by Louisa Young
All these years she had been Peter’s three-times-a-week girlfriend in the beautiful flat in Belgravia. All these years she had gone back to the dark little flat in Soho where her mother and daughter lived. All these years she had kept quiet to Peter about her other life, and he had accepted it. And for eighteen years she had kept quiet to Iris about her father. Eighteen years! She rolled her shoulders back, and felt a cool wind around the back of her neck. Enough hiding.
So one very warm summer afternoon she took Iris to a café and bought her an ice cream sundae: vanilla with strawberry syrup and a cherry on top. She let her take two bites and said, ‘Sweetheart, I have to tell you something important and I hope you ain’t going to be mad at me.’ She’d thought she’d be nervous, but she wasn’t.
Iris looked up.
‘I have found your father,’ Mabel said. Plain and simple. ‘I found him a couple of years ago and I’ve been keeping an eye on him to make sure he’s good enough for you, and I think he may be. I want you to know that he doesn’t know of your existence. He hasn’t been ignoring you. He didn’t know about you. I’m going to tell him soon, and then if he’s the man I think he is you two will be meeting.’
Iris’s spoon hung in midair like a cat going over a cliff in a comedy cartoon. Her eyes behind it were vast.
‘Today?’ asked Iris. ‘Is that why the ice cream?’
‘Not today. Like I said, I have to speak to him. But I wanted to tell you first.’
Iris’s hair was slicked and curled like a grown young woman’s; her face was suddenly childish.
‘What if he doesn’t like me?’ she said very quietly.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Mabel. ‘More fool him. I do think he will, but if he doesn’t, well, you know you can do without a father, having never had one up till now.’
Iris blinked.
‘I should point out,’ Mabel said, ‘that I believe you saw him one time. When you came to the big white house beyond the park. There was a tall man who said hello to you.’
Iris remembered him. He had been so unlikely. That whole little outing had been so unlikely.
‘That white man?’ she said.
‘Mm hm,’ said Mabel.
‘Is that still where you stay when you’re not home?’ she said. ‘Or do you have some other boyfriend now?’
‘Iris!’
‘Well how would I know, Mumma?’ She stared at her mother quite clearly, and Mabel found herself flushing. ‘All I know,’ Iris said, ‘is I was born out of wedlock and you never told me anything. So excuse me, if you suddenly decide to confide in me about my own self, that I might have some questions. You’ve been keeping an eye on him? What does that mean, Mumma?’
Mabel couldn’t speak.
‘Does it mean that you’ve been going to look at him through a window every now and again?’ she said. She had put down the spoon. ‘While staying out half the nights of my life with some other guy? Or guys? Or, have you had him on approval like a car all these years? Since I met him? My father? To make sure he was good enough for me? And I never got to see him, to meet him, to have an opinion on him? My father?’
Mabel closed her eyes and said, ‘Yes.’
‘Yes what? What are you talking about – is he the friend?’
‘Yes,’ said Mabel.
‘The boyfriend? All this time?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘You were too little. But you’re big enough now.’
Iris was looking at her. She was biting the side of her thumb.
‘Let me get this right,’ Iris said. ‘Since I followed you to that house and saw him, all that time and maybe longer, I have had a father, living nearby, and you have been seeing him two or three times a week, living with him almost, and I have never been allowed to see him, and he doesn’t know I exist.’
‘I’m going to tell him tonight,’ Mabel said, ‘and see how that goes.’
‘No,’ said Iris. ‘Oh no. Just wait a moment. What I just said; that’s all true. Yes?’
‘Yes,’ said Mabel.
‘And now I’m big enough to know …’
‘Yes.’
‘… how you have cheated me.’
‘I—’
‘It’s when a child is little that she needs a father.’
‘I—’
‘If you weren’t the only parent I have, I would—’ Iris said.
‘Iris—’
Iris was shoving her fingers into the remains of her ice cream, and scooping it up. For a moment she stared at it on her fingers. Then leaning forward, she stuck her hand at her mother’s face, and smeared it, to and fro, across and back. ‘Ice cream,’ she said. ‘Ice cream.’
‘Iris,’ Mabel tried to say, but her mouth was obstructed and she was starting to cry.
Iris took her hand away, and stood up.
‘Did Grandma know?’ she said, and Mabel, who would often later wish that she had had the quickwittedness to lie, said, ‘Yes.’
‘Well,’ said Iris. ‘Both of you. That’s—’
‘I’ll make it right,’ Mabel said quickly. ‘We’ll give you both a little time to get used to it. If he likes the idea maybe we’ll go and live in that pretty flat. If he ain’t keen on that, then how about we go and live in Paris?’
‘Paris?’ Iris said. ‘Ice cream, and Paris? Can you add turning back time and behaving completely differently? Because if you can’t—’
Mabel was wiping her face. ‘Iris,’ she was saying.
Iris shook her head, her body tensed and she turned away. ‘Don’t do anything, Mother,’ she said. ‘Don’t talk to him. You’re not in charge now,’ and she moved away. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Peter Locke,’ Mabel said.
‘Peter Locke,’ Iris said, thoughtfully. ‘White man!’ Then, ‘Don’t go back to that flat,’ and she walked off.
*
Iris was angry, but it was not anger that propelled her. It was curiosity and a very pure, immutable pull. It brought her through Soho and Mayfair down to Hyde Park Corner, across the roundabout, and into the white maze of Belgravia, where the houses were taller, the roads were wider, the squares leafier, the people fewer, their shoes shinier. It was a discreet area. The houses had no expression beyond prosperity; if anyone looked out it was a servant, and not the kind who would chat or reveal.
Iris assumed that Peter Locke lived at the flat all the time. It was him she was drawn to.
She didn’t know where the flat was, which street, which number. They all looked very similar. She remembered … black railings at her back, a junction to her left, a lilac tree in bloom, which wouldn’t be blooming now, or would it? She had no idea. A garden square divided into four by roads? Second house in from the corner? She wandered. She came across something likely: Eaton Square. Quartering it like a harrier, she came to a corner and saw, hanging above her among dusty leaves, the rusty spikes of dead lilac. Sliding between two low and glamorous cars, she leaned against the railings and looked up. The casements above were blind and silent. Any of them could hold him.
She stayed there, thinking: a father would have a job. Perhaps? He’d be out, anyway.
He’ll be surprised. He might not be pleased. He might be angry.
She remembered him coming across the road to her. He was tall. Even though she had been little he was really tall. He had a nice voice. Posh, though. I am not posh.
He won’t be disappointed in me, not once he gets to know me. Not if he gives me a chance. He’ll like me because I’ll be a bit like him. He’ll be happy. I think. But he’ll be surprised, and—
Probably he’s at work.
But he might hate me.
White people often don’t like black people.
But if he’s my dad I’m half white.
But it doesn’t work that way does it? It’s not maths. It’s not fractions.
*
And Grandma had known too, and not told her, and she had been left out.
Iris had always thought of her family as the Three Musketeers, three ladies on their own looking after each other. And now she was only one. Not one of three at all.
But he likes Mumma.
*
After two hours, Iris left. She’d come back in the evening. That’s when fathers come home.
Mabel, who had been watching her from around the corner, fifty yards away, followed her, saw that she was going home, and slipped into a telephone box.
*
Peter had been going to come to Mabel’s show that night at the Serpentine Room. She said, let’s meet earlier, how about the John Snow. He said he’d had no lunch, let’s eat before for a change.
Things had looked up for Mabel, professionally. She had fans, and more salubrious dates. She’d been selling her songs and writing for other bands too. She sometimes even admitted that they were her own, and not her daddy’s. She only sang four nights a week now. Top of the bill. Tours round the country sometimes, and regular seasons in Paris. Her own band, much of the time. Reginald played trombone. Peter sat night after night; came in after a day either at the firm, or writing. They had their routine. It wasn’t that she was bored with it.
So they went to Sheekey’s, and ate dover sole. Peter sang the old rude song softly under his breath: ‘The sweetest of fish, When placed on a dish, are soles, are soles, are soles!’
She found her heart was beating exceptionally strong. But there was no point looking ahead and fearing. She didn’t even stop to think what it was she feared. The truth was the truth and the time was now. Iris’s anger only made it more important.
He had just put a forkful of buttery fish into his mouth when she slid a photograph across the white tablecloth. Black and white, semi-posed, Iris, fourteen years old in school uniform, holding her own hands in front of her and squinting a little into the sun in the garden of Soho Square. Plane-tree dappled light. A sweet smile.
‘Hello,’ said Peter. ‘Who’s this?’
‘My daughter,’ said Mabel.
‘Daughter!’
‘Iris,’ she said, and observed him. He looked – surprised. Not shocked or horrified. Surprised.
‘Is she dead?’ he asked.
‘No!’ Mabel yelped. Unsay that! No she ain’t dead! No!
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘But – where is she then?’
‘She’s the reason I’ve been so private these years,’ Mabel said.
His eyes were puzzled and frank.
‘Protective,’ she said.
‘From me?’ said Peter, bewildered.
Mabel gazed at him and her face broke apart into a scared, hopeful kind of smile.
‘Honey,’ she said. ‘I’ve been a mother on my own for a long time. I’ve made some mistakes and I don’t think this is one. This is our daughter. Yours and mine. I reckoned you’re both ready to know about it. I told her today about you. I’m telling you now about her. I’m happy to introduce you any time.’
He was silent. An absolute silence in the clatter and clink of restaurant. All she heard was the soft chinks of his thoughts falling into place.
‘You never told me,’ he said. ‘Why on earth have you never mentioned this before?’
‘Is that the most important thing?’
‘No. But neither is it nothing.’
Silence.
‘How old is she?’ he said.
‘Eighteen.’
‘That’s almost adult!’
‘Yes.’
‘Such a long time.’
‘Yes.’
‘I could have—’
‘What?’
‘Been a father’
‘No,’ she said.
‘No, what?’
‘You couldn’t have been a father.’
He raised his chin. His mouth twitched. ‘What on earth—’
She said, softly: ‘Do you want me to remind you?’ and he blinked. ‘About how we were, then?’ she went on.
He turned his head.
‘About how you were?’
And yes, he knew all about how he had been.
‘I was a bloody mess,’ he said. ‘Unfit for decent company, or any other, let alone for a woman to depend on. In such a situation.’
‘You were,’ she said. ‘And that is why.’
‘But for so long!’ he cried, and his raised voice brought a look from a neighbouring table, and she said, ‘Yes, it takes a long time, doesn’t it? To get over things, to learn a little trust …’
‘I wish it had been different,’ he said, and he was suddenly afraid he might weep.
‘It can be,’ she said.
They paused, and breathed.
‘Was that your only reason?’ he said.
‘Is that not enough?’ she asked – but took pity on him then, and said, with a funny little laugh, ‘Scared?’
‘You’re not a scared kind of woman,’ he said.
‘But Peter,’ she said. ‘You’re an exception and a miracle. Not all men like their children born out of wedlock.’
He squinted at her, furrow-faced.
‘Then we must marry!’ he cried, and she said, without thinking, ‘Oh, no, that’s not what I meant’ – but he grew excited. ‘Would you? Shall we? It would be – then I can – please. Darling. Please. I really have been terribly remiss in not asking you earlier. I don’t know what I was thinking. Please! Marry me!’
His enthusiasm grew a little noisy, and people at neighbouring tables were looking. Some of the younger ones, theatre-looking people, smiled and laughed. An older man flared his nostrils, caught eyes with his wife, and looked away.
Peter quietened. He took her hand across the table. He said, ‘Shall I go on my knee? Here and now? I will. Or just say yes. Then I can meet my daughter as her father sworn as well as by blood. Say yes. Please. Marry me.’
‘One thing at a time,’ she said, a little flustered. The spirit in the room was embarrassing her, though Peter didn’t seem to notice it. She knew the piano player.
‘I love you and you make me happy,’ he said. ‘I’ll look after you forever. You can carry on with your music of course, if you want to – we’ll be being awfully modern anyway, so why stop there? I won’t be that kind of husband. My children will love you. And her. Please.’
His innocence seemed almost sacred to her. How could she squash it? He was what the world should be like.
‘There are things we would have to face which even now you hardly know exist,’ she said.
Marry him! What, and go and live in that house in the English countryside where she’d never been? With English countryside people who’ve never seen a black face in their English countryside lives?
‘My dear girl,’ he said. ‘Surely we’ve come far enough that we don’t let that sort of thing ruin our lives?’
He’s right – it ain’t about that. It’s about love and freedom. Marry him and prove your point. Iris lives it, is it, in her flesh and blood. What hope is there for her if you can’t even put it on paper?
She was gazing at him: fifty years old, those pale blue eyes, what he’s seen, what he’s done, what he is. What he’s been through to get to where he is now. How he loves her. This is his response – real joy.
She leaned forward and whispered to him, ‘Shh.’ Her eyes flashed up. ‘I will. But secret for now. There’s things we need to talk about. I don’t want you tied to something you can’t handle.’ And he looked at her, and said: ‘It’s not about that. It’s about you and me being happy together. And our daughter. What’s her name again?’
‘Iris,’ she said, and she laughed.
‘Pretty name,’ he said. ‘And you’ll marry me?’
‘Yes,’ she said. Sweet Jesus yes I will.
And he jumped up and cried out: for joy, for champagne – ‘Not for me darling, for you’ – for the wedding march on the piano, for congratulation and love and amazement …
It being a theatrey kind of crowd in the West End of London, everybody laughed and joined in and were happy for them. Some, u
ndoubtedly, were a little scandalised, though largely delighted to be so. How modern! they thought. Champagne was brought. The piano player made a perfectly friendly face at Mabel, and played a few chords. ‘Hey Mabel,’ he called out. ‘You gonna sing for us?’
‘You know I can’t!’ she called back. ‘You know I’m contracted to the Serpentine Room tonight!’
‘Ain’t every night you get engaged to be married,’ the piano player called. ‘Come on, let’s do it.’ And that gave Mabel an idea.
Eyes were rolled, laughs shared. The maître d’ made an announcement, and Miss Mabel Zachary whispered to the piano player with a smile. The chords started to rattle out. Her voice over the top, laughing and saucy, and every note sung through a beaming, glorious smile, as wide as love. ‘Birds do it,’ she sang. ‘Bees do it. Even educated fleas do it. Let’s do it—’
The maître d’ sent the busboy out for roses; he pressed them into Mabel’s arms. They smelt of honey and happiness.
Two couples, only, stood and ruffled themselves and left. Mabel noticed; Peter didn’t.
Never mind them, thought Mabel. They’re the Old Days. Bye bye Old Days.
*
After her show, Mabel sent Peter back to the flat alone while she went up to Lexington Street. Iris was in Grandma’s chair in the kitchen. Mabel woke her gently.
‘He’s at the flat if you want to see him now,’ she whispered. ‘Or you can go in the morning. He’s waiting for you. I’ll come with you, only if you want.’ She sat on the arm of the chair and waited for Iris’s head to move towards her, so she could put her arm round her, so they could be together again.
Iris looked up at her. ‘It’s not that easy,’ she said.
‘It’s a start,’ Mabel said.
‘I might not want a start,’ Iris said.
‘Whenever you’re ready,’ Mabel said, humbly. Then, quickly: ‘I gave him a photo of you. He’s so excited! He’s not angry or upset about any of it. He just wants to see you and to get on with it. He wishes I’d told him years ago.’
Iris tipped her head a tiny bit further.
‘Uh-huh?’ she said.
‘He wants to marry us,’ said Mabel. ‘If you see what I mean.’