Mad Worlds (15 page)

Now Heather was grieving for the newcomer to her life, the dead brother she'd never known. Edward – uncle to Becky, and brother-in-law to John.

A brother she was almost getting to know. Having ended their silence, her parents kept talking about him – his shyness, his love of rambling, his prowess at cricket, his dedication to study, his likes and dislikes, his delight in that motorcycle (and how they rued buying it). Mother would talk, then suddenly go speechless and weep. Father would talk until he couldn't carry on.

Heather listened, asked the odd question, and found herself choking as her eyes blurred. The stirrings inside her were momentous, almost overwhelming. In their disjointed harrowing chatter, her parents communicated with more warmth and honesty than she'd thought them capable of.

They should have told her. If her parents hadn't moved, she'd have heard from neighbours and friends. And she'd have visited the tell-tale family gravestone (of which she'd now seen a photo, showing Edward's name at the bottom).

From psychology classes on her Social Studies course, she'd learned about the concept of unresolved grief, and been touched by case studies of people thought to be stuck in their grieving and unable to get on with their lives. It hadn't occurred to her this might happen in her own family.

Of course, her parents had got on with their lives. They'd dealt with tragedy in their own way, throwing themselves into work and Bolsall high society. It sounded like they'd bottled up their grief and managed their feelings in a ‘stiff upper lip' tradition. When they moved, they'd even kept the photos of him locked in a drawer. “We were too upset, seeing him all the time,” said Father.

“We loved him so much,” said Mother. “We're sorry we didn't tell you earlier.”

“Why didn't you?” Something impelled her to keep asking.

“It wasn't just that we'd get upset,” said Father. “We'd started again with you, and when you were young we thought it better not to confuse and trouble you.”

Her parents had certainly been protective of her; they had indeed treated her like a child, up until she'd left home. “And I'm not confused or troubled now?”

“We were so afraid we might lose you,” Mother said. “We were lucky to have Granny helping out.”

“And life went on,” Father added. “We were all busy, and we agreed not to say anything about your having had a brother. We thought it might unsettle you.”

This was going round in circles. “Why did you tell me now?”

“You asked me what ‘terrible thing' Granny was talking about. I spoke with your mother and we decided to tell you,” said Father.

“We always meant to tell you, sometime in your teens,” added Mother. “But there was never a good time, what with your exams and so on.”

“I didn't have exams all the time.”

“I know. But your teens were difficult for you, darling,” Mother countered.

True, things had been tough for ages after Granny died. In Year Three at grammar school, she'd withdrawn into herself and feigned sickness to avoid classes.

“We know we should have told you. I'm glad we have now,” said Father.

There was no point in pursuing this. Her parents felt bad about having kept this secret from her, and were apologising. “I'm glad too.”

Howls from upstairs signalled that Becky was awake. “I must go.” At the foot of the stairs, she paused and, looking back at two haggard elderly faces, added, “Thanks.”

Heather's chats with her parents continued. Daytimes, she saw a lot of Father, who accompanied her on morning walks with Becky. He was warming to the role of granddad. And he'd answer questions about her dead brother.

Late afternoons, Mother would join them – still looking tired at first and reaching for aspirins, but rallying over tea and staying up to talk about Edward.

Evenings, Heather examined old photos and listened carefully to her parents' comments. Sometimes she was moved to laughter, sometimes tears. She wanted to find out all she could about her brother. And the more she learned about him, the greater her sense of loss.

Anger at her parents was dissolving. The keeping of the secret was largely (though, she suspected, not wholly) to protect her, a vulnerable teenager.

How she wished she'd known Edward. Though ‘never interested in girls', he'd surely have been there for his sister in her troubled teens. And now, she'd have been in touch to gain solace.

Her parents had been crushed by losing the child they doted on. And their openness now about their sadly hurt feelings was welcome – almost embarrassing at first, but moving in the revelation of their humanity. On Sunday, she felt like going with them to church and praying for Edward's soul as well as for John. But she didn't see that would help. And inhibitions about searching questions were too strong.

A roller-coaster time with her parents. Now she must get on with life back home. She wanted to ensure Becky's welfare (and her own).

That evening, she asked about Mother's headaches. “They started after Edward died,” said Mother. “They've never really gone away. Talking with you this past few days has helped.”

“I'm glad.”

“Darling, I've never told you this. You're a good listener.”

“Thanks.” Mother praising her? Within her now was a fuzzy kind of warmth towards Mother.

In the night she lay awake, imagining Edward and what he was like. Before she drifted off, it struck her. She had this in common with John – a big brother (also a caring one) who died tragically.

Home beckoned. She must face up to living without John.

Next morning her farewells were hugs, fond and tearful – with Mother after breakfast, then with Father outside her house. Brushing her cheeks, she lifted Becky and waved at the retreating car.

Heather unlocked the front door. Home again. Well, almost. The door opened a couple of inches, then stuck. Maybe the house didn't want her back?

She didn't relish the idea of entering the cold, John-less house, its happy memories overlain by the recent horror. But it was home. And something was jamming this door. Yet the hallway floor was just lino. A body? Ridiculous – but no! Could John be lying there – discharged home?

Braced, hands shaking, she bent down and peered through the letterbox. She could see the lino by the stairwell, but that was a few feet in. She couldn't see what was directly behind, obstructing.

She tensed and, with an energy charge fuelled by anxiety, heaved against the door. It gave way and she sprawled into the doorway.

Brown envelopes. A relief – although they'd be bad news, asking for payment of bills. John's duty to open these would now fall to her.

Sure enough, one was for electricity, another for gas, another for water. At least they were bills, not reminders. And John's pay was due at the end of each month. For now, she and Becky would be covered. Thank goodness for the joint account and a chequebook she could use.

Where was the chequebook? Did he have it on him when he was taken to Springwell? He normally kept it in the small bureau that was his desk, in the corner of their living room. Happily, the drawers were unlocked.

She found the chequebook straight away. About half used. In the same drawer, she spied an important-looking document headed ‘Aversham Education Department Terms and Conditions of Contract'. Compulsory reading – to clarify about John's employment and pay – though not right now.

She rummaged through his drawers, in case there was anything else she might need. Something she'd never done. And in the bottom left drawer, she found treasure.

It was a large, faded brown envelope with something scribbled on it. She lifted the envelope out. The scribble, in John's handwriting, said ‘personal'. What was ‘personal'? She removed the contents. Then she sat gaping, fascinated, and aware of a powerful sadness.

The banner headline from the faded newspaper cutting was ‘Boy drowned on school trip'. Mid-page was a photo of the boy, a smiling lad in school uniform who could have been John as he looked then. Except that it was his big brother.

John had often told her about Dave's drowning. He wasn't there to see it, never knew how it happened, and picked up contrasting versions from Dave's pals and the local paper. This news cutting blamed ‘the pupil's rash behaviour'. While the pals' accounts varied in detail, all had Dave as an innocent victim of sloppy non-supervision by teachers. His parents wouldn't talk about it with him.

He'd not seen Dave's body and wasn't allowed to the funeral or the inquest. He'd read in the papers of the ‘death by misadventure' verdict, and the school and teachers being exonerated. “A cover-up,” John told her. “Dave wasn't irresponsible and wouldn't do a daft thing like they alleged.”

In their early days together, he'd always got worked up talking about it. She'd listened sympathetically, moved by the tragedy. But he'd gone on about it so often that she'd long ago tired of listening and switched off. It was ancient history and he should be getting on with his life. She'd resented his obsession and started to believe that Dave was the real love of his life.

What selfishness! She'd felt jealous of his love for Dave? Her love, longing and grief for a dead brother that she'd never met were real enough. But her pain could scarcely be compared with John's at the loss of his big brother, lifelong companion and best mate.

Now she could understand and identify fully with John's agony. The brother he idolised had deserted him – forever. And ‘drowned' wasn't enough explanation. The pain would surely always be with him.

Brotherly love. The love between her and John was different, with a vital sexual attraction, overlapping with brotherly love only in the tender bonding.

She still couldn't help a jealousy pang. What happened to the undying love for her that John used to proclaim in his words and behaviour?

Dave's death had clearly been the biggest tragedy of John's life. But not the only one, she was reminded as she peered at the next item – a small black and white photo of a youngish couple. The rugged smiling features of the man looked like an older version of John. The woman – smaller, homely and plump – was also smiling. They held hands and looked happy. His parents, who died before she met John.

Another photo of the couple showed the man in a collarless shirt with sleeves rolled up, the woman in a long-sleeved dress – each with their hands on the shoulders of the two children standing in front of them. The couple were older and looked proud of their young offspring.

She used the magnifying glass to get a closer look at the children's faces. They could have been taken for twins, but one, her John, must be a few inches smaller. He had a cheeky grin. Dave's expression was more serious, thoughtful. The brothers looked around the middle and upper ends of primary school.

The photo must have been taken not long before the pit accident. John had mentioned about his da coming home with an old Kodak box camera and getting the next-door neighbour to take a family photo. Said he regretted not having that camera – a childhood memento, and something to picture the three of them now. “Ma sold it to help us survive after Da died.”

The family in the photos looked so like she'd imagined. Of course – a memory catch-up! Soon after Becky's birth, John showed her the photos. She'd given them a disinterested glance and he'd put them in his pocket. Oh, to have that moment back!

She wiped her wet cheeks with her sleeve and closed the drawer. Enough. She'd get on with housework before Becky awoke.

All through the chores, she thought of the heroic child John shouldering his burden. She'd known from Social Studies that mining communities were no strangers to tragedy and hardship. When she expressed amazement at how he and his ma coped, John shrugged. “When bad things happened, we'd all look out for each other.”

But he'd had more than the proverbial bucketful. Not just Dave's drowning, but his da's calamitous accident and, after two years' struggle, death. (“Got home from school to find Ma weeping over his body… massive crowd at the funeral…”). And his ma, who took on three jobs to keep them alive, dropping dead soon after John started at Uni. (“Brain haemorrhage, they said, but sheer overwork caused it…”).

She marvelled at how he took on the extra paper round, passed the eleven-plus, won a university bursary and got a first. She'd married a special guy. Maybe he had been driven over the edge? If so, the treatment should help. Anyway, she'd stand by him, and one day soon get him back from that place.

A soft moaning signalled Becky's waking. Her lovely child –
their
lovely child. She lifted her infant and nuzzled her aromatic midriff. Becky must not suffer the kind of early hardships that beset John.

She'd contact The Windmill Nursery. Now. It was only three streets away.

*

Heather wanted to sing and dance down the path from the old stone building. But, with a sleeping infant in a pushchair, she settled for walking quietly.

At last, she saw a positive way ahead. Becky would have a free place at the nursery from Monday. And she would go in with Becky to start a four-day-a-week job as a nursery assistant. Matron's offer was a welcome surprise.

The pay wasn't great, but the cash would help. She'd see Becky at nursery and could check on her infant's progress. And she'd have a focus outside her woes, doing work that interested her. Surely this would work out!