Dear Guy
Repeated attempts to telephone you have confirmed my suspicions that you are Never In, and thanks to your refusal to engage with the modem world and buy either a fax or an answering machine I have had to resort to this primitive form of communication. I only hope it arrives.
I’m afraid I’m going to have to turn down your kind offer to put me up this summer: there has been a major change of plan. Contrary to my earlier gloom-laden projections, the Geography Faculty here has caved in at the eleventh hour and renewed my contract for two years. It was obviously my calling their bluff that did the trick. And on the domestic front Anne-Marie and I are back together and giving things another try. Again, I think it may have been my threat to relocate to London that swung things in my favour. Anyway, we’ll see how it goes. So, all in all, it doesn’t look as though our Grand Reunion is going to take place. Unless, of course, you’re planning a trip to Oz. I never did hear back from Nina, so perhaps you’ll explain my non-appearance. That’s if you have any contact these days. Incidentally, I came across this acknowledgement in a book on desert geomorphology the other day: ‘I am indebted to H. Etchells and others for their work on aeolian processes in dune initiation (1976).’
There: didn’t I promise you everlasting glory.
I hope all is well with you and yours, and that you haven’t been put to much inconvenience on my behalf.
Yours ever,
Hugo
Guy shook his head. Good old Hugo. Unreliable to the last. He refolded the letter carefully and put it in his wallet for safekeeping. He and Nina would be able to laugh about it later; especially the acknowledgement, and the notion of ‘inconvenience’, whose many ironies Hugo would never begin to suspect.
42
On a seat under a beech sapling in the hospital grounds sat Nina and James, lost in a moment of private reflection. It was one of those hexagonal benches surrounding the tree trunk, designed so that even those desiring intimacy are forced to face away from each other.
Presently Nina spoke. ‘It was the blood group thing that got him thinking. He saw you were AB, and he remembered from a conversation we’d had in Algeria that we were both A.’
‘So there’s absolutely no way . . .’
‘Apparently not.’
James gave a dry laugh. ‘Just as I was beginning to get used to the idea.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. I’m as bewildered as you are.’ What she didn’t tell him was that Guy had also in his diary found references to herself and Martin alone together. That time on the beach north of Naples when she had, reluctantly, followed him into the woods. And the first night away from Souk Ahras, when the two of them had shared the tent, while Guy and Hugo slept out in the open. She had told Guy in the Windmill that such opportunities had never arisen, but now she remembered. Her amnesia had not been entirely accidental: it had been preferable to imagine James conceived in a moment of passion, than as a result of a perfunctory screw.
‘At least I never called him Daddy.’
‘That’s funny,’ said Nina. ‘He said something very similar.’
Guy had rung her early in the morning, catching her just as she was leaving for work. She had arranged a ten o’clock interview with the pregnant twelve-year-old and her perpetually slewed mother, in their tenth-floor flat in Elephant and Castle. It hadn’t been a difficult decision to phone and request a postponement. She wouldn’t have been able to give them anything like the attention their plight deserved.
What had surprised her, almost as much as the news itself, was Guy’s attitude. He had relayed his findings haltingly and with many apologies, like a doctor delivering an unexpectedly poor prognosis. After he had begun his fourth sentence with the word ‘unfortunately’, or one of its fellows, Nina had interrupted. ‘If you don’t mind my saying, you don’t sound particularly thrilled with your own discovery.’
‘To be quite honest I don’t know how I feel,’ Guy had replied. ‘I suppose Jane will be relieved not to have to explain everything to the girls. I don’t think she’d ever have accepted it comfortably.’
‘But she seemed to take it so well. When I met her in the pub that time. And James says she’s been very good to him all the time he’s been at your place.’
‘Oh, she’ll always do the right thing,’ said Guy. ‘But not with her whole heart. Our relationship . . .’ he hesitated, as if regretting this drift towards the confessional, ‘. . . did hit a rough patch.’
‘I’m sorry about that. All for nothing, as it turned out.’
‘So it appears. Although . . .’
‘What?’
‘I can’t help feeling a bit, I don’t know, disappointed. I do like James, you see. I thought I’d felt a bond there, a biological bond. Genes recognizing genes. But it was just imagination. He probably didn’t even feel it. He never could call me Dad.’
Nina recalled herself to the present as James eased himself up from the bench, wincing. He had acquired the habit of holding one hand protectively in front of his scar, as if to catch anything that might burst out. ‘Let’s walk a bit,’ he said, picking up his crutches. The physiotherapist had been round earlier with some frightening statistics about the percentage of muscles wasted by one week’s bed-rest, and he was eager to start moving again.
Nina helped him up on to his good foot and they performed a slow circuit of the outpatients unit, past the pathology labs and the ultrasound department and the creche. In spite of the early hour, the steam from hundreds of boiling potatoes rose through the kitchen grilles, with the smell of wet dog. ‘Mash for lunch again,’ said James. At one of the back doors a man was unloading bales of clean laundry – monster decks of cards – from a van. A motorized trolley clattered past pulling its cargo of Foul Waste for incineration, and in the distance came the whoop of sirens as ambulances arrived and departed from Casualty. The sound made the skin on the back of Nina’s neck prickle. We’re the lucky ones, she thought, grasping for reasons to feel cheerful. In a way this morning’s audience with James had been even harder and more uncomfortable than her original, mistaken, confession. As if it wasn’t bad enough that she’d had to admit to being promiscuous and dishonest in the first place, now she’d proved herself incompetent – a fool. Her unnecessary intervention in Guy’s life had very nearly cost him his marriage, if she’d understood him correctly, and James was fatherless once more, except this time with a jaded view of his parents’ relationship, and a fresh sense of what he’d missed.
‘I know I don’t come out of all this very well,’ she said, looking down at her suntanned hands and long, ringless fingers. ‘If you’re angry with me I quite understand.’
‘I’m not angry,’ said James, after a pause in which he seemed to have been trying out various moods to see which one suited. ‘I mean, it’s not as if you’ve been doing this to annoy me.’
‘No,’ said Nina. ‘Of course not.’
‘But next time you come up and say “James. There’s something I must tell you”, I think I’ll have a prior engagement.’
‘You’ll be glad to get away from me,’ Nina said, with half a smile. And James smiled back, but didn’t deny it. ‘But that’s good – all as it should be,’ she went on bravely. ‘You need to move out’ – she looked at him, hobbling beside her – ‘spread your . . . crutches.’
‘Stand on my own foot,’ James agreed, and they grinned at each other.
It wasn’t only James’s reaction that was an issue for Nina. From a practical point of view there was the ticklish problem of money. Out of a sense of belated financial responsibility Guy had offered to pay James an immoderate amount of money for a very modest amount of decorating – work which would in all probability never be finished. Now that it was clear no such responsibility existed, how could the subject possibly be broached without embarrassment, Nina wondered.
‘Would you mind going a bit slower?’ James pleaded, as Nina, preoccupied with these troubling thoughts, began to lengthen her stride.
‘
I’m sorry,’ she said, falling back into step and taking his arm again. ‘I was trying to outrun my worries.’
‘Why should you be worried? Everything’s finally sorted out.’
She marvelled again at his nonchalance. So few things bothered him. ‘I feel guilty. And, as Kerry says, if you feel guilty, you are guilty. I’ve interfered in someone else’s life, and I’ve managed to deprive you of a father – twice.’
James disengaged his arm from Nina’s and put it round her shoulder, heavily, something he’d been in the habit of doing ever since he grew tall enough. ‘I’ve always known who my real father is,’ he said, giving her a squeeze.
She looked up at him, puzzled, and at the same time thinking how handsome he was, in spite of his zippered eyebrow and the shaving rash on his neck. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, failing to catch on.
‘You are,’ he said. And this time the skin on the back of Nina’s neck tingled with pleasure at the compliment, and some of her present gloom evaporated.
43
Early on the day Harriet was due to be discharged from hospital Guy was standing by the entrance to Mortlake Cemetery waiting for Nina. He was holding a large bunch of white chrysanthemums, which he’d bought from the roadside stall for what he thought an indecent amount of money. Term had ended the day before and he still had the twitchy, supercharged manner of someone who has not yet disconnected himself from the rhythm of work. He kept fidgeting and looking at his watch, putting the flowers behind his back and then under one arm, alternately humming and sighing. He often complained of having no time in the day to stop and draw breath, and yet here he was, with an idle fifteen minutes, and not a clue how to spend them.
He had promised Jane he would be back home by midday in time to celebrate Harriet’s homecoming, and then to pack. His secretary, Mary, was lending them her cottage on the Gower peninsula for a fortnight.
A white minicab drew up alongside, bristling with antennae, and Nina emerged, flustered and apologetic, and also bearing floral tributes – a fern and a cactus in full bloom.
‘Must cost you a fortune, all these cab fares,’ he observed, stepping forward to kiss her cheek.
‘I know. I’m through with public transport,’ she said. ‘I’m going to have to go back to owning a car.’ They started to walk through the cemetery, Nina leading the way.
‘Jane’s supposed to be selling one,’ Guy offered, conversationally. ‘An estate, I think. Nice big boot.’ He’d been thinking of the luggage requirements of their family holiday, quite forgetting that Nina would have other criteria.
‘What would I need one of those for?’
‘Oh. Taking hedge clippings to the dump?’
Nina pulled a face. ‘A two-seater would be ample for me. Or do you think I’m too old for a sports car?’
By way of reply Guy hummed a few bars of ‘The Ballad of Lucy Jordan’.
‘Yes, well,’ said Nina. ‘I’ve never driven through Paris in a sports car – though we did drive through Naples in a Land Rover, remember.’
‘It’s not too late,’ said Guy. ‘Do you think that’s what you’ll do when James is off your hands. Travel abroad?’
‘No, I had a vague idea I might get abroad to come to me. Take in language students.’ Nina took a path off to the side between rows of graves, Guy following a deferential pace behind.
‘Does it pay well?’
‘I haven’t a clue. I’d be doing it for the company, not the money.’
‘Speaking of money,’ said Guy, ‘I haven’t forgotten what I owe James for the decorating.’ He patted the bulge of wallet in his back pocket. ‘I’ve got it here.’ He lowered his voice as they passed an elderly woman who was on her knees with a scrubbing brush, cleaning bird-droppings off a headstone. The plot was beautifully tended, laid out like a miniature garden with immaculate, green turf, evidently regularly watered, and a tiny flowerbed. Alongside it neighbouring graves stood neglected and overgrown.
Nina put up her hand as if to ward off further blows to her self-esteem. ‘Oh, please. He didn’t even finish the job.’
‘That doesn’t matter. The guest room isn’t a big priority any more. Our guest won’t be coming.’ He handed over Hugo’s aerogramme. ‘Read that.’
Nina took it from him, shaking her head over the microscopic handwriting. She laughed at the acknowledgement. ‘Typical Hugo,’ she said. ‘I see he got his PhD in the end.’
‘And he’s gone double-barrelled,’ Guy said, pointing out the address label.
‘What a fraud. You know, if he hadn’t got back in touch none of this might have happened.’ She passed the letter back.
‘That’s a thought,’ said Guy. He wasn’t sure whether it was a pleasant or unpleasant thought. He would rather not have gone through the events of the last month or so, but he couldn’t regret having met Nina again, to say nothing of James.
‘There’s one thing I’m grateful for,’ said Nina. ‘Just imagine if I’d told Irene that James wasn’t her grandson.’
Just imagine if I’d told my mother he was, thought Guy.
‘Anyway, speaking of fraud, I really can’t let you part with any money. I feel bad enough about all the trouble I’ve caused you, without obtaining money under false pretences.’
‘It’s James I’m paying, not you,’ Guy pointed out. ‘Anyway, I’m adamant, and so is Jane. The paternity issue is irrelevant.’
Nina considered. ‘I think I’d be more scared of an adamant Jane,’ she decided.
Guy laughed. ‘I know she seems aloof, but it’s just shyness. She’s very rewarding if you make the effort.’
‘You make her sound like one of your Special Needs pupils,’ said Nina. ‘Perhaps we could do a deal over that car of hers. James could use it for learning to drive. Here we are.’
She had stopped beside a white marble stone, which rose as cleanly as a new tooth from its brown grassy bed. Guy read the inscription:
Martin Anthony Shorrocks
Born 6 March 1955
Died 18 July 1976
A beloved only son
Gone but not forgotten
Guy automatically bowed his head before this strange, cold object, which conjured up nothing of the Martin he’d known. At a distance of nearly nineteen years it was hard even to visualize his face with any clarity. He tended only to see Martin as he appeared in the few group photographs that were now in the box in the loft. ‘Forgive me for not coming before. Amen,’ he murmured, conscious that Nina was looking sideways at him with an expression of curiosity. ‘I should have done this years ago,’ he offered, by way of explanation, then he tore the paper off the chrysanthemums and threaded them one by one into the holes in the top of the sunken vase. As a child he had mistaken these metal grilles for air vents – precautions against untimely burial – and had found them slightly unsettling ever since.
Nina unwrapped her potted fern and swapped it for the withered remains of its predecessor, which had been frying in the heat for weeks, unwatered.
‘We used to come often when James was little,’ she explained. ‘And it was a place of pilgrimage for Irene, right up until her illness.’
‘I suppose it’s a comfort to have something to visit,’ said Guy, trying for a second to imagine what it might feel like to be grateful for such meagre comforts, and quickly retreating from the images summoned.
‘It doesn’t mean much to James now. Maybe when he’s older. With kids of his own.’
Guy nodded. ‘Genealogy isn’t a teenage thing, is it?’ He thought of his own father, trawling parish records and dusty archives in vain for some sign of distinction. ‘They live in the present.’ Guy straightened up, his flower arranging complete. For all his efforts, the chrysanthemums stood stiffly in serried rows.
‘Well,’ said Nina, folding the polythene plant holder and pocketing it. ‘His life is still measured in terms. He’s no need to look too far forward or back.’
‘So is mine,’ said Guy. ‘Terms subdivided into the four-weekly int
ervals between paydays.’ He cursed himself for this remark: he hadn’t intended to bring up the subject of money again in case Nina took it as a glancing reference to James and the unpaid debt.
Fortunately Nina’s thoughts had taken a different route. ‘Will Jane go back to work, do you think, when Harriet starts school?’
‘I don’t know.’ Guy shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t like to suggest it in case she thinks I’m putting pressure on her. I’d be quite happy for her to stay at home. But she might see that as pressure too.’
‘Did you tell me she used to be a nurse?’
‘No, a health service manager. She has a troubled relationship with work, Jane does. It’s her perfectionism. She’s never satisfied with her own performance. That’s why she’s so hard on herself as a mother.’
‘I know that feeling.’ Nina held up the flowering cactus. ‘I must leave this for Irene,’ she said, as though Irene herself might be popping by later to pick it up. She made her way to a distant corner of the cemetery which consisted of more recent grave sites, most too fresh to be marked by a permanent stone.
‘You know it’s quite right what you said about Jane,’ Guy went on, when he caught up. ‘She does have Special Needs.’ The idea had never occurred to him before, but it seemed obvious now. Things that more robust people took in their stride – like moving house, or the temporary absence of a friend – she felt as personal tragedies, and yet in the face of calamity, such as they had just experienced, she was strong and brave. ‘You know, the weird thing is,’ he went on, ‘when I told her James wasn’t mine I expected her to dance around with relief. But she didn’t. I mean, I could tell she was relieved, but one remark really struck me. She said, “That doesn’t mean we’ll never see him again, does it?”’
A Dry Spell Page 37