Second Chances Part 2

The birthday boy popped up, looking smugly moon-faced while Louisa fiddled distractedly with the strap of his dungarees.

'Kit says New Zealand is beautiful,' I ventured. 'Like Ireland, but better weather and no relatives.'

'Huh. He's been watching too much Lord of the Rings.'

I sighed. 'It's actually me you have to blame. I was sitting in front of the computer one night, freaking out about the mortgage.'

'Join the club.'

'I couldn't resist having a little peek at this recruitment agency's website. I found five great jobs straightaway, so I started researching-Lou, it was like riding on a magic carpet! With a couple of clicks it flew me- whoosh-out of my gloomy sitting room and off to a promised land. Forests, mountains, pristine white beaches, all stunningly lovely. No traffic, no queues. People swimming with dolphins. Skiing. Surfing. Kayaking on crystal-clear rivers-hey, d'you know what their advertising slogan is?'

Lou looked as though I'd invited her to see my gallstones.

'One hundred per cent pure,' I announced, with a flourish.

She stuck out the tip of her tongue. 'How twee. And what else did you visit on your magic hearthrug?'

'The estate agent. A dream house in the hills-ten dream houses in our price range, mortgage free. Places for Kit to paint and me to keep chickens.'

'Like Beatrix b.l.o.o.d.y Potter.'

'And finally the government website. We'll get visas if one of us has an essential skill and-hey, presto!-occupational therapists are on the list.' I lifted the baby from her lap and pressed my nose to his. I was going to miss him.

'Have you talked to the witch doctor?' Lou meant our father, and she was playing her ace card. She knew the children idolised him.

'I'll do it tomorrow-and don't you dare get in first.'

'Kit's family?'

'Not yet.'

She b.u.t.toned her s.h.i.+rt, lips clamped into a line. I'd known Louisa thirty-seven years; she was a three-year-old tyrant when I was born, and the only person I ever met who could stare down our mother. She really hadn't changed in all that time, and I loved her as much as ever.

'What it comes down to is that you've let a daydream get out of control,' she said.

'What it comes down to is that we want a different life for our children. Oh, yuck, Theo! You're supposed to throw up on Mummy, not me.' I set him down on the Kickers, and he thundered off.

Handing me a bit of white muslin, Lou swayed across the kitchen in her flowery skirt. My sister is opulent, like a peony. The plumper she grows, the better she looks. I'm sure she posed for Botticelli in another incarnation. She might be his Venus, with twining tendrils of caramel hair, a slightly hooked nose and arching brows. Apparently she and I are strikingly similar- could be twins, they tell me-but I slightly resent the suggestion. Lou would never in a zillion years get into my jeans.

Upstairs, Finn and Charlie were having a barney. Howls of rage culminated in a smash, then Charlie's agonised wailing.

'Trouble?' asked Lou, reaching for her cigarettes. She and smoking had a love-hate relations.h.i.+p. She was always trying to give up.

'It's not serious; I can tell from the engine note. Anyway, Sacha's with them.'

Lou flicked her lighter.

'Sacha's got a new boyfriend,' I said, hoping to distract her. 'Did she tell you?' She shook her head sulkily, but I persevered. 'Ivan Jones, the garden gnome. Plays the timpani in her orchestra. He looks uncannily like something you'd find cross-legged on a lily pad.'

'Does he wear a hoodie?'

I opened my hands, mystified. 'Nope! No ponytail, no tattoos. Not so much as an earring. Nothing remotely rebellious. What a codswalloping yawn. He won't get her pregnant or hooked on heroin, but what's he got to offer a girl like Sacha?'

'Perhaps he's fascinating, if you happen to be sixteen.'

'Can't see it, myself. He's got a silly little beard and a pink VW Beetle.'

Lou shrugged. 'Well, there you are, then. Wheels.'

'He's hypnotically boring, Lou. Sits there piggling at his fingernails.'

'Why worry? He'll be gone by next week.' She balanced her cigarette in an ashtray and began to chop onions for tomato salad. 'I wish I had a Sacha-cheerful, competent and permanently available for babysitting.'

'Ah, but you wouldn't have enjoyed telling Mum you were pregnant at the age of twenty-one, and not a father in sight.'

'My virginal bridesmaid, rolling along in that vile maternity dress. The shame!'

I forced a laugh. It wasn't a happy memory. 'She'd have put me in one of those Irish laundries if she could have.'

Slamming down her knife, Lou began to ma.s.sage her temples. 'Martha, don't go. Why are you doing this? Aren't we enough for you?'

I'd never refused my sister anything. I could feel knots tightening in my stomach.

'You'll never go through with it,' she said suddenly. 'You haven't told Dad or the McNamara clan. It'll never happen.' With a sharp little nod of denial, she held out her salad. 'C'mon, enough nonsense! Grab this. I'll go and find Philip.'

I didn't move. 'I've signed a contract,' I said sadly. 'It's a private rehab unit just outside a city called Napier. Head injury and spinal. I had an interview with an agency in London. I've . . . Lou, I've already given notice at work.'

She froze for a second before ramming the bowl into my midriff. 'I wish I knew what you're trying to prove,' she snapped, and flounced off.

I trailed outside. It was only just beginning to sink in, what we were doing. The enormity of it left me dizzy. Finn and Charlie ran past me to join their cousins who were splas.h.i.+ng in and out of a paddling pool, dicing with hypothermia.

Kit was lounging against the barbecue where Louisa had sent him, one hand in a pocket, sizzling sausages. 'How'd she take it?' he asked, and chuckled sympathetically when I imitated the face from The Scream.

As if on cue, Lou swept from the house, followed by her husband. 'Philip's appalled,' she said, her voice bra.s.sy with hurt.

My brother-in-law threw me one reproachful glance as he lowered himself into a deckchair and proceeded to scuba dive in the merlot. Philip was a young man when I first knew him, with copper eyelashes and a Captain Kirk grin. We go back too far; met while I was training and had a practice placement in the unit where he was a psychologist. I introduced him to Lou, G.o.d help me. Seventeen years on there's half the sandy hair, double the chins and plenty of regret. He works in industry, doing isometric testing on ostensibly sane people. Must be pretty depressing.

'So.' He made his fingers skip along the chair's arm. 'The rats are scurrying from the sinking s.h.i.+p.'

'Rats, are we?' Kit laughed. It was a long time since I'd seen him so carefree. His eyes seemed almost electric blue. 'Don't beat around the bush, Philip. If you're not entirely impressed, why not say so?'

'Your scheme is hare-brained. What are your children going to be- Irish? English? New Zealanders?'

'Happy,' retorted Kit. 'Untroubled. Unhurried. Uncrowded.'

'Uneducated and uncultured.'

'Ooh, you old sn.o.b!' I wrapped a towel around Charlie, who'd b.u.mped his nose and was screaming loud enough to rouse my mother from her grave. 'Shh, Charlie . . . They don't wear gra.s.s skirts over there, Philip. They have excellent schools. Rutherford was a New Zealander. You know, the atom man.'

'Well, hurrah.'

'You're jealous,' proclaimed Kit, hitting the bullseye.

'b.o.l.l.o.c.ks, man!'

Philip's disgust merely widened Kit's smile. Sparks quite often flew between the two of them. Kit thought Philip was pompous and self-absorbed, which was undeniable; but it wasn't the whole picture.

'We're off to Hawke's Bay,' said Kit, 'where that wine you're drinking comes from. While you're s.h.i.+vering in your thermal undies, we'll be wearing t-s.h.i.+rts and taking little dips just to cool off.'

'What gives you the right to run away?' Philip turned to me. 'Martha, where's your b.l.o.o.d.y loyalty?'

I sighed. 'Look. We're really going to miss you, but we rats just want out of the race.'

'Sacha!' he exploded, slapping his knee. 'You're surely not going to turn that wonderful girl's world upside down?'

'She can't stay at her present school, anyway. We can't afford the fees.'

'So move her. Don't cart her off to a third world country.'

'Philip! It's not a . . . Look. I've sussed out the schools where we're going, and there's a choice of several good ones. Their academic year starts in February so she'll be able to settle in before the sixth form.'

'It's all a question of balance,' said Kit. 'Ouch.' He'd burned his fingers on the barbecue, and sucked them. 'We have to balance everybody's interests.'

Philip snorted. 'You mean it's all right to sacrifice Sacha's wellbeing if it suits you?'

'No, that's not what he means,' I interrupted firmly, before Kit could reply. 'We think she'll love it. Skiing, surfing, riding. It's . . . well, it's Eden.'

'Eden.' The deckchair groaned as Philip leaned back. 'Didn't turn out too well for poor old Adam and Eve, did it? One temptation too many, as I recall. Bit of a c.o.c.k-up.'

Kit rolled his eyes.

'Lucky for you she's got no father,' persisted Philip. 'Might jam a spanner in the works. He might even want what's best for his daughter.'

That was below the belt, and everyone knew it. There was a moment of charged silence. Louisa froze in the act of lighting another cigarette, her gaze swivelling towards Kit, but he was unruffled.

'She has got a father,' he responded affably. 'Me.'

'Where is she, anyway?' Philip looked around. 'Where's my favourite niece? She's the only one of you with two brain cells to rub together. Sacha! You coming out?'

Answering voices floated from the house. There was a moment's cessation of hostilities while we waited. Lou lived underneath the flight path to Heathrow and all day long jets floated majestically overhead, trailing white chalk scribbles on powder blue.

Fast, light footsteps. Lou's six-year-old, Lily, whirled out and showed us her sparkly fingernails before charging into the pool. Sacha followed her out of the house, wearing jeans and a t-s.h.i.+rt with a slogan scrawled across the bust: ALL THIS, AND BRAINS, TOO! She was curvy, maybe even carrying an extra pound or two, and it suited her just as it did Lou. Nor did she see the point in pretending she was a modern, androgynous beauty. Around her head dangled several braids, beaded in fluorescent pink. Theo clung to her hip like a baby baboon.

Instantly the garden was brighter, the sun warmer. No really, it was. Bubbly, dazzling Sacha, my best friend. Only she was refusing to talk to me at the moment.

She focused cross-eyed on one of the braids. 'Lily did my hair.'

'Sacha.' Philip patted the empty chair beside him. 'Sit. We need a bit of sanity.'

Putting Theo down, she flopped gracefully into the seat, long legs stretched out-I envied her those legs-glowing with youth.

'That's unusual.' Lou leaned across and fingered a silver oval that hung around her niece's neck.

'My boyfriend gave it to me. It's an antique locket. There's his picture, and mine-see?'

Lou made enchanted noises. Privately, I thought it was all a bit nauseating. I mean, what modern youth gives a girl a Victorian locket with their photos? What's wrong with an MP3 player, or maybe a pair of funky bed socks?

'I know what you've been talking about.' Sacha shot me a glance of disgust. 'Mum and Kit's epic pioneering scheme. All aboard the Mayflower!' Lou tutted in mutinous sympathy. 'There's a big orange for sale sign by the front gate,' Sacha continued. 'And what's for sale? My home!'

'Already on the market?'

'Oh, yes. If we so much as put a mug down, Mum grabs it and starts fussing about with a tea towel. Crowds have been streaming through all week, led by a geek called Dave from Theakston's Realty. Poking about in my bedroom, raving on about how much they love my mermaids. Loud-mouthed kids climbing the twins' apple trees. We should start doing Devons.h.i.+re teas.'

Lou laid a hand on Sacha's knee. 'We don't want you to go, darling.'

'Yeah, well. Mine not to reason why.'

'I don't believe all this, you know,' said Lou, scowling as she looked from Kit to me. 'This press release about the mortgage and lifestyle, and Kit's career. It's all s.h.i.+t.'

Her outburst was oddly shocking, because my sister never swears when there are children within earshot. Coa.r.s.e language, Mum said once, when I was ten and she padded up the stairs and caught me cursing. Only those with an impoverished vocabulary resort to profanity.

'You've given us a whole stack of reasons.' Lou downed her gla.s.s. 'A mile-high pile of excuses. And not one of 'em was the real one.'

Four.

Dad was working when I tapped on his open door. He handed me a mug of something he called tea, and pottered back to his patient. Today it was his old friend Flora. She ran the garden centre and kept putting out her spine.

Dad lives on the outskirts of Bedford, three streets away from the house where I was brought up. In spite of being on the wrong side of seventy, my father is still a great chiropractor. In fact, he's the only man I know who can manipulate my neck and stop a migraine in its tracks. Kit tried, once. Big mistake. Nearly wrenched my head off. I couldn't reverse the car for a week.

I waited in the kitchen, listening to the rise and fall of voices and dutifully drinking the undrinkable: one of Dad's herbal brews. It tasted like an infusion of silage. Bernard, the rusty black cat, sat neatly on a rag rug by the stove like a small, curved vase.

My dad's eccentric, I'll admit. The kitchen walls were painted in blurred gradations of gentle colour, and bunches of herbs hung from the ceiling. There were crystals and an oil burner lined up along the dresser. And all this new-age mumbo jumbo worked, that's the beautiful thing. It did the trick. Dad's kitchen always felt serene. Wacky, but serene. I loved it in there.

He's into the Steiner thing; didn't discover it until middle age. Now he's quite a big cheese in the movement. I never argue with him about it. Mum did though, and eventually-once Lou and I were grown up and off her hands-she left him for Vincent Vale, a widower who owned an upmarket country pub. Vincent, she said, was rea.s.suringly dull. He made her happy for the last ten years of her life, so perhaps she was right to go.

Once Flora had limped out, Dad stood by the stove, stretching the kinks in his own spine. He doesn't look like a witch doctor; he's more of a fox terrier-wiry and tough, with curly grey hair and eyes that miss nothing. 'And what brings you here on a Monday?' he asked.

I told him. He didn't respond at all, at first. Didn't recoil in horror or fire off a round of reproach; just crouched down and riddled the stove, which banged and sputtered. I watched a twirl of vapour rising like a genie from his oil burner.

'Well,' he said finally. 'I see. It makes excellent sense.'