The Skeleton Tree by Diane Janes (reading women TXT) 📕

the whole weekend lest some mention be made of the episode which had resulted in her visit to the police station, but neither Bruce nor Tara made any reference to it and the younger children had been kept in ignorance. Even so, it was more of a relief than usual to wave them off the premises and, as if to expunge the house of their presence, as soon as she had closed the front door behind them, Wendy ran upstairs and stripped the spare room bed. She had just returned from the utility room after filling the washing machine when Tara came in and flopped down at the kitchen table.

‘Where’s my father?’ she asked.

‘You know perfectly well that he’s taking Granny and Gramps to get the train.’

‘Not him. I mean my real father.’

Annoyed by the derogatory tone employed for ‘him’, Wendy said crossly, ‘He is your real father. The best and most real father you’ll ever have.’

‘Oh, don’t give me all that crap.’

‘Tara!’ Wendy was shocked. Tara never spoke to her like that.

‘I don’t want to hear all that stuff about him being better than this or that. I want to know about my real father. I’ve got a right to know. I don’t even have a photograph. I never see him.’

‘Perhaps he doesn’t want to see you. Have you ever thought about that?’

‘All this make-believe,’ Tara continued. ‘Let’s pretend Bruce is Tara’s real dad. If we all pretend hard enough, maybe we’ll start to believe it.’

‘That is most unfair. We’ve never pretended to you. We’ve always told you the truth. If anything, Bruce has always spoiled you, over and above the others.’

‘You never told me anything about my father. Not anything I wanted to know.’

Wendy’s emotions left little room for a considered response. ‘All right,’ she shouted. ‘You want to know about your real father, as you call him. The man who walked out on us when you were a few months old. The man who has never asked to see you in seventeen years. The man who has never sent you a birthday card. That’s how much he cares about you, Tara. That’s how interested he is. He doesn’t even know if you’re alive or dead!’ She stopped abruptly. The words had emerged much more brutally than she had intended, and through tear-spangled lashes she saw that she had just scored a tremendous own goal.

‘Well, that’s your side of the story,’ said Tara. ‘Perhaps one day soon I’ll get to hear his.’ The chair scraped violently against the stone floor as she stood up.

‘Tara …’ Wendy held out her arms. ‘Tara, I didn’t mean …’ But her daughter was already pounding up the stairs. When Wendy followed and called her name, she didn’t respond. Wendy slowly retraced her path back to the kitchen. She must remedy this. It had to be put right. She would go and reason with Tara and apologize for losing her temper. She turned back towards the hall, just in time to hear the front door opening and closing. Tara had only run upstairs to fetch her coat and bag. Dashing over to the window, Wendy could see her marching down the drive. She could run after her, of course, but suppose Tara refused to stop? She would look like an idiot, trailing her almost grown-up daughter out of the gate and along the pavement. Strictly speaking, Tara was not supposed to leave the house without saying where she was going, but on balance it seemed best to let it go. Tara seldom adopted the persona of a moody teenager. She would calm down and come home and then they could talk it out.

When Bruce returned from the station, he didn’t enquire as to Tara’s whereabouts and Wendy thought it best not to mention anything about her sudden departure or the conversation which had preceded it. There had been an uneasy truce between herself and Bruce since the night of the breathalyzer and Wendy decided not to jeopardize it by instigating the debrief that usually took place following the departure of his parents, which generally entailed her venting all the irritation she had bottled up throughout the visit, while Bruce assured her that his mother hadn’t intended to be uncomplimentary, critical or downright provocative.

Tara returned to the house just in time for tea, said little throughout the meal and disappeared to her bedroom the moment she had finished. Wendy cleared away in the kitchen, pondering the wording of her apology. She decided it would be best to postpone it until later in the evening. The more time Tara had to calm down and reflect on the real nature of her relationship with Bruce, and how truly lucky she had been to have him as a stepfather, the easier it would be. They had been later than usual with their meal, and once everything was tidy in the kitchen it was time to chase the younger children into bed. It was after nine when Wendy eventually joined Bruce in the sitting room, where he had settled himself in front of the television. Perhaps, she thought, it was time to apologize again to him too, over what she thought of as the ‘police station affair’. (The words ‘drunk driving’ were too shameful. How had they ever become applicable to her? She had been such a fool.)

‘Bruce,’ she began hesitantly.

‘What?’

At that moment the door opened and Tara made an entrance. There was something in her body language that stopped Wendy in the act of drawing breath to speak. Bruce had evidently sensed it too, because his attention immediately switched from Wendy to Tara, watching her as she crossed the room and sat down in the chair nearest the fire.

Well aware that she had their full attention, Tara announced with no little satisfaction, ‘I made a phone call today, from my friend Helen’s house.’ She paused, but received no response. ‘I spoke to my father. My real father … Robert.’

There was a short silence. Invisible electricity seemed to