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

VHS from Ted’s Tapes the second we could. He always got stuff in early because an American cousin of his filmed it on a camcorder in the back of the cinema and posted it over by airmail.’

‘When’s your birthday?’ I ask.

‘The third of December.’

‘What year?’

‘’92.’

‘What?!’

‘Why? Did you have a Titanic birthday party when you were a kid too?’ asks Moira, her lip curled with glee. ‘What was your cake like?’

‘No, no. I just, umm. I thought you were way younger than me.’

‘Oh, everyone’s surprised, don’t worry about it. I think it might be these,’ she says, lifting her cheeks with her fingertips. ‘Never grown out my baby face.’

‘But that means you’re like … six months younger than me.’

Moira contemplates this and shrugs. ‘Yeah. Guess so. Oh, that sounds like Mum,’ says Moira, as the sound of crunching gravel filters in from outside.

***

Jacqui steps out of a faded Skoda, a raincoat slung over her arm. Six months. That means that Mum and Jacqui were pregnant at the same time. Did Jacqui know? Did Mum? The latter, of course, is worse, but it’s Andrew who wins Biggest Shit of the Decade. Getting a second woman pregnant within a year of marrying the first is a pretty terrible way to display your long-term devotion.

I wipe my cheeks dry and try to skitter down the driveway before Jacqui notices, but as she opens the boot, Jess jumps down and trots over to me with her tongue lolling, head low in playful submission. Jacqui walks over with heavy steps as though she’s a sheriff about to shoot a shot glass from my hand. Knowing I’m not going to make it to the car without an inquisition, I stop, hoping my eyes aren’t as stinging red as they feel.

‘I … you’ve had a haircut,’ I say, meeting her eyes.

Jacqui runs her hand through a curled lock of honey blonde hair. Catching herself, she drops her arm and shoves a fist in her pocket.

‘Yes,’ she says, bridling. ‘I said they weren’t to bother drying it, but they took no notice.’

‘It looks really nice,’ I say. I mean it, too. ‘Is it a … special occasion?’

‘Why, do you think I would no’ care to do this ordinarily?’

I don’t want to have a sparring match today, so I smile like a simpleton.

‘Ah, I’ve got to head back. Lots to be getting on with,’ I say.

As I reach the Jeep parked alongside a gorse bush, Jacqui calls me back.

‘Will you tell Kian he needs to turn the sheep out onto the high field? They’ve all but run out of grass in the paddock and I had to pull two up from the ditch. Not sure why he’s left it for so long. Distracted, maybe,’ she says, her crystal eyes unwavering.

Chapter 25

I leave the Jeep at Braehead and open the back door of the farm house just to snatch my rain poncho from the back of a kitchen chair. It’s not supposed to rain, but that doesn’t mean anything here. I’ve stopped looking at the clouds, because more often than not, I’m in them. The sky blurs with the ground in a cold mist, enveloping my knees and muffling the landscape.

I walk along a track behind the farmhouse that leads to a copse, then a scraggly moor, and finally a public bridleway that runs alongside a field sporting a crewcut of wheat husks. On every fourth or fifth step I have to shake my boots as mud clods build up around each foot like I’m taking part in a solo rendition of the Hokey Cokey.

The walk has given me time to think. At first, I found it difficult to sit with my own thoughts, instead choosing to drown my internal monologue with podcasts and music. But slowly I’ve replaced my distraction techniques with a different focus: confronting my situation with Moira, however uncomfortable, whilst plodding in wellie boots.

Deep down, I knew the chance of unearthing anything akin to a love story between my parents was slim, but my half-formed speculations about my father had clearly set the bar too high. How can I tell Moira that we’re sisters now, knowing it will send a bulldozer through her already fragile family?

I climb the stile to the church grounds and wriggle between the gravestones, superstitious enough to avoid walking over the mounds, and quick march past the windows of the church hall. Inside, a small group of elderly locals play cards, each with a Thermos of tea on the table in front of them. I reach the back door to the rectory, knock, and peer through the porthole window, my breath steaming up the glass while the building creaks and moans as Ross moves around inside.

I stumble forwards as the door is roughly pulled open. In my haste, I’m halfway over the threshold by the time I realise that it’s not Ross at all. I stand, blinking, trying to match the woman in front of me with the Kilroch Guess Who? that I mentally flick through in my head. Older. Clip-on earrings. Mean eyes. Could be a few people I’ve come across.

She steps back as my foot slaps onto the flagstone.

‘Hi. Sorry, I was expecting it to be Ross,’ I say. ‘I wouldn’t have just barged in like …’ I catch myself, not wanting to appear over-familiar.

‘I’m afraid he’s rather busy at the moment,’ she says. ‘Do you want me to give him a message?’

‘No, I needed his advice on a, err … an issue.’

The woman blinks, signifying that this does not meet the threshold of information required.

‘It’s of an ecclesiastical nature,’ I say, holding my hands in front of me.

‘Oh, lovely. It’s nice to see the youth engaging with the church. I’m Eileen, one of the wardens.’ She taps her front teeth and squints at me. ‘Although I haven’t seen you on a Sunday. I sit at the back, so I know who comes and goes.’

What’s her role, specifically? Crowd control at Sunday worship?

‘Do you know when he’s free? Because