Page 22 of The Tapes
My brother’s reply is a snapped ‘They’re fine’ but it’s as if he catches himself because he waits a second and then softens a fraction. ‘Bridget’s mum has taken them to Center Parcs for a few days.’
Someone’s earning…
‘That sounds nice. Do you know if they’ll be back for the funeral?’
Peter frowns and it feels as if this hasn’t occurred to him. ‘I’m not sure,’ he says. ‘I’ll have to check. I think so.’
‘Faith was saying it’d be great to spend some time with them. It’s been a long time since we all got together.’
Peter nods along, not asking how Faith’s getting on, or suggesting he’d like to see my daughter. To seehis niece.‘We’ll see how things go,’ he says instead, before looking to his own watch. It’s far chunkier than the one of Dad’s that’s now in his pocket. ‘I’m sort of in a rush,’ he adds.
I realise I’m going to have to force the conversation, considering he apparently has no intent of engaging otherwise.
‘I found a box of cassettes in the garage,’ I say. ‘Do you remember when Mum used to record herself…?’
It feels as if there’s a battle against the Botox as the gentlest of crinkles appear in Peter’s forehead. It’s the first time he’s been remotely interested in anything since arriving at the house. ‘I think I remember her sitting in the garden with a tape recorder and a microphone. She said she was recording a diary.’ There’s a momentary smile, finally a hint of humanity. ‘That’s so long ago. I can’t believe Dad kept all that stuff.’
‘I was listening to a tape where Mum said I was only nine but that Dad “left” last week. I’m pretty sure I remember her telling me he was working away. I believed it at the time – probably because I was only nine – but it doesn’t feel right now…?’
It’s sort of a question. There’s a blink and I can almost see the memory reappearing. Peter is eleven years older than me and had already left home by the time I was nine. Just one of the reasons we’ve never been close.
‘Dad did leave for about three months or so,’ he says matter-of-factly. ‘There was another woman. Someone he met at work. I thought you knew?’ I shake my head and there’s something approaching curiosity on my brother’s face, as if he’d forgotten about all this as well. ‘I think she was married, too, and they both ended up going back to their partners.’ He stops and thinks for a couple of seconds. ‘Harriet-something. I think she lived up in that cottage by the rugby club. Her family used to run the bar there.’
He runs a hand through his hair and looks to me. There’s a second or two of connection that I’m not sure we’ve ever had, certainly not recently. ‘I remember now,’ he adds. ‘Your mum didn’t want you to know…’
He tails off and it feels as if he suddenly regrets telling me. As if he’s kept a secret for thirty years and then blurted it out by accident. As well as that eleven-year gap, we have the same dad but different mums. Dad was fourteen years older than my mother, so it all got a bit complicated with the age gaps. There was never really a time in which we all lived as a family. Peter had his mum and dad, then I had mine. It’s just that our father happened to be centre of the Venn diagram.
That’s probably why I know I can’t tell Peter about the ‘murdered’ part of Mum’s tapes, nor the Earring Killer claim. If he ever listened to the tapes, he’d focus on the stolen car part, the bank robbery bit, pointing out that Mum was a liar – and it should all be discounted. Perhaps I’d think he was right.
But I do wonder about that jewellery box.
If I could only find that, it would prove at least some of what she says is true. It wasn’t clear from where Mum stole it, but I assumed it was from someone she knew.
‘Did Dad ever talk about couples he and Mum were friends with?’ I ask.
‘From when?’
‘Any time through to when she, uh…’
‘When yours walked out?’
This is why it’s a dangerous conversation. Peter’s mother died young of cancer – and he has a very defined sense of difference between his memories of his perfect mother, compared to the train wreck of mine. I never knew his mum, so have no idea how much is real, and how much is rose-tinted.
‘I guess,’ I reply, not wanting an argument about whether Mum ‘walked out’.
‘Why?’ Peter replies.
‘I suppose I’m wondering if there’s anyone I’ve forgotten to invite to the funeral. Someone Dad might’ve lost contact with…?’
It’s a lie but good enough for Peter to think it over. ‘You’d know as well as me.’
‘I’ve invited everyoneIcan think of. That’s why I’m asking you.’
Despite the fillers and the way my brother’s face doesn’t really move, I can see him trying to come up with a sarcastic reply. When nothing appears, he huffs: ‘Did you invite Kieron and Lucy?’
‘I saw Lucy earlier. They’re both coming.’
He shrugs a fraction. ‘What were our old neighbours called? The Greens?’
