‘Hello?’
‘Rupert, it’s me again.’
‘Henny!’
The surprise and delight in his voice made me shut my eyes for a moment. Rock back on my heels. Then the buzzer went to admit me, and I pushed through the heavy inner door. I ignored the lift and took the stairs, needing the time to gather my thoughts, prepare a few words, but of course, I was there in moments, and when he opened the door, my thoughts were in tatters. There he was, this handsome man with this extraordinary life; tanned from the Gulf, from leaping out of armoured cars in the desert, his men fanning out behind him with machine guns, a girl in every port, but all the time, with only one woman on his mind. One girl in his heart. Me. His blond hair flopped over his forehead and he pushed it back, grinning delightedly in his bright red jumper.
‘You made it!’
As he stepped aside to let me in, I knew I was about to be taken in his arms. Knew that in a matter of moments his lips would be on mine, full of love and passion as he ran his hands hungrily over my body, backed me up against the wall. I thrust my hands in my coat pockets and stepped aside from him in a deliberate gesture. Glanced up, and saw his eyes fill with confusion.
‘Rupert, Sinead’s downstairs.’
His face went blank for a moment.
‘Sinead,’ I said again, my voice unsteady. ‘She’s downstairs. With the children.’
I watched as this filtered through. As the penny visibly dropped. He stared at me wordlessly.
‘Your father went to find them in Ireland,’ I ploughed on. ‘He and Peter realized they were out there somewhere, and he brought them back with him. I met them just now in Mum’s flat. She and your father, it transpires,’ I gave a hollow laugh, ‘have been friends for years. Ever since we parted. Ironic, isn’t it? And now it seems they may become more than friends.’
‘He brought her here?’ he breathed incredulously, ignoring my last remark. ‘Brought Sinead here?’
‘Because he was keen to do the right thing. Introduce himself to his family. To his grandchildren. Welcome them to England. How about you, Rupert? Are you keen to do the right thing? Were you even going to tell me they existed? Or were you going to let me find out a year or two down the line, when I was in too deep, and it was too late to worry about them?’
He shut the door carefully behind me. His eyes flickered momentarily to the ceiling, then down at the floor as he gave himself a moment to think. To collect himself. He nodded. ‘Yes, I was going to tell you. But –’
‘When?’ I demanded. ‘When were you going to tell me?’
‘In time.’
‘What, when you’d bedded me?’ I flung my arm down the corridor towards the bedroom. ‘Is that what all the unseemly haste was about? When you’d comprehensively hooked me? When you knew I couldn’t go back to Marcus, or at least, when you knew it would be much, much harder?’
‘Henny,’ he sighed, ‘this is different. This isn’t the wife and kids. This isn’t like you and Marcus, your children.’
‘Why? Why isn’t it?’ My voice rose shrilly.
‘Because, unless she hasn’t told you the truth, you’ll already know that I never wanted it.’ His voice went up a notch too. ‘Never wanted the shackles of a wife and children, always wanted to be free in case you came back. I never wanted to tie myself to anything – a steady job, a country, a woman, a home – nothing!’
‘But you have! You have all that – a wife, a home –’
‘I don’t have it here.’ He thumped his chest with a clenched fist. Brought his face closer to mine. His eyes burned into me. ‘I don’t feel it here, in my heart. She knows that.’
I stared into his eyes. ‘But that’s so unfair, Rupert,’ I whispered eventually. ‘How can you do that? And the children, what about them? All of them?’ I eyed him knowingly.
The light went from his eyes and he gave a tight little smile. ‘Ah. So she’s spilled all the beans, has she?’
‘Your father told me that. Sinead just confirmed it.’
He shrugged. ‘Yes, OK, I have three children. So what?’
‘Two girls called Henrietta.’
‘Yes.’
I stared at him. He held my gaze defiantly.
‘Both of them, Rupert?’ I yelped.
‘Well, they were hardly going to meet, were they?’ he said almost angrily. ‘What difference does it make what they’re called?’
‘A difference to you, surely! Don’t you care? Your off- spring! Christ!’
He thought for a moment. ‘No, I don’t. I mean …’ he struggled with the truth. ‘I care more now, now that they’re older, and yes, I’m very fond of them. But at the time – no. I was a soldier, and it was just …oh God, a baby. Then: “What d’you want to call her, Rupert?” A dewy-eyed mother in bed, gazing at a bundle. “Oh God, I don’t know.” “Well, what name do you like?” “What name do I like? I like Henrietta.” ’
We stared at one another.
‘I didn’t care, Henny, no. Not really. Not like a proud father should. These were girls I’d slept with, not partners I’d picked out for life. I was young, I was careless, they got pregnant – Jesus, it happens. Particularly in my line of work.’
‘Shagging around.’
‘Well, I wasn’t going to stay celibate, for Christ’s sake! Not for fifteen years!’
There was a highly charged silence. We stared at each other in the gloom of the hall.
‘You lied to me, Rupert.’ My voice shook.
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Yes, you did. When we met in the street, outside Benji’s house –’
‘You didn’t ask me if I was married. You asked me if I’d ever met anyone. The answer’s no. It’s still no. It’s only ever been you, Henny.’
‘But you married Sinead.’
‘Yes, I married her,’ he said impatiently.
‘Why?’
‘Because she wanted me to. For the children.’
‘Simple as that?’
‘No. Nothing in Ireland is as simple as that.’
I stared at him. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘I owed it to her.’
‘Owed it to her? Why?’
He hesitated. Then he turned away from me and walked down the hall a few paces. When he turned back, his eyes were stony. His face pale. ‘Henny, fourteen years ago, when I met Sinead, I’d just finished a six-month tour of Northern Ireland. I was known in the Province as an Officer in the Guards. After that, I was seconded to the SAS and worked undercover in the South. I was in plain clothes, civvies, and I was gleaning information about the IRA. Using it against them. I worked in Dublin, mostly. Plenty of Englishmen do. My identity was changed, and I became Charles Parker, Civil Servant with the High Commission.’
‘Oh. Did they know?’
‘Who?’
‘The High Commission.’
‘Of course. That’s the point.’
‘You were a spy.’
‘Of sorts.’
I waited.
‘At the weekends, I went to Dundalk. The Army bought me a cottage on a river there. A country retreat, ostensibly, somewhere to fish. It’s also where an awful lot of terrorists come from.’
‘Right. So you were spying there, too.’
‘Doing surveillance work, yes.’
‘There’s a picture of it on your chest of drawers.’
‘Exactly.’
I thought for a moment. ‘The one underneath, the one you didn’t want me to see, being of Sinead and the children.’
He flinched at this remark, but let it go. Swept on. ‘Sinead worked in a bar that I drank in nearby. I had an English accent. People wondered about me. Have you any idea how brave it was of her to see me?’
‘You told her who you were? Who you really were?’
‘Not at first, but eventually, yes. It wouldn’t have been fair not to.’
‘Brave of you, too. She might have betrayed you.’
‘She might, but danger’s an occupational hazard for
me. And I’m armed. I’m a soldier – she’s not.’
‘So …even braver of her to bear your children. To want to marry you.’ I was brought up short with the realization.
‘Exactly. And after Hetta was born, she was questioned about me.’
‘You mean, they were on to you? The IRA?’
‘They had their suspicions, but nothing tangible. I was, after all, Charles Parker, working in Dublin, remember. Then, a few years later, after Tom was born, someone followed her out of the supermarket one day. She was aware of a man behind her in the car park, and she tightened her grip on the buggy, on Hetta’s hand. As she walked quickly to the car and opened the boot to unload the groceries, he approached her. Asked if she’d like a hand. She declined, but he stretched down nonetheless, ostensibly to pick up a heavy carrier bag, but instead, he fired a pistol into the back of her knee.’
‘Oh my God.’ Both hands shot to my mouth.
‘He shattered her kneecap. Left her lying in the street. Hetta screaming, Tom in the buggy. Blood everywhere.’
I kept my hands cupped over my mouth. ‘How awful!’ I breathed.
He shrugged. ‘Quite common in Ireland. In those days, anyway.’
I lowered my hands slowly. ‘She limps,’ I whispered.
‘Yes, she does. And she always will. It’s something she’ll carry with her for the rest of her life. A stigma. And that’s the intent. It’s supposed to be a badge of shame, to let everyone know you’ve collaborated. It’s one up from being tarred and feathered – which still happens, incidentally.’
‘My God.’ My stomach tipped.
‘I was in Bosnia at the time, but when I got back … when I opened the front door of her cottage and she came towards me, carrying the baby, limping …’ He swallowed.
I waited. Yes, I thought. Yes, you’re a tough man, Rupert. But no one’s that tough.
‘We talked, and she said that since everyone knew, since the whole community knew, and since she was going to bear the stigma for the rest of her life, she wanted to bear my name, too.’ His eyes misted over for a moment. ‘I remember her so clearly, sitting at that kitchen table. Her leg still bandaged.’ His eyes came back to me. ‘What could I do?’
I leaned back against the wall, my hands clenched now in my coat pockets. I took a deep breath.
‘Is she still in danger?’
He shrugged. ‘Yes. No. Maybe. Things have calmed down a bit in Ireland. Ostensibly there’s been a ceasefire. But still, people disappear. Bodies are found in lakes. I certainly can’t live with her in her cottage in Dromiskin in the conventional sense. I have to be very circumspect.’
‘But she could live here, with you, in London.’
‘She could.’
‘Or on the base, in Hereford.’
‘Yes.’
‘She’d be safer.’
‘Undoubtedly.’
‘And – would she come?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never asked her. And she’s too proud to ask.’
‘You owe it to her,’ I whispered.
He smiled sadly. Nodded. ‘And there’s the rub. Do we live out our lives with people we owe, those we’re indebted to, those who’ve borne our children, those who, through our own carelessness, we find ourselves shackled to, or do we keep searching for what our heart tells us is right?’
I gave this some thought. ‘I think,’ I said, choosing my words carefully, ‘that sometimes what our heart tells us is right, is overblown. Exaggerated, because it’s unattainable. And therefore, all the more attractive.’
He considered this. Then: ‘Do you? I don’t.’
My heart began to thump. ‘It’s not going to be, Rupert. Not after all of this. We can’t just carry on, regardless of everyone. Regardless of whose dreams we’re trampling on, whose lives we’re wrecking.’
‘You can’t, you mean.’
‘No. I can’t.’
‘So that’s a no then, is it?’
I clenched my jaw. ‘It’s a no.’
Our eyes locked as we absorbed the ramifications of this. This was the final demarcation line for us, and we’d reached it sooner than either of us imagined. This was never again. No going back. A dead end for ever. A wave of shock and sadness swept over me. Rocked me, almost. It dawned on me that I’d never see that passion seep through his body again, through his muscles, his skin, his eyes, feel that incredible heat that emanated from him, so spontaneous, and so absolute, it took my breath away. I’d never feel my own body respond in kind, either. Never feel my bones turn to liquid, my stomach lurch so beautifully, never feel – so alive. So young. The brave soul in me, some would say reckless, mourned that. Mourned that passing. Yet another part of me – and, I believe, the greater part – gave a quiet sigh. Of relief. Relief that I was stepping back from those fathomless depths which, in no time at all, would have closed over my head as I went down, never to surface, at least in any recognizable way, again. And this was what Sinead had wanted, I thought with a jolt. For me to choose. To go with whichever was the greater part of me. The better part of me. To tell him to his face. To say no.
I raised my chin. Kept my gaze steady. ‘Goodbye, Rupert.’
He kept his eyes on mine, but I saw a shadow pass over them. He opened his mouth to speak. Shut it again.
I had an overwhelming feeling that if I spoke, or prompted him to speak, cajoled him not to be so very sad, so very devastated, all would be lost. That any ground I’d gained would fall away under me. Crumble. And that I would be lost, too. Falling down into that chasm. Instead I turned, reached for the doorknob, and with a shaky hand, let myself out.
I went down quickly, my steps echoing in the empty stairwell. At the bottom, I pushed open the heavy oak door. Outside, the drizzle had returned. I put the collar of my coat up against it, then retraced my steps back past the Royal Academy, and around to the car.
Sinead had got out of the car. The children, from this distance, appeared to be asleep inside, and she was leaning against it, her arms folded, her back to me. As I approached, she turned. Her pose was deliberately nonchalant, but her eyes gave her away. I walked up to her and stopped.
‘He’s all yours.’
She looked at me for a long moment, then nodded briefly in recognition. Despite her efforts at opaqueness, something flickered in her eyes. It looked suspiciously like hope, to me.
And then I turned and walked away.
Chapter Twenty-seven
I walked and walked, in a westerly direction, underneath Hyde Park Corner, left into Belgravia, around Wilton Crescent and on. My hands were thrust in the pockets of my navy coat, my chin tucked into my collar against the rain, and my eyes trained on the wet pavements, only occasionally raised to assess where I was going, like a captain on his bridge, looking into the eye of a storm.
Gradually, the rain abated and the cool air dried my wet cheeks. I strode on, clinging to motion, knowing if I stopped, I might be overwhelmed: not by sadness or regret, but by a guilty knowledge that I was running away. That with every stride I was distancing myself from Rupert, from his passion, which when I’d been with him had felt so right, but now that I’d escaped it, horrified me in its intensity.
Yes, that was it, I thought with a jolt: I’d escaped. Had had a narrow escape. Rupert had always known that once he’d got me back, there’d be no return to any other life. I’d have joined him, on his nomadic odyssey through life – not physically, of course, I couldn’t quite see myself running around the streets of Basra in a flak-jacket – but nevertheless, his lot would have been mine. I’d have been swept along on the tide of his passion, right out to sea, my hand raised feebly, not waving, but drowning.
And it frightened me, that sort of passion. It thrilled me and excited me, but it frightened me more. To be elevated to such an iconic level, to be so relentlessly important, to be the Henrietta Tate Sinead had referred to with ironic awe, to be so profoundly significant …it would be suffocating. And yet vanity made it hard to let it go. To say, ‘Look
, I don’t really want that sort of adoration. I’m quite happy sorting the socks in the washing-basket, thanks very much.’ And it was particularly hard when the adoration came from a man who was so profoundly significant himself.
I kept on walking, the wet leaves turning to slime underfoot as I passed one embassy after another in rarefied Belgravia, then on past the deserted flower-seller’s barrow in Pont Street towards Chelsea. As I crossed Sloane Square I thought of Sinead, still leaning on the car perhaps, deep in thought, but preparing now to wake her children, to hold their hands as they stumbled sleepily along the London pavements to their father. I thought of her getting to the imposing portals of Albany, stopping in the lobby, taking a moment to compose herself. I thought of her making her way slowly up the stairs to his flat, a child on each hand. I hadn’t shut the door completely when I’d left, hadn’t quite had the nerve for that degree of finality, so – would it still be open? Ajar, so she wouldn’t have to knock?
The children would be excited now, as they mounted the stairs, and would tumble noisily into the flat, and he’d hear them, stationed as he was, perhaps by a window in the sitting room, his back to the door, hands thrust in his pockets, staring out over the rooftops of London, the streets into which I’d vanished. And then he’d know a decision had to be made. Know that the expression he had on his face as he turned to greet her would speak volumes. Would shape the rest of their lives. It would tell her whether, now that all was lost, he’d be moving on again alone, or whether, now that he knew I wasn’t an option, he could love her instead. Love her for her bravery, her devotion, her quiet steadfastness – something she’d already indicated to me she would find acceptable. Whether his restlessness had stopped with losing me. I hoped it had. I really did. Because I truly believed what I’d told him earlier, that the image he’d carried of me all these years was a distorted one. One he’d taken out of his memory bank from time to time and airbrushed to a perfection that didn’t exist, and I hoped he’d feel not that Sinead had won, but that reality had won. That what was truly tangible and ready and available to make him happy was right there under his nose, and had been all along. That he’d no longer hanker after a rose-tinted image of another life with me.
Not That Kind of Girl Page 37