The Sister Surprise Page 18

  ‘It’s here, isn’t it?’ I say, recognising Moira’s whitewashed cottage from a drop off last week.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Are we all right leaving the chicken feed on the back seat?’

  ‘Yeah, of course. Why?’

  ‘I don’t want someone to steal it.’

  Moira scoffs, unclipping her seatbelt. ‘Who? The poultry bandits?’

  She scrapes the mud off her boots by the doorstep and gestures for me to go inside. In the kitchen, she flicks the heating on, and pulls out a loaf of bread.

  ‘I’m so hungry I swear I’m ingesting myself,’ she says, waving a bread knife at me ‘I hope you’re ready to challenge your arteries.’

  Twenty minutes later, Moira clunks a plate down on the scrubbed kitchen table. The oiled monstrosity she’s piled on top oozes blobs of cheese between two thick slices of bread, a circular round of sausage, and a slab of potato scone. It’s a coronary in a mouthful, with a side order of extra cholesterol. It’s also completely and utterly delicious.

  ‘I know I’ve got food all over my face, but honestly I couldn’t give a sheep’s arsehole,’ I say.

  ‘It’s good, isn’t it,’ says Moira, grinning, her chin smeared with ketchup and a sheen of grease.

  ‘No wonder the life expectancy is lower up here,’ I say without thinking. I blink stupidly, but Moira doesn’t notice my clumsy phrasing.

  ‘But it’s a good life. Worth knocking a few years off, don’t you think?’ she says.

  We eat in comfortable silence as I scan the walls for clues that might tell me something about the way Moira grew up.

  ‘Have you been to all these places?’ I ask, pointing at the fridge door. Each inch boasts a different tourist destination in magnet form, from novelty Dutch clogs to the garish skyline of Las Vegas.

  ‘No. They’re from family friends. My cousin, mainly. He plays electro-folk violin in a band and tours a lot, so he posts a souvenir back when he visits somewhere new. I’ve not been abroad myself.’

  ‘Do you want to do something like that? Travel about?’ I say, picking Moira’s plate up and taking it to the sink.

  ‘I mean, sure. Who doesn’t? I’ve nae seen England, let alone crossed the Channel,’ she says, crossing a leg over the other knee. She unzips her hoodie, her cheeks so pink it’s like they’ve been drawn on with a wax crayon. ‘If I study equine dentistry, it’ll be my first time over the border. The thing is, I don’t know if there’s any point going to the interview.’

  ‘Why?’ I ask, pulling on a pair of pink Marigolds from the cupboard under the sink.

  ‘Ava, you don’t need to wash up.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, I’m up now. Go on.’

  ‘Well, even if I get a bursary, it won’t cover everything. If I get a place on the course, Mum will insist I take it up. That’s why I don’t want to tell her.’

  ‘OK, I’m not quite following …’ I say, picking up a wire sponge to scrape cremated cheese from a skillet pan.

  ‘She’d convince me to do it, but then I wouldn’t be able to help her out with the bills and the tearoom. Gah, she’d hate me spouting off about our finances round the village,’ says Moira, wandering over to the kitchen window, ‘but Dad wasn’t always the most sensible with money. He used to leave his thumbnail long for scratch cards, so that sums it up, really. Mum has taken on a lot of the debts he racked up. Basically, money comes in and goes out on the same day.’

  Wow. There’s an insight. The more I hear about our dad, the more I’d like to give him a swift kick in the testicles. When did he earn the right to empty the joint account whilst dicking about on an oil rig? Why should Moira and Jacqui carry the burden of his poor life choices? I didn’t expect to discover a secret life of philanthropy, but our father’s list of redeeming features is so small that I’m struggling to see what Mum found appealing, even if their relationship was three seconds long.

  ‘That’s a stupidly big responsibility to have,’ I say.

  ‘I know, and I don’t mind. Really, I don’t. It’s partly why I applied to be a veterinary nurse; the training isn’t so long, so I figured I could start making money sooner. Start paying some bills. But you know what’s boring about guinea pigs? Everything. If I let on to Mum that I want to specialise, she’ll start doing night shifts cleaning the ferries again, and I don’t want her doing that just for me.’

  Moira looks so jittery I’m half-expecting her to vibrate off the chair like a wind-up frog from the inside of a Christmas cracker. I throw tea down my throat and pull my chair in closer to the table.

  ‘I don’t think you should hold back. You’ve got to let people make their own choices. If Jacqui wants to help you out, that’s her decision. You’re constantly doing things for other people. I think Kian would have jacked in Braehead Farm if it wasn’t for you.’

  Moira bites her lip, her eyes pooled and glassy.

  ‘Is that part of it? You’re worried that Kian won’t be still be here by the time you’ve finished your course?’

  Moira nods, her eyes closed. A tear traces her lash line and runs down the side of her nose. She bats it away. ‘What am I? Ten years old?’

  ‘Don’t make yourself small unless you’ve really tried going big. It sounds like you’re basing decisions on what other people might need from you.’

  ‘Mmm. Maybe. I need to grow up,’ she says, dashing her cheek. ‘Nothing like PMT to turn on the sprinkler system.’

  I laugh, but the sound catches in my throat like I’ve swallowed a fat bluebottle. I turn back to the sink and rinse a blob of egg down the drain.

  ‘Could you try and save up as much as you can before your course starts? A pint of amber ale in The Wailing Banshee costs, what, £1.79? I can see why people drink, it’s a cheap hobby,’ I say with a laugh, turning back to the table. Moira looks up, her usual pep hidden beneath heavy brows and an even heavier fringe.

  ‘You’re wrong,’ she says, her voice delicate.

  I pause, a mug slick with soap studs in my hand. ‘Sorry, did I say something stupid?’

  ‘No, it’s fine. But you’re wrong. That “hobby” is why Mum’s still paying off the interest on Dad’s loans.’ Moira lowers her voice and shakes her head. ‘It’s what happens when your dad prefers his drinking buddies over his family. They were his priority for a long time, not us.’

  I roughly place my mug down, adding to the rings on the table. ‘That’s … really shitty. I know it’s reductive to put it like that, but it really is,’ I say, my disappointment sinking deeper.

  ‘Yeah. I know. Mum thought it was a good idea when he first talked about working away on the rigs, because “there’s no off-licence in the middle of the North Sea”, that’s what she said. She hid the money problems, but then I found their old bank statements in a cake tin, so it all became obvious. There was other stuff, too. Years before. Even so, she won’t badmouth him in front of me.’

  ‘Like what?’ I say, turning off the tap.

  ‘I don’t know the details, only snatches of stuff growing up. Kilroch wasn’t always as sleepy as it is now. Basically, everyone worked on the rigs. Have you seen them?’ I nod, remembering the metal structures like spider crabs in the bay.

  ‘Well, there were more of them. Most have been decommissioned, mostly since the accident. But there must have been a dozen at one point and it was stopping the dolphins coming into the shallows to feed. People from all over the country came up here to protest and eventually the oil company shifted the whole operation up the coast. The village was shot to bits after so many lost their livelihood. It’s left a stain. After the protests, the oil rigs reopened in a rush. People round here needed someone to blame.’

  ‘Does Jacqui blame them? The activists?’ I say, already knowing what Moira’s going to say before she opens her mouth.

  ‘She thinks they were middle-class hippies with no sense of the real world. Might be something to do with the fact that they chose to live like poor people because it’s more interesting than bei
ng ordinary and rich. That’s a direct quote from Mum, actually,’ says Moira, with a wry laugh.

  My stomach swoops with discomfort, like there’s a handful of slick worms wriggling inside. My compulsion to fill the silence has dropped away and now my lungs feel empty, like I’m in the deep end as chlorinated water slips down my stinging throat. I desperately wish that I could talk about myself as freely as Moira can. Words seem to bubble up my throat, but as soon as I open my mouth to speak, they pop and disappear.

  ‘Your … your dad. He worked on the rig that exploded, right?’

  Moira takes a big glug of tea and winces at the temperature. ‘Yeah, he did.’

  It shouldn’t matter. I didn’t know him. So why do I feel resentful about something I never had?

  Moira stands up and stretches her arms over her head. ‘Oops,’ she says, zipping up her fly. She tucks an old-fashioned rugby shirt into the waistband of her jeans and drains her mug like she’s racing someone. The pace at which she’s able to shake off a mood is truly admirable. ‘Want to see him?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My dad,’ she says, beckoning me down a narrow hallway.

  Chapter 24

  ‘Hang on,’ I say, dashing after her as she reaches a staircase lined with floral wallpaper and a chipped dado rail.

  ‘Just up here,’ says Moira, not looking back.

  I consider leaping from a window and sprinting as fast as my floppy wellie boots will carry me, but I seem to be on autopilot. What does she mean? Is there a chance Mum has lied to me about my father being dead? I grow hot underneath my scratchy jumper, panic setting in.

  Moira leads me onto the landing, past a magnolia room filled with boxes of paper bags and cake-tin liners, and up to a narrow bedroom at the end of the corridor. Shimmering butterflies are stuck on the door beneath a metal sign spelling out her name in the style of a Californian licence plate.

  She’s not leading me to him. She can’t be. I bite my lip, annoyed at myself for the flash of hope that tickled at my ribcage before calcifying into a hard, disappointing lump. He’s not here, and yet for a minute, I truly thought he was.

  Moira opens the door to a bright room with a three-quarter-size bed tucked beneath the window and textured plaster on the walls, painted over with lilac. She slides a mirrored wardrobe door open, revealing a vanity table covered in make-up I’ve not seen her wear. She passes me a photo frame and shoves her hand in her pocket. The other points to a man in the picture.

  ‘That’s Dad: Andrew. And Mum, obviously.’

  I stare at the out-of-focus man in the picture. He’s tall, that much is clear. Jacqui’s Nineties perm barely reaches his shoulders and she’s got the height and girth of a rugby prop, with a scowl to match. Andrew squints in the sunshine through dark, curly hair that falls to one side in a style that could seem foppish if it weren’t for his thick arms and patchwork tattoos. His jawline is square, like Moira’s. Like mine. He’s got a hand on Jacqui’s shoulder, but going by her awkward stance, you can tell she’s holding him up. A half-drunk pint dangles in his right hand, cut off by the frame.

  ‘Mum said that Dad wearing tailored trousers was the best thing to come from a funeral,’ says Moira with a smile.

  ‘He’s … he’s big,’ I say. Now that I know where I got each part, I’m conscious of my face in a different way.

  ‘Oh, aye. Good on the tug-o-war.’

  I try to imagine Mum standing in Jacqui’s place, but I’d sooner believe that Kian has a second job as a Butler in the Buff. I’ve seen photos of Mum from before I was born. The abundance of hemp cloth and henna-dyed hair was a look, especially when complemented by a ribboned tambourine. Blending in has never been her forte.

  I look at Moira and back to the picture, mentally splicing our features apart and dropping them into petri dishes between Mum, Jacqui, and Andrew. Four people, irreversibly connected, but wildly different.

  ‘Do you miss him?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah,’ says Moira, with an upward intonation. ‘He used to take me mackerel fishing when I was little. He had a little boat in the garage and we’d tow it down to the harbour.’

  I feel a pang of something akin to grief. Is that possible if you’ve never met the person? Moira looks around the room, as though noticing it for the first time. A rainbow of rosettes are thumbtacked to the shelf above her bed. I give the photo back to Moira, my thumbprint stark on the glass. ‘Was it nice? Growing up together, as a family?’

  ‘Sure, it was. Mum and Dad never had big bust-ups, but there was always an atmosphere of some kind. I could feel it as soon as I walked in. That’s why Kian let me hang around Braehead so much, ’cos we were in the same boat,’ says Moira.

  ‘That seems so unfair,’ I say, desperately wanting to add myself into the equation, ‘that both you and Kian missed out on the chance to grow up with them around.’

  ‘Kian had it worse off than me,’ says Moira. I wince, the unjustness of it all brought into light. Deciding whose ‘dead dad’ situation is worse is a bit like choosing between getting punched in the face or kicked in the stomach.

  I don’t have a right to feel hard done by. Historically speaking, Mum’s hazy references to my father might have been a defence mechanism this whole time. The decision to tell him about my existence wouldn’t have been a simple one. Going by what Moira’s said about the way she was fathered, I doubt knowledge of a second daughter 500 miles away would have inspired him to don a Batman costume and start campaigning for Fathers 4 Justice.

  I pull Moira into a hug, my arms above hers. She giggles and pats my back with T-Rex arms.

  ‘I knew it!’ she says. ‘You are a hugger.’

  ‘Only in special circumstances,’ I reply, squeezing my arms together. Over her shoulder, the collage of pictures stuck to the wall comes into focus. ‘Um, Moira?’

  ‘Mmhm?’

  ‘Why is your room covered in pictures of Leonardo DiCaprio?’

  Moira breaks away, turning to face what can only be called a shrine. The space beside her bed is covered in torn magazine pages and film posters, the faces of his co-stars ripped away.

  ‘He’s … an interest of mine,’ says Moira. ‘This one is quite rare,’ she says, pointing to a box frame. ‘You see that? It’s an original wood chip from the floating door in Titanic.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. I had a Titanic birthday party when I was eight. We all wore stripy life rings and made replica “Heart of the Ocean” necklaces out of Blu Tak and tinfoil. What a day,’ she gushes.

  ‘Didn’t you jump on that bandwagon a bit late? You must have been – what – a toddler when it first came out?’

  ‘No, definitely not. We rented it on VHS from Ted’s Tapes the second we could. He always got stuff in early because an American cousin of his filmed it on a camcorder in the back of the cinema and posted it over by airmail.’

  ‘When’s your birthday?’ I ask.

  ‘The third of December.’

  ‘What year?’

  ‘’92.’

  ‘What?!’

  ‘Why? Did you have a Titanic birthday party when you were a kid too?’ asks Moira, her lip curled with glee. ‘What was your cake like?’

  ‘No, no. I just, umm. I thought you were way younger than me.’

  ‘Oh, everyone’s surprised, don’t worry about it. I think it might be these,’ she says, lifting her cheeks with her fingertips. ‘Never grown out my baby face.’

  ‘But that means you’re like … six months younger than me.’

  Moira contemplates this and shrugs. ‘Yeah. Guess so. Oh, that sounds like Mum,’ says Moira, as the sound of crunching gravel filters in from outside.

  ***

  Jacqui steps out of a faded Skoda, a raincoat slung over her arm. Six months. That means that Mum and Jacqui were pregnant at the same time. Did Jacqui know? Did Mum? The latter, of course, is worse, but it’s Andrew who wins Biggest Shit of the Decade. Getting a second woman pregnant within a year of marrying the first i
s a pretty terrible way to display your long-term devotion.

  I wipe my cheeks dry and try to skitter down the driveway before Jacqui notices, but as she opens the boot, Jess jumps down and trots over to me with her tongue lolling, head low in playful submission. Jacqui walks over with heavy steps as though she’s a sheriff about to shoot a shot glass from my hand. Knowing I’m not going to make it to the car without an inquisition, I stop, hoping my eyes aren’t as stinging red as they feel.

  ‘I … you’ve had a haircut,’ I say, meeting her eyes.

  Jacqui runs her hand through a curled lock of honey blonde hair. Catching herself, she drops her arm and shoves a fist in her pocket.

  ‘Yes,’ she says, bridling. ‘I said they weren’t to bother drying it, but they took no notice.’

  ‘It looks really nice,’ I say. I mean it, too. ‘Is it a … special occasion?’

  ‘Why, do you think I would no’ care to do this ordinarily?’

  I don’t want to have a sparring match today, so I smile like a simpleton.

  ‘Ah, I’ve got to head back. Lots to be getting on with,’ I say.

  As I reach the Jeep parked alongside a gorse bush, Jacqui calls me back.

  ‘Will you tell Kian he needs to turn the sheep out onto the high field? They’ve all but run out of grass in the paddock and I had to pull two up from the ditch. Not sure why he’s left it for so long. Distracted, maybe,’ she says, her crystal eyes unwavering.

  Chapter 25

  I leave the Jeep at Braehead and open the back door of the farm house just to snatch my rain poncho from the back of a kitchen chair. It’s not supposed to rain, but that doesn’t mean anything here. I’ve stopped looking at the clouds, because more often than not, I’m in them. The sky blurs with the ground in a cold mist, enveloping my knees and muffling the landscape.