by Jo Verity
Defying his own stricture, he stirred a sachet of white sugar into the instant coffee. Tooth decay was way down his list of things to worry about and he needed all the energy he could muster. It was nine-seventeen on a Tuesday morning and, once again, he had disappeared off the radar. But he couldn’t spend the rest of the day lurking in sandwich bars. It was high time to address his increasing tally of anxieties.
Existentialism no longer seemed the cure-all for his life. The bit about being free to do what he wanted was still appealing but the rider – that he would have to face the consequences of his actions – was daunting. Anyway, how was that going to work, if the consequence of his action twenty-nine years ago was Sadie Ford? His mission for the day, and the reason that he’d cried off work, was to establish if he was Sadie’s father and the obvious place to start was Fay’s birthday book.
31
‘It’s only me.’ Jack had hoped to have the house to himself but Vi and Neil were in the kitchen, leaning over a newspaper that lay open on the table. They looked sheepish, as if he’d caught them doing something that they shouldn’t. He explained why he was home again so soon. ‘I’m feeling lousy. I’m going back to bed.’
His mother fussed, offering hot-water-bottles and, her cure-all, a mug of hot, sweetened milk. Accepting that there was no escaping her attentions, he opted for a cup of tea.
‘We’ve been going through the jobs.’ Neil pointed at the newspaper where a few small ads had been ringed in pencil.
‘Anything take your fancy?’ Jack, who up until now hadn’t been involved in Neil’s search for employment, tried to sound interested.
‘It’s more whether I take their fancy. But now I’ve got a proper CV to send out, I must stand a better chance.’
Vi brought Jack’s tea and, peering at his face, made him sit down. ‘Yes. You do look peaky. You always get those funny blotches on your forehead when you’re going down with something.’
Did he?
Alice. When the kids were young, if they weren’t feeling well, he used to suggest that they were ‘Going down with Alice – like Christopher Robin.’ They were at the age when they found that kind of thing excruciatingly funny, giggling and repeating and embroidering it – ‘Christopher Robin went down with Alice. He’d better take a pill.’ ‘He’d better have his tonsils out.’ ‘He’d better jump off the Severn Bridge.’ Until they had worn the joke threadbare and were weak from laughing. He’d forgotten all that.
He took the scuffed, leather-bound birthday book and the tattered address book out of the drawer in the hall table and, concealing them beneath his jacket, hurried upstairs. Safe in the bedroom, he changed out of his work clothes then, sitting on the bed, took a deep breath and opened the birthday book to ‘May’.
Fay’s handwriting had changed little over the years. Maybe now her descenders were more flamboyant, the crosses on her t’s more careless, but it was still the unwaveringly legible, rounded hand that sat so well with her personality. He checked carefully through the entries of familiar names, ambivalent about the secret they might hide. Family, friends and people he’d forgotten they ever knew – all logged there. Some of them had died – a neighbour; an old college friend; Fay’s cousin who was killed in a car crash on the M3 – but they remained there, on a level footing with the living, although they would never need another birthday card. But no ‘Sadie Ford’. He checked through April. Then June. Finally he went through the whole book and, although Laura, David, poor old David,and Cassidy were all there, he found no entry for Sadie and felt unduly miffed on her behalf.
As a rule, a man finds out that he’s impregnated his wife’s best friend before the baby’s born, not twenty-eight years later. But what did time have to do with it? After all, a father’s for life, not just for Christmas. Laura obviously didn’t think the paternity of her daughter was such a big deal or she would have told him at the time, wouldn’t she?
What had he felt when her saw her last month? It was unthinkable to admit but, until she mentioned it, it had slipped his mind that they’d ever slept together. A psychiatrist would, no doubt, have a more complicated explanation. She’d visited them on the Saturday of the Llangwm carnival, hadn’t she? Was she there when he’d returned early from his ‘conference’? No. He was already home when Fay and Laura came in. Fay had taken her to visit his parents…and take photographs of them. ‘Her project’, she’d called it.
He lay back against the pillows, eyes shut, trying to think, but each thought generated another until his head felt as if it were full of fish, swimming in all directions. ‘This is ridiculous.’ Grabbing the address book, he found Laura’s telephone number.
It rang only twice before she picked up the phone. ‘Hello?’
‘Laura? It’s Jack. Jack Waterfield.’
‘Jack? Is everything okay?’ It was understandable that she assumed a call from him at ten-fifteen on a Tuesday morning could only mean bad news.
‘Yes. Fine, thanks.’
‘Your father’s okay?’
‘Yes. Not too bad. He’s coming home this week sometime.’ She would have more than a passing interest in Harry Waterfield if he were her daughter’s grandfather.
‘That’s good.’ She paused and he knew she was waiting for an explanation.
‘Did you know that Caitlin went up to London with Cassidy at the weekend? We think it’s great that they hit it off so well. And she was thrilled to see Sadie again.’
Another pause. ‘What’s this about, Jack?’ Her voice was warm yet neutral. ‘It’s lovely to chat, but I’m sure that’s not why you rang.’
‘No. I wanted to ask you something.’ He cleared his throat and ran his tongue along his lower lip. ‘When’s Sadie’s birthday?’
She was silent for quite a few seconds and Jack guessed she was assembling her thoughts. ‘Are you asking me if you’re her father?’ She had always been very direct.
Muffled music came from the radio in the kitchen below; someone was cutting the grass with a push-mower in a nearby garden, the fresh-cut scent wafting in through the open window; his heart thudded. ‘Yes, I suppose I am.’
‘She was born on the twenty-first of April, but that won’t give you, or me, the answer. You see I don’t know who her father is. And that’s the truth.’ Then, in an almost reproachful voice, ‘I’m surprised that it’s taken you this long to ask.’
It was his turn to collect his thoughts. ‘But surely you must—’
‘Must I? I don’t know if you appreciate what a pitiful state I was in after David died. I didn’t realise that it was possible to be so cripplingly unhappy. I was staggering from one day to the next, doing whatever it took to get through, suffocating in grief.’ She paused and he knew she was reliving it. ‘You were so gentle and considerate that night and I know we gave each other great comfort. But I had other comforters. Several in the space of a few weeks. Please don’t ask me who they were. I think I went a bit mad. Then, when I found out I was pregnant, I had some crazy idea that the baby was David, trying to get back to me. See – I must have been mad.’ When he didn’t say anything she continued, ‘Don’t you remember how I kept out of your way for quite a while after that visit? Fay was very understanding – she thought it was because I couldn’t bear to be with a couple; to see how David and I might have been. When Sadie was born – and clearly wasn’t a reincarnation of David – I was as vague as I could be about her birth date and the missing father.
‘Sadie and I struggled through those grim years, when she was desperate for a Dad and punishing me for denying her one. It was hard but it was my problem, my choice. Now, at last, she seems happy. Contented. She’s got her Joe, bless him, and it would be cruel to ruin their lives with uncompromising things like DNA tests. Where would it get us all, anyway? I think the best thing for me to do is put the phone down and give you time to consider what I’ve just told you.’
‘But the photos. Why take photos of my parents if you don’t think they’re Sadie’s grandparents?’
‘Yes. I shouldn’t have done that. You heard that my father died recently? That’s probably got something to do with it. Maybe I thought I needed to set the record straight – for myself. It was a stupid, sentimental thing to do. It is possible that Harry and Vi are her grandparents but, again, that’s my problem not hers, or yours or theirs. End of story. I hope you feel the same way. Now, can I ask you a question?’
‘Of course,’
‘Have you said anything to Fay about this?’
‘No, of course not. You might find this hard to believe but the possibility had never crossed my mind until last night, when Caitlin told us that Sadie reminded her of Kingsley.’
There was a pause as Laura assimilated this information which was clearly new to her. ‘Is that what she said? She didn’t mention anything when she was here.’
‘Didn’t you notice similarities, when they were kids? Weren’t you looking for clues? You must have been a bit interested in who fathered your baby.’ It sounded harsh but he didn’t mean it to.
‘Think back. We didn’t get together very often, did we? We couldn’t afford the train fare; you used to work most Saturdays. And when we did, one or other of the kids was off somewhere. Or they had some ghastly hairstyle which made them look like nothing on earth. Or they were sulking in a bedroom, refusing to play happy families.’
‘You’re suggesting that Kingsley and Sadie are two of a kind?’
‘I don’t know what I’m suggesting.’
He’d wrong-footed her but it was nothing to be triumphant about. ‘Sorry. You’re right, Laura. I need to think about this.’
They agreed to speak in a few days time.
‘Feeling any better? You don’t look it.’ His mother was backing down the stairs, dusting between the balusters, and looked up as he came out of the bedroom.
‘I could do with some air. I might go for a walk.’ He wanted to get away from the house and his mother’s ministrations.
‘Will you be all right on your own?’ Neil offered to keep him company. Jack wished he would go and read some dubious magazines in his room, like any other twenty-three year old, and stop being so bloody agreeable.
‘Thanks, but I’m okay.’ He took the car-keys off the hook and, before they could ask him why he was going for a walk in the car, hurried out.
He felt rotten about letting his patients down but, now that Sheila had cancelled his appointments, there was no point in going to the surgery. He knew he should make more of an effort to find out the medics’ prognosis for his father, and what follow-up treatment the consultant planned – although he was convinced the pompous idiot had no idea what was wrong. He would visit the hospital this evening, after his mother had done her shift.
Until then, this mellow September day was all his own.
Having found the courage to confront Laura, he began to believe that this was his day for action, but, as he drove away from the house, he wished that he’d given more consideration to what he was wearing. The shapeless sweatshirt and baggy chinos placed him firmly in the fifty-plus category – accurate but demoralising. He should have gone for something more stylish, more out of the ordinary. He smiled, imagining the fun Iolo had each morning when he opened his wardrobe and decided who to be. Beret and Breton shirt? Fisherman’s smock? Combat trousers? With autumn setting in, he was probably in the garden at that moment, sawing logs in readiness for the first cold snap – a lumberjack, in red checked shirt and sturdy boots.
When he reached The Welcome Stranger, the sight of the open door and the hanging baskets, still crammed with lobelia and trailing geraniums, was tantalizing, but he drove straight past. No yellow-coated Siren guided him this time, but he’d relived the journey so often that he was familiar with every twist in the road, every telegraph-pole, every field gate. He rounded the bend and there, opposite the stag-horn oak, was the sign for the nursery and he swung the car down the narrow lane, into the car-park. Before getting out, he flicked down the sun visor and slid back the vinyl panel that concealed a tiny mirror. This ‘vanity mirror’ was listed as one of the car’s features, alongside air conditioning, air-bags and a sophisticated CD player. Would a potential purchaser, prepared to lash out fifteen thousand pounds on a car, really be swayed by a mirror? He had to admit it was useful, though, as he combed his hair and beard using the emergency comb which Fay kept in the glove compartment.
The nursery occupied a plot about half the size of a football field. Two greenhouses stood on the far side and, next to them, an open-sided shed, roofed with transparent corrugated sheeting. Wooden staging, laden with pots and trays of plants, stretched in all directions and, next to the entrance, there was a quaint wooden summer-house, surrounded by buckets of cut flowers – chrysanthemums, Michaelmas daisies, dahlias. A painted sign on the closed door invited ‘Ring the bell if you want anything.’ Wouldn’t that be something? All one’s desires fulfilled by pressing a bell. Savouring the moment when he would see Non, Jack meandered between the rows of plants, noting how well-cared for they were, how reasonably priced compared with those at the DIY superstore and admiring the neat handwriting – her handwriting? – on the informative labels.
When he thought he might burst with anticipation, he rang the bell, gazing across the tops of the taller plants, eager to catch the first glimpse of her. He perched, alert, on the low stone wall, like a faithful dog waiting for his master to return. Suddenly an exotic, spicy smell filled the air. What was it? Christmas. He could smell Christmas. Looking down, he saw that he’d stepped on one of the thyme plants that sprouted from between the paving stones. Sodding Christmas. It was out there, lurking maliciously at the end of the year, beyond the minefield of family conflict. His spirits plummeted.
‘Hi. Sorry to keep you.’ He swivelled round to see a woman, perhaps a few years younger than himself, short and round-faced, her brown, cropped hair threaded with grey. She wore faded overalls and battered walking boots. ‘I was having a bite of lunch. How can I help?’
This is my action day. ‘Oh, hi. I … I was hoping to catch Non. Non Evans?’The woman smiled. Her startlingly white teeth were large with a slight gap between the central incisors, giving her face an open, child-like frankness and he found himself unexpectedly drawn to the person who might be his rival. ‘She’s in the house.’ She pointed towards the cottage then, turning, looked him hard in the face. ‘Would you be Jack, by any chance?’
‘Good Lord.’
‘We don’t get too many bearded strangers with, how did she put it, “dreamy grey eyes” and,’ she pointed at his car, ‘Cardiff number plates.’ She extended her hand. ‘I’m Ruth.’
Dreamy grey eyes, eh? This time there was no need for covert operations. He hurried up the path to the front door and knocked boldly. The sharp sound reverberated on the far side of the door, soon followed by rhythmic footsteps, getting louder until – Yes! Yes! Yes! – she stood in front of him, composed and welcoming, as though she’d been expecting him for days. ‘Jack.’
‘I was passing…’ He stopped and shook his head. ‘I wasn’t passing, at all. I wanted to see you.’ There, he’d said it and the world kept turning.
‘That’s nice.’ She led him down the cool, dim hallway and into the kitchen – already familiar to him after his reconnaissance raid a week ago. The remnants of lunch for two were spread on the scrubbed wooden table.
‘Don’t let me interrupt…’ He indicated the food.
‘Don’t be soft.’ Her voice had a more pronounced Welsh lilt than he’d remembered and he was taken aback at the inaccuracy of his recollection. ‘Tea?’ She gave the word two syllables, the first long and the second barely, but definitely, there. Teee-uh?
Whilst she filled the kettle and cleared the dishes from the table, he had an opportunity to study her. Today her hair was in plaits, the parting which ran down the back of her head, delightfully crooked. The luscious, shining braids fell forward as she leaned over the sink, exposing her neck, the colour of the milky coffee his mother used to make
. Her arms, sturdy and shapely, were the same scrumptious brown. How mistaken women were if they imagined beauty depended on straight partings or manicured nails.
‘Did you call at The Welcome Stranger?’
‘The door was open as I passed but, no, I didn’t. Are your parents okay?’
‘Well, Mum’s back. And Dad’s on his best behaviour.’
‘They’ve patched up their differences?’
‘For the time being. The cash-flow crisis has been sorted, thanks to you. So we’ll just have to wait and see what the next thing is.’ She grimaced. ‘Trouble is, Dad’s a big kid. He sees something that he thinks will make life easier, or more fun, and grabs it. I think he’s missing the bit of his brain that understands actions always have consequences.’
They were straying into Existentialist country and Jack had a suspicion that Non considered it to be a bad place. ‘I don’t mean to pry but what sort of thing does he…grab?’
‘Oh, the lot. Jobs. Homes. Cars. Pets.’ She paused, obviously saving the most serious until last. ‘And women.’
He remembered Zeena and Iolo’s tender kisses on the pancake-tossing morning. ‘But they’re obviously so happy. So…in tune.’
She sighed. ‘It’s more that Mum’s in tune – but Dad’s tone deaf. Unconditional love, that’s what he expects. Every now and again he pushes her too far. One day she’ll walk out and won’t come back. But not this time, thank God.’ She fixed him with an unwavering gaze. ‘Do you have children, Jack?’
The truth, which had been his ally a few moments ago, bared its teeth, ready to chew him down to size.
‘Three.’ Or maybe four. ‘A daughter and two sons. But they’ve all flown the nest.’ My wife’s still there, though. And my mother’s come home to roost. And then there’s Neil, the cuckoo, who’s usurping Kingsley’s memory. He imagined Fay’s contempt – ‘clichéd metaphor’.