22

~ A ball of newspaper will leave your mirrors clean and magically streak-free.

M um reached into her bag again, brought out the velvet pouch I'd seen in the shoebox, and emptied the contents onto the metal table with a clatter.

There was a blue enamel prefect badge, a gold lapel star, a hockey captain badge, a silver treble clef. ‘This was Kirsty,' she said simply, pushing the star towards me and Cleo. ‘She had these on her blazer. The star was for general excellence. And she was. She was a generally excellent person. But she was also very funny and incredibly kind. She taught herself astrology. She trained the dog. She was a lot nicer than me.'

Mum stopped, as if remembering was causing her physical pain, and pressed her lips together before she could carry on.

I held my breath.

‘I missed her when I went to art school. We wrote to one another, postcards mainly, but she was busy with her GCSEs and I was having too much fun, to be honest. I didn't want to go home. There'd only be arguments. Anyway, Kirsty rang me one Sunday evening. I was in halls and we had a pay phone on the landing. Awful shrill ring. I didn't answer it at first because I had a hangover. But it kept ringing and ringing so I answered it just to make it stop. I had no idea it would be Kirsty. She'd never rung before.'

I didn't want to interrupt, but my mind was trying to set everything in order: Mum was a first year, so eighteen? Nineteen?

‘Kirsty said she needed me to come home. I asked her why and she wouldn't tell me. I thought maybe Dad was putting pressure on her about her exams. I said I'd get the first train in the morning but she said that was too late, I had to come now .'

I glanced at Cleo. Her face was impassive.

‘So I drove there,' Mum went on. ‘I'd just passed my test and I'd never driven on my own but something about the way Kirsty begged me to come … She never asked for help. So I got in the car and drove. I only had one tape, that mix tape there, and I listened to it over and over on the motorway. We lived on the edge of a village – well, you've been to the house, you know where it was – and when I pulled up outside, the lights were on upstairs. I just knew something bad had happened.'

Mum stopped. ‘Let me get this in the right order.' The story had been folded up in her head like the press cuttings in Kirsty's memory box, safe but untouched for years and years. The facts hadn't got blunted or softened by retelling. The pain remained sharp, an unused knife.

‘The door was open, so I went in and I could hear someone crying. My mum. Mum was crying and Dad was talking, not shouting, but talking in this awful bullying way he had. I couldn't hear Kirsty. I ran up the stairs and Mum and Dad were standing outside the bathroom. Dad said Kirsty had locked herself in.'

Mum stopped and put her hand over her mouth.

‘And what?' I thought I knew what she was going to say and my whole body was braced against it. Had the story about the car crash been a cover for something else?

Mum looked at us, her eyes bleak with grief as if it had just happened. ‘Kirsty refused to unlock the door until Dad and Mum had gone downstairs. So I made them go and then she let me in.' She paused. ‘I thought everything was fine at first, then I saw the blood. In the bath. And Kirsty was in the corner with this tiny baby in her arms. It was bright pink and silent, wrapped in her T-shirt.'

No. A baby? That wasn't where my mind had been going.

‘Kirsty said she'd started to feel ill that evening and that's when she'd phoned me. It happened suddenly – once her waters broke, she'd locked herself in the bathroom and …' Mum made a frustrated gesture. ‘I don't know exactly what happened. She didn't know what happened but somehow there was a baby.'

‘How old was she?'

‘Sixteen. Just.'

My head was spinning. So many questions. ‘And who was the father? Did she have a boyfriend?'

‘Not that any of us knew about. She didn't have time. Sports, music, homework. The only thing she did on her own was the golf lessons.' Mum picked up the golden star, pressing the sharp edge into the pad of her thumb. ‘At the golf club where Dad's sleazy friends hung out.'

I stared at her. ‘You think …?'

Mum shook her head. ‘I don't know. I begged her to tell me if it was who I suspected, but she was in absolute denial about everything. Even the baby. I didn't want to push her because …' She raised her palms. ‘She'd been through enough. I thought there was plenty of time to find out later.'

‘So what happened?'

‘I cleaned up the bathroom.' Mum looked anguished. ‘I scrubbed and scrubbed and tried to work out what to do. I thought if I could make everything normal again, then Mum and Dad would start behaving like parents and look after Kirsty. Except they didn't. Mum was in shock. Looking back, I think she knew something horrific must have happened to Kirsty at the golf club. And Dad was blustering about, threatening to kill whoever had done this, but I could tell from his face that it was probably someone he knew.

‘So, I had to take charge. Which was ironic, given that I was supposed to be the disgrace who'd gone off to take drugs and sleep around at art college. I didn't, by the way,' she added, quickly. ‘That's just what Dad told me everyone was saying.'

I nodded. If teenage Mum had wanted to take drugs and sleep around that was fine by me. I just didn't want to imagine it. And it sort of wasn't the point right now.

‘I said Kirsty and her baby had to go to hospital to be checked out. Dad refused to let the baby leave the house. He said it would be better if we got someone to come to us. Better, as in not so many people to see Gordon Davies's underage daughter walking into the hospital with a baby.' Mum's lip curled. ‘While he was getting himself a brandy, I persuaded Mum to take Kirsty to hospital. I told her if she didn't, Kirsty might bleed to death and it would be her fault.'

I grabbed Mum's other hand, the one Dad wasn't holding, and wrapped my own hands around it. I couldn't hold her tightly enough.

‘She wouldn't go in mine, and Dad's car only had two seats. It was a Jaguar, Mum wasn't usually allowed to drive it. All I could think was that if they didn't go , Dad would stop them. I said I'd follow behind with the baby in my car and we'd see a doctor together. So they left. Dad was still in the sitting room, messing about with the brandy. I put the baby in a laundry basket, ran outside and locked him in the house. Then I got into my own car and I—'

Mum stopped, as if she'd finally come to words that were too painful for her mouth to speak. She squeezed her eyes shut and tears spilled over the lashes as her chest shook with one silent sob.

Dad gently kissed her on the side of her head, as if she'd done enough, then looked at me and Cleo. ‘There was an accident,' he said, simply. ‘Wet roads. Unfamiliar car. They think your grandmother lost control going round a bend, and she hit a tree. There was nothing anyone could do. She and Kirsty both died instantly.'

I couldn't hold back the moan of shock. ‘Mum.'

We sat in silence, trying to imagine the pain of discovering one horror, only to be thrown immediately against another. People died in car accidents, young women had unexpected babies. It was horrific, but not unheard of. But to deal with both, one after the other? That was beyond cruel.

‘And the baby?'

Dad started to speak for her, but Mum put a hand over his. ‘No, Paul. I have to take responsibility for this.'

She looked me and Cleo straight in the eyes. ‘I arrived just after the fire brigade, who tried to cut them out. I still had the baby in my arms, I wouldn't let go. At the hospital, Dad got me on my own and told me we had two choices. We could register Kirsty's baby as hers, no father on the certificate, and let everyone gossip about what a little slag she'd been on the quiet. Or …' She paused and shook her head, as if she couldn't quite believe what she was about to say. ‘Or I could register her as mine, because – as Dad so charmingly put it – who'd give it a second thought if someone like me gave birth without even realising I was pregnant?'

I struggled to understand how this was even possible. ‘But don't you need medical records?'

‘There weren't any. Kirsty had told no one. Either she had no idea what was happening, or else she wanted to pretend it wasn't happening. And Dad knew so many people at the council, paperwork wasn't a problem. Poor widowed Gordon, doing his best losing his wife and child, and now this silly girl of his to deal with too. I thought …' Her face twisted with grief again. ‘… I'd let Kirsty down. I should have known . And afterwards I just couldn't bear the thought of people gossiping about her. That wasn't who she was.'

Mum opened her handbag, and took out a square of faded newspaper from the inside zipped pocket. She unfolded it on the table. It was from a local newspaper: Star student dies in horror smash. Kirsty's shy smiling face below the headline, her last school photograph. ‘ Tributes have been paid to a popular student who was tragically killed alongside her mother in a crash early on Monday morning … representing the county at both hockey and athletics, Kirsty was "clearly destined for great things", according to her shocked head teacher, Malcolm Townley … Friends are holding a vigil for her …'

‘That's how I wanted everyone to remember my sister,' she said. ‘As the perfect girl she was.'

‘And the baby?' The anger in Cleo's voice sliced through Mum's words. ‘You keep saying, the baby, the baby. Who is the baby?'

‘You.' Mum turned to her, and her face was wet with tears. ‘Who else would it be?'

‘So I'm not your daughter,' said Cleo, flatly. ‘And Dad isn't my dad. I'm nothing to either of you.'

‘No!' Mum's voice cracked with pain. ‘No, Cleo. You are everything to me. Everything . From the second I picked you up and felt you move in my arms, I was changed. I knew I'd walk through fire for you, just like I would for Kirsty. I had to protect you both. I thought, I'm not going to be the person I thought I was. Everything is different now. And then …' Mum swiped her tears away with her hand. ‘Afterwards, I swore I was going to love you for her. I was going to love you as much as Kirsty and me put together.'

Tears were rolling down my face. Dad was crying too.

‘I'd never seen a baby before. You were perfect. Tiny curled-up fingers like shrimps, and toes like beads.' Mum let go of my hand so she could reach for Cleo's. ‘But your eyes were exactly the same as they are now. You looked straight at me as if you could see inside my head. I swore I'd never let you down. I know you think I have. But I never wanted to. You have to believe that.'

None of us spoke for a while. It was late but still a few people drifted in and out of the cafe area, avoiding our table. It could have been midnight or 3 a.m., I had no idea.

Dad picked up the story for Mum. ‘Your grandfather gave your mum some money and she came back to London with you,' he said. ‘She wasn't the only student on the course with a baby so it wasn't such a big deal. Although you dropped out after your first year, didn't you?'

Mum nodded. ‘I didn't mind. You were the only thing that mattered to me. Then one evening my housemate offered to babysit so I could go out for my birthday, and that's when I met your dad. At a karaoke night.'

‘I Got You Babe,' supplied Dad.

‘And, well … You know the rest. We fell in love, I found out I was expecting Robyn, and we got married in a registry office.'

‘That's all very happy ever after, but when were you planning to tell me?' Cleo demanded.

Mum and Dad exchanged shameful glances. ‘I always planned to tell you on your fifth birthday, when I thought you were old enough to understand that I was your mummy but you hadn't grown inside me. But then when Robyn came along …' She flushed. ‘You two grew up so close, like peas in a pod, I just couldn't do it. I couldn't tell you that you were different, not when I loved you both exactly the same. So I thought, fine, I'll tell her when she's fifteen, when she's old enough to understand why I did what I did.'

‘And then fifteen came and went.'

‘Well, be honest,' said Dad, ‘you weren't having the best of times then, were you? We didn't think it would help.'

‘It never occurred to you that I acted up because I never felt like I fitted in?' Cleo shot back. ‘I always felt like something was wrong with me, but I didn't know what. I guess now I do.'

Mum flinched as if Cleo had slapped her. ‘There's never been anything wrong with you. I knew I had to tell you, but the longer I left it, the harder it got. I didn't want to upset you before your wedding, or when the boys were born …' She swallowed. ‘Especially not then. Seeing your baby for the first time is such a precious memory. I couldn't spoil it.'

‘Oh god, Mum,' I groaned. What a mess. I wondered when I would have told Cleo, if I'd been in Mum's shoes. When could you? When did ‘it's not the right time' suddenly disappear into the rear-view mirror and become a timebomb?

‘We know we should have told you sooner,' Dad added. ‘But we knew you'd have so many questions we couldn't answer. We didn't know if that was fair.'

‘So who is my dad?' Cleo demanded. ‘Who is it?'

‘I don't know.' Mum's voice cracked. ‘The only person who might have known was Dad, and he claimed he didn't know, insisted it was better to draw a line under the whole sorry business. I tried to make him tell me. He refused. So in the end I cut him off. He wasn't someone I wanted in your lives. You deserved better. I'm so sorry, Cleo.'

Dad stroked her back. ‘And you, Melanie. You deserved better too.'

Mum looked choked. Cleo wasn't the only person who'd lost someone. Mum had lost her mother, her sister and her father – and we'd lost the grandparents and aunt they'd have been, the happy family that could have shared our childhood alongside her and Dad. All gone, in one violent act.

I couldn't be angry with Mum. We'd been the focus of her life from the very beginning; she turned her back on art and student life and parties and painting, and become an expert in packed lunches and homework help, channelling her creativity into making our home the nest it was. But it wasn't up to me, was it?

I was almost afraid to turn my head to see how Cleo was reacting. She was no different to the sister I'd walked in behind, blonde hair bouncing, heels clicking as she strode. I felt nothing different in my heart, in my head, when I looked at her. She was still Cleo, still the person who knew me best. But how would it feel now for her, inside?

Was I different? Was I not her sister any more? Was that for her to decide, not me?

Cleo was silent. Around us, the service station swished and beeped, strangers passing through oblivious while we sat motionless, half in the fluorescent lights of the present, half in the blurry colours of the past.

When she spoke, her voice was bitter. ‘Did she choose the name Cleo? Or was that your choice?'

‘Cleo was the name of Kirsty's doll. From the doll's house we had when we were kids. I asked her what she was going to call you, and she said, "I should call her Cleo," and we laughed.' Mum squeezed her eyes tightly shut against a sharp surge of memory. Her lashes glistened again. ‘It was the last time I heard her laugh. So I thought, Cleo, yes. You looked like a Cleo.'

‘Was your doll called Robyn?' I hoped it was; it would be my own link with the auntie I'd never met.

Mum's eyes remained shut. ‘No, my doll was called Suzi. After Suzi Quatro.'

‘Oh.' I didn't know who Suzi Quatro was.

Cleo got up without saying a word and strode off in the direction of the toilets. Mum half stood to follow her, but Dad caught her arm. ‘Melanie, give her a moment.'

She sank back into her seat and he put his arm around her, cradling her bowed head into his shoulder, murmuring soothing words I couldn't make out into her hair. The moment they'd dreaded for nearly forty years had finally come, and gone. It was done.

I watched them comfort one another, and suddenly saw how much Mum must have depended on Dad; they'd carried this huge burden of secrets together. He'd known from the start what was in store, one day, and he'd loved Mum enough to shoulder it with her. Not every husband would have done that. He kissed her forehead, quietly, and she leaned against him, exhausted.

I turned away to give them a moment too.

Shocking as it was, I felt relief. I had a secret question of my own that had finally been answered: Mum's focus on Cleo growing up wasn't favouritism, it was fear. I'd spent so many years wondering what I had to do to be the centre of attention, whether there was something wrong with me. Why Cleo was excused and forgiven time and again, even as she was stamping on every boundary. There was nothing wrong with me; Mum was just trying to give Cleo 100 per cent more love, and Cleo was struggling to articulate a difference that didn't make sense.

A few truck drivers wandered in, glanced incuriously towards our table and wandered on towards the KFC counter, unaware of the tiny ripples of emotional aftershock surrounding us.

Dad disentangled himself briefly, looking up over Mum's shoulder just long enough to nod towards the toilets. ‘Why don't you go and talk to your sister?' he suggested.

Cleo had locked herself in a cubicle at the far end of the toilet block, but I could see her red handbag in the gap under the door.

It was nearly two in the morning and we were the only people in there. The strip lighting hummed, and I tried not to meet my own eyes in the mirrors. I knew I'd look ghastly; my skin felt raw on my face.

‘Cleo? It's me,' I said.

She didn't reply.

'We are never coming to these services again.' I tried to sound jokey, but failed. ‘That's literally the worst muffin I've ever had.'

No reply.

What could I say? I couldn't begin to imagine what Cleo was thinking right now. Nothing had changed for me: she'd always be my big sister. But everything had changed for her.

I walked over to the cubicle, conscious of my overloud footsteps in the empty space, and sat down on the floor outside, back to the door, waiting. Cleo had done something similar when I had my first ill-advised encounter with happy hour cocktails on my sixteenth birthday. Guarded my cubicle against furious queuers for half an hour, then gone in to hold my hair back until I'd thrown everything up.

Was she crying? I strained my ears. Nothing.

‘I love you,' I said. ‘I will always love you.'

After a couple of minutes, the door moved and I scrambled to my feet.

Cleo stood there. Her face was drained and dejected, her eyeliner smudged.

‘Don't say anything,' she warned me.

‘I …' I began, but stopped. I wrapped my arms round my sister, and we just stayed like that for a while. Hugging. This was a silence I could only fill with love, not words.