Dad, directing proceedings. Getting in the way. Proud of his children.
For a second it hurts so much I can’t breathe. I squeeze my eyes shut. I miss my parents so badly, at different times and in ways I could never have predicted. Two Christmases ago that would have been me and Dad with the tree; Mum mock-scolding from the door. There would have been tins of Roses chocolates, too much booze and enough food to feed the five thousand. Laura, arriving with a pile of presents if she’d just started a job; IOUs and apologies if she’d just left one. Dad and Uncle Billy, arguing about nonsense; flipping a coin to settle a bet. Mum getting emotional and putting ‘Driving Home for Christmas’ on the CD player.
Mark would say I’m looking at the past through rose-tinted glasses, but I can’t be alone in wanting to only remember the good times. And, rose-tinted or not, my life changed for ever when my parents died.
Suicide? Think again.
Not suicide. Murder.
Someone stole the life I had. Someone murdered my mother. And if they murdered Mum, it follows that Dad didn’t kill himself either. My parents were murdered.
I grip the handle of Ella’s pram more tightly, unsteadied by a wave of guilt for the months I’ve raged against my parents for taking the easy way out – for thinking of themselves above those they were leaving behind. Maybe I was wrong to blame them. Maybe leaving me wasn’t their choice.
Johnson’s car showroom is on the corner of Victoria Road and Main Street, a beacon of light at the point where shops and hairdressers give way to flats and houses on the outskirts of town. The fluttering bunting I remember from my childhood has long gone, and heaven knows what Granddad would have made of the iPads tucked under the sales reps’ arms or the huge flat screen scrolling that week’s special deal.
I cross the forecourt, navigating Ella’s pram between a sleek Mercedes and a second-hand Volvo. The glass doors slide soundlessly open as we draw near, warm air luring us in. Christmas music plays through expensive speakers. Behind the desk, where Mum used to sit, a striking girl with caramel skin and matching highlights taps acrylic nails on her keyboard. She smiles at me and I catch the flash of diamante fixed to one of her teeth. Her style couldn’t be more different to Mum’s. Perhaps that’s why Uncle Billy hired her; it can’t be easy coming in to work, day after day. The same, but different. Like my house. Like my life.
‘Annie!’
Always Annie. Never Anna.
Uncle Billy is Dad’s brother, and the very definition of ‘confirmed bachelor’. He has a handful of female friends, content with Friday night dinners and the occasional jaunt to London to see a show, and a regular poker night with the boys the first Wednesday of the month.
Occasionally I’ll suggest Bev, or Diane, or Shirley join us for a drink some time. Billy’s response is always the same.
‘I don’t think so, Annie love.’
His dates never become anything more serious. Dinner is always just dinner; a drink’s always just that. And although he books the nicest hotels for his trips to London, and lavishes gifts upon his companion of choice, it’s always months before he sees her again.
‘Why do you keep them all at arm’s length?’ I demanded once, after too many of what’s known in our family as a ‘Johnson G&T’.
Billy winked at me, but his tone was serious. ‘Because that way no one gets hurt.’
I wrap my arms around him and inhale the familiar mix of aftershave and tobacco, along with something indefinable that makes me bury my face in his jumper. He smells like Granddad did. Like Dad did. Like all the Johnson men. Only Billy left now. I pull away. Decide to just come out with it. ‘Mum and Dad didn’t commit suicide.’
There’s a look of resignation in Uncle Billy’s face. We’ve been here before.
‘Oh, Annie …’
Only this time it’s different.
‘They were murdered.’
He looks at me without saying anything – anxious eyes scanning my face – then he ushers me into the office, away from the punters, and settles me into the expensive leather chair that’s been here since for ever.
Buy cheap, buy twice, Dad used to say.
Rita flops on the floor. I look at my feet. Remember how they used to dangle off the edge of the seat, and how, gradually, they stretched to reach the floor.
I did work experience here, once.
I was fifteen. Encouraged to think about joining the family business, until it became clear I’d have struggled to sell water in the Sahara. Dad was a natural. What is it they say? Ice to the Eskimos. I used to watch him sizing up customers – prospects, he called them. He’d take in the car they were driving, the clothes they wore, and I’d see him select the right approach like he was choosing from a menu. He was always himself – always Tom Johnson – but his accent would slide a few notches up or down, or he’d declare himself a devotee of Watford FC, The Cure, chocolate Labradors … You could pinpoint the moment the connection happened; the second the customer decided they and Dad were on the same wavelength. That Tom Johnson was a man to be trusted.
I couldn’t do it. I tried mimicking Dad, tried working with Mum on the desk and copying the way she smiled at customers and asked after their kids, but it sounded hollow, even to me.
‘I don’t think our Annie’s cut out for sales,’ Billy said – not unkindly – when my work experience was up. No one disagreed.
Funny thing is, sales is exactly where I’ve ended up. That’s what charity work comes down to in the end, after all. Selling monthly donations; sponsored children; legacies and bequests. Selling guilt to those with the means to help. I’ve been with Save the Children since I left uni, and it’s never once felt hollow. Turns out, I just never felt that passionately about selling cars.
Billy’s wearing a navy pinstripe suit, his red socks and braces lending him a Wall Street air I know is entirely deliberate. Billy does nothing by accident. On anyone else I’d find the bling crass, but Billy wears it well – even if the braces are straining over his stomach slightly – with a touch of irony that makes him endearing, rather than flashy. He’s only two years younger than Dad, but his hairline shows no sign of receding, and what grey there might be around his temples is carefully touched up. Billy takes the same pride in his appearance as he does in the showroom.
‘What’s all this about, Annie?’ He’s gentle, the way he always was when I fell over, or when I’d had a spat in the playground. ‘Tough day? I’ve been out of sorts myself today. Be glad when it’s over, to be honest. Anniversaries, eh? Full of memories.’ Beneath the brusqueness there’s a vulnerability that makes me vow to spend more time with him. I used to come by the showroom all the time, but since Mum and Dad died I’ve made excuses, even to myself. I’m too busy, Ella’s too small, the weather’s too bad … Truth is, it hurts to be here. But that isn’t fair.
‘Come for supper tomorrow night?’
Billy hesitates.
‘Please?’
‘Sure. That would be nice.’
The glass between Billy’s office and the showroom is tinted one way, and on the other side of it I see one of the salesmen shaking hands with a customer. He glances towards the office, hoping the big boss is watching. Billy nods approvingly, a mental note filed away for the next appraisal. I watch him, looking for the tell; trying to read his mind.
Trade’s been slow. Dad was the driving force, and his death hit Uncle Billy hard. When Mum went too, there was a moment when I thought he was going to fall apart.
I’d not long discovered Ella was on the way, and I’d come down to the showroom to see Uncle Billy, only to find the place in disarray. The office was empty, and disposable coffee cups littered the low tables in the waiting area. Customers wandered unaccompanied between the cars on the forecourt. At reception, Kevin – a newish sales rep with a shock of ginger hair – perched on the desk, flirting with the receptionist, an agency temp who had started the week after Christmas.
‘But where is he?’