‘Marianne?’
My mother’s face appeared at the door before I had a chance to press my finger against the plastic buzzer. I watched her face, the corners of her mouth lifting involuntarily in what might have been a smile. Reading the pause in my response, she dropped her eyes for a moment.
‘Can I still call you that?’
‘Mum.’
Tears pricked unexpectedly at my eyes as I took a step towards the doorway, feeling my mother’s body collapsing into my arms – an injured bird, too weak to fly away.
We sat together in the kitchen, in companionable silence, before heading through to the living room, my mother making tea, busying herself as ever.
‘I can’t stay long.’
I looked out of the window towards the garden, then back at my mother.
‘How is he?’
‘Here is your tea.’
She set down the cup and pulled tentatively at a chair, slowly lowering herself to sit, as if entering a freezing cold bath.
‘I’m sorry I had to tell you by phone.’ She paused briefly. ‘You’re married?’
It was more a statement of fact than a question. Caught off-guard, I reached for my cup.
‘I’ve seen his picture, in the paper. Lovely-looking man.’
It was a relief more than a shock and I smiled quietly.
‘David.’
‘Yes.’ My mother paused, ‘And you have children together?’
It was too late for guilt on either side.
‘Twin girls,’ I nodded, wondering if I had ever really believed I was truly keeping my family secret, and if indeed I ever really believed she would be falling over herself to get to my daughters even if she had known.
‘They’re nearly three,’ I added, as if it made any difference.
Of course she had known. One of the women on the street would have seen my photograph in one of the magazines they loved to read, arming themselves with facts about other people’s lives. They would have recognised me, of course. It was not that people around here had ever forgotten who I was, more that they had chosen to ignore it, to ignore us – ‘It’s just so hard to know what to say!’ ‘I know, so awkward,’ I’d once overheard some of the school mothers sigh. How much easier it would have been for them years later when I became the source of an altogether more palatable sort of gossip.
I imagined the women on the street arriving at my parents’ door armed with cake, after they heard the news. Perhaps they had finally invited Mum to join their book group.
My mother’s fingers reached for her tea. I watched them tremble as she lifted the cup, the porcelain as thin as her lips.
I paused for a moment, ready to muster an excuse. The girls were still so young, you see, they hated to travel, it was so disruptive to their routine. Perhaps one day she could come to them, in London … But then what would be the point?
‘Can I see Dad?’
My mother kept her face still, the pain held in the space between her eyes. Carefully, she stood, her hand pressed against the back of the chair, taking the pressure off her bones.
‘He’s through here.’
She walked round the perimeter of the table before moving towards the hallway. For a moment her fingers rested on the handle of the living room door, before pushing down, an exertion that seemed to take the full weight of her body.
The curtains in the living room had been drawn tight against the outside world, casting a red hue across the room. Along the opposite wall to the sofa, there was a bed. The outline of my father’s diminished body was laid out beneath the sag of white sheets. For a moment I thought he had already gone.
‘A nurse comes, every morning and afternoon,’ my mother announced with a forced note of enthusiasm, sticking to the particulars, as always; facts were safer than feelings.
I took a step towards the bed, towards the face I could hardly bear to see, the smell of him heavy in the air. There were many ways to say goodbye, but this was not one.
I felt my fingers move towards the thin skin of his wrist, before withdrawing; wary of taking advantage, of the intrusion of my unwanted touch.
‘I’m glad I got to see him,’ I said, turning towards my mother, my voice cracking.
‘He’s still here.’
Her voice threatened to break.
I nodded compliantly.
‘Will you call me when …’
She moved her head towards the window. ‘Thank you for coming.’
‘I’m sorry.’ My voice was brittle as the blown-glass figurine on the windowsill, where my mother’s gaze rested. Pulling the door closed behind me, I took a breath, my vision blurry through the tears. The overbearing silence of the house followed me back out onto the street.
‘How was your day?’ David was in the middle of the kitchen at the marble island, his brows furrowed, concentrating on the newspaper.
Looking up, his expression transformed when he saw me. Moving forward, he pressed his fingers against the skin around my eyes, puffy and red, my cheeks smeared with black.
‘It’s my father.’
My voice was detached; it was all I had to say before the tears ambushed me. I felt my body deflate as David scooped me in his arms, my head pressed against his chest. How long had it been since he had held me like this? And yet still his arms were not enough.
‘Oh, Anna.’
He whispered into the top of my head, gathering me towards him as I struggled to breathe, focusing on the weight of my legs.
The funeral would take place on the same day as the girls’ third birthday, I told David sometime later as we sat at the table, a glass of whisky in front of each of us. That much, at least, was true.
‘We can celebrate another time …’
‘I can’t.’
‘Oh, come on, they’re turning three, they don’t know what date it is. We’ll just tell them their birthday is the following week … You can’t miss your father’s funeral.’
‘It’s a day’s flight each way. I can’t leave the girls.’
‘Don’t be silly, the girls will be fine. Maria’s here. I could come with you—’
‘David.’
My voice was enough to stop him dead.
‘I’m sorry. I’m just … I just want to get on. You know, it would be a military thing and I’m not … I don’t feel connected to that world. I want to remember him as he was.’
My voice settled again.
David remained silent across the table, his hand moving to his glass, his eyes pulling away from mine.
CHAPTER 56
Anna
‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough?’
Even above the clatter of glasses, the voices, raised and narcissistic, moving in Mexican waves across the room, David’s voice had an edge to it that I had come to recognise, to savour even, as a reminder to stay on guard.
Holding his eye, I necked the rest of my glass before returning it to the waiter who hovered next to us, his champagne bottle suspended mid-air, his tuxedo stiff with embarrassment.
‘I’d love some, thank you.’
Smiling pointedly at the waiter, I turned my attention to the enormous ballroom, which rippled with diamonds and silk. Across the floor, at round tables overflowing with discarded glasses, men lifted their hands, perfectly polished women whispering into their ears.
At the front of the room, an auctioneer was talking into the microphone while the crowd whooped with amusement.
‘Aren’t you going to bid, David? Come on, don’t be shy. Don’t I deserve a Caribbean cruise?’
He didn’t even acknowledge me speaking, and my hand moved back to my glass.
It had been a long night and the lipstick had started to pull against my mouth. As I lifted the drink to my mouth, a man with a ‘press’ badge hanging from his neck raised his camera.
‘Mr and Mrs Witherall, isn’t it? May I take your picture?’
David stood to block his view, and then turned to look at me and paused. ‘Well, we were j
ust leaving, but I suppose a quick one …’
Using my hand to steady myself, I felt David lean into me, my eyes struggling to focus against the glare of the flash.
As soon as the photographer had moved away, David reached for my wrist.
‘Come on.’
‘I’m not ready. What about my drink?’
‘Anna. We’re going.’
The room was alive with voices, so no one but David heard me cry out as he closed his hand around my arm. Keeping his voice level, David pulled me to my feet, leading me towards the door.
At the cloakroom, distracted by one of his ex-colleagues, he finally released the grip on my flesh. Turning, grateful for the freedom to slip my arm into my coat, I found myself face to face with him.
‘Anna?’
The strip-lighting of the atrium was startling compared to the darkness of the auction room, and I thought my legs might give way as the blood slid to my feet.
‘What are you doing here?’
My mouth would not form any other words, my eyes refusing to leave his face, refusing to look away in case I should look back and see that I had imagined him, after all. Him, here, in front of me, after so long. I opened my mouth, as if to speak, but it was David’s voice I heard.
‘Are you ready? Oh …’
He stopped beside me. For a moment I couldn’t breathe, but then I heard the words fall from my mouth.
‘Harry …’
His name stung on my lips, my eyes pressing back tears so hard they ached. ‘This is my husband, David. You know Harry …’ I swallowed, my eyes closing for a moment. Remembering just in time, I added, my voice slow, ‘My God, but it has been … years.’
There was a pause while David gathered himself and then he took Harry’s outstretched hand. I remembered that same hesitant movement, the time we had met at the Crown and Goose, what was it, four years ago?
‘Harry, of course. Good to see you.’
All I could feel was Harry’s eyes, not looking at mine, and then David spoke again, more warmly this time.
‘Andrea?’
When I turned I saw that he was addressing the woman at Harry’s side; I had not even noticed her arrive. Again, there was a barely perceptible pause and then Harry filled in the gaps.
‘You two know each other?’
Talking to no one in particular, he added, ‘Andrea works for the firm who put on the charity ball.’
‘Of course, that’s my old firm. Andrea and I, we did work experience together, back in the day.’
Andrea’s face, shining with foundation, was pursed in an expression of curious amusement as she kissed David on both cheeks. She held out a sinewy arm to me, and I looked at it, unsure for a moment what I was expected to do with it.
‘This is Anna, my wife.’
My face rearranged itself into what I hoped was a smile and then I felt David’s hand on the small of my back, my muscles flinching.
‘Well, lovely to see you, Andrea. Harry …’
He nodded.
‘We’d better be off, our taxi …’
‘Please …’
It was Harry speaking this time, and for a dizzying moment I thought he was going to move forward and claim me, but instead he laid his hand on Andrea’s arm.
‘Good to see you.’
With that, his voice was sucked away as David led me out of the high swinging doors and onto the Strand, the February night air scouring my cheeks.
In the time since Harry’s absence my phone had become my most treasured possession, the one reassurance that he had been real after all. The only line of connection left between us, a map of our lies.
It felt strange to be holding it in public, so openly, so close to my office, as if it were nothing to hide. But it was early enough that the bar was practically empty, and besides, by this point I was almost past caring. I had lost my father, I had lost the man I loved. The vision of Harry the night before, arm in arm with that woman … well, it would understandably be enough to drive me beyond rational behaviour, and that was exactly what I needed Harry to see, too.
Taking another sip of my drink, I began to type.
Dear Harry,
I don’t know if you’re reading this, but after seeing you again I’ve realised the guilt is too much. I can’t do it any more. For so long, I’ve been lying to so many people. I have let everyone down. I can’t see any way to absolve my guilt other than to be honest with the people who have stood by me. My family. I’m sorry if that means I’ve let you down too, but I suppose that makes us even.
His reply came within twenty-four hours. I am not sure what pleased me more, his words or the fact that he had still been checking for my messages. In any case, I did not realise how long I had been holding my breath until I finally exhaled, my fingers trembling as I held the phone out in front of me, my eyes passing again and again over his words, allowing them to sink through my skin.
It was Rose who found me there, on the bedroom floor, tears streaming down my cheeks, the phone still in my hand.
‘It’s OK, they’re happy tears,’ I told her as she hovered in the hallway.
Moving reluctantly into my outstretched arms, she let me hold her there against my chest, like a trapped bird.
‘How can you be happy if you’re crying?’ she said at last.
‘You just can be,’ I whispered into her hair.
And in that moment, I was.
I had already decided I would spend the morning in the office, needing the distraction of other people, other thoughts.
It was a good twenty-five-minute taxi ride from the office to the place Harry had suggested. On Goswell Road, I hailed a black cab, my heartbeat drumming as the hyper-branded bars and offices of Shoreditch gave way to the hubbub of Dalston and the leafy, wide open roads of Hackney Downs, before finally the smog of Upper Clapton Road.
The trees across Springfield Park were naked and exposed under a rare glimpse of morning sun. Letting the jacket fall from my shoulders, I settled on the bench at the top of the hill, allowing the warmth to soak through my skin.
Across the valley below, I watched the boats moored along the canal-side, plumes of smoke rising in discreet warnings, their smell tracing across the light wind to where I sat.
‘Anna?’
The voice made me jolt. Allowing myself a moment before I turned, I prepared for the worst.
‘Anna, I’m Mimi.’
I stood up. As we made eye contact, instinctively I took a step back. The woman wore a mauve cardigan, the sleeves of which hung around her wrists as she lifted her hands in a placatory fashion.
‘Harry sent me.’
Her voice was reassuringly soft.
‘Please sit … I’m sorry if this is not what you expected.’
In my mind, all the millions of words I had planned fell away and in their place was only silence as I followed her towards the bench.
‘I don’t have a huge amount of time, but I need you to listen to what I’m saying. Is that OK?’
‘Where’s Harry?’
‘Harry asked me to come here and speak to you, but the fact is we do not have much time, and I know this is difficult but I need you to listen to me …’
I nodded, my fingers running over the flask of whisky in the inner pocket of my bag.
‘My brother Charles, he was one of the drivers for the company in Equatorial Guinea who were paid by TradeSmart to dump the waste that Harry told you about … In the village where we lived, near Bata, there were a number of men like him, low-paid employees who were just doing as they were told and had no reason to question it. The man who owns the waste disposal company, Francisco Nguema, he’s the one …’
Her voice trailed off; she was working hard to keep it level.
Handing her the flask, I saw her hesitate for a moment and then take the drink, her eyes squinting as she took a wary sip.
‘Charles had been working as a driver for a man called Joseph for about three months. The company disposes waste in
dump-trucks, at sites across the country. Mainly for foreign companies, but it takes smaller jobs too. Whatever is needed. The money was not good, but it was at least some money when there otherwise was none.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Why are you telling me this?’
‘You don’t need to understand, you just need to listen … One day, Joseph comes to my brother and four other drivers, and tells them they are to meet a boat at the port in Bata. The boat is called Miracle, and it is their job to unload the waste from Miracle and drive to several spots outside Bata and up along the coast towards the nature reserve.
‘Immediately, once he unloaded the canisters into his truck, my brother knew something was not right. He asked the men what was inside, but the men said it was not his job to ask questions. The smell, though, got worse as he drove.’
‘The mercaptan sulphur?’
I remembered Harry’s words. According to experts at Greenpeace, the smell of the stuff was so potent that if you were to deposit a small amount in Trafalgar Square, it could still be smelt outside the M25.
‘That’s right. Not long after he started driving, my brother’s skin started to burn. He said it felt as if his arms were on fire. He panicked. He didn’t know what it was but he knew he had to get rid of it.’
Now, Mimi’s voice became smaller.
‘He didn’t know there was a village so close by.’
‘It was him? That was why so many people got sick.’ I finished the story for her, my body involuntarily shifting away from her.
‘The people were so angry, but it wasn’t his fault. He didn’t know – my brother, once he found out what happened and what he had done, he wanted to die too.
‘One day, a man came to visit my brother. Charles didn’t know who he was. He was a white man, he spoke English. He told my brother he was not sick because of the mercaptan. He told him he had been sick for years. He leaned over his bedside and told him he needed to give evidence to say he was wrong, that he had been sick a long time.’
Mimi closed her eyes and held her sleeve against her mouth, before continuing.
‘Across the area, villagers whose babies had died, whose respiratory and skin problems were so severe they could never walk again, who were left injecting themselves six times a day with medicine they could not afford, were intimidated into not giving evidence … Except Charles would not have had the chance to give a statement in court, anyway. He knew he was dying, so he recorded his story.’
The Most Difficult Thing Page 27