The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton

by Catherine Alliott

  I smiled now as I cycled passed Mum's little terraced house at one end and pedalled towards Felicity's more substantial property at the other. Were they there today, I wondered. If Felicity wasn't teaching, in all probability yes, but I wouldn't stop. I glanced through the heavily draped sitting-room window. I was five minutes late as it was, and coffee with those two only led to drinks. I wouldn't get away without joining them for a hefty sharpener.

  I pushed my bike through Cornmarket, pedalled on down St Aldates, calling out a cheery hello to Ron, who'd been our porter at Balliol but was now at Christ Church, and who was patiently trying to explain to a group of uncomprehending Chinese that they couldn't simply step over his chain and stray into his quad. He shrugged despairingly at me and I grinned back. There were tourists swarming everywhere at the moment, particularly in the main streets, but not down here – I swung a left, freewheeling down a little alleyway – not in the tiny trattoria Ant and I favoured, slightly crummy but off the beaten track, and only really frequented by staff and students; the cognoscenti.

  How lovely, I thought, to have a husband who still wanted to have lunch with me. For years, on alternate Fridays, because he only had one lecture, I'd cycle in and have a bowl of soup with him at Lorenzo's.

  ‘I might even catch the end of your lecture,’ I'd called this morning as Ant, as ever, took the letters from the postman as they passed at the back gate. ‘Although if it's as steamy as the last one I'll be under the seat with embarrassment.’

  I'd crept in a couple of weeks ago when he'd been lecturing on Lawrence, or, more particularly, the sex in Lawrence, and been quite shocked to hear him spelling out the finer nuances of fellatio to a hall full of wide-eyed first years.

  He'd laughed. ‘Prude. And, anyway, it's Joyce today, so no chance of that. Poor devil was desperately repressed. See you later.’

  I hadn't made it, of course. Too busy making huge decisions at the cheese counter and Ant was already at our favoured table when I arrived, the long, communal one along the back wall. He was reading as usual, I noticed fondly as I wove my way through the steamy room, waving at Carlos, who ran the place, as I went. When I'd first known Ant and we'd lunched in here, he'd invariably be reading a slim volume of poetry. More recently it was an essay, as he tried to catch up with some marking, and I saw him tuck just such a paper hastily inside his jacket pocket as I sat down opposite him. I loved the fact that he still wore an old corduroy jacket as true academics should, and that he smelled of fresh air and books as I leaned across the table to kiss him.

  ‘Must Try Harder, or See Me?’

  He gave a weary smile. ‘Oh, I dare say I'll trot out the usual encouraging platitudes, just as they trot out theirs about courtly love. I might have to confiscate The Chaucerian Legend by A. J. Holmes from the library. See how they get on without it. See if the cogs still turn.’

  ‘They'll only find it on the Internet, and anyway, you can hardly blame them. Surely everything there is to say about Chaucer has already been said. You lot have had twelve centuries to get to grips with him, they've only had a term. They're hardly going to come up with something earth-shattering like – I don't know – The Nun's Tale is actually an allegory for a frustrated lesbian, are they?’

  ‘Might make for more interesting reading. Would also give Lucian Bannister the final nail he needed to bang in my coffin, though. Convince him my lectures are way off beam.’

  Lucian Bannister was the faculty head, a dinosaur with conformist views, who regarded Ant as something of an upstart. They didn't necessarily always see eye to eye. Ant took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and I thought how tired he looked. Not for the first time I decided the end of term couldn't come quick enough. I folded my arms on the table and leaned across.

  ‘Just another few weeks to push and then you can tell Lucian Bannister to shove it. We'll head off to the sun. Tuscany again, perhaps?’ I looked up at him under my eyelashes, fluttering wantonly.

  He gave me an odd, tight little smile and replaced his spectacles, and I experienced a mild inner panic, rather as I had done when I'd shown him the house off the Banbury Road.

  ‘Or Devon,’ I said quickly, sitting up. ‘Only joking. I just thought we'd agreed Anna might like San Gimignano, the churches, that sort of thing. Decided she was old enough to appreciate a bit of—’

  ‘No, it's not that. I think it's a good idea, she would. No, it's…’ he licked his lips, ‘something else.’

  My stomach lurched. Suddenly I realized he didn't just look tired, he looked white. White and stricken. Oh God, was he ill?

  I reached across the table and took his hand. I was vaguely aware that the elderly couple beside us had paused in their conversation; lowered their knives and forks tremulously.

  ‘Ant?’ I could hear the fear in my voice. ‘Ant, what is it, darling? Tell me.’

  I saw him swallow. Then his eyes met mine, which I realized they hadn't done, not properly, up until now. Those kind blue eyes. They looked scared.

  ‘I had a letter this morning.’ He reached inside his jacket. Took out the piece of white paper I'd just seen him tuck away. ‘You'd better read it.’

  I took it from him, mutely. Sat back in my seat and opened it out. It was handwritten in an immature hand on plain A4 paper with no address at the top; just an email address.

  Dear Professor Hamilton,

  There is no easy way to tell you this and I don't mind telling you I've written and rewritten this letter loads of times. Each time, though, it always seems to say the same thing, so I've decided to keep it short. OK, here goes.

  Many years ago, you knew my mother. You met her in Oxford and had a relationship with her. She didn't live in Oxford, she lived here, in Sheffield and after a while, she came back. I was born in September 1990.

  As I said, this is not an easy letter either for you to read, or for me to

  I looked up. Felt my mouth open, the blood desert my face. I stared at Ant's face, also bloodless, his eyes lowered to the table. For a moment my thoughts were scrambled then – no. My head screamed no. But I couldn't speak. I glanced back down. Dumbly, found my place.

  … for you to read or for me to write. But I knew one day I would, when I was seventeen, which I'm about to be.

  If you would rather not reply to me, I understand. I know you have a family. But if you would like to meet me, I would really like to meet you. I could come to Oxford, if you like. I have enclosed my email address, but not my home address, because I still live with my mum and it wouldn't be fair on her. She does know I've written, though.

  Yours sincerely,

  Stacey Edgeworth

  I looked up aghast. Found myself staring at the crown of Ant's head. It was in his hands.

  5

  It was some moments before I found my voice. When I did, it sounded strange; unnatural.

  ‘A child? You have a child?’

  I stared at him, stupefied. He was still cradling his head, but he raised it now to look at me, his fingers dragging down his face as it emerged. His blue eyes looked pale. Washed out. He shrugged hopelessly.

  ‘I don't know. No, I didn't think so. But you've read the letter.’

  I stared at him. Couldn't speak.

  ‘And – you know, I was young. One had relationships. Sometimes brief. I just don't know…’ He waved his hand vaguely at the piece of paper I was holding. He seemed dazed.

  I licked my lips. Tried to think straight. ‘When did it come?’

  ‘This morning. I met the postman.’

  Yes. Yes, he did.

  I looked down at it again. The words blurred before my eyes. A child. He had a child. By someone else. My head spun.

  ‘So this – this name – Edgeworth. Do you recognize it?’

  He shrugged helplessly. ‘I'm not sure.’

  ‘You're not sure?’ My voice was shrill now.

  ‘Well, yes, vaguely, I suppose. I used to drink in the King's Head, and there was a barmai
d there. Blonde. Quite attractive. One night we all ended up down by the river, pissed, and I walked her home. We… ended up in a field, somewhere.’

  I stared at him. Pissed. In a field with a strange barmaid. This didn't sound like Ant. But then, as he said, he was young. He looked young now, blinking behind his spectacles, just about meeting my eye. Young and frightened.

  ‘Ant,’ I cleared my throat, ‘it's one thing to remember being pissed and falling around in a field, but did you make love to her?’

  His eyes widened as if registering the enormity of this. ‘Yes, I did.’

  I took a deep breath. Let it out slowly. Right.

  ‘And so then,’ I was thinking aloud now, feverishly trying to assimilate facts, ‘then you didn't see her again, and she went back to Sheffield—’

  ‘And then, years later, I get a letter from someone who says she's my daughter!’ he blurted out, wide-eyed. ‘I mean, bloody hell!’

  We stared at each other over the checked tablecloth. I was dimly aware that the elderly couple beside us were horribly gripped, risotto congealing on their plates, but I was beyond caring. The ramifications were slotting firmly into place – clunk, clunk, clunk. A child: a daughter: another daughter. This scrappy piece of paper, this slip of Basildon Bond… Suddenly I felt my blood rising. Oh, no. Over my dead body.

  ‘Oh, it's a nonsense,’ I said wildly. ‘An absolute nonsense. Some… some girl comes down from the north to work as a barmaid in Oxford, gets a summer job, gets laid – a lot, probably. Christ, probably shags no end of students – and then, years later, with a child to support, gets her to write to you, that's what this is all about. This is – oh!’ A light bulb went on in my head suddenly. ‘Oh, Ant,’ I gasped, ‘it's the books!’

  ‘What?’

  I reached out. Seized his hand. Shook it.

  ‘The books. She's seen them in the shops! She looks at the name, reads the fly leaf, and then – yes – then sees you on telly, of course!’ Ant had been on a daytime television programme recently, much to Anna's and my amusement, promoting the latest book. I pressed my fingers to my temples to help the imaginative flow: shut my eyes tight. ‘Yes, there she is, doing her ironing in the front room, telly on, and there you are, chatting away to the interviewer, and all of a sudden, she thinks, hang on a minute. I remember him. That's the bloke that used to drink with his mates in the King's Head when I was pulling pints. Pulled me one night, if I remember rightly. Famous author, eh? Anthony Hamilton… Oi! Stacey!’ I cocked my head up some imaginary stairs. ‘Get down 'ere!’

  ‘Well, wait,’ said Ant nervously. ‘I'm not so sure. I mean, what if she's always known, and now that the child's grown up they've decided to—’

  ‘Quite a coincidence, don't you think?’ I squeaked. ‘You were only on the show last week!’

  He gazed at me a minute, then inclined his head, admitting as much. ‘Yes, but still…’ He swallowed.

  Fear was gripping me too. I was bloody scared, but I wouldn't have it. Wouldn't. Another daughter? Anna's sister? My husband with two children? My throat was tightening. Oh, no.

  ‘Look,’ I said fiercely, warming to my theme, ‘we don't know anything about these people. We just get a letter one day, it drops out of the clear blue sky and we're supposed to jump? This has opportunism written all over it, Ant. This is a scheming adventuress after—’

  ‘What?’ he blurted suddenly. ‘After what, Evie?’

  ‘Well…’ I flustered, ‘after money!’

  He slumped back in his seat. Looked sick. ‘Come on. We're not that rich. And I'm not that famous.’

  ‘But if she slept with you on a one-night stand she probably slept with twenty others! The child could be anyone's daughter, anyone's!’ I swept my hand around the restaurant to demonstrate mass culpability. A hush fell. I had a pretty captive audience.

  ‘Come on,’ he muttered, getting up, ‘let's go.’

  ‘Don't you see? It could be any number of men in Oxford,’ I persisted, seizing his hand and pulling him back down again. He resumed his seat tentatively. ‘Or even back in Sheffield! She doesn't exactly give precise dates, does she?’

  ‘But what if it's not?’ he hissed, leaning over the table towards me. ‘What if she's mine?’

  Mine. That word pierced me. His eyes were wide: in my face.

  ‘DNA,’ I said suddenly. ‘That'll settle it. Let her come, Ant. Let – let Felicity, or someone who knows about that sort of thing at the University, sort it out. Bring it on, I say.’

  He looked startled for a moment. Then nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, you're right. Of course. And Felicity would know someone. Know the right people.’

  You bet she would. Someone in her department would help. At the back of my mind I also knew that this mother-and-daughter team would have worked that out too; would know that we'd do that. Which meant they had to be fairly sure of themselves. I caught my breath. I knew Ant was thinking it too. And if Felicity gave us the news, then everyone would know – Mum, Tim, Caro… my chest tightened. My family. Another child? At Sunday lunch – oh, by the way, Ant has a child.

  ‘Or – or perhaps someone we don't know could do it,’ I said quickly. Ten minutes ago I was meeting my husband for a bowl of soup. Now we were deciding who would or wouldn't tell us about his illegitimate offspring.

  I looked at the letter. I wanted to burn it. Pretend it had never happened. Rewind my life to ten minutes ago. We sat in silence, our bowls of minestrone, which Carlos had gingerly placed in front of us before legging it, cooling undisturbed.

  ‘You're right,’ Ant said at length. ‘It's probably a mistake.’

  ‘Of course it's a mistake!’ I seized his collaboration swiftly. ‘God, Ant, why hasn't she contacted you before? Why now?’

  ‘But, Evie, if it turns out… if… you know, Stacey is my daughter—’

  Stacey! I took a slug of wine at the very name. It went all down my chin. As I seized my paper napkin and mopped furiously, my neighbour's liver-spotted hand crept out to reclaim, what was, after all, his glass of Chianti.

  ‘I mean, if she is,’ Ant went on, anguished, ‘then obviously… obviously I'll have to acknowledge her. It's only right.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said brightly, screwing the paper napkin in my lap into a tight ball. I began to shred it into a million pieces. ‘Of course, my darling, we both will. Both… acknowledge her.’

  I cycled home in turmoil, my mind racing. Oh, it was preposterous. Preposterous. It couldn't be true. Just couldn't. I pedalled numbly, realizing vaguely I had to be careful because I was in shock. Had to watch the traffic. It was as if I'd used up all my powers of persuasion, my energy, in rubbishing the very idea to Ant, and now I felt like a wrung-out dishcloth, clinging to the handlebars, my feet, somehow going round and round, I knew not how, as I cycled through the city centre, mouth dry with fear.

  As I turned left into Jericho, I passed a friend's house in Worcester Place: Shona, a lovely Irish girl, married to a medic, who'd been horrified to read, a few months ago, that children conceived by anonymous sperm donation now had the right to discover who their fathers were. Years ago at medical school, her husband, Mike – along with countless others – had been quick to donate to what was universally known as the wank bank, in return for a few quid to buy a round in the Students' Union.

  ‘Mike donated so much bloody sperm he could populate an entire village!’ Shona shrieked, waving The Times at me when I'd popped round for a coffee. ‘Who knows how many little Mike Turners there are out there, and now they can all beat a path to my door. Every time I open it there'll be another one on the doorstep!’

  When I'd got home, Ant and I had rolled around laughing. Mike was very tall, prematurely white-haired, and had an odd, bouncy walk. The idea of all these gangly, snowy-haired clones of Mike, bouncing down the Banbury Road to the Turners' house had us in fits.

  I wasn't in fits now, though, I thought, freewheeling down the back alley behind our house and walking the bike in quickly through the back gate –
flinging it against the wall in the manner of a woman who's definitely reached her journey's end – not if she was beating a path to my door. This was about the unfunniest day of my life. I glanced round warily at the house. Might she just turn up? Don't be silly, Evie. I crouched down and put the padlock on my front wheel, trying to cling to normality, but knowing my hands were shaking as I twisted it shut. But… it could happen, couldn't it? I straightened up. There could, one day, be a knock at my door, and there she'd be: this teenage girl, telling me she'd come to see her father. Artificially straightened hair sprang to mind, along with heavy eye make-up and rotating jaws, gum visible.

  ‘Yeah – me name's Stacey. I've cum for me da'.’

  I froze in horror. Then reached up and shot the bolt across the garden gate before snatching up the bags from the basket and scuttling down the garden to the French windows. I let myself in and shut them very firmly behind me – locked them too. After all, there was practically a veiled threat at the end of the letter – ‘I could come to Oxford, if you like’, as in, Watch Out!