Would I have told him about the baby, given a free hand?
I do not know. I’m not sure that I was, am, that brave.
Rose could have grown up as Chris’s second daughter, as beloved as his first. Perhaps there are worse things. Who knows? It is unhelpful, I find, to dwell on alternate lives.
Michael called out with surprise when he heard me on the line – we had spoken just the day before. I told him in two sentences that he was to be a father and that Chris and I were done. He asked if he could phone me back.
I waited, and imagined him pacing the city with a smoke, but it was hot and wet out there, so more likely he simply stood in his room and tried to think. I willed him towards the right decision. The phone rang ten minutes later.
‘OK, Maggie. The situation is this. I will be a father to our child but I cannot live in England. What little I make, I make here. There will not be much, you must understand. What there would have been from my father will not come now, of course. If you want to be here with me, I will do my best. Or I will send you as much as I’m able. That is what I can offer.’
It felt like something. I told him that Chris had taken Bella, that I had money, a decent sum; that Chris had given me cash. Michael asked no questions. His plans changed.
He found us a flat in a Bayswater block and I was in it by Friday. We were renting month to month; nothing certain beyond that.
I shut my new front door with a wheelie case and a plastic bag containing milk, tea and a bottle. I was struck by the smell of other lives and felt a dizziness and a heat and by the time Michael arrived, I was delirious with flu, in bed under blankets in the clothes I’d arrived in. He took me to St Mary’s in the end but I was over the worst.
Two melancholic days as a couple and he told me of his commitment; that was the word he chose. An opportunity he’d been aware of for some time and that now, thank god, thanks to me, he could grab. What did I know of the Hong Kong property market?
‘Commitment?’ I said.
‘I would rather have talked to you first.’
‘Commitment?’ I said.
‘I would have found another way to raise the cash.’
‘What is this, Michael?’
‘Look, I’m in. I’ve borrowed the money already. A short-term loan. There was a deadline.’
‘And so now you need me to hand over mine?’
‘Well, ours, I thought, and when you let me tell you –’
I gave him what he needed, and threw him out. That it was far too much took me very few weeks of paying for myself to see, but I was still rash and haughty then. I fancy though, that was the day I changed. I sat down and did the sums on the ripped-out title page of a novel, and saw how things would be. From then, there were no more stupid mistakes.
He phoned, a lot, but I left Bayswater when the month was up and moved west, began my Queen’s Park life – the first of them. Perhaps he could have found me if he tried.
And, at a stroke, I was back to a Benson; an expediency, nothing more. Names mean nothing to us, to women like me; we take them when they’re offered, and shrug them off when we’re done. What we inherit is written deeper, right into the marrow. It runs all the way through, like a stick of Brighton rock.
I assume he never told his family of his child, of Rose, and got his father’s money anyway. No doubt he went on to lose it. I know that he is dead for I found his obit. in The Times after I heard on Radio 4 that you could search online.
Michael Hughes Kent died after a long battle with cancer in Kingston Hospital on 9 September 2010, aged 59. Funeral to be held at St Mary’s Church, St Mary’s Road, Wimbledon at 10 a.m. and cremation at Putney Vale Crematorium at 11.20 a.m. on 13 September. Family flowers only but donations, if desired, to Cancer Research.
Childless, survived by no one. And buried in England, which surprised me at first but perhaps it is not unusual to end up where we start, despite our best efforts.
It struck me that I could visit his grave, leave some supermarket flowers, a note, or some such. Lay my ghost, make my peace, but it didn’t seem right.
I haven’t thought of him much across the years, but I have a knack for that. It is possible that he felt the whole thing rather badly and yet I feel no sympathy, even now. Our choices demand payment.
46
Something non-dog owners rarely appreciate – the canine’s acute sense of time. One minute to five and Ernie, the previous one, was up standing by his bowl and if I didn’t come, he’d howl for me, such a sad wolfy sound. Buster is less smart but as I rinsed my breakfast things, he started to whine and nose the drawer where his lead is kept.
Two days into the New Year and the park was still busy with larger than usual family groups. The atmosphere felt cheerful and steady now we had passed the fizz of Christmas and I walked briskly through to the Green beyond. The first time that Mo, Paul and I had been together since our celebrations; a lovely day.
Buster saw Sammy first and began to bark and rear. I let him off and he launched towards her, long and low as he gets. Paul’s girls raced in too and they met in a squall of nips and lunges. A parent hurried his children past but we didn’t care; this is dogs’ fun. We met in a three-way hug and started off.
Mo had been in Chislehurst with her eldest and had a wonderful time. She told us of Marks and Spencer canapés and black plastic sacks full of gifts. The eight-year-old got an electric car that he drives around the garden.
Paul had his parents, did tapas; a great success, he had thought, until his father asked when the main course would be through.
I had Boxing Day at home and ate in a restaurant with Rose and her in-laws the day after that. The first time I had met them; she and Will married quietly. It all went well, I think.
The McKinnocks were down from St Albans for the sales and chose a place that she, Sinead, had read about. Vast, glass-lined and Italian; my own dish lacked a certain grace, but she told me that this is the point – the food is ‘real’. Sam sat between his grandmas and I was careful to share nicely. He couldn’t keep his socks on so I held his foot under the table to keep it warm and made him giggle by scampering my fingers up his leg.
Conversation was easy and Rosie and Will seemed relaxed. I found that I drank more than I ate, and listened more than I talked. Little was required of me.
A wedding walked through to an extravagant table, and I saw the bride’s face, a tight clench of joy. Everyone clapped and Will and Rose shared a look of ennui, which I hope is OK.
When I think of my own wedding, I mainly see myself. I know this is not a trick of memory; I felt it on the day. Distant, stuck inside my own head, and happy to be there. Which is not to say that I remember nothing.
We were married in the big bright room of a bland hotel somewhere just inside the M25. A mute place that suited us perfectly. Gold gilt chairs, white flowers, black waistcoated staff, one arm stuck behind their backs. I read its chill as chic.
I enjoyed the shock on the faces of the guests when I appeared at the top of the stairs and they saw I wore a suit. Chris did too; we shared that when the pianist began to maim our favourite song and he looked backwards to find me.
His father walked me up the aisle. There was no other choice, though none of us acknowledged this. As it was, I would have been better on my own. My hand was butterfly light on his arm. He could have been anyone. I needed no one.
There was the polite separation of our families, all stuck smiles and eyes that missed.
I ate nothing of the meal but remember trying to swallow some cake at one stage, a wedge of marzipan that refused to yield.
We danced, as we had arranged, and were soon joined on the creaking stage by his father and my mum. I sniggered into the stiff weft of his jacket at the spectacle, until I looked at her again and saw that she was buoyant and far away and added a kick to her turns. Then we all rushed back to our seats.
I went to bed calm; content even. Happy with my beginnings and confident of my route, that smooth upwards c
urve that was to be my life. I don’t know what Chris felt that night. Something along similar lines, I would guess.
There was a smash at the long table next door, which brought me back. We all looked over, couldn’t help ourselves; me, at least, hoping for drama. Sam lifted an arm to point but Will’s mother pushed it down again efficiently.
‘It’s part of the wedding,’ she cried. ‘Don’t worry! We’ve been to an Italian wedding! Have you not? It was in Verona! Just like Romeo and Juliet. Absolutely wonderful!’
She told us all about it, and as I listened I watched the new couple grind a glass into dust on a white silk square with their perfect shoes.
We had biscotti and Vin Santo; on the house, I think. Sinead’s tone became more reckless and I started to like her better. It amused Rose too, but bothered Will, an only child. The husband, was, is, a blank; though looking back, I think he may have had a moustache.
I described all this to Maureen and the boys as we walked the margins of the park. It made them hoot and us feel that we had chosen our own companions well.
What I didn’t say was that when Rosie and I made our goodbyes, I felt a complicity between us. We shared something in our hug, some outlook or view. I have tried to pin it down; thought at first it might be an opinion on her mother-in-law, though I have no evidence for this, or a more general appreciation of the occasion, of the pleasures of good food and wine. But it didn’t feel like that; it felt like something different. A memory, almost, way past and hazy. Of the way things used to be with us, a long long time ago. I don’t know how I know this, but I do, and I am holding it very close.
In the park, the night felt wild; cold and mobile. There was a moon, but brisk clouds interfered with it. We agreed to take the long route home.
We made a plan, for the following week, to be together outside of the dogs. What and where, as yet unconfirmed. I like the idea, though knowing me I’ll cancel. I am walking too, next month. Morocco is the suggestion, and Susan in charge; she’ll email soon, no doubt.
In my pocket I held a card. A ratty old bear clinging to a pink daisy, a ghastly thing, that read: ‘Thanks a million!!!’ Inside, lots of hearts and a printed message.
Dear Maggie,
Just to let you know that I (soon we!) are fine and settled! I am working. Things are good! Will be in touch soon.
Love to Buster! xoxox
I don’t know where she is. The envelope was franked; she will have bought it off a website. But she is well, and that is enough.
Paul turned off first, then Maureen. We parted in the usual way.
I got home, lit the fire I’d laid before I went out, and settled for the night.
The dog breathes moistly at my feet. I have a glass before me, of whisky – a new one – Peter’s Christmas gift. An Islay single malt with just a splash. It is peaty, but I am coming to like it. Later, perhaps, I’ll pick up a book.
Such are the constituents of my days.
Acknowledgements
I didn’t write this novel alone. That it exists is thanks to three people. First, Jill Dawson, my earliest reader and mentor through Gold Dust, her peerless tutoring scheme. She was the person who made it seem possible: she recognised what I was trying to do before I did and she helped me get it down onto the page. I wouldn’t be an author without her. Next, Antony Topping, my agent, who took a leap of faith on a novel half-done and a writer who couldn’t tell him what happened next. His vision, patience and honesty helped get the manuscript finished. I want to thank him for his time, commitment, and all those annoyingly good ideas. He also found the book a perfect home with Sarah Savitt at Faber. Sarah committed to it instantly, whole-heartedly, and then went on to improve it immeasurably. Her input spanned the biggest questions through to the minutiae. Her talent and rigour got the novel reader-ready. Plus she gave the book its title.
Other thanks go to:
Sophie Portas and Mary Morris and team for their expertise and enthusiasm. Everyone else at Faber who helped realise the book so beautifully.
Hannah Westland, my toe in the door.
Zoe Gardner at Asylum Aid, whose work is so important, for her insight into the complexities of the asylum system.
Tommy Bouchier-Hayes and Adam Luck who offered advice on matters news-related.
Shiraz El Showk, Dorothy Hourston and Francesca Jakobi for their comments, time, and for taking me seriously.
And Neil, Archie and Martha. Thank you for your belief and for your love. I dedicate this book to you.
About the Author
After fifteen years writing strategy for advertising agencies, Alex Hourston took a break to go back to university and her first love: books. She completed a Masters in English and started a PhD, but put it aside when the idea for this novel surfaced. Alex lives outside Brighton with her family.
Copyright
First published in 2015
by Faber and Faber Ltd
Bloomsbury House
74–77 Great Russell Street
London WC1B 3DA
This ebook edition first published in 2015
All rights reserved
© Alex Hourston, 2015
The right of Alex Hourston to be identified as editor of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly
ISBN 978–0–571–31669–4
In My House Page 24