One Day in May

by Catherine Alliott

  I smiled. Pocketed my phone. I’d missed hers. And her wit. I put my collar up against the stiff breeze that was whisking tissue paper from oranges around my feet and thrust my hands in my pockets.

  As I walked, my mind turned to Seffy and I wondered what lines his thoughts were running on now he was back at school. We’d talked long and hard about how to handle our new – to the rest of the world – mother-and-son relationship, but of course, he’d already had months to consider it. Was way ahead of me.

  ‘No announcements, no big deal, no chats with housemasters, OK, Mum?’

  ‘OK,’ I’d said uncertainly ‘So… still a secret?’

  ‘No, not a secret. But I’d just like it to gradually seep out, on a need-to-know basis.’

  I was frantically wondering how this would work when he gave me an example.

  ‘I mean, say, for instance, I meet a girl at a party, and she comes to lunch or something, you’re my mum. Not my adoptive mum.’

  ‘OK,’ I said slowly. ‘And then she hears from a friend you’re adopted?’

  ‘And I say – oh yeah, Mum was protecting another family. Letty and Cassie. And I tell her the whole story. I just want to play it straight, OK? Tell it how it is. No more lies.’

  ‘Right.’ I instantly felt tiny.

  ‘No, I don’t mean lies,’ he’d said quickly, seeing my face, ‘that’s harsh. It’s just, the truth is so simple. I tell her I found out recently and I’m thrilled, which I am. End of story.’

  My face was obviously one of worry and guilt.

  ‘Don’t forget, Mum, what seems huge to us, will only be huge for them for five minutes. People only really invest in themselves, they don’t spend too much time dissecting others. It’ll be fine.’

  I nodded uncertainly again.

  ‘And how much better that it’s this way round? Rather than the kid who thinks he’s biological, then discovers he’s adopted? There’s got to be an element of celebration in our story, surely? And that’s how I’m going to play it. Low key, but pleased, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ I said, knowing better than to choke out how I’d always wanted to claim him, always wanted the world to know he was mine. Had always inwardly celebrated. He knew. Knew all that. So a gradual seep into the consciousness it was. And I did quietly thank the Lord he hadn’t got to the girlfriend stage without knowing. I had at least spared him explaining to a girlfriend of three years, say, when he was twenty, that his mother had disowned him. I shuddered. That word. Which I made myself say in my head occasionally, but which shrivelled me. I bowed my head to the pavement and walked on.

  And Hal would help us through all this, through the inevitable fall-out, I thought with a rush of relief as I raised my eyes, simultaneously shaking my head at a lad trying to sell me two bags of satsumas for a pound. The voice of reason would echo in those tall Notting Hill rooms without doubt.

  Seffy was pleased and amused by our relationship, Hal and mine, which I’d shyly and tentatively intimated at. Well, no, completely broached actually, in an email to him at school, desperately wanting, in the spirit of full disclosure, for him to know everything, almost before it happened. After some initial enquiries about rugby trials, etc., I’d written: ‘Hal and I are becoming close after all that’s happened, which is lovely. I hope you’re pleased too?’

  He’d rung me that evening, amused.

  ‘Are you asking for my blessing, Mum?’

  ‘No! I mean, well, I don’t know.’ I’d coloured. ‘I just… well, I didn’t want you to hear second-hand, that’s all. From Cassie, or someone. And of course it affects you too, so…’

  ‘I like the guy, Mum, you know I do. He’s been very good to me. I approve. Go to it, my child.’

  I’d laughed, but actually, there was more truth in this than was comfortable. I had behaved like a child in many respects and Seffy had been so grown up, so mature. I straightened my shoulders. Not any more. I’d slip right back into the mothering role and Seffy could be a child again. And Hal… oh, what a father figure he’d be. My heart thumped and I felt my pulse quicken. He was so well read, so intelligent, so focused. Seffy’s real father’s brother: it was as close, I realized, as I could ever get to providing Seffy with a father, and he’d been staring me in the face all this time, all these years. The family unit I craved and knew Seffy did: knew, when he returned from friends’ houses, having sat around tables with parents and siblings, all noisy and convivial, and had come back thoughtful to just Mum. Well, now he had Hal and Cassie too. We could do all that, the four of us. We could be that family. Something resembling the Bisto advert in the fifties sprang to mind and I believe I even had a pinny on. It was never too late.

  Unable to keep the smile from my face I narrowed my eyes to the sun, saluting it almost, feeling it on my cheeks as I rounded the corner, past a stall full of ancient clocks and watches. One, a long-case, or grandfather clock, with a glorious sunburst face caught my eye, but it was a face beyond that stopped me in my tracks. Behind an adjacent stall full of church candles and ecclesiastical memorabilia, statues of Madonna and child, old incense burners and antique altar cloths, leaning languidly on a trestle table as he chatted to another trader, throwing back his leonine head and laughing, was Ivan.

  31

  He was wearing a soft checked shirt I didn’t recognize, rolled up to the elbows over a white T-shirt and jeans, and had an enquiring light in his eyes as he listened intently to his friend. As the punch line was delivered he threw back his head again and hooted with laughter, right up to the heavens: that familiar, joyous, uninhibited bark of delight, booming out through the noise of the traders, the bustle. As his eyes came back, full of mirth, they caught mine, just before I’d managed hurriedly to put my sunglasses on. He stared, astonished.

  ‘Hattie.’

  I hadn’t seen Ivan since I left him in that rumpled hotel bedroom in Fréjus. Hadn’t spoken to him, even though he’d left a message on my answer phone, and on my mobile. Hadn’t returned his text. I knew he wasn’t good for me, you see. Knew he was too fast, too loose, too transitory, too young and just far too much. Knew I was aiming not just too high, but off centre. That it would be my undoing. I had therefore ruthlessly and effectively blanked him from my mind, which I am eminently capable of doing: see blanking my biological son for fifteen years. I can, with a supreme effort of will, successfully perform miracles. I can close my mind to something unpalatable or upsetting in the name of self-preservation. Been at it for years. And I’d done it with Ivan. This, surely, was a test then. I met his smoky-grey eyes, albeit through my Ray-Bans. Had I been successful? Of course.

  ‘Ivan.’

  I smiled, kept my voice steady.

  His guard went up. The initial surprise and openness disappeared from his face at my cool rendition of his name. He matched my glacial demeanour ice-block for ice-block.

  ‘How have you been?’ I enquired.

  ‘Fine, thanks. And you?’

  ‘Good, thanks. Yes, really well.’

  A silence.

  ‘I like the new shirt.’ I didn’t, actually. Well, I did, but it had thrown me, this indication of the speed at which he’d transformed himself into a separate being, with a separate life. I knew all his clothes, you see.

  ‘And I like your coat.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Another silence.

  ‘This isn’t your patch?’

  ‘Hm?’ He was staring at me.

  ‘Portobello,’ I said. Work with me, Ivan, keep this conversation going. We need only do it for two minutes, for form’s sake, then I can walk on by.

  ‘Oh, no. But there was a fire at Camden. Some idiot left a fag burning.’

  ‘Oh, how awful.’

  ‘So, Ned,’ he nodded at his friend who’d turned away to serve a customer, ‘said I could share his stall here for a few weeks while they get their act together at Camden. Not much to share really: I lost most of my stock.’ He shrugged ruefully.

  ‘Oh Lord. Did you?’

&n
bsp; ‘Yeah, but hey.’ He ruffled the hair on the back of his head. ‘Sometimes it’s good to start from scratch again. Get rid of all the dead wood. Makes you evaluate what you really want in life, don’t you think?’

  He was eyeing me carefully now. Did he mean me? Was I dead wood? Was he deliberately being hurtful? I swallowed. Didn’t hurt at all.

  ‘Yes. I suppose so.’

  ‘You get used to something, start acting through force of habit, mechanically. And not all habits are good. I can see that now. I’ve rather gone off the jewellery. I like the religious artefacts now, and clocks. Clocks are my thing.’

  ‘They’re lovely,’ I said, reaching out to stroke a mahogany long-case, tenderly. I snatched my hand back. They were. But I was a bad habit. Move away, Hattie. Nod, smile, say, ‘Lovely to see you,’ then walk on. That’ll be it for ever. His eyes were much too smoky, his throaty voice dug up too many memories. Too many laughs. Shaking with laughter, in fact, in bed, beside each other, facing the ceiling, or on a mattress on the floor.

  ‘And you?’ A quizzical gleam in his eye.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You got to Seffy on time?’

  ‘Oh – yes, I did.’

  Of course. He’d gone missing from school. And I’d run all the way back from Provence.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And yes, he’s back. Back at school. All’s well. It’s… a long story, but all’s well.’

  ‘Good. Give him my love.’

  How funny. That was what did it: the damage. Him giving Seffy love. I felt a bit faint.

  ‘I will.’

  It occurred to me I’d behaved very badly. He was fond of Seffy and of course I should at least have let him know he was all right. But the thing is, when one is trying so hard to stay afloat, bailing out like fury, one does rather jettison anything that might threaten sinkage. I’d tossed Ivan overboard, knowing he could have me plummeting in moments. Did I, for instance, want to be forever wondering where those steady grey eyes were resting in Camden Passage? Where that laugh was barking out, head thrown back, throat exposed? Wonder what fun he was having, and with whom? No I did not.

  I took a tissue from my coat pocket, went to dab my nose, but actually, surreptitiously wiped my lipstick off. Then I removed my sunglasses. I’d put a spot of mascara on for the estate agent this morning, but other than that, I was bare-faced. There. That’s me, Ivan. In the bright sunshine. Thirty-nine.

  ‘Lovely to see you, Ivan. I must be off.’

  I smiled and turned to head off down the street. My heart was pounding. Steady, Hattie, steady. A nice sedate walk, no scurrying. Glance down at those Calvin Klein boots. Lovely, aren’t they? You see? You’re almost there. Couldn’t be easier. Now. Around this corner, and you’re home and dry. No pounding footsteps behind you – good. No ‘Hattie – wait!’ ringing out. Excellent. I hovered, just on the corner of Pembridge Road, fingering some Brussels lace on a stall. Put my glasses back on, and carefully snuck a look back up the street. Portobello was teeming, but I could see him, turned away now, only a speck in the distance, though my razor-sharp eyes picked him out. He was talking to Ned again. Back to three minutes ago, where he’d left off his conversation. Whilst I, I realized to my absolute horror, was back to square one.

  I felt the last few weeks unravel as if a thread had been pulled on the neck of a jumper. My mouth dried and I turned and walked quickly on, listening to the sound of my heels clip-clopping down the steps to the tube, clinging to movement.

  At Sloane Square I got a taxi, a luxury I could afford now. I sank back in the black upholstery and fished the particulars for 26 Maidwell Avenue from my bag. I read them as if I were studying for finals, letting the glossy photographs seep in. That glorious first-floor drawing room, and all that fabulous space upstairs: that long attic room on the top floor that stretched the length of the house, and which I’d already earmarked for Seffy to have a pool table in, a wraparound sound system, big screen across one wall. All the cool toys his friends had and we didn’t. He’d be up there with Hal, in the evenings. Did Hal play pool? I wasn’t sure, but the next clip of film in my head featured a broad back in a checked shirt leaning over a pool table in a pub in Fulham, where I’d seen someone else play, a brown forearm stretching down a cue, a throaty laugh ringing out as, with freakish good luck, he pocketed the black.

  Breathe, Hattie, breathe. I did, with studied concentration; my hands gripping the particulars as if my life depended on them. The taxi rumbled on. Past the fire station, past World’s End, not home, but to Maggie’s. To discuss the new shop with her. To hear her squeal, jump up in the air and declare, ‘Oh, yes, yes! God, what a star that man is, Hattie, and definitely Chelsea Green, not Pimlico. So nineties, don’t you think? Too many ageing poofters. Or even Chelsea Harbour, what d’you think?’

  And I’d get caught up in her glee, make plans, ring estate agents, discuss putting Munster Road on the market. No more stepping over sacks of rubbish, no more down-and-outs sleeping in our doorway – or, perhaps, a better class of down-and-out. And then my phone rang in my bag as I received a text. Never have my hands scrambled so feverishly, never have my fingers so eagerly shot back the screen to receive the message. My eyes scanned it quickly.

  The message read: ‘How No. 26? Did you like it? Hx’

  I stared. Crushing disappointment had swept through me.

  ‘Loved it,’ I punched back.

  I replaced the phone carefully in my bag and folded my hands on top. After a moment, I fished it out again and added, ‘And I love you too.’

  Then I turned my head away to gaze out of the window. The taxi rumbled on.

  The shop was shut as we crawled past over the speed bumps on Munster Road, as I knew it would be. It was gone five and we closed on the dot mid-week, particularly at this time of year when business was slow. The paint was peeling a bit, I noticed, on the door, and around the front. Needing doing. But there was no point doing it if we sold; someone else would only want it a different colour. A single Louis Quinze chaise longue resided in the window on a Persian rug, testimony to our ‘less is more’ style: a pendulous Parisian chandelier hung above, and that was it. Tasteful, expensive, minimalist, although it looked a bit forlorn, I thought, that empty sofa, in a shabby shop front, unlit and after hours. A bit tired. But then the run-down newsagent’s next door didn’t help, plus the endless billowing litter. I had a sudden glimpse of Maggie and I, arriving at the shop together one morning, dressed slightly too young, as London women often are, and too thin: still in tight jeans and little jackets and shiny boots, but before we put the key in the door, as we turned to camera, our faces were lined and faded, stark against our dyed hair. Our liver-spotted hands clutched skinny lattes from Starbucks. I shuddered. No. Thank goodness we were moving on, I told myself.

  Maggie’s house was also in darkness, which made my heart sink as I got out of the taxi. I’d already paid the driver, and he was trundling away even now. Still, I could easily walk to my house, I reasoned; it was only a few blocks away. I pushed open her gate and walked up the brick path. She grew the same plants as I did, which always made me smile: a tangle of unpruned honeysuckle and roses prevailed. Except… I didn’t really want to go home, I realized, hadn’t been there for days, was afraid to be alone there with my thoughts. What might I think, walking around my empty little house? No, I’d find Maggie wherever she was. Ring her. She’d be in a bar somewhere, with a girlfriend or two, maybe Sally and Alex. I’d join them.

  I rang the bell, knowing she wasn’t in, but pressing it long and hard anyway, my eyes shut, almost leaning on it, taking out some of my pent-up emotion. No answer. And the curtains were drawn upstairs as well as down, as if she was away, even. Damn. I turned to go, wondering what plan B was. Obviously to ring her, but if she was out of London… maybe I’d ring Sally. I fished my phone from my bag, just as a voice, in a low undertone, filtered through the bay window.

  I frowned. Turned back. Hastened to the window and pressed my face to the
glass. I couldn’t see anything through the chink of curtain. But I could definitely hear movement.

  ‘Maggie!’ I banged on the glass, as it simultaneously occurred to me that she might be being burgled. Would I frighten thieves away? Might the door burst open any minute, and down the path hurtle a pair of six-foot youths with knives, ready to thrust at anyone in their way? Indeed, the door did fly open: I shrank back instinctively. There stood Maggie, in her white towelling bathrobe, looking flushed.

  ‘Oh.’ I gaped. ‘Sorry – were you in the bath?’

  ‘Yes, I bloody was! But I’m out now. Couldn’t get away from the interminable doorbell ringing. Thought the street was on fire. Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘You look terribly pale.’ She peered at me.

  ‘Do I?’ I felt my cheek. ‘Bit tired, probably. Maggs, can I come in?’

  She hadn’t exactly held the door wide and swept me through.

  ‘Um…’ She bit her lip, looked up and down the street. Her voice dropped. ‘Bit awkward at the moment.’

  ‘Oh?’

  I suddenly realized she didn’t look particularly damp around the edges. Perhaps she hadn’t been in the bath at all. ‘Oh!’ It dawned. ‘You’re entertaing,’ I hissed.

  ‘Might be.’ She scratched her neck; looked sheepish.

  ‘Ooh, Maggie, you old dog. That was quick. Wait till Henry gets to hear, eh?’ I peered around her.

  ‘Well, quite.’

  I was craning my neck right round the door now. ‘Anyone I know?’

  ‘Noo, noo,’ she lied, because you see, I know my best friend well. Can spot a whopper at three paces. I snapped my head back and stared at her in astonishment.