The Way We Were (12 page)

Another hesitation. ‘Do you know, Miss Tegan, I wouldn't be too anxious about that. Listening to the way your father is making preparations I think it would be just as well if you stayed put.'

‘Not come?'

‘It's to be a very small affair. Your father says that those of her friends who haven't already passed on are too frail to attend, He sees no point in inviting them. You have to ask yourself what she would have wanted, things being as they are. That's what you need to think about. Apart from the lawyer, Mr Glynn, it'll just be your father and your stepmother by the sounds of it.'

‘She's not my stepmother, Mrs Hartley. The word “step-mother” implies some involvement in the child's life. My mother died and I have no need of a replacement. Giselle is my father's second wife.'

‘That's quite true. I'll go and pack up those things now, Miss Tegan. I'll telephone again later on and tell you what's happening.'

*  *  *

‘So what will you do?' asks Julia when Tiggy had repeated the conversation.

Tiggy shrugs helplessly. ‘It seems terrible not to go to my grandmother's funeral but I can't help imagining what it will be like.'

‘I think Mrs Hartley is right,' says Julia. ‘It won't work. I know that funerals are supposed to be part of the mourning process but how can it be in these circumstances? All that antagonism between you and your father. And you won't be able to pretend about the baby. I think you should take Mrs Hartley's advice. It's probably how your grandmother would want it anyway.'

‘It just seems disrespectful,' says Tiggy sadly. ‘Ungrateful and uncaring.'

‘But
we
know it isn't, and nobody else matters,' says Julia firmly.

The box arrives so promptly that the girls believe that Tiggy's grandmother and Mrs Hartley had been well prepared. Apart from the books and some toys, the small parcel of jewellery is packed separately and with it is a letter. Tiggy takes it away to read.

My dear Tegan,

These things are mine so you have no need to feel anxious. They are not particularly valuable – the best pieces were given to me by your grandfather and must remain with the estate – but I hope you will lake pleasure in them and think of me when you wear them. Perhaps one day you will have a daughter who might like them.

I have never been very good at showing my emotions but I hope you know how very much I love you. When you were born it was I who suggested your name. Tegan means ‘beautiful' and ‘blessed'. I know you are the first. I can only hope with all my heart that, in the life ahead of you, you will be the second.

God bless you, my darling,

Your loving Grandmother

Sitting on her bed, Tiggy weeps. She opens the parcel and gently touches the string of pearls and the little silver locket. She threads the pretty garnet necklace through her fingers over and over again, as if some essence of her grandmother might be drawn from it, and weeps even more bitterly. It occurs to her that she has no family of her own left now; nobody to whom she might turn and nowhere that she can go for sanctuary. She sees her future, bleak and hedged on all sides with difficulty, and she is filled with despair. Sitting there, her fingers clenched on the necklace, her glance falls on the little Merlin. He stands on her bedside table, his chin up, hurrying towards the future, unafraid.

Was this the reason that her grandmother chose him as a farewell present? Tiggy picks up the bronze; smoothing the silky light-reflecting metal, remembering her grandmother's insistence that she should take it. The boy Merlin is both symbol and mascot: he stares bravely into the future, yet he is the future. Tiggy realizes that her own child could be seen in two ways: either as a dragging weight, causing her to be fearful and despairing, or as a reason for hope and the means of her own survival. The baby could either ruin her life or give it an exciting new purpose: only she can choose. She replaces the little Merlin on the table.

‘I choose the future.' She speaks aloud, though she isn't quite certain whether she is reassuring herself or her grandmother. As if some kind of action is required to reinforce the vow, she gets up from the bed and puts the pieces of jewellery away. She folds the letter, places it inside her copy of
The Hollow Hills
and goes downstairs.

In the kitchen, chaos reigns: Bella has been copiously sick and the twins are holding on to a struggling Charlie whilst Julia is trying to clean up the floor and fend off an interested Turk. Tiggy turfs both dogs into the garden, picks Charlie up and passes Julia some more newspaper.

‘I was thinking that it's a good day for the beach,' she says. ‘We could make a picnic lunch and go to Rock.'

The twins cheer and hop about with delighted anticipation; Julia looks up, pushing her hair back with her forearm, her face bright with pleased surprise.

‘Shall we?' she asks. ‘I must admit that it sounds great. But are you … you know … are you OK now?'

‘I'm fine,' Tiggy says, twirling round so as to make Charlie chuckle. ‘Aren't I, Charlie?' She begins to sing her own version of Mud's ‘Tiger Feet' with growly noises that make him chuckle even louder. ‘Go on,' she says to Liv and Andy, whilst Julia dumps the newspaper in the rubbish bin and pours hot water and disinfectant into a pail. ‘Go and find the buckets and spades and your warm jerseys, and I'll make some sandwiches.'

As Julia mops the floor, watched by Charlie from his high chair, Tiggy cuts sandwiches, puts some Munchmallows in a tin, and makes up a flask of Ribena. Her courage is renewed but she can see how crucial it is to cling to what is positive and how easy to embrace despair, from very early in her life she learned that life is neither fair nor straightforward, but since Tom's death it has become even more difficult to keep focused on her determination to be hopeful: the battle to maintain a balance is a moment-to-moment affair. It doesn't do to look too far ahead or to postpone simple pleasures; happiness is ephemeral and must be seized.

She thinks: We'll probably never be happier than we are now. One day we'll look back and remember the way we were today, young and strong and planning an afternoon on the beach with the children. I wonder what it will be like in twenty years' time when the twins will be nearly as old as we are now. Where shall we all be then?

Julia comes in from emptying the pail. ‘Bella's been sick again in the back porch,' she says, resigned. ‘The Turk seems to have eaten most of it, but is there any more newspaper?'

‘I've been thinking,' Tiggy says later that afternoon. They lie stretched out in the sunshine, propped on their elbows, Charlie asleep on the rug between them and the twins building an enormous fort on the sand nearby. ‘Pete will be home in a few weeks and I think it'll be a good idea if I take myself off for a while.'

‘Oh,' says Julia, flustered. ‘Well …' She flushes brightly, rolling over and sitting up, staring across the water to Padstow whilst she lights a cigarette. ‘I'd hate you to think you were in the way or anything. Pete's looking forward to seeing you.'

‘Come on,' grins Tiggy. ‘You don't think I want to play gooseberry for a fortnight, do you? He's been away for nearly three months, after all.'

Julia smiles, still a little embarrassed. ‘To tell you the truth, I've been thinking about it too. In fact, I wrote to Pete and we had an idea. We wondered if you'd look after the dogs and the house for us while we do a trip upcountry. We haven't seen the parents for ages and we thought we'd visit them and then go on for a week somewhere with the kids. It would be great fun if you don't mind having Bella. Pete's mother finds three children and the dog a bit much these days. My parents aren't bothered but they're younger. Thank God they all live in Hampshire. It makes life much easier. Could you cope?'

‘Of course I could cope. If that's the way you and Pete want it then it's great. The Turk and I can take off when you get back, if you like.'

Julia shakes her head. ‘Pete will be going into the dockyard every day so I shouldn't worry. To be honest, I wasn't sure whether to ask you about the holiday once we'd heard about your grandmother. I'm not certain if you should be on your own too much at the moment.'

‘I shall be fine. Honestly. Aunt Em will keep an eye on me.'

Julia makes a little face. ‘And I'm sure Angela and Cat would be only too happy to drop in.'

‘No, thanks,' says Tiggy. ‘I can manage without Angela and Cat.' She frowns. ‘I wish I knew why I dislike that child so much. It makes me feel so guilty.'

CHAPTER SIX

2004

Zack stared at himself in the glass, turning his head very slightly so as to examine a slight discoloration on his jaw; nothing really. He ran long brown fingers through short dark hair, still wet from the shower, and stared into the light grey eyes. It was a habit he'd got into as a small child; peering at himself, trying to see who he was. Zack Bodrugan: but he wasn't, was he? That was the point. Zack picked up the towel and rubbed his hair vigorously. He knew that it was the prospect of fatherhood that had resurrected these negative emotions; raised doubts and questions. It wasn't insecurity as such; not fear of being unloved or unwanted, or doubt in his abilities – his family had supplied love and encouragement in full measure. It was to do with having no point of reference as to his understanding of himself: no ancestral map from which to chart his own development; no known parents or grandparents, no siblings or aunts and uncles that were truly of his own blood, to whom he could point in recognition and from whom he could claim his genetic inheritance: his determination and a passion for high, lonely places; an ability for lateral thinking and his oddball sense of humour.

Zack hung the towel on the rail above the heater and combed his hair, still staring at his reflection.

‘I met Tom several times,' Mum had told him once. ‘You're very like him.'

Of course that was much later; long after he'd discovered that he was adopted. He was convinced that it was the way he'd been told that even now had the power to upset him and to lend a terrible resonance to the word. As he'd grown older he'd been able to understand the dilemma; what is the right age to explain to a child that he is adopted? Too young and he can't grasp it; too old and he feels he's been lied to. Zack shrugged. He could imagine the temptation to postpone the moment of truth, especially in his own situation. It might be a little easier to explain the facts to a child who has been specially chosen by a couple who are unable to have children of their own, or to those children claimed by other members of their own families because of some tragedy. His own case was rather different: taken by friends into their already complete family because his parents were dead and had no families.

‘I blame myself,' Mum had said, much later. ‘But, you see, we couldn't say right from the beginning that it was simply that we'd picked you out because you were special. It was much more crucial than that. Dad and I believed that it was important that you knew about Tiggy and Tom and that meant that you had to be told that they were dead. Explaining death to a small child is very difficult, especially the death of its parents, and we kept waiting for the right moment. It was stupid of us, of course, because there never is a right moment, though we knew we must do it before you went to school. Liv and Andy were old enough to understand and they promised they would never tell, and Charlie was too young to understand. But it should have been I who told you. I shall never forgive myself for that.'

It was inevitable, once the truth was told, that he should imagine himself to be the odd one out. Dispassionately studying his reflection in the glass, it was clear that his tall, muscular frame and dark hair could not be in any way linked genetically to the shorter, slighter build and fair colouring of the Bodrugans. At eleven or twelve he'd begun to look like the cuckoo in the nest, and many well-meaning, tactless strangers had commented on his dissimilarity to his siblings.

By that age he'd accustomed himself to the truth, found his own way of dealing with it so as to protect himself. Slowly, very slowly, he'd been able to assuage the pain of his abrupt loss of family identity with a new pride and growing sense of identification with Tiggy and Tom. That's how he thought of them: Tiggy and Tom, as though they were older siblings or a very young aunt and uncle. Once the truth was out, the whole family had been very ready to share their memories of them. He'd been given some photographs, not many but enough to make a connection. A romantic, adventurous, tragic couple they were: Tom with a group of fellow climbers, and Bwych y Moch making a magnificent backdrop, staring at the camera with a half-smile; Tiggy posing by the camper van, dressed in a cheesecloth shirt and denim jeans, laughing in the sunshine. Both of them orphans with no families of their own, he was the result of their union and he'd been determined to knit this fact into the strong fabric of his own family life so that the two pieces of his existence should become an indestructible whole.

Most of the time it worked, though there were particular moments of anxiety when it was necessary to explain it again to new friends: changing schools, starting university, contemplating marriage. He had a horror of the truth being told by someone else, pre-empting his own telling of it, yet at certain times he'd dreaded the need of explanation.

‘I don't want to tell Caroline,' he'd said to Liv, very casual, a bit offhand. ‘You know, about being adopted.'