Reluctantly, Kerry took the letter, but made no attempt to open it. ‘Thanks,’ he said, folding it in half and slipping into the back pocket of his jeans.
‘You ought to speak to your mother,’ said Max, not unkindly. ‘It’s been a long time, Kerry. Time’s a great healer and mellower of people.’
‘I haven’t got anything to say to her, and besides, if he’s still about I’m certainly not having anything to do with either of them.’
‘It’s not Tom’s fault your dad died.’ Max absentmindedly stroked his goatee beard, a habit Kerry recognised whenever his uncle was concerned about something. It obviously still pained Max to think about his own brother’s death, even though it was twelve years ago now. ‘You can’t blame him or your mother for it.’
‘I’m not blaming him. I just don’t like him. He’s a tosser, that’s all.’
Not wishing to hang around any longer than necessary, not least in case his aunt should start trying to convince him to contact his mother, Kerry made his excuses and left.
Once he was back in his flat, Kerry placed the envelope on the coffee table in front of him. For a long time he sat there looking at it. Should he open it, if only to see what she had to say? Would she be apologising or would she be berating him?
Kerry knew his uncle meant well, trying to encourage him to patch things up, but after all this time, Kerry still didn’t feel ready to speak to her. He wondered whether he ever would. He exhaled deeply before getting up and going along the hallway to his bedroom. He knelt down at the side of his bed and slid out a shoebox. In it were nine other white envelopes. Each with his name and the same handwriting. His mother’s.
He slipped the envelope into the box, alongside the others, and pushed the box back under the bed. The pain of her last words to him was branded on his heart.
Chapter 8
Seahorse Café has been steady all week and after being here for over two weeks, I feel I’m getting into my stride. I can definitely manage the early-morning breakfast rush now. Kerry and Joe don’t come in every morning, but when they do, I can’t deny it makes the morning much more pleasant. The only fly in the ointment is Roisin.
I debate whether I should, in fact, just leave matters. Should I start poking the hornets’ nest? Or should I leave it? Maybe she’ll grow bored and go away? However, my next thought is that I know Roisin too well. She won’t let matters drop, especially as she has that photograph. She must be biding her time for a particular reason.
I decide I need to take the initiative rather than wait to dance to Roisin’s tune.
With the mid-afternoon lull now upon me, I idly wipe down the counter and rearrange the contents of the chiller cabinet, moving the colder bottles to the front of the refrigerator and the more recent additions to the rear. I wonder what she’s planning. She can’t possibly know the significance of that photograph. It may give her a clue, but it’s only half the story. And even if she did suspect the truth, she has absolutely no way of proving it. I hold onto this last thought.
The door to the café opens, breaking my thoughts.
‘Hello, Erin! Remember me?’
I smile hesitantly as another ghost from my past resurrects itself. This ghost, however, is probably a more pleasant apparition. Perhaps because Bex is a year younger, she had never got involved with the teasing and tormenting I endured. As teenagers we had been friendly rather than friends, the crossover of groups unavoidable in a small place like Rossway.
‘Hi, Rebecca, how are you?’ I say, trying to assimilate the old memory of Rebecca the teenager with the up-to-date version: Bex the adult, wife and mum.
Bex certainly is rather boho, as Kerry had said. I take in the long, sinuous dark hair with streaks of indigo running through, matched by an equally flowing skirt that nearly reaches the ground. Bex’s purple Dr Martens boots kick out from under the fabric as she walks and she appears to be carrying some sort of multi-coloured cloth bundle in front of her. I realise this bundle is, in fact, tied round Bex and snugly tucked inside is the baby.
‘Kerry said you were here, so I thought I’d come and see you.’ She smiles warmly at me. ‘And no one calls me Rebecca these days, not even my mum. It’s Bex.’
‘Sorry, I’m a bit out of touch with everything. Although, I do know about your little one. Congratulations. How’s everything?’
‘Really good, thanks. Come on, Storm, you sit here.’ She pulls out a chair for her son and then, adjusting the baby bundle slightly, seats herself on the opposite side of the table. ‘There, she’s fast asleep now. The fresh air obviously did the trick.’