Page 42 of Little Wing
‘Of ?’
‘She was ill.’
‘And I was—’
‘Very young. A year or so. Two. I don’t know. I can’t remember.’
How Nell wanted to smack her aunt, who sat there alarmingly emotionless, as if having to remember any of it was tedious and unreasonable.
‘Would you happen to know where Jimmy is these days?’ Nell asked.
‘Good God, no.’
‘Would my mum? Perhaps? On a good day?’
‘No.’
‘Then what about Harry?’
‘Harry?’
‘Mum – she often tells me to go to Harry’s.’ Nell felt tears welling, her throat tight and constricted. She swallowed hard. ‘I just want to know. What happened. The truth. Who I am.’
And it was then that Marjorie had had enough.
‘For goodness’ sake, Nell – digging all this up! Upsetting everyone all over again. My youngest sister gave birth in her teens and tore her family apart! She was the death of my mother! She was the ruin of my sister! Just leave the ghosts – just leave them. I have work to do. Please – I think you should go now.’
To her staff at the Chaffinch, it was as if Nell had disappeared off the face of the earth, so rare was it for her to take time off for illness or holiday. They found her absence unnerving. Especially Danny, whose levels of joy and stability were dependent on everything being just so, and he’d been begging Debbie to phone Nell every ten minutes for what seemed likeyears. When Nell arrived just in time for the teatime rush, everyone was too busy to react so she slipped back into her duties. Danny could only wag his finger at her before jigging his way over to Table 7. Debbie mouthed, OK? and though Nell nodded, she wondered when anything would ever seem OK again.
Nell and Frank watched the walnuts being snaffled up. Frank thought it best to focus on the birds than to pass comment on Nell’s unkempt appearance, the uncharacteristic downturn of her mouth, the dullness which had swallowed her usual spark. Dark around the eyes. Shadowed.
‘Look at this little greedy bugger.’
‘I’ve found out I have a dead mother I never knew about,’ she told him. ‘And a living mother who hasn’t a clue who I am.’
‘Well,’ said Frank gently, ‘I didn’t have a mother at all.’
They stood where they were and he sensed Nell slump a little, as if she was a rag doll and her stuffing was being tugged out with each of her thoughts.
‘I just want to know,’ said Nell. ‘That’s all. I just want to know –something.’
They went and sat on Frank’s sofa and she lost herself in the picture he’d painted of a wooden boat hugging the waves in a sunset and oh, what she’d give to be there.
‘Have I ever told you how I came to be an orphan?’
He had. But just then, Nell wanted to hear it again because growing up without a mother seemed preferable to having two. Frank’s lovely voice, gravelly soft, flowing back over the decades to what he knew of his early years. Nell was so tired. Frank’s flat so warm. And, in the painting, the lulling waves of a temperate sea. Perhaps she’d just close her eyes while he spoke, Frank’s voice like a lullaby, over eighty years to recount, so soothing.
Frank let her doze for a while. You only had to look to know that the kid was knackered, spent, hollow. The granddaughter he’d never had, that’s how he thought of Nell. And her sadness and exhaustion were a terrible thing to see. It wasn’t right, any of this.
‘Why don’t you go?’ he said, shaking her shoulder gently. ‘Why don’t you go?’
The sailing boat was sinking into Frank’s sagging sofa and Nell woke with a start.
‘Why don’t you go?’
‘Of course – of course.’ Nell scrambled up, slightly mortified. What time was it? ‘God – I’m so sorry, Frank – I can’t believe I drifted off. Of course I’ll go – let me just pop the meal in the oven for you. Do your recycling. Then I’ll be off.’
Frank touched her head gently.
