by Hilary Boyd
She edged her way past a toddler spitting croissant onto the flap of his high chair, peeled off her hat and coat and crammed them by the window.
‘Whoa …’ Jamie searched her face. ‘You look manic. What’s up?’ He rose to embrace her across the table.
She returned his kiss, then dithered for a minute, trying to find the words but failing. So she just unfolded the crumpled letter from Kent Social Services and smoothed it out on the cafe table in front of him.
‘Wow! That’s wonderful!’ he said when he’d read it. He glanced up at her, and she saw his smile become uncertain. ‘Isn’t it?’
Annie found she was cold, even in the over-heated cafe. ‘I never thought …’
‘What is it? Thirty years? No, more. Thirty-five.’
She nodded. ‘I’d given up thinking I’d ever see him … I just never imagined … after all this time …’
‘Nor me. The children must be a tad surprised.’
She winced at his understatement.
‘They don’t know. Nor does Richard. It just came this morning when we were all having breakfast. I was so shocked I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. It was hell, pretending everything was normal.’
Jamie raised his eyebrows. ‘I must admit I never thought he’d pitch up. But you’ll see him at last. That’s brilliant, darling.’ Despite Jamie’s words, his eyes were bright with concern.
She dropped her face into her hands, the background noise fading as she tried to make sense of her emotions. A pulse thudded in her head.
‘I want to see what he’s like, of course, but …’
Jamie looked puzzled. ‘But what? Isn’t this exactly what you’ve wanted all these years? To meet Tom again, to know what happened to him?’ He glanced down at the letter again. ‘Well, Daniel now.’
‘Daniel … Daniel Gray,’ Annie whispered, turning the name over on her tongue. Strange to think he’ll never have known the name I gave him. It had been Tom from the moment he was born. She had dreaded the birth, longed for it at the same time. She’d just wanted it over, to forget the whole thing had ever happened and get back to her life. But by the time they came to take him away, she knew every inch of him by heart. She counted his breaths, marvelled at the perfection of his newborn skin, the velvety cap of strawberry-blonde hair, gazed into his dark eyes, felt the squeeze of his starfish fingers, pressed her nose to his body to inhale the warm, milky scent. Never, not for a moment, did she imagine that her nineteen-year-old self would fall in love with that tiny, scrumpled form. She could still feel the softness of his skin beneath her fingers as she sat in the crowded cafe today.
‘How on earth did they trace you?’
Annie shrugged. ‘No idea.’ She paused. ‘Mother? But she’s moved since then.’
‘Anyway, she wouldn’t do that without telling you, would she? Pass on your details like that.’
Such faith! Jamie’s forgotten what she’s like, she thought, even though he’s borne the brunt of her spitefulness for years. He had, in the end, won her mother’s grudging respect with his charm and good manners, despite the fact that he’d declared himself gay at the age of twenty-one and gone on to train as a nurse – a series of events that had made her mother’s eyes widen in horror. ‘I did warn you,’ Eleanor had declared self-righteously, ‘there was always something not quite right about that boy.’ Jamie, however, despite Eleanor Westbury’s caveat, had been very successful. He was currently in charge of the ICU at a busy north-London hospital.
Jamie tried to get the attention of the frenetic waitress.
‘What can I get you?’ the Russian girl snapped, daring them to hesitate for even a second before making their choice.
‘Cappuccino, extra hot, double strength, no chocolate, please.’ She spoke fast, eager to get back to the subject of Tom. Jamie asked for English breakfast tea.
‘You want milk with that?’
‘Please.’
‘You don’t sound very keen to see him,’ Jamie commented after the waitress had gone.
‘No, I am. Of course I am.’
‘So what is it? What’s bothering you? I mean I know this is a big moment, but …’
‘I suppose it’s telling the children,’ she interrupted. ‘Richard knows, of course. But having to admit to the others that I haven’t been exactly truthful all their lives.’
Jamie raised his eyebrows. ‘Why would they care? They’ll probably be gripped to meet their brother.’
‘You think so?’
‘Well, it’s intriguing, isn’t it? Meeting a rel you didn’t know you had? I’d be excited.’
She smiled at her friend’s enthusiasm. Was it that simple? Wouldn’t they be upset she hadn’t told them? It was such a huge secret. And what about Ed? Maybe the girls wouldn’t mind having a brother, but how would he react to not being her only son?
‘Anyway, darling, you can’t not see him, you’d go mental knowing he was out there. You know you would.’
This was true. She had wanted this, as Jamie said, since the day they took Tom away. But it was the baby Tom she yearned for. This Daniel person, although just as much her son, obviously, was now a thirty-five-year-old man. All previous imaginings would be meaningless.
She took a deep breath. ‘Won’t he hate me for what I did to him?’
Jamie didn’t reply for a moment. ‘Depends what happened to him, but he can’t be wanting to see you just to say how much he hates you. That’d be perverse. Unless he’s … well, I’m sure he’s not.’
‘Not what?’
‘I was going to say unless he’s a nutter.’ Jamie shot her an apologetic grin, but she wasn’t really paying attention.
‘They’ll think it was a terrible thing I did … giving my baby away.’
‘No, they won’t. You can explain why. It’s not as if you were the first teenager ever to have an illegitimate child in the sixties. I’m sure I’d have had one myself if it was possible.’
When Annie didn’t respond, he went on, ‘Come on, Annie, buck up. It’s a bit of a shock, I’ll grant you, but it’s basically good news. Your long-lost son is back!’
She suddenly realised what he was saying. ‘No, you’re totally right,’ she said slowly. ‘I’m being pathetic. Of course I’ll meet him … and finally see how he turned out.’
Jamie patted her hand approvingly. ‘Atta girl! Feel the fear. Live the dream!’
She laughed. ‘Shut up, will you? You’re making me sound like some half-witted reality-TV contestant.’
‘Hmmm … now there’s an idea. Has it been done?’ He paused, head on one side, then spread his palms in the air, gazing, dewy-eyed, into the middle-distance. ‘I can see it now: mothers reunited with their long-lost children, lots of sobbing and regret, bit of stagey rage, but mainly LURV. We could call it Mum Swap, or Family Makeover … what about This Is Your Mum?’
‘Giving your baby up for adoption isn’t funny, Jamie.’
Jamie looked contrite. ‘No. No, sorry, of course it’s not. But I genuinely think it’d be marvellous to be reunited with a child you gave up. This has been hanging over you for thirty-odd years, Annie, even though you never, ever mention it. Well, now you can finally lay your past to rest and be, well, free.’
I’ll only be free, she thought, if Tom forgives me. As Jamie said, she didn’t talk about it, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t felt guilt, a lasting regret, since that day. Her life had been good, she had three other beautiful children, but that didn’t negate her feelings about her firstborn.
As they left the restaurant and walked arm in arm along the icy pavement, Jamie stopped and dragged Annie round to face him.
‘I’ve had a thought. Suppose he wants to meet his father too?’
Her eyes widened.
‘I mean, if he’s after his gene pool, you won’t be the whole story, will you?’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Well, you’ll have to tell him too.’
‘So?’ She pretended nonchalance. Tell C
harles Carnegie that he has a son? The thought of it made her feel slightly sick. Jamie and Marjory were the only people in the world who knew Tom’s father’s identity, and that included the man himself. Even Richard hadn’t wanted to know who he was.
‘Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it,’ she replied. ‘You know, I get the feeling you’re enjoying this, Mr Walsh,’ she added, digging her friend hard in the ribs as they began to walk again.
Annie found her husband in his office. Unlike the rest of the house, she hadn’t been allowed a hand in decorating Richard’s room, and the result was a calm, uncluttered, functional space: a manly mahogany bookshelf neatly filled with accountancy manuals and historical tomes, a black leather desk chair, burgundy curtains, and a large Scottish landscape on the wall opposite the window giving a splash of, albeit muted, colour. Richard was poring over the usual spreadsheets on his screen.
‘Where are the children?’
He looked up, surprised at her tone. ‘Umm … Lucy’s gone out to meet Rosie, I think. The others are slumped in front of the TV downstairs. Why?’
She sat down on the black padded leather chair beside Richard’s desk as her husband’s eyes slid back to his screen. ‘Richard, something’s happened.’
Richard, clearly engrossed in a riveting spreadsheet, reluctantly dragged his eyes away from it and waited for her to speak.
‘Tom … the baby. He’s contacted me.’
‘The baby? What baby? Sorry, not sure what you’re talking about.’ He was still miles away.
She took a deep breath. ‘Please, this is important, Richard. My baby, the one I gave away.’
His eyebrows shot up. ‘Oh … Oh, God.’ He looked almost panicked. ‘He’s been in touch? When?’
‘This morning. I got a letter from Social Services saying he wants to meet me.’
Richard stared at her in silence for a moment.
‘OK … and will you?’
‘Well, yes, I’d like to. But it means telling the children, of course.’
He frowned. ‘Do you have to tell them at this stage? Couldn’t you just meet him first and see how it goes?’
‘I could, but why shouldn’t I tell them now?’
‘Oh, I don’t know … just seems a big thing if it’s going nowhere.’
‘What do you mean, “going nowhere”?’
‘I’ve heard of this before, Annie, and often it doesn’t work out. You know, no connection beyond the DNA.’
He made it sound so heartless.
‘This is my son, Richard. And the children’s half-brother.’
Richard laid his hand gently on hers. ‘Of course. Sorry. Not sure how to react, that’s all. If you want to tell them now, then you should. Up to you.’
But do I? she wondered. Do I really want to open this box?
‘Maybe I’ll write back and see when he wants to meet,’ she said.
Richard nodded approvingly. ‘Seems best for now.’
She felt shaky and weak as she made her way slowly upstairs to the bedroom. Jamie and Richard can’t possibly understand the real significance of that letter. I’m not sure I do either. Except I’m seeing my son, my very own firstborn, for the first time in thirty-five years.
3
It was Monday night, and Ed was on his way home to his flat – now heated, thank goodness. As he walked from the Tube station he rang Emma for the third time to see if she wanted to meet up.
He was sure she said she’d be at home tonight, but her phone went straight to answer. Where was she? When he got in he grabbed a beer from the fridge. His flatmate, Mike, was in his room on his computer. Mike was an addictive gamer, often playing war games late into the night, and they rarely saw each other except to squabble over who finished the milk. He checked the phone again. Nothing. The familiar twisting in his stomach started up again. No matter how much Emma said she loved him – and she’d said it a lot since they began dating three months ago – he found it hard to believe her. Ed knew her reputation, of course. Like the rest of the family, he’d listened endlessly to Marsha’s lurid stories of Emma’s love life as a teenager, but he understood. She’d had a rubbish upbringing – which was why she’d practically lived at their house – a mother who mostly left her with a string of au pairs, but when she was home flew into unpredictable rages and criticised her endlessly. And a father who lived in New Zealand with his new family and saw her once a year if she was lucky.
He’d got together with Emma when she was on the rebound from that psychopath Lewis, who by all accounts had been hideously jealous when he was with Emms. It got to the stage where he didn’t even trust her to go out without him, and began stalking the TV production company in Soho where she worked as a researcher. Emma had been terrified. But now he was going out with her, Ed could almost see Lewis’s point of view. There was something so mercurial about Emms. You thought you were holding onto her, but she was never quite there, even when she was actually in your arms. And then your mind began to play tricks.
He took a deep breath and called his sister.
‘Ed … how’s it going?’
‘Hi, sis … is Emms there?’
There was a pause on the other end of the phone.
‘Mash?’
‘Sorry, I’m here. Just painting my toenails and it’s got a bit crucial. You can’t stop mid-nail or it goes lumpy, so I was wedging my phone on my shoulder. Go on …’
‘I was supposed to be working tonight, but I swapped tomorrow’s shift with Andy – he has to go to some family thing. So I thought I’d see Emms and she isn’t answering her phone.’
‘Sorry, she’s not here. I haven’t spoken to her since this morning.’
‘No probs, I’ll keep trying. If you see her, let her know I called.’
‘Sure … see ya.’
He hung up, embarrassed at his neediness, but he still couldn’t believe a girl as beautiful as Emma would give him a second glance. She was surrounded by those cool, Oxbridge media types at work, all of whom must be hitting on her twenty-four seven. Shut up! He needed distraction, and sat himself down in front of some ludicrous television show with another beer.
The next thing he knew he was stretched out on the sofa, his phone, which he’d left on the cushion beside him, buzzing in his ear.
‘Eddie?’
‘Hi, babe.’ He sat up, glancing at his watch. It was midnight.
‘Sorry I didn’t get back to you. God, I am so bloody knackered,’ he heard her say.
‘Working late?’ he asked.
‘I had to stay to make a couple of calls to the West Coast. They couldn’t talk to me till their afternoon and of course they’re eight hours behind. Anyway, one of them didn’t even answer and the other was fucking useless.’
‘Is this for the prison doc?’
Emma yawned. ‘Yeah … and then Bryan insisted we go for a drink, and one drink led to another, you know how it is.’
‘Nightmare,’ he said, making every effort to trust what she was saying. Bryan was Emma’s boss. He’d met him. He was paunchy and old and only talked about himself. No problem there.
‘Listen, got to go to bed. Talk tomorrow. ’Night … love you,’ Emma was saying.
‘Love you too.’ And he did love her. He’d loved her – worshipped her – since he was about sixteen. But it had almost been easier before, loving her from afar, certain she’d never look at him in that way. Now he seemed to live in a perpetual state of fear that he would lose her.
‘Mother, it’s me,’ Annie shouted into the intercom, and, after a certain amount of predictable fumbling Eleanor let her in to her elegant first-floor flat in Cadogan Gardens, two minutes’ walk from Sloane Square.
‘Darling, how lovely.’ The brittle, almost stagey delivery of her mother’s greeting always made it sound false to Annie, even when perhaps it wasn’t.
‘Mother.’ She air-kissed the ageing, powdery cheeks, inhaling the timeless scent of Joy.
They went through to the large, high-ceilinged d
rawing room, where Eleanor sat down heavily in her armchair, adjusting the navy padded hairband that held her grey bob back from her face. Her mother had been considered a beauty in her youth – or so she had always told Annie – and even now she had the air of believing that still to be true in the way she held herself erect and proud.
The middle-aged Spanish housekeeper was dusting the rosewood table by the window, crammed with a variety of glass paperweights and silver-framed photographs.
‘Morning, Mercedes.’ Annie was very fond of the long-suffering woman. She was patient and kind with her tiresome mother, and she knew she would do anything, literally anything, to make sure Mercedes never left. She gave Annie a smile and discreetly disappeared, duster and spray-polish in hand.
Annie watched as Eleanor swept the room with an imperious glance, checking, Annie knew, for any faults in the housework. Finding none, she turned her attention to her daughter.
‘How are you?’ Annie asked, sitting opposite on the brown velvet sofa. The room was freezing, but her eighty-two-year-old mother seemed not to notice.
‘No complaints, darling. I could do without the wind, but otherwise I’m as busy as ever.’
Did she mean the April wind, or some internal complaint? Annie wondered. She’d never tell me if it was the latter, she decided, unless the situation was a dire medical emergency.
‘Yes, it’s been bitter for April.’
‘Caro and I went to a superb lecture at the V&A yesterday. It was that marvellous man you see on that antiques programme. Can’t remember his name … Morley something. Then we had a jolly lunch in the cafeteria.’
‘Sounds fun. How is Caro?’
Eleanor pulled a face. ‘Oh, you know. So-so. That woman always has something to moan about. If it’s not her knees it’s her wayward son or the price of lunch – which I thought very reasonable, if a trifle slapdash. All those tiresome help-yourself places are. But dear Caro never lets up.’