He shows us some of his gadgets. I demonstrate enthusiasm for the bits of grey plastic, the buttons and lights. I tell him how great they are and we all laugh - the old feeling of judging his moods, of wanting to please him. I am thirteen again and I am sixteen and I am twenty-eight, a mother now, a parent. I remind myself of this as I look at his old hands, distorted by a long-ago encounter with a flaming chip pan, hooking the tea bag out of the thick brown tea with a spoon. The grey counter in his kitchen. A tin of baked beans. A bottle of whisky.
We ask if he'd like to hold his grandson. He says no, he wouldn't.
I would if he was a girl, he adds. I like little girls.
Later the boy's father can't believe this. He repeats it again and again to me, to others, to anyone who will listen. His family doesn't contain anyone who behaves like this. He has never met a man who would not melt when confronted with the small, warm, alive package that was his grandson.
I don't know how long we stay there but it's all perfectly civil, so civil I can't quite believe we managed it, and then we go. We say a pleasant goodbye. We almost shake hands, but not quite.
As we drive away with our baby - slightly hungry now, almost ready for a feed, strapped in his little car seat - I feel emptied out, numb. The boy's father tells me he did a clever thing. He left one of the boy's muslin wipes there, a clean one. He left it deliberately, on the sofa.
So he has a solid reason to get back in touch, he explains, clearly pleased with himself So he has something to return to us.
I try to imagine a world where this might happen. I tell him that was a good thing to do and, for a moment or two, I mean it.
But my father never gets in touch. He never returns the cloth. I send him a postcard and he never replies. That's the last time I ever see him.
The boy calls yet again to ask us to lend him money. He doesn't call his father, he calls me.
I'm waiting for this fucking loan to come through, you see. They're fucking me about as usual. All I need is the deposit for two weeks' rent on this room in Bethnal Green -
We want to help you, I tell him, but we're not lending you any more money. Not because we can't afford it and not because you won't pay it back - though you won't - but because we no longer think that's the right way to help you. I'm sorry, darling.
But what the fuck! Do you want me to be homeless for ever?
Of course not. I very much want you to have somewhere to live. But I think you should get a job. You're nineteen years old and you're free all day. And if you can't get a job, then you should admit it's because you've got a problem. And if you want help with that, we are always here and we know exactly how to help you.
He laughs.
You always have to say it, don't you, Mother dear? It really is quite funny, that way you always have to come back to this. The same old story: my son the drug addict.
Have you ever thought that perhaps the reason I come back to it, is because it's true? Because that is the story?
Well, I'm sick of this story of yours, this idea that it's about drugs. if you want that to be the story then go away and write one of your fucking novels about it, OK?
The thing about panic - the one really good and reliable thing about it - is that it has a peak.
Although the nature of panic is that it feels like an upwards are, it feels like it can only go on and on, building and building, that's actually not true. It doesn't. It builds and then it peaks and then it subsides.
You think it will go on and on, crescendoing, till it kills you. But it won't. In fact, if you think about it sensibly, the very fact that you are at its peak, at the worst bit, means you are almost out of it. The worse you are feeling, the more likely it is to subside.
The dark hole opens up, and then it closes again.
if you can remember this supremely comforting thought, if you can believe it, then you can deal with panic. I think I really do believe this.
I've started doing breathing exercises. Every day. Making time for them. Mostly managing to remember. Feeling the slow beat of my own heart. Staying with it, trying to breathe. Remembering I'm here, I'm me.
Last week I almost drove to Suffolk. I felt I could have done it. I will do it. I almost did.
Mary Yelloly and I sit together in All Saints Church. She sits right here beside me, just to my left, in that dark-wood pewexactly the same one that Julia and I sat in on that long-ago freezing March day.
She is close enough to me that I can see the softly curving detail of her. Close enough that the edges of our clothes can touch.
I'm trying not to let myself be too nervous, too daunted by her presence. I'm trying to remember that she's just a girl, a normal girl. Barely older than my daughter. A child, really. And anyway, I can't waste it. This is it. My only chance, a chance grabbed out of nowhere. After all this time, months and years, almost two hundred years, of waiting and searching, I really am finally this close to her.
I can see everything. The rough, dun-coloured wool of her shawl, a kind of fluted ribbon stitched around its edge, twisted where it's been pulled too tight. Her blue frock, dirt on its hem. The slightly frayed edge of her short cotton sleeve, threads unravelling, fabric so thin that the light bites into it.
I can see her bare girl's arms. Child's arms. Her skinny wrists. Thin and blue-veined. A long scratch on her hand, between thumb and forefinger, trying to heal but still pink and sore. On her left hand, a ring with an oval green stone. Shortish, oval nails, not that clean. The little finger on her left hand bitten right down.
If she looks at me, she can see my jeans - dark blue stretch jeans, five or six years old, tighter now, the knees worn pale. The edge of my mauve wool sweater. My tired, middle-aged hands, looking more unnervingly like my mother's hands every day. My wedding ring. The nails I used to bite but don't any more.
She can probably see the sharp little diamond that I wear in my ear lobe for weeks on end without taking it out. The small lines and creases that renew themselves more deeply every day on my face. The sweep of kohl and the skim of translucent powder, brushed under my eyes this morning, then forgotten about. The face I often forget to look at these days. The face I should take better care of Right now emptied out with tiredness. Emptied out.
I can smell her. The warm skin and hair smell of young girl, of hormones. And a faint smell of sweat too - not exactly stale, but not too fresh either. On top of that, a scent I think I know, but can't place. Something old-fashioned. Violet? Hyacinth?
I don't know what I smell of Prada perfume put on last night, probably. To me, I always really just smell of me.
I can see the curve of her pale lashes on her cheek. A small blue vein moving in her temple. A raggedy snag of skin where she has chewed her lip. A small pimple on her chin. Her pale, pale skin.
I'm trying not to stare too much, I really am. But after all this time, all this waiting, the close-up detail, the sheer, alive fact of her body right here next to mine - it's intoxicating.
She places her small slender hands on the hard shiny back of the pew in front.
I don't know who you are, she says stiffly, but I feel I know you. Please remind me how we met. Are you a London friend of my papa's?
I hesitate, unsure where to start.
We've never met before, I tell her, and she looks surprised, a little frown puckering her forehead. But we're not exactly strangers either. It's hard to explain exactly what we are.
She turns her gaze on me. Her grey gaze.
Well, I feel I know you, she says again. Please don't laugh.
Why would I laugh?
She bites her lip.
It's a bit of a puzzle, isn't it? Still, I feel quite comfortable with you-
Good. I'm glad.
But why are we here? Do you know why we're here?
The sound of her voice is strange. The faintest trace of an accent. Is it Norfolk?
I wanted to talk to you, I tell her as carefully as I can. I wanted to ask you some things.
She crinkles her nose.
You did?
Is that OK?
She thinks about this.
What's your name?
I tell her my name and she repeats it a couple of times. Julie. Julie. It is the strangest thing I've ever heard. Mary Yelloly speaking my name.
It's a French name, she says then, eyeing me carefully.
It might be.
You're French?
Not exactly, no.
Not exactly?
I'm not at all French.
She smiles then and is about to say something else but has to stop and draw breath for a moment in order to cough. A ragged, tearing sound, deep in her chest. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. I wonder whether to say something, ask if she's OK. But I don't want to interrupt her smooth line of thought.
She regards me with solemn eyes.
I don't know how I know this, Julie, but - you have a child?
I take a breath.
Three, I say, I have three.
Ah. Three?
Yes.
She shuts her eyes for a second. Her skin is so pale you could put your fingers through it.
Well, I feel - please don't mind me saying this - but I feel there's a child that you're feeling very upset about.
I wasn't expecting this. I shiver.
Yes, I tell her. Yes. You're right. There is.
Well, he's very lonely, she says. I don't know how I know that, but I do. I think he wants you to know that.
I touch my fingers to the comers of my eyes, holding back the tears.
I'm so sorry, she says, I'm so sorry to have to tell you that about your own child.
I twist on the hard, slippery pew, feeling around in my jeans pocket for a tissue.
Minutes go by. Her cool hand on my back. We are both so still. I don't know what we're waiting for. Neither does she. Early-evening sun slants into the church. It must be summer. A ribbon of light through the mauve stained glass.
I glance to my left at the Yelloly tablets on the wall. I can't believe she hasn't noticed them. Her name on the wall. If she sees them now, I think, if she glances that way, then she'll know. It'll all be over then. She'll go.
What is it? she asks me. What are you looking at?
Nothing, I say, and then quickly, distracting her: Can I ask you something?
What?
Do you love Charles Tyssen?
She doesn't look at me, but I notice that the edge of her pale nose quivers.
My cousin Charlie? Of course I love him!
I sneak a glance at her.
Not like that, I say, I don't mean like that.
What, then?
Come on. You know what I mean.
She turns her head ever so slightly. Holding her breath as she inspects my face.
Charles, she begins, you know him?
I shake my head.
Not at all, I say.
The thing about Charlie is - he's so serious. So very tight and closed up and serious. He makes me shy. I never know what to say. He makes me feel -
What?
I don't know. (A little laugh.) How do you know about Charles?
Most of what I know is from a book, I tell her truthfully. Someone wrote a book about your family -What book? Who wrote a book? Oh, on account of my father, I suppose.
I say nothing. I let her think it. I mustn't tell her too much.
Well then, one thing your book probably won't tell you is that Charlie was a bit soft on me.
Was?
All his life. Since we were small. I think he's got over it now.
Ah.
Is that all you want to ask me?
I smile.
How many questions do I get?
She frowns and taps her fingers lightly on the back of the pew in front.
All right, I say, I have another.
About Charlie?
No, about Robert Suckling.
A long sigh.
Oh Julie, do I really have to talk about this now?
Sun slides around the church. The long beam pouring through the stained-glass window lengthens. Soft jewel colours lighting up the dust.
I'm sorry, I tell her, I know you must think it's none of my business. I must seem pushy. It's just - well, don't you see? This is my only chance.
What do you mean, your only chance? Only chance for what?
To talk to you. To know things.
But I'm always here.
Not always. Not for me, you're not.
She sniffs. Another little cough.
I'm sure I don't know why you're so interested in me.
I've been looking for you for so long.
And now you've found me?
In a way. I hope so. Yes.
She gives me a long look.
I do wish I knew who you were, she says again. I feel as if I know you. But why?
I smile.
I feel just the same. I feel like that too.
About me?
Yes. About you.
She coughs again. A slow racking cough. This time she pulls a small grey rag from her sleeve, wipes her mouth.
Are you OK?
Oh yes, thank you, I'm so much better than I was.
You've been very ill?
Not so ill. I'm definitely mending now. Papa says I am.
That's good. I'm glad you're better.
Silence for a moment or two. I'm not sure how hard I want to push her.
Do you mind telling me about the walk in the woods?
She turns to look at me with grey amused eyes. Eyes as grey as the eyes of my boy. Eyes that can go somewhere else in two seconds flat. Eyes that widen.
The walk in the woods? With Robert? You even know about that? That part is in your book, too?
And who's Mr Brown and why did Mrs Coulcher say you were piqued? Piqued at what?
Ah! Jane Coulcher! Now I understand. Is that where all this ridiculous information's coming from?
She's a source.
A source. Hmm. Not a reliable one, though.
No?
That woman. I don't want to say too much, but she has been no friend to Mama. You know her?
Not really. But one of her letters happened to survive - I think Florence Suckling knew her.
Florence Suckling? I don't know the name. Is she a relative of Robert's, then?
She's - it doesn't matter. Look, in the woods. What happened?
A sly little smile.
What do you think happened?
He kissed you?
She looks away quickly, bites her lip.
I'm sorry, I tell her. But it's so hard for me to know. I mean I really can't even begin to guess how things were in your time.
She frowns at me as if she doesn't understand.
Do you love him? I say then.
A long pause.
Love him? she says, and her voice is suddenly shy. I don't know. I don't exactly know what love is. Oh, I know what people say. Sophy and Groome, for instance, they love each other. You can see it in his eyes, and sometimes when he leaves, poor Soph weeps as if her heart is breaking. But I don't weep about Robert. He would never make me weep. Though I sometimes do wonder if I have a heart to break -
You have a heart, I tell her.
She smiles and hesitates again.
But Robert and I, we'll walk for hours and we'll talk and you've no idea the things he knows. Terrible things and wonderful things. Things you wouldn't believe. And we talk as If we just can't stop. And when he goes all I can think of is all the things I meant to ask him and didn't. So many things I just forgot to say!
I smile at her and she blushes slightly. Colour creeping over her face from her neck.
Not only that, but everything I tell him he understands. I never have to explain a thing. It's like there's this easy mood between us all the time. He makes me feel so - listened to. And I don't know what love is, Julie, but when he talks to me, when we've been walking and talking a while, then I'll look up and suddenly th
e whole world looks different.
In what way different?
It's like - everything's more beautiful, louder, more wide awake, all the colours undiluted!
I look at her face, lit up with her little speech.
That's the only way I can really describe it, she says, suddenly self-conscious, making a face.
I know what you're talking about, I tell her. And I think I would call that love.
She looks at me doubtfully and then she smiles.
You would?
I think so, yes.
I look at her now - the rush of her blood showing through the skin. The palest blonde hair looping over her ear. I can't take my eyes off her. I realise I don't want this to be over. I don't want her to go. I don't want to lose you, Mary. Please don't go.
I'm so sorry, I hear myself tell her, and she looks surprised.
Sorry for what?
Never mind. It doesn't matter.
She looks at the cool church floor. She sighs to herself but she looks happy. She's thinking about Robert. She does not look at me.
More minutes go by. After a while, she lifts her head.
I'm really sorry, by the way, she says. About your lad.
I look at her in surprise. My lad.
How did you know? I ask her, more out of curiosity than anything.
She brings her face closer to mine. I can smell the sticky heat of her skin, a faint hot smell of something a bit like fever.
I've been in your head so long, she says, I think I probably know everything.
OK, I say, unsure whether this makes any sense.
Do you think you'll get him back? she asks me then.
I think for a moment.
I don't know, I say truthfully. What do you think?
She shrugs.
I think there's still a lot of time.
You think so?
Oh yes. There's time. He's young. He has time. He has all the time in the world.
I shut my eyes.
Does he?
You don't believe that?
I don't know, I tell her, it's always hard, isn't it - to know about time.
The Lost Child Page 26