He was so good with his child; was it possible that he could be a bad husband and a good dad and they could cancel each other out? Was saving Mrs. Magpie from potential harm worth more than crushing the little boy?
This family wasn’t her problem, she tried to convince herself—it was for the police to decide whether to intervene. This time, she had to let justice run its course without meddling further.
—
After lunch, father and son walked off down the alley, the little boy on his scooter, singing something indistinguishable. Henry Watkins bounded beside him, swinging his arms. Later, his wife appeared in the kitchen. The two adults sat cozily at the table, mugs in hand. Confronted with this peaceful domesticity, regret nibbled at the edges of Robin’s mind. She was almost relieved to see that the police obviously weren’t concerned enough to investigate.
The sky was darkening. Robin was about to leave the room to run herself a bath when she saw the flash of a uniform in the Magpie flat.
TWENTY-SIX
SARAH|1994
I was so excited to show Robin everything I’d learned to love about Atlanta.
When we got home from the airport, Drew was waiting inside. He shook Callum’s hand vigorously.
“You’ve grown!” he said, almost sounding proud.
“Yes,” Callum agreed, nervous.
“We’ll make a real man of you yet!” Drew added. Callum said nothing and the rest of us held our breaths, but Drew walked off to make a frothy coffee with his new machine.
That first afternoon, Callum and Robin wanted to sleep. After they’d gone to bed, I ate my dinner with Mum and Drew like I always did. The visit wasn’t turning out how I’d imagined.
Still on English time, Callum and Robin rose early the next day and were in happier spirits. They’d agreed to come on a tour of the city while Drew worked. Everything was up for ridicule. Robin and Callum were constantly nudging each other, pointing. When I asked, “What?” they said, “Oh nothing, sorry,” and then carried on giggling.
That night, we went to the Varsity, and when we pulled up and the voice crackled through—“What’ll ya have?”—they fell apart laughing, while I burned.
I’d written Robin so many letters, had so few in return. Desperate for her to want to visit, I’d painted what I thought was a rosy picture. I’d exaggerated my credibility at school, talked about the horse-riding lessons and ballet classes that Drew paid for. Sometimes I said that if Robin lived here too then maybe she’d get guitar lessons and we’d be able to share a car when we were sixteen. She’d never responded to that.
The third day of the visit, Mum took us to the mall and insisted on buying Robin some new outfits. She refused to try anything on, of course, and forced Mum to buy a bunch of T-shirts for Callum too. “Your husband owes him” was all she’d say as Mum rummaged for the credit card.
On the drive home, while Robin did bad impressions of my city’s sweet and lilting accents, Mum turned up WSB Radio and stared forward while tears dragged lines through her makeup.
ROBIN|1994
Robin doesn’t understand why Sarah likes living here so much. It’s so tacky and loud, the singsong accents sound fake and everything is big and ridiculous. Except for their mother. She’s still ridiculous, but America has shrunk her.
She made her choice, Robin thinks, although something twists in her tummy when she looks at her mum. But Sarah hadn’t had a choice. Turned out all it took were some new dresses and a fancy school and Sarah’s allegiance was swayed. She was in Drew’s thrall. Like mother, like daughter.
Drew ate with them a couple of times, and then they all sat on the deep sofas in the den, watching TV comedies with canned laughter.
“He’s not seen you for over a year,” Robin said to Callum yesterday. “Shouldn’t he be spending time with you?”
“Believe me, I’d rather it was this way,” Callum retorted, flicking his hair out of his eyes.
It’s the last night, and after a floppy pizza in a downtown Italian place that, despite herself, even Robin had loved, Drew asks Callum to “watch the game” with him.
“Which game?” Callum asks.
“American football. A real man’s sport.”
“That’s like rugby, isn’t it?” Callum asks cautiously.
“I think it’s better,” Drew says. “I didn’t know you were into rugby, Callum.”
“I’m not.” Callum shrugs.
“I quite like rugby,” Robin adds, as she follows them into the den.
“This isn’t for girls,” Drew replies. “Apart from this one anyway.” He jokily jerks his thumb at Callum, who stares at him.
“Don’t say that,” Robin says, narrowing her eyes.
“Don’t bother, Robin,” Callum whispers.
“You’re like a little Jack Russell, aren’t you?” Drew says to Robin as he sits himself in the reclining leather chair in front of the big screen. “But you don’t need to defend him, I was only joking.”
“Yeah, but you’ve made digs at him since we got here,” Robin says. “And that’s when you’ve bothered to speak to him at all.” She doesn’t move when Drew rises back up to his full height and stares her dead in the eyes.
“What did you say to me?” he asks.
“Robin, please,” Callum whispers, looking at the door.
“I said you’ve either picked on Callum or ignored him when you should be fucking glad he’s your son.”
“You’re crossing a line here, young lady. You’re in my house, lecturing me about my son—”
“And whose house were you in when you started shagging my mum? My dad’s? Or Hilary’s?” Robin shouted.
“You really are a mouthy little shit,” Drew says, shaking his head, the veins on his neck bulging.
“Dad!” Callum springs in front of Robin. “Don’t talk to her like that.” Callum is trembling. Drew’s nostrils flare but he doesn’t say anything.
“How dare you? We invite you over, guests in our home—”
“Guests in your home?” Callum spits. “I’m your son! I’m not supposed to be a guest in your home, I’m supposed to be part of your family.”
“Cal,” Robin says, tugging his sleeve, her own rage turning to something else. “Let’s just go,” she says quietly to his shoulder. Callum brushes her hand away.
“But you never could accept me as your family, could you, Dad?” Callum is on a roll now, his breath coming more rapidly, his fists clenched in fury. “Couldn’t accept that a son of yours could be like me. Well, I’m who you got. Congratulations. And you can consider this my coming-out party.” Callum turns to Robin quickly. “Let’s go now,” and she nods.
“You bloody what?” Drew shouts. “You bloody what? You’re standing here in my house and telling me that you’re a pervert?”
“Oh I don’t care what you think anymore,” Callum says, shaking his head. “I really don’t care.”
For a moment no one says anything else. Angela and Sarah have edged anxiously into the doorway, drawn by the loud voices.
“I’m going to pack,” Callum says.
“You stay where you are, boy,” Drew growls, and stalks toward his son. “I knew it. I bloody knew it. I tried everything to straighten you out,” he says quietly. “But it was all for nothing.”
Neither says anything and Callum turns to leave.