The Confirmation

by L G Dickson

  They seemed to be going against the tide. Tourists in shorts and large sunhats, locals in cool linen and designer shades. Then suddenly they were through the meandering crowd, a few metres from the café.

  Céline’s hair looked the same. Same style, still very Audrey Hepburn and still jet black. Her head was down, oversized sunglasses perched on top, perusing a menu.

  Annie tugged firmly at James’s hand, urging him to stop.

  ‘That’s her,’ she whispered. She quickly looked round the haphazard arrangement of tables with round gold tops and rickety wooden chairs. There was an elderly couple sitting at the table next to Céline. He sat smoking a small cigarette, Gauloise perhaps. It didn’t seem to leave his lips even when he exhaled little puffs of smoke through his fingers and up through the thick bristles of a very handsome moustache. His wife sat impassively next to him, long grey tresses piled up and held fast by a dazzling silver pin, delicate pearls caressing a worn, leathered neck. She too smoked but held the little reef aloft, fixed into a long black holder, distancing herself from its effects. Annie glanced back at Céline. There was no one else with her. No child.

  James stood looking down at her. He didn’t appear to know what was expected of him and then, just as Annie was about to signal a move forward, Céline looked up. Her eyes were squinting in the sun and so she pulled her glasses down.

  ‘Annie. Oh, Annie, it is you.’ Suddenly she was up out of her seat and crossing the cobbles to greet them, arms outstretched. ‘You are not changed. Not changed at all.’

  Annie slipped her hand away from James and held her hands out not knowing if she was expected to shake or hold hands or even hug. Céline bypassed any awkwardness and went straight to hug. Annie felt relieved. She would never have to play that moment over in her head ever again.

  ‘And you must be James. How lovely. And how tall!’ Céline had stepped back from the embrace to briefly shake James’s hand and then returned to slip her arm into Annie’s and to lead them both back to the little black cast iron table with its round gold top.

  ‘Coffee, tea or wine perhaps?’ Céline beamed at them both.

  ‘Oh just tea, I think.’

  ‘Yes, tea please.’ James quickly concurred.

  ‘Je voudrais du thé, s’il vous plait,’ Céline asked the waiter who had suddenly appeared at her shoulder.

  ‘I cannot believe you are here. All these years – and misunderstandings, I think.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Misunderstandings.’ Annie couldn’t believe how little she had changed. They weren’t so far apart in years and yet Annie felt slightly crumpled and haggard opposite Céline’s clean lines and smooth skin.

  ‘I just don’t know, Céline – why I wasn’t told. It was all so complicated. Hugh and Helen, well, it was just all very difficult. Sometimes I’m so angry with them. With both of them and I think I have been for a very long time. I suppose I’ve just managed it well. But now? Now, I just think what’s the point?’

  She hadn’t meant to say things all at once but there it was, the little rubber bung popped out and words flowed. She stopped and looked down at her lap as James reached across to take her hand. ‘The main thing is we’re here now.’

  ‘Yes, ma chérie, we are here now.’

  The tea arrived in a large pot with three pretty little china cups and mismatched saucers.

  Céline poured the tea. ‘I am sorry that Hugo cannot be here to meet you. I am afraid he is in school but I will take you home with me and you will meet him there. Yes? He is very excited.’

  ‘I love that you called him Hugo.’

  ‘Of course. Yes. How could I call him anything else? He is my son and he is all I have left of your father.’ Céline handed round the little cups. ‘I am sorry. Perhaps I should not tell you these things.’

  ‘No, it’s fine. It’s lovely really.’ Annie wasn’t sure if it was Céline’s directness or slightly stumbling English that had taken her aback but on a positive note it had allayed any fears that mother and son might want to cut ties with all things Anderson.

  Annie took a sip of tea. The groundwork that would help re-establish a connection to her father, to her family was about to be laid. It was a delicate thing; the wires were fragile, frayed even, and they would need careful handling.

  Céline set off again. ‘Sometimes I think I overthink things. I want Hugh to be proud of our son and I try to see him in everything. I look for signs in Hugo. It is too much for one little boy, I think.’

  She pulled a hard white napkin from the red plastic dispenser in the centre of the table and held it up to her trademark bright red lips.

  ‘So many times I wish I had never left your father. I was young and I was scared and he was so kind, so generous, even then. Even when I left. But then he was with your mother at the end and maybe that was the right thing after all. I don’t know.’

  She suddenly looked down to her little tea cup, her eyes filled and the little napkin was held ready to catch any drops of moisture. Annie quickly abandoned her own brief moment of quiet introspection. The years of questioning, the years of feeling pain all had to be laid to one side.

  ‘Oh, Céline, there are so many things we don’t know. What was for the best, what we could have done differently. I’ve spent such a long time trying to forget how lost I was when Dad left and then when he set up home with you, well, I’ve just tried to keep a lid on all of that.’ She moved her hand to find James and quietly slid under his strong grip. ‘There’s been too much pain and I really don’t want to go back there. I think in the end all we can do is look forward, make the best of what we’ve got now.’

  *

  They arrived at the white art moderne house late into the afternoon. The clean, angular lines of the house exterior were reflected in Céline’s design of the interior. Nothing much had changed since Annie had last visited although every so often she did notice traces of a young child’s presence: small scuffed shoes in the rack in the hall, discarded action figures and then the plethora of framed photographs. The house seemed to stand impervious to the occasional rough handling of its smooth finishes by the absent-minded young occupant. It was clear that he belonged to the house as much as the house belonged to him and minimal disruption was tolerated.

  Suddenly the front door opened and Annie and James both jumped as they heard the quick and noisy clatter of school shoes on oak wood flooring and then, with only moments for Annie to settle her thoughts, there he stood – framed by the doorway to the sitting room.

  ‘Hugo, mon chéri, stop running all the time.’

  ‘Pardon, Maman.’ The little boy uttered his apology quickly as though impatient to move on to the far more important business of greeting the two guests.

  ‘That’s okay, darling. We are going to speak English now. Okay?’

  ‘Oui, Maman.’ He smiled at her while shaking the satchel from his back and letting the heavy bag fall to the floor with a thud.

  ‘Hugo!’

  ‘Pardon, Maman. Sorry. I mean sorry.’ Hugo smiled mischievously at his mother.

  He picked up his bag with one hand, wiped his nose on the back of the other and then stood staring at Annie, white polo shirt hanging out at one side of his grey shorts, blue tie slightly askew, one grey sock up and one down. Standard state of attire for schoolboys that seemed to transcend national borders, she thought to herself. His dark colouring was so much the product of Céline. Annie really didn’t know where the mop of black curly hair came from but it was his eyes; the shape of his face; his thin lips. These were the shared Anderson features that she fixed upon. She smiled at him and he smiled back, his dark eyes glinting in recognition. They could only be brother and sister.

  ‘Hugo.’

  He turned to look at his mother.

  ‘This is Annie. I told you all about Annie. And this is her friend James.’ Céline nodded
to her son and held her hand outstretched, guiding him towards the two strangers on the sofa.

  He looked a little nervous and shuffled towards Annie with his head down. Then suddenly he lifted his head, looked straight at her and with an air of unexpected formality, offered his little hand. The one with the trace of snot on the back.

  ‘How – do – you – do?’

  ‘Very well, thank you, Hugo. And how are you?’ Annie smiled again as she shook his hand. ‘Your English is really good.’

  She overdid the shake in an attempt to make a little joke out of this heavily trailed meet and greet and immediately felt the tension leave the little boy’s body. He laughed. And then just as she felt they were both relaxing into the encounter, for some inexplicable reason, James shot up out of his seat, all six foot five of him. Towering over the young boy he slapped him on the shoulder. Annie saw Hugo’s eyes shudder in his head.

  ‘Hi there, Hugo, great to meet you. How’s school?’

  The little boy murmured something and then shot off to take refuge in the protective space by his mother’s side.

  Annie couldn’t bring herself to look at James but just sat staring straight ahead and smiling at Hugo, albeit more forced now, hoping to re-establish the sudden, severed connection.

  And then to her astonishment Hugo shouted out, ‘Do you like cars, James? Do you like Formula One? Would you like to see my race track?’

  Before she knew it both of them were off to inspect the replica racetrack at Monza that he had built in his bedroom along with a fine selection of Ferrari and McLaren model cars (James waxed lyrical once they were back at their hotel). Typical, she thought. Boys bond over such superficial nonsense and all the while she was trying to connect meaningfully, emotionally to her little brother. So a few spins round a racetrack, picking out their favourite teams and she was suddenly an irrelevance.

  In the years that followed, Annie would often wonder if that was the moment in time when the bond between James and Hugo was so firmly fixed. She was very close to Hugo now but that relationship had developed over time and she had grown into the role of big sister – sometime confidante, sometime surrogate mother. The connection with James, by contrast, had been instant. She used to think it was just bonding over boy things but it wasn’t just that and neither did it seem to neatly fit the father and son mould. There was something more important at play. Kindred spirits, perhaps.

  ‘That is the boys for you.’ Céline smiled and ushered Annie into the kitchen to help her with tea. Some things just never move on in the world of gender stereotypes, Annie thought, as she set out sandwiches and arranged cups and saucers on a silver antique serving tray.

  *

  As they departed Geneva to make their way down to Lake Maggiore, Annie reflected on how well the visit had gone. They drove slowly, snaking behind the trail of cars and camper vans heading for parks scattered around little marinas or to exclusive hotels perched at the edge of the lake. Her window was down and she could feel the baking warmth of the wind caress the side of her face.

  ‘He is a nice little boy, isn’t he, James?’

  ‘I think he’s great. Bundle of energy. A really inquisitive mind, that’s what I like about him.’ He took one hand off the steering wheel and placed it on her knee. ‘He just seems to want to learn things all the time. I was like that at his age.’

  Annie turned to see James smiling contentedly at the road ahead.

  Finally they reached Hotel Gardini, the former monastery that was now their twentieth-century hotel, sitting on a promenade by the lake and close to the ferry stop. Two women emerged from the entrance just as they drove up, all dressed in black right down to the thick tights and flat black shoes. Mother and daughter, Annie guessed. They were greeted politely rather than effusively just as a young man in a smart green waistcoat appeared from nowhere and swiftly carried their bags off into the depths of the hotel. They quickly registered and trailed after the women in black along the twisting passageways. Annie thought of solemn monks silently treading through the cloisters in their rough brown habits to evening vespers. And then, finally, just as they’d passed another little vestibule housing some fake religious artefact, they reached their room; small but perfect. Annie walked straight over to the open French windows and stepped out onto the little balcony that looked down the side of the hotel to the bright blue lake beyond. A gentleman in a panama hat was sitting below her in a wicker chair sketching the majestic scene in front of him. Straight out of Somerset Maugham, Annie thought to herself.

  That evening they dined on the small terrace and tucked into a tasty if ill-defined meal entitled ‘Fish of the Lake’. It was served lightly battered with green beans and little duchesse potatoes entirely in keeping with the simple, elegant demeanour of the hotel and its guests. Annie reckoned that the genteel vision was only marginally disturbed by James’s insistence on bringing down Gardens of Northern Italy. Once again the weighty tome had appeared when Annie least expected it, having made the journey along with its equally oversized partner, The History of Geneva.

  ‘Villa Taranto tomorrow, I think, darling.’ He lifted up the book from the side of the table.

  ‘No, James. Put it down. You’re not doing that here. We’re having dinner.’ She whispered and smiled at the same time to preserve the image of domestic harmony.

  He opened his mouth to say something but in the end seemed to think better of it and repositioned the book.

  The following day they made their way to Villa Taranto. Annie couldn’t argue with anything he had told her about the gardens. Created by a shipping magnate from Galloway in the early 1930s, Captain Neil McEacharn had invested all his money into creating the spectacular paradise that they were now walking through. Dahlias, lotus flowers, gigantic water lilies and tumbling waterfalls all framed by the Alps in the distance. The man had poured his heart and soul into the place and the profusion of colour, the sheer vibrancy of the place filled Annie with joy.

  ‘Isn’t it just incredible?’ James was looking out at the snow-capped mountains. ‘To create something that you know thousands of people will enjoy for generations to come?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ They were sitting on a bench under a Douglas fir. Yet another Scottish botanist spreading his tendrils around the world, thought Annie. They had climbed steeply to see the breathtaking views and Annie could feel her once cool cotton shirt start to stick. She took off her sun hat and turned to look at James. He was sitting back, hands clasped, gazing down at the lake below.

  ‘When were you last here?’

  ‘Oh, it’s a few years ago now. I first came here with my parents when I was a boy. I thought it was magical and then later – well, I was just fascinated with the design of the place and of course the plants: where they’d originated, why he chose what he did, how different aspects of the garden suited different plants. And look, you can see what he did to maximise the views.’ He looked towards the distant mountains. ‘And then when he died he left it all to the Italian State, for everyone to enjoy. That’s something I really admire.’

  He turned and took her hand in his.

  ‘To be honest though, I’m not sure I ever got the real beauty of the place before. Before now I mean.’

  CHAPTER 12

  That August, Céline brought Hugo over to Edinburgh during the school holidays to sample all the Festival Fringe had to offer a lively, inquisitive young boy. Hugo loved it. He would pore over the programme and pick out all the things he wanted to see that day. He loved anything raucous – over-the-top theatrics preferably accompanied by ghostly stories with a bit of blood and gore thrown in. To top it all, the excitement was only heightened if James managed to get away from work to join in the fun.

  Annie noticed that Céline occasionally interspersed the moments of festive fun with talk of Annie’s father, Hugo’s father: where he had worked, where he had played rugby. The lit
tle boy looked on in respectful silence as his mother showed him his father’s old school. Annie thought Hugo was a little bit overawed at the sight of Fettes College; an imposing building that resembled a cross between a French chateau and an over-engineered baronial castle.

  As they walked away Hugo tugged on James’s sleeve. ‘I think Dracula lives there.’

  ‘Could well be, Hugo, could well be.’ The two of them laughed.

  On the second Saturday of their stay Hugo had persuaded his mother that he would be perfectly happy if she wanted to meet up with some old colleagues who were now working in Edinburgh. They were all sitting having lunch on the High Street.

  ‘Please, Mama. I am fine. I will be with Annie and James.’

  At least he put my name before James’s, Annie thought.

  ‘Honestly, Céline, we would love to and we’ll go out for tea – pizza, Hugo?’

  ‘Yes!’ Hugo punched the air like one of his football heroes and then grabbed Annie’s hand. She felt a little tremor travel up her arm.

  ‘Well, if you are sure it won’t be too much bother.’

  ‘No, of course not, absolutely no bother at all.’

  And that was that. One Saturday in the late August of 1991, the little band of James, Annie and Hugo was firmly formed.

  *

  Annie was sitting at her writing desk, preparing for the continuation of a tribunal hearing the next day. Another riveting local authority case. Caretaker dismissed on grounds of capability. Final straw for the council was his decision to stop phoning in to advise of his impending absences. No landline at home and he had decided to stop using public telephones as he could pick up any manner of diseases that might just exacerbate his existing condition. A condition which various medical advisers were unfortunately having some difficulty in nailing down. When asked if a friend or relative could phone in, he calmly let it be known that no one in his circle of family, friends or indeed neighbours possessed a telephone. He hadn’t flinched. He was entirely content that this was a perfectly plausible defence. It was cutting-edge stuff.