Last Kiss Goodnight

by Teresa Driscoll

  No, Mike. I’m so very sorry… Does she remember to say it out loud?

  And when she opens her eyes, she realises that she must have, for he too looks more confused than is fair.

  And Kate is sorry.

  Very, very sorry.

  For everything.

  She walks then, one – maybe two – hours. Barely noticing when the rain begins to fall, and only as the light begins to fade does she finally take the bus home – a dull single-decker – where she knows Martha will be waiting for her.

  She remembers how she tried to explain last night to Toby. About Martha. How somehow she just knew inexplicably but instinctively that she would be safe with her. And needed her.

  But he was pleading with her. We can get through this, Kate. Until in the end she had thumped his chest over and over. And begged him, shouting now, to go. Please, just go. Please, Toby. I can’t be with you. And you need to go. To be happy again. Please, Toby.

  And they both knew it had nothing to do with the Millrose Mount development.

  Or the shops and evictions.

  Or Martha.

  And Toby had cried. Finally, after eight months, he had sat on their sofa, tears pouring down his face – the same seat where Martha sits now, her knitting in a tangle on the floor. The little lamp beside her the only glow in the room.

  ‘Kate – I’ve been so worried about you.’

  And only now does Kate remember it has been raining. Her wet hair, dripping down her neck.

  Eight months and three days.

  She is wondering what it will sound like. Out loud. If the darkness of her dreams can be as thick and choking and dense. If the water will feel as cold. And if the words, when she shares them now with Martha, will sound so black.

  Out loud, here in the same lamplight where Toby finally cried.

  29

  Five minutes either way, Kate reckons, and it wouldn’t have happened. If she had just had an extra coffee – or looked for the bloody toy – it wouldn’t have happened.

  He had Toby’s hair, you see. Completely straight, so it fell into his eyes so easily. She had tried to cut the fringe once herself but it was a disaster and so she had found this really lovely woman, recommended by a friend, who was so patient with toddlers. Had a special apron with little penguins all over it… and took so much care and time.

  The kind of woman who would have looked for Daniel’s toy that morning however late she was.

  The thing is, they were always late back then. What with the childminder and the job and everything. And they were about to go on holiday, so she couldn’t cancel the car service. And when they said there was no gearstick courtesy car – only an automatic – well, what could she do? She begged them to get a different car. She needed to get to the hairdresser’s. And the childminder’s. And later to work.

  And OK, so she’d never driven an automatic, but they were telling her it wasn’t hard. We’ll show you. A doddle. And if they just hurried for the ferry, rather than the bridge, which was always backed up for a mile or so that time of the morning, she would make the hairdresser’s still, and the childminder’s.

  Daniel was whiney because he didn’t have his favourite toy. His duck. But she had found him a rabbit and he quite liked rabbits. When he was a baby. And there really wasn’t time to look for the duck, was there? I mean – you can see that, can’t you, Martha? That if she’d looked for the duck, they would have been late for the garage. And missed the hairdresser’s. And the whole day would have…

  There was only one space left on the ferry and at first the two men had exchanged a weird glance. Muttering something about the barrier. She had asked them if everything was OK. I did ask. I promise you, Martha, I asked if everything was all right. But they shrugged it off. Waved her past. On you go, love…

  And then, at the other side of the estuary, she checked her watch. Come on. Come on. Put her foot down hard, impatient…

  Daniel must have thought it was a ride. Like the fairground. Or the waterpark.

  For as she turned, in that bright and awful flash of realisation, as the car shot the wrong way – backwards, backwards, backwards – he did not even look afraid. His trust in her so complete that even as the broken barrier gave way instantly – even as the first person screamed – even in the shock of that moment, as she waited for the splash of the water – he must have thought it was going to be OK.

  And that trust in his eyes – looking at her urgently for reassurance as he held on to the rabbit he did not even like – as the car hit the water. The last thing he was to feel in his little hands, ever…

  It was the reason she could not bear to look properly at Toby.

  Same eyes, Martha.

  Do you understand?

  Our son. Our beautiful Daniel.

  He had Toby’s eyes.

  30

  Martha has some tinctures in her bag. It takes her a while to decide which one, closing her eyes for a moment to ask the woman who taught her to make them in a farmhouse in France long ago. She can feel again the dew on her feet and the cool breeze of the early morning; the smell on her hands as they gathered the herbs before crushing and boiling. Mixing with the alcohol – brandy and vodka. Then patience. Four weeks. No less. Wait, Martha, wait. Fire Cider made of garlic, onion, ginger and horseradish. Another of elderflower, yarrow and peppermint.

  Take this, Kate. Just a drop on her tongue.

  She does not even try to put her to bed this first night. Brings pillows and a blanket from upstairs and sits in the tall chair opposite the sofa, ready to soak the flannel in the bowl of peppermint water when the fever comes. From the rain.

  And somewhere else.

  Eventually Kate sleeps, her brow tense and hot, only to wake – eyes staring through the objects all around her, through the walls, through the air beyond the garden to the sea – swimming all night through the darkness… searching, searching… until calmer, finally, she closes them as Martha presses the flannel against her head. Sshh, Kate. Hush. Try to rest…

  Only the next day does she move her upstairs. A bath and then bed, where she stays for two days and two nights, Martha sitting with her knitting or a book in the corner – not even retiring to her own room.

  And not until Kate sits up herself to sip soup from a mug do they even speak.

  ‘Has Toby phoned?’

  ‘No.’

  And then her breathing faster. Heavier.

  ‘I’ve done the right thing. Don’t you think? Asking him to go?’

  ‘Sorry? I’m not understanding.’

  ‘Toby.’ Kate’s eyes are still a little wild – staring at a spot on the carpet then making a fist with her left hand and tapping at her chin. ‘He says he doesn’t blame me. But he must. How can he not?’

  ‘Don’t do this, Kate. It wasn’t your fault. It was terrible. Beyond terrible. But— ’

  ‘It was my fault. I shouldn’t have taken the car. I should have challenged them over the barrier.’

  ‘Stop it, Kate.’

  They are silent for a while now.

  ‘I mean – what I’m thinking, what I’m hoping, is that he can be happy again. One day. Don’t you think? Toby. He deserves that chance at least. That he may eventually be able to get past it? With someone else, I mean?’

  Kate is banging her chin quite hard and Martha watches her very closely.

  ‘He wants another baby, Martha.’ Kate’s voice a whisper now – her eyes still fixed on some picture on the carpet. ‘He thinks that one day we should have another child. And I can’t. Won’t. I mean – look at me? Look at what I’ve done. How could I ever… ’

  And now Martha has to step in – to hold Kate’s hand firmly to stop her from hitting herself so hard, at which Kate turns, eyes still wide and wild, clutching onto Martha’s shirt, pulling her closer, her voice almost inaudible. Whispering in her ear.

  ‘They found the toy, Martha.’

  And then the scene, tumbling out – twisted and sharp. The picture of the two wome
n police officers at the door, thinking they were doing a kindness. Bringing comfort. The rabbit recovered from the river two days after the car…

  And Kate is mumbling about the boxes in the hall. Couldn’t remember which one it was in – Martha suddenly realising. Of course. Why she wouldn’t unpack.

  ‘Daniel didn’t even like the bloody rabbit, Martha. I couldn’t bear to look at it. Can’t bear to even think of it.’

  ‘Right. Look at me, Kate. I am going to go through the boxes and find the rabbit. Look at me, Kate. Can you hear me?’ Gently she is taking hold of Kate’s hands, to loosen their grip on her shirt. ‘I am going to find the rabbit and I am going to burn it. Are you understanding what I’m saying? Is this what you want? For me to get rid of the rabbit for you?’

  And later in the garden – ripping paper into an old dustbin, the only thing she can find, praying it will not be too damp. And then the flames and the smoke rising into the stillness of the night sky.

  And as Martha watches it rise – swirling into the blackness to be lost at last, a faint black halo over the wretched old hospital building up on the hill – she tries not to think of the box now opened in the hall.

  With the blankets and the toys – realising now about the muddy footprints across the floor. The picture wrapped in tissue of Toby on the beach, carrying a boy on his shoulders with the same kind eyes.

  Knowing and understanding only now that look in Kate’s eyes on the day they first met. That strange and momentary flicker of recognition and connection.

  Understanding now, at last, the reason she is here.

  31

  Matthew is in a small meeting room on the second floor of the Aylesborough Council offices and has never been more nervous. He was warned on the telephone that this initial session with Aylesborough Social Services will be informal – to get the ball rolling and explain the process. You realise, don’t you, that searching for your birth mother is a sensitive and complex path? That there will be no immediate information?

  The woman assigned to his case is Emily – a skinny, smiley type, with thick almost-white hair cut into a neat bob. She is dressed smartly but somewhat over-formally in a suit with a polka dot blouse, a pendant dangling forward as she places a dark brown briefcase on the desk between them, then produces a large hardback notebook and pearlised fountain pen.

  ‘You’ve been told, I hope, that this meeting is just to explain everything? It’s just we worry that people may not realise how long this might take.’

  Matthew has crossed his legs now and is rocking his right foot in mid-air.

  Emily glances at her notebook as if needing the prompt.

  ‘So, Matthew – the first option is for you to obtain a copy of your birth certificate.’

  ‘Yes – that’s why I’m here.’

  Emily looks down at her notebook again.

  ‘You’re fortunate in starting this now, Matthew. Last year this wouldn’t even have been allowed. The legislation has only just kicked in.’ She is looking a little nervous suddenly.

  ‘What I mean by that is that this process is still very new to all of us. We’re still finding our way. And you understand that counselling for you is a compulsory part of the process? You’re OK about that?’

  ‘Yes. I was told about the counselling. I’m fine about that. All of it… I just want to get on with it.’

  Matthew has read up on the newspaper coverage in the library. The controversy. The fact that some people do not think it wise to allow this. That searching for a birth mother may end in severe disappointment.

  Emily explains it is good – very helpful – that he has provided some papers from his adoptive mother. These allow them to more quickly source and contact the correct adoption agency involved. Sadly, there is no guarantee that records will still be held, but it is at least a start.

  ‘So how long will I have to wait for all this? The counselling? The enquiries?’ Matthew realises only now that he has again crossed his legs and is jiggling his right foot up and down at an alarming rate. He uncrosses his legs yet again and tries to still both his feet on the floor, but it is difficult. He had expected to make progress today. A proper start.

  ‘It’s hard to say.’

  ‘The thing is – I’ve only just found out about all of this. And I really want to get on with it.’

  ‘I can understand that, Matthew.’ Emily is again looking down at his notes, her face softening as she reads. ‘It must have been a terrible shock. Did you really have no idea at all?’

  Matthew begins tapping his right foot on the floor. Outside, the town hall clock chimes. One, two, three. The note is middle A. He pauses to play the major chord in his head – his hands at the keys of Geoffrey’s beloved Steinway for a moment. He releases the pedal with his foot and looks back up at Emily.

  ‘My father didn’t want me to know. My adoptive father, I mean. We don’t get along very well. Apparently he had reservations about the adoption from the off. My mother has only just told me all this.’

  ‘I see. I really am very sorry, Matthew. This is something you must go over with the counsellor. They will be in touch. And I will be too. As soon as I have anything.’ Emily begins to put her papers away. ‘It’s important not to raise false hopes or issue any guarantees, but I promise we will do everything that we can to help you. And we can contact you at the… piano shop? That’s the correct address?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So we’ll be in touch, then.’ She closes her notebook, smiling. ‘And meantime, it would be good if you have someone you can confide in about this. Someone to talk to. While you’re waiting for your official counselling.’

  Matthew stares at her, no idea how to answer. Is this really it? He could not be more disappointed. No progress. The hint at long delays and all this prodding to talk about it when he still doesn’t know how he really feels, let alone what he is supposed to say out loud.

  32

  The following morning Martha gets an early phone call from Carlo begging for her help.

  ‘I hate to ask, but Maria just won’t listen to me. She is winding herself into such a state again. Please come. She will listen to you, Martha. Please.’

  Martha, reluctant to leave Kate for long, arrives at the café to absolute chaos.

  ‘Maria, this is ridiculous.’ Carlo, shaking his head, is chopping a mountain of pistachio nuts while, alongside, Maria expertly fashions leaf-shaped biscuits using a metal cutter.

  ‘Don’t chop those too small, Carlo.’

  ‘This is supposed to be a campaign launch, Maria.’ Carlo pauses to rescue nuts escaping the knife, rolling from the chopping board onto the stainless steel work surface. ‘Not a biscuit competition. Tell her, Martha, will you? Up at six, we were.’

  ‘Are you sure they don’t look like holly leaves? Martha – be honest with me. I don’t want them to look like holly. Just regular leaves.’

  ‘They look terrific, Maria.’ Martha catches Carlo’s eye to wink. ‘I’m sure everything is going to be fine. Shall I make us all a nice cup of coffee? How about that?’

  ‘I’m thinking we won’t put pistachio on all the leaves.’

  ‘The important thing is how many people come. Not the blessed biscuits.’ Carlo turns again to Martha. ‘Do you think many will come?’

  ‘Some people don’t like pistachio, do they? And allergies. People are always talking about allergies these days. Some of the children won’t want nuts on their biscuits. Think of little Anna. Turns her nose up at anything with bits on.’

  ‘I think we’re all probably just a bit nervous, Carlo.’ Martha reaches for an apron, widening her eyes at him again as Maria scoops up a lattice of spare pastry dough and works it into a new ball before sprinkling flour ready for the next batch.

  ‘You know that my father named this café after me.’ Maria pats the dough before rolling furiously. ‘Everyone thought he would use his own name or my mother’s. But no. He named it after me. His first daughter. And now they think they can jus
t come along with their fancy ideas and their fancy new plans. Show her the letter, Carlo. Show her what they’ve come up with.’

  Carlo reaches for an envelope on the shelf and shows Martha a single sheaf of council-headed notepaper.

  ‘They think they can fob us off with some council flat and some soulless square box out on an industrial estate? No passing trade. No trade at all. We would be bankrupt within months.’ Maria wipes her floury hands down her apron and then continues in Italian to her husband, who is shaking his head. She pauses then, turning back to Martha. ‘And the word is they’re getting the schools involved in some competition to support the plan for a new library and to rename the new development up at the old hospital. Dirty tactics, I say. It’s getting nasty.’

  ‘I am in the doghouse, Martha. For suggesting that maybe we really should think about retirement. Take the flat and forget about the café. Admit defeat. Put our feet up a bit.’

  ‘Retire? Give up? Tell him he is insane, Martha. And look at these biscuits, will you? Half with pistachio? Half without? What do you think?’

  ‘I still don’t get why we are even doing biscuits.’ Carlo is shaking his head again.

  ‘The theme, Carlo. It’s the theme.’

  Just then the doorbell to the shop rings and Maria jumps, again brushing her hands on her apron. ‘Oh my Lord – the tree. It’ll be the tree.’

  Martha watches her rush, almost tripping, through to the front of the shop where four of her regulars – tall, muscular fishermen – are arguing as they try to manoeuvre a huge pine, long since bereft of all needles, into a large tub positioned outside – between the wool shop and the café.

  Maria, on tiptoe to secure a better view, waves and then mimes the tipping of a mug with her wrist, to which the supervisor among her volunteers raises a thumb.

  Pouring tea from an enormous stainless steel pot in the corner, she brings Martha up to date.

  ‘For once I am so glad that Carlo ignored me. If he had got round to chopping up the Christmas tree as I’ve been nagging for the best part of the last year, I never would have had the idea.’