Half-truths & White Lies (3 page)

I was twenty-four when I lost both of my parents, but I
discovered the people that they had been for the first
time as I recovered in St Theresa's Hospital thumbing
through Uncle Pete's photograph album. In that
volume I saw them larking about and exchanging
tender glances as lovers. They became more real to me
than they ever had been, people starting out on their
lives with hopes, dreams and ambitions, rather than just
members of that strange species called parents. Uncle
Pete had catalogued those early years so religiously, so
honestly that the photos conveyed more than the words
that we dared not speak. Each photo was dated and
captioned in white ink. No one but a casual observer
could have ignored the role that he played in their
history, and I could only draw the conclusion that it
wasn't just my mother he loved. The photographs of my
father betrayed an amateur photographer who had
spent many hours studying the lines of my father's jaw
and the fall of his hair. Tom Fellows, as I discovered to
my surprise, had been a very beautiful young man.

Of course I had seen photographs of my parents
before. Their official wedding photographs, stiff and
formal. My first birthday. Family holidays. I could track
their gradual transformation through the seventies and
eighties. My father's changing facial hair and collars. My
mother's changing hemlines and hair colour. And at the
centre of most of the family photos, me, gap-toothed
and grinning, the rather surprising product of such a
beautiful couple.

Although Uncle Pete's photo album showed me faces
that I already knew, his photos portrayed real, living
people.

Nineteen seventy-four. My mother watching my
father's band play in a smoke-filled room, eyes transfixed,
the light from the stage catching her face.
Close-ups of my father holding the mic and singing,
eyes closed, strands of hair glued to his face, beads of
sweat clinging to his forehead. A photo of them both at
the same venue, my father in leather, arms wrapped
about my mother from behind. My mother posing
coyly, one hip jutting out, bottom lip pouting, every
inch the rock chick. Then, off guard, she is coiling a curl
of hair around her index finger, lips slightly parted,
looking abandoned in the crowd. Her guard is down
and she looks more vulnerable than I have ever seen
her.

Nineteen seventy-five. A trip to the seaside. My father
and Uncle Pete skimming stones, a blur of movement.
My mother and father paddling in the sea, silhouettes
holding hands. My father splashing my mother while
she tries to run away. A sequence of photos with my
mother in a bikini. Deliberately hiding her face with her
hands as she sees the camera. Lying on a striped towel,
her face half hidden by a wide-brimmed sun hat, legs
crossed. Arms wrapped around her knees, looking
thoughtful. Asleep with her head resting on my father's
chest. The caption is 'Laura snoring in tune'. The two of
them on a bench eating fish and chips from a newspaper,
a seagull perched perilously close by. Another shot of the
seagull eating the abandoned bag of chips with my father,
arms outstretched, about to wring the bird's neck.

Nineteen seventy-six. My mother and father arm in
arm in a park, my mother in heels that were clearly not
designed with walking in mind. A picnic with strawberries
and champagne, my mother raises a champagne
glass to the camera, my father a beer can. Heads back,
laughing at a joke. Both of them sheltering under a tree,
hair wet, the picnic blanket around their shoulders. My
father whispering in my mother's ear, a look of surprise
on her face. Both of them wet through, clothes like a
second skin, wrapped around each other, kissing, the
photographer forgotten.

My mother showing off an engagement ring, pointing
to it, holding it up to the camera. My father's hair is
noticeably shorter, but not short by any means. He has
swapped his trademark T-shirt and leather jacket for a
shirt.

My mother sitting in the window of a café. Is it
the
café window? Is this the outfit that she was wearing
when she met my father?

My father's stag night. Too much beer, too few
clothes. Another woman perched on his lap. Uncle Pete
and my father with arms around each others' shoulders.
My father trying to flag down a cab wearing his leather
jacket, underwear, socks and boots. Lying on a bed, eyes
closed but grinning madly, in his pants, socks and
boots. Skinny ankles, hairy legs, big boots.

Colour photos! A picture of my mother being made
up for her wedding day, eyes closed, face raised. A
picture of her in her wedding dress wearing the red
sling-backs with the caption, 'Laura's choice of shoes'. A
picture of her in her wedding dress and white sandals
with the caption, 'Mrs Albury's choice of shoes'. A
photograph of my mother and a formidable-looking
Nana, although she could only have been in her late
forties. A photo of Uncle Pete pretending to catch the
bouquet. A picture of my mother, her veil lifted, on
Uncle Pete's arm. I already knew that Uncle Pete had
given my mother away, her father having died very
shortly beforehand. I have heard it said that it is a
miracle they got married at all, but the wedding had
been paid for in advance and money was sufficiently
tight that cancelling wasn't an option.

A picture of my father looking pale outside the church,
suited and booted, a cigarette in hand. A picture of him
frowning at his watch. A picture of him leaning on a wall
for support. Leaning on Uncle Pete for support.

A picture of an Austin-Healey 3000 with tin cans
attached to the back, the significance of his final choice
of car made clear.

Nineteen eighty. I had to check that a photo of a
toddler shown with my mother, obviously pregnant,
was me.

'She had a stillborn child,' Uncle Pete explained,
clearly distraught. 'It broke her heart. I meant to take
that photo out of the album, but it must have slipped
my mind.' I could tell that he wanted the photograph
back, so I gently removed it from the photo corners.
Immediately, he covered it protectively with both hands
and, as soon as he thought that I wasn't looking, he
stowed it in the inside pocket of his suit.

I looked at him, frowning, for an explanation.

'She wouldn't talk about it. Never. Not to anyone.' I
could tell that he was uncomfortable with the subject,
turning his face away. '
Couldn't
talk about it. It was just
too painful.'

I might have had a brother or a sister. My thoughts
were racing.

'He would have been your brother. The son that your
father was so desperate for.' He sighed heavily. 'Didn't
you ever wonder why you had to spend your Saturdays
polishing his car and learning the basics of mechanics?'

'Keep me quiet?' I tried to contribute through a
mouth that would not yet move.

'He could have taken you to play on the swings and
slides like the other dads. But then you wouldn't know
when you are getting ripped off by a garage. Or the year
that the Austin-Healey 3000 was launched.'

I flicked backwards through the pages to the photograph
of the wedding car.

'I know what you're going to ask.' He almost allowed
himself a laugh. In retrospect I should have noticed that
it was tinged with bitterness. 'And yes. It was the very
same car. He managed to track down the one they hired
on their wedding day.'

'Romantic.' I struggled with the three syllables.

'Well, it turns out it wasn't one of Tom's better ideas!'
he blurted out, his face turning red, taking me by
surprise. 'The two people I loved the most in this world
wiped out in an instant.'

As my eyes filled, he pawed for my hand. 'I'm sorry.
I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking.'

The hospital gave me a protective atmosphere to view
my new predicament from. Staff fussed round me
kindly. A steady stream of cautious visitors approached
my bed with their offers of 'If there's anything I
can do' and updates of what was happening in
the outside world. Not my world, which was
somehow out of bounds, but the larger world of
celebrity gossip, soaps, weather conditions and local
scandals.

There were the neighbours.

'Have they given you a television, love? No! Well, you
won't have seen "Corrie" for two weeks! I'd better bring
you up to date.'

'Well, you may as well be in here. It's done nothing
but rain.' As if the weather would have been my greatest
concern.

'Now, you know that one who was on
Friends
. . .
what's her name?'

'I've brought you a copy of
OK!
I know what it's like
when you're in hospital. You don't have any idea what's
going on.' Ah, yes! The bible for the modern world.
How could I have managed without it?

'I ran into Mrs B. in the post office and
she
said . . .' As
if I should know who Mrs B. was or prize her opinion
highly.

'Anyway, I brought you some homemade cake,' one
said with a wink and a glance over her shoulder, as if
smuggling contraband. 'I know you won't be eating
right.' Well, that's all the main food categories covered,
then.

'I brought you some decent shampoo,' one well-wisher
whispered, obviously concerned that I might be
letting myself go to rack and ruin. 'I don't know what
they have you using here.' Under my bandages, my hair
hadn't seen so much as a comb for a fortnight.

There were friends who came in pairs, relying on
safety in numbers.

'So when you get out we'll have to get that on DVD.'

'You missed a great party at Diane's.' What a shame.
I'm sure I would have been the life and soul.

'We're all thinking of going for a spa day at
Annabelle's in April.' Fantastic. I'd been losing sleep
over the state of my cellulite.

There was my boss from Evans Textiles. That was one
thing I inherited from my mother: her love of dressmaking
and clothes. She didn't think that she was good
enough to make a living out of it but, with only a
fraction of her talent, I had made a start designing dress
patterns.

'We've only just found out what happened. Nobody
thought to let us know.' She looked momentarily
embarrassed. Normally my parents would have phoned
if I was going to be off. 'Now, there's no pressure but
we'd love to see you back as soon as you feel you're
ready. It can be good to have something to focus on at
a time like this and to get back into some sort of
routine.'

I should have been grateful. Believe it or not, some
close friends seemed unable – or unwilling – to track
me down. And there was a bloke I had been on a few
dates with. Quite promising too. Unfortunately he
thought that I wasn't returning his calls. He had moved
on by the time I finally caught up with him. He was
gutted, or so he said, but obviously not enough to have
left a suitable mourning period, if you'll pardon the
expression.

Then, just when I thought I couldn't face any more
small talk, there was my mother's sister, Aunty Faye, in
all her grief and grim reality. Two years younger than my
mother, she had managed to avoid much in the way of
family responsibility and now it had all landed squarely
on her plate. She hadn't been able to sleep since seeing
the bodies. Every time she closed her eyes. Shocking.
Thank God I could remember them as they were. She
had taken Nana in, although it really wasn't very convenient
and she couldn't see any way of keeping her in
the long term.

I had always admired Aunty Faye's independence and
impulsiveness, even though my mother said she
couldn't make the smallest decision on her own.
She had married a man she met on a trekking holiday
in Peru and divorced him when he turned into a couch
potato, as if that was a breach of contract. She kept a
small, untidy flat with a minuscule kitchen because she
was never in anyway. She was the sort of woman who
owned a fridge magnet that said 'A tidy house is the sign
of a wasted life' and used it as a mantra. She went to
yoga, Pilates, reflexology, drumming and chanting
to get rid of her demons, but they invariably caught up
with her at the weekends when she succumbed to a few
gin and tonics and a shopping habit that propped up
the national economy. She also had a penchant for
outrageous flirting with waiters who were young
enough to be the sons that she didn't have.

She did contract work in IT because she didn't want
to feel that anyone owned her or that she owed anyone
anything. She always said her soul was not for sale. And
now she was saddled with her ageing mother, who had
always preferred Laura, the pretty one, and who never
approved of anything she did.

As a teenager, Faye had developed a policy of
deliberately making choices that her mother disapproved
of because, even if she tried really hard, the
end result was exactly the same. She was a punk when
my mother looked like a fifties film star. She was
artistic while my mother was practical. She borrowed
money while my mother contributed to the household
bills. In fact, I would learn, the only things that my
mother ever did to register on my grandmother's grand
scale of disapproval stemmed from her bringing home
Tom Fellows, a long-haired, leather-clad would-be rock
star.

'Mark my words,' Nana had declared, denting his
confidence, 'you'll never support a family on money
earned with that guitar.'

While my mother was a listener, Aunty Faye was the
sort of woman who would look you in the eye and ask
meaningfully, 'And how are you?' before instantly
launching into a monologue on all of her latest
escapades. My father described her as a clockwork toy.
'Wind her up and she can entertain herself for hours.'

'So, don't wind her up then!' my mother would scold.

But he found Faye highly amusing and recognized
that, despite their many differences, the sisters loved
each other dearly and were fiercely loyal. Plus, he never
stopped thanking his lucky stars that he got the sane
one.

'It's bizarre, how two people who were brought up
together can be so different,' he would confide in me.
'And neither of them is like their mother, thank the
Lord. How can that be?'

But I had no experience of having sisters or brothers,
alike or not. I could only enjoy his amusement.

'So, they're taking care of you?' Aunty Faye asked me.
'You know, I can't stand hospitals. Something about the
smell of them. Do they clean this place properly? I
mean, have you actually seen them polish the floors?
You hear such dreadful things about people coming in
for a routine procedure and going home with a super-bug.'
She paused momentarily to sneeze, three precise
sneezes, without covering her face or using a tissue. 'See
what I mean? I think I'm coming down with something
already. I'll have to grab some echinacea on the way
home and dose myself up. It's not like I can afford to be
ill at the moment. There's just too much to do. Everyone
is relying on me. Not that I want Mum to get too settled
in the spare room. I've explained to her that her social
worker is trying to find her a permanent place, but she
doesn't understand that she can't go home on her own.
And it's so difficult when she can't remember where she
is or what has happened when she wakes up in the
morning. I don't think she's been to my place more
than half a dozen times before. She can't remember
where the bathroom is in the night so she's been
wetting herself, and she's so embarrassed that she tries
to hide the evidence in the most peculiar places. It's very
difficult for me to come to terms with everything myself
when she wakes up in the night and calls out for Laura.
Can you imagine? And the look of disappointment she
gives me when I go in and say, "It's me, Mum. I'm here
now. It's Faye." It's like she resents me for being alive.
But you know how difficult she can be. Where are the
tissues?' And she blew her nose noisily, leaving
the tissue on the side table for the hospital cleaners,
with their well-known lack of regard for hygiene, to
dispose of.

Actually, I had no idea how difficult Nana could be. I
was the treasured only child of her much-loved elder
daughter, spoilt from the moment I was born. There
had been occasional undercurrents at family
get-togethers, in the same way that my father and Nana
didn't always see eye to eye. But who could expect
people living under the same roof to get on all of the
time? It just wasn't possible.

'Now that her mind is wandering, I really think she
needs proper medical care. And with the best will in the
world, even if I had the room, I can't afford to give up
work to look after her. Actually, I don't know if we can
afford it without selling her house.'

'I thought Nana sold her house years ago,' I said
naively.

'Oh, my parents' house. Yes, Andrea' – Aunty Faye
patted my arm – 'but you must know that she owns
the lion's share of yours. You don't think your parents
could have afforded it otherwise! It was on the
understanding that Mum would live with your parents,
so she was investing in her own future. That was how
she explained it to me at the time. I think it's only right
that if money is needed to look after her, it comes
from the proceeds of the house. We can't let her down
now.'

'I didn't know . . .' I mumbled pathetically. I had not
contemplated the prospect of being homeless on top of
everything else, but there was so much that I had to
learn.

'Oh, but you hadn't thought of staying there?' My
aunt registered surprise when she saw my face. 'You
can't possibly want to be there on your own. Knocking
round in a big place like that? I've no idea how much
you earn, but the bills alone would cost an arm and a
leg. One person wouldn't be able to keep it. No, a fresh
start is what you're going to need.'

I felt completely out of my depth. 'I haven't been able
to face thinking about it yet.'

'Of course.' She patted my arm absently again. 'It's far
too early yet. That was tactless of me. It's just that I feel
that I have to think of everything at the moment. Your
grandmother. Funeral arrangements. The police.
Statements. Solicitors. That dreadful man.' She brought
her forehead to rest on one hand. I waited for her to
elaborate, but her eyes came to rest on the photo
album.

'What's this?' She helped herself without waiting to
be asked.

'It's Uncle Pete's photo album. He gave it to me.'

'That dreadful man,' she repeated absently, opening
the covers.

'Uncle Pete?' I asked.

'My God!' She was turning pages more rapidly now,
her search becoming more frantic.

'Is anything wrong?' I was worried at the damage she
was causing as I watched photos trying to escape from
their mountings.

'It's like he's edited me out.' She was wide-eyed with
disbelief. 'It's as if I was never there!'

It was true that although it was clear there had been
more people present at several of the occasions, the
photos chosen for the album had centred entirely on
the three of them.

'Well, you tell me!' She thrust the album in my
direction before folding her arms. 'Where am I?'

'I'm not sure where I should be looking.' I was
confused. I had studied the album carefully and was
almost certain that I would have recognized a photo of
my aunt if there had been one.

She gathered her possessions together, snatching at
her handbag and holding on to it with both hands. 'It's
like he's completely erased my memory. As if I wasn't
part of it at all.'

'I'm sure it's not deliberate,' I foolishly tried to suggest.

'Don't try to pretend that he's put this together for
you now as a keepsake or something!' She was buttoning
her coat. 'I can even guess at the pictures that he's
removed. It's like he's rewritten our history! What right
does he think he has?'

She turned and left with the eyes of the entire ward
following her, turning back to add, 'You'd better try and
keep him out of my way at the funeral!' They all pretended
to be minding their own business.

'Can you try to keep it down in here?' One of the
sisters quietly tried to take my aunt's arm and direct her
to the door. 'There are patients trying to rest . . .'

She was elbowed away for her efforts. 'God help him
if I come face to face with him, Andrea,' was Aunty
Faye's parting shot.

'He'll need it,' an elderly lady added after the door
had swung shut, and there was laughter of polite relief
as calm was restored.

'Family!' my neighbour joked. 'You can't choose 'em.
Is that your mother?'

I shook my head and made the effort to smile. 'No.'

'Just as well, eh? That'd do your head in, non-stop like
that. Does she ever stop to draw breath? You're closely
related, though. I can see the likeness.'