by S. E. Lynes
‘Come on, Christopher,’ said Phyllis. He heard her nearness in her voice – she was right there at his knee. ‘Blow out the candles then.’
He breathed in as deeply as he could, his breath snagging with emotion. He could not take his hands from his face.
‘Come on, my love,’ said Phyllis again. ‘Don’t hide.’
Composing himself as best he could, he lowered his hands and blew out all the candles in one go.
‘Great pair of lungs,’ said David.
Phyllis passed the cake to her husband, muttered something Christopher didn’t catch. He wiped his face, unable to speak.
‘Come here, you big daft thing.’ Phyllis took his head in her hands and hugged it to her stomach.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, the warm, soft flesh of her belly against his cheek.
‘Is he crying?’ said Darren.
‘He’s a bit overcome, that’s all,’ said Phyllis. ‘It’s a big day, is this. A big day for all of us.’
‘Can we eat the cake now?’ said Craig.
‘Shut up, Craig, before I brain you,’ came David’s voice, and Christopher wished they would leave him and Phyllis alone, to have this moment together.
Phyllis squeezed his head once more before pushing him back gently and kissing him on the forehead.
‘My darling, darling boy,’ she said, thumbing away his tears. ‘It’s all too much, isn’t it? Of course it is.’ She pressed her forehead to his. ‘My precious lad. You’ve no idea how happy you’ve made me.’
And Christopher did make people happy – I believe that even now. He made me happy. We made each other happy. But sometimes, when we lay our hopes for happiness in another person, we become blind. To others, to ourselves. That kind of happiness cannot last. It did not. It could not.
Chapter Fourteen
Ben picks up his hire car from Heathrow Airport. A red Ford Fiesta, an upgrade he got by charming the woman on the desk. It is a trip, driving on the left-hand side of the road, but he gets used to it quickly enough. He is still tired from the flight but determined to push on. He only has a week, after all.
When he’s made it clear of Heathrow, he pulls into a service station so he can check the map. He’s bought an Ordnance Survey book of Great Britain from a shop in the airport called John Menzies and flips it open now on his lap. He takes notes – the road names, the junctions he will need.
The drive goes smoothly enough. Outside Birmingham he stops and buys a cup of coffee and a bacon sandwich, which he eats in the car. The sandwich is damp, the bread flaccid and the coffee bitter. Still, this isn’t a gourmet tour he’s on. Nor is it business. He should probably stop soon, maybe find a motel, if they even have those here – his flight was so early – 6 a.m. And here it’s only 2 p.m., which feels weird because that’s still 6 a.m., as if time has stood still. He figures if he pushes himself he can reach Railton by 5 p.m. English time. By then for him it’ll be 9 a.m. He should still be OK – won’t be the first time he’s put in crazy hours. Besides, once he’s found the place, he can book a hotel somewhere near. He wonders if they’ll see him today. He hopes so. He is very persuasive, so Martha says, and anyway, how hard can it be to persuade a nun?
He pats his chest and feels the documents in his pocket. His birth certificate, his passport. They’re enough, he hopes. They’d better be.
Chapter Fifteen
Thursday 9th March
Dear Christopher,
Happy birthday! I hope this card arrives in time! We loved having you here. Me especially, but David and the boys too. The boys are asking after you, asking if you’ll come again the weekend after this one. They want you to play football with them – they go to the town hall grounds, which aren’t too far away. So will you come? I’ll be in on Thursday night and David’s out at football training (all football mad in this house), so if you give me a ring, we can arrange it. If not, the following weekend or whenever you’re free.
He held the card to his chest. He had promised Adam he would go out that weekend but knew already, had known as soon as he’d read her invitation, that he would head back to her, to Phyllis, instead.
The following Friday morning, he took the train once more to Warrington.
‘I’ve invited my parents for dinner tomorrow,’ Phyllis said as soon as they were in the car. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
He remembered their pictures above the gas fire, and later how he and Phyllis had flicked slowly through the family album together. He had been right: his grandparents were young – fifty-six, only six years older than Jack and Margaret. In the photos, they wore jeans. Christopher had never seen either of his parents wear jeans.
‘Do you have a photo of my father?’ He had found the words to ask her.
She had shaken her head, no. ‘I’m so sorry. I have nothing. But he was tall, like you, with lovely green eyes. And he was kind, like you, I think. He had a kind way about him.’
He could not meet Mikael, could not study him for a likeness. It was not the end of the world, he thought. In fact, he said, it was better that way.
‘In that case…’ Phyllis was saying now as she pulled onto the roundabout. Christopher wondered what she’d said before that – he had been miles away. ‘I can tell you I’ve invited our Miriam, her Brian and their teenage kids, Sophie and Ian. Oh, and David’s mum – his dad passed away last year. She’s lovely, is Helen – you’ll like her.’
A wave of nerves passed through him but he hid it.
‘I’m sure I’ll like all of them,’ he said. ‘I only hope they like me.’
‘Of course they’ll like you. They’ll love you. What’s not to love? You’re my son, aren’t you? Listen, we’ve never been allowed to speak about you all this time, so any opinion they have of you will be from now on, fresh-slate type thing. Even with our Miriam I’ve only talked about you a handful of times. It’s funny – we’ve always called you Martin. It’s the only name we had obviously. But don’t worry, I’ve told them to call you Christopher. I’ve told them you’re not Martin any more.’
* * *
At the house, Phyllis told him more about his father: how he had spoken with a Polish accent – she imitated him – how he had taken her to the Scala in the old town and to the Cavern once in his friend’s car, and how she, no more than a girl, had been impressed by this.
‘I’m sorry I can’t tell you more,’ she said, holding his hand as she always did. ‘Only that the last time I saw him, he took my cigarette lighter and he never gave it back.’
‘I know plenty,’ he said. ‘He was kind. He was tall. He was a Polish sailor. Maybe I’ll meet him one day.’
‘Well, if you do, tell him I said can I have my lighter back.’
Theirs was a conversation begun late, yes, but without end. He made no move to withdraw his hand from hers until, at 4 p.m., the boys arrived from school – all limbs, satchels and coats. Christopher sat quietly in the corner of the kitchen while Phyllis fussed them, gave them jam butties and glasses of milk. After saying cursory hellos to him, his presence apparently nothing special, they disappeared off with their football. Phyllis followed them to the front door and called after them, ‘Zip your coats up, boys. You’ll catch your deaths. And be careful crossing the big road.’
And like that, once again he and Phyllis were alone and he felt the thrill of it in his body. She opened the bottle of Lambrusco he had bought from Morrisons on the way down to Leeds station. ‘You shouldn’t bring stuff like a guest,’ she said, pouring the wine. ‘You’re family now.’
‘It’s nothing.’
He had walked everywhere all week – from the halls into the faculty and back again – and put each bus fare towards the bottle.
She smiled and held up her glass. ‘Here’s to you, kid.’
‘No. To you.’
They were two thirds down the bottle when the front door banged.
Phyllis pulled her hand from Christopher’s. Christopher’s chair scraped across the linoleum, but before he could s
tand or move further from her, David was at the kitchen door, looking from him to Phyllis and back again. Something flashed in his eyes, no more than a glance, before he grinned in his usual way.
‘Christopher brought wine,’ Phyllis said quickly. ‘I know you don’t like this one so I thought there was no harm opening it.’
‘I don’t know,’ said David, shaking his head and pulling a can of Carling from the fridge. ‘Boozing in the afternoon. I’ll have to watch you two.’
* * *
The next day, Saturday, while David took the twins to the swimming baths in Ellesmere Port, Christopher helped Phyllis prepare the buffet for the family. She giggled when he turned to her from the oven, floral oven gloves up his forearms, his glasses fogged up from the heat.
‘What?’ he said, which made her laugh more.
At last she stood back from the table, her brow furrowed. Together they took an inventory: mushroom vol-au-vents, prawn cocktail vol-au-vents, chicken vol-au-vents, a quiche Lorraine, an army of sausage rolls – that’s the collective noun for sausage rolls, said Phyllis – sandwiches of egg mayonnaise, ham and mustard, cheese and pickle; chicken drumsticks that Phyllis had cooked the previous afternoon, Quavers, Skips and crisps, Twiglets, cheese straws with cream cheese inside, skinned peanuts and raisins…
‘Do you think we’ve got enough?’ She turned to look at him, her eyes pleading.
‘I can’t remember what the tablecloth looks like,’ he said. ‘Yes, yes, there’s enough. More than enough.’
‘Are you sure?’ She rubbed her hands and bit her bottom lip. ‘There’s two Sara Lee cakes, so we should be all right, and I’ve got a tub of Wall’s Neapolitan in the freezer.’
‘Phyllis.’ He laid his hands on her little shoulders. It wasn’t the food she was nervous about. Of course, why hadn’t he seen that before? ‘Relax,’ he said, to himself as well as her. ‘It will be fine.’
‘Only it’s… that this is all so wonderful, what’s happened.’ Her eyes brimmed. ‘But it’s so wonderful it’s making me panic.’ She pressed her head to his chest and threw her arms around his waist. He found himself with no choice but to put his arms around her. She was warm against him, and he felt the pulse of her life beating against his belly. He closed his eyes, wanting to savour the feeling, but was conscious that David would be back at any moment. Taking hold of her hands and pushing her back gently he said, ‘I’ll go and have a wash, I think.’ He smelled his hands, as if to reinforce his point. ‘Yes. I smell of egg mayonnaise.’
He was upstairs, bent over the bathroom sink, when he heard the doorbell. He came down, expecting to see David and the boys, but when he went into the living room he was met instead by an older couple. His grandparents then. Here they were.
‘Christopher.’ Phyllis rushed to the door to meet him and took his hand. ‘This is Norman, my dad, and Pat, my mum.’
They smiled at him and said hello. The moment was so very strange, he told me. He was studying them so hard for a likeness to himself, for acceptance too, that when they smiled and said only hello, a sigh escaped him.
Phyllis squeezed then let go of his hand. ‘It’s OK,’ she whispered.
He stepped towards his grandparents.
‘Pleased to meet you.’ The words caught in his throat. He coughed into his fist before trying again. ‘Pleased to meet you. Sorry. Yes, I’m Christopher Harris, your… I’m – I was – Martin.’
‘Pleased to meet you, young sir,’ his grandfather interrupted, saving him. He was tall, Christopher noted with relief, and though his cuff of hair was grey now, in the photos it had been black.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ came his grandmother’s echo. Christopher scrutinised her face but found no evidence he could seize and make his. ‘You’re a fine lad. Isn’t he a fine lad, Norman?’
‘He is that.’
They shook hands. A silence followed. But of course these were the first few seconds of something so new, so unrecognisable, that it was all any of them could do, Christopher felt, not to scatter over the floor like so many spilled cocktail sticks.
The others arrived soon after: his aunt and uncle, his cousins, David’s mother, who would be his step-grandmother, he supposed. Christopher examined them all for clues, for features he could point to and say, Look! Sophie and Miriam both had dark hair; Miriam also had a broadish nose, broader than Phyllis’s. Norman did not have that nose but Pat did, perhaps, or similar, and smiley eyes that gave her a myopic, laughing expression. Ian was tall, almost as tall as Christopher. And then there was his real father to think about, who Phyllis had said was also tall. None of them shared Phyllis’s way of closing one eye a little whenever she joked or found something peculiar. This was something of her that Christopher alone shared. The thought warmed him, like an illicit secret.
‘Tuck in,’ Phyllis said – almost cried out. ‘Don’t stand on ceremony. We’re all family here.’
* * *
Was it all too much too soon? I find myself wondering that, here, now, thinking about everything he told me. For the rest of that term, Christopher spent every other weekend with Phyllis, and it strikes me now that he went from stranger to son quicker than acquaintance to friend, quicker than most people agree to a second date. But that’s the way it happened. Only fools rush in, but love makes fools of us all. And foolishly perhaps, Phyllis helped him with his train fares when she could, money he refused but which she pressed upon him, too insistent and generous for him to fight. She encouraged him to bring his washing, which he did. They spent Saturday mornings watching the twins play football; afternoons, Phyllis taught him to cook in the cosy back kitchen. On Sunday mornings, he went with the family to Mass at St Edward’s Church at the end of the road – was introduced to the priest, Father Jacob, as Phyllis’s son. After Mass, he helped Phyllis prepare the roast dinner while David took the twins to the swimming baths or to the park for a kick-about.
Happiness altered Christopher’s physical appearance. I saw it in the swell of his chest, the way he pulled his shoulders back and how his mouth became an almost permanent smile. During this time, Margaret wrote once a fortnight with news of family life back in Morecambe. Her letters always included his own address in the top-right hand corner, as if to remind him of where he lived. When are you coming home? she asked. Will you be here for Easter Sunday Mass?
But Phyllis had invited him to come with her, David and the twins to Anglesey for a week at Easter.
Dear Mum and Dad,
I won’t be able to come home at Easter unfortunately. I have been invited to stay with some friends in Anglesey, so if it’s all right, I think I will do that.
I am still working hard. There is a lot of work, more than I thought there would be. But I am keeping my head above water. Thank you for the cheque.
Love,
Christopher
The letter was clearly dishonest, but there was a lie of omission here too. Nowhere in it did he admit that he would be away only for the last week of the Easter break, which left plenty of time free for him to visit, time he had chosen not to spend with them.
* * *
Easter came, and with it the news that the police had uncovered another victim: the woman, Yvonne Pearson, another prostitute, had been found under a discarded sofa. She had been there for months.
‘God, that’s terrible,’ said David, closing the Mirror in disgust and throwing it on the coffee table of the rental cottage in Aberffraw. It was mid-morning and he had just returned from the paper shop. ‘That man is pure evil. Who could do that to a woman? Why would anybody do that?’
But it was the thought of the sofa that plagued Christopher. He found himself wondering what kind of fabric covered it, floral or plain, whether it was traditional in style or modern, whether the Ripper had had sexual intercourse with his victim on it prior to putting her body under it. He did not share these thoughts, but once David had finished with the paper, Christopher put it in his bag to take back to Leeds for his scrapbook.
‘Let’
s get out,’ said David. ‘How about a walk along the beach at Llanfaelog?’
‘You go, love,’ said Phyllis. ‘I fancy a read.’
‘Well I need to clean that monster out of my head,’ David replied. ‘Come on, Christopher, finish your coffee and let’s give your mother a break, shall we? Boys! Get your coats!’
Christopher would rather have stayed and talked to Phyllis, but something in David’s manner told him he had to go along. David took the cricket bat and ball, and once on the beach, they stopped to play French cricket. The clear air, the crashing of the waves and the game itself raised their spirits. Soon Christopher found himself laughing at almost nothing – the tennis ball falling through his hands, David and the twins crying out butterfingers, the way David managed to block every ball, with a cry of Did you see that? Boycott’s got nothing on me! performing a silly victory dance in full view of the other holidaymakers. The cold, damp shaggy tennis ball in his hand, Christopher pitched it towards David’s legs but missed.
‘Suffer,’ Darren shouted. ‘You’re rubbish!’
‘He’s too tall to throw all the way down there,’ said David, laughing. ‘And his flares get in the way!’
‘And his hair,’ Darren countered, overexcited as ever, winding his arm like a professional bowler. ‘And his beard. He looks like the Ripper!’
Darren pitched the ball. It hit David on the back of the leg. But only because David had already thrown the cricket bat to the ground.
‘Don’t you ever say that again.’ He was striding towards his son, shouting as he went. His face had darkened, the veins on his neck like cables. Darren shrank away from him, a blush deepening. ‘I don’t want to hear anyone in this family mention that sick bastard, not to me, not to anyone, have I made myself clear?’ David’s chest subsided, giving him a crestfallen look in the aftermath of his rage. ‘Let’s head back,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s getting cold.’