‘What did you mean then?’
‘I meant that she’s doing it all very deliberately – she is ill when she’s making these videos, isn’t she? Really ill. But she’s pretending not to be, putting on a show, throwing in a few funny lines. She wants us to do certain things, and she knows she’s manipulating us into doing them, leading us in a certain direction. I’m not saying she doesn’t mean it all – she obviously does. I just mean that she’s not daft – she knows us so well, she is predicting how we will react to things, building in light and shade so we don’t just get bogged down in it all. She’s trying to make it … fun, as well as making it matter.
‘And that way she talks to the camera? All isn’t-this-marvellous-girls? That’s her using her professional skills for a very personal goal. I’m not criticising it, I’m amazed by it. That, in her last few weeks, she chose to do this. For us. Because, like she keeps saying, she loved us so much. Does that make sense?’
I’ve explained it as well as I can, and if Rose still wants to interpret it as me being a cow, she’s welcome to. I think part of her still wants me to be a cow, because then I’d be easier to ignore.
She nods, almost reluctantly, and sips some of her coffee, immediately pulling a face when she realises how cold it is. I should make her a refill – but we have a decision to make first.
‘What do you think, then?’ I ask, rubbing the worn fabric of the armchair as though I am trying to absorb any last traces of my mother’s touch. ‘About the dad thing? Do you want to know or not?’
She surprises me by answering immediately, and firmly: ‘Yes. I really do.’
Some of my surprise must show on my face, and she gives me a little smile, as though she’s satisfied to have shocked me with something.
‘Because of Joe,’ she explains. ‘I mean, it’s not as though I believe that our genetic make-up is the be-all and end-all of who we are – Joe is nothing at all like his dad, for example, even though I do sometimes worry that Gareth will rub off on him every summer when he goes and stays with him.
‘But Joe has asked about my father, and I’ve never been able to answer properly because I don’t know myself. And one day, he’ll be in the same boat we’re in now – when I’m gone, I mean. He’ll be the one with the questions, and there’s no way I’ll be capable of pulling off one of these A–Z affairs. I’m not organised enough for that, or selfless enough – I’ll probably spend my last weeks on earth eating cheesecake and pairing socks and watching box sets ofPoldark—’
‘I lovePoldark,’ I say, unable to stop myself interrupting. Her smile returns, bigger this time, as she replies: ‘Who doesn’t?
‘Anyway,’ she adds, leaning forward and looking at me intensely, ‘you can’t say that you’ve never been curious, can you? It was always odd – she was so open about everything else, but this one thing just foxed her every time we mentioned it. I always secretly wondered if our dad was somebody … you know, famous? Like maybe we were the illegitimate love children of Robert Redford or something?’
I bite back a giggle at that idea, but can’t deny that similar thoughts had crossed my mind.
‘I know what you mean,’ I say. ‘Except not Robert Redford – I think she’d have mentioned it, relentlessly, if she’d ever met him. But maybe one of those British actors she worked with back in the Seventies? Like Robert Vaughn, or Timothy Dalton before he was Bond, or Ian McShane?’
‘She did always have a bit of a thing for Ian McShane, didn’t she? Always looked a bit dreamy-eyed whenLovejoycame on the telly …’
‘Or,’ I say, pouncing on a new idea with what is probably far too much enthusiasm, ‘didn’t she do a stint in theatre with Richard Harris?’
Rose bursts out laughing, and her whole body is shaking so hard that cold coffee is sloshing out of its mug, and splashing on to her thighs. I’ve not seen her laugh like this for so very long, and it is joyous to behold.
‘What?’ I say, grinning at her. ‘What’s so funny?’
She wipes the tears from her eyes – the good kind, this time – and takes a few deep breaths, trying to stifle her giggles.
‘It was the look on your face, sis,’ she says, ‘the look on your face when you said that. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so excited. You do realise, don’t you, that you’ve just suggested that Professor Dumbledore is ourdad?’
Chapter 34
Rose
Ihonestly don’t think I’ve laughed so hard in my entire life. Apart from maybe that time in the tent at Glastonbury, when I was a Stoned Rose and every word out of Poppy’s mouth was absolutely hilarious.
This time, I’m not stoned – just a bit hungover. And this time, Poppy isn’t my best friend – she’s the person I’ve been holding responsible for ruining my life for all these years, even if part of me knows that’s not entirely fair.
And this time, we’re not joking about our mum sneaking into a festival as a blue-boobied yoga freak – we’re on some crazy beyond-the-grave odyssey that she’s sent us on; an insane journey of reconciliation.
None of this is funny at all – but God, it felt good to laugh again. And it felt good to see Poppy relaxed again, even if it was for just a few moments; the way her face lit up at the thought of being Dumbledore’s long-lost daughter was absolutely priceless. Well, she has been readingHarry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkabanthis morning.
That look – that genuine glee – meant that for a little while there, she lost control. She stopped being the perfectly poised Poppy she is these days, and instead became the imaginative, excitable little girl she always used to be. The way I remember her, before everything turned to shit.
I suppose, no matter what comes next, no matter what the ultimate outcome of Mum’s bonkers spirit quest, we both needed that. We both needed to laugh, to let go, to relax.
Now, egged on by Mum’s insistence that E is just a bit of fun, I decide we should press ahead.
‘Okay,’ I say, pointing at the boxes on the living-room floor, ‘while I’m still half dead with this hangover, shall we see what E is? She said it was funny, but I’m not sure I trust her. This spirit quest business is a bit unpredictable.’
