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Ellie smirks. “No,” she says. “I thought that was the case.”
I finally manage to cut neatly through the pastry. There is an inviting layer of mushroom stuffing and well-done beef underneath. We used to have it red. We can’t now, because of the toxins in the blood, might damage the baby.
“I’m sorry to have spoiled the surprise,” Ellie is saying.
“Come on, eat up,” I say, through a mouthful of meat. I see Mum glare. I swallow. My bad, talking with my mouth full. Then I see she is glaring at Ellie.
“I thought, at first, it must have been Will’s old crib. But of course, then I saw the initials.”
“Ellie, darling, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Mum. “Eat up, your food’s going cold, and there are two of you to feed.”
“Of course, it’s dark up there. But do you know, I distinctly thought I saw those initials.”
“I’ve never seen any initials on the crib,” says Dad. He is shooting glances at Mum now.
“I have no idea what’s going on,” I say, because I haven’t.
“There aren’t any initials on that crib, unless you’ve drawn them on yourself,” Mum snaps.
“Mum!” I say, shocked at her tone.
Ellie doesn’t seem to care, though. She just smiles more broadly.
“Oh, so you admit that there’s a crib, then?” she asks, making her first incision into the pastry. Neat, no fuss, no mess.
“Of course I admit there’s a crib. It’s Will’s old one.”
Ellie brings the knife out of the meat and makes another incision, forming a triangle.
“What? You have my old crib? Why didn’t you say? That’s awesome. Little Leo can have that. Oh, Christ,” I look at Ellie. “Was I meant to tell them the name yet? Sorry.”
Ellie does the ‘I love you’ oboe-player lip-purse again, before skewering the section of boeuf en croute she has separated from the rest.
“Just Will’s crib?” Ellie asks. “Not a hand-me-down from someone else?”
“Just Will’s,” says Mum.
I don’t know what Ellie’s game is. I’d say, maybe there isn’t one, maybe she is just pleased we have the crib. But I know Ellie. There is always a game. That aside, the key thing is that there is a crib, and my son will apparently sleep in the same crib that held me.
“Oh, I really want to see it!” I say. “Can we get it down, have a look? What’s it like, Ellie? Is it really cool?”
“It’s a real historical item,” Ellie says. “I know you’ll find it really interesting.”
“How come you didn’t tell me before, Mum?” I demand.
“Yes, how come?” asks Ellie.
“Oh, you know, we thought you’d want something more modern. That’s been up in the loft for years.”
“Came with you all the way from Dartington, did it?” asks Ellie.
“Of course,” says Mum. “Seeing as that’s where Will was born.”
“Such a wonder you’ve never noticed the initials, then.”
Mum is mid-mouthful of meat and cannot speak.
“M.C.R.,” says Ellie.
Dad’s knife shrieks across his plate.
I see him flick a glance to Mum. Ellie bites calmly into a mouthful of meat. Mum stares at her plate, then lifts up her chin and continues to eat. Dad watches her for a moment, then does the same.
If this Ellie’s big reveal, I don’t understand it. We don’t know anyone called M.C.R.
Unless?
No.
And I’m certainly not called M.C.R.
“It’s probably the maker’s name,” I say. “Like, ‘My Cribs Rock’.” I laugh at my own joke, then stop, because no one else has even giggled.
The rest of the meal continues in silence. I play the three letters over in my head. M.C.R.? Who is M.C.R.?
After we’ve eaten, and I’ve complimented Mum on the deliciousness of the meal, I announce that I’m going up to get the crib.
“I’ll come with you,” says Dad. “It’s too heavy for you to manage on your own.”
When Dad and I leave the table, Ellie follows. She catches my arm as we go into the hall, and pulls me back, so that we’re standing in the shadows of the staircase. I see she is holding the third photo album, the one I don’t recognise.
Ellie leans in close to me.
“M.C.R. stands for Max Charles Reigate,” she whispers. “The crib belonged to him. And he’s your father.”
Chapter Ten
-Will-
“What?”
I don’t whisper. I almost bellow, so incredulous am I at what she has said.
“Shh! He’ll hear you!” says Ellie. “I don’t know if he knows.” She nods her head in the direction of Dad – because yes, I’m 100% sure he is my dad, thank you.
“Knows what? Jesus, Ellie, have you gone mad? Max Reigate, my father?”
“Come on,” she says, her voice low. “It all makes sense. They were all living in Dartington together at the right time. Your mum and” – she makes an inverted comma sign in the air – “‘dad’ are, like, trying for kids or something, but your mum, she gets the hots for this amazing musician, she shags him, then nine months later you pop out.”
“You’re out of your mind,” I tell her.
“Are you coming, Will?” calls a voice from upstairs.
“Yes, Dad.” I pretty much spit the word ‘Dad’ at Ellie. She’s taken her mad theories too far this time.
She glares at me.
“So Max Reigate, he’s not stupid, he works out the dates, and he wants to be involved in your upbringing. He gives her the cot, one that’s been handed down through the family. Your ‘dad’, maybe he’s in denial, or gets angry, so they move away, up to Kingston, out of harm’s way.”
“Ellie – seriously? You expect me to buy all this just from some initials on the crib?”
“That’s not it, there’s more, in this album, there’s – ”
“Come on Will, I’m waiting,” calls Dad from upstairs.
“Coming!” I shout. Moving past Ellie, I start climbing the stairs, two steps at a time.
“Will!” hisses Ellie.
“We’ll talk about this later. You’re out of your mind.”
And honestly, I think she is. This is why she needs to get a job again. It’s been ages since she was made redundant, since she professed she was ‘done with science’ and ‘done with teaching’. She has too much time for all these mad thoughts to run around in her head. So, I look like a pianist. So, I identify with his music so much that I feel like on some level I’ve been listening to it my whole life. So, my parents used to live in the same part of the country as Max Reigate. So, there’s a crib with some letters that match his initials. So, my parents have been acting weirdly.
So, a little voice inside me says, you can see where she’s coming from.
I shake my head. It’s nonsense. I’ve had the most stable upbringing of anyone I know, with two parents who love me. Ellie just can’t get it into her head that I’m not some spoilt object of guilt – I’m just loved. Maybe she’s still mourning for her own parents, and wants to deny everyone else a cosy family too. But killing other people’s happiness can’t increase her own.
She’s not giving up, though. She’s following me up the stairs. I only notice because the voice saying ‘It’s true’ is too feminine to be coming from inside my head. I should turn round to her, laugh it off, but do you know what? I’m pretty angry right now. Not only is it a slur on my mother, it makes Dad seem like an idiot too. We’ll row it out later, it will all be fine, but for now I’m going to focus on this crib. The crib for my son with his crazy mad mother.
When I get to the top of the stairs, Dad is standing halfway up the loft staircase.
“What kept you?” he asks.
“It was my fault, Mr S,” says Ellie, all smiles and politeness. “I was reminding him what to look out for on the crib.”
“As long as it’s structurally sound, I don’t care,” I say. “Thanks, Dad, for helping me get it out.”
I follow him up the stairs into the loft. Ellie comes with us.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather wait downstairs, Ellie?” I ask. “Seeing as you’re already so well acquainted with the crib?”
“No,” she smiles. “I’d like to see your reaction to it.”
If Dad has noticed the tension between us, he doesn’t let on. He is over in the far corner of the loft. I follow him. And there it is. The crib.
There is no heart-stopping moment. No sense of realisation. I do not turn to Ellie and say ‘Darling, you were right’. Because it is just a crib. It is white, wooden, with slats. It is designed to keep a baby secure and asleep.
“Wow, Dad, it’s amazing!” I say.
He turns round and looks at me, carefully.
“It’s just a crib, son,” he says.
“Yes, but, you know, it’s my old crib – triggers so many memories, you know?”
“Does it?” he asks, quickly. There is intensity in his voice, concern.
“Not really,” I concede. “But it might do, in time.”
Dad turns and looks at the crib. “Yes,” he says, thoughtfully. “I suppose it might.”
“Perhaps of his father’s face, hanging over him in the cot, hey, Mr S?” Ellie says. There’s a false warmth in her voice.
I change the subject. Dad would be humiliated if he knew what she was driving at.
“How shall we get it out, Dad?” I ask, glaring at Ellie.
“It’s true,” she mouths, taking advantage of Dad’s turned back.
I turn away from her, to face Dad.
“Let me take one end,” I say. “We can take it down together. Bit of father and son removal work, hey?” Then I have a thought. “By the way, while I remember – you don’t happen to have the hammer from our toolbox do you? We were trying to find it yesterday.”
Dad looks at me strangely, like I’m mad.
“Why would we have that?”
“Well, it wasn’t in the toolbox, so I thought maybe you’d borrowed it, before you gave us the toolbox.”
Dad shrugs. “Not me,” he says.
“Maybe Mum?” I ask.
He nods slowly. “Maybe. Bit of an odd thing to…but maybe. I’ll ask her. See if we’ve got a spare, anyway, downstairs.”
Hammer question sort of answered, we turn our attention back to the crib. We each pick up one end. As I lift up mine, I catch sight of the initials. They are as Ellie said: M.C.R. – engraved into the wood. As we bring the crib into the light and down the staircase from the loft, I see something else. I lose my footing on the stairs.
“Will!” shouts Ellie, putting a hand to my back to stop me falling. It’s enough for me to recover my footing.
“All right?” asks Dad, from his end.
I nod and we carry on. I don’t want to trip again. So I avert my eyes from what I saw. A small sticker, next to the initials, of a piano. Ellie is right. This crib was his.
But that means nothing, I tell myself, as we carry the crib into the living room. So, maybe the crib belonged to Max Reigate at some point. Maybe he gave the crib to my parents as a christening present, complete with a piano blessing. Maybe anything.
We all assemble in the living room and stare at the crib. Mum joins us.
“It’s rather dusty,” says Dad (because I’m still calling him that, strange crib notwithstanding).
“Not dusty enough to hide those initials!” says Ellie. I turn to her and shake my head.
“It’s a lovely crib,” I say. “Thank you.” I give Mum a squeeze on the shoulder. She lays her chin against my hand. We stay a moment like that.
Then Ellie breaks the peace.
“Now, time to look at these photo albums!” she says. She is still clutching the third, unfamiliar album.
“I’ll get the others from the dining room,” I say. I don’t know what is in her mystery album, but I don’t trust it, or her. If she has some idea of a family showdown to end the evening, assembled round her ‘proof’, I don’t want any part of it.
“No need,” says Ellie, waving the album.
“Where did you get that?” demands Mum.
“From the loft, with the others,” says Ellie, all innocence.
“It’s a personal album,” Mum says. “There’s nothing of Will in there.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Ellie says. “I had a quick look, and I thought there’d be some stuff he’d like to see. You in the 70s, the old Dartington family home. Your friends.”
Ellie’s eyes are shining. She is working up to a Poirot moment, I can tell. The right timing as well – Sunday evening, prime ITV3 crime viewing. And à la the famous sleuth she assembled us all here, in what could pass for a drawing room. She’ll show us whatever photo she’s found, list a stream of mad conjectures, probably produce a murder from somewhere, and then she’ll never be welcome in the house again. At least Poirot’s ‘little grey cells’ functioned properly, unaddled by whatever pregnancy hormones are taking hold of Ellie’s brain.
Ellie is starting to open up the pages.
“You know,” I say, “I’d much rather just see the pictures of when I was little. Not sure I need to study Dad’s kipper ties.”
“No, Will. I think you really need to see your father’s kipper ties.”
Mum is advancing towards the album. “Ellie, darling, Will’s right. And it’s getting late; some of us have to work tomorrow, remember?”
Oh – Mum shouldn’t have done that. Play the ‘job’ card. Guaranteed to piss Ellie off.
“OK, Mrs S,” says Ellie sweetly. “To speed things up, how about I just show Will the particular photos I found that I think would be of special interest to him?”
She begins flicking through the album.
Mum leans in and snaps the album shut. “No. Borrow the other ones. It’s late, and we need to get the crib in the car. John will drive you home.”
She pulls the album away from Ellie. As she does so, the pages open slightly, and something flutters out to the floor.
It’s not a photo. It’s a letter, with a little red ribbon tied through the top of it. A love letter. I reach down to retrieve it for Mum, but Mum is quicker than me. The letter is in her hands before I can touch it. But not before I can make out the signature.
It is from Max. Max Reigate.
And it’s signed ‘fondest love’.
Chapter Eleven
-Ellie-
Will is still in denial, even after he sees the letter.
All the car journey home, he prattles on to his ‘Dad’ about how excited he must be to be a grandfather. If fake dad is excited, he hides it pretty well. Most people I know don’t display excitement by biting their fingernails and giving monosyllabic answers to questions.
Fake dad and Will install the crib in the nursery. There’s a hammer nestling in the crib too, now, retrieved from Will’s ‘parental’ home. Didn’t hear fake dad ask Will’s cheat of a mum about it; he must just have found it himself. Maybe he figured Will’s mum couldn’t take any more accusations in one night. Its easy-grip handle shines out in the dark, like a little metal baby with an orange muffler. Finally, fake dad leaves.
“Well?” I say to Will.
“Never put me through an evening like that again!” he says.
Oh. I see. We are having a testosterone reaction. This happens sometimes. Apparently his mum’s sleeping around is now my fault. We’ll go for calm, docile – not the usual shouting back approach. Calm it down.
“Sweetie, I’m sorry if I upset you. It’s just there are certain signs – ”
“The way you were doing all that manoeuvring, that manipulating, it was – ”
“How I got you in my clutches in the first place,” I say, aiming for coquettish.
I see from the shocked look on his face that I have missed the mark.
“OK, forget I said that.” Moving on. “Look, I know it’s a bit disorientating, a bit – ”
“Disorientating? Listen to yourself! You are trying to say that my dad isn’t my dad at all, I’m some, some bastard child, from a sex romp between my mum and a random composer!”
“Not a sex romp. You saw how that letter was signed off. And there was a photo, in the album, of them, together.” If only he’d listen. If only I didn’t have to cope with this male reaction. Anger is not an appropriate response to logic.
“What, on a date?”
“No, a group of them, your mum, your fake dad – ”
“Cut that out!”
“OK, Gillian and John, if you prefer, in a group shot, at a picnic, including Max Reigate.”
“Which proves nothing. Absolutely nothing. Jesus, Ellie – why are you so determined this should be right?”
“It’s not a case of me being determined. It’s just right. It stacks up.”
Will leaves the nursery and moves into the bedroom.
“Look, I have to go to work tomorrow, this talk and die lecture is coming up, I need to put some good hours in…” he says.
“I just wish we could see that letter,” I say. “That would prove it.”
“Ellie, leave it, OK? I’m tired,” he says, doing a fake yawn.
“I bet she’s locked it away on one of those study drawers,” I tell him. “All we need to do is break in, prise them open, and – ”
“‘All we need to do is break in’!” Will repeats back at me. “Do you know what?” He glares at me. But then I never do know what. Because he leaves this long pause and it’s like he’s making himself be calm. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, softer. “We’re both tired. Let’s just get some sleep, OK?” And he kisses me on the forehead.
So that’s it, fight over? I feel vaguely disappointed. Where do I go now with my theory on his father, if we’re not going to shout about it? Actually, screw ‘theory’ – I’m pretty damn sure I’m right about this. All the evidence is there. Plus it just feels right, you know? Otherwise, why would Will be so in love with that music? It’s in his blood.
As Will brushes his teeth, I consider as I lie in bed going into the bathroom to continue the discussion. Because it’s for his benefit, not mine. What do I care who his father is? I just feel he has a right to know. But I don’t move, I just stay where I am in bed. Otherwise, I might end up telling him all I know about Max Reigate. What I learnt, when I Googled him. It would be too much for Will, at this stage. Better get him to accept the main fact, before I move onto the others. Other.
Besides, it will all be all right in the morning, as Mum used to say, when she tucked me in. Any remaining tension will be gone. She had this almost pagan belief that the sun coming up for the start of a new day cleansed all the trouble that had gone before – whether that was mean girls at school or a fight with a boyfriend. I told myself that when I heard about their crash, that night. ‘It will all be all right in the morning.’ Except it wasn’t, of course. Because in the morning, they were no longer there. There’s an exception to every rule though. That was it. For all the other mornings, everything will be all right. By the power of my mother’s word.
So I turn off the light, position myself on my left side (good for the baby) and drift away to sleep. When Will comes back to bed, I wake for a moment as he settles behind me, arms looped round me in our usual sleep-spooning. Not holding me quite as tight tonight, but maybe he’s just worried about hurting little Leo. Or maybe we haven’t quite made up yet. But I still feel myself drift off towards sleep. I don’t have any guilty conscience that would stop me. Why, after all, would I? I just want the best for Will, and the truth is always the best. For us, anyway.
I awake in the night to the sounds of music. At first, I think I am imagining it, that it’s a fragment of dream that’s wafted over into my waking world. But no. I am fully awake. And it’s really there. And Will really isn’t; the bed next to me is empty and cold. The sound is coming from downstairs. I get out of bed and open the bedroom door. The music gets louder. I tiptoe downstairs to the living room. The door is shut. I push it open, as gently as I can. Will is curled up on the sofa in foetal position. His eyes are shut. In sleep or in contemplation, I don’t know. On the coffee table lies the Max Reigate CD case. His concerto is the music I heard. I look at the CD display indicator. Still on the first track, so he can’t have been listening long.
“Will?” I say softly. No answer. I wait a moment. How that piano hammering away can act as a lullaby, I don’t know. But then, the pianist’s not my father. I tiptoe out of the room again. The music can offer more persuasion than I can.
In the morning, I go downstairs to find Will already at the breakfast table. He looks up when I come in. There’s a smile. Small, but enough. The anger is gone.
“Let’s find that letter,” he says.
Chapter Twelve
-Will-
I can see Ellie thinks that she’s convinced me.
But she hasn’t.
I just don’t want any more of those dreams. As I walk to the station, I feel like I’ve only slept for twenty minutes. And of course, that could be true. But it must all have been REM phase, otherwise I don’t know how I managed so many nightmares.
And there’s the counting to ten mentality. In other words, the need to indulge your pregnant wife. I was furious last night, when we got home. Really, I was. It was on the tip of my tongue to say that I couldn’t stand to look at her any more that night, to go and sleep on the sofa. But you can’t do that, can you? You can’t run away from the mother of your child, however mad she is. And half of the madness must be hormone-induced. Can’t ever say that of course – I’d be lynched, or divorced, or both. But it’s true, I’m sure. So half the stuff that Ellie comes out with isn’t her at all; she’s just a mouthpiece for raised progesterone. I’ve got to be the strong, stable one in the centre of this. To take responsibility for keeping our marriage on track until that baby’s out. It will all be much better then.
At first, though, I couldn’t sleep at all. I was just too angry. At myself, just as much as at Ellie, for rising to her bait. I’d put my arms round her to spoon her, like we usually do – she can’t stand it when I sleep with my back to her – but my heart wasn’t in it. Then came the remorse. I shouldn’t be lying in bed projecting anger into the home of my little boy. Ellie, in her own peculiar way, is just looking out for me. She gets these odd ideas. That’s why I love her. She must know I was still angry. In anyone less strong, these arguments might cause mental turmoil, even a miscarriage. In fact perhaps they had. I raised my head from the pillow to listen for signs of distress. No. There she was, snoring gently to herself. Which made me a bit angry again, given she was the one who’d stopped me sleeping.
So I went downstairs instead, rather than lying next to her, simmering in resentment. And I tried to sleep. But how can you sleep when your wife has decided that your father isn’t your father? How can you not replay all the conversations you remember? And try to find in your memories the ones that you can’t? I tried and I tried to think of Max Reigate being there when I was little. But there’s nothing. Nothing before that eating of the daffodil outside the house in Kingston, captured by Kodak.
And if your wife is claiming that your real father is in fact an eminent musician, how can you stop yourself from replaying his music as well? So I got out the CD and played it to myself. I really listened this time. To the orchestra all together at the start, quiet, mellow, but expectant. Then in it comes. The third voice. The Reigate voice. Strident, unapologetic, like the voice of some eternal truth. You can almost tell he wrote the concerto himself. It is designed to show off the piano. No little tinkling tunes. Straightaway, there’s this intense mood. All these heavy notes and accents. Every three notes, there’s one really powerful one. Like a war march, or something. Every so often, the orchestra will get a look in. Or the orchestra such as it is – he doesn’t even seem to be using the full one, just strings and woodwind, so there’s nothing to compare with the weight of the piano. In the first movement, there are just two voices – orchestra and piano. But later, in the second and third movements, it’s like a three-way conversation, violins fiddling and oboes whining against the weight of the piano. But they cannot win. Not against all that force, all that violence. You feel like you’re becoming the piano, its music is so far inside you. It’s a wonder they managed to record it live, the way he hammered at the strings of the piano. You’d think they’d split and break. Maybe that’s part of his skill; exerting just enough pressure with the hammers so that the instrument can go on functioning. He gives it a bit of a rest in the second, slower movement – saves himself for that soul-wrenching final cadenza at the end of the third. Then the piano tuners lift the lid and see the real damage.