The Lost Child

by Caryl Phillips

  “They’re alright these two, aren’t they? And they’ve got brass.” Monica shifted her head so that she was now looking in the direction of the two men, who stood on the bank of the river clearly competing to see which one of them could pee the farthest. Pamela began to shriek. “I mean look at them, pair of daft clots. What are they like?”

  This was a question that a confused Monica was beginning to ask herself, for in her presence Derek seemed reserved and almost timid, but with Victor he appeared to willingly take on the role of comic sidekick as though the pair of them were some out-of-date music hall act. As far as Monica was concerned, Victor just didn’t come up to scratch. She opened the back door and stepped out of the car, and careful to make sure that she wasn’t facing the river, she began to gulp the warm night air. She looked up at the stars in the black sky, and then she asked Pamela if she could see the clouds moving. Monica began to turn in a circle, and again she asked Pamela the same question, and then she asked it again, but Pamela wouldn’t answer, and then she felt Derek drape his arm around her neck like a warm scarf, and then he moved it down across her moist, sweaty back and lifted her into the rear seat of the Cortina. She heard him tell his friend that they’d best be going as it was getting late.

  Victor searched through the cupboards in her kitchen, noisily pushing cups and saucers to one side until he found four ill-matched glasses, which he placed on the small table.

  “You don’t mind, do you, Monica?” Pamela was smiling at her. “I told Victor about the brandy, for I’m not sure what I’ve got at my place.”

  Victor paused before pouring, as though he had suddenly remembered something. Then he reached over to the stove and hauled himself up and onto his feet.

  “What happens at the end of the picture before you go out?” Victor didn’t wait for an answer. “National anthem. Let’s have a good rousing singsong to show some respect.”

  Victor began singing, but Derek lunged across the table and pulled him back down and into his seat.

  “The children, Victor. We’ll have to keep it down, alright?”

  An annoyed Victor smiled sarcastically and began to pour, but Monica took this as her cue to stand up.

  “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go and make sure they’re still asleep.”

  Derek also stood up. “Shall I come too?”

  “No, please. I won’t be a minute.”

  Pamela giggled. “Our Lucy can sleep through a thunderstorm and not twitch a muscle, isn’t that right, Monica?”

  Monica stopped and, looking at her friend, noticed that she could now see the black roots of Pamela’s “Autumn Sunset” hair beginning to emerge like blighted crops.

  She quietly cracked the door and peeped through the darkness at the two boys, whose breathing was shallow but regular. Some days it felt as though the two kids were drawing the stamina right out of her body, for she was forever chasing them, or picking up after them, or placating one or the other, or simply begging them, but for better or for worse they were all she had, and not a single day passed when she didn’t remind one or the other of them that they had a responsibility to look out for each other. Ben’s arms were splayed above his head as though he was waving to a friend with both hands, while Tommy was curled into a tight ball with one half of his face entirely buried in the pillow. Between them, on the makeshift bed on the floor, Lucy slept on her back with her thin lips parted so a discordant nasal whistle sang out with every breath. Jesus Christ, what was Pamela thinking of? When they pulled up at Arnhem Croft, her friend didn’t say a word, and she just led the way until they all were standing on the walkway outside of Monica’s flat.

  “Well,” said Victor, “are we stopping out here all night waiting for the tooth fairy?”

  For some reason Pamela found this side-splittingly funny, and because she began to roar loud enough to wake all of the neighbours, Monica decided that she had no choice but to quickly find her keys and open up the door, feeling, not for the first time, that Pamela had let her down.

  When she walked back into the kitchen, only Derek was there. He was sitting at the table and quietly drumming his fingers against the side of the half-empty bottle.

  “Where did those two go?”

  Derek half stood as she took up a seat, which struck her as an oddly polite way of going about things. However, she had to admit that she quite liked it.

  “They went to your friend’s flat to see if she can find anything else to drink. Victor’s not much of a brandy drinker.”

  She eyed the bottle and arched her eyebrows. “Really? You could have fooled me.”

  She wanted to ask him why he went along with playing second fiddle to his obviously more idiotic friend, but this wasn’t the time.

  “What about you?” he asked. “Are you partial?”

  What kind of an antiquated phrase was that? It was like this Derek Evans was talking to somebody twenty years older. She guessed that he probably spent a lot of time with his father, or grandfather, down the allotments or going to dog races, or engaged in some other manly pursuit where the vocabulary of one generation could be casually absorbed by the next without any regard for its relevance to the present time.

  “I’m not much of a drinker as I don’t get out that often.”

  “I see.” He pushed the bottle away from them a little; then he looked at her and smiled. “I meant to say, back there at the Mecca, that I thought your dress was smashing. But seeing it now, in the light, so to speak, it’s even better.”

  “I bought it when I went to university. Or more accurately, my mother bought it for me, but I felt a bit out of place in it tonight.”

  “No, you weren’t.” He stopped suddenly, as though aware that his response might be interpreted as being overenthusiastic. “You looked grand, but I didn’t know that you went to university. It’s just that you don’t meet many lasses, or lads for that matter, who’ve been to university. Well, at least I don’t, although we’re beginning to get some applications now from students who want to begin on a regional newspaper and then work their way down to London.”

  “Is that what you’re hoping to do? Work your way down to London?”

  He laughed nervously, but Monica could see she had put him in a bit of a bind, for his eyes made it clear that he was trying to work out what it was that she wanted to hear. Either he wanted to go to London, and he therefore viewed the north as inferior, a kind of stepping-stone, or he was happy to stay put, which might give her the idea that he was a bloke without any kind of ambition. She regretted putting him in this predicament, and wished that she could take back the question.

  “London’s a big place, isn’t it? I’ve been, but just the once to visit the Imperial War Museum. I used to be into history, particularly anything about the last war, but I’ve not got much time these days. But it was a great day out, riding on those red buses, and I even got on the tube a couple of times.” He paused and lowered his voice. “Listen, I know it’s none of my business, but I was just curious if there’s a dad in the frame. For the boys.”

  Now it was her turn to laugh. “Well, if there is, I think you’d best be making your exit before he gets back.” She paused and watched his alarmed face. “I’m only joking. Would you laugh if I told you that I’ve hardly ever been out with anybody? I once wore this dress on a date with a chap at university. He took me to see a film called Giant, a western, and all I remember thinking was, Is this picture ever going to end because I’m ravenous? And when it did end, he never asked me out again.”

  “Is that so?”

  Now that she was able to get a good look at Derek she could see that he really wasn’t anything exceptional. Average height, sandy-coloured hair that was prematurely thinning, and a nice face, if a bit podgy; however, his charm was his best feature.

  “Well, I’d have asked you out again, that’s for sure. I think I told you, I’m a bit of a nature buff. I’m fond of rambling.”

  Monica smiled to herself. She had nothing against nature, but
it wasn’t really her thing. In fact, she didn’t even like plants in the flat, for they grew so slowly you could never tell what they were up to.

  “I’d like to kiss you, but I’m not one to force myself upon people. But would I be right in thinking that there’d be nothing wrong with a kiss?”

  Monica reached over and took a tiny sip from her hitherto untouched glass of brandy, and then she put it down and braced herself, for she knew that she wasn’t going to be able to stop it from happening. She wished that this man could have found the courage to kiss her on the dance floor in the darkness while he’d had his hands on her waist, and while nobody could have possibly seen them, but he had been too busy playing the gentleman. Now he was getting her involved in the process, which she instinctively knew was the wrong way to go about these things. He reached over and placed a slightly clammy hand to the side of her face.

  “I’ll stop whenever you say.”

  “No, Derek, they’ll be back.”

  His collar and tie were now unfastened, and as he listed towards her, she could smell the alcohol on his breath.

  “I’m pretty sure they’ll not be coming back, Monica. Not if I know Victor.”

  She suddenly remembered how messy and noisy kissing could be. It was nothing like in the films, and as she felt her mouth drawing tight in anticipation, she closed her eyes and promised herself that she wouldn’t resist.

  Monica lay back on the bed and looked up as the man reached clumsily for a cigarette and lit one. She watched the tiny orange circle glow into life as he took a deep pull. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said. She touched his cheek with a finger as though making sure that he was for real; then she noticed his surprisingly weak chin. She tried not to think of the chaotic trail of clothes that she imagined lay on the floor between the kitchen and her cupboardlike bedroom, but she realized that at this very moment she should be factoring in the consequences of one of the children’s waking up and walking in on her.

  Derek was concentrating hard, and then he blew a perfectly formed smoke ring, which gave him another reason to be pleased with himself.

  “Do you have anybody special, Derek? I should have asked.”

  He carefully laid the cigarette down on the pack in such a way that the lit end was hanging over the edge of the box and would burn itself out at the filter. Then he rolled over next to her and pulled her close.

  “I do now.”

  He moved in and kissed her quickly on the mouth.

  “I’m not like Victor, with birds everywhere. As I said, I’d be keen to see you again.”

  “Go steady, you mean?”

  “Well, one step at a time, but something like that. My situation’s a bit complicated as I’ve got a wife, and so has Victor, but unlike him, I’m kind of separated.”

  She watched him disengage himself from her, and then he hauled himself out of the confusion of bedding and propped himself up on a supporting arm.

  “We were really young when we wed, so things haven’t been that straightforward.”

  She felt as though she’d been slammed up against a wall.

  “Look, I’d best be going before your boys wake up.”

  “They’re fast asleep, but I should probably go and check.”

  “No, you’re alright.” He clasped a gentle hand to her shoulder. “You look great just like that.”

  When exactly, she wondered, had he worked the wedding ring off his finger? She could see him looking closely at her, as though somewhere inside of himself he was celebrating a kind of muddled triumph.

  “I’m sorry, Monica, but I’ve really got to get back.”

  She watched him spin slowly out of bed and begin to step into his underpants. Then he lit another cigarette and picked up the now-empty pack and went in search of the rest of his clothes. She heard water running in the bathroom, then the toilet flush, and then he was back standing over her and raking back his strawlike hair with one hand while carrying his shoes in the other. She guessed that he must have flushed both the old and the new cigarettes down the loo. He gestured to the shoes.

  “I don’t want to wake up the young ones, so I’ll put these on outside.”

  She pulled the sheet around herself and swung her legs around so that her feet were now touching the floor. Doubling his chin, he looked down at her.

  “I’ll come and see you at the library,” he said. “Really, I will.”

  “It’s the Ladyhills branch,” she said. “Not the main one.”

  Monica wanted to add, the one with stained carpet and old volumes that smell of dirt and dust; the branch where men wait for me to climb the ladder before they sneak a look up from their books.

  “I know which library.” He stooped slightly and kissed her on the forehead; then he tousled her short hair and smiled. “And I’ve left my work number on top of the telly with my extension and everything, so they’ll put you right through.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Maybe we can go for a drink after work one night this week? Just me and you, not Victor or your friend. Would you like that?”

  It didn’t make any sense to suddenly start feeling bashful, but she nodded and looked down at her crooked toes. When she raised her head, he was gone, and a moment later she heard the painful screech of the front door closing and then the click of the lock as it jumped into place.

  Monica was alone, but she could feel herself hovering on a precipice and in danger of being swept away by a torrent of emotions, among which guilt and shame featured with some prominence. She left the bedroom and quickly picked up her clothes from the kitchen floor. She puzzled as to why he had rescued his own but left hers lying there. Then she put the chain across the front door and hurried back to the bedroom and flung her wrinkled dress and knickers and bra on top of the dishevelled bedclothes and pulled on her dressing gown, but she couldn’t afford to linger. Her task in the kitchen was clear. She washed out the glasses and put away the now depleted brandy bottle and continued to try to hide any sign that her flat had been visited by these people. Once she was satisfied, she checked on the children and discovered Lucy staring up at her with eyes wide open, although the girl’s body remained rigid with fatigue. “Go back to sleep, love.” She looked at Ben and Tommy and remembered their afternoon in the park, and what a slog it had been to get them back to the flat as the rain began to fall. But they were good kids, all of them, even Lucy, and it wasn’t their fault. None of it was.

  In the living room she leaned up against the window, where drops of rain were shivering to life and then transforming themselves into thin, hesitant lines as they descended the pane. Down below she saw a man crossing the new bridge over the dual carriageway, and then scuttling down the stairs on the far side by the brewery. It was him, Derek Evans. Maybe she would write to him at the Post and simply say thanks, and tell him that she’d had a good time. She already knew that calling him on the telephone would be too much for her. If somebody else picked up the phone, she’d only get flummoxed, and how was she to describe herself? Jesus, Monica, what have you done? She could see that up in the sky there were no clouds to obscure the thin pendant of moon and speckling of stars, and down on the ground no evidence of the late-afternoon storm, aside from the odd puddle that cars continued to splash through. Despite the light drizzle, the world seemed quiet, peaceful almost, and then she noticed that he’d left his empty pack of cigarettes on top of the television set, and a dog-eared business card and a ten-shilling note were tucked underneath it. She picked up the discarded box and moved it to one side. He’d left money for her, which meant that either he’d got the wrong idea about her or he really cared, but as she turned and watched him disappear down the street that ran parallel to the brewery, she didn’t know what to think.

  IV

  THE FAMILY

  The creaking of the door announces the late-morning arrival of her dear sister, who she knows will be bearing a discreetly lacquered tray upon which a bowl of broth will be carefully balanced. A full submission to nourish
ment will be demanded of her before she is left alone to linger through another feverish day. She opens her eyes and attempts to lift her head from the damp pillow, but the weight is too much. She unseals her lips and moistens them with the tip of her tongue, and then moves her mouth in an attempt to form words, but no words emerge. Through the slender window she can see the naked branches of the oak tree beating frantically in the keen morning wind. The funereal December light illuminates this macabre dance. Heavy limbs, like her own, but she never danced. I never danced. Not once, although Papa never forbade it. Five girls and not one of us a dancer. Branwell frequently danced in the streets of the village when befuddled with drink. The rascal son who danced, but not the girls.

  She watches attentively as Charlotte sets down the tray on the chair next to the narrow bed. Her clothes make a tremendous noise. Silk on cotton. Cotton on silk. Once again her sister is occupying too much space in the room. Dear, dear Charlotte. Please, no more of this. But she must be considerate to her sister, for she understands that it was her own guilty preoccupation with the worlds of the Grange and the Heights that occasioned a distance to grow between them. Please, Charlotte. Forgive my selfishness. An arm begins gently to burrow beneath one shoulder and tunnel its way across her back. A free hand cradles her head, and in one unhurried motion her bones are levered up and forward. She can feel Charlotte calmly stuffing a dry pillow behind her, and then her sister releases her, and—lo and behold—she is balanced upright. Charlotte’s are affectionate brown eyes, although around their perimeter they are now decorated with the furrows of age. When her sister smiles, pages of the calendar turn. Poor Charlotte: her one true love released her, and no one was there to catch her as she fell.

  Her sister places the tray in her lap and then waits, silently willing her to eat but unsure if the invalid will be able to manoeuvre the delicate spoon to her own lips. Dear Charlotte. How long ago was it? A year? Two years? Walking quietly into the Black Bull to rescue Branwell and overhearing her brother and his quarrelsome friends speaking uncharitably of “the plump one.” Her brother’s wolfish smile and mocking laughter continued even as his vulgar friends fell speechless. Poor gin-soaked Branwell, seemingly determined to ride at speed towards ruin, who later that night leaned heavily against her, merriment spilling unhinged from meaning, as she led him by the arm up a moonlit Church Lane and back in the direction of the Parsonage.