Please see my Tumblr account: paulapuddephatt.tumblr.com. I have had technical issues with story layouts here on Blogger. The four finished stories on here shall remain on this blog. They exist nowhere else. My latest story is on Tumblr, and possibly future stories will be, also.
In 1992, seventeen-year-old Emma Jackson had recently moved in with boyfriend Dan.
Emma glanced at her watch. Only five past six. That must be why the Red Lion, her local, was comparatively quiet.
Daniel Perry was twenty-four, which Emma's parents considered to be too old for her. But then, Cynthia and Rufus had always found something of which to disapprove. Mark had been too unemployed, Steve too bisexual, and Farooq too Pakistani. Growing up, Emma hadn't realised quite how narrow-minded her parents - particularly her mother - were. It appalled her, in truth. Was disappointing.
Apparently, the sense of disappointment was mutual. Just as well, for Cynthia and Rufus Jackson, that they had Julie and Caitlin. Emma was the difficult middle daughter, the one they "managed", and were never quite as proud of.
"Usual, Em?" enquired Janice, the barmaid, a redhead of about forty, who had always seemed friendly.
Simply Red sounded, at a low volume, from the jukebox: "I wanna fall from the stars..."
"Yes, please," said Emma. Her "usual" being a pint of Stella.
It had become a habit, hadn't it? The quick drink every evening. Work, bus stop, bus, straight home: Emma's once familiar pattern. Routine.
Emma seldom went home now, without first visiting the Lion.
She didn't notice Michael approaching. He appeared, grinning the grin she had considered smug, when she had first met him, barely a fortnight before.
When Dan had introduced his girlfriend to his long-term friend and partner in, often literal, crime. And their new housemate, like it or sodding well lump it. Not negotiable.
"Hey, Emma - I thought it was you. Is Dan with you?"
"Not unless he's invisible, all of a sudden."
Michael shrugged. "I thought maybe he'd popped to the loo or something."
"No, he isn't here. And, to cut to the chase - yes, I'm on my own."
"Not any more. Have a drink with me, Em." The look in his pale blue eyes. That look.
"You aren't meeting anyone yourself?"
"Not specifically, and not yet. A few mates of mine are meeting up later, but not for half an hour, at the earliest. I've got time for a quick drink first."
"Sure," replied Emma.
"Hi, Michael. Usual?" So, he was also on first name, "usual" terms with Janice.
Once the drinks were sorted, Emma and Michael chose a table.
There was a brief silence between them. Emma took a decisive swig of Stella Artois. Dutch courage? Did she need Dutch courage, though - like, seriously?
"You know, maybe it isn't my place to say this."
When had that stopped him before? Had aliens kidnapped the arrogant housemate her boyfriend had forced upon her? If so, could Emma keep the lovely man they had sent down, in his place?
"Say what?" Her tone wasn't defensive any more.
"I heard you and Dan this morning. It was hard not to."
"Yeah, sorry about that. We were kind of shouting the place down, I suppose."
"I think he's wrong, you know - to put you down like that, discourage you from following your dreams. You should go for it: college, uni, all of it. Dan should be proud of you."
"It means a lot to hear you say that."
The conversation flowed after that.
"Fancy going for a quick drive?"
"How about your mates?"
"That's not important," said Michael. "And I've only had the one drink. So..?"
"Sounds good."
Emma's remains were discovered in the New Forest, nine months later.
Ordinarily, Moira Weston would not have been so appreciative of the lack of net curtains in Olivia's flat. No, not flat. The slightly nicer ones were known as "apartments", weren't they? Moira had learned this fact from her younger son, who lived in one himself.
Of course, Claudine's had, undeniably, been a flat. A council flat. But Claudine - well, she had been Claudine, hadn't she?
And Moira's daughter had ended up in that house, of course. A shared house, some sort of supported housing. The very house opposite, which was being steadily emptied by a housing clearance firm. Yet another lorry was being filled with the clutter Claudine had accumulated, over the years. Such a silly girl. She ought to have been throwing out her junk as she went along, but there was no telling her, never had been, and Moira had long since given up trying.
After all, they all had their own lives now. And hers was centred around her ninety-nine-year-old mother, two sons, and four grandchildren.
"Tea or coffee, Moira?" asked Olivia.
"Tea, please. Milk, no sugar," Moira replied, thinking what a lovely, polite girl her nineteen-year-old great niece was.
Pity Claudine hadn't been a little more like her.
And, whilst Olivia certainly should purchase some net curtains in the near future, that wasn't for Moira to say. At present, their absence had its advantages.
"It's so sad, about that woman across the street," said Olivia. "I didn't know her at all - saw her around sometimes. But, according to Leanne from Number Twelve, they think it was suicide."
Time for appropriate, and brief, words, prior to a rapid diversion. It really did no good to dwell upon these things. You did what you could in life, but in the end, they all had their own lives to be getting on with. That was what Moira herself was doing, and she would continue to encourage the same approach in those around her, particularly family.
Of course, Olivia hopefully knew nothing about Claudine, and Claudine was told as little as possible about anyone or anything. Moira was grateful for the cooperation of her brother and two sisters, who had complied with her requests that her daughter be given no information at all about who any of Claudine's brothers or cousins married, or had relationships with. She was to know nothing about the next generation. The less she knew, the less trouble she could be to any of them. People simply didn't want to hear Claudine, going on about her problems. She might have called it "being open", but in Moira's day, you did not discuss mental illness and period problems and the like, as if those were things to be proud of.
The one major advantage of the fact that Claudine had married That Man was that she no longer bore the name of Weston. Even if anyone actually read those so-called "novels" of hers, which Moira doubted, there was nothing to connect her to any of them. And even her Christian name meant nothing to the younger members of the family. Moira had done all she possibly could, in that direction. Even she couldn't control the spread of information entirely, in this day and age, with the internet at everyone's disposal. But, let's face it - people had their own lives. No one was interested in tracking down missing second cousins online. Long-dead ancestors, perhaps - but not mysterious, recently-dead-by-suicide, second cousins.
If it even had been suicide, which Moira frankly questioned. Her daughter had been an attention seeker. At best, her death had probably been self-harm-for-attention-gone-wrong. Claudine always had brought these things on herself.
For her part, Moira had only to ensure that her daughter did not bring shame upon Moira herself, or the rest of the family. Claudine was such a selfish person, always had been. Typical of her to be creating drama, to the bitter end. All she need have done, after all, was to get on with her own life, like everyone else. How difficult could that have been?
Of course, Richard's side of the family had refused to entirely shun Claudine. That could present a few minor issues. But Moira's late husband's side didn't have much, if any, contact with hers. The situation ought to be manageable.
She thanked Olivia for the cup of tea, before taking her first sip.
I remember it so well, that afternoon in the park. I'd barely managed to let Amber, the Golden Retriever, off her lead, before the twins were racing off, in the direction of the play area: swings, slide, climbing frame, and roundabout. Complete with nothing more gentle than concrete, to cushion any potential falls. It was 1983, after all. That was the way things were, in those days.
It was a sunny April day, and yet, deceptively chilly. I was grateful for my last minute decision to wear both a cardigan and my denim jacket.
"Girls, wait for me, please! Charlotte! Angeline!"
Of course, they didn't listen. Never had.
By the time I'd caught up with them, the identical redheads were already making friends with another girl of around their own age - which, at the time, was seven.
"This is our friend, Helena," announced Charlotte, beaming at the girl with long, chestnut hair, in a high ponytail.
"Oh, okay. Does Helena go to your school, then?"
"No, we just met her," said Angeline.
"And now she's our friend," added Charlotte, talking slower than usual, and pronouncing her words clearly, as if I might need some help to understand.
To be honest, I didn't understand. As someone who, both as a child and to that day, had needed to get to know anyone gradually, over time, before I considered them a "friend"...
But the twins were confident, particularly Charlotte, and that was no bad thing. Not without potential dangers, but what was better? Staying safe, but trusting no one?
Helena offered me a shy smile, which I returned.
"Helena, what do you think you're doing? What do we always tell you about talking to strangers?" demanded a male voice. A guy of about my own age, which was twenty-five.
"I'm sorry," I told him. "The twins started talking to..." I hesitated. "Helena's your daughter, I guess?"
"Yes." He seemed to relax then, and smiled. His hair was slightly darker than Helena's, but their eyes were both precisely the same grey-blue. "And it's okay. I tend to be overprotective, but you can't be too careful nowadays. I'm Tom, by the way."
"Paloma. And these are my nieces, Charlotte and Angeline."
"Your nieces? I somehow assumed they were yours. They look so much like you. More like each other, though."
I giggled. "Very much like each other. And I guess there's a family resemblance, too. People sometimes used to mistake me and my sister - their mother - for twins. But Silvia has the red hair, and clearly, I don't." My own hair was naturally mousy, although I'd recently added a few blonde highlights for good measure.
The twins and Helena, apparently less than enthralled with our conversation, were already racing each other to the climbing frame.
And, whilst the girls played, Tom and I sat on a nearby bench, and continued to chat.
He wasn't wearing a ring. I wasn't sure what that signified, though. So he lived with his girlfriend. Many people did nowadays. They had a kid together, which effectively made them as good as married.
Helena's mum was a lucky woman.
***
A fortnight later, I was in the Red Lion, with my best friend, Tracey. It was Friday night, but still early, and the bar had yet to become exceptionally busy. In an hour or two, I knew from experience, the place would probably be packed.
Predictably, Tracey launched, within the first ten minutes, into her usual theme. "You know, Paloma - you really need to meet this guy, who works with Nick. His name is Freddie, and I just know you guys would be perfect together."
"Thanks, but no thanks, Emma Woodhouse." I knew Tracey would get my reference. My friend was as much of a Jane Austen fan as I was.
She giggled. "Okay, okay. But, if you change your mind, let me know. I'd be happy to set you up on a blind date." She hesitated. "You aren't back with Mike again, are you?" There was genuine concern in her eyes.
"Hardly," I replied. "That's well and truly over. I honestly do prefer being single, Trace."
She didn't believe me for a minute, of course. And I certainly wasn't going to attempt to explain about the guy in the park, and how I couldn't stop thinking about him and remembering the spark in this grey-blue eyes.
I excused myself by offering to get the next round in. And it was at the bar that I saw him again.
"Paloma."
"Hi, Tom."
Awkward silence.
"I'm here with a couple of mates from work," said Tom. Not Helena's mum, then...
Not that it mattered. She existed, whether or not they were out together that evening.
"Same. I mean - I'm here with my friend, Tracey," I said.
"It's great to see you again. I didn't...We didn't exchange contact details last time."
"Would Helena's mum like you sharing 'contact details' with random women you meet in parks? Or pubs, for that matter?"
"I'm not with Helena's mum. Sorry if I didn't explain the situation before. We lived together for a few years, but we aren't together any more. Julie's married, with a little boy - Helena's half-brother."
I smiled. "Okay. But I need to get back to my friend, before she gets suspicious. She can be a nosy cow." Said, whilst rummaging in my handbag for notebook and pen, hoping I didn't appear as flustered as I felt. Or as elated.
***
April 2003. Twenty years have passed since Tom and I first met, along with his daughter, my nieces, and my mum's dog, Amber. The dog, sadly, passed away, a few years ago. Lottie and Angie, as the twins are now primarily known, remain an important part of our lives, as does Helena. Tom's daughter has two children of her own now, Rebecca and Justin, aged five and four respectively.
Which is a blessing, for Helena and her husband, as well as for us. But also, has served as a painful reminder of what we ourselves have lacked. The one major absence, really. A child of our own.
Until now. And in this moment, as I watch the man I've always adored, holding our beautiful, miraculous son, a sense of tranquility enters my mind as never before.
"You know Thomas actually means 'twin', right?" I say. "And it suits him perfectly."
Tom smiles. "You don't have to sell me on the name, or on Jessica. I agreed to both, remember?"
I gaze into my baby daughter's eyes, as she lies in my arms - that distinctive grey-blue again. "She looks like her sister, more than anyone else," I remark.
"I think so, too. Helena can't wait to see them both, by the way - although she did say Justin was confused about them apparently being his uncle and aunt. He's insisting he's their uncle, because he's older."
"Bless him - it must be kind of confusing."
"Confusing, but more so, cause to celebrate, Paloma. It's been a long journey."
"It has," I agree. "The twins can't wait to see them, either. The other twins, that is. And Mum and my sister, and Tracey and Nick, and..." My voice trails off. Everyone in our lives, I mean, of course.
It definitely has been a long and painful road to travel, but we've arrived at last: Tom and myself, Thomas junior, and Jessica. The ultimate blessing has, once again, arrived in the form of twins.
It was the last family gathering Caroline had attended, and possibly ever would.
"You will be there tonight?" The question had been almost a dare. Dare you not to be.
In truth, it had been a demand, not a question. It always was with Caroline's mother. It was Margaret's way or the highway, and it had taken Caro too long to realise that the highway might well be her best alternative.
"It will be the boys' thirtieth, after all. That's important."
Yeah, and it had been Caroline's thirtieth too, three years earlier. That had apparently merited a mere piece of card in the mail, two days late. Nothing at all from either of the twins. A quick text from Caro's sister.
Speaking of whom: "Heather and Steve will be there, and we all know how busy those two are. His mum will be having the children."
Heather was a year younger than Caroline, and married to her childhood sweetheart. The couple had a ten-year-old son, Edgar, and triplets Katelyn, Vanessa, and Jayda, aged seven. Trust Heather to go one better even than their own mother, producing triplets instead of twins. But, unlike Rupert and Lloyd, who were identical, at least as far as appearances went, the three girls were definitely not.
The living room of Margaret's house was devoid of even the usual furniture, of which there was almost nothing these days. Margaret and her minimalism, of course.
"Tell me you do still have a three-piece suite, and the telly, Mum," said Caro.
"Of course I do. Heather and Steve were kind enough to pop in earlier. They helped me to move the furniture into the dining room, so that people would be able to dance, or just to mingle."
"So, where are they both now?"
"There was some kind of crisis with the girls, so Heather is over at Yvonne's, trying to sort everything out. It never stops, you know - when you're a mother." The words stung, and were intended to.
Caroline's mum had a bloody nerve, in the circumstances.
Yvonne was Steve's mum. Sweet lady, but very OTT, when it came to her son. Admittedly, Steve was an only child, though. Maybe that was preferable. Being the eldest of four had certainly left Caro out in the cold.
"And the guests of honour?"
"Oh, the boys aren't due for another hour. I want everything to be ready by the time they arrive."
The doorbell rang.
"Let's hope that isn't them, in that case." The guests, in general, weren't expected until seven-thirty.
It wasn't. It was Heather and the triplets. And Caroline's sister was explaining to Margaret precisely why she had not been able to leave them with Steve's mum, after all, and that she had left Edgar with his friend, Oliver's, family.
But Caro couldn't make out much, over the triplets' racket. Or, more accurately, Katelyn and Vanessa's. Jayda was the silent sister, in the same way as she herself had been - poor girl.
"Katie hit me!" screamed Vanessa, whose dark brown, wavy hair was exactly like both Heather's and Margaret's.
"Liar!" Katelyn retorted, her own white-blonde curls as unruly as ever. She strongly resembled Steve, and brother Edgar. "Jayda, tell them. I didn't touch her, and Nessa pulled my hair, so I should have - but I still didn't. I only..."
But the look in Heather's eyes strongly suggested that both girls calm down, and they quietened down immediately. They knew well enough when Mum meant business.
Heather turned to sandy-haired Jayda. "What happened, Jay?"
Jayda seemed remarkably interested in the cream lounge carpet.
"Jayda?"
"I don't know," said Jayda, reluctant either to lie, or to take sides.
"Fine," said Heather. "I don't especially want to know, anyway. Just behave yourselves, the pair of you. Understood? I've had more than enough from you today, as it is. And this evening isn't about you. It's about your uncles."
"Yes, Mum," muttered Katelyn.
"Vanessa?"
"Yes, Mum." But with clear irritation in her tone.
Margaret and Heather chatted for a while, whilst the girls played, comparatively quietly, with the Lego that was kept at their grandmother's, for their benefit. Barely acknowledging Caroline, as per usual.
Superfluous. That was how Caro felt, in that family. She didn't even attempt to tell them about the publication of her latest novel. She'd learnt, in that respect, long ago.
Heather was the one who provided the grandchildren. And Rupert and Lloyd were as golden as their curly hair. Twins, boys, and Margaret's youngest children. They could, naturally, do no wrong.
Caroline couldn't help but wonder about the baby her mother, and then-stepfather, had forced her to abort. Maybe that would even have turned out to be twins or triplets. Quadruplets - who knew?
Caro had been fifteen, and the pregnancy had occurred as the result of a brutal rape. A stranger rape in an alleyway, the type that apparently rarely happened. But such attacks did occur, and it had happened to Caroline, in all its horror.
And she had been placed upon the family scrapheap, ever since. But, at a certain point, Caro had to draw the line. She had to.
Picture perfect, that was her family. On the outside.
And Caro was no longer a part of that perfect picture. Like so many other families, they were fragmented. Broken. She was estranged now, and had been for several years. Part of her family's history. A page ripped unceremoniously out of the family album: one that nobody, apparently, even remembered to miss any more.
Please see my Tumblr account: paulapuddephatt.tumblr.com. I have had technical issues with story layouts here on Blogger. The four finishe...
