I let out a sigh. “I won’t. I won’t doubt it—not anymore.”
“If you do,” Theo says, “I’ll just have to remind you.”
I relax and rest my head on his shoulder. “I’m pretty sure that’ll work.”
Chapter 22
On Monday, my priority is to find some time to read Wilf’s final letter to Arnaldo. But it’s a big day for the builders: as they start demolishing the kitchen, the house fills with the sound of banging, thudding and crashing.
We set up a temporary kitchen in the big lounge on the first floor, where there was already a dining table. Giuseppe plugs in the fridge and the little electric oven, next to a single-ring portable gas stove he lends us—all within easy reach of the bathroom in the cottage, which we designate as our washing-up station. The plan is for us to eat breakfast at the dining table and prepare simple lunches we can eat outside, accessing the patio via the exterior door and a short flight of steps. I’ve no idea what we’ll do in the evenings: we certainly can’t afford to eat out every night.
At least our first breakfast in the new setup goes well. All three children drink some orange juice and afterwards, we go outside to throw the oranges over the hill. Then Theo has to nip down to the village to send an important email, taking the kids with him and walking down the new footpath. I think this could be my chance to read Wilf’s letter but am accosted by Giuseppe, who wants clarification on several details of the kitchen design. Before I know it, Theo and the kids are back—but they scatter around the top twofloors of the house, each doing their own thing. Theo’s reading some documents, Archie’s playing with his action figures, and Callum’s doing the workout Dom devised for him, which is made up of strength-building exercises using the bench on the patio, big bottles of water for weights, and a portable pull-up bar that Dom set up in his bedroom doorframe. I’ve no idea what Mabel’s doing. But I spot my chance to read the letter.
Just as I’m walking to the cottage through the temporary kitchen, I notice that the washing-up still hasn’t been done. As I don’t want to disturb the quiet, I decide to do it quickly myself. But when I load up the washing-up bowl and lug it through to the cottage bathroom, I find Mabel. And I find out what she’s doing: she’s running my toothbrush around the rim of the toilet bowl.
I’m so shocked I almost drop the bowl of crockery. Then—weirdly—I find myself laughing.
Mabel looks up. “What are you doing here?”
“What does it look like?” I reply, gesturing to the washing-up bowl. “Didn’t you hear me?”
She looks down, unable to meet my eye. “No. There’s so much banging I can’t hear anything.”
I put down the washing-up and sigh. “Mabel, what’s the matter?”
As she struggles for words, I’m hit by a memory: I’m around her age, wiping a piece of toast I made for my stepmum on the kitchen floor. Except on that occasion, I wasn’t caught. But I felt so guilty, I quickly threw it away and made her another. Seeing the shame on Mabel’s face takes me back to exactly how I felt on that day. And I’m not sure how to respond. I can’t muster up any anger, but amusement—or even admiration—would be inappropriate.
“Actually, don’t answer that,” I interject. “Just go. Let me get on with this.”
She gingerly places the toothbrush on the windowsill and scurries out.
As I fill the sink with hot, soapy water, I can’t help but feel sorry for her. Because I’m pretty sure I know what the matter is. Theo told me while they were in the village, she received several messages from her mum. Apparently Kate saw the pics Mabelposted on Instagram of the makeup job Gloria had done on her—and said she was finding it difficult being away from her while she’s having such fun. Mabel must have felt guilty: that would explain why she’s pulling back and expressing her loyalty to her mum.
Once the sink’s full, I start washing the pots, rinsing off the suds in the bath, where I carefully stack them to dry. Theo also told me that Mabel exchanged messages with her friend Sharita, who she’s sensed has been pulling away from her all summer. Sharita said she’s been invited on holiday with Aurora and her family in the last week of August, news that must have hurt Mabel. Possibly even more so after seeing me with my friends. Now she’s lashing out.
“What’s going on?” Theo’s standing in the doorway, thick lines on his forehead. “Mabel says she’s done something bad but won’t tell me what.”
As I scrub the cereal bowls, I fill him in.
Theo looks appalled. He wants to go and confront Mabel but I beg him not to. “She’ll only resent me. Just let her sit with it for a while and maybe chat to her later.”
Theo puffs out his cheeks. “Well, she owes you one bloody big apology.”
“I’m not going to argue with that.”
“She can also buy you a new toothbrush.” He clenches and unclenches his jaw. “I’m going to take her out for one now.”
While Theo takes Mabel to the shops—and Callum and Archie tag along—I close the door to the cottage and sit on the bed. Now, finally, is my chance to read Wilf’s third letter.
Carissimo Arnaldo,
I’m writing this in haste so forgive me, but I need to tell you what’s happened.
Last night, I went round to our Kathleen’s for baby Julie’s first birthday. As it was Saturday, after tea everyone disappeared to the pub, but I stayed to help Kathleen clear up. We were drinking stout and laughing and joking, and Idon’t know why but I told her I’m queer and have fallen in love with you. Happen the booze had loosened my tongue. Happen I thought I was safe with my own sister, especially as we’ve always rubbed along so well. I was wrong. She refused to talk about it and went ever so quiet for the rest of the night. Not thoughtful quiet but angry quiet. I went home feeling sick with dread.
This morning, my brother-in-law Gerald turned up at the house and exploded. He says I can’t go round to their place any more, that I can’t be trusted around kiddies. It was terrible as I love those girls and would never do anything to harm them. Gerald then went and told my mam and dad and they came to the house and went berserk. Sorry, that means ‘mad’ where I’m from. Father was bawling and shouting, calling me a pervert and a freak of nature. He said if that’s the way I want to live, then I’m no son of his. He also said if being queer wasn’t bad enough, I’ve been carrying on with an Italian, after everything he went through in the war. I wasn’t sure what to say, even though I’ve been thinking about this a lot and had already started composing the letter I was going to send. I was just so shocked and felt so foul, all I could do was sit at the table skriking. Sorry, there I go again. Skriking means ‘crying’. Any road, Father didn’t take pity on me, not one bit. Nor did Mam. She just stood there watching, her arms folded and her face like thunder. To think she gave birth to me and nursed me. How could she forget that? I feel abandoned and utterly wretched.
I won’t let my feelings get the better of me, though. I need to pack a case and make arrangements to leave Manchester. After work tomorrow, Father and Gerald have arranged to meet to decide what to do about me. Apparently, they’re too angry to decide now and need time to calm down. I’ve no idea whether they’ll go to the police, but if Gerald thinks I’m a danger to children I’m quite sure he’ll tell the school. Either way, I’ll end up in prison. There’s a slight possibility Father will be too ashamed to let the secretout of the family, but I can’t take a chance. I’ve got one day to escape.
