‘Fish and chips,’ he says. ‘Herne Bay’s finest. I bet you missed them.’
I haven’t but I feel strangely upbeat as I lead him through the passageway. For the first time in ages, I have woken with a clear head. The voices are silent. For now.
‘I wangled myself an extended lunch break so I thought I’d pop to Tellivers. I bet you’re dying for some real food after being in – where were you again?’
‘Aleppo,’ I tell him. ‘It’s in Syria,’ I add, noticing the blank look on his face.
‘Yeah, well I bet they don’t have food as good as this out there,’ he says as he puts the carrier bag on the table.
It’s a fucking war zone, I think, as I stand in the kitchen doorway watching Paul set the table. There’s barely any food and the people are fighting to survive. The last thing I was thinking about in Aleppo was bloody fish and chips.
‘Actually, Paul, I’m not that hungry,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve only just had breakfast.’
‘Oh, come on,’ he says, patting the wooden dining chair next to him. ‘It won’t kill you and you could do with feeding up a bit. You’re all skin and bone.’
He’s only trying to be friendly I tell myself as I reluctantly join him at the table.
‘There you go,’ he says as he piles my plate with fat chips. ‘Tuck in.’
I put a chip in my mouth and chew slowly. It tastes surprisingly good.
‘I’ve spoken to your mum’s solicitor in Canterbury and she’s booked us in for one o’clock on Wednesday to sign the papers,’ says Paul. ‘It shouldn’t take long. Oh, and you’ll need to bring some ID with you. Have you got a passport?’
I stare at him incredulously.
‘Paul, do you think I could do my job if I didn’t have a passport?’
‘Oh, sorry,’ he laughs. ‘Of course you have. Forgive me, my head’s full of work stuff.’
He goes to the kitchen cupboard and brings out a dusty bottle of malt vinegar.
‘Want some?’
I shake my head and watch as he drowns his chips with the pungent brown liquid.
‘Will Sally be coming?’ I ask.
‘No,’ he says, putting his fork down. His face looks grave.
‘What is it?’
‘Well, it’s just Sally. She’s not feeling too good.’
‘You mean she’s drinking again?’
‘She’s had a few setbacks, yes,’ he says, picking up a chip and twisting it distractedly between his finger and thumb.
‘Have you tried AA?’
He shakes his head. ‘She won’t hear of it. She doesn’t think she has a problem. I wish you would speak to her. You might make her see sense. She won’t listen to me any more.’
‘Oh, come on, Paul, she told me very clearly the last time we met that I wasn’t welcome. She practically pushed me out of the door.’
‘I know, but that was a long time ago and you know how sensitive she is about the Hannah situation. She thought you were blaming her.’
‘I was trying to knock some sense into her,’ I say, pushing my plate away. ‘I don’t care if she was offended, she needed to know the truth. If she’d been sober, Hannah would still be here, it’s as simple as that.’
‘I know,’ says Paul. ‘But at least Hannah’s okay. Thanks for your help with finding her, by the way. It really put our minds at rest.’
‘She’s my niece,’ I reply. ‘I had to see for myself that she was safe, which is more than can be said for Sally.’
‘Look, I know you’re angry with her,’ says Paul. ‘But Sally’s really deteriorating. Can’t you put this silly feud behind you and make up?’
‘I’m sorry, Paul, I just think there’s something odd about a mother who gives up like that,’ I say, taking my plate and scraping the fish and chips into the bin. ‘I mean, does she even care?’
‘Come on, Kate, that’s not fair,’ he says, wiping his lips with a piece of kitchen paper. ‘Of course she cares. Hannah’s leaving destroyed Sally. Her drinking got worse, she lost her job. She was in bits. She knows deep down it was her behaviour that drove Hannah away – the drinking, the arguing – she knows that and it’s eating her up inside.’
As I stand at the bin I see my sister’s terrified face all those years ago in the maternity ward. She was so young, just fourteen when she had Hannah, still a child herself. I remember sitting by the side of the bed, the baby in her little plastic cot, and Sally looked at me and said: ‘What do I do with it, Kate?’
‘They loved each other really,’ says Paul, his voice interrupting my thoughts. ‘You should have seen her the first Christmas without Hannah, she was beside herself. But then you couldn’t have seen it, cos you were never here.’
He picks up his plate and takes it over to the sink. ‘She’s your sister, Kate. She needed you then. And she needs you now.’