I stared at the blank document for a while, marvelling at how easy it was to erase the words, to make it as though they had never been written. If only you could wipe out the past that easily. I tried to imagine what life would have been like if it hadn’t happened, but then again, if it hadn’t . . . I closed down the program and switched off the laptop, then I knelt down on the floor with Monty, whose tail thumped appreciatively as I put my arms around his silky neck. ‘Oh Monty, Monty.’ He licked my face once, then stared at me as if he was trying to read my thoughts. His eyes were a deep, rich brown, like conkers, and they shone with trust, faith and adoration. ‘I don’t deserve it, boy,’ I said, and he thumped his tail again, then I looked into his eyes and I whispered my confession.
‘What’s up?’ Duncan said, making me jump so that I bashed my shoulder on the underside of the table. I hadn’t heard him come downstairs but now he was standing in the doorway looking at me. I froze; could he have heard me?
‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. I woke up and you were gone.’
‘I couldn’t sleep.’
‘Hey, you’re crying.’ He came over and put his arms around me. He was warm and he smelled of sleep, and I hated myself.
‘No, it’s just a cold coming, I think. That’s why I couldn’t sleep – blocked nose.’
He pulled away slightly, looking perplexed as he searched my face with his eyes. ‘Okay,’ he said after a bit. ‘If you say so. You coming back to bed?’
I nodded. ‘In a minute.’
There was a question in his expression before he turned away. ‘Okay.’ He walked slowly towards the door and I could feel him hurtling away from me.
*
Even though I hadn’t finished the book, I went to my book group tonight – Duncan knew I rarely missed and he’d have thought it odd if I’d skipped it. It was at Marina’s, and we were doing Wuthering Heights this time. Most of us had read it before, but we were all up for reading it again. Eve loved this story, and I remembered how she’d romanticised Heathcliff, who was, after all, a cruel obsessive. ‘Just think, Jo,’ she said one evening, her eyes alight with the passion of it, ‘imagine a man loving you so much he’d try to dig you up when you were dead.’ The idea gave me the creeps, but Eve had been moved and excited by the sheer intensity of Heathcliff’s love for Cathy. Eve was a bit like Cathy in that she needed to live somewhere where she could be close to nature. She liked the idea of the windswept moors as much as she loved living near the sea, and when she talked about how being out in the elements made her feel more alive, she made me want to be out there, too. Whenever I thought about that summer in Hastings, I thought of Eve as a sun goddess, but I’d forgotten how she used to love going out in all weathers, how she’d climb up the East Hill cliff so she could stand at the top and feel the wind and the rain on her face. She often talked about travelling to Yorkshire, to see Top Withens on the Pennine Moors, the place where Wuthering Heights was set. Now I thought about it, that was probably one of the reasons I’d moved up north after Scott left – that and the incredibly cheap rent. I never did go to Top Withens, though, even though it was only a few miles from where I lived in Halifax. Sheffield was more tame. Eve would have said it was Yorkshire for wimps; even Duncan sometimes called it Yorkshire Lite, but then he’d grown up near Harrogate where the winters were much colder. The slightly milder climate was one of the reasons Estelle moved here after Duncan’s dad died, that and to be nearer to us, of course.
‘Thanks, Marina.’ I kissed her as I stepped out into the chilly night. ‘Good discussion.’
‘It was, wasn’t it?’ Marina said, smiling as she saw us all out. ‘See you next time.’
It had been a good evening, and even though I’d been thinking about Eve, my thoughts had barely strayed to the Scott situation for the last two hours. But as soon as I was in the car, it all came crowding back. I rooted around in my bag for my phone so I could tell Duncan I was on my way home, but then I had a sudden memory of seeing it plugged into the charger and lying on the kitchen worktop.
There were no lights on in the bedroom as I pulled up outside, so I assumed Duncan was asleep already, but as I opened the front door I saw that there was a light on in the kitchen. He was sitting at the table with a two-thirdsfull bottle of whisky in front of him, and my phone next to it. He took a swig from his glass and banged it down on the table.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Having a bit of a nightcap?’ He didn’t look at me. ‘Duncan?’
He raised his glass again, and I saw his face shift as if he was grinding his teeth. He put the glass down without taking a sip. ‘How long has this been going on?’
‘What? What are you talking about?’
‘This “S” character, whoever he is.’ He nodded towards my phone. ‘Who is it? How long have you been seeing him?’ He stood, pushing the chair back roughly behind him. ‘Christ, I’ve been so stupid. I should have twigged, shouldn’t I? The headaches, the late-night emailing, the days off when you couldn’t quite remember where you’d been or what you’d done. Have you been with him tonight?’
I shook my head vigorously. ‘No, and, Duncan, it’s not what you think.’
‘Ha! Not what I think! God, that’s such a fucking cliché.’
‘I know it’s a cliché, but it happens to be true. This really isn’t what you think.’
He turned to face me; his eyes looked bloodshot. ‘How could you?’
‘I have been meeting . . . someone . . . but I’m not sleeping with him, I swear.’
‘What is it then? Cosy little dinners? Days out on the moors?’
I’d never heard Duncan use this sneering tone before and it felt horrible to be on the receiving end of it. ‘Duncan, please . . .’
He took a gulp of his drink and banged the glass down so hard I feared it might shatter.
‘I thought we were happy,’ he said quietly, looking into his glass. ‘I thought we had the perfect. . . ’ He flicked his head savagely and muttered something unintelligible.
‘Listen to me!’ My tone made him start and he looked up sharply.
It’s . . . it’s Scott; Hannah’s father.’
‘For a moment he looked blank, then it appeared to sink in. It was a good ten seconds before he said, ‘Her father? But I thought. . . I thought he’d cut himself off completely.’
‘Yes, so did I. But he’s changed his mind, apparently, and he’s been back in this country for a few years.’
‘So how long—’
‘Oh, he only contacted me a few weeks ago.’
He sighed. ‘How did he find you?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose it’s not that difficult these days – he’ll have searched my maiden name, found my married name—’
‘And now he wants to see Hannah?’
And that’s not all he wants, I thought, but I just nodded.
Duncan stood up and went over to the kitchen window, hands in his pockets. ‘Christ.’ There was another pause before he said, ‘Well, he can go fuck himself, can’t he?’ He turned. ‘Those anonymous phone calls over Christmas—’
‘Yes, that was him.’
He shook his head, then he looked at me, his eyes searching mine. ‘What have you said? I hope you’ve told him to forget it?’
I nodded. ‘Of course. But he won’t let it go. Thing is, he’s ill. I mean, very ill. He says he only has a few months to live.’
Duncan made a ‘huh’ sound and shook his head dismissively.
‘No, it’s true, I’ve seen him. It’s some sort of cancer. I haven’t asked details but I can see he’s telling the truth.’
Duncan didn’t say anything for a minute, then he walked back to the table and poured himself another drink. He sighed as he sat back down. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
I looked away. ‘I . . . I suppose I thought he might give up and leave me alone. I didn’t want to let him into our lives.’ I turned back towards him, hoping he wouldn’t see that this was only half the truth.
‘Only twice.’
‘Twice?’ He shook his head again and sighed; it was a sad sigh. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this. Why didn’t you trust me to try and help?’
I could hardly bear to see the pain in his eyes. We’d shared so much since we’d been together; I was desperate to let him know that this was no rejection, that I didn’t feel any different. I should have just told him that Scott wanted to see Hannah; there was no reason he’d have thought there was any more to it than that. But I was deluding myself, thinking he’d never need to know. ‘I’m sorry. I just . . . I don’t know, I suppose I hoped I could just make him go away.’
He sighed heavily. ‘Want one?’ He nodded towards the bottle, and I said yes, because this was Duncan acknowledging that I was worried, and that he was with me again, back on my side. I had a problem to deal with, therefore we had a problem to deal with, and he’d help me to sort it out, just as he always had done. Only this time I couldn’t tell him why I needed that drink. He took a clean glass down from the cupboard, poured a couple of centimetres of the rich, honey-coloured Scotch and handed it to me. I took a sip. It was a single malt, the one that Hannah and Marcus had given him on Father’s Day, and it tasted good. I felt the soothing warmth burn down my throat and into my stomach like an instant anaesthetic. That one sip was so dangerously full of promise, the potential for oblivion. It was only in recent years that I’d really begun to understand how my mum ended up like she did.
He swirled the whisky in his glass. His face was more relaxed now, though still distressed. He’d thought I was seeing someone else; I felt chastened by the pain I’d caused, horrified by my power to hurt him. I was relieved that he knew I hadn’t cheated on him but I wanted to say no, don’t be too relieved; don’t think I’m good after all, because I’m not. I’m really not. I took another mouthful of whisky. What if I told him the truth? The whole truth? The idea zipped through my mind. He loved me; he would understand why I did what I did, wouldn’t he?
‘To be honest,’ he said, ‘I find all this quite hurtful. I mean, when did we start keeping secrets from each other?’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I whispered.
‘Anyway,’ he sighed. ‘What do you think?’
‘What do I think?’
‘About him meeting Hannah. Have you said anything to her?’
‘Of course not! He can forget it, like you said. He can’t just turn up and disrupt our lives after all this time.’
‘Well, yes, but I suppose if the man’s dying—’
‘Duncan, you can’t be serious? I’m sorry he’s dying, but why should that give him the right to—’
‘I’m not thinking of him, I’m thinking of Hannah. It was different when he was the absent father on the other side of the world, but if he’s here now, and if he really is dying, don’t you think that she—’
‘No. I don’t. Look, my own father did much the same thing, didn’t he? Buggered off to Oz and virtually forgot he had a daughter. If he’d suddenly turned up after twenty, thirty, forty years, I wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with him, because as far as I’m concerned he doesn’t count as my father any more. He forfeited that connection, and Scott has forfeited his connection with Hannah. You’re her father, for God’s sake.’
‘I know, of course I am. But what about her need to know her roots? Everyone wants to know where they come from, don’t they? And what if she found out that he was here, in the same city as her and at death’s door, and that we hadn’t told her? She might not want to meet him, but I don’t think she’d be too impressed that she’d been denied the opportunity to make up her own mind about it.’
‘Oh God,’ I murmured as I covered my face with my hands. He was right, and I couldn’t see any way out of it. ‘I can’t think straight; I don’t know what to do.’
‘You’ve got to tell her, surely? Then she can decide. And if she says no, he’ll have to leave us alone. If he doesn’t, we’ll get the police involved.’
I let out a half-sob. He stood up, scraping his chair back, and came and put his arms around me. ‘Hey, come on.’ He kissed the top of my head. ‘It’s not good that he’s turned up after all this time, and it’s bound to unsettle Hannah, but she’s a strong girl, and we’re a strong couple. What’s the worst that can happen?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Every couple of days, Duncan asked whether I’d said anything to Hannah. ‘Not yet,’ I kept telling him. ‘I can’t just dump this on her; I’ve got to wait for the right moment.’ I was stalling for time, I knew, still hoping I’d be able to think of something.
I made a point of trying not to call on Hannah too often because I didn’t want to be one of those mothers who was always sticking her nose in, but as I parked the car I realised I’d not spoken to her for three days and it had been almost a week since I’d seen her. I’d been too preoccupied with Scott, and also with Duncan knowing that Scott was around. She hadn’t rung me, though, so I assumed things were okay, but when she opened the door, I could see immediately that they weren’t. She was still in her pyjamas, her hair unwashed and un-brushed, and her eyes were red and puffy. She looked weary and anxious.
‘I didn’t know you were coming,’ she said as I followed her in.
‘I was going to phone, but I thought you might be in the middle of feeding or something.’
‘Sorry about the mess.’ She gestured around the kitchen, which did look a bit chaotic, even for Hannah, then she sat down heavily at the table, slumping in her chair.
‘Where’s—’
‘Marcus has taken him for a walk round the park. It was supposed to be so I could go back to bed, but I can’t sleep anyway so there’s no point.’ She was looking down as she spoke, not making eye contact.
‘Hannah, are you all right, darling? You look—’
‘Like shit. I know.’ She still didn’t look at me.
I paused, not quite sure how to handle this. It was so unlike her. ‘Shall I make us some coffee? Or a cup of tea?’
She shrugged. ‘If you like.’
I squeezed her shoulder as I went past her to fill the kettle. Why hadn’t I come round before? I could have kicked myself for leaving her this long. She was ill, depressed; I was certain of it now. I made the coffee slowly so I had time to think. I knew from some of the young mums at the Project that you had to be careful what you said.
As I carried the mugs back to the table, I could see that her shoulders were shaking. I set the mugs down and put my arms around her. ‘Oh sweetheart, what is it? Whatever’s the matter?’
It was a few moments before she could speak. I tore off some kitchen roll and handed it to her so she could blow her nose. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing wrong,’ she managed to get out between sobs. ‘But he never seems to stop crying.’
‘Have you talked to the health visitor?’ I asked gently. ‘Or the doctor?’
She shook her head.
‘They might be able to suggest something that would help.’
‘Yes, but I don’t want them knowing I’m so rubbish at this.’
I laid my hand on her arm. ‘Listen, darling. You’re not rubbish at this; it’s just taking a while to get used to, that’s all. Do you think you might be depressed? It’s quite common, you know. And it can be fairly easy to treat.’
But I wasn’t sure she was listening. The tears were streaming down her face as she balled up the kitchen towel in her hands. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘I used to think it would be great to push the pram round the park in the afternoons, but he cries and cries the whole time, and then people look at me like I should be doing something about it but if I’ve fed him and changed him and he’s still crying, what else am I supposed to do?’ She looked at me. ‘I had to get Marcus to take the day off today because I don’t think I could have got through it on my own.’
‘Darling, why on earth didn’t you call me? I’d have come over straight away, you know I would.�
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‘Yes, but you’ve got work and stuff and anyway, I’ve got to learn to deal with it some time, haven’t I?’ She wiped her eyes and sighed a shuddering breath.
I stood up and put my arms around her again. ‘No, darling, you don’t have to deal with this on your own. I’m so sorry – I should have come before, or phoned you at least.’ How could I have been so preoccupied? How could I have not seen this coming? There was no way I could lay any more on Hannah’s shoulders now. ‘Have you talked to Marcus about how you’re feeling?’
She shook her head vigorously and pulled away from me. Her eyes were glassy, the tears brimming. She reached behind her and grabbed the kitchen roll from the worktop, reeling off a few sheets and holding them to her eyes to catch the rapidly spilling tears. My poor Hannah; my poor girl.
‘I wanted a baby so badly,’ she sniffed, ‘but I look at him and . . . and he doesn’t feel like mine. I’m trying, I really am, but, oh God, this feels such a terrible, shitty thing to say, but I don’t think I love him.’ Her eyes slipped cautiously in my direction, checking my reaction. ‘At least, not really; not as much as I’m supposed to.’ A fresh wave of tears overtook her and her shoulders heaved as she collapsed against me.
I held her tight and stroked her hair. ‘Oh Hannah.’ Instinctively, I rocked her as though she was still a child, and I did so until her crying subsided a little. After a minute or so, she sat up, reeled off some more kitchen towel and blew her nose.
‘Don’t tell Marcus, will you? He’ll think I’m a monster, that’s if he doesn’t already.’ She looked up at me, then looked away. ‘You must think so, too.’
‘Of course I don’t! And Marcus won’t, either. Having a baby is a massive disruption, not to mention the trauma of giving birth.’ I could hear my professional voice creeping in. I saw this happen so often among the young mothers I looked after, but this was different, this was my own Hannah.
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