The Sister Surprise Abigail Mann (most difficult books to read TXT) 📖

Wow. There’s an insight. The more I hear about our dad, the more I’d like to give him a swift kick in the testicles. When did he earn the right to empty the joint account whilst dicking about on an oil rig? Why should Moira and Jacqui carry the burden of his poor life choices? I didn’t expect to discover a secret life of philanthropy, but our father’s list of redeeming features is so small that I’m struggling to see what Mum found appealing, even if their relationship was three seconds long.

‘That’s a stupidly big responsibility to have,’ I say.

‘I know, and I don’t mind. Really, I don’t. It’s partly why I applied to be a veterinary nurse; the training isn’t so long, so I figured I could start making money sooner. Start paying some bills. But you know what’s boring about guinea pigs? Everything. If I let on to Mum that I want to specialise, she’ll start doing night shifts cleaning the ferries again, and I don’t want her doing that just for me.’

Moira looks so jittery I’m half-expecting her to vibrate off the chair like a wind-up frog from the inside of a Christmas cracker. I throw tea down my throat and pull my chair in closer to the table.

‘I don’t think you should hold back. You’ve got to let people make their own choices. If Jacqui wants to help you out, that’s her decision. You’re constantly doing things for other people. I think Kian would have jacked in Braehead Farm if it wasn’t for you.’

Moira bites her lip, her eyes pooled and glassy.

‘Is that part of it? You’re worried that Kian won’t be still be here by the time you’ve finished your course?’

Moira nods, her eyes closed. A tear traces her lash line and runs down the side of her nose. She bats it away. ‘What am I? Ten years old?’

‘Don’t make yourself small unless you’ve really tried going big. It sounds like you’re basing decisions on what other people might need from you.’

‘Mmm. Maybe. I need to grow up,’ she says, dashing her cheek. ‘Nothing like PMT to turn on the sprinkler system.’

I laugh, but the sound catches in my throat like I’ve swallowed a fat bluebottle. I turn back to the sink and rinse a blob of egg down the drain.

‘Could you try and save up as much as you can before your course starts? A pint of amber ale in The Wailing Banshee costs, what, £1.79? I can see why people drink, it’s a cheap hobby,’ I say with a laugh, turning back to the table. Moira looks up, her usual pep hidden beneath heavy brows and an even heavier fringe.

‘You’re wrong,’ she says, her voice delicate.

I pause, a mug slick with soap studs in my hand. ‘Sorry, did I say something stupid?’

‘No, it’s fine. But you’re wrong. That “hobby” is why Mum’s still paying off the interest on Dad’s loans.’ Moira lowers her voice and shakes her head. ‘It’s what happens when your dad prefers his drinking buddies over his family. They were his priority for a long time, not us.’

I roughly place my mug down, adding to the rings on the table. ‘That’s … really shitty. I know it’s reductive to put it like that, but it really is,’ I say, my disappointment sinking deeper.

‘Yeah. I know. Mum thought it was a good idea when he first talked about working away on the rigs, because “there’s no off-licence in the middle of the North Sea”, that’s what she said. She hid the money problems, but then I found their old bank statements in a cake tin, so it all became obvious. There was other stuff, too. Years before. Even so, she won’t badmouth him in front of me.’

‘Like what?’ I say, turning off the tap.

‘I don’t know the details, only snatches of stuff growing up. Kilroch wasn’t always as sleepy as it is now. Basically, everyone worked on the rigs. Have you seen them?’ I nod, remembering the metal structures like spider crabs in the bay.

‘Well, there were more of them. Most have been decommissioned, mostly since the accident. But there must have been a dozen at one point and it was stopping the dolphins coming into the shallows to feed. People from all over the country came up here to protest and eventually the oil company shifted the whole operation up the coast. The village was shot to bits after so many lost their livelihood. It’s left a stain. After the protests, the oil rigs reopened in a rush. People round here needed someone to blame.’

‘Does Jacqui blame them? The activists?’ I say, already knowing what Moira’s going to say before she opens her mouth.

‘She thinks they were middle-class hippies with no sense of the real world. Might be something to do with the fact that they chose to live like poor people because it’s more interesting than being ordinary and rich. That’s a direct quote from Mum, actually,’ says Moira, with a wry laugh.

My stomach swoops with discomfort, like there’s a handful of slick worms wriggling inside. My compulsion to fill the silence has dropped away and now my lungs feel empty, like I’m in the deep end as chlorinated water slips down my stinging throat. I desperately wish that I could talk about myself as freely as Moira can. Words seem to bubble up my throat, but as soon as I open my mouth to speak, they pop and disappear.

‘Your … your dad. He worked on the rig that exploded, right?’

Moira takes a big glug of tea and winces at the temperature. ‘Yeah, he did.’

It shouldn’t matter. I didn’t know him. So why do I feel resentful about something I never had?

Moira stands up and stretches her arms over her head. ‘Oops,’ she says, zipping up her fly. She tucks an old-fashioned rugby shirt into the waistband of her jeans and drains her mug like she’s racing someone. The pace at which she’s able to shake off a mood