‘It’s your father, Sarah.’

  I stare. And my stomach is all hollow, but I’m not at all hungry now.

  ‘Your dad,’ she says it slowly, looking at me all the time, ‘has been to see me.’

  ‘But he . . .’

  ‘I think you need to see him, to hear what he’s got to say.’

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘I can’t make you, it’s your choice, love. But how would you feel if you never took this chance to speak to him? He’s told me some things that I didn’t realise, but you need to hear them from him. I think you need to see him, meet him face to face. Just once, for me. I feel . . .’ Aunt Lynn never pauses, she always knows exactly what she’s going to say, so this is unnerving. It makes me feel even more queasy than I already am. ‘I feel like maybe we never got to hear the full truth, that we’ve got it wrong. Oh Sarah, I am so sorry,’ she’s wringing her hands, ‘you’ve got to see him, love. I’ve always blamed him, everybody did, but I really do think . . .’ Her voice tails off. ‘Please say you’ll see him, hear him out?’

  It’s odd, but I think I did my wailing and shouting out in Canada, to Will. It must have affected me in some way, because I don’t feel the anger I’m sure I would have done if this had happened a couple of months ago. Before I met Will.

  I just feel calm. Accepting.

  I’m not saying I’ll forgive and forget, that would be stupid and totally untrue. But I am prepared to see him. The man who stopped being my lovely Dad, and became the man who killed my mother, that Christmas many years ago.

  ‘I’ll meet him somewhere else.’ Somewhere public, not on my own personal ground. Somewhere I’m less likely to yell at him, or cry, or make a scene. Just in case I’m not as over it as I think I am.

  ‘Come on, love. Drink your tea, I’ve got the car. Come and chat to him at my house. These meetings in public aren’t the way to do things, if you ask me.’

  He’s standing by the window when I walk in with the two mugs of coffee on a tray. My dad. Looking out at the garden. Older than the image I had in my head, but I guess that’s because I last saw him when he was not that much older than I am now.

  I’d recognise him in a crowd, though. Anywhere. Even though we’ve both grown older, both changed. When he turns to look at me, I don’t recognise the hesitation, the fear in his eyes. That was never there before.

  ‘Hi.’ I’m glad Aunt Lynn insisted on making us a drink. It gives me something to do with my hands. Putting them down. Pulling out a chair. Pushing the biscuits into the centre of the table.

  He relaxes the tiniest bit and I realise he’s scared of what I’ll say, do. It’s taken guts to see me face to face. And I do want to know what he’s got to say.

  ‘This is hard.’ He’s studying his hands, then glances up and his gaze meets mine. A familiar gaze, a gaze that brings a lump to my throat. My dad. ‘Lynn told me you didn’t want to see me, and I get that, and I get that when I wrote and asked, you didn’t reply.’

  ‘I haven’t read the letters.’

  ‘Oh.’ There’s a long pause.

  ‘I got them, but I didn’t read them.’

  ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘I threw them out.’

  ‘I guess I’d have done the same. Well . . . I . . . well, you’ve got kind of famous.’ He holds a hand up to stop words I wasn’t going to say, ‘I’m not here to cash in or anything. It’s great, I’m pleased for you, proud.’

  ‘I’m not famous.’

  ‘But you’re mixing with that film-star guy, and now the snowboarder, and well, that’s what made me come.’

  ‘Will? Billy?’

  He rubs his hands over his face in a familiar way, and I wonder where I’ve seen it before. Then I realise. In the mirror. We share mannerisms, ways of glancing down, apologising for being there, grinning to ease the tension. ‘Yeah, you in the newspapers, all over the internet. I’ll get to that in a bit.’ He stares into the cup. ‘Right. I need to spit this all out, but first I want you to know that your mum was the loveliest person that ever lived. She was beautiful and kind and loved you to bits, okay?’

  I nod. Swallow hard.

  ‘She wasn’t leaving you – neither of us were. We just wanted to have a few wild weeks and had stuff to sort out before we moved into a flat and tried out this adulting lark properly.’

  He makes me smile, the way he talks. ‘A flat?’

  ‘Yeah, new year, new us.’ He grimaces. ‘We’d sold the camper van, left it with a mate when we all headed out to Canada, and he’d got a good offer within days. We were going to use the money as a deposit to rent a place so you’d have a proper school and friends. All this travelling around wasn’t fair on a kid, you.’

  ‘You were coming back for me?’

  ‘Of course we were coming back!’ He looks so genuinely surprised that I know, with total certainty, that they never abandoned me. That everything that came after was not my fault, nothing to do with me not being good enough. ‘What makes you think we weren’t?’

  Hot tears make my eyes smart.

  ‘Shit. You thought we were leaving you with Lynn? Forever?’

  I nod. Bite my lip.

  ‘No wonder you didn’t read the letters.’

  ‘But Mum made Aunt Lynn promise to look after me. She told her to look after me, why would she do that?’

  ‘We hadn’t made wills or anything so that was just her being careful cos, in case . . .’ His voice tails off. ‘Anything happened.’ He closes his eyes. ‘I’m only telling you this because if I don’t, somebody else will. I get it if you still hate me after.’ He stirs his tea, ladles more sugar in. ‘It’s this guy. This guy, Adam, he got in touch; he recognised a photo of you in the paper. He said if I didn’t talk to you, he would.’

  ‘About what?’ Those reporters have a lot to answer for.

  ‘Your mum and the accident.’

  ‘But I already know—’

  ‘What really happened.’ He sounds tired, reluctant, as though it’s an effort to squeeze each word out.

  ‘What’s it got to do with this Adam?’

  He stares at me. Direct. And there is such a sadness in his eyes I want to cry. But I don’t know why. ‘He was the last person we saw. We were chatting in this bar. He saw us drive off.’ He swallows hard, his gaze flickers. ‘This doesn’t change anything Sarah. Believe me, your mum was the best.’

  I wait. The longest wait ever.

  ‘He knew Lisa was driving, not me. He said he was going to the police and this was my last chance to explain before you found out from somebody else.’

  We sit in silence. It takes a long time for the words to sink in. Make sense.

  ‘Mum was driving? But you were, she, you . . .’

  ‘The first thing I said when somebody turned up to help us was that it was my fault. Because it was. Then they assumed I meant I’d been driving, and it seemed the best way out. She’d get better, she’d come back to you, the kid we hit would get better. Then after . . . It didn’t matter. I’d lost her, and I knew you’d be better off without me. I knew Lynn would look after you.’

  ‘You weren’t driving? You didn’t crash?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘You didn’t kill her.’

  ‘As good as.’ His voice has a harsh edge. It hurts. ‘We’d hired this motorbike, and I shouldn’t have let her drive, it was too big, too powerful, but she loved her motorbikes. I’d had a drink, just one or two, and was tired. I should have insisted we stay on overnight – we’d driven far enough. I should have.’ He closes his eyes, and I can’t help myself. I put my hand over his. ‘She was upset about leaving you and she wanted to get a move on, not waste time. She wanted to get it over with, get back to you, start our new life. But the roads were slippery, we were both so knackered, and then this guy came out of nowhere, running into the road. We swerved, braked, and we lost control.’

  ‘She lost control.’ My words are small, lost in his pain.

  ‘We were thrown clear. I thought Lisa would be all right, I thought the kid would. Christ, I shouldn’t have let her get on that bike.’

  ‘It was her choice, Dad.’ The word Dad comes out naturally, hangs in the air between us. A word I never thought I’d get to say again. I know my voice is soft, but I know he hears.

  ‘It was my fault. I said it was my fault.’

  ‘And they thought you meant the crash.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘But you weren’t driving.’

  ‘I should have known better. I was the man, for God’s sake, I was supposed to take care of her. I was supposed to take care of both of you. We should have stayed at that place overnight.’ He’s close to tears, and I don’t know what to do. ‘I didn’t want you to think bad of her, Sarah. She was talking to me, lying in the road, saying it hurt, and I said it would be okay. I thought it was okay. There was no blood and I thought it would be okay. I didn’t know . . .’

  He’s not looking at me now, he’s staring out of the window and I’ve moved closer to him before I realise, wrapped my arms around a man I barely know.

  ‘I was wrong. I was wrong about everything. And that poor kid. She didn’t hit him, love, it wasn’t her. The bike did. It spun out of control and we went one way, it went the other.’

  For a long time we just sit. Think. Then he starts to talk again.

  ‘His mates said he’d told them he was going to top himself, but the family said it was crap, he’d had a few drinks, was a maudlin teen, hadn’t been looking where he was going. He jumped right in front of us, though. Ran at us.’

  ‘And Adam?’

  ‘The kid was in a coma for a while, then a wheelchair, then he died a few weeks ago. He told his mum he had tried to kill himself, and this last time when he told her again, a nurse was there. She knew Adam, it was a small town, they got chatting.’ He shrugs. ‘They both saw the photo of you, and Adam tracked me down. He said it was time to wipe the slate clean, time everybody knew. When I told him I hadn’t seen you since I came out of prison he said I was an arsehole. And when I told him about the letters he said he never did trust writing stuff down, said I had to find you. Tell you to your face, or the police would do it for me, and what kind of a coward did that make me?’

  ‘You’re not a coward, Dad.’

  ‘Maybe not a coward, but I’m a fool, a silly twat who’s ruined a whole lot of lives.’

  I let that lie. ‘Where were you and Mum going?’

  He sighs. ‘We’d been involved in this conservation project and we needed to tie the loose ends up, explain we weren’t going back.’

  I looked at him. Properly. My free-spirit Dad. The guy with a camper van, a woman he loved, a kid, and a whole big world he liked to explore.

  ‘Prison must have been horrible.’

  He shrugs. ‘Not the best, but it’s in the past. I don’t expect you to forgive me, Sarah. I should have been there for you.’

  ‘I wish I’d known, about everything.’

  ‘I want you to remember your mum as she was, the perfect mother, not all this. This is crap, Sarah, this isn’t about her. I thought it would be a fine, I’d get a driving ban, something like that, and I’d be able to come and collect you. But some witnesses who saw us head out of town said we were going too fast, that we’d argued before we’d set off. We hadn’t, love, we were just trying to work out what to do and, like I said, she was upset. It was an accident.’

  I think about the bike, spinning out of control, crashing. I think about Will taking off, racing the snow, spinning out of control. I think about hate, disappointment, fear and anger, but the tears only start to well up when I think about love.

  Isn’t that what it’s all about? Loving so hard that you think you’ve let people down. Not loving yourself enough to realise you haven’t. Loving enough to walk away if you think it’s the best thing to do. Loving enough to walk back and admit you’ve made a mistake.

  He squeezes my hand. Rubs the tear away with his thumb.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘So am I. I thought you’d left me, that you didn’t want me.’

  ‘I could never leave you. I never left your mum, either; she’s here, in my heart.’

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t read the letters.’

  ‘I guess it doesn’t make a difference.’

  ‘But I hated you for so long.’

  ‘I deserved it.’

  ‘You didn’t, Dad.’

  We stare at each other, both blinking away the mist in our eyes. He swallows, recovers first, though his voice still cracks at the edges. ‘So where’s your snowboarder guy, then?’

  ‘Will? In Canada, it was just a holiday . . .’

  ‘Holiday?’

  ‘I was there working, really, now I’m back again.’ I shrug.

  ‘Bollocks. You can’t fool me, even if you can fool yourself. In those photos you were looking at him in the same way your mum used to look at me. Listen to me, love, I might have been a total crap dad, but I do know what it’s like to lose out. Twice. Your mum, you.’

  I stand up. I need time to get my head together.

  ‘Don’t let him get away, if you love him.’

  ‘I won’t. And Dad,’ I pause as I reach the door, ‘you only lost once. We can chat again, yes?’

  ‘I can make you another ladybird stool? Full-size, this time.’ He grins then, and I know it’s going to be all right. ‘I can send you some photos of us all – if you like, that is?’

  I nod. ‘I’d like that. Thank you.’

  I go upstairs, hear him saying goodbye to Lynn. Listen as the door quietly shuts, then there’s the sound of her footsteps coming up the stairs.

  She lies down on the bed next to me, like she did when I was a little girl.

  ‘Are you all right, love?’

  ‘You know what happened?’

  ‘He told me yesterday, when he came looking for you. He was quite cut up that you weren’t here – I think he’d got it all stored up, what he wanted to say.’

  ‘Why didn’t I know?’

  She sighs. ‘It was easy to just go along with what he said, what they said in court, because it hurt so much. He’d always had a bit of the bad boy about him, which was what your mum loved so much. The easiest thing was to believe the bad, and when the prosecution said all those things . . .’

  ‘They loved each other, didn’t they?’

  ‘Oh, they were head over heels. I always knew she was, but was never quite so sure about him, until now. He’d have done anything for her, but you do, don’t you if you love somebody? Here,’ she places a large envelope on the bed between us, pats it. ‘I kept these for you.’

  I know instantly. They’re the letters that I threw out.

  And I know instantly where and who I want to read them with.

  ‘I have to see Will, don’t I? Before the spring.’

  ‘I think you do, love.’

  ‘But you need me here, and there’s work to do, and I could go and see him when I’m looking at new resorts for the business, but we’re busy this time of the year.’

  ‘Not that busy, love, and you need some time off. We can talk about business trips and new resorts later. Look,’ she takes my hand in hers, ‘I’d never hold you back if you wanted to do something different, be somewhere else, you do know that?’

  ‘I do, but I want to be with you.’

  ‘I wish I’d spent more time with Ralph, darling. You can fit more than one person in your world, you know, and wherever you are, you’ll still be with me. I’ll always be here for you to come back to if you need me. You could spend a year exploring with Will, checking out new places if that’s what you need to do.’

  ‘I don’t know what I need to do.’ I’m tired, I want to bury my head in the pillow. ‘I do want to see Dad again, though, and there’s Will, and you.’

  ‘I know, Sarah. I know. That necklace I gave you, do you know what the crystal is?’

  ‘It’s a Desert Rose. Mum’s favourite.’

  ‘And do you know what it symbolises, darling? It means all things are possible, helps you throw off all your restraints and things that hold you back and go with what your heart tells you. It helps you find your purpose in life, love. That,’ she brushes the hair back from my face, ‘is why it was the right time for you to have it. Your mum would have wanted you to be brave, to go after your dreams, and I’d have failed in my promise to her if I didn’t make sure you did.’

  ‘She went after her dreams.’

  ‘She certainly did, and now it’s your turn. Have a nap first, though; it’ll keep until tomorrow, won’t it?’ Then she gets up, pulls the covers over me and shuts the curtains. I smell her familiar perfume as she kisses my forehead, and I’m that little girl again, safe in my bedroom.

  Chapter 32

  It feels a bit déjà vu-ish, writing to him. And I don’t know quite what to write. I want to keep things light, but if it’s too jokey he might miss the point. And if it’s too serious then he might think I’m asking for a commitment neither of us really know we want yet. And it’s hard. I mean, how do you say ‘can I come and see you, because I miss you, and my dad came, and he told me stuff that’s changed everything, and Lynn says I can have time out, but I don’t know what I really want’ in a ha ha way?

  But I’ve been stuck on ‘Dear Will’ for quite a while now, so at this rate it’ll be spring before I actually manage to get anything sensible together.

  There’s a brief knock on the front door, then a louder one. ‘Oh, bloody hell, go away.’ Then it’s thrown open. Oh Christ, burglars, that’s all I need, unless they’re literary and witty. It might be worth asking if they can help me with my letter before they cosh me, or gag me, and put me in a cupboard.

  The door slams shut. I don’t think burglars normally do that. It’s more hit and run. Oh bugger – Sam! I’d completely forgotten I’d asked Sam to come over. We were going to sort through our photographs and videos and decide which ones to put on the website. I wish I could ask her to help me write this email, but it’s personal. Too personal. ‘I won’t be a minute, put the kettle on!’

  ‘Where is it?’

  That’s not Sam’s voice. Maybe it is a burglar. I freeze, then slam the laptop lid down, leap off the bed and slide down the bannisters. It’s the type of trick you never forget.

 

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