The Confirmation

by L G Dickson

  It was James. Was she out enjoying herself? He hoped so but not too much and then there was a number for her to ring back on. Just hearing him was a comfort but she would need to get to the hospital, call the office; speaking to him would need to wait till later.

  Just at that moment, the phone rang, suddenly and shrilly, interrupting her train of thought.

  ‘Miss Anderson? Miss Anne Anderson?’

  ‘Yes, that’s me. Who – who’s this?’ Annie stumbled over her words, unsure of the strange voice.

  ‘So sorry, Miss Anderson, it’s the hospital. I’m afraid it’s your mother. Can you come straight away?’

  Annie was aware that there were other words but she found herself disengaging from the conversation and suddenly all she could see in her mind’s eye was her mother waving to her as she left the ward. She tried to return to the moment but something was choking her, something heavy and aching that had moved up from the pit of her stomach and into her throat.

  ‘I’m afraid it all happened so quickly.’ Finally that’s what she heard and then nothing. A blank space had opened up between the nurse at one end and Annie at the other. It was bad news, the worst kind of news.

  ‘Miss Anderson? Are you there? Is someone with you?’

  ‘Yes, no. I’m fine.’ She knew there were questions but she also knew they were useless in the circumstances. She didn’t want to hear anymore. ‘Yes, I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  Annie walked into the bathroom in a daze. She washed her face, brushed her teeth, tied her hair back and then went back to the bedroom to dress. She looked at herself in the mirror. Come on, you can do better than this. Your mother would never step out the door without putting a bit of makeup on. She sank down on the old piano stool that functioned as her dresser chair, and assembled her Estée Lauder makeup carefully across the dressing table; the same makeup her mother wore. She felt sick as the feeling of utter sadness overwhelmed her and the tears fell. Annie cried until she was empty.

  When she got to the hospital, Annie thought how strange it was that nurses were still scurrying around, doctors were making their rounds and sullen-faced porters were still transporting patients. Clearly not everyone had got the news. As she approached the nurses’ station, the staff nurse walked towards her. Annie noticed that her name was Florence. She could never really have been anything else, Annie thought. Odd that the woman who had saved so many sick soldiers could do nothing to save her mother.

  As Florence walked up and took Annie’s arm, she was struck by how kindly she looked, as though the pain of this moment was as much hers as it was Annie’s.

  ‘Would you like to see her?’

  ‘Yes, if that’s okay.’

  Florence took her by the arm and led her into a bright and airy side room. It was like stepping out of the hospital. There were no clinical smells, no intrusive whirring noises or high-pitched sounds of monitoring equipment. The room smelt fresh, the curtains a pale marigold, the walls a cool magnolia.

  Annie noticed a small vase of flowers placed at the window. Nothing too intrusive, just a simple mark of respect. The bed was made perfectly, not a crease in the blankets, neatly turned down and tucked in firmly either side. And there lay her mother, face slightly sunken and grey in pallor but peaceful, completely peaceful.

  ‘Is there anyone you would like us to call? Any other family perhaps, who could be with you?’

  ‘No. There is no one.’ As she said the words she felt her legs start to give way. Florence took her arm and sat her down at the side of the bed.

  ‘I’m going to get you a cup of tea.’

  ‘But she seemed fine. She waved to me, last night, I mean. She was smiling.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. It was a massive heart attack, in her sleep. She just died in her sleep. It couldn’t have been more peaceful.’

  Florence put her hand on Annie’s shoulder.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you. I just didn’t expect… I might just have been different with her, that’s all. If I’d known.’

  Florence drew up a seat next to her. ‘Everyone does that. You don’t need to, you know. She wasn’t here very long but she didn’t speak to us about anyone other than her daughter. Just you, how proud – and lucky she was. Now let me get that cup of tea.’

  She would think back to this time and remember these little kindnesses but not now. Now she could barely hear the words.

  CHAPTER 7

  Annie left the hospital with the nurse’s words vaguely ringing in her ear and holding a death certificate in her hand, knowing she had to speak to people but not really feeling like she wanted to. This was the final time Annie would be running errands for her mother. Not that she’d done much of that recently but it was important she carried out the last rites of registering the death, calling the lawyer and arranging the funeral on her own. The expressions of sympathy and offers of help would need to wait; this was between her and her mother.

  It was a strange out-of-body experience but Annie did what she had to, all in one day, with nothing but adrenaline to sustain her. In the evening after forcing down a slice of toast she entered into the rigmarole of calling her friends and the McHargs. It was so hard to say the words and to hear the cries of anguish on the other end. Virginia, bless her, wanted to come round straightaway just to sit with her but Annie declined; Kirsty, characteristically, was all about the practicalities but again Annie turned down well-meant offers of help. In truth there was only one person she wanted with her at that moment and he was 200 miles away. She had left her call to James to the last.

  ‘Oh, darling, no. I’m so sorry, so sorry.’

  The genuine distress in his voice overwhelmed Annie and she began to cry, more at the relief of sharing the terrible news with him than anything.

  ‘I’m leaving now. I’ll be with you in just a few hours.’

  ‘No, don’t be silly, James. Wait till the morning, I don’t like you driving through the night.’

  ‘I’ll take my time, don’t worry, but I can’t be up here thinking about you like this. I wouldn’t sleep anyway.’

  Annie put up no further resistance. She put the fire on, pulled down the throw from the back of the couch and settled down to wait for him. She knew it would be hours. She must have slept, for before she knew it, he was through the front door and like the warm security blanket she desperately craved, wrapped her up in his arms.

  *

  The funeral service was a simple affair: traditional hymns and little fuss – all very Church of Scotland. Annie even managed a smile at the high-pitched warbling that came from the army of fur-clad women filling the pews behind her. All the while, she felt like she was playing a part in a very dark play. All eyes seemed to be trained on her, the dutiful daughter. She acted out her role and spoke her lines as convention dictated. James was by her side throughout.

  Only after the funeral tea and when she was back in the flat with James did Annie feel like she’d returned to something resembling real life.

  ‘She really liked you, you know.’

  ‘I liked her. She made me laugh, even when she didn’t mean to – all her strange little quirks.’

  ‘When do you need to go back?’ She was lying in bed with her head on his chest, steeling herself for his answer.

  ‘I’ll stay as long as you need me.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to react to that. The honest answer would be I need you here – all the time.’

  ‘You know what I mean. I want to make sure you’re okay before I go back.’

  ‘Funny how men always want things to just be okay as quickly as possible. If I say I’m alright, you’ll be happy and off you’ll trot.’ She looked up at him but he just looked perplexed. ‘Tell you what, why don’t you stay for a few days. I think that would really help and then you can head back up the road.’

/>   Her words had suddenly changed into something he could readily understand. She smiled as the worried look left him and he closed his eyes to sleep.

  *

  Annie hadn’t expected to feel quite so empty, quite so bereft, but then how could she have expected anything. There was no warning, nothing to prepare for. In complete contrast to her father, her mother’s passing had been so sudden and shocking that it had prompted an almost visceral response. Aside from the sadness, a pain had started deep down; somewhere in her stomach, a pain that just wouldn’t shift. It scratched and gnawed at her, never letting her forget for a second. She hadn’t shared any of this with James and let him head off believing that, although still clearly grieving, she was absolutely on top of things and coping admirably with the aftermath of her mother’s untimely death. She was sure that’s what he told himself and his colleagues back in Assynt. As she thought about going back to Helen’s penthouse apartment to sort things out, the pain started to grow in intensity. Once again offers of help flooded in; James wanted her to wait until he was down at the weekend, but once again this was something she wanted to do alone.

  As she entered the flat, it struck Annie how amazingly pristine everything was, almost as though Helen had been preparing for this day. Nothing out of place and everything in a highly polished state. The rich deep hues of mahogany furniture; the various decorative fine antiques including her much loved collection of Meissen porcelain all stood immaculately dust free as though waiting to be photographed for the next Lyon and Turnbull auction catalogue.

  How could it be, that there wasn’t a thing out of place? People don’t live like this, Annie thought to herself. There should at least be the odd newspaper lying about or an unplumped cushion not quite at the right angle, but no, everything was in order, standing to attention, awaiting inspection. She made her way through to the dining room and opened up the first drawer in the large Victorian sideboard. Annie knew this was where various important documents were kept; Helen always pulled them out for Annie to see just before she set off on one of her bridge cruises. True to form, insurance documents, bank and building society information was all neatly filed away in separate coloured folders and clearly marked. Annie couldn’t help but smile.

  She took everything she needed back into the lounge and then wandered through to the bedroom. Oh goodness, all her clothes. Annie’s heart sank as she opened one of the wardrobes. What was she going to do with all the furs, the dresses, the best Jenners could offer in twin sets? What on earth? Then she remembered reading something in the Evening News about the charity shops in Davidson’s Mains that seemed to inherit all the fox furs and silks from the large mansion houses up at Old Barnton, a place where all the old moneyed families of Edinburgh had settled at the turn of the century. Barnton was to the north of Edinburgh what Morningside was to the south and, as she started to lay some crisply ironed blouses on top of the bedspread, Annie couldn’t think of a better home for Helen’s wardrobe. She would be more than a little pleased to be in such grand company, Annie reasoned.

  As she wandered round the side of the bed her foot brushed against something solid, nudging it further under the frame. She bent down to pull the object from its dark hiding place and discovered a Gabor shoebox. Annie sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off the lid. Amongst some early family photographs were her father’s wallet, passport and a number of letters with the familiar Helvetia postmark. Annie had corresponded regularly with her father when he went off to Switzerland but these were addressed to her mother – in her father’s hand. She’d had no idea. Looking closely at the postmarks she noticed that they extended to the time when her father was living with Céline; then at the bottom of the pile there were letters addressed to her father, clearly in her mother’s handwriting. This is bizarre, she thought. All the time he was away, she had been forbidden to speak his name in the house and yet all throughout this period, her mother and father had remained in contact.

  She held the letters in her hand, unsure what to do. She couldn’t bear the thought of reading anything hurtful and cruel between them, not now, not after everything. She studied the front of each letter carefully and noticed that none were addressed to the apartment her father moved into after he became ill and no further letters had been sent to Helen after he had made the move. Well, that made sense, thought Annie. When she had broken the news of his illness, Helen had clearly been shocked.

  Then, right at the bottom of the hidden stash she noticed that a photograph, slightly gnarled at the edges, had been carefully placed in a small cellophane packet. She pulled it out from its protective covering and peered at the image in front of her.

  A baby, in a plain white romper suit was sitting up on a rug, smiling and holding its hands out towards the camera. The rug, pale blue and white checked, was spread on a pristine green lawn. In the background some steps led up to a stone terrace in front of a dazzling white art moderne building.

  ‘Hugh and Céline’s house,’ Annie whispered.

  *

  Annie left her mother’s flat with the letters filed away into the coloured folders and the photograph carefully tucked away in the zipped pocket of her handbag. Her mind was racing all the way across to Great King Street. Could be endless reasons why a small child was photographed in front of the house her father had shared with his mistress. Céline, of course, had stayed in the house after he’d left so it might be a friend’s child or niece – or nephew for that matter. Come on, Annie, think – was it a boy or a girl? She pictured the image in her mind’s eye as she sat in the queue of traffic snaking its way through Stockbridge. No, she decided, the photograph gave no clue as to the sex of the child.

  ‘Tea, coffee – wine?’

  Annie was sitting at the end of the large oak table in Kirsty’s kitchen. Coat still on and clutching the bag that was perched on her lap.

  ‘Annie? Are you going to at least take your coat off?’ Kirsty was holding the kettle aloft with one hand and a bottle of Sauvignon with the other.

  ‘Yes, in a minute. I think I’ll have the wine if that’s okay.’

  ‘Of course. Duncan’s at the cricket club – committee meeting I think he said. Anyway he’s not going to be back till around eight. He’s bringing in Chinese if you fancy?’ Kirsty set down two large glasses and proceeded to fill them.

  ‘No, no. Just the wine thanks.’

  ‘Well, it’s six o’clock on a Tuesday. I’ve had a shitty day at the office so that’s why I’m straight into the vino. You’re sitting there with your coat on, looking like you’ve seen a ghost. Spill the beans, sweetie, what on earth is going on?’

  ‘I’ve been at Mum’s. Starting to clear things, sort stuff out.’

  ‘Oh, Annie. How many times? You really shouldn’t be doing that sort of thing on your own. All far too raw just now. You need someone with you who can just focus on the practical bits.’ Kirsty sat, hands cradling her glass and looking straight into Annie’s eyes, searching for some clear acknowledgment of the point she was trying to make.

  Annie dropped her eyes. ‘Yes, Kirst, I know but it really is something I feel I want to do alone – just the first bit. Just being surrounded by her things, looking at what’s left behind of our family. I promise when it comes to the “practical bits” I’ll call on everyone to help. That’s not it really.’ She paused and then reached into her bag and pulled out the photograph. ‘That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.’ She handed the photo over to her friend. ‘I found a shoebox under Helen’s bed and this was in it with other things belonging to Dad.’

  ‘Gosh, he’s a chunky little thing. Is it a “he”? Who is it? Where is this?’ Kirsty examined the photo from all angles turning the little cellophane packet over and over in her hands.

  ‘I don’t know who it is but the house is the one Hugh and Céline lived in. The baby might be a relative of Céline’s or perhaps belong to a friend, I don’
t really know.’ Annie looked at Kirsty to see if her mind was turning up any other possibilities.

  ‘Yes, but why would Helen have it?’ Kirsty looked quizzical.

  ‘Unless, it didn’t belong to Helen. Maybe it belonged to my dad.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Just in with the stuff he brought back home.’

  No, Annie thought, she isn’t going anywhere near the place my mind has travelled to. She watched Kirsty continue to study the image and then finally, after what seemed like an age:

  ‘But what on earth would your dad be doing with a picture of a baby?’

  Yes, her thoughts were now preparing themselves for the final approach. Cabin crew take your seats for landing.

  ‘Unless… surely not at his age. It might be his?’

  A couple of bumps on the way in but destination safely reached. Cabin crew – doors to manual.

  ‘Bloody hell, bit of a dark horse old Hugh! How the hell do you process that, Annie?’ Kirsty sat back, looking shocked and proceeded to polish off the Sauvignon.

  ‘I don’t know, Kirsty, I really don’t know.’

  *

  At home that night, Annie desperately tried to make sense of it all. And so what if this child was her father’s? Why had he needed a new family? What was wrong with the one he had? She’d tried her best to be his daughter – to still be his daughter even after he’d made a new life for himself. She’d gone to him and his new woman after all – plenty of people in her situation wouldn’t have bothered. Kirsty wouldn’t have bothered, that’s for sure. But no, that wasn’t enough – he needed another child, a different child. Annie quickly checked herself before her thoughts spiralled out of control. She needed to construct a case, establish the facts, piece together timelines. It was the only way she could manage what was in front of her.