Murder Most Fab by Julian Clary Page B

question that was never far
from my thoughts. My heart thumping, I said, ‘Am I a credit to my father, too?’
    Grandma
Rita stroked my hair, as if she were contemplating the purchase of an expensive
fabric. ‘Well, any man would be proud to have you as a son, I’d have thought.’
    ‘Who
was my father?’ I spoke quietly and clearly, but my voice trembled.
    ‘As far
as his identity is concerned … we have narrowed it down to Kent, but there
are the cross-Channel ferries, you understand. We can’t rule out a European
kitchen hand.’ She gave a sniff. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’
    I
covered my eyes with thumb and forefinger and pressed hard, willing the tears
away. ‘You really don’t know?’ It sounded more like a plea than I had intended.
    ‘No. I
don’t.’ She stood up and draped her arm rather awkwardly across my back. I
could feel her bony forearm resting on my spine. She attempted a trio of
comforting rubs, but I think it bruised her a bit because she stopped.
‘Sometimes it’s better not to know.’
    She was
thinking of the kitchen hand, I imagined, and tried not to feel too
disappointed.
    It
seemed that my paternity was destined to remain a mystery.

 
     
     
     
     

     
     
    By the time my mother’s
malaise had passed and I went home, I had been away almost two months. I hadn’t
seen or spoken to her in all that time, and our quaint country life had seemed
a world away. I had become used to formal dinners with my grandmother, polite
enquiries about each other’s health and bland comments regarding the weather. I
felt older and more grown-up. I had seen television, newspapers, the great
metropolis. I knew of life outside our village.
    As a
mark of my new maturity I arrived by train, via Ashford. I was to get a taxi
from there. ‘Don’t hang about in Ashford, whatever you do,’ warned Grandma Rita
firmly, as she saw me into the train at Charing Cross. ‘You might slip into a
coma. People do, you know. It’s a well-known fact.’
    I
kissed her goodbye. ‘I’ll see you soon, Grandma, and thank you!’ I didn’t stop
to discover if she was upset by my departure, but hurried to my seat on the
train that would take me back to Kent. I couldn’t wait to get home: would my
mother notice my new-found maturity?
    As it turned
out, my mother wasn’t the same either. When the taxi drew up outside our
cottage, I was disappointed not to see her standing on the doorstep waiting to
greet me. Perhaps she’s busy in the kitchen making our celebratory tea, I
thought, as I paid the driver. I hurried down the side path and barged in
through the kitchen door. The first thing I saw was that the plants on the
window-sill were dead from neglect.
    I found
my mother in the lounge, wrapped in her overcoat before an empty hearth. She
looked up as I tumbled into the room and smiled weakly. ‘There you are, Johnny!
Is the taxi driver still here? Why not invite him in?’ She was pale and thinner
than before.
    ‘Hello,’
I said. ‘The driver’s gone, silly.’ I kissed her forehead. There was an
antiseptic, hospital smell about her. ‘How are you feeling?’
    ‘Clean
and scrubbed up. Full of antidepressants, antibiotics, and anything else with
“anti” on the bottle.’
    ‘Shall
I light the fire to warm you up a bit?’ I asked. My mother’s robustness had gone,
she seemed delicate and uncharacteristically bitter.
    ‘I
don’t know where to begin,’ she said, casting a bewildered glance round the
room. ‘Look at all the dust and cobwebs. And the garden! I know it’s winter but
it’s so dismal. The birds have gone feral. Not one of them came when I called.’
    ‘We’ll
soon get everything back to normal, don’t you worry,’ I reassured her, as I
rolled up some newspaper to build a fire.
    I was
happy to be home and overjoyed to see my mother, but she wasn’t her usual self
by a long chalk. I was sure that if I could just get our cottage neat and tidy
we would both feel more