrate.” He sprinted to the bar where mirrored tiles reflected him biting hard on his bottom lip. Then quick as a lightning, he flashed the same grin to a barmaid as he had to me.

Within three months, Dougie had proposed to Beth, a schoolteacher he met later that night, and the two became husband and wife a year after us.

Suddenly the ferry’s engines laboured and churned the ocean water before it docked. And as I navigated the wooden gangway back into Fisherman’s Wharf, I wondered what had become of Beth.

I hoped she’d found happiness with a man who truly loved her, and hadn’t been ruined by the man Dougie became.

November 11, 9.40am

Chemicals ricocheted around my artery walls as I wrung every last morsel of pleasure from my hedonistic lifestyle. But when I randomly caught sight of my reflection in the glass panel of a bookshop door, I did a double take. I was repulsed by a face and body that resembled mine, but which were more haunted and dishevelled than I remembered.