The Black Sheep

  I came to see her most Sundays after she got home from mass. Had done since Mum died. I often brought a box of macaroons, which Sheila loved, and we shared them over cups of weak, milky tea and the gossip from Sheila’s bridge club. Today, however, was a Tuesday. Not my normal day to visit. The scent of meat roasting drifted towards me and I wondered, vaguely, what she was cooking.

  ‘It’s about Caspian’s death,’ I started. ‘The way he died . . .’

  Sheila made a sympathetic face. ‘Such a terrible loss.’ Her kitchen was all stripes and flower patterns with a large dresser crammed full of crockery. I stared at the row of prayer cards in front of a large, leaf-embossed platter, trying to frame what I wanted to say next.

  ‘Your father told me some ex-colleague of Caspian’s has been getting you het up.’

  My head shot up. ‘Dad told you?’

  Why would he have mentioned Harry’s claims to Sheila? Was he trying to warn her to be careful what she said to me? The thought popped into my head before I could stop it.

  ‘He’s concerned about you,’ my aunt said with a soft smile. ‘He knows we speak . . .’

  ‘Right.’ I pressed my lips together, feeling unsettled.

  ‘He said you’d heard rumours about an extreme anti-abortion group, about him being involved.’ Sheila sighed. ‘Maybe you’ve forgotten, dear, but your father resigned from Shield, which is a moderate pro-life—’

  ‘I know he resigned from Shield,’ I interrupted, irritated by her patronising tone. ‘Theoretically it’s possible that he decided to leave a moderate group because his views got more violent, not less.’ My voice rose, the words tumbling out of me. ‘Theoretically he could have wanted to start a secret murderous crusade against people who carry out abortions. Including my husband.’

  My cheeks burned. Where on earth had all that anger come from? Sheila’s mouth gaped.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to shout. Or say those things about Dad. It just . . . what Harry told me really upset me.’

  ‘I know, dear. Er, I need to baste.’ Looking flustered, Sheila rose from the table and opened her oven. As she prodded the lamb joint inside I wondered who she was cooking for. That leg of meat was surely too big for one person.

  ‘Francesca, I’ve known your father a long time,’ she said. ‘I met him the first time your Uncle Graham took me home, forty years ago. Jayson was in his early twenties then and I can assure you that in all the time since I have never seen him commit or advocate a single act of violence.’ She paused. ‘In fact the only time I ever saw him really angry was over that business with Lucy. That did change him, but not in the way your Harry person is suggesting.’

  ‘You don’t need to remind me,’ I said. ‘He was furious with me for going behind his back and organising the termination, remember?’

  ‘Not really, dear.’ Sheila shut the oven door and came back to the table. ‘He was mostly angry with the reporter who wrote the story. And with himself. He thought it was his fault . . . both the abortion and the fact you kept it from him. He felt he should have been stricter over everything that had gone before, you know: what you wore, how you behaved when you went out . . .’

  ‘Seriously?’ I snapped. ‘Because I don’t see how he could have been any bloody stricter.’

  Sheila shrank back in her seat.

  Shit.

  ‘Sorry.’ I took a deep breath. ‘But I honestly don’t think Lucy ended up getting pregnant because Dad wasn’t strict enough. If anything it was the opposite. He made it impossible to be normal, forcing us either to rebel or repress ourselves.’

  ‘No, dear.’ Sheila looked scandalised. ‘I’m sure that’s not right.’

  ‘It is,’ I insisted. How on earth had we got on to this? I’d come here to talk through the emotional trauma of the past few days and instead I was arguing over ancient history. ‘Lucy’s problem was that she wasn’t worldly enough. Too trusting. That was Dad’s fault.’

  ‘Am I interrupting?’ said a caustic male voice from the doorway.

  I tensed as Uncle Graham walked into the kitchen. What was he doing here? Dex’s dad was – had always been – the black sheep of the family. Unlike my father, who used his inheritance to build a successful business empire, Graham had gambled and drunk his money away. Even though he was bankrupt, alcoholic and violent, I’m not sure Sheila would have ever left him but after the third or fourth time he beat her Dad and Uncle Perry took matters into their own hands. They insisted Uncle Graham moved out and got treatment for his alcoholism. Graham, unreasonably affronted by this, chose to leave London entirely. He didn’t see his family for several years, a devastating shock for Dex and a source of deep, unleavened shame for Sheila who – Mum used to say with great sorrow – never really recovered.

  He had been a volatile occasional presence in our lives ever since. I hadn’t seen him myself since Mum’s funeral. He was rude to Dad at the wake, which had been the last straw as far as Dad and Uncle Perry were concerned. I was fairly certain they hadn’t had any kind of meaningful contact since. Dex, I knew, had only seen his father a couple of times since Graham went bankrupt for the second time eighteen months ago.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, feeling desperately uncomfortable.

  Graham scowled at me from the kitchen doorway. Had he just let himself in? What the hell was he doing with a key? Sheila scurried over to the oven, her face bright red.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you so early . . .’ She opened the oven door and prodded aimlessly at the leg of lamb again. Was she having dinner with her ex-husband? Did Dex know they were in touch?

  Graham shrugged. He was still glaring at me, swaying slightly. With a sinking heart I realised he was drunk. Sheila had told me a few months ago that she’d heard he was in recovery, though Dex expressed doubt it was true. ‘Last two times I took the kids round he was in the pub across the road,’ he’d said with a snarl. ‘Selfish bastard.’

  ‘I heard you mention your father,’ Graham said. ‘Whatever you think he’s done, I’d be pretty sure it’s something worse. My little brother’s a fucking hypocrite.’

  ‘Oh, Graham,’ Sheila protested.

  I stood up. ‘I should go,’ I said. I was used to my uncle’s resentment towards Dad. There was no point arguing with him, he never listened to anything logical, especially when he’d been drinking.

  ‘But you only just got here,’ Sheila protested.

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t take it personally.’ Graham offered up a mirthless chuckle.

  I kept my gaze on Sheila’s face. ‘I need to get to the shops.’ Lame, even to my ears, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to get away. I scuttled to the door, wishing I hadn’t come.

  An hour later, back at home with both kids, I braced myself for another round of temper tantrums when I called them for tea, but in fact neither child made a fuss. Ruby bounded in from the garden to eat, then disappeared upstairs to read one of her many football-related stories. Rufus was quiet throughout the meal, toying with his food again and staying at the kitchen table long after Ruby had rushed away.

  ‘Everything all right, Ruf?’ I asked.

  My son looked at me with a solemn expression. ‘I’m looking after you now, Mum,’ he said firmly. ‘You don’t need to worry.’

  Tears pricked at my eyes. Had he sensed my anxieties over the past few days? My first impulse was to tell him I wasn’t worried about anything, but my psychology degree had taught me denying a true emotion was never a good idea.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘And I’ll look after you too.’ I hesitated. ‘It’s all going to be all right, you know?’

  Rufus met my gaze. ‘You don’t know that,’ he said, sounding more like thirty than thirteen. ‘Nobody does.’

  He sloped off to his room and I put the kettle on, feeling both touched and troubled. As it came to the boil my cousin rang.

  ‘Hey, Dumpy!’ Dex’s cheery voice brought a smile to my lips. ‘Mum told me you came round earlier and that you were upset. What’s
up?’

  ‘Your dad was there for dinner,’ I explained, unsure how to broach my fears about my own father. ‘I’m worried for Sheila.’

  ‘I know.’ Dex groaned. ‘I think she’s seen him a few times, but there’s nothing I can do. Dad hasn’t actually been violent since they split up and Mum still holds an effing candle for him.’

  ‘Nightmare,’ I said sympathetically.

  ‘So what were you upset about?’ Dex persisted.

  I told him.

  And once I started, I couldn’t stop. I told him everything. In typical Dex fashion he took it all in his stride. But as I repeated what Harry and I had discovered, I found myself getting churned up again.

  ‘And now I just don’t know what really happened to Caspian and it’s got all muddled because of Harry and . . . and Dad . . .’ Tears bubbled up into my eyes.

  ‘Whoa, calm down there, Dumpy,’ Dex said, his voice warm and gently mocking. In spite of my upset I grinned. I should have talked to my cousin in the first place. Dex always knew how to make everything seem lighter, more bearable. ‘For what it’s worth, I can’t believe your dad would ever sanction anything violent. He’s worth ten of mine, the useless drunken bastard.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, never mind my loser of a father, let’s go back to how Uncle Jayson is a terrorist leader.’ He laughed.

  ‘I know that part of it’s stupid but . . . but I still think it’s possible this organisation, PAAUL, killed Caspian and—’

  ‘So? Even if they did, it won’t bring him back,’ Dex said with characteristic bluntness. ‘I’m sorry, but there’s no point torturing yourself over it. What about Harry? How d’you feel about him?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know . . . I guess I like him . . .’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ Dex gave a knowing sniff. ‘I reckon he’s only pushing all this stuff about PAAUL to get inside your pants. D’you want him there?’

  ‘Jesus, Dex.’

  Dex laughed again. He had always been my go-to guy for advice on boyfriends, right up to the moment I met Caspian and knew, from our first conversation, that he was perfect for me: steady, loyal but quiet and unchallenging. ‘All the best bits of your dad without any of the alpha male dramatics,’ as Dex had commented at the time.

  ‘Do you think it’s too soon, after Caspian?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s been over a year.’ Dex paused. ‘Hey, maybe we should do a double date or something?’

  I frowned. ‘That kind of adds to the pressure.’

  ‘Okay then, well, how about drinks on Friday? I’m meeting some friends in Revelations. Bring Harry along. Lucy and Ayesha too if you like.’ He winked. ‘If he can cope with all that, maybe he’ll be able to handle you. And don’t worry about your dad. Or PILL or POLL, or whatever it’s called.’

  ‘PAAUL,’ I said.

  ‘Whatever. I’m sure there’s nothing in it.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said.

  There was a pause, then Dex chuckled to himself. ‘So bring Harry on Friday and . . . top tip, Dumpy. Don’t be yourself, you’ll scare him off.’

  ‘Cheers,’ I chuckled back. ‘And by the way, screw you.’

  The following day I headed to the office, though it was hard to keep my mind on my work. Harry called mid-morning to say he would be back from visiting his family in Manchester on Friday afternoon. To my relief he didn’t mention Dad or PAAUL, just said that he’d like to see me, that we should talk. He agreed readily to the drinks Dex had lined up for Friday evening.

  I checked in with Ayesha, who was all up for a night out, then called Lucy. She had just been to one of her prayer groups and agreed to a quick lunch in a local café. We settled ourselves into a corner table. I ordered a cappuccino and a salad, while Lucy sipped at her customary peppermint tea.

  ‘I guess I could come out for a bit on Friday night,’ Lucy said, with a frown. ‘It’s nice Dex thought of me. Just let me know where and when.’

  ‘You sound worried,’ I said.

  ‘What would I be worried about?’ Lucy rolled her eyes. ‘Course I’m not worried.’

  I didn’t believe her. Lucy had always been a lousy liar. One time, when she was sixteen or so and I was home from uni for a few nights, she stole a favourite top and some high-heeled shoes of mine – things Dad had made it clear he hated. I was convinced she’d taken them to stop me wearing them and prompting yet another argument – especially when the items reappeared in my wardrobe the following day. Lucy denied the whole thing, of course, but unlike Mum, who insisted I must have simply mislaid the clothes, I wasn’t for a second convinced by Lucy’s tearful howls of protested innocence.

  ‘You just seem a bit apprehensive. Is it going to a bar full of heathens you’re worried about?’ I persisted. ‘Or is it that you don’t like the sound of Harry?’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Francesca, I’m not worried. Stop being such a therapist.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘You’re analysing me and I don’t like it.’ Lucy scowled.

  This was a source of conflict between us that dated back to my psychology degree, one that Mum always used to somehow smooth over, telling Lucy to make allowance for my desire to rationalise and explain and me to respect her faith.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I muttered.

  Lucy sighed. ‘I didn’t mean to snap. It’s just . . .’ She hesitated. ‘I actually met Harry before you did, at the memorial service. He asked me to point you out, said he’d met Caspian briefly. I . . . I didn’t realise you’d been . . . seeing him.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, taken aback. ‘Well, it’s very early days, we haven’t been on a date yet or—’

  ‘Right.’ Lucy looked away.

  What wasn’t she telling me? I’d been very careful not to mention my suspicions about PAAUL’s possible role in Caspian’s death so there was no way she could know the turmoil that Harry had brought into my life.

  ‘Lucy?’

  ‘It’s just I liked him, okay?’ Lucy turned to face me, her cheeks flushing. ‘I only spoke to him for a minute but he seemed nice and . . . really handsome. He was taller than me, too, which doesn’t happen every day eith— Oh, for goodness’ sake.’ She curled her lip as I tried in vain to suppress the giggles that burbled up inside my throat.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I gasped, now feeling guilty. ‘I didn’t realise.’

  Lucy shrugged, sinking back into her seat. I took a swig of my coffee, now feeling mildly irritated. This was so typical. Lucy had shied away from men all her adult life. It was understandable, I guess, after the horrible way she got pregnant at fifteen – an older man plying her with drink in some hotel bar then taking her up to his room. She always said she’d lied about her age, pretending to be eighteen, and had agreed to the sex – but it was still rape as far as I was concerned. The pregnancy led to the abortion which led in turn to her deep regret for, as she saw it, killing her baby. In my darker moments I suspected that at some level she had never forgiven me for organising her termination and then going on later to have two kids of my own. Lucy had never taken the risk of being in a proper relationship but I had. I’d fallen in love with Caspian and he’d been ripped away from me and our children. And now, just as I was starting to think about opening myself up to someone new, here was Lucy raining on my parade.

  ‘No one on the horizon for you then?’ I asked with a smile.

  ‘No way. Harry’s the only guy I’ve seen in the last year that I’ve even fancied.’

  This news slapped the smile off my face. ‘Shit, Lucy.’ My mind filled again with guilt. Should I back off Harry? Lucy so rarely expressed any interest in men. Except Harry approached me and started a conversation with me and appeared to be interested in me.

  I let my breath out in a sigh. Whatever I did or didn’t do now, surely I didn’t have anything to be guilty about?

  ‘Don’t make it a big deal,’ Lucy said irritably. ‘He’s probably not even Catholic.’

  I frowned. Was I making it a big deal? Surely all I was doing here was responding in a
very natural way to my sister telling me she was interested in a man I had made it clear I liked. Lucy hadn’t needed to do that. She could have just kept her mouth shut.

  I sipped at my coffee, remembering Mum’s counsel:

  ‘Your sister finds it hard to express her vulnerabilities, so sometimes her sadness comes out sideways and makes it seem like she’s being selfish or pushing others away, but it’s the very people who behave like that who most need our compassion.’

  ‘So you don’t mind me being a bit interested in this guy?’ I asked tentatively. ‘And you don’t mind coming along when he’ll be there on Friday night?’

  ‘No, I’ll come,’ Lucy said. She offered me a shy smile. ‘Just remember, Francesca, it’s not that long since Caspian. You’re more vulnerable than you think.’

  This last sentence stayed with me long after we’d parted and gone home. Dad had said much the same thing. Maybe he and Lucy were right. Just because I was attracted to Harry didn’t mean I was ready to stop mourning my husband. Late that night, after the children were both in bed, I found myself in front of Caspian’s laptop for the first time in over a year. When he died in such a sudden, shocking way, I had put his computer away. It was just too painful to look at. Now I scoured everything I could find: documents, pictures, files and folders of all kinds. I had no idea what I was looking for now – though at the back of my mind I wondered if I might find a reference to the threats he’d told Harry about. I got sidetracked for at least an hour poring over his music – our tastes had never been in sync. I even checked over his emails, something I would never have dreamed of doing while he was alive. There wasn’t much work stuff on the laptop – all that was on his PC at the hospital – but lots of the department secretaries’ emails were copied to both his professional and personal addresses.

  I searched for the details about the Paris conference from the week before he died and soon found the email he’d been sent. The delegate list was attached. I’d looked at it once before, in the first throes of my grief, staring at Caspian’s name as if it would somehow bring him back to me. Now it occurred to me – with a tiny thrill of pleasure – that I would find Harry’s name here. I searched the list, looking under both ‘general’ and ‘pharmaceutical’. But Harry’s name failed to appear. I looked for his company, Devora Pharmaceuticals. It was represented at the conference, but not by a Harry Dunbar.