Page 36 of The Tapes
‘I’m done,’ I say.
Mark’s at his door but turns to take me in. ‘Done with what?’
‘You.’
SEVENTEEN
I regret quitting my job the moment I walk out the gates. I had around thirty seconds of satisfaction at seeing Mark’s face until it dawned that I have no easy way of paying the mortgage. I have some savings, but not much. Suddenly, clearing Dad’s house so it can be sold has become a necessity – which is not the way I want to think about my father.
I don’t necessarily have to declare my past now so much time has gone by – but I’ve had the same job for more than six years. I’m going to have to explain to any potential employer why I don’t have a reference for that time.
What a mess.
I sit in my car for ten minutes, partially hoping Mark will follow me out to ask if I want to change my mind. I know he won’t, because it would be too close to an apology, which is something he doesn’t do. Not that I can complain, consideringIcould say sorry and ask for him to take me back – but I definitely won’t.
Those ten minutes pass but it’s impossible not to stop my mind drifting to Mum’s tapes and the jewellery box she says she found. I veer from believing her to not. The conversation with my brother still sticks as well. I’ve not heard a thing fromhim since the talk yesterday and yet, as well as his dig about Jake Rowett, there was something else he said. Something that’s niggling.
With no job, I find myself driving out of town, still considering calling Mark to see if he’ll pick up and forgive me. Still not doing it.
The sign for the rugby club is battered and weather-worn. It’s advertising the season’s start in a few weeks, plus training camps for the next half-term. I pull into the dusty car park, sending a scattering of small stones skittering towards the vast expanse of pitches. Someone’s on a ride-on mower in the distance but the area is otherwise empty. There are signs to stay off the pitch, then rows of advertising hoardings for local businesses.
I’ve been here once before. It would have been someone’s baby shower, where they’d rented the function room, or possibly a christening. Something like that.
I head towards the main clubhouse, where a large banner is advertising an upcoming dinner dance. Around the back and a pair of cars are parked by a giant wheelie bin. I ignore those and follow the gravel until I reach a cottage that’s largely overrun by a mangled web of ivy.
It’s a long shot after so many years and yet, somehow, I know there will be at least some answers here.
A woman is watering a flower bed at the front of the house. She’s wearing foam knee pads and gloves, humming to herself with her back to me as I approach. I wait, trying not to startle her – which fails, because, when she turns, she leaps back a step.
‘Didn’t see you there,’ she squeaks.
She pulls off a glove, then lowers her glasses to peer over them.
‘Eve…?’
I nod and she puts down the watering can, then takes off her other glove. ‘I heard about Bruce,’ she says quietly. ‘I didn’t wantto, um… well, bother you, I suppose. I didn’t know whether you knew about me.’
My father walked out on nine-year-old me to spend three months living here with this woman. It’s thirty years ago and I don’t let on that I only found out about it properly the day before. Perhaps it’s because I used up my well of anger with Mark but I’m struck by a twinge of pity for Harriet. She must be seventy and I can almost hear the creak as she stands up straighter. She looks exhausted, as if permanently on the brink of a yawn that won’t quite come.
‘I appreciate you coming,’ she says. ‘I’ve been thinking about you ever since I heard.’
She looks at me so earnestly, this complete stranger, yet I know it’s the truth.
‘It’s the funeral tomorrow,’ I find myself saying. ‘I was wondering if you wanted to come.’
It’s not the reason I visited, yet maybe it is.
Harriet glances away and lets out a long huff, before finding a tissue in her pocket. She blows her nose and waves a hand in front of her face.
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I didn’t expect this. I don’t want to impose on anyone.’
‘It’s fine. I think I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a while.’
Harriet nods, taking the lie at face value. She gulps, then wipes her hands on her sides, before nodding towards the club house. ‘They do lunch every day,’ she says. ‘I’m life president, and it’s not worth having perks unless you use them. Do you fancy something to eat? I know it’s early.’
She’s right about that but I didn’t eat breakfast and my gurgling stomach reminds me as much. Harriet takes a few steps, then remembers the knee pads. She crouches to remove them and then ekes her way up. After that, she leads the way towards the club, then uses a key to open the back door. We endup in a large reception room with floor-to-ceiling bay windows that overlook the pitches. A man is mopping a floor on the far side but he stops and checks his watch.
‘You’re early,’ he says.
