‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I can’t think of anything I’d like more.’
Chapter Ten
The first phone call comes at night. At ten o’clock, just as Jude is climbing into bed. She sighs, sliding off the mattress again, stomping across the landing and down the stairs to reach the phone. She should have left it ringing, she doesn’t want to be awake now, she wants to be unconscious, but Jude is unable to leave a phone unanswered.
‘Hello?’
‘Is this Miss Judith Jane Simms?’
Jude’s stomach lurches at the formality. Death. It must be death.
‘Speaking.’
‘Hello, Miss Simms, this is Christine Bradley. I’m calling from Cambridgeshire Social Services. I’m calling with regards to your sister.’
‘My sister?’
‘Frances Isabelle Simms.’
‘But,’ Jude says. ‘I don’t have a sister.’
There’s a pause and the shuffling of papers.
‘Are you not Judith Simms of 10 Green Street, Cambridge?’
‘I am.’
‘Then I’m calling in regards to your sis—’
‘But I don’t have a sister,’ Jude persists. ‘I’ve never had a sister, I’m an only child.’
Again, the shuffling of papers.
‘So,’ Mrs Bradley says, ‘your mother isn’t Margaret Susan Lown and your father … Arthur Marcus Simms?’
Jude eases herself onto the wooden stool beside the phone. She hasn’t heard his name spoken in nearly a decade. Her jaw tightens. It takes a while to get the words out.
‘Yes, that’s my … father. But my mother was Judith Simms. I … I’m named after her.’ Jude closes her eyes to see two hands clasped together, one small and shrivelled, holding onto hers as tight as possible until, at last, it went limp.
‘Ah, I see,’ Mrs Bradley says. ‘OK. Well then, clearly Frances Simms was your half-sister, but that doesn’t—’
‘Half-sister?’ Jude grips the phone, this new, startling information taking a while to sink in. And then she realises something else. ‘Was?’
‘Yes, Miss Simms, that’s the reason I’m contacting you. I’m sorry to say that your … sister passed away two weeks ago.’
‘Two weeks?’
‘She was killed by an aged driver. He had a heart attack at the wheel.’ More papers shuffle. ‘On 13th November at 11.18 p.m. She was returning home from work and … Well, we can give you the full details when you come in.’
‘Come in?’ Jude’s grip on the phone tightens. ‘Why would I come in?’
‘Your sister left a daughter, Gertrude Megan Simms. And she, your sister that is, left a will in which she named you as the guardian of her daughter in the event of her death.’
Jude drops the phone. She stares at it for a few moments, then bends to the floor and fumbles to pick it up, hearing the disembodied voice, tinny and shrill, vibrating out of the speaker.
‘Miss Simms? Miss Simms? Miss Simms?!’
‘Sorry, I’m sorry,’ Jude says. ‘I-I … I have a niece?’
‘Yes, Miss Simms. You do. She’s been staying with a foster family for the last two weeks while we sorted through the paperwork, while the funeral was held, while we located you and double-checked all the facts.’
‘But, but …’ Jude searches her shocked brain for the salient facts. ‘She doesn’t have a father?’
‘We don’t believe so. That’s to say, none is named on the birth certificate and Gertrude says she’s never met him. And he’s not mentioned in Frances’s will. We have investigated the matter, but we have not, as yet, unearthed a father.’
‘And no other family?’ Jude persists. ‘She has no other family?’
‘We think Frances was estranged from her parents – your father, as you probably know, wasn’t in contact with her. We contacted him, and he denied all knowledge of her, and—’
Jude’s jaw tightens again.
‘Now,’ Mrs Bradley chatters on, ‘conditional on your acceptance, of course, we can begin the process of you becoming her official guardian. Anyway, we’d like to expedite the process, given the time of year. It’s never nice for a bereaved child to have to spend Christmas with strangers – you understand.’
Jude finds herself nodding, though vaguely aware that Mrs Bradley can’t see her.
‘But I’m a stranger too,’ Jude says. ‘She doesn’t know me. We’ve never met.’
‘Well, yes, of course,’ Mrs Bradley says. ‘But it’s different. You’re … family. And Gertrude knows who you are, she knows you exist, she very much wants to meet you and, when you do—’
‘She does?’ Jude feels something catch in her throat. ‘Does she?’
Papers are shuffled again.
‘We’d like to introduce you both tomorrow, if possible. And, all being well, issue you with a temporary custodianship while we begin processing the adoption. Then you could be together for Christmas. How does that sound?’
Jude takes a breath. ‘Adoption?’
‘Well, yes, unless you have objections. In that case, of course, Gertrude’s care will revert back to the state.’
‘And what would happen to her then?’ Jude asks, though she doesn’t know why she even bothers. She has a niece. She has family. She has a niece who wants to meet her, who wants to live with her, who – quite possibly – wants to be adopted by her. Tears cloud Jude’s eyes.
‘She’d stay with the same foster family, for now,’ Mrs Bradley says, ‘and since your own father said, in any eventuality, that he’d be unable to care for her, then we’d try to find a suitable—’
‘I’m sorry,’ Jude interrupts. ‘I don’t know why I asked. When can I meet her? Tomorrow? Can I meet her tomorrow?’ Then something else occurs to her. ‘How old is she? I don’t—’
‘She’s eleven. And yes, tomorrow is perfect. We’d like you to come to our offices first, to go through a fair amount of paperwork. Then we’ll take you to her foster home and, all being well, she can come home with you after that. Might that be convenient for you?’
Jude nods again, before remembering. ‘Yes, yes, of course.’
‘You’ll be subject to several home visits from our social workers after that and plenty more paperwork, but that’s all par for the course. Understand?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Jude says. But all she can think about now is the little girl she’ll be meeting tomorrow. Then her sudden joy is eclipsed by fear. What if Gertrude doesn’t like her? What if they have nothing to say to each other? What, after all, does Jude know about children? Absolutely nothing at all. It could be a complete disaster. An awful, devastating, disaster.
Jude is aware that Mrs Bradley is still talking.
‘I’m sorry, what?’
‘I said, we’ll see you tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.’
‘Oh, yes. Yes.’
‘Excellent. Here’s the address. Do you have something to write with?’
Chapter Eleven
Viola hurries along the slippery street, trying to step carefully but quickly, cursing herself for taking too long choosing vegetables at the delicatessen and thus risking missing the morning bread at the market stall. Although they make all the bread in the restaurant, her boss has a secret yen for the olive loaf brought by Derek the bread man, as he’s known, every Thursday morning. Unfortunately, he’s not the only Cambridge resident who feels this way, so every loaf has usually evaporated before eight o’clock in the morning. If only she hadn’t wasted so many precious minutes lingering over aubergines she wouldn’t be risking either his wrath or her neck on the icy streets now.
Perhaps this is why she can never meet her own exacting standards, Viola thinks, because she just doesn’t have what it takes in terms of focus and determination. And, while the thought of this is dispiriting, it’s not nearly as depressing as the thought that she simply doesn’t have the talent. It is this fear that plagues Viola, that gnaws at the edge of her dreams, that keeps her awake and staring at the ceiling at three o’cloc
k in the morning. It would be a cruel God, she thinks, who would give a person desires greater than their capacity to reach for them.
As Viola rounds the corner onto Market Street she sees a short line of eager customers stretching out from the bread stall into the road. Dammit. Viola picks up her pace, half-stepping, half-sliding from the cobblestones onto the tarmac. And then, just as she’s within a few feet of her goal, Viola slips. Her feet fly up from under her and she’s hit the ground, bottom first, faster than her brain registers she’s falling. Her pelvic bones thwack the solid, icy surface, sharp pain shooting up her spine and through every limb.
‘Shit.’ Viola tries to pull herself up but stumbles, her left foot sliding away from her again. ‘Shit.’
‘Are you OK?’
Viola looks up to see an older, embarrassingly handsome man, with dark-black hair and a dark-red scarf, gazing back down at her. Suppressing the urge to say: ‘Of course I’m not,’ instead she manages to give him a half-smile.
‘I’m fine, thank you.’
He reaches out a strong hand and, hesitatingly, Viola takes it, allowing herself to be pulled up off the ground. She brushes herself off, ridding herself of both dirt and humiliation, while simultaneously avoiding his eye.
‘Thank you,’ Viola says again.
‘You’re sure you’re OK?’ he says.
Viola looks up then, meeting his eye. And, as she holds his gaze, she’s aware of the choice before her, a crossroads laying itself down, stone by stone. He’s attracted to her, this much Viola can tell, though she’s not too practised in the art of flirting, and she could quite easily, without saying a word, let him know that she’d say ‘yes’, should he ask. It would only take holding his gaze a little longer, letting her head dip ever-so-slightly to the side. And she could go on a date, start to live a little, prove her mother wrong. The possibility is presenting itself. For a second, Viola hesitates. Then, just as quickly, she glances away to the bread queue.
‘Merry nearly Christmas,’ Viola says, turning to go.
‘Same to you,’ he says. And she can hear the regret that singes his words. The opportunity lingers, the door not yet closed. But Viola steps forward, towards Derek and the dizzying array of loaves, without turning back, and joins the shuffling queue.
‘An olive bread please,’ Viola says as she reaches the front.
‘I’m sorry, love, I just sold the last one to that chap,’ Derek says, nodding towards a retreating figure in a black coat with a red scarf flaring out behind him.
Chapter Twelve
Mathieu strides through the market square, clutching the last olive loaf to his chest. He slows slightly as his shoes slip on the icy cobbles. Keeping himself alive is more important than bringing warm, fresh bread to his son for breakfast. The notion of his own mortality has haunted Mathieu ever since his wife’s death. Hugo is down to a single parent now, so the burden on Mathieu to remain tethered to the earth has doubled, quadrupled even, since the thought of abandoning Hugo to the ‘care’ of his crazy, live-for-the-moment bachelor brother in Paris is more than Mathieu can bear to think about.
Mathieu quickens his pace again. He wants to be home before Hugo wakes. It was unwise, perhaps, to leave the flat while his son slept, since, if he happens to wake early he’ll be scared to be alone. But it is a risk that will pay off if it means Hugo will eat. For a full year after Virginie died, he woke screaming every night. The sound of it would strike Mathieu’s chest like an electric shock. After the first night, Mathieu took to sleeping on the floor of Hugo’s bedroom. When his son started screaming, Mathieu crawled into bed, holding him, stroking his sweaty hair, until he finally fell back to sleep. Sometimes Mathieu would fall back to sleep himself but often he’d stay awake, watching his son, listening to his soft, snuffling snores, fixing his gaze on the reassuring rise and fall of his tiny thin chest.
‘Papa! Papa!’
Mathieu feels the electric shock to his chest as soon as he steps into the flat. ‘I’m here!’ He shouts, ‘I’m here!’
Hugo skids along the wooden floor in oversize socks, barrelling into his father’s belly. He recoils. ‘You’re freezing. Where did you go?’
‘Désolé,’ Mathieu says, starting to tear off his coat. ‘It’s bloody cold out there. I went to get your favourite bread.’
Hugo snatches the white paper bag from Mathieu’s arms, opening it to sniff the hidden treat within. When his son smiles, Mathieu smiles too – an uncontrollable reflex of love and relief, as if their two mouths are linked and the uplift of Hugo’s lips automatically cause his father’s to do the same. Hugo’s smiles are so rare nowadays that they are the cause of great, silent celebration and Mathieu will do well-nigh anything to elicit one. Hell, he’d go to Paris to get the damn bread if he had to. But Hugo won’t eat French food, won’t touch anything his mother used to make, hasn’t for two years now. It pains Mathieu to see his son reject the delights of fresh croissant, palmiers and, hitherto their joint favourite, chocolate and passion fruit macarons. Mathieu also couldn’t touch a macaron for several years, couldn’t even look at one (which didn’t make living in Paris very easy) or stand the smell. But recently, he’s started tasting them again and finds that, instead of making his heart ache with sorrow, with the emptiness of longing, they now bring him a tiny taste of solace.
Mathieu walks into the kitchen to find Hugo spreading thick pats of butter on chunky tears of bread.
‘Use a knife to cut it,’ Mathieu says, though – truthfully – he doesn’t really care. If his son decided to rip into a raw steak with his bare hands, Mathieu would only rejoice. Still, he always thinks it’s best to keep up at least the pretence at standards of normality. In the days after Virginie died, Mathieu couldn’t have cared less for the minutia of everyday living – taking showers, brushing teeth, eating breakfast – but he still tried his best to remember these things, to sleepwalk Hugo through them, to ensure that at least some semblance of ordinary life was preserved.
Mathieu makes himself an espresso, watching his son sitting at the table, chewing as if he’s not eaten in days, which, perhaps he hasn’t. Hugo’s self-enforced starvation is a source of constant worry, though Mathieu tries not to let it show. He secretly rejoices at every piece of bread imbibed, every morsel of chicken, every crumb of cake, every calorie consumed. He watches his son, monitors him, charts his progresses and setbacks. Often, while Mathieu is sitting in the departmental library, textbooks spread out before him, he isn’t engaging in historical research but instead meditating on clever conjuring tricks of consumption he might perform, ways to make food fun again or, at the very least, neutral, benign, bearable.
Chapter Thirteen
Jude stands in the centre of the room, with two social workers and two foster parents standing at the back of the room, and her new niece standing in front of her. She is eleven years old, they’ve told her. But she’s small and Jude would have thought she was much younger, eight at most. And she’s so beautiful it’s almost startling. Jude wants to reach out and touch Gertrude’s soft olive skin, stroke her long dark curls but she holds back.
‘I’m sorry,’ Jude says. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t know you … If I’d known, I would have … I would have loved to have met you before.’
Gertrude stares at her shoes.
Jude kneels down beside her, waiting for a long while until her niece at last looks up and they are eye to eye. Jude gives her a tentative smile.
‘I’m sorry that you’ve lost your mother,’ Jude says. ‘I hope that you will let me take care of you.’
Gertrude returns to her shoes.
‘You don’t have to say anything,’ Jude says. ‘I don’t usually like talking much, either. If you want to come and stay with me, you don’t ever have to talk to me, not if you don’t want to.’
Gertrude glances up. ‘Really?’
Jude nods. ‘Really.’
The girl tips her head to the side, then, as a bird might, carefully studies her aunt, assessing whether or no
t she’s speaking the truth. Then, at last, she reaches out her hand. ‘Gertie.’
Jude takes the small hand in hers. ‘Jude.’
Gertie nods. ‘I know.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Mum told me a lot about you.’
‘She did?’ Jude frowned. ‘But how—’
‘We watched you sometimes. We followed you around a bit. We watched you in the shop. In Gatsby’s.’
‘Oh.’ How is it possible that she did not know about them? Why did she never notice she was being watched? So, it wasn’t true that no one noticed her after all. Jude sighs. Bloody hell. All these years. She had a sister and a niece. And they were watching her. Jude glances at the large sofa facing the large bay window. Snow is falling outside, covering everything outside with a clean coat of white dust. She wants to sit down. It’s all so overwhelming that she just wants to sit down and close her eyes.
‘You came to Gatsby’s?’ Jude says, wondering how her sister had found her. ‘Why didn’t you come in? Why didn’t you introduce yourselves?’
‘Mum wanted to meet you,’ Gertie says. ‘But she was scared you’d be angry and …’
‘Why would I be angry?’
Gertie shrugs.
‘You don’t think I’m angry with you, do you?’
Gertie shrugs again.
‘I’m not,’ Jude says. ‘I could never be.’ She takes a deep breath and tries very hard not to cry. ‘Meeting you is the … the best, the most beautiful and amazing thing that has ever happened to me.’
At this, Gertie turns and walks quickly to the white sofa. She sits, folding her arms and tucking her head into her chest. Jude glances up at the social workers, who look back at her impassively, then at the foster parents, who shrug. Jude waits for a few moments, still kneeling on the floor. Then she stands and goes to the sofa, sitting beside her niece, not too close but not too far. She wants to touch her niece, hug her and hold her tight. Instead, she reaches out and rests her right hand in the space between them.
The Patron Saint of Lost Souls Page 4