The early-morning peacefulness in the house was shattered when she heard a car door slam. There were voices, one high-pitched, the voice of their neighbour who was always out doing her garden and therefore saw the goings-on of the road, and another lower voice that Callie would have recognised anywhere. Her brother Freddie.
She hurriedly pulled on some clothes and ran into the bathroom to scrub her face with a facecloth and brush her teeth. There was no time for primping or beautifying – not that she bothered with much of that these days. Her skin looked on the outside the same way she felt on the inside: dried up. She used a bit of her mother’s deodorant and a quick squirt of a perfume she was sure her aunt had once had, and was therefore at least thirty years old, and went downstairs to meet her brother.
Who knew what he’d say when he saw her?
The tall man in the kitchen both looked like her younger brother and looked different: he’d filled out, grown older and had a beard that was greying. He was still good-looking, hair cut short, and there was the most wonderful sense of calm around him. His eyes, the same grey as her own, were warm as he saw his sister.
He smiled.
How could he look at her so warmly when she’d abandoned them all ...?
But the thought stilled in her mind as Freddie crossed the kitchen to hold her in his arms.
Callie let the tears flow. ‘I am so sorry. I thought you’d hate me, never want to see me again—’
‘Cal, babes, I’m the one who was the heroin addict, I get to make the amends and say sorry. Sorry for what I put you through. I’m clean for nine years now. And there’s nothing to forgive. Drugs meant I wasn’t there when you needed me. I hated Jason and he put you in a cage.’
‘That’s what I always said,’ said Pat Sheridan, standing with a tea towel in her hand and watching her two children embracing. ‘The heroin had a grip on you, Freddie, and Jason had a grip on you, Claire. It’s like you were addicted to him or something. Now you’re back.’
With that simple explanation of it all, she turned and went back to the stove where a panful of rashers and sausages were frying.
‘Do you want eggs too, Freddie, love?’ she said. ‘I get the nice free-range ones.’
Freddie still held on to his sister, still hugging her as if trying to make up for the lost ten years.
‘Eggs, lovely. Let’s talk about all that another time,’ he said. ‘For now let’s just sit down and try and visit. I want to hear all about my beautiful niece.’
Callie began to cry. She didn’t deserve this but she wanted it so much. She held on to her brother, feeling the solidity of his chest as he embraced her. He was the same build as her father: tall, broad, with a barrel chest and solid arms.
‘Hush,’ he said now. ‘You’re back.’
They sat at the kitchen table as he ate his breakfast with relish and Callie drank coffee.
‘Eat,’ said her mother. ‘You’re too thin.’
‘Ah, Ma, leave her alone,’ said Freddie, and they both laughed.
It was like all those years ago, except Da would have been pottering around and Aunt Phil would be belting in, fag in hand, lippie in the other, saying she was late for the bus and was going to get a ride on Larry from across the road’s motorbike.
Someone would have made a remark about how a Honda 50 would only be marginally faster than walking to the factory but not much, and Phil would have roared laughing with that deep smoker’s voice and slammed the door on the way out.
Aware of Poppy being asleep upstairs, Freddie kept his voice low as he told his sister about the years of addiction and where it had brought him.
‘I owe you an apology, and Jason for paying for rehab when I ran off from it,’ he said.
‘You don’t owe that piece of shit anything,’ said Pat.
‘No,’ insisted Freddie. ‘That’s not how it works. I have to say sorry to the people I hurt and one day I’ll say it to him. Well, maybe,’ he amended, seeing the doubt on Callie’s face. ‘So I’ll say it to you instead. I put Ma here through hell but she did her best to stay with me.’
Pat blushed with pleasure. ‘It’s what a mother does,’ she said. ‘If she can. I was nearly broken, Freddie, you know that.’
‘I wasn’t here to help,’ Callie added guiltily.
‘You had your own problems,’ Freddie pointed out.
‘How are you so calm?’ cried Callie.
‘I meditate and go to Narcotics Anonymous meetings. Kerry keeps me sane. Walking in the woods, feeling the air, the trees, nature all around me. I’m lucky: I got out and managed to stay out. Something like ninety per cent of heroin addicts don’t. How could I say a word to you for your life choices, Cal? You didn’t end up selling drugs on the street to keep your habit going, did you?’
