CHAPTER 38
The letter was waiting for me one Wednesday evening in early May, sitting on the doormat when I returned from a job running a groupage to three addresses in Stafford. The envelope was handwritten, and I didn’t recognise the style, but there was a real stamp on rather than an imprint from an office franking machine, which had been the case with the first letter, the one I had found on the same mat on Tuesday.

That first letter had left me shaken, and that morning my driver had walked me off into the yard after I had snarled at too many of the first site’s warehouse hands and was about to start on the Customs man who had stopped by to check the seals were intact.

“What the fuck is up with you, girl? You about to go on the rag or what?”

“Sorry, Mick”

“Do not piss off the Cussers, Deb. Never. Ever. They have ways to ruin your day if you do. So what is it?”

“Personal news, Mick”

I thought for a few seconds, but in the end, I had to share the news with someone, and I had no way of contacting my Mam or Dad, who were somewhere in Cornwall, and Carol and Pete were on an early holiday in Spain, or I would probably have been sobbing into their embrace.

“Mick?”

“Yes, kid?”

“Could we have a break somewhere, after we drop the loads? I need to talk something through”

“With me?”

I found myself grinning, not in a happy way.

“Who else can I talk this through with?”

“Suppose so. Not up the duff, are you?”

That actually made me laugh, only partly at his assumptions.

“I think I’d actually need to do some shagging for that!”

He coughed out a smoker’s laugh.

“Probably help if you spent less time punching the lads in the gob! Aye, go on, then. There’s a half decent caff on the A34 we can stop at. Warm enough to sit outside for a bit, if you’d like”

I reined in my aggression for the rest of the day, as far as I could, and true to Mick’s promise, the end of our drops saw us on wooden benches at an elderly picnic table. He made himself a roll-up as I read the letter through once more.

“Mick?”

“Aye?”

“You know I’m adopted, don’t you?”

“Aye. You’re still Ken’s girl, far as I’m concerned”

“Goes the same for me. He’s my Dad, she’s my Mam. Always will be. Thing is, I had other parents, birth parents. Over the border”

“What? Paddies?”

“No. Nearer border, you teasing fucker. You know damned well I’m Welsh!”

He grinned back, having achieved his aim of lightening the mood, if only a little.

“Thing is, Mick, I got a letter on Monday”

“From your birth parents?”

“Thank you for that”

“For what?”

“Not calling them my ‘real’ ones”

Not for the first time, I was given a little insight into the depths hidden away in the most unlikely of people.

“Said it yourself, kid. Real parents, aye? Anyway, what they got to say for themselves?”

I sighed, not sure quite how to begin. Both feet together and jump in, Deb.

“Not actually a letter from them, Mick. It’s from some law firm. It’s about probate or whatever it’s called. Seems my father went a few years ago, and my mother’s just followed him”

“Ah, shit, Deb! They sending bailiffs for funeral costs or something?”

“No, not that. My parents were with the Co-Op. Dad, my father, he might have been a nasty bastard, but he was tight with money. Squirreled it away in life policies and stuff like that, and they had a funeral plan all paid up, so no. No bailiffs”

“What, then?”

“Dad and Mam, my real ones, they stirred up some shit when I turned eighteen. Got the Council to sort out my records properly. I think someone over in Flint has a good memory, and it looks like I am the only relative. They put two and two together, and got me”

He perked up a little, roll-up still unlit.

“That mean they’ve left you something?”

I nodded, and he shook his head, looking a little embarrassed.

“Sorry, kid. Should have asked, shown respect, aye? How did they go?”

“According to the letter, my father had an aneurysm. Doesn’t surprise me, really. He was always a nasty bastard, with a nasty temper. He was probably slapping my mother around, not having me there to hit instead, so I hope it fucking hurt. They say my mother went from some complications to do with diabetes”

I shook my head, surprised at how emotional I was getting.

“Never had any respect for either of them, Mick. Dumped me into Care when I was nine, left me to rot. Still feels crap, though, all my history and shit gone up a chimney. What do I do?”

He lit his cigarette, taking a long drag before holding it a little behind him to save me from the smoke.

“Take the fucking money, kid. That’s what you do. What have they got? Apart from a life policy, that is”

“Er, a house”

“Fuck me! That’s going to be a tidy sum, kid! Any plans?”

“No, not really. Put it into the family pot, I suppose. Family’s family”

He shook his head.

“No, kid. That’s just waste. What you do is talk to a money man, independent sort. Get that cash into some sort of high interest account. Let it work for you while you think on what you’d like to do with it. Don’t leave it sitting, OK?”

I nodded, and he reached out to pat my arm.

“Rumours about you are that you spent time in one of those shitholes that were in the papers a few years ago. Not going to ask, but if even half of that’s true, you deserve some good in your life. Speak to Ken and Loz, see what they think. But go and get that money and put it somewhere productive. Now, go and put the boards up on the wagon. You’re driving it back to the yard”.

He was as sound about my windfall as I had expected, saying nothing to anybody at work, and I could see his logic. When I got home that evening, too late to call the law firm, I wrote them a short letter agreeing to meet in order to discuss the legacy.

Those thoughts were blown right out of my head when I had returned home to find the second envelope. It had a Cardiff postmark, and for a second I wondered if it was that copper again, but the address wasn’t typed, and there was a real stamp attached, so it could be…

I sat down hard on the stairs, suddenly terrified that the contents would be a repeat of the earlier one, expressing regret…

Not Mam or Dad. No…

Handwriting. Stamp. Thin and stiff. I tore it open, to find a cream card with a familiar MC’s colours printed on it, together with a single sheet of paper.

The card read “Debbie Petrie is cordially invited by Y Culhwch MC to celebrate the wedding of our brother Goat to Wildcat. Civil formalities will be followed by more traditional event at the Clubhouse. RSVP”

Wildcat? I unfolded the sheet of paper.

Dearest Debbie
I wasn’t sure how to break this to you, because I know how you feel about my Carling, but I knew I had to offer. You have been my best friend for so long, so how could I leave you out of this? I will understand if you say you can’t come, but I really, really hope you can be there for our day. We will do the official bit down at the Registry Office, but then it’s back to the Clubhouse for a proper do. Got two bands in, and there will be no straights at all. Addresses are on the card.

Rosie and Carl

I sat on the second step from the bottom, dropped my face to my knees, and wept.

An hour or so later, I was sobbed out, and shakily rose from my squat to put the kettle on, scooping hot chocolate into a mug after stuffing some savoury pancakes into the oven, mentally thumbing my nose at concepts of a healthy diet. The date of the wedding was four weeks away. I had time to get across to Connah’s Quay before then, which was the one decision I could commit to, thanks to Mick’s advice.

I could take the money, and already had an idea about one use for it. I wasn’t sure if I could take the wedding.