The Last List of Mabel Beaumont(49)

‘Mabel!’ Kirsty shrieks, throwing her arms around me. ‘You’re all so secretive! Thank you so much, you’re too good to me.’

‘You’re welcome,’ I say, my voice a bit croaky. ‘It’s nothing, really.’

She gives my arm a gentle nudge. ‘It is not nothing! No one has ever done anything like this for me.’

Not even your family? I want to say. And then it crashes in; the thought I’ve been trying to keep out. What if they’re awful people? What if there’s a good reason why she doesn’t see them? What if this was a terrible mistake? But it’s too late. I’ve set the wheels in motion. And now all I can do is watch it play out in front of me.

I sit down on the sofa and keep my eyes on Kirsty. She’s having a glass of prosecco, chatting, moving from group to group. Patricia’s looking after Dotty so she can enjoy herself unencumbered. When it’s almost three o’clock, I feel like I’ve got a lead stone in my stomach, and I hear Arthur’s voice. What have you done, Mabel? But then the doorbell goes and Julie leaves the room to get it and when she returns, she’s got Kirsty’s parents in tow and a puzzled look on her face.

They’re not what I imagined, these people. They look out of place in Patricia’s house. The man is tall, thin, and stooped, the woman short and plump, like they’re a cartoon couple, each the opposite of the other. You can tell by the uncomfortable way they’re standing that they’ve made an effort with their clothes, but nothing they’re wearing is really working. She’s clutching a present, I see. A small box, probably jewellery. I move my eyes from them to Kirsty. I want to clock her reaction when she sees them. And then Julie says her name, loud enough to be heard over the music, and she looks up and her face falls spectacularly, and she’s on her feet, going over to where they’re standing in the doorway.

I follow them out of the room on the pretence of needing a glass of water. Kirsty’s ushering them into the kitchen, and I stand back, in the hallway, listening in.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asks, her voice screechy, as if it’s taking everything she has to keep it under control.

‘Your friend invited us,’ her mum says. Her voice and the way she’s hanging her head show her disappointment. ‘She said you knew about it.’

‘Do I look like someone who knew about it?’

‘I’ve brought you something,’ her mum says, and there is silence. I imagine her handing over the box, Kirsty opening it.

I’m just starting to wonder whether her dad speaks at all when he finally does. ‘Kirsty, you have to understand. We’ve barely seen you for years and out of the blue we get this message asking us to come here. We thought you’d maybe changed your mind, about wanting to see us.’

‘I don’t know who sent that message,’ Kirsty says.

I step into the room. It hasn’t gone as I imagined, this reunion, but I’m not going to shy away from taking responsibility.

‘I sent it,’ I say.

Kirsty looks over at me, shock in her eyes. ‘You, Mabel? But why?’

They’re all looking at me, this family that somehow doesn’t quite fit together. I can just about see the resemblance between Kirsty and her mum, in profile.

‘I thought it was what you wanted,’ I say, stumbling over my words.

‘Why? If I wanted this, I would have asked them here myself, wouldn’t I?’

She’s got a point. ‘I thought perhaps there’d been an argument and you were all too stubborn to make the first move. Families belong together. I was just trying to give you a nudge in the right direction.’

And then two things happen. First, Patricia sweeps into the room with Dotty in her arms. If she notices the tension, she ignores it.

‘I think this one needs a feed, Kirsty,’ she says, handing Dotty over.

Kirsty’s mum’s hand flies to her mouth. ‘So this is…? You’ve had…? This is our granddaughter?’

Patricia looks from face to face. Kirsty’s, her parents’, mine. She can’t quite piece it together, and no wonder.

‘This is Dotty,’ Kirsty says, and there are tears in her voice. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go and feed her.’

She leaves the room, and I think Patricia’s about to follow her out, so I reach for her arm and still her. I can’t be left to face it all alone.

‘You’re Kirsty’s parents?’ Patricia asks. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘A cup of tea would be lovely,’ Kirsty’s mum says, and her dad nods his agreement. ‘Two sugars, both of us, and milk. By the way, I’m Sandy and this is Tony.’

I can still hear the music from the living room but there’s no party atmosphere in the kitchen, where Sandy, Tony, Patricia and I are sitting around the table, cups of tea in front of us and our faces grim. Patricia’s taken the news of my involvement in all this in her stride, and she’s playing a sort of moderator role, trying to get to the bottom of things.

‘I knew you weren’t close,’ she says, ‘but I never asked why. You don’t, do you? People’s lives are complicated.’

‘It’s me,’ Tony says. ‘I’m her stepdad, and she’s never accepted me. Or my daughter, Lou.’

I remember Kirsty saying she had a sister.