Page 50 of Jenny James Is Not a Disaster
I take a sudden interest in spreading the cream and jam on my scone, and in over-stirring my coffee. Eventually, I do it so much I create a brown whirlpool and it sloshes over the side of the mug.
I examine what he has said from every angle and weigh up my possible responses. This is not, of course, the first time that Charlie has asked about my childhood. In the past, I have evaded it—just said something bland like “It was really normal and boring, nothing to talk about.” He has accepted that, but with increasing reluctance as he has gotten older and more independent in his thinking. I don’t think it will work anymore—and I also don’t think it’s fair to expect it. It’s time for me to stop being selfish and at least try to open up to him.
“Are you about to fob me off again?” he says, sounding annoyed with me. “Because, please don’t. I know that for some reason this is hard for you to talk about, but if Luke can sit there and cry into Betty’s fur and still find a way to talk about what happened, then surely you can budge a bit too? I’m not just being nosy—it’s my family as well. Dad doesn’t have any to speak of, and when I asked him about yours, he got super cagey and said he couldn’t remember much from back then and I should ask you instead...”
I look up in surprise. It hadn’t even occurred to me that he would ask Rob, but why wouldn’t he? He obviously feels like he has no other choice. I am, however, slightly amused at the thought of Rob’s face—my parents hated him, and the feeling was entirely mutual. In fact, the answer he gave was probably the most tactful one he could have come up with.
“Okay,” I say simply, dropping the spoon. It hits the saucer with a clang, and the black Lab that is now entirely under our table looks up in surprise. “I’ll try. And yes, it is hard for me, so go easy, all right? What do you want to know?”
Charlie looks so shocked, it is comical.
“Close your mouth,” I say. “A wasp might fly in.” He does as he is told, and then speaks.
“Are my grandparents still alive?”
“Um... I think so. I’m not totally sure, but I have been known to drunk google them occasionally, and last time I did it, I saw a picture of them on the parish council website. At the village fete. About two years ago.”
The sentence is simple, but the emotions behind it are not. Seeing their faces, older, more wrinkled; their silvering hair; my dad’s slightly shrunken frame—the same but not the same—had made me cry. It was like seeing a photo of a place you used to love, a place you used to feel at home in, but knowing that it’s been destroyed by an earthquake and you can never go back.
“And what are they called?”
“Bridget and Owen.”
“And do I have any, um, aunties or uncles or cousins?”
“One uncle,” I reply, “my older brother, Richard. I have no idea about the cousins.”
“And where do they live? Where did you grow up?”
“Cornwall,” I reply quickly.
“Why are all your answers so short?”
“Because, as already established, this is hard for me. I’m doing my best.”
He nods and reaches out to pat my hand. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just... I’m kind of scared that I’ll only get five minutes or something, and after that you’ll clam up again... and I really want to know more about them. Why did you leave? Why aren’t you in touch with them? Did they do something awful to you, Mum? If they did, just tell me, and I’ll never mention them again, I promise...”
I realize that his imagination is conjuring up all kinds of worst-case scenarios, and none of them are fair. What happened between me and my parents was awful—but I am starting to come to the conclusion that we did it to each other. Being away from my normal life, from work, being on the road, and, if I’m honest with myself, probably my conversations with Luke, have forced me to see the other side with more light and shade. We were all convinced that we were right; all firm in that belief. They were parents who were sure they knew best. I was young and was sure that parents who tried to get your boyfriend arrested could have nothing but evil intent. None of this is easy to explain to Charlie—I don’t want him to hate his grandparents, and I don’t want him to blame his dad for being the catalyst for the whole thing. I also, being truthful, don’t want him to resent me. It’s quite the conundrum.
“Charlie, love, I can assure you that it’s nothing like that. It’s complicated, and I’m not just saying that to shut you up. It really is. And your dad has a point—it was a long time ago, and we all have a way of rewriting history to suit our version of events, don’t we? Long story short, we fell out—very, very badly. I left. I had you. I started a new life without them in it, because that’s what I was sure I needed to do.”
This is a lot for a teenager to take in, but I try not to underestimate him. He is far more emotionally astute than most lads his age, I know.
“And you’ve not been in touch with them ever since? Do they... do they even know about me?”
“I’ve sent them a few postcards over the years. Just to let them know I’m alive. There was a phone call that... didn’t go well. And no, they don’t know about you. To start with, I was still so angry with them, still so hurt by them—and I maybe didn’t think they deserved to know about you. I also didn’t know how they’d react, and I couldn’t handle it if they rejected me. The one time I did reach out, it felt like she might... my mum.”
“Reject you?”
“Yes. I probably overreacted—everything was very heightened. It was just after your dad and I split up, and I was... well, I wasn’t doing so well. I called, she was angry, and I hung up. It wasn’t the most mature of displays by either of us. Then the years just slid by, and the longer I left it, the more impossible it seemed to be to fix, even if I wanted to.”
“Wow,” he says after thinking it over for a few minutes, “that really is a mess, isn’t it?”
“It is, love. Yes.”
“Okay—I only have one more question for you.”
I nod, and he hits me with it. As questions go, it’s a biggie.
