Who Do You Think You Are?
It had never crossed my mind to question it before Your brother isn’t somebody else’s son, I told myself. You’re jumping to some very wild conclusions here
It was Aunty Jean who started me off.
On the phone, we were discussing her hiring a gardener now she couldn’t get around the way she used to.
‘Your mum hired a gardener once, when your dad started doing a lot of overtime.
He lived locally, I think,’ she said. ‘Yes,
I remember him. He was a tall chap. His hair was so blond it looked almost white.’
I sat in my lounge, curling my fingers through my own dark curls. My sister’s hair is dark too, just like our mum and dad’s. In fact, all the family members I could think of were dark and short – except for my younger brother. Light-haired, he towers over us all. An unwelcome suspicion suddenly crept up on me – about just how different we were.
‘Really?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ she went on. ‘He had an accent. He was Scandinavian, I think. Of course this happened years ago...’
Your brother isn’t somebody else’s son, I told myself. Mum didn’t cheat on Dad. You’re jumping to some very wild conclusions here.
Soft furnishings and Victoria sponges – that’s who my mum is to me. Though, saying that, she has changed a lot since my dad passed away; she’s become one of those women who talks to anybody regardless of the danger – young men in empty train carriages, drunks outside of pubs, young girls in groups of 10 who look as rough as gravel.
Maybe she muted her sense of adventure in the years after she’d tangled with a tall, blond Scandinavian, I considered.
‘When did she hire him?’ I asked my aunt.
‘Oh, when she was about your age, I think.’
Timing-wise, that sounded spot on. The more rational part of me denied it all. Mum’s not like that. This is silly. Why are you thinking this way?
Still, it seemed only sensible to investigate further, so after the call I drove straight round to my mum’s place.
She answered the door in her cycling gear. She’s in her late 60s but she’d bought a bike recently; it’s as if she enjoys the thrill of playing games with the traffic.
‘Oh, are you going out, Mum?’ ‘I just got back, actually.’
‘Oh good, I’m looking into our family history, you see, and wondered if you could help.’
I’d decided on
the way
over not to take a direct approach. I didn’t want her turning all defensive. ‘I’ve been watching that TV programme, Who Do You Think You Are?’
She gave me a blank look.
‘It’s about celebrities hunting through their family histories.’
‘For what?’ She tittered. ‘Murderers?’
‘Do we have any of those in our lot?’
‘Not as far as I know. Is this another of your little hobbies? Come to think of it, I do have some old photos in the loft. Though to be honest, I haven’t got a clue who’s who in most of them. I was likely told by your grandma but I suppose I’ve always been more concerned with where I’m going rather than where I’ve been.’
She’s barely been anywhere, believe me. She could so easily have been a classic case. You know the cliché – a bored stayat-home mum buried in kids and housework... ‘I’d still like to see any photos you have,’ I told her. ‘Could we have a look now, since neither of us are busy?’
I followed her upstairs to the landing.
Once there, she went to the spare room and brought the hook that pulls the ladder from the ceiling. After it rattled down to the carpet, up the rungs she clambered.
My dad had turned the loft into a little man-cave years ago. It’s fully carpeted in beige and painted in magnolia. ‘What’s in all the boxes?’ I asked.
Stacks of them grew around us like mushrooms.
‘It’s all your dad’s things.’ Mum heaved out a sign. ‘I’m not ready to get rid of any of it just yet.’
As she searched for photos, it felt rather odd sifting through my dad’s belongings. I could almost feel his presence. He used to lean over my shoulder when I did my homework as a girl. ‘What are you up to, then?’ he’d ask.
He might have asked me the same question now.
‘Like I said, all these old photos are in a bit of a mess.’ Mum handed over a shoebox she’d found at last. I plucked from it some very old pictures in sepia and black and white. ‘There’s hardly a word written on a single one of them, so I have no idea who most of these people are now,’ Mum added.
I examined a photo of a lady with dark curly hair standing under a tree. Who are you? Do you have any secrets you’re hiding away?
‘What exactly are you looking for, Gale?’
‘Just clues... you know
– to who I am I suppose.’ I sat down on the carpet and started flicking through the pictures at the speed of a card
dealer in a Las Vegas casino.
Dark hair, dark eyes, short and round – our family stuck to its usual genetic pattern, prone to mops of curly brown hair, Roman noses and eyes the colour of coal.
‘Oh…Who’s this?’ I held up a snap the colour of spilled tea.
Mum leaned over for a closer look. ‘A man in uniform?’ She turned the photo over. ‘That’s a turn-up. This one actually has some writing on it! Cyril Clarke. If he’s a Clarke, he must be your great, great-grandad. Lor, this picture must be donkey’s years old.’
Spidery writing crawled across the back of the photo. Cyril ought to have been brown-haired with a nose like a Roman emperor – but no. He was blond, skinny, with a nose like a ski slope. I bit my lip as Mum peered at me.
‘What’s that look for?’ she asked. ‘You’re always doing odd things like this lately – pottery and watercolour classes; playing the flute? Your mind’s like a butterfly. What does your Jack think about all this?’
‘I haven’t asked him. Besides it’s not really a mystery, is it? I like trying new things, that’s all.’
A knot appeared between her eyes.
‘Do you have a pen and paper handy?’ I asked. ‘I want to write down everything I find out.’
I did scribble down any names I found on the backs of the photos after that, even though my search appeared to have reached a conclusion. I felt strangely let down after finding out about blond Cyril. He seemed so very… convenient.
I gave a jolt. Aha! Maybe Mum planted that photo in the stack years ago. Maybe she scrawled on the back of it herself then slipped it into the box to dispel all suspicion about my brother?
Yes, that’s it. Make up a convoluted, far-fetched plot like a thriller writer, Gale. You’ll win the Booker Prize at this rate.
I finished my notes then checked my watch. ‘Thanks for this, Mum, but I better get going. I’ll go to the library next and see if I can track some of these names down.’
I wondered if lying was genetic when I climbed down from the loft...
Back home, I made a phone call.
‘Hi, Aunty Jean, it’s me again. I just went through some old photos with Mum. I didn’t know she had so many. My great, great-grandad looks just like our Simon.’ Was I stating the truth or removing all suspicion for Mum’s sake? I really needed to make up my
mind up…and make it up quickly.
Jean barely noticed a word I said anyway. She rattled on about her jam-making and how her poodle had just come in with a slug matted into its coat. I swear, if a tornado spun through her lounge she’d have missed its passing.
Still, that’s what people do, isn’t it? They get so caught up in their own lives they don’t notice what’s happening around them. I mean, nobody had ever given my Dad a nudge, winked at my brother, then said in a jokey tone, ‘What does your milkman look like then, Frank?’
‘I’ve got to go, Jean. See you soon.’ I ended my call.
I sat on the sofa then, mulling things over. Who are you then, Gale? Have you found out yet?
It seemed a pertinent question to ask as the clock ticked round to 3pm and the doorbell rang right on time. I straightened my clothes and made sure my curls sat all neat and tidy before I hurried into the hall.
As I pulled the front door open, I smiled. ‘Hello again, Lars.’ My gaze tangled with my gardener’s.
He’s tall and very fair. My stomach does little flip-flops whenever he smiles and soft wrinkles appear about his eyes. He hails from a village in Norway called Vestfold. We’ve talked and talked about his past over my roses and the weeds in my flowerbeds. ‘I had a dream about you,’ he had confessed to me just last week, acting all coy, embarrassed and unsure of himself. He’d risked a lot with that startling admission. At night in the dark alone, it seemed that fantasies of me filled his head… but I’m married, aren’t I? I can never be that woman who’d escapes into his bed?
‘It is just the lawn today, Gale?’ His accent filled the porch and made me shudder.
‘Yes… just the lawn. Thanks for switching my day over this week.’ He didn’t know as he stood there that my kids wouldn’t be home at any moment. They were off on a school trip. My husband was away at a conference. Even the one neighbour I have had scuttled off earlier to one of her friends for afternoon tea.
‘I’ll just unlock the shed for you,’ I offered.
I led him down the side of the house, right down the lawn and into the shade under the trees. I knew guiding his way would only signify one thing to him.
When I pulled open the creaky old door to the shed,
I wondered if lying was genetic when I climbed down from the loft
My stomach does little flip-flops whenever he smiles
dark and ominous shadows greeted me. Who am I? I wondered once more. A jumbled mix of genetics, my upbringing and the fantasies I create to make my days feel less tedious?
The simple truth was, I’d never doubted my mother’s integrity for a single moment –until I’d started doubting my own.
Lars brushed past me in the doorway. He turned about inside the shed and held out his hands to me, knowing our moment had come. I could move into his embrace now or retreat back into the house.
Does everyone have a day like this, I wondered, when they ask themselves only one question over and over?
Who do you think you are?
As the breeze rocked me back and forth, I realised I finally knew. I wasn’t planning on having any tall, blond children.