“It all makes sense. They were all living in Dartington together at the right time. Your mum and” – she makes an inverted comma sign in the air – “‘dad’ are, like, trying for kids or something, but your mum, she gets the hots for this amazing musician, she shags him, then nine months later you pop out.”
“You’re out of your mind,” I tell her.
“Are you coming, Will?” calls a voice from upstairs.
“Yes, Dad.” I pretty much spit the word ‘Dad’ at Ellie. She’s taken her mad theories too far this time.
She glares at me.
“So Max Reigate, he’s not stupid, he works out the dates, and he wants to be involved in your upbringing. He gives her the cot, one that’s been handed down through the family. Your ‘dad’, maybe he’s in denial, or gets angry, so they move away, up to Kingston, out of harm’s way.”
“Ellie – seriously? You expect me to buy all this just from some initials on the crib?”
“That’s not it, there’s more, in this album, there’s – ”
“Come on Will, I’m waiting,” calls Dad from upstairs.
“Coming!” I shout. Moving past Ellie, I start climbing the stairs, two steps at a time.
“Will!” hisses Ellie.
“We’ll talk about this later. You’re out of your mind.”
And honestly, I think she is. This is why she needs to get a job again. It’s been ages since she was made redundant, since she professed she was ‘done with science’ and ‘done with teaching’. She has too much time for all these mad thoughts to run around in her head. So, I look like a pianist. So, I identify with his music so much that I feel like on some level I’ve been listening to it my whole life. So, my parents used to live in the same part of the country as Max Reigate. So, there’s a crib with some letters that match his initials. So, my parents have been acting weirdly.
So, a little voice inside me says, you can see where she’s coming from.
I shake my head. It’s nonsense. I’ve had the most stable upbringing of anyone I know, with two parents who love me. Ellie just can’t get it into her head that I’m not some spoilt object of guilt – I’m just loved. Maybe she’s still mourning for her own parents, and wants to deny everyone else a cosy family too. But killing other people’s happiness can’t increase her own.
She’s not giving up, though. She’s following me up the stairs. I only notice because the voice saying ‘It’s true’ is too feminine to be coming from inside my head. I should turn round to her, laugh it off, but do you know what? I’m pretty angry right now. Not only is it a slur on my mother, it makes Dad seem like an idiot too. We’ll row it out later, it will all be fine, but for now I’m going to focus on this crib. The crib for my son with his crazy mad mother.
When I get to the top of the stairs, Dad is standing halfway up the loft staircase.
“What kept you?” he asks.
“It was my fault, Mr S,” says Ellie, all smiles and politeness. “I was reminding him what to look out for on the crib.”
“As long as it’s structurally sound, I don’t care,” I say. “Thanks, Dad, for helping me get it out.”
I follow him up the stairs into the loft. Ellie comes with us.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather wait downstairs, Ellie?” I ask. “Seeing as you’re already so well acquainted with the crib?”
“No,” she smiles. “I’d like to see your reaction to it.”
If Dad has noticed the tension between us, he doesn’t let on. He is over in the far corner of the loft. I follow him. And there it is. The crib.
There is no heart-stopping moment. No sense of realisation. I do not turn to Ellie and say ‘Darling, you were right’. Because it is just a crib. It is white, wooden, with slats. It is designed to keep a baby secure and asleep.
“Wow, Dad, it’s amazing!” I say.
He turns round and looks at me, carefully.
“It’s just a crib, son,” he says.
“Yes, but, you know, it’s my old crib – triggers so many memories, you know?”
“Does it?” he asks, quickly. There is intensity in his voice, concern.
“Not really,” I concede. “But it might do, in time.”
Dad turns and looks at the crib. “Yes,” he says, thoughtfully. “I suppose it might.”
“Perhaps of his father’s face, hanging over him in the cot, hey, Mr S?” Ellie says. There’s a false warmth in her voice.
I change the subject. Dad would be humiliated if he knew what she was driving at.
“How shall we get it out, Dad?” I ask, glaring at Ellie.
“It’s true,” she mouths, taking advantage of Dad’s turned back.
I turn away from her, to face Dad.
“Let me take one end,” I say. “We can take it down together. Bit of father and son removal work, hey?” Then I have a thought. “By the way, while I remember – you don’t happen to have the hammer from our toolbox do you? We were trying to find it yesterday.”
Dad looks at me strangely, like I’m mad.
“Why would we have that?”
“Well, it wasn’t in the toolbox, so I thought maybe you’d borrowed it, before you gave us the toolbox.”
Dad shrugs. “Not me,” he says.
“Maybe Mum?” I ask.
He nods slowly. “Maybe. Bit of an odd thing to…but maybe. I’ll ask her. See if we’ve got a spare, anyway, downstairs.”
Hammer question sort of answered, we turn our attention back to the crib. We each pick up one end. As I lift up mine, I catch sight of the initials. They are as Ellie said: M.C.R. – engraved into the wood. As we bring the crib into the light and down the staircase from the loft, I see something else. I lose my footing on the stairs.
“Will!” shouts Ellie, putting a hand to my back to stop me falling. It’s enough for me to recover my footing.
“All right?” asks Dad, from his end.
I nod and we carry on. I don’t want to trip again. So I avert my eyes from what I saw. A small sticker, next to the initials, of a piano. Ellie is right. This crib was his.
But that means nothing, I tell myself, as we carry the crib into the living room. So, maybe the crib belonged to Max Reigate at some point. Maybe he gave the crib to my parents as a christening present, complete with a piano blessing. Maybe anything.
We all
