The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton - Catherine Alliott [62]
And I couldn't go home, either. Ant would be telling Anna. She'd rush upstairs – ‘What's wrong?’ And he'd meet her on the landing, take her to her room, avoiding ours with its smashed window. He'd sit her down on the side of the bed, take her hand maybe, and explain patiently, truthfully. And she'd be shocked, horrified, jump up, yes, her world would be shattered – a sister? Her father had another child? And he'd have to deal with that. Deal with the fallout. My heart ached for her, for her pain, but I also knew, if I was there, I'd make it worse. I'd scream too, point a finger, shout – your bloody father! Turn her against him, line her up with me, and we weren't that sort of family. Oh, I'd fan the flames all right, and in my heart I knew that Ant could work miracles. Make it – if not better – as good as it could be. I had to let him try, at any rate. We owed that to Anna.
So this was where I'd go, I thought suddenly. I swung a sharp right, amidst another blare of horns, at the church by the deli, then down past the row of boutiques into Walton Street. But instead of heading for the villagey bit of Jericho where we lived, I went past the University Press and carried on, turning into one of the side streets. The familiar winding road, with its charming crooked houses and shop fronts painted every colour of the rainbow, soothed me. I felt my bones relax as I swung into a cobbled yard at the back of one particular shop, where the chosen few could ignore the stern warning that anyone other than employees would be clamped, drawn and quartered.
As I got out of the car and made my way wearily around to the front, I passed the fire escape that had hosted many a cigarette; many a laugh in easier days. The sign on the familiar glass door said ‘Closed’ but I knew better, and as I pushed on through and it jangled reassuringly, I felt I'd come home. A different sort of home.
‘Oh Lordy be. What brings you here, flower? When you've been avoiding your old friends previously?’
I forced a smile and shut the door behind me. The lights were off, so the shop was in comparative darkness, but I could just make out the owner of the voice through the open door at the back. He was sitting in his office, long legs propped up on the desk, peering at me over his glasses, a book he'd been reading, by the light of an Anglepoise, in his hand.
‘Not avoiding, Malcolm. Just pressures of life, really.’
‘Call it what you will.’ He swung his legs down and got up to greet me. ‘I'm impervious to snubs, as you know. Notoriously thick-skinned.’
I smiled again at this blatant lie. Cinders, his aged golden retriever, thumped her tail in greeting on the floor as I passed, apologizing for not getting up on account of her years, and as her master held out his arms, I stumbled the last few steps into them, managing to knock his glasses off as I squeezed him tight.
‘Oops, careful, hon. These are my three ninety-nine specials from Boots.’ He disentangled himself and struck a pose, book open in outstretched hand. ‘Make me look intellectual, don't you think?’ He peered over the tortoiseshell frames at the print. ‘Can't see a bloody thing, of course, because I've got eyes like lasers, but they look the part and that's half the—Oh, what's wrong, sausage!’
At this point, and in all probability due to the lovely cosy hug he'd just given me, which I needed very badly, I collapsed on Malcolm's bony shoulder, soaking his new Thomas Pink.
‘Well,’ he said emphatically later – ten minutes or so later, in fact – patting my hand as he put the mug of strong, sweet tea he'd made in front of me. ‘Well. I can see that it's a shock, my sweet, yes, quite a revelation. And a real bolt from the blue too. But it's no more than that. And this is the worst it'll get, I guarantee. It won't get any grizzlier or more dramatic