“I’m not taking any credit,” says Dad.
Ellie smirks. “No,” she says. “I thought that was the case.”
I finally manage to cut neatly through the pastry. There is an inviting layer of mushroom stuffing and well-done beef underneath. We used to have it red. We can’t now, because of the toxins in the blood, might damage the baby.
“I’m sorry to have spoiled the surprise,” Ellie is saying.
“Come on, eat up,” I say, through a mouthful of meat. I see Mum glare. I swallow. My bad, talking with my mouth full. Then I see she is glaring at Ellie.
“I thought, at first, it must have been Will’s old crib. But of course, then I saw the initials.”
“Ellie, darling, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Mum. “Eat up, your food’s going cold, and there are two of you to feed.”
“Of course, it’s dark up there. But do you know, I distinctly thought I saw those initials.”
“I’ve never seen any initials on the crib,” says Dad. He is shooting glances at Mum now.
“I have no idea what’s going on,” I say, because I haven’t.
“There aren’t any initials on that crib, unless you’ve drawn them on yourself,” Mum snaps.
“Mum!” I say, shocked at her tone.
Ellie doesn’t seem to care, though. She just smiles more broadly.
“Oh, so you admit that there’s a crib, then?” she asks, making her first incision into the pastry. Neat, no fuss, no mess.
“Of course I admit there’s a crib. It’s Will’s old one.”
Ellie brings the knife out of the meat and makes another incision, forming a triangle.
“What? You have my old crib? Why didn’t you say? That’s awesome. Little Leo can have that. Oh, Christ,” I look at Ellie. “Was I meant to tell them the name yet? Sorry.”
Ellie does the ‘I love you’ oboe-player lip-purse again, before skewering the section of boeuf en croute she has separated from the rest.
“Just Will’s crib?” Ellie asks. “Not a hand-me-down from someone else?”
“Just Will’s,” says Mum.
I don’t know what Ellie’s game is. I’d say, maybe there isn’t one, maybe she is just pleased we have the crib. But I know Ellie. There is always a game. That aside, the key thing is that there is a crib, and my son will apparently sleep in the same crib that held me.
“Oh, I really want to see it!” I say. “Can we get it down, have a look? What’s it like, Ellie? Is it really cool?”
“It’s a real historical item,” Ellie says. “I know you’ll find it really interesting.”
“How come you didn’t tell me before, Mum?” I demand.
“Yes, how come?” asks Ellie.
“Oh, you know, we thought you’d want something more modern. That’s been up in the loft for years.”
“Came with you all the way from Dartington, did it?” asks Ellie.
“Of course,” says Mum. “Seeing as that’s where Will was born.”
“Such a wonder you’ve never noticed the initials, then.”
Mum is mid-mouthful of meat and cannot speak.
“M.C.R.,” says Ellie.
Dad’s knife shrieks across his plate.
I see him flick a glance to Mum. Ellie bites calmly into a mouthful of meat. Mum stares at her plate, then lifts up her chin and continues to eat. Dad watches her for a moment, then does the same.
If this Ellie’s big reveal, I don’t understand it. We don’t know anyone called M.C.R.
Unless?
No.
And I’m certainly not called M.C.R.
“It’s probably the maker’s name,” I say. “Like, ‘My Cribs Rock’.” I laugh at my own joke, then stop, because no one else has even giggled.
The rest of the meal continues in silence. I play the three letters over in my head. M.C.R.? Who is M.C.R.?
After we’ve eaten, and I’ve complimented Mum on the deliciousness of the meal, I announce that I’m going up to get the crib.
“I’ll come with you,” says Dad. “It’s too heavy for you to manage on your own.”
When Dad and I leave the table, Ellie follows. She catches my arm as we go into the hall, and pulls me back, so that we’re standing in the shadows of the staircase. I see she is holding the third photo album, the one I don’t recognise.
Ellie leans in close to me.
“M.C.R. stands for Max Charles Reigate,” she whispers. “The crib belonged to him. And he’s your father.”
-Will-
“What?”
I don’t whisper. I almost bellow, so incredulous am I at what she has said.
“Shh! He’ll hear you!” says Ellie. “I don’t know if he knows.” She nods her head in the direction of Dad – because yes, I’m 100% sure he is my dad, thank you.
“Knows what? Jesus, Ellie, have you gone mad? Max Reigate, my father?”
“Come on,” she says, her voice low. “It all makes sense. They were all living in Dartington together at the right time. Your mum and” – she makes an inverted comma sign in the air – “‘dad’ are, like, trying for kids or something, but your mum, she gets the hots for this amazing musician, she shags him, then nine months later you pop out.”
“You’re out of your mind,” I tell her.
“Are you coming, Will?” calls a voice from upstairs.
“Yes, Dad.” I pretty much spit the word ‘Dad’ at Ellie. She’s taken her mad theories too far this time.
She glares at me.
“So Max Reigate, he’s not stupid, he works out the dates, and he wants to be involved in your upbringing. He gives her the cot, one that’s been handed down through the family. Your ‘dad’, maybe he’s in denial, or gets angry, so they move away, up to Kingston, out of harm’s way.”
“Ellie – seriously? You expect me to buy all this just from some initials on the crib?”
“That’s not it, there’s more, in this album, there’s – ”
“Come on Will, I’m waiting,” calls Dad from upstairs.
“Coming!” I shout. Moving past Ellie, I start climbing the stairs, two steps at a time.
“Will!” hisses Ellie.
“We’ll talk about this later. You’re out of your mind.”
And honestly, I think she