A Hundred Pieces of Me (56 page)

She stops and looks at what she’s written. They have nicknames for everything: they call Kit’s car (nearly new Volvo, used to belong to his mum) the Beast, but Gina’s car so far hasn’t been named. Is Love Bug better than Minnie? Is Love Bug . . . too much?

Love
still makes her stomach twist, sending silvery ripples through her whole body. Before Gina met Kit ‘love’ was just a word, empty and over-familiar like ‘house’ or ‘brilliant’, but now it’s unexpectedly bursting with magic and flowers and darker pleasures. Gina barely uses the word to refer to things like bands or cake any more. Her whole vocabulary’s been scaled down in its honour.

A surreptitious rustle of cake packaging means Terry’s helping himself to the last Bakewell tart.

Gina glances over at her stepdad, ready to tease him gently about his overalls splitting. Since Terry offered to rebuild the car for her, out of the blue, they’ve spent much more time together. Not talking, just . . . being. They’ve even developed a few in-jokes of their own.

The Mini came from the garage of the old lady across the road who’d died just before Christmas. Gina had spotted it on the drive, being photographed for the small ads, and was struck by the Atherton-ish kudos of having an
old
old car instead of the third-hand Corsa Naomi’s dad had got for her to learn in. This car is a bit of the 1970s, which is maybe why Terry likes it. It had only 6,043 miles on the clock, and homemade cotton covers stretched over the seats, pink cartoon Martini glasses protecting green leather-look plastic.

‘It’ll be good for you to know how a car works while you’re learning,’ had been his exact words, but Gina wonders if actually Terry was looking for an excuse to spend time in the garage, in peace. Since then the pair of them have enjoyed many companionable evenings with a packet of Bakewell tarts and the local radio filling in the gaps between Terry’s occasional car-mechanics tutorials. Gina writes her long, emotional letters to Kit while pretending to revise, and Terry tinkers with head gaskets; the productive silence humming between them is so much nicer than the increasingly tense conversations her mum initiates about revision and university and why she’s spending so much time ‘with Naomi’ these days when Naomi almost never comes round to their house any more.

Gina now associates the smell of oil and WD40 and instant coffee and artificial cherry flavouring with a deep sense of peace and, of course, Kit.

I’ve been looking at the gig guide for next month and we could—

‘You’ll be careful in this car, won’t you, love?’

Gina glances up from her letter, and sees Terry gazing at her with an awkward expression twisting his sandy moustache. He looks like a teddy bear who’s had his scarf nicked. She’s seen Terry’s worried face a lot lately. He’s always worried about something, but never likes to overstep the mark, on account of him not being her dad. ‘Course I will,’ she says cheerfully. ‘Anyway, the rate we’re going I’m not likely to be driving it till I’m forty, am I?’

He smiles, and Gina goes back to her letter, pleased she’s defused that one. She starts to sketch him – Kit’s really encouraging of her drawing, and thinks she should go to art college – but when she glances up, Terry’s still looking at her.

‘Why’d you ask?’ she carries on, determined to keep things jokey. ‘Are you scared I’ll make you take me out driving?’

‘No.’ Terry wipes the engine head. ‘I’m sure you’ll be as good at driving as you are at everything else, love. It’s just that I had a car like this when I wasn’t that much older than you are now. It’s bringing it all back.’

Gina says nothing, but gets the impression Terry’s trying to share something important with her, in his tentative way. The garage seems to bring out these unexpected revelations, like the bits of old newspaper she sometimes finds in the car itself. Normally they’re just nice little things about her mum, glimpses of a funnier, gentler woman than the one constantly on her case about teenage alcoholism, but this time Terry is looking at her, and she folds her book down, just in case he can see the letter.

‘And you weren’t very careful?’ she prompts.

‘No.’

‘I don’t believe that.’ She tries a smile. This is strange new adult territory they’re negotiating, very cautiously, over the Mini’s friendly rounded roofline. But then she is an adult. She’s seventeen.

Gina can tell this personal-advice business is killing Terry, but he’s determined to get it out. ‘Young men aren’t always careful. Even nice young fellas. And I don’t mean with cars, love. I mean with . . . people’s feelings.’

There’s a world of concern under those bushy grey eyebrows: concern and love and a hint that maybe Terry knows more about her secret relationship with Kit than he’s letting on. It checks her more than a million lectures from Janet, and a tiny grain of doubt creeps into the rosy glow that surrounds Kit.

‘
I
’m careful, though, Terry,’ she says, and they blush the same blush, as the other implication lands. He doesn’t mean what
he
thinks
she
thinks he means – cringe – he means, in general. And Gina wants to tell him that Kit is careful with her heart, careful not to make promises he can’t keep, although she’s quite happy to promise him the rest of her life because, as far as she’s concerned, she’s met the one. Straight away. No precious time wasted.

But she can’t tell Terry that. Because he’ll tell her mum, and her mum will go insane.

‘Don’t tell Mum,’ she says, without knowing why.

‘You’re very precious to your mother, Georgina,’ says Terry. ‘She might not tell you often enough, but it’s true. You’re precious to us both. Her, because you’re her little girl and me . . .’ He pauses. ‘Me, because, well, you’ve let me have a go at being a dad. In a way. We’re both so proud of you. You’ve got the whole world ahead of you.’

He looks mortified but proud as he says it, and Gina wants to hug him. The car, Terry, Kit, these winter revision nights . . . she has an instinct that this will feel warm one day, when she’s looking back on it. It’s all ahead of her, all ready to happen. Her car, Kit, her future.

But the Mini is in the way, blocking the small garage, and her English folder is on her knee. So she smiles, and says, ‘I know, Terry.’

Terry gazes at her, and Gina thinks he looks tired.

It’s on the tip of her tongue to add,
I love you
, but that’s really not his thing, so she blows him a kiss instead, and Terry pretends to catch it, just like he did when she was small enough not to be embarrassed.

Gina’s appointment was midday, and at Nick’s insistence, while he was getting breakfast croissants from the deli over the road, she called Naomi and told her.

‘I want to come,’ Naomi said at once, in her determined voice. ‘No buts, Gee, I’m coming. I’ll be there at the hospital at ten to, and I’ll wait for you. It’s like church weddings: they can’t throw members of the public out.’

‘Fine,’ said Gina. She didn’t have the heart to argue, and secretly she was relieved.

‘Happy now?’ she added to Nick, when she put the phone down.

‘Almost.’ He put the bag of pastries on the counter and flicked on the kettle. ‘Did you phone your mum?’

Gina started to argue but, deep down, again, she knew he was right. This time – if there was going to be a ‘this time’ – it would be different. This time she was going to be honest about it all.

Janet sounded surprised to hear from Gina outside their usual calling times and happily agreed to a morning coffee, on the condition that Gina didn’t mind leaving by eleven thirty, as she had a Gardeners’ Club lunch in Chippenham Avenue.

‘Now drink this,’ said Nick, pushing a cup of coffee at her. ‘And eat this. Or at least pretend to eat it, and feed it to the dog while I’m not looking.’

Buzz watched them anxiously from the basket. He hadn’t touched his breakfast. Gina tried not to read his subdued body language as being any kind of sign, and failed.

‘Let me get my things ready first.’ She checked she had her phone, purse, lipstick. Everything ready to put her face back together afterwards. She needed to keep moving, keep her hands busy so her brain wouldn’t think. ‘You just be there with the picnic this afternoon. I’ll text you to let you know when I’m leaving.’

‘I can take you to your mother’s if you want.’ He checked his watch. ‘I don’t have to be there for Lorcan, he knows what he’s doing . . .’

Gina stopped packing. ‘No. No, for that I really have to go on my own.’

‘Fair enough.’ He got up and kissed her on the forehead. ‘I know you’re in safe hands with Naomi. And we’ll be waiting. There’s no rush.’

Gina noticed all the flowers on the way to her mother’s house. The poppy splashes in front gardens, the very late bluebells banking the roadside. The black-and-white house on Church Lane was ripe with pink fuchsias; the new owners had invested heavily in hanging baskets, something, Gina thought randomly, that would please her mother, although the fuchsias inside them wouldn’t – they’d always been on the ‘common’ list, along with red-hot pokers and pampas grass.

Little shards of memories were whirling back to Gina all the time, as if she had to remember them before it was too late.

Janet had the kettle boiled ready when she walked in, and for once Gina was glad. There would never be enough time for this, but she knew she had to get away before her nerves went.

‘It’s lovely to have a surprise visit from you, love. Did you see the hanging baskets on number seven Church Lane on your way over?’ Janet called over her shoulder, as she tiled the biscuits. ‘What did you think? I’d have thought some nice white trailing sweet peas would have been more in keeping.’

She sounded so unusually jolly that Gina felt even worse about what she had to say. Do I have to tell her now? Can’t it wait another half-day? In case it’s nothing? Terry would tell her, she thought. Terry understood that things had to come out eventually.

‘Mum,’ she said, gently. ‘There’s something I need to talk to you about. I’ve been up to the hospital this week.’

Janet turned round, and her expression was hopeful. ‘Is this about that egg business?’

‘No.’ Gina motioned to the kitchen table, where she was sitting with her cup of tea. ‘I went for my annual check-up on Monday. They called me in again today to run some more tests.’

The moment stretched out into a silence. Janet’s eyes didn’t leave Gina’s but they grew slowly more round.

‘Mum,’ she prompted. ‘Come and sit down.’

Janet clutched the plate of biscuits and walked stiffly to the table. The ring of chocolate digestives sat between them like a sort of talisman. ‘But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything, does it?’ she said. Not a question. A statement. ‘They’re always mucking things up. They had to do my blood-sugar tests three times before they got a proper reading. This’ll be like that, won’t it?’

‘I don’t know. They wouldn’t call me in if they weren’t worried about something. I’m not saying there is something but . . . I think it’s better to be prepared. They’ve promised to get back to me as soon as they possibly can about the results. I should know after the weekend.’

Janet’s mouth formed, ‘Georgina,’ but nothing came out.

Gina could hear a faint chattering sound: it was Janet’s wedding ring jittering against the china mug as her hands shook. She seemed to have shrunk back in her chair, as if the cancer was there in the room with them.

‘But you’ll be fine, love, won’t you?’ Janet insisted, her voice brighter than her expression. ‘They’ll do what they did last time, pop you on that chemotherapy treatment and – and what-have-you.’

She really has no idea, thought Gina. The weight of it pressed down on her shoulders; now she had to tell her, with no Stuart here to help.

‘It depends.’ For a second, she thought about sugar-coating it but there was no point. This was going to happen at some stage. Better that they both got used to the idea now. ‘It depends if the biopsy detects something, and it depends where it is. And whether it’s a recurrence or something new. Fingers crossed it’s nothing. Or at least something they can treat quickly.’ Gina made the corners of her mouth pull up, even though the last thing she felt like doing was smiling. Be brave, she thought.

Janet’s shoulders dropped. She smiled, a ghoulish puppet sort of smile, then her face crumpled and she put her hands up to her face and sobbed.

‘Mum?’ Gina hesitated, then put her tea to one side, stood up and crouched by her mother’s chair, half expecting to be batted away.

Janet did wave her away, then slumped back, and let Gina put her arms around her. They sat there, Gina perched to the side of Janet’s chair, while her mother wept.

Oh my God, she knows, Gina realised. She knows much more than she’s been letting on. Maybe she was being brave for me, not the other way around.

They weren’t the quick, angry tears Naomi had cried the first time she’d told her; they were uncomfortable, heartbreaking sobs, like an animal keening, and Gina felt as if her own insides were being torn away. She’d never heard her mother cry like this. Janet had always prided herself on her self-control. But all Janet’s mourning for Terry had happened while Gina was in hospital herself, recovering from the crash. By the time she’d been discharged, whatever grief Janet had suffered had been controlled, banked down into the low simmer of misery she had maintained ever since.