‘Hey Sis, you know I do.’
‘So—’
There’s a sigh and a reluctant, ‘You’re right.’
‘You’ll get it off today?’
‘What’s got into you, Sis? You’re not normally so concerned for my well-being.’
‘I am,’ she says indignantly, ‘I just don’t show it all the time.’
‘I’ll get it off. Okay?’
‘Okay.’ She’s about to ask him about their parents, whether anything has improved at home but he has cut the call.
Archie is, in his own way, a strong man, and not without resources. A lifetime of living with Susie has taught him strategies to help him manage his wife’s ebullient personality. He learned – a long time ago, the hard way – that jealousy is exhausting. These days he is fairly sure that his wife’s habit of hugging everyone enthusiastically is no cause for it. ‘Darling’ is a universal greeting and can be used equally when addressing people she is sweetly reprimanding and the lucky recipients of her praise. He has learned how to hold Susie back from agreeing to every engagement she is asked to undertake, and he has learned how to manage her mood swings.
Susie’s personality is like a seesaw – with himself, he sometimes thinks, as the fulcrum. Generally favourably tipped to the skies, sunny side up, there have been a few notable occasions when something flipped the weight seriously downwards. ‘Calgary Bay’, he thinks, then forces himself to move on. After Jonathan was born; when her second West End show bombed; and once for no apparent reason at all (a long winter? too much chocolate – or too little?).
Archie deals with his own low periods by either playing music or writing it. The cadences and rhythms of sound soothe his soul.
Only this time, it doesn’t seem to be working.
The studio is a spartan environment in which to be living – not that this bothers him. Apart from the musical equipment, there’s only a sofa and a small table and chair, plus a basic shower room at the far end. There isn’t even a kitchen, so he still wanders across to the cottage for his meals, usually waiting until Susie has headed off to the Parliament. However, there is a deep woollen rug on the floor and he has hung thick curtains at the windows to help absorb the echoing edges of the sound. It is these curtains that allow him to sleep late, long after the sun has started playing peekaboo through the scudding clouds of this March morning.
He hears the tap at the door while he is still three-quarters asleep. Or was it a tap? Edging slowly into consciousness, Archie isn’t quite sure.
The door opens and Jon appears.
‘Dad? You okay?’
Prince reaches him first. He smells his doggy breath and hears the pleased panting before full alertness arrives.
‘Huh? Jon? What time is it?’
‘Nearly midday. I was worried about you.’
‘What?’ Archie swings his feet onto the rug and sits up, shocked.
‘Bad night?’ Jon sympathises.
The worst so far. Unused to sleeping alone, Archie has allowed himself to be governed by his increasingly erratic body clock.
‘I brought you tea.’
‘Genius.’ Even the thought picks him up a little. He holds out a hand and takes the mug gratefully. Jon pulls back the heavy curtains and bright shafts of sunlight stream in.
‘Aargh!’
He throws the other hand up to shield his eyes, slopping a little tea from the mug with the violence of the movement.
‘Da-ad,’ Jon says reproachfully. ‘Christ, this is weird. It’s like I’m the parent around here, trying to deal with two sulky children. What is wrong with the two of you?’
‘Where’s Mum?’ Archie asks carefully, feeling the justice of Jon’s words.
‘Where do you think?’
‘What day is it?’
‘Saturday. Christ, Dad, don’t you even know that?’
‘You’re right, Jon.’ He sips the tea and begins to feel more human. ‘I’m being pathetic.’
‘Just talk to her. You two were always so good at talking.’
Archie grins at that. ‘Your mother was good at talking, I did the listening.’ The smile fades. ‘Only this time, I feel I have a point of view too. Trouble is, she’s too darn touchy to listen to me.’
They sit together in the puddle of light, grey head and brown, father and son. It is, Archie reflects as the tea works its way into his system, usually a good relationship. And it isn’t fair that his son is still adrift in life. Thinking this, he makes an effort.
‘Worked last night, did you?’
‘Yeah. I’m not long up.’ He glares at Archie reproachfully. ‘But I didn’t get back till three so I have an excuse.’
‘Okay, okay. You’ve made your point.’ Archie smiles to show he harbours no ill feelings. ‘Claire still on the scene, is she?’ It’s been some time since Jon brought a girl home and he has to search for the name.
‘Claire and I split months ago.’
‘Oh. Sorry. I hadn’t registered.’ He’s slightly shocked. How could he have become so turned in on himself that he’s neglected to show an interest in his son? ‘Is there a replacement?’
Jonathan sighs. ‘Not really. It’s difficult meeting people
,
when all I do is work at the bar and sleep. And write job applications.’
Jon’s shoulders are sagging – a sure sign, Archie thinks, of lack of confidence. And low confidence makes people unattractive. Something has to be done.
‘You’ll get a job soon, son,’ he says sympathetically.
‘Don’t patronise me, Dad,’ Jon snaps back.
Ouch. Archie tries again, more carefully. ‘Have you spoken to the agency recently? What are they saying?’
‘I’ve spoken to all of them. There’s nothing much around at the moment. You know what the world’s like, Dad. Cuts, cuts, cuts. And no future for young people.’
‘Don’t talk like that, Jon. I know it’s hard, but you’ve got to stay positive. Believe in yourself. Your mother and I believe in you.’
‘You and Mum?’ He snorts derisively. ‘Don’t give me that. You and Mum do nothing collective these days, least of all support Mannie and me.’
‘Jonathan! That’s not fair. When have either of us ever neglected to be there for you? I’m not sure what else we can do, right now. And in any case, you’re not very open to help.’
Jon’s anger subsides as quickly as it flared. ‘Sorry. That was a stupid thing to say. It’s just ... well ... horrid. This atmosphere. It’s not like home any more. Can’t you just try to speak to Mum? Please?’
Archie leans forward and pats his son’s hand. ‘You’re right. This situation is untenable. Is she across at the house?’
He nods dumbly. ‘Making soup.’
‘I’ll shower and come across.’
Jon pushes back his chair and stands. ‘Thanks, Dad. Sorry to be a grump.’
‘It’s me who’s the grump. Fed the hens yet?’
‘I’ll do it now.’
Archie leans down and rescues his trousers from the floor, where he dropped them wearily the night before. He fishes out his wallet and hands Jon a note. ‘Thanks, Jon. Appreciated.’
He means for everything, but he doesn’t need to spell it out. He can see from the flash in his son’s eyes that Jon understands.
Susie is in the kitchen, making soup. Archie stands on the threshold of the open doorway, observing her, watching the familiar movements, the sway of her body, the curve of her hips.
She catches sight of him, perhaps feeling his presence more than seeing it.
‘Hi.’ Her voice is neutral, not warm, but certainly without the coolness it has held of late.
‘Hi. That smells good. What is it?’
‘Butternut squash and red pepper.’
‘Am I allowed any?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Archie, of course you’re allowed some.’
Wrong thing to say. Stupid. Put myself on the defensive and allowed her to find a weak spot.
‘Do you need anything? Bread? I could go and get some.’
‘Everything’s under control. Thanks.’ She puts the pot on the stove and busies herself in tidying up.
‘Susie?’ He wants to hold her, to bury his face in her hair, to feel at one with her again. How would she take that? Should he try?
‘What is it?’
She scrapes the peelings from the chopping board into the compost bin and turns an enquiring face towards him. Bugger this, he thinks, she’s my wife, and I love her. He takes two swift steps across the kitchen and gently relieves her of the board and knife, placing them by the sink before wrapping his arms firmly around her and folding her into a cuddle. She feels stiff at first, resisting his embrace, then he senses her flesh soften and relax. She turns her head and lays it on his chest in a gesture of affection, one that is so familiar to him that it takes his breath away. From somewhere down the garden they can hear Jonathan calling, ‘Prince! Here boy!’ and the friendly sound of hens fussing and purring.
My family, Archie thinks, my home. And my love.
‘Hey.’ Edging away half an inch, he puts his hand under her chin and tilts her face gently up towards him so that she has to look into his eyes. What can he read there? A plea? Affection? Not anger, at least, not right now. ‘Love you, missus,’ he says softly.
‘Love you too,’ Susie says as he bends to kiss her.
Then she pulls away. ‘I love you, Archie, but that doesn’t make anything better. I still feel hurt and bewildered.’
‘Yes. I know.’
Damn, damn, damn. Jon would be disappointed.
‘Do you want to come back and sleep upstairs?’
Does he want to? Do hens lay eggs?
‘You know I’d like that, Susie. Of course. But I think I need to know—’ he says it hesitantly, cursing that he can’t make things easier for himself, ‘—I think I need to know if you’ve forgiven me first.’
He sees her eyes cloud over and knows that nothing has been resolved.
‘It’s not about forgiveness, Archie. It’s about ... understanding. And there’s just too much I don’t understand about any of this.’
‘I wish I could help.’
Behind her, the soup is starting to boil and she turns to deal with it.
‘Come back or stay away, whatever you think best.’
He can’t bear her indifference.
‘All right,’ he says dully as Jon comes back into the cottage.
He sees his son looking from one face to the other, his expression hopeful, and he wishes he could look more positive. But Susie has turned away to deal with some washing up, and the atmosphere has become emotionally charged again. He can feel it and so, it seems, can Jon because his son’s smile fades and he pushes past Archie, the ire and hurt clearly returning.
Each one of them seems angry and hurt. What a mess.
The lunch he anticipated with some eagerness turns into a fragmented, hurried affair.
‘I’ll just have mine in the sitting room,’ Jon says, ladling out some soup and grabbing a hunk of the crusty brown bread Archie has hacked into pieces. ‘I’m off to meet some mates down the pub to watch the home derby.’
‘I’ll take mine on the hoof,’ Susie says, blowing on a spoonful as she dashes around the kitchen, straightening, neatening, tidying. ‘I’m giving the prizes at the fair down the road at three.’
‘Okay,’ Archie says tiredly, sinking onto one of the chairs at the kitchen table and opening the paper. ‘Divorce statistics soar’, reads the headline. ‘One in Three Marriages Ends In Failure’.
Cheer me up, he thinks morosely, why don’t you?
The worst thing is, he still can’t get the words to the melody he has dreamed up two months ago. It’s a sweet and poignant run of notes and the tune haunts him. He knows it holds the promise of being one of the best things he has ever written, but a tune on its own is one thing: married to words that echo and add to the sense, it becomes something else entirely. His failure to complete the thing is the source of a frustration that is mounting to such huge proportions that it’s threatening to block all useful activity.
He sits for two hours at his keyboard, but produces nothing. In the end, he whistles for Prince, throws on a jacket and goes for a walk. At least, he reasons, if I get some exercise, I might sleep tonight.
Jon lies sprawled across his bed, playing a time-wasting game on his iPhone. Through the small dormer window, he glimpses a flash of red and a blur of black out of the corner of his eye and looks up in time to see his father heading out of the gate with Prince.
He tosses the phone onto the bed.
Sod it, he thinks, everything’s wrong. No career, just a cruddy job in a bar; no girlfriend and therefore no sex; an overhyped sister who seems to be going mental about discovering this new family; and a catastrophic decline in relations between my parents.
He docks the phone into his speakers. The sound of Adele fills the room and the shadow of depression lifts an inch. He sinks back on the bed and lets the glorious voice wash over him.
We so nearly recaptured it, Susie broods as she lies sleeplessly in bed in a still empty bedroom. Perhaps I didn’t invite him warmly enough. Was it my fault? But then, he could have been more eager. I did leave the door open.
Failure bites deep. Having his arms around her was so completing that she’d been tempted to opt for an easy solution. It would have been easy to utter bland words of absolution and welcome him back into her life, but her spirit baulked at the final hurdle. Her faith in his integrity has been deeply damaged and restoring that is not something that can be done in an instant – because how can she change what he did in the past?
It’s not just the rift with Archie she regrets. She saw disappointment written all over Jon’s face as he rushed through the kitchen. Did he set Archie up to try for a reconciliation? Her son hates conflict, just like his father.
Still restless, Susie sits up and switches on the light again. She throws on a cotton dressing gown and pads downstairs. She hasn’t told anyone, but she found time to call Birthlink during the week – and discovered that her birth mother has registered on the database.
‘It’s that simple?’ she said incredulously to Helen.
‘You’re one of the lucky ones. Now, you should think very carefully about the next steps. We advise starting cautiously. Exchange a few letters. Just give what information about yourself you’re ready to give and ask the questions you’d like to ask. There’s no need to rush.’
Susie smiled. ‘I have a very eager daughter,’ she said.
‘It’s not unusual for the children of adopted people to be the most eager to find the birth family. But this is your story and you should control everything that happens.’
For four days, she has sat on the news. Now, contemplating the devastation that has engulfed her family since she first heard about her adoption, the decision she has been evading for so long comes to her with clarity and certainty.
Now is the time.
She picks up a pen and starts to write. She isn’t even nervous.