Page 19 of Coming Home
Seven months later, not long after her sixteenth birthday, she met Lou. He was playing football for the visiting village team. As she cheered from the sidelines her eyes never left the tall, sandy-haired centre forward who, after he’d scored the first goal gave her a wink as he ran back up the pitch. And that was that, the start of her and Lou, someone she loved for all the right reasons and who truly loved her back.
Gawsworth Village, Cheshire. Present day
A speck of rain and the sound of a digger in the background spurred Rosina into action, groaning when she checked her watch again and realised she only had minutes to make it back. Wiping her eyes with her scarf she stood then gave her gran a wave before heading towards the car, already dreading lunch and picking her way through food she would have trouble keeping down.
Opening her car door she whispered under her breath,‘Come on, Saint Sylvia, you’ve never let me down before and I don’t think I can keep this up much longer, please, Gran, I need you.’Turning the key in the ignition she waited a second and sighed. The rumble of her engine drowned out the unmistakable sound of silence.
9
Violetta
Macclesfield, Cheshire
Present day
Turning her phone over so she couldn’t see the screen, Violetta took a huge gulp of wine, draining the glass which she topped up again, right to the brim. An immense ball of anger rested firmly in her chest. At the forefront of her brain was the memory of a smarmy smug face, pouring himself a drink. The only thing preventing her from crumbling or, giving in to the temptation to scream so loudly that she’d wake the neighbours was Darcy who was fast asleep upstairs.
Instead she focused on her hate for men, all of them because she couldn’t be arsed sorting out which was which anymore so it was easier to generalise. It was wrong, she knew, as was getting drunk on a Wednesday when Darcy was in the house. Her conscience told her to stop after that glass. Conscience got told to piss off.
Her daughter was all Christmassed out and snoring like a reindeer after her trip to the garden centre to get the ingredients for ‘The Great Appleton Christmas Bake Off’, so Violetta knew she would sleep straight through. Resting her head in her hands she wished Christmas would also piss off. And Santa and all his elves who were probably a load of bastards, too. She wouldn’t put it past them – because let’s face it all the men in her life had let her down one way or another and those who hadn’t, like Lou and Bern and Max, were probably just biding their time.
Take Darcy’s dad. He was a bastard because he’d not worn a condom and he hadn’t even bothered looking for her the next day and he definitely knew where she was staying because he’d picked her up from the sodding reception. Was she being harsh? Most likely because even though it was six years ago, Violetta did have some glimmers of recollection from a balmy summer night of passion.
They’d met by the pool. He was a soldier. He’d joined up when he was seventeen, not much of a home life, had been fostered and had one sister. He loved the army, it was his home and family where he felt secure with his mates. He took her for a meal, they went to a bar and she woke up the next morning on the beach, inside a dinghy, covered by a smelly piece of tarpaulin. She’d lost her knickers and the silver bracelet her gran had given her. Then spent the next few days chucking up. And that was that.
Hence, the arrival of a beautiful baby girl nine and a half months later. Poor Darcy. Her bright-as-a-button daughter had only ever asked about her dad once before. Violetta had prepared herself for the moment when it came, but she hated every second of the lie she’d told her four-year-old, green-eyed girl.
‘Where does my daddy live? Can I go and see him one day, Mummy? And what’s his name, and what does he look like? Have you got a photo?’ In between the bombardment of questions, Darcy ate her tea, sucking macaroni through her lips.
Violetta could still hear the slurping noise, see her daughter’s curious face and smell the cheesy sauce. Instead of answering straight away she took her empty plate to the sink, cursing the school and the nosey bastard teacher who’d asked the kids to draw a photo of their house and their family. That’s where it had stemmed from when Darcy had noticed that someone on her drawing was missing. She wouldn’t be the only one with a missing parent, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that on Darcy’s stick figure painting that was stuck on the cupboard door, there were only two people and she wanted it to be three.
Knowing that this was probably going to be the hardest thing she’d ever said and there was a chance, knowing her daughter, that it would lead to more questions, Violetta told Darcy her first fib. ‘I’m sorry, Darcy, but I don’t know.’
‘Why? Kyra knows where her daddy lives.’
Fuck off, Kyra.
‘Yes, because they live in the same house but I only met your daddy once when I was on holiday and I don’t have his address.’ That was all totally true and Darcy was mulling it over while she chewed her garlic bread.
‘Do you know his name?’
‘Yes. It’s Gabe.’
‘I like that name. What did he look like? Is he nice?’
Violetta could feel her cheeks burning under close scrutiny. ‘Yes, he was a soldier and very handsome.’
‘Like Prince Eric offLittle Mermaid?’
Please let this stop. ‘No, he had blond hair.’
‘So, my hair is red the same as yours and my daddy’s is blond?’ Darcy seemed happy with this news.
‘Yes, that’s right. Your hair is strawberry blonde, a mix of both.’Please do not start calling him Daddy Gabe, that’s all I need.
‘Does he have tattoos like you?’
‘Yes, he did.’ It was a dagger, his regiment badge, but no way was she telling Darcy that because she’d only want the same. She had a thing about tattoos and loved nothing more than covering her arms with transfers.
