Page 68 of The Tapes
Vivian tells me about her daughter, Pamela, and how they fought over all sorts. The argument on the morning Pamela died that Vivian thinks of every day.
‘Do you get on with your daughter?’ she asks.
‘Usually,’ I reply. ‘She wants to be an actor.’
‘Really?! That’s so ambitious. People round here don’t do things like that.’
I’ve never seen it like that before – but Vivian is right. Sedingham is known for one thing, and it’s not acting.
‘I worry about her,’ I say.
‘Everyone worries about their children.’
‘I know but I worry she’ll turn into me. I’ve had problems. Mum did as well.’
Vivian doesn’t ask, even though I’d tell her. ‘My daughter wasn’t me,’ she says. ‘I wanted her to be but she wasn’t. Your daughter isn’t you, no matter how much you might think she is.’
I bite my lip and pull out a pair of novelty plastic sunglasses from the box.
‘We have Find My Friends on our phones,’ I say. ‘She visited me at Dad’s house the other day and sometimes I’ll look at her dot when she’s at college. I worry that I’m spying but I don’t mean it like that…’
Vivian pulls a teapot from a box and holds it up, before shaking her head. ‘She has the choice to remove you, doesn’t she?’
‘Yes.’
‘So perhaps she likes the idea of someone watching out for her.’ There’s a flickered glimpse to the photo above the fireplace again.
‘Maybe,’ I reply.
Vivian places the teapot on the floor and then reaches deeper into the box. It feels as if I’ve spent the best part of two weeks sorting out things that should have been in the bin years ago.
When I next look up, Vivian is holding a small, packed envelope.
I know the handwriting immediately – and so does Vivian. She offers it to me, where I turn it over. There’s no return address on the back, and it’s been sealed with a thin strip of tape.
‘It’s addressed to you,’ I say.
She shrugs. ‘You open it.’
And so I do. There’s no letter inside, no instructions, or extra information. Simply a cassette box, with ‘Viv’ written on the sleeve. I pass it across and Viv opens the case to remove the tape inside. ‘I don’t have a player,’ she says.
‘I do.’
THIRTY-THREE
Mark presses back in his massive seat until it squeaks. There’s a moment in which I think my former boss might topple backwards, however he seemingly knows the spot in which he’s perfectly balanced.
‘You’re lucky I’m giving you this time on a Saturday,’ he says. ‘You couldn’t even have the courtesy to return your keys. Had to drop them in the mailbox and scuttle off.’
If only he knew…
‘I’m sorry,’ I reply. ‘My dad’s funeral was the next morning and it was all a bit much.’
Mark nods along, waiting for the capitulation he knows is coming.
‘If I could, I’d take back everything I said and did the other day,’ I add. ‘Putting the keys in the box and not replying to your message was incredibly disrespectful. I should’ve been much more grateful at everything you’ve done for me.’ I pause and then go for the jugular: ‘It’s my time of the month and?—’
‘I get it,’ he replies, not getting it. ‘I have all this at home. Hormones-this, time-of-the-month that. Women are just temperamental – or, as I always say, temporarily mental.’
