It was Valentine's Day nineteen eighty-four, my nineteen year old ego had suffered a crushing blow. I had been dumped - for the first time in my young life I had suffered the pain and ignominy of rejection. Until that time it had been I who picked and chose. Today, Melanie Parker, the girl with whom I had been going steady since term began had finished with me - she certainly knew how to pick the dramatic moment. Now I could not go to the Valentine's Party I had been looking forward to. I did not intend to make a fool of myself by going alone. Theatrically I slammed the door behind me as I entered the flat.
I heard Abbe crying. She was in the living room sitting on the floor, her legs bent, hands clasped, hugging her knees to her chest. She looked as miserable as I felt. The room was candlelit, the air heavy with the pungent aroma of burning joss-sticks. All the usual signals that she was in a melancholic mood. Her cheeks were tear streaked. "What's wrong Abbe?" I asked putting an arm around her shoulder.
Her voice was soft and slow. "Nothing Adam - it's just …" She broke off to dab at her eyes. "I'm getting old - too old." I could smell the grass she had smoked, in an ashtray lay three fat roaches.
"Your not old Abbe."
"I must be, work has been getting less and less. My agent is saying I should think about the future. No one's sent me a Valentine this year."
I should explain, Abbe had an agent because she was a dancer - a famous dancer. When I was at school, being related to Abbe brought me incredible popularity. Every week Tammy's Tribe would appear on television. Girls aped their hairstyles and makeup. Pubescent boys and older men fantasised about them. In those days ten by eight publicity glossies of Abbe and Tammy's Tribe were like gold dust, and I enjoyed almost unlimited access to the currency.
She gave me a hug when I said. "You can depend on me, I'll always be here for you."
"I know but somehow it's not the same. No I must be getting old, men just aren't interested anymore. Except for one thing." When she was really down, smoking dope always made her worse. "I fucked Martin off today. Told him unless he was going to make a commitment he should piss off back to his wife." When Abbe was angry or depressed she used the vocabulary of a fishwife.
Martin and Abbe were a long running on/off saga that ran in the background of my life. Martin would get a guilty conscience and stop seeing her. Or she would demand more of their relationship than Martin could or was willing to give, she would issue an ultimatum. Inevitably he would storm out, or she would throw him out. "So once again you're footloose and fancy free." I said trying to cheer her up.
"No it is the absolute end this time. Do you know the bastard turned up here without roses, wine or even a poxy card." I winced at the word, but she never noticed. "I reckon he was only here because I'm a better fuck than his wife. I'm sick and tired of being used. That's why I told him to piss off."
"Poor Abbe." I commiserated, gently rubbing her hunched shoulders. Personally I had always thought Martin was a shit, and that Abbe was wasting herself on him. I knelt behind her, the shoulder rub becoming a massage. Beneath my fingers I could feel the tension in her shoulder and neck muscles. "Never mind. You know no matter how cruel the world out there at least we've got one another. You know you are the centre of my life my Valentine, and I always give you a card"
Every year, for as long as I can remember I have given her a Valentine card. They were a family tradition, giving all the women in the family a Valentine. So each year my father and I gave mother and Abbe Valentine cards. My older sister Abbe was my goddess - tall; she had, and still has, long slim legs, the kind that appears to go up to her waist; her long hair she usually wore tied back in a pony-tail. When she smiled, which was often, her face seemed to light-up as it split in two.
When I was little, I thought she was the most beautiful person in the world. At bedtime when Abbe or mum read me a fairy story I always imagined the beautiful Princess looked like Abbe. She had been my archetype of beauty it was against her that I measured all other women. In my mind I had visualised her as Rapunzel, Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty and all those other characters. When I grew older I applied the same yardstick to potential girlfriends. There was no shortage of girls, my tall willowy body and long legs were like a magnet to them. If a girl was not tall and slim, I would ignore her advances.
Like all boys, as I got older I began to notice her body, it was difficult not to. I knew she was not only beautiful, but also incredibly sexy. At least once a week, the dance troupe she worked with, Tammy's Tribe would appear on television. By the time I had reached puberty I could not help becoming aware of her small firm breasts. These were accentuated by large erect nipples that thrust forwards noticeably when she wore a tight fitting top or her leotard. Nowadays I only give a card to Abbe - my mother has always been my Valentine. Confused well read on.
I was born November the fifteenth, nineteen-sixty-four, Abbe was fifteen years older than me. By the time I was conscious of my family Abbe was nearly twenty, mother and father seemed to be ancient - they were in their late forties. A middle-class family, who lived in a semi in a London suburb, a very ordinary family. Each morning Father would catch the train into the city where he worked. A little later I would set off to school. Abbe who started work later would float around the house wearing little more than a caftan, her long legs tantalisingly disappearing under the hem.
The routine continued almost unaltered until I was about eleven years old, when I went from primary to secondary school. It was about the same time Abbe moved out into her own flat.
On February the thirteenth, nineteen-eighty my world fell apart. I was due to go on a school trip to France that Easter and had to get a passport. I had collected a passport application form from the Post Office and completed it. All I needed was my father's signature and my birth-certificate. My headmaster had filled in the referee bit and signed the photographs. When I came home from school mother was out, I went to the cupboard where all the important documents were kept. I sorted through envelopes and folders, house insurance, car insurance, all the paperwork a family accumulates until I found my birth-certificate.
I felt as if I had been punched in the stomach, I stood stunned. Through my tears I read and reread the words. My name, Adam; my date of birth; mother's name, Abbe; father's name, a blank. Realisation dawned, Abbe was not my sister, she was my mother!
If Abbe was my mother, not my sister, the woman I called mother, must be my grandmother. My father was my grandfather. I still had the paper in my hand when mother - grandmother arrived home. To be honest I cannot remember what I said, if I even spoke. All I can recall is her saying. "Oh bugger!!!" That is very clear because mother never swore. She was forever reproving Abbe for using the word, "bloody", and grandfather for his occasional, "damn".
Angry, numb, in shock, I fled to my bedroom, locked the door and refused to come out or even open the door. Looking at the paper I began to piece together my relationships. It was simple really, Abbe was my mother; Mother was Grandmother; and Dad, Grandfather. It did take some time to come to terms with my new family tree.
Then realisation dawned, the people I had trusted to tell me the truth - the people who when I had been evasive or tried to tell little white-lies, had lied to me all my life. Lied to me about who I was. My anger grew!
