Last Kiss Goodnight

by Teresa Driscoll

  Momentarily she is smiling, as if in another place entirely, while Kate is stilled. Stunned and speechless.

  ‘I’m sorry, Kate. I didn’t plan to tell you today. But the hospital. It was too much. Such a shock. To be there again. It’s the first time I’ve been inside since… ’

  ‘Oh my God, Martha.’

  ‘That house. The double-fronted one. It was a home for single mums. Run by a church charity. They gave you six weeks with the child.’ She repeats the two words very softly like a chant – six weeks – and closes her eyes, sniffing the air then. ‘They don’t tell you, do they? How lovely babies smell.’

  Still Kate says nothing.

  ‘I was very young and my father refused to have me home. With the baby. He was very shocked. Disgraced, he said… I had nowhere to go. I asked for more time, but six weeks was the rule. The woman who ran the home was very religious. Disapproving. Said there were other girls waiting for the beds.’ Martha’s speech is monotone now, the smile gone and one foot still in that other place.

  ‘The adoption people came in every single day, explaining to us all how it would work. And most of the girls were relieved. Just wanted it over. To go back to their lives. I couldn’t understand that.’ She pulls her coat more tightly around her. ‘I pleaded with my father, Kate. Begged him. I thought he was just holding out, you see – to make me suffer a bit. For bringing shame on the family. But he was a very angry man. And then one morning I fell asleep. All the feeds. The broken nights, I suppose. And when I woke up… ’

  And now Kate puts her hand up to her mouth…

  Dr Clarke and the nurse Sarah held their breath also as Martha said it out loud that first time – staring unblinking at the birds outside Millrose Mount’s iron-framed windows. Sarah opened her mouth as if to say something but Wesley raised his hand as a signal that, no. We must let Martha speak. Finish her story…

  ‘I turned over to look at the cot and he was gone, Kate. They had taken him away while I was sleeping. My father’s idea, apparently. To help me adjust to the idea of the adoption. He told them I just needed a little nudge. To come round. To accept it.’

  Kate’s hands – still up to her mouth.

  ‘I know now, of course, that they had no right, no authority whatsoever to do that.’ She is reading Kate’s face. The shock. The horror. ‘And I should have stayed calm. Demanded that they bring him back. In my dreams sometimes, that’s exactly what I do, Kate. I rewrite it. I stay calm. And I make them bring him back to me.’

  Martha closes her eyes as if to picture this. To make this version real. And then continues speaking with her eyes still closed. ‘But I was eighteen years old. And that isn’t what happened.’

  In Millrose Mount, Sarah’s lips were still parted as if to speak – Dr Clarke’s hand frozen in mid-air to stop her, the twin birds listening on the branch outside the window. Martha was standing, her breathing still strained but her body seeming to sink from the shoulders as if the skeleton was slowly losing the ability to support the flesh, so that Sarah moved a chair behind her and helped her very gently to sit down, holding her hand.

  ‘I blew it, Kate. Played right into their hands. I went berserk. Screaming. Throwing things. They locked the door then. Shouting for me to calm down. I suppose they were in a panic too. Hadn’t expected me to lose it so badly. There was a nurse with them and she was whispering about a sedative and I was afraid they would knock me out and so I punched the nurse in the face and because they were standing between me and the door, I tried to get out of the window. I smashed it with my hand. Cut myself. It was an accident but all I could think of was getting to my baby somehow and when I saw the blood – so much blood – all over my arm, and their faces, horrified, I scraped the flesh some more on the glass. And I told them that if they didn’t bring my baby back, right this minute, I would jump.’

  Sarah’s hand was trembling now, still holding onto Martha’s – Dr Clarke standing up, his face white. All his training, his rules put aside – whispering a promise in his head that he would get this poor woman out. If it’s the last thing I do, I will get her out of this God-forsaken place… as Martha whispered, ‘I wish I had.’

  Jumped, that is.

  ‘So that’s how you ended up… ’

  ‘In Millrose Mount – yes. They lied, Kate. All of them. Told the whole story back to front. Said I had tried to jump from that window up there, which was why they took the baby. For his safety. All back to front, to protect themselves. Said I was ill. A danger to myself and the child.’ Martha has again closed her eyes. ‘And my father… ’ Her right hand is clutching the collar of her coat so tightly that the knuckles are white. Another pause then. A breath. A small, disbelieving movement of the chin. ‘He supported their story. Their lies. Said it was for the best. A temporary order…I was taken to Millrose Mount by ambulance, I think. I don’t remember that very well. But I do remember my father saying I could come home when I was better. And it was all behind me.’

  Kate now leans forward, her face in her hands, talking to the ground. ‘Oh my God, Martha. But that’s the kind of stuff that happened in the thirties. Before the war. Not now. Not us. Our generation. There were benefits. By the fifties. I’m sure there were… ’ Frantically she is doing the sums in her head. Working out the dates. Trying to figure what the options should have been. ‘They should have told you. Helped you. And what about the baby’s father? Where the bloody hell was the baby’s father?’

  Martha shifts in her seat now to look more directly at Kate.

  ‘I don’t think Maria’s going to make it, do you?’

  At this Kate’s face darkens.

  ‘The father doesn’t even know he has a child. He was a musician. Had a chance to make a name for himself – abroad. He didn’t want to go. He wanted to stay with me. But he was this amazing person, Kate. This amazing talent. And I didn’t want to hold him back. To have him blame me for missing out on this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity… and so I didn’t tell him. I wasn’t even absolutely sure I was pregnant when he had to leave. So I thought I would be able to tell him everything later, you see. That we could follow him later, once he was established. Me and the baby.’ She brushes a strand of hair from her face, blown across her mouth by the wind. ‘It was a miscalculation. A big mistake. My biggest.’

  Kate stands, turning away also to look again at the sea.

  ‘I just don’t know what to say, Martha. This is so terrible. So completely— ’

  ‘Have you spoken to Toby? About the pregnancy scare? About how you are really feeling?’

  ‘So that’s why you were pushing me to talk to him?’

  ‘Yes. Because I wish so much that I could go back and do it all differently. Because I really do think the truth, however difficult and however awful, is always better. I learned that much too late.’

  ‘Well, I did tell him. And it’s worse than ever. He’s gone home to his parents. But this is not about me, Martha. Dear God.’

  Now they are both staring at the double-fronted house.

  ‘How can I help you, Martha? You need to tell me how I can help you.’

  ‘That’s the problem, Kate. No one can. No one ever could. I got stuck in Millrose Mount – partly my own fault. Now I have absolutely no idea what happened to my son… And no way of finding out.’

  42

  ‘Ice?’

  Josef Karpati stares into the stainless steel bucket in which three shrinking cubes float in a small pool of water along with something which may or may not be a peanut. The bartender-cum-owner of the cheap bed and breakfast two blocks back from Brighton seafront stands impatiently with tongs in his hand.

  ‘Er… Yes, please.’

  Just one of the small cubes is navigated into his Scotch, seeming to disappear almost immediately. Josef finds a smile – relieved the tongs at least missed the peanut.

  He will not complain. In truth, he has struck lucky here. A quiet and shabby establishment run by a man who appears never to watch the news, read th
e papers or care about classical music. Or tabloids offering cash rewards for information about runaway stars.

  ‘So where are you from, then? I can’t place the accent.’

  ‘Yugoslavia.’

  ‘I always wanted to travel.’

  Josef smiles again.

  ‘But the wife was never keen. Always said that’s what’s ruining the business here in Brighton. So many people going abroad for their holidays.’ He wipes his hands on his jumper, Josef understanding now the strange markings down the front. ‘So what brings you here, then?’

  ‘Just looking up old friends.’

  ‘Right.’ He does not look convinced and for a moment Josef is uneasy. On the phone his agent has warned of a complete scrum when he is found. A bloody pantomime. You need to get your arse back here, Josef, and quickly. The papers have gone bananas.

  Five days’ beard growth, a good hat and glasses are fine out-of-doors but he feels vulnerable inside. Can’t wear his hat indoors.

  ‘I was wondering where I might get decent fish and chips?’

  ‘Fish and chips?’ The owner looks surprised.

  ‘Yes – I was in Brighton a long time ago. Had really good fish and chips, I remember.’

  ‘Well – there’s one opposite the old pier. They’re good. Pricey, mind. Or there’s a sit-down place in West Street I quite like.’

  Josef swigs the last of his Scotch and smiles.

  ‘You got your key?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll see you at breakfast, then?’

  ‘Yes. Lovely.’

  The man wipes the bar top with a dirty beer mat, a crescent-shaped streak of grease gleaming in its wake.

  ‘Look, I don’t mean to be pushy but do you know what time you’d like breakfast? It’s just – I know we say eight till ten. But with only you staying at the moment, it would help if we knew.’

  ‘Oh. I see. Well. Whatever suits.’

  ‘Nine o’clock?’

  Josef pushes his glass toward the back of the bar as he stands.

  ‘Nine o’ clock is just fine.’

  He has forgotten how attractive Brighton is. So many years now since that ridiculous, pointless and depressing trip soon after his defection. Martha’s father had so obviously been lying when Josef found him and enquired after her. Challenged him over the letters. Whether any had ever been forwarded.

  We’re estranged. She’s married to a doctor, Josef. In Brighton somewhere. I don’t hear from her. Sorry. And I have no idea what you’re talking about. Letters? Why would you be writing to Martha, anyway?

  Charles’s eyes had darted about at the door, a liar’s eyes. Josef should have pressed him – but he was obviously drunk.

  Reading between the lines of Charles’s obituary in the Times a few years back, it appeared it was drink which finally claimed him. Very sad. An all-too-familiar story. Turning to the bottle when the career bombed.

  Josef stares out to sea and wonders now just as he had wondered that first pointless visit to Brighton… what the bloody hell he would say to her if he did find her.

  Hello, Martha. So how is your life, then? I hear you married. A doctor. Or was your father lying about that too?

  He pulls down his hat, raises his scarf and leans into the wind as he turns onto the seafront road to find the chip shop opposite the old pier. Shame to see it like this. Must have been quite magnificent in its heyday. He imagines for just a second what a marvellous venue it would be for music. Open air.

  Josef sighs. He loves playing out-of-doors, though these days rarely gets the chance. Too high-risk financially, his agent explains. More money in the larger, indoor venues. Keeps the money men happy.

  And so now – for just one self-indulgent, stalking-the-past moment, he imagines playing right here. On the old pier. And he imagines her dancing. Out-of-doors, with the wind in his face and her with her head back, laughing. Swirling round and round out there on the old pier. That tiny mole under her chin…

  The fish is overcooked but the chips are perfect. Crisp on the outside but soft and so steaming hot inside that he almost burns his lips.

  Josef finishes them sitting on a bench, and in his head tries to work out some kind of plan. Two years tops, his agent has predicted on this top-drawer celebrity. Two more years of this big money, Josef, then it’s all over. Yesterday’s man.

  So was this it? Was he saying he was calling time early? Had enough? To be honest, he rather liked having money. The problem for now was no time to spend it. No time to do anything. He didn’t even have the time to enjoy his music any more.

  All those years ago, when he had the invitation to Russia – truth was he should have defected right there and then. He should have refused to listen to Martha. Stayed with her. And OK, so no one would have cared. Noticed even. Someone like him defecting. And he would have been like every other penniless musician and maybe his therapist was right. They would not have made it if he had taken that path. Him and Martha – in the real world. With grown-up responsibilities. But he wishes, above all else, that he had been able to find out. That he had not believed her when she said that she would follow him. Wishes that he had said no to Russia and its state bloody orchestra. And stayed with her.

  And now his agent’s voice again.

  Fantasy, Josef. I’m sorry. But it’s a fucking fantasy, mate.

  He should go back to the B&B. Tomorrow he will remember this moment and wish that he had. But the chips are so salty that he is thirsty again and decides to find a bar. A bar with proper ice.

  He keeps his hat on, which is probably the biggest mistake. Conspicuous. Even then he may have got away with it, most of the customers drunk already, but in the corner is a man in his twenties – a man, unbeknown to Josef, in search of a scoop. A man who has spent the last month working earlies on the local evening paper and lates on a tabloid in London, trying to impress the news editor.

  What you need, Frank, is a scoop. Bring me something good and we might talk about a contract. I’m making no promises, but I want something good.

  So he’s sitting in this bar, this ambitious journalist, nursing his first lager when in walks his future. His scoop.

  ‘Windy evening?’

  Josef nods, pulling down his hat and turning away. Damn. He should have gone straight back to the B&B.

  ‘So – you live here or just visiting?’

  ‘Visiting.’ Josef takes a large swig. If he finishes his drink too quickly, it will look even more suspicious.

  ‘Alan.’ The man is stretching out his hand.

  ‘Paulo.’

  ‘Oh – you’re foreign?’

  ‘Yugoslavia.’

  One more long swig and Josef nods again politely. ‘Sorry. Got to go.’

  Outside he is in a bad movie – the man following him inexpertly – diving, rather obviously, into doorways and behind lamp posts and post boxes when Josef turns. In his room, finally, he phones his agent.

  ‘I think the press have found me. What should I do?’

  ‘Bloody hell, Josef.’ A pause. ‘OK. First thing is, you tell me right now where you are.’

  Josef looks out of the window. Across the road, the man from the bar is getting into a car alongside another man with a large camera bag. He looks beyond them to the night sky and begins to search. For the Big Dipper and the North Star…

  ‘Brighton.’ It sounds ridiculous even as he says it. Still he searches the sky and the stars. Ah yes – there it is. The North Star.

  ‘Brighton Beach?’

  ‘No,’ Josef keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the North Star. ‘Brighton, England.’

  43

  ‘I see they found him. Josef Karpati.’

  Kate is carrying a tray into the conservatory with the day’s newspaper tucked under her arm, to find Martha staring out on the garden. Another clear, crisp day but windy – one of the branches of the laurel by the fence intermittently tapping on the edge of a glass roof panel.

  ‘Can never understand it
myself. All that money, all that talent, and still they’re not happy. They should meet some of the people I deal with in my job. That would open their eyes.’

  Martha turns, eyes distant. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘They found Josef Karpati. In Brighton. Still no idea why he did a bunk. Weird.’

  Martha says nothing.

  ‘Sorry. I’m just rabbiting. Doesn’t matter.’

  Kate pulls the biscuit tin to her stomach, conscious that the lid cannot be removed without force, the backlash likely to spew biscuits everywhere if she is not careful. It takes three attempts but Martha shakes her head at the collection of ginger nuts and digestives, returning her attention to the garden.

  ‘It’s looking good already. The work that you’ve put in. To the garden, I mean.’

  ‘Yes. It will be nice when it all comes together.’

  Silence for a time between them then – Kate sipping her tea, Martha shovelling sugar into hers.

  The thing is, I can only drink tea with vast quantities of sugar. Kate is thinking back. All those bags.

  ‘Do you think it was fate, Martha? Me getting off that bus? I keep thinking about it. You know – destiny. Fate— ’

  ‘It was the knitting.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The baby clothes for Maria. If I’d been knitting a Leo Sayer tank top, you would have stayed on the bus. It wasn’t destiny. Or fate. It was just chance. I mean, I’m really glad it happened. But it was just one of those things.’

  ‘Right.’

  Martha seems distant suddenly.

  ‘Well, I’m not entirely sure I can agree with you actually. I mean – I find it hard to believe – given all we’ve both experienced – been through – that it was just a coincidence.’

  Martha merely shrugs. ‘Destiny. Fate. It’s all nonsense, Kate. Life is just life.’