I make some discoveries about my past
and meet my half-brother

How I became a girly girl


by Louise Anne Smithson

Chapter 1

Julian — ‘the runt’

My mother has this infuriating habit of coming into my bedroom in the morning and briskly drawing back my curtains, as if to say ‘I have to get up and go to work so why shouldn’t you?’ She did it again on Thursday morning. I groaned and told her to go away.

‘I’m afraid I’ve some bad news, your father was killed in a road accident last night.’

For a second I thought I was dreaming - but then I came to my senses.

‘What are you talking about? I heard him farting in the bathroom only a few minutes ago?’

‘I don’t mean your dad, I mean your natural father. He was involved in a car crash in Reading last night together with ‘… that woman’; I'm afraid he was killed outright and she’s in a coma.’

Although their divorce was nearly sixteen years ago and she came away with a generous financial settlement, my mother has never been able to forgive her first husband for his infidelity, or refer to his second wife as anything other than, ‘… that woman’ (this designation was always preceded by a slight hesitation to show her distaste). Yet Mum was at least now trying to sound distressed by the news.

‘Phew, that’s a relief,’ I responded; (after all, it is hard to be too upset about someone you’ve never known).

‘Don’t be callous and disrespectful to your father,’ she said.

Mum is forever accusing me of not reacting ‘appropriately’, but given some of the names I’ve heard her call him over the years, this is a prime example of the pot calling the kettle, ‘a kitchen utensil’.

‘He may have been unfaithful to me, but he loved you and was proud of you,’ she continued.

This was news to me. As far as I knew, nobody had ever been ‘proud’ of me since I starred as one of the sheep in my infants’ school Nativity Play.

‘In that case he’d a funny way of showing it. He never came to see me or remembered me at Christmas or my birthday,’ I replied.

Mum looked distinctly embarrassed.

‘He tried to stay in touch for a while, but I sent his letters and cards back. I was given custody and threatened to sue him if he tried to contact you. It was more important for you to have a clean break and form a relationship with your step-father,’ she said, defensively.

‘You bitch. It’s only after he is dead that you tell me this.’ I thought. ’Thank heavens I’ll be leaving this house in a few weeks.’

I took a deep breath and managed to stop myself from saying anything out loud, to prevent yet another row, which seemed to be a regular feature of our relationship over the last few months. Instead I got out of bed, grabbed some clothes and made for the bathroom, slamming the door and locking it behind me. I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of seeing me cry. By the time I emerged thirty-five minutes later both my parents had left for work.

---

I’d just finished the last of my ‘A’ levels and had a confirmed place to read Human Geography at Nottingham University in September, so was no longer required to attend school. I’d recently sent my C.V. (such as it was) to a number of local shops and factories hoping to find a job for the summer and was waiting for some response, although not exactly bowled over by the rush of those wishing to employ me. I was therefore still at home mid-morning when Mum rang with some more news of the tragedy.

‘The funeral will be next Wednesday; I think we should both attend.’

‘If I have too,’ I said in a voice conveying my lack of enthusiasm, whilst silently cursing if it should delay me from starting a job.

‘And you’re going to need a black dress,’ she said.

‘That woman uses any excuse to try and dress me up like a ‘girl’, I thought.

(I’d any number of dresses, skirts and blouses that she’d bought for me over the years, and which I hardly ever wear.)

‘Is that really necessary?’ I asked wearily.

‘Yes, of course, we must show him some respect.’

‘Like returning his letters unread.’

‘In that case I’ll choose one for myself,’ I replied.

‘I doubt if there’ll be anyone worth meeting at the funeral, but if I have to wear a dress, I may as well get one that I can use another time.’

‘As long as you buy yourself something sensible and decent,’ she answered.

I changed the subject without replying to that comment.

‘What has happened to ‘… that Woman’?’

‘She’s critically ill in hospital,’ she answered, ignoring the sarcasm in my question.

‘Didn’t they have a little boy?’ I asked, not sure where I’d acquired the snippet of information from: I guess I must have overheard my parents talking about it sometime.

‘Yes, his name is Julian, and he’s fifteen now,’ she replied briskly, but seemed unwilling to say any more on the subject.

---

The funeral was due to be held at Reading Crematorium about thirteen miles from our house. (We live in Bracknell which would feature in the Guinness Book of Records except they don’t have a category for ‘the Most Boring Place on Earth’.) Luckily Dad was due to work from home on the day of the funeral, so he let us use the car. Mum had never learned to drive, but I’d recently passed my test and was anxious to get in as much practice as possible before I left home.

In the end I bought myself a compromise little black dress in the Bentalls department store Summer Sale (the one which seemed to begin the day after their Spring Sale ended). The dress looked ok, just about satisfied Mum in terms of its decency and didn’t increase Dad’s overdraft by too much. The only problem was that I wasn’t really used to having my legs on display to the world and these days felt rather self-conscious in a dress.

‘You can look really nice when you make the effort,’ said Mum, as I sat in the driving seat, hitched up the skirt and slipped off my high heels and put on some slippers to enable me to drive more effectively.

‘Come on then, let’s get it over with,’ I responded with a sigh and started the car.

---

There were a fair number of people at the funeral, almost all crusties and, as far as I could gather, friends, or colleagues of ‘the deceased’. He didn’t appear to have any family, other than ‘… that Woman’, who was still in a coma in the Royal Berkshire Hospital (thus unable to attend), and my half-brother Julian, whom I now met for the first time. My goodness, what a little runt he turned out to be. He was an inch, or more, shorter than me and showed no signs of becoming a man. I suppose he did have a rather sweet face and longish fair hair for a lad.

‘Are you sure he’s fifteen? He looks more like a twelve year old to me,’ I whispered to Mum.

‘Of course I’m sure, it was his birth that gave rise to my divorce,’ she replied with a hint of acid in her voice.

‘Hasn’t anyone explained to you about puberty yet?’ I thought to myself, as Julian and I shook hands with one another a little awkwardly.

He was dressed in a brand new dark grey suit which was a size too large for him; apparently nobody had bothered to tell him so. He also wore a white shirt and black tie — traditional dress for a funeral - but he succeeded in looking like a little lost waif out of some Victorian fairy tale. After a while though my heart began to melt towards him, so I gave him a hug and told him how sorry I was for his loss. Mum looked on disapprovingly, with pursed lips, but didn’t say anything.

I even sat next to ‘the Runt’ in the front row during the funeral service, as there was no-one else to do so, and then I did the unthinkable - I held his hand for the duration of the service. This was partly because I felt sorry for him, but I also wanted to take my mind off my own emotions. I was hearing things about a man, of whom I’d no memory, and would never now know. By all accounts he’d been a good person, a loving husband and father, who was kind to animals and helped old ladies to cross the road, and all that sort of thing. He just happened to have made the wrong choice as a young man. Mum sat in the seat on the other side of me, and began to sob quietly into her handkerchief. (It was probably just as well that Dad wasn’t there.) I was on the point of comforting her when I remembered those missing letters and birthday cards. It was all very well being sorry now, but she might have shown some forgiveness whilst he was alive. It was going to be some time before I forgave her for depriving me of any contact with my natural father.

We stuck around for half an hour or so after the cremation, looking at the flowers and reading the cards, just to show willing. However, I was quite anxious to return to Bracknell as soon as possible, as I’d be going out with my friends that evening. I therefore went to say goodbye to the Runt; again offering him my condolences and the hope that his mother (formerly known as '...that woman - now ’the Vegetable’) would soon recover. He looked rather dismayed when I told him we were about to leave.

‘I’d hoped we could have a talk together after the funeral. It’s quite important,’ he said.

I looked around: Mum had found a mutual friend of herself and ‘the deceased’, from years back and they were busy catching up with news. It would take several minutes of increasingly sarcastic comments before I’d be able to dislodge her.

‘Alright, I suppose I can stay for a little while longer,’ I said to Julian trying to stifle a sigh. ‘What did you want to talk about?’

‘I’ve read my father’s will; it was in the bureau in his study. He has left you a quarter of his residual estate. The house and contents, his pension, his life insurance and half of everything else will go directly to Mum, but you and I should each inherit more than twenty-five thousand pounds from him.’

‘Twenty-five thousand pounds!’

Suddenly there was the prospect of my leaving college without a great pile of debt hanging over me, or else of not having to count every penny and use every opportunity for paid work over the next three years. My natural instinct was to kiss ‘the Runt’ and dance with joy, but the time, the place and the dancing partner didn’t seem to be 'appropriate'.

‘But I didn’t even know him,’ I answered, instead.

He shrugged.

‘You were his only daughter and he realised that it wasn’t your fault that you’d had no contact. I think he was hoping to get in touch with you now that you’re eighteen and an adult.’

‘I just wish he hadn’t left it so long,’ I replied, suddenly struggling to stop tears from coming to my eyes.

‘There’ll be a delay before you see any of the money,’ Julian continued. ‘Mum is named as the executor of his will, but she has suffered a severe brain injury and it looks as if she’ll never come out of the coma.’

His voice, which had been remarkably controlled up to this point, now began to tremble.

‘I’m afraid her chances of survival are not very good.’

‘Oh Julian, I’m so sorry,’ I said hugging him once again, this time with my tears joining his.

‘Thank heavens for waterproof mascara.’

‘It’s alright,’ he said collecting himself. ‘I’ve known about her situation for several days now, and I have to plan for what will happen to me if she were to die. I’m still a minor and not in a position to take any legal steps by myself.’

He hesitated for a moment before continuing,

‘But you could apply to become the administrator of my father’s estate.’

‘Why me?’ I asked.

‘Well you’re his only surviving relative who’s not a minor, and not in a coma and unlikely to recover.’

‘But I wouldn’t have the first idea how to administer an estate.’

‘I would,’ he responded, looking me straight in the eye. ‘I know exactly what to do and have all the information and documents we need. I’ve been researching it on the Internet for the last few days. I’ve downloaded and filled in all the necessary forms and would be able to draft all the letters; you’d just have to sign your name, and then swear an oath.’

‘My goodness, this kid seems to have his head screwed on.’

I had to remind myself that he was nearly sixteen, and not the thirteen-year-old that he appeared to be.

‘But is that legal?’

‘Yes, of course it’s legal. You’re an adult, and would be acting in our joint interests.’

‘But don’t you need a solicitor to do it?’

‘Employing a solicitor would only delay things and cost us both a lot of money, which we’d have to pay jointly as the residual legatees. Solicitors tend to see the administration of estates as honey-pots to subsidise their less lucrative work, and make extortionate charges for every letter sent or telephone call made. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t do the necessary work ourselves as the will is quite straightforward and there’s no dispute involved.

‘Residual legatee? Extortionate? Lucrative? What planet does he come from?’

‘I’ll have to think about it Julian, you’ve rather sprung this on me,’ I answered.

‘There’s one other thing,’ he said.

‘Now what?’ I thought, and then felt guilty as he’d just given me some very good news.

‘Go on,’ I said.

‘I’m only fifteen and shouldn’t be living on my own. Strictly speaking, I should go into local authority care, and if Mum were to die in the next few days, that’s what’ll happen to me, unless, of course, I can find an adult relative who’s willing to take responsibility for me.’

‘I thought you didn’t have any adult relatives?’

‘My mother has a younger sister in Canberra, Australia, but she has a young family and can’t come here and I certainly have no intention of going there,’ he said with some distaste.

I had some sympathy with him there, I understand from my Geography lessons that Canberra is like a larger version of Bracknell, only with a Government House.

‘But I also have, you?’ he continued.

‘You expect me to act as your step-mother?’ I said, incredulously.

‘Not a step-mother, just a grown-up big sister.’

It’s ironic, as a young girl I always longed to have a little brother, and now, just when I’ve grown out of that longing, I’m being offered one, ready-made and on a plate. He seemed to be a nice enough kid though - if a little nerdy. I sighed.

‘Julian I’m only just eighteen, myself. I wouldn’t know how to begin to look after someone else.’

‘I don’t need anyone to look after me, Jennifer. I can look after myself perfectly well. I just need someone to take responsibility for me until the end of August, when I’ll be sixteen and can legally look after myself.’

‘Please don’t call me Jennifer,’ I snapped. ‘Only my mother does that when she disapproves of something I’ve done or have failed to do. Call me Jen or Jenny.’

‘Sorry Jenny.’

I sympathised with the Runt’s predicament, but I’d issues of my own to deal with.

‘I’m sorry mate, but I need to find myself a job for the summer and have applied to several shops. I’ll be going to University in September. I can’t take on the responsibility for you.’

‘Money is not a problem as Mum is still receiving her salary and will do so for as long as she lives. I’ve access to her bank account. I could afford to pay you as much as you’d otherwise earn, if you were willing to come and stay with me whilst she’s in hospital. You could also have the use of her car. I’d expect you to drive me to the hospital each day and collect me in the evening, and for us to do the shopping together. Otherwise your time would be your own. You could drive over to see your friends in Bracknell if you want, or call in at your own house. I don’t mind being on my own, as long as there’s an adult technically in charge.’

‘What would happen if, the worse came to the worse and your mother died?’ I asked, trying to make it sound as if it were unlikely to happen.

‘In that case I’ll inherit the whole of Mum’s estate and be quite well off. I’d continue to pay you until you left for University, by which time I’ll be sixteen. I would, however, ask you to help me administer both my mother’s and my father’s estates.’

I found it amazing that this little boy could deal with the loss of his parents in such a cold and unemotional way. Yet I didn’t get the impression that he was cruel or avaricious, just numb and running on autopilot.

‘Julian this is all quite astounding. Let me think about what you’ve said overnight and contact you tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Do you have a mobile phone?’

We swapped numbers, I said goodbye and left him in the charge of a group of crusties wishing to console him. I went to prise Mum away from her conversation.

---

‘What were you talking to Julian about after the service?’ asked Mum, as we were driving back on the Motorway.

‘He might know of a summer job for me,’ I replied.

‘I’m not sure I want you getting involved with ’that family’, she said.

‘‘That family’ just happens to include my half-brother who’s on his own since his mother has become a Vegetable,’ I said coldly. ‘It once included my natural father, whom I’d have loved to have known; only I was prevented from ever doing so,’ I continued, giving the knife a little twist as it went in.

Mum didn’t say anything else to me during the journey home, or indeed for the remainder of the day.

---

By the time we got back to Bracknell I was feeling pre-menstrual and no longer in the mood to go out. I went up to my room, changed into some more comfortable clothes and rang my friend Susie, to cry off, citing my imminent period as an excuse. I sat on my bed, hugging my big teddy bear, thinking about the events of the last week, and of the last day in particular.

At about seven-thirty, Dad came in to see what was up and if there was anything he could do to help. I told him about the funeral and what I’d learned over the last week. I even cried on his shoulder for a little while, but he never was much good at offering consolation. He means well enough, but like most men, has the emotional intelligence of a turnip. (When I was sixteen I’d sometimes dissolve into tears in front of him on any pretext just to amuse myself with the inept way in which he dealt with the situation - but I digress.) On this occasion I was quite glad of his company and that he stayed to talk for a while.

‘I’m sorry Jen, but the business between your mum and your natural father was largely over by the time I came on the scene,’ he said. ‘Their divorce was finalised, custody established and the various threats and acrimonious comments made. I always thought she was making a mistake regarding her attitude towards him, and I told her so, but she said that I didn’t understand and just mentioning his name upset her. I’d no idea she was returning his cards and letters addressed to you. She was wrong to do so, but I’m sure she thought that she was doing her best for you.’

‘It would have been nice to have had the opportunity to decide for myself,’ I said.

‘Remember you were only a kid at the time, and kids don’t understand the hurt that their parents are going through.’

‘So they get used as weapons to punish the other parent with instead,’ I responded bitterly.

He didn’t answer, so I think he probably agreed with me.

I then told him about my conversation with Julian, and his two requests to me.

‘It must be devastating for such a young man to lose both parents in that way. He seems to have been left in an awkward situation.’

‘But is he right in what he says?’ I asked.

‘I think he may be right; fifteen is an awkward age in the eyes of the law. Technically he’s still a child, even though he may have the intelligence of an adult.’

‘He seems to have the intelligence of a twenty year old, but looks like a thirteen year old.’

‘People often form their judgments on the basis of outward appearances,’ said Dad.

‘Do you think that it would be legal for me to administer our father’s will?’

‘I don’t think he’s asking you to break any law. You’re an adult, he’s still a child.’

‘But should I go and stay with my half-brother for the summer, and take responsibility for him, as he suggests?’

‘That’s up to you to decide, love. It rather depends on whether or not you wish to get to know him better or not.’

‘I’d like to help him, if I can, but I do also need to earn some money before I go to college. It sounds as if it’ll be many months before I see any sign of that inheritance.’

‘Well, if he’s willing to pay you a reasonable wage, I can’t see that there’s a problem. After all you haven’t had any other offers of work. Your mother and I won’t be far away if you get into difficulty. Perhaps you should go and see him at his home tomorrow and then decide what you want to do.’

‘What about Mum, what’ll she say about it? I asked.’

‘Don’t worry about your mother; I’ll sort things out with her.’