Perfectly Ordinary People(103)

‘Yeah? Like what?’

‘Oh, nothing really,’ Dad said. ‘Your grandpa liked to tell his stories, but he never said much about anything real.’

‘OK. But you said they talked about it. What did they say?’

‘It was just one of those little jokes they had,’ Dad said. ‘If ever someone complained about the cold, they’d laugh and say, “This isn’t cold. That hut in Le Mas was cold.”’

‘Le Mas?’ I repeated. When details tied up, it still had the capacity to shock me.

‘It’s the village where we stayed during the war. It was freezing cold, apparently. In the Alps, I think.’

‘Right,’ I said. ‘Well, I’m sure that’s why I had that dream. He must have told me a story.’

Afterwards, I attempted to work. I was behind with my reading, and I really did need to get on with it all but, still unable to concentrate, I moved to the sofa and gave in to cuddling Buggles instead, while I thought about freezing huts and name changes and journeys to London.

Did I have enough detail to be one hundred per cent sure? And if I did, then was now the time to tell Dad? Or did I need that final cassette, just in case – as Dan had drunkenly suggested one evening – the final phrase was ‘And then she woke up and realised it was all a dream.’?

About five, I gave up trying to work and phoned Jake to ask if we could meet. He didn’t ask what it was about. I suspect he was too busy to care.

Instead he told me he was meeting Abby in The Grenadier at 6.30 and I could join them if I wanted. If I hadn’t known my brother so well I would have taken umbrage at his snappy tone.

If you’ve never had the joy of visiting The Grenadier, it’s a rather funny, lovely little pub tucked in the streets behind Wellington Arch. It is, to this day, a favourite of Jake’s, because he works nearby and has a thing for their fish-finger sandwiches. Which is what they were both eating when I arrived at ten to seven.

‘We gave up on you and started,’ Jake said, wiping tartare sauce from his beard with a napkin. ‘You’re late. Again!’

‘Yeah, sorry,’ I told him. ‘I got delayed.’ I’d actually had a time-consuming discussion with Dan just before leaving about whether telling Jake was wise.

We kissed hello and then I went to the bar for a glass of wine before returning to sit opposite. I had my back to the room, which is something I hate, but as they were still eating it seemed rude to ask one of them to swap.

‘You’re not eating?’ Jake asked.

‘Maybe later,’ I told him, glancing over my shoulder. ‘It’s a bit early for me.’ The truth was that my stomach was queasy with nerves.

‘How continental of you,’ Jake jibed.

‘So, I have something to tell you,’ I said. ‘Something pretty shocking.’

‘You’re pregnant,’ Jake said.

‘Nope. And why would that be shocking?’

‘You’ve bought a flat?’

‘We have, but that’s not it.’

‘Ooh, tell me,’ Jake said. ‘Is it the one next door?’

‘No. Later. This other thing is more important. And stop guessing, because you’re never going to get it.’

‘You’re scaring me,’ Abby said. ‘Is it good news or bad news?’

I held up my palm in a stop sign. ‘Stop it, both of you,’ I said.

Jake elbowed Abby in the ribs and pulled a face. ‘She’s gone all serious,’ he said. ‘Must be getting married.’

‘Jake!’ I exclaimed. ‘Shut up!’

‘That’s his third pint,’ Abby said. ‘He gets excitable. Sorry.’

Jake sat up and crossed his arms like a schoolchild. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I can be serious too. Fire away.’

‘Dad’s Jewish,’ I announced.

Abby’s features slipped into a frown, but Jake remained like a statue. I swear not a single muscle moved.

‘I’m sorry?’ Abby said eventually.

‘Dad,’ I said, then, gesturing between Jake and myself, ‘Our father, Bill: his birth name was Menashe. And he’s adopted. And Jewish.’

‘What?’ Jake said, making the W and the H whistle.

‘I know,’ I said. ‘And there’s more.’



To say that Jake’s reaction surprised me would be an understatement.

Firstly, he had absolutely no problem believing what I was telling him was true, and secondly, he kept laughing, clapping his hands and saying it was ‘Just brilliant, just fucking brilliant.’

I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt and say that he was amused by the irony of our anti-Semitic father turning out to be Jewish, and I suspect the alcohol he’d ingurgitated contributed too. But all the same, it surprised me. He shocked me and in a way he disappointed me. A little shock and sorrow wouldn’t have gone amiss, after all.

‘You have to tell him,’ he started insisting, quite manically gripping my arm as we were leaving the pub. ‘You have to tell him so we can finally sort out our wedding.’

Abby explained that they’d been worried about Dad offending all her relatives at the reception. They’d even been discussing whether it was necessary to invite him.