Annie Christie's Family Fictions:
Episode Eight
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: You're not my father.
_____________________________________________________________________
I never saw Ellie all afternoon though I looked for her everywhere. I even asked the old woman in the hut if she’d seen her.
‘Wee sister, eh?’ she said. ‘I saw a lassie, wi’ a boy around noon-time, but they went aff…’ she pointed vaguely in the direction of the cliffs which did nothing to comfort me. So I kept on looking. But it seemed that Ellie did not want to be found. And as time wore on, despite my worry, I began to have some sympathy with her. I wished I didn’t have to face the music either. I wished life didn’t have to go on. But I knew it did. Different. Worse. But still going on. It was time to face reality, whatever that was going to be.
I gave up looking for Ellie eventually and went back to the pink cottage. And of course, like always; when you stop looking, you start finding. She was there, sitting outside in the sunshine, feet up on the table, jotter in her lap, writing as if her life depended on it.
‘Where’ve you been?’ I asked. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’
She smiled at me. But she wasn’t for telling.
I couldn’t prise it out of her however I tried, and I gave up pretty soon. I wasn’t that interested in girls and I wasn’t interested in girls being interested in boys. If she wanted to spend her time making cow-eyes at some local boy called Alasdair, what business or interest was it of mine.
‘So what are we going to do?’ I asked.
‘About what?’ she replied, sucking the end of her pencil. She still used pencils in preference to pens. Easier to rub out your mistakes. I’m a great fan of pencils. They leave enough of a mark but always give you scope to go back and change things. We need more of that in life.
‘About him,’ I said.
I couldn’t even bring myself to say his name but I was developing a pretty good vitriolic tone whenever I spat the word ‘him’ out.
‘Marco?’ she said.
It hurt me even for the word to come out of her mouth.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘What can we do?’ she asked.
I never thought I’d see the day when my sister and my brother both told me I was in the wrong. It made me angry. Did they not care? Did they not feel the way I did? I thought at least we were all in this together, but I’d never felt more alone in my life than at that moment.
‘Well, I’m not going to have anything to do with him,’ I said.
‘Best keep out of the way,’ she said. ‘That’s my plan.’ And she smiled.
Of course, she wasn’t daft. But she didn’t do angry. She wasn’t going to fight a battle that was already lost. I wished I had her wisdom. I tried to lighten off.
‘So, are you writing about Alasdair?’ I asked. My timing was off because that was just the moment that Mum came round the side of the house. I hadn’t heard the car draw up. I thought they were still out. I was wrong. They’d been back an hour.
‘D’you want a cup of tea?’ mum asked me. It was a kind of forced brightness. Trying to act like nothing had happened, except it had. And except that mum knew I didn’t drink tea, so what the hell was that all about? Now I realise she was closer to cracking than I could ever imagine, but at the time I just thought she’d totally lost the plot. That she didn’t give a damn about anyone but Marco.
I looked at her. Probably the correct word is glowered. Ellie saw it anyway and replied for me, ‘I’d love a cup, mum. Three sugars?’ And that smile again. I looked at that smile. And for the first time I saw behind it. It was faked.
I turned to my mum. I was still wondering if she’d heard me say the name Alasdair. What I saw was the same fake smile on an adult version of Ellie’s face. It was too much for me to bear. This was my flesh and blood and… ‘I’d rather have juice, mum,’ I said, trying to hold it together.
‘Oh.’ She looked like she’d never noticed I didn’t drink tea. A fact she’d known all my life. ‘Well, would you go and get it yourself?’ she asked, distractedly.
‘Is he in the kitchen?’ I asked. I know I shouldn’t have but I couldn’t help myself.
‘Marco’s made a pot of tea,’ was all she could respond.
It would have been funny if it wasn’t so serious. Here we were, talking about pots of tea and smiling and trying not to tread on each other’s feelings and inside we were all about to burst. And I realised then that I wasn’t the only person this was happening to. It was happening to Ollie and Ellie, and my mum right there beside me, and the worst of it was that we were all in it together but our pain was our own. We could not reach out to each other. We could not reach each other. We were so lost in our own individual pain that we couldn’t put our arms round each other and share the feeling. We were totally isolated. I didn’t even want to think how much pain my dad was in, wherever he was.
And it was all because of Marco who, true to form, came out right on cue bearing a tray on which was a pot of tea and five cups. And a packet of biscuits. A peace offering? You’ll need more than hobnobs to win me over, friend, I thought. He poured. I took my cup. I drank it. What did it matter that I hated tea? That I hated him and what he was doing to our lives? I was numb beyond feeling.
‘Did you have a good time?’ Ellie asked mum.
Marco replied, ‘Yes, thanks, it was beautiful there, you should come next time.’
Ellie nodded but couldn’t bring herself to reply.
‘Ollie and I found some really interesting stones on the beach,’ Marco said.
Stones? Christ? What had they been doing – bonding over a rock-pool? It was ludicrous. I looked daggers at my brother and I noticed it again. Something I didn’t want to see. It wasn’t just that he was on Marco’s side. It was that he looked, for a moment, horribly like Marco. In the same way that my sister looked like my mum, Ollie looked like Marco. A penny dropped with the weight of a ten tonne truck. I looked away. I didn’t want to think what I was thinking.
That evening Marco cooked dinner. The spaghetti Bolognese stuck in my throat. I kept looking at him and I kept seeing Ollie reflected in him. It was driving me crazy. I asked to leave the table. Marco said, ‘We’ve still got pudding to go, it’s Tiramisu.’
‘Home-made,’ mum added, like that was going to make a difference.
I finally snapped.
‘You’re not my father,’ I said. ‘Don’t tell me what to do.’
I suppose I’d been waiting for my chance to say that. It was as predictable as it was inevitable. Even at the time I wished I’d picked a better moment. The outburst deserved a more important event than whether I could be excused from the table. It made me look, and feel, so childish. That’s the problem with being fourteen. It’s very easy to be a child just when you most need to act like an adult. And they always see the child’s side first. Sometimes I think you are always about fourteen to your parents, however old you get. Except if, like Alasdair, you die when you’re a toddler. Then you never even make it to fourteen. Sometimes I think he was lucky. I know that’s a terrible thing to say and I probably don’t mean it. But that’s how I felt then, anyway.
The rest of the family just kept on eating. I got up and left the table, my act of defiance hurting only my own stomach – and pride. No one batted an eyelid. I was just being a moody teen after all. Par for the course. Situation normal. Best ignored. My feelings weren’t important to anyone but myself.
I lay on my bed, wondering what to do next. Maybe running away wasn’t such a bad idea. It wasn’t long before Ollie came in.
‘Good ploy on getting out of the washing up,’ was all he said.
‘Shut up, you tosser,’ I replied.
‘Whatever,’ he said.
I sat up on my elbow. ‘Ollie,’ I said. ‘Have you noticed something weird about Marco?’
He laughed.
‘Have you noticed anything normal about Marco?’ he replied. But he could see I was serious. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, why’s he trying to so hard to get you to like him?’ I asked. I didn’t want to hit Ollie with my theory if he couldn’t see it for himself. It was, after all, just a thought, and a pretty far out one at that.
‘Maybe because I’m the only one mature enough to face up to the situation,’ Ollie replied.
‘Crap,’ I said.
‘Oh, grow up, Ads,’ he said. ‘Parents fucking divorce every day. You’ve had a good fourteen years and now it’s your turn to spin on the wheel.’
‘But why are they doing this now?’ I asked. I meant, why are they doing this to us. To me. Now. Why? He knew what I meant.
‘Sometimes life isn’t all about you,’ he said. ‘They’re fed up with each other. They’ve never really got on, have they?’
‘What do you mean?’ I said. Ollie seemed to have a quite different perspective on our childhood to mine. I suppose that shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did.
‘Dad always working late at the office.’
‘To pay for our school fees and shit, and… and holidays, like this,’ I choked.
He shrugged.
‘So what? So you expect mum to play happy families just to keep you in fantasy land.’
I wondered if he knew something I didn’t.
‘Why aren’t you sticking up for dad?’ I asked. ‘What’s he done wrong?’
‘Who knows?’ came the response. ‘It’s none of our business what they do with their lives.’
‘Of course it is,’ I said. ‘They’re our family.’
He just shrugged again. ‘Get over it,’ he said. ‘Time to grow up, Ads.’
‘I won’t get over it,’ I said. ‘I want to know why the hell Marco has been in our house all our lives and why he thinks it’s all right just to shove dad out the way and…’
‘I thought you’d read Hamlet, bro,’ was all that Ollie said. And left the room.
I could barely contain my anger. Ollie and dad had never got on, but I didn’t expect him to be defending mum in this situation, never mind defending Marco. He was no brother of mine, that was for sure. So I went in search of my sister. I needed someone to root me back to my idea of family and she was all that I had left.
It was ten o’clock at night. Starting to get dark. I had a bad feeling as I knocked on her door and got no reply. I knocked again, then went in, quietly in case she was already asleep. But her bed hadn’t been slept in. And she was nowhere to be seen.
Ellie was gone.
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: You're not my father.
_____________________________________________________________________
I never saw Ellie all afternoon though I looked for her everywhere. I even asked the old woman in the hut if she’d seen her.
‘Wee sister, eh?’ she said. ‘I saw a lassie, wi’ a boy around noon-time, but they went aff…’ she pointed vaguely in the direction of the cliffs which did nothing to comfort me. So I kept on looking. But it seemed that Ellie did not want to be found. And as time wore on, despite my worry, I began to have some sympathy with her. I wished I didn’t have to face the music either. I wished life didn’t have to go on. But I knew it did. Different. Worse. But still going on. It was time to face reality, whatever that was going to be.
I gave up looking for Ellie eventually and went back to the pink cottage. And of course, like always; when you stop looking, you start finding. She was there, sitting outside in the sunshine, feet up on the table, jotter in her lap, writing as if her life depended on it.
‘Where’ve you been?’ I asked. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’
She smiled at me. But she wasn’t for telling.
I couldn’t prise it out of her however I tried, and I gave up pretty soon. I wasn’t that interested in girls and I wasn’t interested in girls being interested in boys. If she wanted to spend her time making cow-eyes at some local boy called Alasdair, what business or interest was it of mine.
‘So what are we going to do?’ I asked.
‘About what?’ she replied, sucking the end of her pencil. She still used pencils in preference to pens. Easier to rub out your mistakes. I’m a great fan of pencils. They leave enough of a mark but always give you scope to go back and change things. We need more of that in life.
‘About him,’ I said.
I couldn’t even bring myself to say his name but I was developing a pretty good vitriolic tone whenever I spat the word ‘him’ out.
‘Marco?’ she said.
It hurt me even for the word to come out of her mouth.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘What can we do?’ she asked.
I never thought I’d see the day when my sister and my brother both told me I was in the wrong. It made me angry. Did they not care? Did they not feel the way I did? I thought at least we were all in this together, but I’d never felt more alone in my life than at that moment.
‘Well, I’m not going to have anything to do with him,’ I said.
‘Best keep out of the way,’ she said. ‘That’s my plan.’ And she smiled.
Of course, she wasn’t daft. But she didn’t do angry. She wasn’t going to fight a battle that was already lost. I wished I had her wisdom. I tried to lighten off.
‘So, are you writing about Alasdair?’ I asked. My timing was off because that was just the moment that Mum came round the side of the house. I hadn’t heard the car draw up. I thought they were still out. I was wrong. They’d been back an hour.
‘D’you want a cup of tea?’ mum asked me. It was a kind of forced brightness. Trying to act like nothing had happened, except it had. And except that mum knew I didn’t drink tea, so what the hell was that all about? Now I realise she was closer to cracking than I could ever imagine, but at the time I just thought she’d totally lost the plot. That she didn’t give a damn about anyone but Marco.
I looked at her. Probably the correct word is glowered. Ellie saw it anyway and replied for me, ‘I’d love a cup, mum. Three sugars?’ And that smile again. I looked at that smile. And for the first time I saw behind it. It was faked.
I turned to my mum. I was still wondering if she’d heard me say the name Alasdair. What I saw was the same fake smile on an adult version of Ellie’s face. It was too much for me to bear. This was my flesh and blood and… ‘I’d rather have juice, mum,’ I said, trying to hold it together.
‘Oh.’ She looked like she’d never noticed I didn’t drink tea. A fact she’d known all my life. ‘Well, would you go and get it yourself?’ she asked, distractedly.
‘Is he in the kitchen?’ I asked. I know I shouldn’t have but I couldn’t help myself.
‘Marco’s made a pot of tea,’ was all she could respond.
It would have been funny if it wasn’t so serious. Here we were, talking about pots of tea and smiling and trying not to tread on each other’s feelings and inside we were all about to burst. And I realised then that I wasn’t the only person this was happening to. It was happening to Ollie and Ellie, and my mum right there beside me, and the worst of it was that we were all in it together but our pain was our own. We could not reach out to each other. We could not reach each other. We were so lost in our own individual pain that we couldn’t put our arms round each other and share the feeling. We were totally isolated. I didn’t even want to think how much pain my dad was in, wherever he was.
And it was all because of Marco who, true to form, came out right on cue bearing a tray on which was a pot of tea and five cups. And a packet of biscuits. A peace offering? You’ll need more than hobnobs to win me over, friend, I thought. He poured. I took my cup. I drank it. What did it matter that I hated tea? That I hated him and what he was doing to our lives? I was numb beyond feeling.
‘Did you have a good time?’ Ellie asked mum.
Marco replied, ‘Yes, thanks, it was beautiful there, you should come next time.’
Ellie nodded but couldn’t bring herself to reply.
‘Ollie and I found some really interesting stones on the beach,’ Marco said.
Stones? Christ? What had they been doing – bonding over a rock-pool? It was ludicrous. I looked daggers at my brother and I noticed it again. Something I didn’t want to see. It wasn’t just that he was on Marco’s side. It was that he looked, for a moment, horribly like Marco. In the same way that my sister looked like my mum, Ollie looked like Marco. A penny dropped with the weight of a ten tonne truck. I looked away. I didn’t want to think what I was thinking.
That evening Marco cooked dinner. The spaghetti Bolognese stuck in my throat. I kept looking at him and I kept seeing Ollie reflected in him. It was driving me crazy. I asked to leave the table. Marco said, ‘We’ve still got pudding to go, it’s Tiramisu.’
‘Home-made,’ mum added, like that was going to make a difference.
I finally snapped.
‘You’re not my father,’ I said. ‘Don’t tell me what to do.’
I suppose I’d been waiting for my chance to say that. It was as predictable as it was inevitable. Even at the time I wished I’d picked a better moment. The outburst deserved a more important event than whether I could be excused from the table. It made me look, and feel, so childish. That’s the problem with being fourteen. It’s very easy to be a child just when you most need to act like an adult. And they always see the child’s side first. Sometimes I think you are always about fourteen to your parents, however old you get. Except if, like Alasdair, you die when you’re a toddler. Then you never even make it to fourteen. Sometimes I think he was lucky. I know that’s a terrible thing to say and I probably don’t mean it. But that’s how I felt then, anyway.
The rest of the family just kept on eating. I got up and left the table, my act of defiance hurting only my own stomach – and pride. No one batted an eyelid. I was just being a moody teen after all. Par for the course. Situation normal. Best ignored. My feelings weren’t important to anyone but myself.
I lay on my bed, wondering what to do next. Maybe running away wasn’t such a bad idea. It wasn’t long before Ollie came in.
‘Good ploy on getting out of the washing up,’ was all he said.
‘Shut up, you tosser,’ I replied.
‘Whatever,’ he said.
I sat up on my elbow. ‘Ollie,’ I said. ‘Have you noticed something weird about Marco?’
He laughed.
‘Have you noticed anything normal about Marco?’ he replied. But he could see I was serious. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, why’s he trying to so hard to get you to like him?’ I asked. I didn’t want to hit Ollie with my theory if he couldn’t see it for himself. It was, after all, just a thought, and a pretty far out one at that.
‘Maybe because I’m the only one mature enough to face up to the situation,’ Ollie replied.
‘Crap,’ I said.
‘Oh, grow up, Ads,’ he said. ‘Parents fucking divorce every day. You’ve had a good fourteen years and now it’s your turn to spin on the wheel.’
‘But why are they doing this now?’ I asked. I meant, why are they doing this to us. To me. Now. Why? He knew what I meant.
‘Sometimes life isn’t all about you,’ he said. ‘They’re fed up with each other. They’ve never really got on, have they?’
‘What do you mean?’ I said. Ollie seemed to have a quite different perspective on our childhood to mine. I suppose that shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did.
‘Dad always working late at the office.’
‘To pay for our school fees and shit, and… and holidays, like this,’ I choked.
He shrugged.
‘So what? So you expect mum to play happy families just to keep you in fantasy land.’
I wondered if he knew something I didn’t.
‘Why aren’t you sticking up for dad?’ I asked. ‘What’s he done wrong?’
‘Who knows?’ came the response. ‘It’s none of our business what they do with their lives.’
‘Of course it is,’ I said. ‘They’re our family.’
He just shrugged again. ‘Get over it,’ he said. ‘Time to grow up, Ads.’
‘I won’t get over it,’ I said. ‘I want to know why the hell Marco has been in our house all our lives and why he thinks it’s all right just to shove dad out the way and…’
‘I thought you’d read Hamlet, bro,’ was all that Ollie said. And left the room.
I could barely contain my anger. Ollie and dad had never got on, but I didn’t expect him to be defending mum in this situation, never mind defending Marco. He was no brother of mine, that was for sure. So I went in search of my sister. I needed someone to root me back to my idea of family and she was all that I had left.
It was ten o’clock at night. Starting to get dark. I had a bad feeling as I knocked on her door and got no reply. I knocked again, then went in, quietly in case she was already asleep. But her bed hadn’t been slept in. And she was nowhere to be seen.
Ellie was gone.
About the Author
Annie Christie is a pretty ordinary person, except that she was born Annie Christie and then married a man called Christie and so is still called Christie despite having taken on her husband’s name. She sometimes wonders if she should have called herself Christie-Christie: but who would believe that?
Born near Drum of Wartle in Aberdeenshire, Annie moved as swiftly as possible to a place with a less bizarre name – Edinburgh – but the bizarreness chased her and she now lives with her husband Rab in rural Galloway, with a Kirkcudbrightshire postcode. (That's Cur coo bree shire to the uninitiated.) She is an active member of the Infinite Jigsaw Project and is now happy to be welcomed into McStorytellers with her first published serial, Family Fictions.
Born near Drum of Wartle in Aberdeenshire, Annie moved as swiftly as possible to a place with a less bizarre name – Edinburgh – but the bizarreness chased her and she now lives with her husband Rab in rural Galloway, with a Kirkcudbrightshire postcode. (That's Cur coo bree shire to the uninitiated.) She is an active member of the Infinite Jigsaw Project and is now happy to be welcomed into McStorytellers with her first published serial, Family Fictions.