Florence had stopped revolving. She stood with her hand over her face, eyes covered, as though terrified of what she might see. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Martha’s voice was hoarse. “Cassie begged us not to tell anyone. Your father promised her. They had an awful childhood, and—I can’t explain it all now. Oh, Daisy. What did you do?” Martha gave a sob. “Daisy lied, darling. I don’t know how she found out, but she must have heard us talking—you know what she was like.”
“I do, Ma,” Florence said.
“Well, she was wrong, it’s not true. You’re not Daddy’s daughter, you’re his niece, but—oh, you were the one he really loved. ‘My angel.’ That’s what he used to call you.”
“Who was—the father?” She didn’t want to say “my father.”
“I don’t know. A music teacher. Older than her. He did a bunk, but I’m sure we can find out, I don’t want you to—oh dear! Oh, goodness.” And Martha started to laugh, a weak, silvery rattle. “This is all wrong. Get you and Cat back, that’s what I wanted to do. I wanted to do this face-to-face, not for you to find out like this.” She took a deep breath. “Telling you over the phone. It’s just not right.”
“I knew all along, Ma.”
“And you knew all along.” Martha was breathing hard. “I’m sorry. I think I’m going mad.”
“Where is she?” Florence said, trying not to sound as scared as she felt.
“Who?”
“My—my real mother.”
“Your—Cassie. Cassie, of course. I—oh, love. I don’t know. We hadn’t seen her for years.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” Martha drew a deep breath. “I wish—I’ve just started going through the study, all your father’s papers. There must be something there. Last thing I heard, she was in Walthamstow.”
“When was that?”
There was a pause. “Twenty years ago.”
Florence bowed her head. “Didn’t Pa ever—”
“I called her number, darling. She doesn’t live there anymore. I . . . but we’ll see, okay? We’ll find her. Cassie Doolan. But she was married, and I don’t know her husband’s name. I’m sure she’d have changed her name. But, darling, she didn’t want to stay in touch. She was quite adamant about that to your father.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I’m so sorry. But we’ll start looking for her. We will find her.”
“Ma, I need to think about it all. Take it all in.”
“Of course, darling.”
The sound of nothing, crackling over the phone line. Florence imagined the cables running under the sea, through the land, carrying this weight of silence between them, and still she didn’t know what came next, and then Martha cleared her throat.
“Right. That’s enough time. Flo, darling, can I come and see you? I’ll be there by teatime. Would that work?”
She picked at the worn wicker chair. “Ma—I think you’re getting confused. I’m in Florence. I’ll come and see you soon. I will, I promise.”
The voice down the line was amused. “I know where you are, darling. I haven’t lost my marbles. I want to come and see you.”
“What? Come today? Ma, you can’t just jump on a plane and . . .” Florence trailed off. Why couldn’t she?
“I’ve been looking at flights with Cat. They had availability this morning—there’s a flight in a little while leaving from Bristol. I wanted to sit opposite you, tell you all this in a sound and sane way. Look you in the eye, my darling.”
“But that doesn’t mean you have to . . .” Florence looked around. Her mother, here? “It’s so far.”
Martha broke in. “No, it’s not. I’ll see you later. Yes. I’ll be with you for a drink this evening. Gin and tonic. Make sure—”
“Of course, Ma. Lime. Of course, who do you think I am?” Florence smiled, her throat tight.
“I know who you are, my darling. Right, then.” Martha sounded crisp, efficient, as if this was completely normal. “I have your address, and I’ll get Bill to call you with my flight details. I’m perfectly capable of getting a cab from the airport. You have that drink ready. Good-bye, my sweet girl. I’ll see you soon.” And with that, the phone went dead, leaving Florence staring, openmouthed, into her receiver.
Karen
May 2013
THE PAIN STARTED in the morning, right after she booked the taxi. But she’d had these pains before, the midwife had said it was false labor. So she carried on packing. It didn’t take long—she knew what she needed. The list said nighties, but who wore those these days? She had her Juicy tracksuits, three pairs, loads of tees, Uggs, flip-flops, breast pads, nursing bras, and that was basically it. Some knickers. Her iPad loaded with seasons two and three of Modern Family. And some onesies, nappies,
T-shirts, a very, very small hat, and some socks that made her want to cry when she looked at them, they were so tiny. All the rest of that beautiful new gear for the baby, it could be sent on to her mum’s, or Joe could keep it, if he needed it. Whenever that might be.
Karen wasn’t a stubborn woman, she was just determined. She was used to knowing what she wanted in life and going for it. Men got rewarded for being bold; women didn’t. She knew that, and sometimes it meant she had to step back and restrategize. But on this day of all days, things had to go exactly the way she wanted.
Joe had left early that morning, thinking everything was normal.
“Bye, Karen. See you later,” he’d said, halfway out of the kitchen, mind already on the restaurant and the day ahead. Then he’d turned and faced her. “You all right? Yeah?”
“I’m grand.” She’d looked at him. “Thanks, Joe. Thanks a lot.”
“Okay.” He’d smiled, sort of uncertain, like he didn’t know what that meant. “Call me if you need anything, won’t you?”
She’d waited till she heard the door slam, then pulled the little suitcase out from under the bed and, moving slowly as a hippo, packed the last of her meager possessions. She left out Project Management for Dummies, then put it back in. It had been a present from Bill. Sort of a joke, really, because he knew how much she loved business books. How much she loved planning, getting it right. Three pages of that and she’d be calm again. “Like a hit from a bong,” he’d say.
“Part IV: Steering the Ship: Managing Your Project to Success.” She’d been planning for a while, really, ever since they’d met Cat in the lane that day. Did they know it, each of them? They must. Something had happened with them, something before that. He’d run into her kid; it was hardly a rosy start, was it?
She’d asked him about Cat that evening, and Joe had said, “Yeah, she’s great, isn’t she? Really glad she came back.”
Karen knew when people were hiding their feelings. She wasn’t stupid. And Joe wasn’t. She was stumped. She bumped into Cat the following week on the green.
“Joe? He’s brilliant. I’m so glad it’s all working out,” Cat had said happily, and Karen had scanned her expression, searching for cracks in her demeanor, but she could see none.
Suddenly she had felt sick, like she’d throw up there and then. She’d blinked and lurched forward, and Cat had caught her, and Karen had to excuse herself. “I’m tired. Blood sugar low. I think I’d better get home.” Moving slowly back to the flat above the pub, she chewed her nails. Now, now she knew this was all wrong, this brotherly living arrangement with Joe—all wrong. She knew what she wanted, but it was too late.
How could she leave Joe when he’d done so much for her, when he was so excited about this baby? When it was almost certainly his kid? Karen knew she was cornered. She had no idea what to do, and the one thing she knew was that you didn’t start making major life alterations with a tiny baby on board. Unless you were Daisy, and she was no role model. Time was running out. Then the next week, in the pub, Karen saw something magical. She saw a tea towel bein
g thrown.
She was sitting in a window seat in the snug, having a blackcurrant and soda, and wondering whether this would be the highlight of her post-baby social life, when a tea towel sailed through the air toward her. She turned and saw, as though in slow motion, Joe’s hands raised as he threw it, Cat catching it and hugging it to her, eyes shining, that wide mouth with its huge smile.
“You’re a rubbish thrower, Joe Thorne,” she said. “I can see why you got kicked off the cricket team. Jamie’s better than that.”
“You have the coordination of a day-old lamb, Cat Winter. Your legs wobble. And your arms look like a faulty windmill.” Cat’s mouth dropped open in outrage. “It’s true. You’re a crap fielder. Now, get back to work.”
It wasn’t even so much that they were flirting. She really didn’t think anything was going on between them—it was just that they were completely happy, totally absorbed in each other’s company.
Two days later she’d walked into the post office to see them there together at the counter, picking out seeds from a catalogue. Their heads were bent over the pictures as they talked intently about this variety of thyme versus was there room for sorrel—Who eats sorrel? she’d thought. What the hell even was sorrel?
Feeling like Miss Marple cracking the village mystery, Karen had cleared her throat, and they’d turned to apologize for being in the way, and seen her.
“Hello!” Cat had said, beaming. “Wow, that caftan is great. Wish I’d been that stylish when I was pregnant.”
“Oh, hello, Karen, love.” Joe had come over to her. “Everything all right?”
“Fine, fine, I just saw you two in here and thought I’d come in. . . .” She’d nodded coldly at Susan. Susan shifted behind the counter awkwardly.
Suddenly Karen wanted to be on the sofa under a blanket, crying her eyes out. She’d told herself it was the hormones. She felt completely surplus to requirements. “I’ll be off, then. I don’t want to stand around too long.”
“See you later,” Joe had said. “I’ll—get you what you want for tea, yes? Cat, I’d like to try some of those verbena plants. It may be the wrong time to get them, though.”
“I think they can be the first thing we put in the greenhouse, if we ever get round to building it.” She laughed. “I’m sure it’ll collapse at the first gust of autumnal wind. Susan, do you think Len would help us? He built that greenhouse up at Stoke Hall, didn’t he?”
“Oh, he did, a girt big one. They’re ever so pleased with it.”
“Well, maybe that’s it.” Cat leaned on the counter. “I might go over and ask him later. Then you can grow squash and suchlike to your heart’s content, Joe.” She turned to Karen. “And the baby can eat all homegrown food. It’ll be wonderful. A girt big greenhouse!”
Oh, God, homegrown squash. I hate squash. And I’m not going to be one of those mums who spends her time puréeing foods. That’s what supermarkets are for, aren’t they, convenience?
But she smiled at Cat, unable to resist her infectious, happy enthusiasm. “Grow some bacon sandwiches, Cat, my love, and I’ll help you dig them up.”
“Deal.” Cat nodded, as Joe tapped her on the arm.
“The verbena, Cat. What about it? I’d like to try flavoring something like a lamb stew with it. Very delicately, see if it takes.”
She shrugged, smiling at him, and Karen felt a bit sick again.
“Yes, you’re right. Let’s do it.”
“Okay.” He scribbled on the form.
He didn’t even look at Cat when he was talking to her, the way he carefully, solicitously, nervously stared at Karen when asking her how she was or what she wanted, as if she were a Chinese firework with indecipherable instructions that might suddenly explode. Karen left the silly little village shop, the flimsy door banging behind her, the jaunty bell drilling into her tired head.
Karen didn’t know lots of things. She didn’t know if Joe knew he was in love with Cat. Or if Cat knew either. She didn’t know, if she went back home, where she’d end up having this baby—she assumed she’d have to go up to the hospital at Southport. She didn’t know what she’d do afterward, or how she’d care for the baby on her own. She didn’t know if Bill would ever want to speak to her again, and whether it was worth trying. She was pretty certain the answer to that was no. She wanted him to fight for her. He wanted to let her go. She didn’t know why, and she didn’t know how to ask him anymore. Even as the days seemed longer and longer, and she thought of more and more things she wanted to say to him.
I thought we couldn’t have kids.
I thought you didn’t love me anymore.
I’m so, so sorry about your dad, I loved him too.
She was certain of two things: one, she wasn’t in love with Joe, nor he with her, and it wasn’t fair anymore. He’d been good to her, and it was time she grew up and took responsibility.
Two, she had to get out of here and set them both free, because he was never going to do it. If she didn’t go now when there was just one of her, she’d be trapped here until they made other plans, sitting upstairs above the pub with a screaming baby night after night listening to the noise of happiness, of life going on below her. It was time to leave.
• • •
The pain got worse as Karen rang the cab company again.
“Could you tell the driver I’ll need a hand with the bag? And—”
She gave a strangled cry and bent over the bed, breathing hard and trying to moan into the pillow, sweat running down her forehead into her hair.
“Ma’am? Are you all right, ma’am?”
“Yes. I’m pre—aaah.”
Karen rested the phone on the duvet. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. This couldn’t be it; there was no other sign, nothing. It had come on so suddenly, and she wasn’t due for another two weeks, no matter what they’d said at the scan about her due date being earlier than she reckoned. She knew the last time she and Joe had slept together, of course she did. It was false labor, she’d had it for days now. She looked at her watch.
“Ma’am? The cabdriver is just outside now.”
It was do or die. She had a few minutes to get downstairs in case it started again, and she wanted to be in plenty of time for her train. Karen gritted her teeth. “Thank you,” she said, and she put the phone down.
In the center of the coffee table she carefully placed the note she’d written. She’d spent days composing it in her head, setting down carefully and concisely the reason for her departure; and then, at the last minute, writing it out this morning, had suddenly scrawled at the bottom:
PS I think you’re in love with Cat. I don’t know if you realize it, but you ought to do something about it. She’s in love with you too. I want you to be happy, Joe. You’re a good man. X
She eventually got herself downstairs, and as she appeared in the bright sunshine the cabdriver stared at her. Karen realized she must look a sight. Her hair was tied up on top of her head, her shapeless brown maxi-dress looked like potato sacking, and she was bright red, sweating, mascara running down her cheeks. But she straightened herself up and smiled at him. “Thanks. We’re going to Bristol Parkway. I need to catch a twelve p.m. train.” And she buried her head in her handbag, leaning over the seat to check she’d got everything, buying herself a few seconds’ time to stop panting.
“I don’t know, ma’am,” the taxi driver said doubtfully. “I don’t know if you should be traveling. I heard you screaming upstairs—are you, uh, in some kind of trouble?”
Karen faced him, hoping that one day, when this was all a long way in the past, she’d be able to look back and laugh at that moment. In some kind of trouble. “I’m fine,” she said firmly, shielding her eyes from the sun. “I just need—” She stopped. “I just need you to take me to the station.”
“Are you going to have the baby?”
“At so
me point, love,” she said in her sharpest voice. “That’s why I don’t want to stand around chatting. Okay? My bag’s upstairs, could you be very kind and fetch it for me?”
He disappeared upstairs and reappeared with her suitcase, but it was all done with a bad grace. Heaving it into the car, and staring at her again, he said, “Look, I need to call the office again. ’Cause I don’t think we’re insured—health and safety. . . .” he said vaguely.
Karen closed her eyes, trying to stay calm, trying not to burst into tears. “Listen. I booked you and asked you to take me on a job. Are you going to do it or not?”
“I’ll take you,” said a cool, quiet voice behind her, and Karen froze, as though caught in the act. “I’ll take you, Karen,” and she turned round, and there was Bill.
SLOWLY, KAREN STOOD up straight.
“Hello,” he said.
“Bill. Hi.”
He patted the back of his neck awkwardly. “How are you?”
Karen swallowed. “I’m—not too good. This idiot won’t take me to the station.”
“How strange.” He was eating an apple, and he wrapped it up carefully in a paper napkin—it was a very Bill gesture, and the calm familiarity made her head spin. “Where do you want to go?”
“Bristol Parkway,” she said, trying not to sound panicked. “I just want to go home.”
She hadn’t seen him for weeks. He’d kept himself to himself, and she’d heard he’d been away too, to join his mother visiting Florence in Italy, the trip he was always trying to get her to take. He was tanned, and smiling slightly. Karen stared at him as if he were a long, cold drink, something icy and sweet.
The cabdriver had got off the phone with his head office. He jammed his hands awkwardly on his hips. “Listen, love. I can’t take you. Insurance won’t cover it. Sorry.”
“Hey . . .” Karen looked wildly around her at the quiet high street, baking in the late morning heat. “But I need to go now!”
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