The Flavours of Love (43 page)

‘I saw his birth certificate after … after he died. It obviously has mother’s maiden name down as Elizabeth Mackleroy. I didn’t
even twig until it said under father: “unknown”. Then I realised his mother obviously wasn’t born a Mackleroy.’

‘Look at you, Columbo.’ She laughs like punctured old-fashioned bellows being pumped – a small, breathless in-and-out sound with a wheeze that trails in its wake.

‘You never talked about it with him?’ I ask.

‘Some things are not meant to be talked about.’

‘I’ve always wondered why his parents treat you with such disdain but never seem to want to cut you out.’

‘They couldn’t have children, and when I “got myself in trouble” they were more than willing to help me out. You wouldn’t think I was mid-twenties, the way they carried on – you’d think I was like Phoebe.’

‘That doesn’t sound very fair,’ I offer diplomatically.

‘They can’t help it,’ Aunty Betty says. ‘A lifetime of disapproval of me wasn’t going to vanish overnight. When it was clear I wasn’t going to disappear and leave them to it, they had to do the best they could while still looking in my big fat face. Elizabeth doesn’t like being reminded that I wasn’t a good girl, I didn’t keep my legs shut waiting for the man who would marry me and I still got “rewarded” with a baby while for her, who did everything right, everything by the book right down to going to church every week, it never happened. She wanted me to leave. I couldn’t do that.’

‘You were all right with being so close to him?’

‘Of course! I am a natural born aunt. Saff-aron, I could not do what you do. I could not be a mother.’

‘Yes, you could.’

‘Look at you. You worry about everyone else first all the time. Me, no way. I am the most selfish person on God’s green Earth. You would do anything for your children, probably without a second thought. Me, I think about how something is going to impact upon
me
 – no one else – just me, before I say yes or no. I loved Joel like no one else on this Earth could but that wasn’t enough for me to bring him up. I believe, truly believe, that every child born must be wanted more
than anything, and I gave him to the mother who would do anything for him without a second thought. They
wanted
him, I would have just had him.’

‘You’re a strange one, Aunty Betty. Always going on about only caring about yourself first, but that’s not true. You got yourself thrown out of the complex on purpose to come and be here with us. To help take care of the children.’

‘I did not—’

‘Yes you did. I can understand it, of course, who wouldn’t want to live with a stroppy teenager, a computer-obsessed boy, and a neurotic widow? People are queuing up to live with us.’

Her hand curls around mine. ‘Oh, Saff-aron. Remember who you are. You’re the woman who stood up to the Mackleroys. I never thought it was possible, but you stayed when others ran away. You made my beautiful Joel so happy, you have brought up two children for the last eighteen months all on your own. And all with your secret.’

‘What secret?’ I ask. I can tell by the glint in her eyes and the set of her features she is not bluffing.

‘I come down here almost every night, that’s why I don’t get up early in the morning. I know, Saff-aron. I know what you do to handle the pain.’

I unravel my hand from hers, lay it in my lap next to my other hand. Shame and humiliation fire up in my cheeks and I have to fix my gaze on my scarred hands, to stop myself from shouting at her, from reacting to her like I reacted to Fynn.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ The port I sipped suddenly tastes like cheap malt vinegar, sour and disgusting, in my mouth.

‘Please, don’t be upset. I understand how much pain there is when you lose someone, how out of control you feel and how it changes who you are. I understand why you do what you do.’ I can tell she wants to reach out to me again. ‘I’m sorry. Truly, I’m sorry. For your loss, and for what I have just said.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘Can I say something to you?’

‘Sure.’

‘Please believe in yourself, Saffron.’ I look up at her because, for the first time ever, she’s said my name properly. ‘What I was trying to say before I upset you is that you have all these things going on, and you are coping brilliantly. Please believe that. That is all. You can do this. You can do more than cope, you can do more than get through the day, you can thrive. Please believe that.’

‘Thanks,’ I mumble.

‘You will believe me one day,’ she says. Suddenly she waves her hand as if to dismiss me. ‘Now go, go, finish your cooking, your thinking, whatever it is you are doing. I want to finish my port in peace.’

I stand and return to my place in front of the metal saucepan Joel used to make his cement-like porridge in, and where I’ve laid out the pastry sheets to warm up to room temperature. The white-bristled, rubber-wood pastry brush waits to be dipped into the bowl of water to seal the pastry edges, and then into the beaten egg to sweep over the top. I don’t know what I’m doing. These all look like alien items to me and I’m supposed to do stuff with them – I know what that stuff is, but I have no clue how to do it.

‘I loved him, the man who gave me Joel, very much,’ she says. ‘He was a part of me, and when I lost him, like you, I found a way to hide from the world. I found a way to live in the world again, too. I hope you will as well.’

My mind won’t take me back to where the baking was my cipher for thinking, and what I was doing made sense. I am in trouble. I need help. But I can’t explain that to her. I can’t tell her what I did nineteen months ago to protect my daughter.

I can’t explain to her that what I used to do was from when I was desperate. I was desperate when it first started as a thirteen-year-old who no one paid attention to unless it was bad and no one approved of no matter how much she tried. I stopped for years, I lived with
being large for years. And then I was desperate again at college when I needed friends. I needed to not be the fat clever girl all the time. And then I fought with myself for years, I got myself onto an even keel. I was balancing myself and Joel would kiss my palm and say how proud of me he was. Then
that day
happened. I made it to six months but I was desperate a year ago. I had to get back into control, numb the pain in another way because sex with Fynn had been a bad idea. But now, I am not that kind of desperate. I am in a place where I need to be clear-minded and rational. I need to solve this problem and save my family, so no matter how much I want to stuff down these raw layers of pastry, or spoon the uncooked filling into my mouth, I won’t. Because I don’t do that any more.

When I turn around to tell her this, to say that I had my reasons and I don’t do that any more, she’s gone. Whisked away and upstairs, as though taken by the silence of angels.

Saturday, 18 May
(For Sunday, 19th)

Saffron
.

Fine. Have it your way. But remember, whatever happens next, you could have avoided it by simply opening your blinds.

A

LII

Lewis Calling …

flashes up on my phone. I want to talk to him but at the same time I don’t. His presence in the world is complicating enough without the additional conflict I feel about him keeping secrets with Phoebe from me. It niggles at me. What else isn’t he telling me? What else would he be willing to keep from me?

In the midst of trying to work out how to bring an end to the stalking before
she
can further hurt Phoebe, maybe turn her attention to Zane, I don’t want to work out how I feel about Lewis as well. It is a complicated strand in the knot that is already inside.

He’s called every day for the week and left long messages. He’s said to me that the school has found some of the culprits of the bullying, and have suspended them with a promise to put it on their permanent files. He’s told me that Curtis has been in touch with Phoebe and he’s pleased that she and I are finally talking. He’s explained that he’s sorry for not letting me know earlier what was going on. He says the right things and I know he means them, and if I wasn’t paranoid about Joel’s killer and worried about everything else, I could maybe talk to him. But the truth is, I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

My finger hits the call reject button. I’m about to give myself up to the guilt of that when I hear something in the corridor. I wander out and stop halfway along between the kitchen and the living room door.

‘And where do you think you’re off to?’ I ask Aunty Betty who is clearly readying herself to all but sneak out of the house. I’ve asked her to let me know if she’s going out so I can come with her, but this request has fallen on deaf ears, obviously.

She is wearing her normal-looking black wig and has carefully applied foundation, powder, eyeliner (with a little flick at the ends of her eyes) and mascara. Her lips have a gloss but no colour. She has on her beautiful black wool coat with the wide, stylish lapels, and she’s carrying a cute little square patent black bag with a gold clasp.

‘Just down to the post office,’ she says. Aunty Betty always sounds like she has something to hide.

‘What for?’ I ask.

She stops examining herself in the full-length mirror beside the coat rack and slowly rotates to look at me. ‘What do you think I’m going to the post office for? To post a letter.’

‘Just a letter?’

‘Yes.’

‘I have stamps. Large letter ones and normal ones, first class and second class of both. They’re in the box on the mantelpiece. Which do you need?’

‘It’s OK, child. I need the walk.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, of course. I need a walk, that’s all.’

‘I may have been one of the worst mothers to a teenager ever, but even I know when a person is sneaking out to see some guy. Who is he?’

My sixty-six-year-old teenager cuts her eyes before she rolls them at me.

‘Have you ever seen that work when Phoebe does it?’ I ask.

‘You can’t tell me what to do, you’re not my mother.’

‘I literally have heard it all now,’ I reply. ‘OK. Wait there, I’m going to get my bag and my socks and I’m going to come with you.’

‘But—’

‘Either I come with you or I give you one of my stamps. Which is it?’

‘You can come with me,’ she mumbles.

‘Great. I’ll get my stuff.’

‘Buurrrnnnned,’ she mumbles miserably as I take the stairs two at a time.

*

We walk down to the bottom of our road and then cross onto the side of the road where Queen’s Park begins. Every step I take I am aware that
she
is watching,
she
is examining what I do to make a comment on. That’s why I’ve asked Aunty Betty to let me come with her whenever she goes out. She has no idea the danger she – and all of us – are in. Phoebe is upstairs and knows not to open the door to
anyone
.

‘This is all your fault,’ Aunty Betty admonishes as our pace of walking slows with our approach to the Rislingwood Road Post Office because it is near the top of a steep hill. ‘You keep getting letters – sometimes every day – and it made me want to write to young Zane.’

‘You’ve been writing to him every day?’

‘Yes, and sending him five pounds. You don’t mind, do you?’

I shake my head. ‘Not at all. Phoebe will when she finds out, though.’

‘Yes, you’re right there. Who are your letters from? A secret admirer?’

‘Something like that,’ I say.

We swing the door open and there’s a queue right up to the door, and we have to squeeze ourselves in behind them as if we’re joining the world’s slowest conga line. There are two men behind the counter, one of them looks up over his half-moon glasses, his tanned skin setting off the white of his thick locks and he brightens up like sunrise on a summer morning when he sees Aunty Betty.

Oh, well
, I think and shimmy forwards with the slight surge of our conga line,
at least someone’s happy
.

LIII

My life seems to be draining away too quickly. Like I am in an hourglass and my life force, the time I have to find a solution, is running out for me. Time is running out for me, but all I can do is wait.

Wait for Phoebe to make a decision. Wait for another letter. Wait for my heart to move on to another stage of grief so I can feel something different inside. Wait for the time when my son can safely come home. Wait for something huge to happen to bring things to a head.

I have to go to the police. I know this. I fear what it’s going to do, what it will unleash in
her
.

None of this would be happening if it wasn’t for her. And for me, of course, because I was the one who got him those cooking lessons, I am the one who set him on that path. It’s my fault that he died in the way he did, it’s down to me that he isn’t here any more.

This morning I heard Phoebe bolt to the toilet, and I think she’s started to have more pregnancy symptoms, namely in the form of morning sickness.

I watch my eldest’s slender form wander up towards the back of the health food shop. She moves slowly, rolling her right shoulder back as if it is aching. I remember the backache that came with both my pregnancies: twinges and tugs like over-stretched elastic bands between the muscles. General pangs and spasms appeared overnight, too, accompanied by a strange, almost metallic taste in my mouth no amount of water could clear, and my skin seemed to cycle from clear to spotty to clear within hours. We’d been trying for a baby, but it wasn’t until my body started to change in ways I hadn’t counted on that the terror descended for real. It wasn’t simply about putting on weight, how I looked was different, how I thought seemed different.
Nothing could prepare me for that first pregnancy. I’d wanted Phoebe to make her decision before this stage, if I was honest. If she was going to carry on with it, then she’d be able to embrace it, if she wasn’t, then physically it might not be so arduous before it was ended.

I catch up with Phoebe. ‘I need to ask you something and I need you to give me an honest answer,’ I say to her.