by CE Rose
‘A son,’ he replied.
The two words were clearly the end of our conversation. Cringing, I willed Joe to hurry, then blew out my relief when George left the room. But he returned moments later and topped up my cup. Though he took the armchair again, he didn’t relax. Instead, he leaned forward with the deepest of frowns.
‘He died,’ he said in a flat voice. ‘My son died, so you’ll understand why I don’t speak about him.’
The shock of his blunt words hit the back of my eyes. Losing a mother was horrible, but it was nothing compared to the death of a child.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I whispered.
His steady gaze didn’t flicker, but his burning pain seared the air. In that instant I knew he hadn’t been Mum’s lover, that he wasn’t anyone’s. He was living with his personal, wretched black hole. I understood from experience that heartache wasn’t good company and it made sense of Miles’s ‘cold fish’ comment. This man was one too. That’s why I’d felt drawn, sensed something I recognised, something in common. It was grief.
Focusing on the worn carpet, I fought back the tears. This man had just said he didn’t want to talk, but the words came instinctively. ‘How old was he?’ I asked.
‘Nine years old.’ He cleared his throat and sat back. ‘Benjamin. Ben. He was born with a heart condition, but it wasn’t serious. He had a small operation when he was a baby and after that he just had to take pills. It didn’t affect his life. He played sport; he was full of energy, a bright, happy lad. We just turned up to see the consultant every year for a check-up.’
He stood and stared at the neatly piled coal in the hearth. Then he took a deep breath and continued to speak doggedly, as though it was a speech he’d rehearsed many times.
‘Ben was doing so well, the consultant suggested another minor procedure. Then he could live an independent life without worrying about taking pills. I wanted that for him; I didn’t want him to be the boy reliant on medicine. I wanted him to live life to the full. That’s what he wanted too. But my wife wasn’t so sure. She was worried about the operation.’
He looked at me then, his face ashen behind his tanned skin. ‘I was concerned as well. There’s always a danger with anaesthetic, isn’t there? But the consultant was confident. Just routine, he said. So I persuaded Emma and she agreed to the operation.’
As though speaking was an effort, he cleared his throat again. ‘The hospital told us he might be a bit dopey after the operation. But when we visited him he was alert and bright. We were as proud as punch. It had all gone as planned and after a day, we took him home. I’d redecorated his bedroom, finally got rid of the babyish wallpaper. New bedding, new colours, new furniture, the lot. He went to bed that night, a beautiful happy lad. Then a week or so later, when Emma went to wake him, he was dead. We’d let him die all alone.’
I didn’t have adequate words of comfort. My living son had finished his feed and was gazing with a shy, satisfied smile. I gently laid him on the sofa and straightened myself out.
When I turned back, George was still staring with unfocused eyes.
‘I’m so very sorry.’ Despite my best efforts, the tears had come. My throat felt scratchy and sore too. ‘What had happened?’
As though the answer didn’t matter, he seemed to shrug himself back. ‘We’d stopped giving him the pills. He should have been weaned off them. No one told us.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’d better get over to Mrs Willis now.’
Nodding, I wiped my face with a tissue. His brow was knitted; he probably regretted telling me already.
We stepped out to the dissonant sunshine. George helped with the sling, then held out a fiver. ‘Hope that covers the fruit,’ he said.
I took a breath to say something, to thank him or just say goodbye, but he’d already set off, pacing with long strides up the hill.
* * *
I was thoughtful as I ambled back home. Tears were just beneath the surface and I was embarrassed about weeping in the cottage. George’s loss was so much worse than mine. Such a devastating story, told in his plain way. It was sad to lose your parents, tragic when they were taken early, but at least it was the natural order of things. He hadn’t mentioned how much time had passed since his son’s death, but the grief was clearly still raw and deep.
I didn’t want him to think my snivelling self-indulgent, but in truth it was. He was a good person, far better than I. There must have been times he couldn’t bear to see kids playing, laughing, running, skipping, yet he’d been kind to Joe, held him gently and soothed him.
Would I be so generous in the same situation? I doubted it, if I was honest.
After Dad died, I’d felt horribly rejected by my friends. But part of me was relieved to be shunned; it meant I didn’t have to see Sally’s dad arrive home from work, hang his jacket on the bannister, then greet her with a hug or a kiss. Or wait with Isabelle outside the school gates for a free ninety-nine cornet from her dad’s ice cream van. Hear Ruth’s dad call ‘all right?’ over the sound of the television in her smoky sitting room. They all had a father and I didn’t. The jealousy was wedged so fiercely in my chest that at times I’d wished someone in their family would die, so they’d know how it felt.
A terrible, terrible wish. I was only a child, but still. Trying to distract my dismal thoughts, I entered the post office and peered at the newspapers, but the memory of Johnny Baker prodded. I’d always sat next to him in class because we had the same surname. A stream of green snot ran from his nose to his mouth and he smelt of old socks. During that time he was the only kid who still treated me as though I was normal. But one day he regarded me with his soft brown gaze and offered to share his dad if I liked. In retrospect, I saw his kindness and his logic; we had the same name, and though he was mixed race, people thought we were cousins. But I was furious and never spoke to him again; did he really think my daddy could be replaced?
I deeply sighed. My dad who’d needed forgiveness; who’d been ‘so sorry’. What dreadful thing had he done?
Chapter Thirty
The Lodge felt empty and soulful when I returned. It was hard to shake off thoughts of George and his boy. I’d put my hand on his arm when he opened the cottage door. Just a touch of understanding or reassurance, I suppose, but he’d flinched from it like I had flinched from little Johnny Baker’s offer – perhaps I was now a reminder of his loss. I hoped not; I didn’t want to scare him away. Even in the distance, he’d made me feel safe.
I called Laura’s mobile, leaving a message that I was now at The Lodge, then read the local headlines and ate soup to finish my lunch. Joe was napping, so what chore next? The sun had moved and was lighting the shrubs and glistening the pond in the sunken garden, so it’d be shining through the dining room windows and warming it up. As Laura had always said, only cold rooms were haunted.
Steeling myself, I opened the door to Mum’s studio. I’d anticipated the smell of cleaning products again, but a tang of varnish and turps seemed to hover like a cloud and I instinctively knew it was exactly as she’d left it. A small painting was propped on the portable easel, a watercolour of the swaying, reedy riverside, and a new stretched canvas on another. The tubes of oils had their lids tightly screwed on, but they bore the dents of fingertips and three or four squirts of thick paint sat intact on the palate, as though awaiting her return.
My throat dry and burning, I stared at Mum’s chair. The velvet cushion was hollowed as though she’d just stood up. Had she stared at that blank cloth with any inkling her life would end only hours later? Any feelings, foreboding? Bloody hell; why hadn’t she just worn the damned seat belt?
I turned to the fireplace. If there were any dead birds these days they were rotting on the board blocking the flue. A wicker basket of dried flowers decorated the grate and the room was warm and balmy. No pigeons, no flies; no phantoms nor ghosts today. No Mum, either.
Feeling the tension ease from my chest, I moved to the paintings stacked against the wall. She didn’t hang her own art
and gave most of her pieces away, but a few she kept: a watercolour of our old house, an oil painting of my grandpa that only we would recognise, the portraits she attempted of me and Laura as little girls, and of course the pencil drawings of us as tiny babies, a couple of which she’d framed. To my surprise, the one of me was at the front, as though she’d recently pulled it out. I traced the newborn’s cheeks and smiled at its ‘heartburn’ dark hair. My smile fell. Perhaps she’d intended to bring it with her to Manchester. Another thing I’d never know.
I idly flicked through the rest. There were no portraits of Dad, but she’d never managed to persuade him to sit down long enough to get a likeness. Needing an errand or a plan, he never stopped moving, not even that last summer.
‘You’re driving me mad, Doug. Can’t you sit down for two minutes?’
The roll of his smiling blue eyes. ‘A minute, just for you, dearest Eve.’
A minute, just a minute. How we’d all longed for that minute once he’d gone.
* * *
My dining room mission accomplished, and easily too, I decided to tackle the next hurdle. Mum’s handbag had been recovered from the car wreck and was now sitting on the sideboard next to the silver tea service. Not quite ready to open it, I stared at the soft leather, wondering how it had come out of the accident unscathed, whereas Mum hadn’t.
Inevitably remembering her medical collar, I put my hand to my neck and swallowed. My throat was definitely a little raw. Not another cold, surely? I didn’t want to think about what had happened the last time, nor the fearful nights which had followed.
The peal of the telephone made me jump.
‘Hello?’
‘I told Shelby about the kids thing last night. He’s only just left for work so I couldn’t call before now. He was shocked, but he wasn’t angry. You were right, Ali. We talked about it for hours. I’m so bloody relieved…’
It was Laura, of course, her voice excited and clear, as though she was in the next room. My heart soared from her happiness and positive news. I felt I’d helped in some small way and it lifted my spirits.
‘Fantastic! I’m so pleased. So what now?’ I asked.
A pause, then a sigh. ‘He thinks we should look into adoption; he likes the idea of giving an unwanted child a home, but I don’t know…’
I sensed her reluctance; before she’d shut down the subject completely in Manchester, we’d talked briefly about the options if she didn’t go for medical intervention or if that didn’t work. She’d admitted it wasn’t a nice thing to say, but pointed out that adoption could go wrong, that some kids were badly damaged or challenging, and she wouldn’t be the right person to help. But then again, she’d worried that surrogacy might be even worse; the minefield of choosing the ideal candidate to carry a child.
‘It’s an option to think about, isn’t it?’ I now asked.
‘Maybe…’
Sensing she didn’t want to talk more about it, I didn’t push my luck. Instead, I filled her in about the funny aspects of Mum’s horror film staff, Joe’s treachery and my visit to Bureside.
‘You and Bureside. And that bloody boat. What’s it called?’
‘Sylvette.’
‘That’s right. How was Joan? Still got her beehive?’
‘She wasn’t there. Or at least she didn’t come downstairs if she was. A bit odd, really.’
Laura snorted. ‘I expect Tom wanted you all to himself. Did he give you a humbug and a tickle?’
‘Er, no!’
‘You used to let him.’
‘I didn’t!’
‘You did. “Oh here comes Little Miss Tickly Ribs.” I was almost jealous.’ She laughed. ‘Only almost, though…’
‘What? The too-perfect teeth?’
‘They’re false, Ali. Don’t you remember Mum always told me off, “Don’t be unkind; he lost his in the course of doing his duty. It doesn’t come more honourable than that.”’
I didn’t remember; I couldn’t recall the tickling either, but it wouldn’t be the first time Laura had wound me up. A tad uncomfortable, I looked for a change of subject. Should I mention my discovery about Dad’s TB? His apology? Nope, I didn’t know the full story yet.
‘I’ve found a bundle of your letters and cards to Mum. Shall I send them to you?’
‘No thanks,’ she replied. ‘They’ll be filled with a load of affectionate tosh. I didn’t keep any of hers. Bin them. Sentiment just clutters your life, Ali. Take what you want from the house and get rid of the rest.’
Both a burden and a relief, it was what I had expected from Laura. On the one hand, I didn’t have to worry about chucking out the wrong things, but on the other, the overwhelming decisions were entirely mine.
‘Don’t you want anything? Jewellery, clothes, paintings, antiques? And how about The Lodge itself? I think you should visit first, have a look before making any rash decisions. If you did decide to have kids, you might want to pass things down the line…’
‘Oh give it a rest, Ali.’ She paused and I thought she’d gone. Then she laughed. ‘The mink. You can save the mink jacket for me.’
When I’d finished the call, I scooped up Mum’s handbag and emptied it out. Laura’s comments about sentimental stuff had given me courage; they were only possessions, after all.
I went through the contents: a silk headscarf, of course; Mum never went anywhere without one. A mirror, lipstick, face compact, a handkerchief, her diary and her purse. And a hairbrush containing a few thick blonde strands. The thought of her impossible hair brought a small smile, but it was soon replaced with another thought: the grooming set at George’s this morning. Though I’d only known him a short while, my feelings had gone through a confused spectrum of real terror, followed by irritation and dislike, jealousy and dependency. Now there was admiration, and if I was honest, a strange attraction.
I picked up Mum’s diary, but put it down again. I had no inclination, or right for that matter, to look at it. Instead I opened her purse. It was as I remembered from childhood – at the doctor’s or the dentist she’d let us go through it to alleviate the boredom of waiting – a few coins, notes, loyalty and credit cards. Her miscellaneous section was still there too: the one school portrait of Laura and me together in Juniors, Dad’s old business card and the tiny perished baby’s wristband Laura and I had always argued about. Joe’s was in a box at home, along with other mementoes of his birth, ready to be glued into a scrapbook when I had the energy and time.
Suddenly yearning for Miles, I glanced at my watch. Unless the judge was allowing it to run over, the trial would be winding up for the day. He always complained I didn’t telephone him when he was working away. ‘Out of sight, out of mind,’ he once said. ‘If I didn’t call you, you’d forget I existed.’
An exaggeration, of course, but I knew what he meant. Connected to that cold fish business, I supposed. But it was easier to hold people at arm’s length; one’s heart wouldn’t get broken that way.
I searched for my mobile and fired it up. Though I had some missed calls and texts, they weren’t urgent or important; anyone who mattered had the number for The Lodge. Inevitably, most were from Madeleine. Ironic, really, I hadn’t been a ‘cold fish’ with her, not at first, anyway. I pushed the thought away, deleted the history and turned it off.
I called Miles from the landline instead. His mobile rang out for some time, but just as I decided to give up, it was answered.
‘Hello? Can I help?’
A woman’s voice. I was momentarily thrown. ‘Sorry. Have I got the right number?’ I asked. ‘Is this Miles’s phone?’
‘Hi Ali. It’s me. We’re just in the robing room before eating. Milo’s nipped to the lav. Do you want to hold on?’
I felt my stomach tighten. Miss Julia Lambert, his bloody ex-girlfriend, who’d never quite gone away. How perfectly nice. Miles hadn’t thought to mention she’d be in London at the same time as him.
‘No, it’s fine Julia,’ I replied. ‘Nothing important. I’l
l speak to him later. Enjoy your evening.’
Chapter Thirty-One
The return call from Miles came pretty damned quickly. Hot and irritated, I ignored it. The telephone continued to ring intermittently through the early evening, but I made myself a radish and beetroot salad from a soily selection of produce I found by the back door. Then I played with Joe, showing him the tatty boxes of board games from my bedroom cupboard and demonstrating Laura’s old Spirograph set, pressing far harder with the coloured biros than was necessary.
I wasn’t in the mood to talk to Miles. If he wanted to shag Julia Lambert all night, that was fine by me. In truth I didn’t think he really was, but why the hell hadn’t he told me she’d be there? I gave Joe a final feed and put him to bed. The phone stopped ringing then. No doubt Miles was too busy at some expensive London dinner: Julia gossiping and tittering and twirling her hair.
Secrets and lies, how I hated them. Or even sleight of hand. Though did I really want people to be honest? Like Madeleine had been? I calmed myself; it was just an omission, anything else in my head was insecurity and paranoia. It was better not to mull, to escape the next peal of the telephone.
Closing the door to the kitchen, I eased my painful throat with icy water, flung open the side door and breathed in the warm night.
‘Everything all right?’ a voice asked from the dusk. George was perched on the sunken garden wall, smoking a cigarette.
‘Oh, you’re a smoker,’ I commented, the childish response popping out.
‘I am,’ he replied coolly. ‘It’s not completely illegal yet, is it?’
‘No it isn’t.’
‘Well then.’
His tone was offhand. He had shared something so intimate that morning, but the connection seemed lost. ‘Why are you here?’ I asked bluntly.
He shrugged and took a drag. ‘You owe me five pounds.’