Christina felt the sting in her eyes, and a memory slipped into her mind.
She had been nine and the church hall had smelled of paint and sugary orange squash. She’d been cast as ‘Star Number Three’ in the Nativity, her tinsel halo itchy and a little crooked. Her parents were in the front row, her dad grinning, his eyes glued to the actors like he was watching a West End performance.
When she spoke her single line – ‘Follow me!’ – he gave her a standing ovation like she’d just delivered Hamlet’s soliloquy, yanking her embarrassed mother to her feet beside him. He stood tall, still in his smart suit and tie, the one he wore to the office every day. He’d rushed there straight from work, with no time to change, and the sharp lines of the jacket looked slightly creased from the day’s commute. She dipped her face and grinned so wide her cheeks hurt.
On the way home, he held her hand, in his own warm one, and told her she’d been a star, a genuine star.
‘She was brilliant,’ murmured Dee. ‘A really lovely memory for you to take with you.’
Tina pulled her hand free. Why did her father need a memory, and where would he take it? ‘You aren’t going anywhere are you, Da?’ she asked, a note of panic in her thin voice.
He chuckled and grasped her hand. ‘Just a wee business trip, lassy.’
That had been just before he left.
Except ... that wasn’t right. He hadn’t left. Not at first. That was the story her mum told. The one Tina repeated quietly to herself. He’d gone. A business trip to New York, her dad said. Nothing unusual. Overnight bag. Passport. A hurried kiss on the forehead.Back soon, pet!That version lasted a while. Through the last days in Glasgow. Through the hush around the house. Through the long silences when Tina asked when he was coming home.
Then she and her mother had moved to Suffolk. New flat. New school where no one spoke to her. And a new story.
‘He left us,’ her mother finally admitted, sharp and tired. ‘It wasn’t a business trip. He moved to New York. Best to forget.’
Tina didn’t argue. But she knew, somehow. Knew that wasn’t quite right. Knew there was more. Something worse.
She’d overheard things. Caught hushed voices in doorways. Overheard two mums at school gossiping, staring at Dee, saying, ‘such a scandal,’ and ‘she claims she never knew a thing.’
The truth was clearly messier. Unfinished. A cut that never scabbed over. But the lie – he left for New York; he never came back – was easier. A clean line. A closed book.
And even after she knew the truth, Tina had clung to that version. Not because it was true. But because it was tidy.
The lights came up for the interval, and the audience applauded thunderously, then stirred like a single, murmuring creature to gather bags and coats and head to the refreshments table.
Christina blinked back the memory and stood, brushing imaginary crumbs from her skirt. She would get this marriageback on track. She wouldn’t let her daughter grow up with silence and blank chapters.
‘I’ll get drinks,’ she said, her voice firm.
Hamish stood up. ‘I’ll come with you.’
But she was already moving toward the exit.
The school corridor resembled a carriage of a London tube train in rush hour – hot, stuffy, crowded and smelling of coffee and too many coats drying in artificial heat. Two trestle tables groaned under foil-covered Tupperware and supermarket cupcakes, stacked like edible cairns. The low thrum of conversation rose and fell with bursts of forced laughter, like waves crashing against the cliffs of mild social awkwardness.
Christina stood by the table, chewing politely on a chocolate brownie that was both dry and sticky. Crumbs clung to her fingertips. She wasn’t hungry. She wasn’t even sure why she’d taken one – other than to have something in her hands, something to do that wasn’t talking to Hamish, who was standing nearby looking like he didn’t know what to do with his arms. The actors were busy arranging the props for the next scene, but their siblings were darting about cramming sugar fuelled goodies into their mouths.
A voice rose behind Christina, overly bright.
‘Mole waswonderful, wasn’t she?’
Christina turned slightly. Mole’s mother, wearing a woollen scarf wound multiple times round her neck like a coiled snake, beamed at anyone who’d listen.
‘She bringssuch nuanceto the role.’
Everyone smiled politely, including Christina, though the poor girl had been barely audible. Nuanced, yes – mostly through mime.
Hamish sidled up next to her, one hand wrapped around a paper cup of tea.
‘You know,’ he said, in his historian’s musing tone, ‘this reminds me of the Elizabethan court masque traditions. Carefully staged performances in stately homes ... poorly lit, often inaudible, but everyone clapped anyway, for political reasons.’
She arched an eyebrow. ‘Are you saying Mother Mole is trying to secure a court appointment?’
