Perfectly Ordinary People(32)

Jake shrugged. ‘He was young.’

‘Does he still speak French?’ I asked. ‘You see, I don’t even know that.’

Jake frowned and nodded at the same time. ‘I think so. He tried speaking French once or twice in Spain, didn’t he? Not that it helped.’

‘OK. So, what part of France do they come from? Why did they come to London in the first place? Do you know that stuff? Because I don’t.’

Jake sighed. ‘Not really. Not in detail.’

‘Then tell me the bits you do know.’

‘OK, look, I admit it. I don’t know shit,’ Jake said. ‘But I don’t think that’s necessarily abnormal. I mean, they’re our grandparents, not our parents. I think plenty of people don’t see much of their grandparents.’

‘Really?’ I said. ‘You see, I’m not sure that’s normal at all. Unless there’s a reason why we never saw them.’

‘You mean, like an argument?’

‘Yeah. Anything that would explain why.’

‘Did they go back to France or something?’ Abby asked.

‘No, Genny moved to Brighton, but as far as I know, Grandpa Chris is still in London today.’

‘Even Brighton’s not exactly the other side of the planet,’ Abby said.

‘No,’ Jake said. ‘No, I suppose not.’

‘Maybe your dad was angry because they divorced,’ Abby offered. ‘That can happen. Happened to a friend of mine, actually.’

‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘I don’t remember anyone ever talking about it though. In fact I can’t remember anyone even mentioning the fact that Dad’s French.’

‘But we know he is,’ Jake said.

‘Sure. But I don’t know how I know.’

‘I saw an old passport once, I think,’ Jake said. ‘Don’t you remember that? In that drawer where they had the lighters and screwdrivers and what have you. There was an old passport with a photo of him wearing a suit.’

‘Yes, we used to play with it. I used to ask you for your passport to let you into the den. And the year?’

‘When they came over, you mean?’ Jake shook his head almost unnoticeably.

‘He was born in, what, 1940?’

‘Yeah, he was fifty-six last time, right? So yeah, 1940.’

‘You cannot be serious,’ Abby said. ‘You don’t even know what year your parents were born?’

‘Well, Mum was born in ’42,’ I said. ‘We know that one. But we never talked much about Dad.’

‘Maybe he, like, had to give it up or something when he became English?’ Jake offered. ‘Maybe that’s why we never talked about it. Because he’s not French, anymore. Actually, maybe that’s what pissed him off. It would piss me off, losing my nationality.’

‘I’m pretty sure you can have both if you’re French,’ Abby said. ‘I think you can have, you know, dual nationality.’

‘But we don’t have both, do we?’ I asked.

‘Of course not.’

‘But I mean, could we? If we wanted? I’d quite like to be Anglo-French or Franco-British or whatever. It sounds classy.’

Jake shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to ask Dad.’

‘I’m going to,’ I said. ‘I’m going to see them right after this.’

‘You have such a strange family,’ Abby said. ‘Sometimes I worry what I’m marrying into.’

‘It’s only Dad,’ Jake said. ‘Dad’s the only weird one.’



‘So, Dad. I have a question for you.’

I’d been there less than five minutes. Mum was still unwrapping her gift.

‘Yes?’

‘Are you still French?’

He made a face and pulled his neck in as if the question both confused and offended him. ‘Where did that come from?’ he asked.

‘You know he’s French,’ Mum said, without looking up. ‘What a silly thing to ask.’

She had undone the end of the wrapping paper and, for some reason known only to her, was trying to extract the tube of tarts from within the paper without ripping it.

‘I just thought you might have had to give it up when you became British.’

‘No, I have dual nationality. But you know that.’

I smiled tightly. ‘If you say I do, then I must,’ I said. ‘But I honestly can’t remember it ever being discussed. And I mean ever. And nor can Jake, for that matter.’

‘Why would we need to discuss it?’ Dad asked. ‘Why would it be an issue?’

‘Do we discuss me being Irish?’ Mum asked, finally extracting the box from the intact tube of wrapping paper, which she suddenly found she didn’t know what to do with. She placed it delicately on the coffee table so that it stood up of its own accord and started to examine the box of tarts.

‘No, but it’s pretty present . . . our Irish heritage . . . I mean, I was certainly never in any doubt. Whereas on Dad’s side, no one ever mentions it, which is kind of bizarre, if you think about it.’

Dad pulled a face, implying that I was being silly.

‘Like I say,’ I continued, ‘I just don’t remember anyone talking about it. I don’t even know how old you were.’