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And then, just as I was thinking this, she surprised me by murmuring, ‘You’ll be fine now, Rori,’ and giving my hand, resting on the table, a quick squeeze.
But next moment, she was on her feet, pacing to the window. ‘Those bloody silly boys are at it again. Puffing away like demented chimneys. I’ve a good mind to report them to the school.’
‘Sit down, Ada,’ urged Blossom, shaking her head wearily at me. ‘Haven’t you been listening? Rori’s been through hell, for goodness’ sake.’
She turned with a bemused look. ‘Of course I’ve been listening. But dwelling on what’s happened in the past isn’t going to do any good, is it? The sooner we move on from the bad stuff, the better for everyone.’ She glanced irritably at her watch. ‘Where thehellisGeoffrey? He was supposed to be here to pick me up by now.’
CHAPTER NINE
It was only after Blossom had driven off to visit a friend in Buntingford that Geoffrey phoned to say his car had broken down and he was waiting for roadside assistance to rescue him.
‘I’ll walk you to the station,’ I said to Ada. ‘I think there should be a train to Guildford in about half an hour.’
I glanced out of the window, hoping I had enough time to get back before it got dark, and we set off, having to hurry so she wouldn’t miss the train and arriving on the platform in the nick of time. I waved her off, then I walked back through the industrial estate, thinking about my weird family set-up.
*****
Before Nash, I was self-assured and independent, I guess because of my rather unconventional upbringing. I grew up being able to look after myself. And so did my sister, Skye, who was ten years older than me.
At school, I scoffed at the kids whose mums did absolutely everything for them, while secretly, I sometimes envied them. Neither Skye’s father nor mine were in the picture. And with a mother like ours – always busy working, going on protest marches or on dates with unsuitable men – we’d had to be able to take care of ourselves. By the time I started primary school, I’d already learned the mysteries of the hob and the toaster while perched on the little Mickey Mouse stool from my bedroom, and I was fully clued up on how to open a can of baked beans without snagging my hand on the sharp bits.
I realised much later that our mother was bitter because her life hadn’t turned out the way she’d hoped. She’d dreamed of going to drama school and being an actress but giving birthto Skye at the tender age of sixteen had put paid to all that. (The boy – to whom she lost her virginity after drinking cider sneaked into the end-of-year school disco – didn’t want to know and neither did his parents, or hers for that matter, so she was completely on her own.) Skye had never had any interest in finding out who her father was – even in later life, she just accepted that she was the product of a single mother and that was that. She was neither curious not bitter about her birth, and I envied her for that.
Ada was twenty-six when she had me. By then, she was working for a charity supporting single parents, and when I was seven and old enough to understand, she sat me down and explained that she’d fallen for a man called Johnny, who she’d worked with. Johnny had been handsome and clever and very funny but ultimately a huge disappointment like a lot of men were. He had promised her the moon and the stars but had failed to come up with the goods when she’d found herself pregnant.
My attitude? Johnny hadn’t wanted me, his daughter, so I was determined thatIdidn’t wanthim– which was just as well, really, because by the time Ada told me these scant details about my father, ‘Johnny’ had already emigrated to New Zealand with his wife and family, so clearly I was never going to meet him, anyway.
It rankled for a long time that my father had rejected me without even meeting me, but I told myself it was his loss. I had the occasional dream in which I met him and I told him what I thought of him for abandoning Ada and me. But as the years went by, my bitterness lessened and I just got on with my life. These days, I barely thought about him.
We were okay, Skye and I. We may have had a part-time parent, but we never went short of anything. And Skye was there for me when I was little, making sure I ate properly and got to school on time in clean uniform. We had cleaners to keep thehouse tidy, which was just as well because Ada didn’t have time for housework. When I left for school in the morning, she was invariably already up and out at work or boarding a train with her placard, bound for a protest rally about a war somewhere or river pollution or equal pay for women. Very occasionally, she’d still be in bed after a night out with another unsuitable man.
But it was fine because Skye was always there for me. And I was so proud, having her for my big sister. I remember Ada and I going to see her in the school musical. I don’t remember much about it because I was only five, but Auntie Christine told me that it wasThe Sound of Musicand Skye was playing the lead, Maria, and she was brilliant. I only have two memories of that night: the noise of everyone clapping furiously at the end when my big sister came on stage; and looking at Ada and seeing that there were tears pouring down her face.
That was the first time I remember seeing Ada cry.
Even at that young age, it must have seemed odd because my mother was normally so cool and reserved and didn’t get emotional about anything. I guess that’s why it always stuck in my mind afterwards.
It made sense, though, that Skye would go to a special acting school. She was really talented and she used to tell me she was going to be an actress when she grew up, but first she’d have to go to a special school where they taught you ordinary lessons but also the skills she’d need to be a performer.
So when I was six and Skye was sixteen, that’s what happened. Skye went to a prestigious drama school in Edinburgh, and Ada moved up there with her to support her. She had to leave her job at the charity, which she loved, but she said Skye’s future was the most important thing. She was determined that Skye would have the opportunities she never had.
During the time they were away in Scotland, I went to stay with my Auntie Christine, which I loved.
I was six, nearly seven, at the time, and I loved it at her house. I was friends with my cousins, Layla and Molly, who were around my age, and it was fun walking to school with them every morning. We did fun things all the time like barbecues and going swimming in the river nearby, and we were allowed to stay up late during the holidays, watching movies in our room.
I missed Skye and Ada, of course, but I was having too good a time with my cousins to be too sad. Ada would come down from Scotland to visit us occasionally, and I always used to hope she’d bring Skye with her. But Auntie Christine explained that the school in Edinburgh was very expensive and Skye was also having extra coaching lessons during the school holidays to help her achieve her dream of becoming an actress.
‘Your mother has given up a lot to help Skye,’ said Auntie Christine. ‘So your sister must make the most of this opportunity while she’s there.’
But then about a year later, everything changed again.
Ada and Skye returned from Scotland, and I went home.
Skye had been expelled for repeatedly breaking school rules and staying out late at night after curfew, and it was clear that Ada was furious with her. Their already volatile mother-daughter relationship became even more fraught. I remember being in bed and hearing them arguing downstairs at night.
But something else had happened when I left Auntie Christine’s, which I didn’t fully understand, but which made life for me at that time full of wonder and excitement.
I had a new baby sister.
