Chapter 23 #2
Henry’s immediately snared her with that unfair charm of his. She laughs and throws a sneaking glance in my direction once we’re walking on again. Luckily, I can avoid any further questions. It’s time for our first appointment. Mr. Ward is sitting at his desk, sorting through various files.
Mum stops as we approach the open door. She puts her shoulders back a fraction as we walk in. He raises his head, and suddenly, there’s something in his expression I’ve never seen before. Emotion. Pain, fury, contempt. They vanish as soon as he stands up.
“Laura,” he says. I only realize when Mum calls him by his first name too.
“Alaric,” she replies. It’s her lawyer voice. I only know it from when she’s on the phone. She doesn’t say, Nice to see you. They shake hands. Mr. Ward gives me a curt nod, then indicates the two chairs in front of his desk.
“I presume we’re not waiting for Jacob?”
Mum doesn’t flinch, but my throat feels tight. At this moment, I understand there must be more to this. More things that Mum won’t talk about with me. More secrets and tangled links.
“No, we’re not.” Mum’s voice is chilly. She’s sitting very straight. “Let’s talk about my daughter.”
I don’t want to be here. Why do pupils have to come to parents’ evening conversations here at Dunbridge? It can only be awkward.
“Yes, we should do that.” Mr. Ward finds a page in his notebook.
His eyes pass over me, and I find myself holding my breath.
“Emma is very ambitious, you have to give her that. I teach her mathematics and English. She is putting in a solid performance in maths, but in English, there is room for improvement, to put it mildly. She didn’t pass the first test of the school year.
Currently, she’s averaging a C grade in her written work, while I would put her spoken proficiency at B minus.
We don’t make allowances for non-native speakers here, of course.
It’s clear from her accent that you only speak German to her. It’s a great shame.”
“Could we please stick to the point?” Mum’s voice sounds calm, but her expression is adamant.
“Of course. Well, Emma will only be here a year, so as far as that goes, none of this is a particular disaster.”
I glance at Mum. I haven’t told her my idea of maybe staying at the school for the whole of sixth form.
“We’ll see” is all she says. “I’m sure there are plenty of other ways that she can work on catching up with the others, aren’t there?”
“Indeed there are. Emma would always be very welcome to ask me for advice.”
“Then I’m sure she will.”
Why am I even here? The two of them are talking about me like I’m not in the room.
Mum isn’t usually like this. I’m on the verge of saying something when Mr. Ward starts talking about the next set of exams. He seems different from normal.
Slower. It’s weird. I don’t know if I’m imagining it.
Maybe he didn’t get enough sleep. Mum makes the occasional note, and I nod, as if in a trance.
My thoughts keep wandering. It’s these little moments when their eyes meet and Mum’s expression hardens.
When she looks at Mr. Ward’s stick, which is leaning against the edge of the desk, her eyes go kind of faraway.
I find myself thinking about the yearbook photos.
About the fact that Mr. Ward suddenly wasn’t there.
About what Mr. Ringling said in the garden.
What happened back then, and is it possible that my parents had anything to do with it?
I wish I could just ask. Right now. While I’m here with them. But I don’t dare.
I have no idea what else Mr. Ward said. Mum seems strangely composed as we walk to the next room.
It’s not until we talk to Ms. Ventura and Mr. Ringling that I start to relax.
Unlike Mr. Ward, they’re practically heaping praise on me; it’s almost embarrassing.
All the same, as Mum and I step outside again, I can think about only one thing.
“Phew, we made it.” Mum smiles. “Mr. Ringling is still as nice as ever.”
“I didn’t know you knew Mr. Ward so well.” It’s a lie: Of course I knew it. But Mum doesn’t know that.
Maybe I’m imagining things, but her smile is more strained now. “He was in our year.”
“Didn’t you get on?”
Mum hesitates, and I know she’s not going to tell me the truth. “Things were a bit complicated,” she says. “There was no love lost between him and your father.”
“Why?”
“Oh, Emmi-Mouse, it was all so long ago. I can’t even remember exactly.”
Mum turns away and lets her eyes wander over the ancient walls.
“I met him,” I say. She turns back to me. “Dad.”
“You did what?” she blurts.
“Yes.”
“When? Did he come here?”
“No. I went to see him.” Suddenly I feel guilty. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you but I didn’t want you to worry. And I had to do it alone. You wouldn’t have approved.” Mum opens her mouth, but I don’t let her speak. “You totally wouldn’t, believe me.”
She sighs quietly. “No, you’re right. Maybe I really wouldn’t have approved.”
“You see.”
“OK, so you met him. And how was it?”
“It was . . . difficult. He was drunk. Maybe it wasn’t the best time.”
“He was what?” Mum’s eyes bore through me. “Where did you meet him?”
“In Glasgow,” I tell her. “He was doing a concert in a pub.”
“In Glasgow? Emma Charlotte Wiley, I hope you’re not telling me that you went to Glasgow on your own to meet your father in some pub?”
“I wasn’t on my own,” I say hastily. “Henry came with me. He was there the whole time.”
Well . . . almost the whole time.
“I can’t believe it.” Mum rubs her temples. “But fine. So you met him. Maybe that was important.”
“I think it really was.”
“And could he believe his eyes? What did you talk about?” asks Mum, and I can feel how much effort she’s making not to sound reproachful.
“He didn’t even recognize me at first. And then it was . . . disillusioning. He mainly talked about himself . . . Somehow, I’d hoped for more.”
“I’m sorry, Emmi.” She sounds genuinely upset. “I really am so very sorry that your father isn’t here for you. I wish things were different. And I hope you aren’t blaming yourself for it.”
My throat tightens. “I hope you aren’t either.”
When Mum smiles at me, her eyes are sparkling, but maybe I’m imagining that too.
“Aren’t you angry with him?” I ask. “I’m only asking because I’m angry. I’m so angry, and it’s tiring.”
“I know, Emmi. It’s exhausting. But you can let it go and make better use of your energies.”
“How did you let it go?”
“I don’t know. It took a long time, and I still haven’t completely. I’m angry with him for doing this to you. But nowadays, I mainly feel sorry for him because he threw away the chance to see you grow up.”
Mum looks at me, and I know it’s the truth. That she’s stopped hating him. Because it doesn’t do any good. And I really wish I could too.
It’s true that I’ve done more than my fair share of crying in the last little while, but I think I have my reasons.
This is just a superintense phase. But this time it feels different.
These aren’t hot, furious tears, they’re lighter.
I’d got myself so invested in this idea of finding my dad that I couldn’t see I have Mum.
That she’s always been there and working her arse off to give me every opportunity.
I just took it all and I wasn’t satisfied.
It wasn’t enough for me. But in these few seconds, it’s like everything just slides into place.