Claire Moss - Who Do You Think You Are?

‘So you would take me seriously,’ he said. I rolled my eyes at him, even though I knew that if he had come to my desk with this query and told me it was about a member of his family I would have filed him with Dolly’s Who Do You Think You Are? nuts and hardly given him the time of day. ‘And also – ’ he spread his hands ‘ – I’m not ashamed of who I am, I’m not. Or where I come from. And I hate to admit it, but – I didn’t want you to know that I was from Oldfield, or that my family were miners, or that my brother was that guy who went missing among all sorts of dirty rumours.’ I opened my mouth to protest. ‘Remember,’ he said, gently mocking, ‘you are very London.’

I faked a frown. ‘I am not London, we’ve been through this. I grew up here too. I remember the strike, I remember what went on.’

‘Yes, sure, but – well, what did your mum and dad do?’

That past tense never failed to sting. I would never get used to it. ‘They were teachers. Then when they retired they bought a shop – do you know Apple Tree Books? The one with the café?’ He nodded. ‘That was theirs. But – ’ I could see him about to say something else ‘ – I know what you’re thinking, what does this middle class girl know about being from a pit community? And I don’t know anything really, you’re right. But I think I might understand a bit. Mum and Dad – Mum especially – they got really involved during the strike. They even went down to the picket lines a few times. And they were heavily into the welfare side of it. They used to bring food, cook food, donate clothes and stuff. Not in a Lady Bountiful kind of way, just – she cared, she wanted to help, she thought it was the right thing to do. Believe me, I couldn’t care less where you’re from.’

His eyes narrowed affectionately and the whole of the middle of my body felt warm once that smile hit his lips. ‘I can tell that now,’ he said, smiling, and my stomach heaved with something close to pleasure.

Tash finished her glass of wine and went to the toilet while she waited for the next one, allowing me time to mull things over. It was going well, I decided. All this intimacy and soul baring, this sharing of our pasts, was, in my experience, a good sign on a second date. These were dates weren’t they? Were they?

Later I walked her to the taxi rank and when a taxi arrived and I ushered her into it I thought about kissing her goodnight – you know, properly, on the lips and everything – but it seemed I must have thought about it for too long because the next thing I knew, she was manoeuvring herself into her seat while giving me a hasty peck at the top of my cheek, near my ear, the way you might to an old school friend you’d run into by chance. And then she was gone before we could arrange to meet again.

Despite this, I was sure this time, with a confidence I never normally felt, that if I were to ask to see her again, she would say yes. I was glad I’d told her about Pete and Mum and Dad. Not that I’d planned it, not that I’d wanted to use them in that way, but I think it had been something – albeit something miserable – that we could hold in common, that put us both on the same team.

So I waited the obligatory couple of days then texted her to see if she wanted to go out again. I had wanted to go into the library and ask her in person – because I wanted to see her as soon as I could, to get another look at her, hear her voice again – but I held back. Texting would give out a stronger message, I decided, prove that this wasn’t only to do with work, that it could also be a purely social – purely romantic? – relationship.

After the fumbled non-kiss on the cheek, I was becoming increasingly, uncomfortably aware of our lack of physical contact so far, other than an arm round her or a brief holding of hands during emotionally charged conversations. Before things progressed too far towards the cul-de-sac of Just Good Friends, I decided to make my intentions clear by suggesting a meal at one of Doncaster’s few fancy restaurants and by arranging it for a Saturday night. Saturday nights were about couples and exclusivity, they were a precious resource you only spent with someone you valued. ‘I really, really like you’, I wanted to say. ‘This is special treatment. I haven’t put this much thought into taking a woman out for several years – possibly ever.’ The idea was to stop short of saying, ‘Please like me too, I’m desperate’.

She said yes, to my intense relief – replied almost straight away, in fact – and I spent most of the week looking forward to Saturday with agitated excitement. I dithered for a while over what to wear – something of a pointless exercise as the only constituents of my current wardrobe that were suitable for Doncaster in early summer were two shirts, two light jumpers (one of which had a hole under the armpit, one of which had gone an odd purple colour in the wash), a pair of jeans and a pair of combat trousers that had been left in my flat in Dubai by a previous tenant, and which I had adopted when an old pair wore out. I got my hair cut. I had a proper wet shave. I bought condoms – I knew that I was tempting fate, but if and when my chance came, I wanted to be able to capitalise on it straight away.

I got to the restaurant early, just in case. Tash struck me as the sort of person who liked to be on time for things, and I didn’t want to risk keeping her waiting. I was right, kind of. She turned up at four minutes past eight; just late enough to prevent her looking unattractively keen, not late enough to be rude. She had, I decided, probably walked round the block a few times to make sure she wasn’t early.

The restaurant was perfect, all heavy linens and artful table centres and barely audible mood music. This, as I had hoped, was very obviously a place you brought someone you wanted to have sex with. Tash looked beautiful, tall and lovely in a black dress with a red scarf and red cardigan and red lipstick. It was, I realised, the first time I’d seen her wearing make-up. My heart thumped in anticipation as I realised that she was making an effort too. Hopefully this night would end the way we both seemed to want it to.

‘So how are things going in your search for the long lost brother?’ she asked me after the waiter had brought our bottle of Chianti.

I felt slightly deflated. I had wanted to try and find some alternative topic of conversation, some way of drawing her closer and finding out more about what was behind the scary spectacles and the teenage-goth pallor. ‘Not so bad, I suppose. I’ve been through all that stuff you gave me – which has been great, by the way – ’ She smiled and my heart jumped so much it made me cough ‘ – but not much new has come up since then. I’m going to try and talk to a few more people – you know, friends, neighbours – to see if I can throw any light on this Edgarsbridge stuff.’

She nodded. ‘So you think it’s true then? That he was working during the strike?’

I shrugged. ‘I think it’s the most likely explanation, don’t you? I’m going to assume it’s true until I can find evidence that indicates otherwise.’ I sounded, I was pleased to note, smooth and professional. It was true, I did think it was the most likely explanation. Unfortunately, if it were true, then it threw up a hundred million new questions, none of which I knew how to answer. Nor did it chime with the treasured ideal I had held all these years of my brother as a flawless, blameless hero.

‘So – ’ Her face was questioning. ‘How do you feel about that?’

‘About what?’

‘About, you know, him being a scab.’

I narrowed my eyes. It was an emotive choice of words. ‘I don’t know,’ I said truthfully. ‘But I do know that, if it was true, then he must have had a good reason. Pete would never have done that without a good reason.’