James said: ‘We met on the step.’ He embraced Viv; she hadn’t seen him for years. ‘Hello gorgeous. How’s Holloway’s answer to the Earth Goddess?’
Ken stood back, watching them. James had the booming, public-school voice Ollie had long since lost. Ann went over to the garden window.
Viv, seeing her, said: ‘It’s all right. He’s wrapped up.’
‘I wasn’t trying to . . .’ began Ann and stopped.
‘It’s such a beautiful day,’ said Viv.
They sat down. Ollie opened the fridge and brought out some wine. Later, Viv was to remember that moment: the sunny room, the five of them, poised. What simpletons we were.
Ollie poured out the Chablis. James took the bottle and sniffed it approvingly.
‘You’re such a wine snob,’ Ollie said to him. ‘It used to bankrupt me, having you to dinner.’
Ken raised his glass to his nose and sniffed it, nodding: ‘Very nice.’ Today he looked square and pompous; the two other men were much taller. He wore his unbecoming charcoal suit and a nylon tie. She thought: he is the father of my child. She remembered the scent of his skin.
James cleared his throat and put on his glasses. He had hardly changed at all, in all these years. But then he had never married.
Ollie sat down. ‘As you know, James is a solicitor, and has been kindly doing a bit of research for us.’
James took out some notes. ‘It’s not my field, mind you, but I’ve been making some investigations.’ He looked up at them, speaking seriously. ‘I expect you’re all aware of how tricky this is. We’re in very murky waters indeed. Quite apart from the emotional problems.’ He turned to Viv, peering at her over his glasses. ‘Now that you’ve had your son, are you absolutely sure you want to give him up?’
There was a silence, then the scratch of a match as Ken lit a cigarette. Viv said: ‘I think so.’
James sipped his wine, then said: ‘Well let’s say you are. For the purposes of this. You’re all aware, of course, that you must never mention the word “surrogacy”?’ He looked at them; they nodded. ‘And I presume that no money has changed hands. This is in no way a commercial transaction, nor has there been any compensatory payment for loss of earnings and so on?’
Viv said: ‘Not till Ken gets my bill.’
They stared at her.
She said: ‘Only joking.’
There was a pause. Then James resumed: ‘Nor is any professional person – doctor, midwife – aware of this arrangement?’
Ann replied: ‘No.’
‘Fine.’ James turned to Ken. ‘Now, I hear that you are registered as the natural father of young . . .’
‘Mark,’ said Viv.
‘Mark. That’s the first step.’ James turned to Viv. ‘Now, as the mother of an illegitimate child you have all the rights. You realize that?’ She nodded. ‘You can now act in two ways. Firstly, you could grant them de facto custody. That means they have no legal rights whatsoever. You understand?’
Viv tried to understand, but she was thinking: last time I saw James he was drunk, sitting on my bathroom floor and burbling about Ollie’s sister. It was after a party. Rosie was just born, and Daisy didn’t exist. She had no place in this world. How many millions of children have been born since then?
She tried to concentrate. Ollie said: ‘More wine, anyone?’ He stood up, refilling glasses.
James was saying: ‘They can bring up young Mark but you can still, at any time, any time at all, take him back.’
Ollie poured wine into Viv’s glass. Ann said: ‘Whenever she wants?’
James nodded. ‘Or whenever she thinks the child wants. Perhaps you quarrel about his schooling . . .’
Ollie laughed. ‘Or we catch them reading him Enid Blyton.’
Nobody smiled. James went on: ‘Or either of you split up and’ – he turned to Viv – ‘you want him back, or something happens to the girls –’
Viv stiffened. ‘Don’t!’
‘You must consider all this,’ said James.
Ann turned to Viv. ‘You must.’ She hadn’t touched her wine.
‘Anything might happen,’ said James. He looked from one face to another. ‘Do you feel that custody would be unsatisfactory?’ There was a pause. One by one, they nodded. ‘The alternative is that Mark could be legally adopted by Ken and Ann.’
There was a pause. It was Ken who spoke. ‘That was the plan,’ he said, stubbing out his cigarette.
James said: ‘Do you realize exactly what that means? All of you? What you’ll have to go through?’
Ollie said: ‘Tell us.’
‘Once a child is up for adoption it is in the hands of the court.’ He turned to Viv. ‘Not yours any longer. And you’re taking a huge risk.’
‘Why?’ she asked.
‘The court may decide that none of you are suitable parents. Have you thought of that?’
Moments ticked by. In her track-suit Viv was sweating.
James’s voice went on: ‘It’s a possibility. Certainly if there was any hint of surrogacy.’ He paused. ‘Now, apart from that, you, Ann – for a probationary period you and Ken will be rigorously vetted. Rigorously. You’ll be visited at home and asked a lot of questions. You will be observed with the child. You will have to go to court and, in this case, with the sister connection, there’s bound to be publicity. Can you face it?’
After a moment Ann said: ‘Yes.’
Viv said: ‘Love Tangle, you mean? A Family Affair?’
James said: ‘You’ll have to be on your toes for all the questions.’ He turned to Ken. ‘And you, old chap, you’ll have to pretend, of course, that you and the lovely Viv here had an affair.’ He smiled. ‘Not too onerous, will that be, with your mates?’
Viv spoke clearly: ‘We did have an affair.’
Nobody spoke. Then Ollie got up, went to the fridge and got out another bottle of wine.
‘What else was it?’ Viv asked.
There was a pop as Ollie uncorked the bottle. James went on: ‘And there’s one more thing.’ He looked at Ollie and Viv. ‘It concerns you two, and you may not like it.’
Ollie refilled his glass. ‘Out with it.’
‘If you want this child adopted, you must stay separated.’
Everyone stared at James, who took off his glasses and put away his notes.
‘What?’ said Ollie.
‘No!’ said Viv. She looked quickly at Ollie; his face was frozen.
James said: ‘You and Ollie must stay apart. And I mean apart, because they may check you out.’
‘Why?’ asked Ollie loudly.
‘Because if you two are separated, you will be considered the less suitable of the two couples.’ He indicated Ann and Ken, who sat there blankly. ‘It will give them a better chance. Understand?’
_____Twenty-six_____
OLLIE PUT HIS suitcase on the floor and sat down. The flat smelt stale. Through the wall came some meandering Middle Eastern music; how senseless it sounded.
He sighed and went into the kitchen. He had forgotten to take out the last rubbish-bag, over a week ago: the place stank. He dumped his shopping and went back into the living room.
Stupid, warbling music. Call that a bloody tune?
His face heated up. He fetched the broom from the kitchen and banged, with its handle, on the wall. Once, twice, three times, hard.
‘Shut up!’ he yelled, and banged again. It chipped the wallpaper, but who bloody cared? The music continued.
When Ann arrived home she found Ken, in the extension, hammering away. He was halfway through the construction of a doll’s house.
‘Goodness,’ she said. ‘Viv’ll approve.’
‘Why?’
‘Making him a doll’s house.’
‘It’s for the girls,’ he replied.
She went into the kitchen; he followed her.
‘So how did he take it?’ he asked.
‘Mr Fowler?’ She put on the kettle. ‘He looked old and resigned, which made me feel worse.’
Ken washed his hands. ‘Did he say he should never have promoted a woman?’
‘Even Mr Fowler wouldn’t dare say that.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘That we were adopting a child, I was sorry I couldn’t give the proper notice but it was all very sudden, and I won’t be coming back after Christmas.’ She paused and turned off the kettle. ‘Don’t feel like tea.’
She went into the lounge. He followed. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked. ‘You worked hard for that job.’
She poured herself a sherry and offered him one. ‘I want to work with you.’ She smiled. ‘And the child-care facilities will be better.’ Exhausted, she sat down in the armchair. ‘He can grow up amongst growing things.’
She pictured Mark, in his pram, next to shelves of geraniums. Herself beside him, auditing the accounts. The cash till bleeping as Ken served a long row of customers. With her eyes closed, she tried to make it real.
Viv had spent the evening with the girls, decorating the Christmas tree. She had tried to be jolly. They had found the glass balls, most of them broken, and the disabled angel for the top.
Now the girls were in bed and, like every year, she couldn’t make the lights work.
Ridiculously, tears pricked her eyes. In his basket Mark started crying creakily.
The doorbell rang. Startled, she went to the door and opened it. A masked, overalled figure stood there. She jumped.
‘Mrs Meadows?’ it said, its voice muffled. ‘I hear there’s something rotten in the fabric of your marriage. I’ve come to put it right.’
It was Ollie. He took off the mask.
Viv went into the living room and sat down. ‘Christ.’
‘As I’m not allowed to see you,’ he said, ‘I’ve come in disguise.’
‘You terrified me.’ She picked up the crying baby.
‘Borrowed it from Ken’s old firm. They’re doing the downstairs flat.’
‘I thought a nuclear war had started.’
‘Sorry,’ he said, sitting down.
‘Don’t ever do that again.’
‘Where’s your sense of humour?’
She replied flatly: ‘I’m not in the mood.’ She rocked the baby.
He flared up. ‘How do you think I feel? Oh, it’s delightful, being shoved out into the cold again to suit your bloody sister and your erstwhile lover. Shows me where I am on your list of priorities. As if I didn’t know.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Know what I put in my novel, which I haven’t dared ask if you’ve read yet?’
‘I haven’t dared read it.’
‘I wrote that men are redundant.’
‘They’re not,’ she said.
He snorted. ‘Give me one good reason.’
She replied: ‘They can fix Christmas lights.’
He looked at her, then he got to his feet and went over to the tree. Pressing the baby against her breast, she watched him fiddling with the tiny bulbs.
Moments ticked by. Then, suddenly, the lights came on: tiny points of red, yellow and blue. The room was illuminated.
Ollie looked at her. His mouth twitched.
Ann and Ken usually had a silver tree – a small one, that they unpacked each year from the bathroom cupboard. This time, however, Ken had come home with a real one. Who were they to care about shedding needles?
The lights were on when he came in, took her hand and stamped it with a rubber stamp. ‘Hello, fellow company director,’ he said. He pointed to the number, blurred in her skin. ‘Our VAT number. For those registered together, let no man put asunder.’
She looked up at him. ‘Or woman.’
He smiled. ‘Or child.’
Hark the herald angels sing
Glory to the new-born King . . .
Ollie pushed his way along Oxford Street clutching his parcel. It was so bulky it dug into his armpit. Canned carols burbled from some unknown location; people jostled him. In Selfridge’s window there was a giant Santa Claus. He looked threatening, like a child molester; he nodded his head as if to say: I told you so, old cock.
He felt deeply depressed. All the old wounds had flared up again between himself and Viv, as if nothing had been learnt. For the first time in his life he dreaded Christmas.
. . . Peace on earth and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled . . .
One spends lavishly when one is unhappy. Perhaps the girls at least would be comforted by their doll’s house. He and Viv might make a botch of home-making, but their children could play at it. The house was large and Georgian, so far dismantled, and he had brought a whole collection of tiny furniture. Plus – he couldn’t bear not to – a plastic baby in a crib.
If he were a good father he would make the furniture himself. Ken would. But how could he, when he was not only inept but absent? He was a failure. He couldn’t even write a book; there was no news from the publisher he had sent it to, but that was hardly surprising. Who would want to publish something so raw and bitter, with no satisfactory ending?
Nobody could bear to make plans for Christmas Day. If Viv didn’t give away the baby he could stay at home, in his proper place. They could keep that darling boy and things might get back to normal. Who wants to be normal? she had asked. He did.
At last he managed to get a taxi. He went back to Kensington, where the heating had broken down in the block of flats.
. . . come and behold him
Born the King of Angels . . .
A small group of children stood outside the tube station rattling a tin. They sang in thin voices; one boy, in an Arsenal scarf, giggled.
Ann paused. ‘Who are you collecting for?’
‘Charity,’ said the boy glibly. Another boy sniggered.
What the hell, thought Ann. She gave them a pound. Let them keep it. She closed her eyes, for luck, as she walked on. Three days till the party; she needed all the luck she could get.
‘He won’t be gone far,’ said Viv. ‘Only down the road.’
Daisy was sitting on the sofa holding the struggling baby. Her face was set; recently she had learnt how to make herself cry.
‘He’s your cousin,’ said Viv desperately. ‘He’s not really going away.’ She looked at Daisy’s glistening eyes and thought: everybody’s always crying in this house.
‘What’re we having for the party?’ demanded Daisy.
‘I told you. A real clown, like you’ve always wanted. Like Tamsin had for hers. A jelly like a tortoise.’ Her voice wheedled. ‘It’ll be fun!’
She told herself: Daisy’s only holding the baby so she doesn’t have to help clean out the hamster.
‘You’ve always wanted a clown,’ she repeated.
Rosie, cleaning out the cage, said flatly: ‘I want Mark.’
‘Don’t!’ said Viv.
‘I want our brother,’ said Rosie.
‘Thanks, Diz.’
Ollie put down the phone. His blood raced.
If he’d gone out to the pub, as he’d meant to, he would have missed both these phone calls.
His legs felt so weak that he sat down.
They were going to publish his book and, after all these months, he had found Ann’s father.
_____Twenty-seven_____
‘I’M TOO OLD, Viv.’ Ollie was blowing up balloons. He sat down dizzily.
Viv was getting a jelly out of the fridge.
‘My tortoise! It’s collapsed.’
‘You’ve failed as a mother.’
Viv was looking under some old newspapers. ‘Lost the chocolate fingers.’
Ollie inspected his balloon. ‘Balloons used to be bigger than this.’
‘Like policemen,’ she said, still searching, ‘used to be younger.’ She gave up with the biscuits. ‘I do want them to be happy.’
‘Policemen?’
‘The girls. I want this party to be special.’
Ollie half smiled. ‘It’s that all right.’
They were both curiously high-spirited;
almost manic, When Viv dropped a knife they both jumped. Ollie had wound a streamer round his forehead, sixties style. Viv wore crimson lipstick.
If you didn’t laugh, you’d cry. They avoided each other, hurrying nimbly round the room. When Viv’s arm brushed Ollie’s she said, ‘Sorry.’
And then Ken arrived with his doll’s house. He bumped it along the corridor; it was so big. A carefully painted semi.
Ollie’s dolls house, thank goodness, was upstairs in his study, wrapped for Christmas. But he had shown it to Viv.
They both stared at Ken’s.
‘Just a little token,’ he said.
Taken aback, Viv gazed at it. ‘It’s lovely! Very Kingston Bypass.’
For some reason, the doll’s house was the last straw. She and Ollie sat down weakly, their faces rigid in their efforts not to laugh, or weep. Ken gazed at them, bemused.
Douglas had come to bring Ann to the party. She looked pale; she wore a rather formal, flowered dress and white high-heels. He looked around at the lounge: the illuminated fish, the lit tree. In the corner was a pram. There were no other signs that his grandson would be arriving here tonight, God willing.
She collected her handbag. They paused at the door. Suddenly he remembered this moment, it must be fifteen years before, as clearly as yesterday. Ann’s wedding day: the two of them, in the bungalow in Watford, hesitating on the threshold. Behind them, the empty room; Ann’s hand on his arm. Do I look all right? He had answered honestly: You look radiant. For that moment they had been close. In fact, he had enjoyed Ann’s wedding a great deal more than he had enjoyed Viv’s.
He said: ‘She’s put you through a lot of pain, that young lady. Took her time, didn’t she?’
Ann didn’t reply.
He went on: ‘Don’t think I haven’t noticed.’
‘It’s been terribly hard for her.’
He paused, then said awkwardly: ‘You deserve this baby. It’s going to have a wonderful mother.’
‘You needn’t say that.’
He cleared his throat. ‘I’m sure you’ll make a better job of it than I did.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
He said: ‘Sort of in the same boat, you and me. Somebody else’s fledgeling in the nest.’
To Have and to Hold Page 29