by Diana Finley
‘If you come here for a simple supper tonight. Can you do that? Nina will be here, but she goes to bed about half past six or seven o’clock, so we could talk then for a while. Would that be all right for you? I’ll tell you how to get here.’
I love hearing Anaïs’s voice. Her French accent charms me. I know so little about her, but it’s as though through hearing her voice I can picture her face.
Anaïs tells me her address in south London and gives me instructions how to get there. For me, the prospect of a visit to her home is exciting and frightening in equal measure.
I feel a need to prepare myself. Somehow, I want to try to familiarise myself with this intriguing sister-in-law I’ve met so briefly. I search everywhere in the flat for photographs of Anaïs – in drawers, among papers, in the safe – but I find not a single one, not even any of Nina, nor Marie. Barry appears to have erased mementos of her – and all of his family – from his life. What a strange enigma my brother was.
I search for something suitable to wear for the visit, aware that I’ll be wearing clothes that belonged to Barry – Anaïs’s ex-husband – and that feels strange. Is it inappropriate? Perhaps I should go out and buy a new outfit? But how ridiculous, when there are stacks of clothes in Barry’s wardrobe – more than I’ve owned in my entire life. In any case, there’s no time to go clothes shopping, not if I’m to get to Anaïs’s house in time for an early supper. I’m going to have to wear something of my brother’s for the evening. I just hope I don’t choose something that looks wrong, or causes offence in any way.
After trying on several outfits and studying myself in the full-length mirror, I settle on a pair of light brown casual trousers that look quite good on me. Then I come across a maroon brushed cotton shirt folded on a shelf in the wardrobe. It looks brand new. In fact, it is brand new! When I unfold it, I notice the shop’s label is still attached. I try it on and it looks fine with the trousers. I know it’s a twenty-minute walk from Blackheath station, and I’ll be returning in the late evening, so I take a grey woollen sweater in a bag and put on a lightweight linen jacket.
***
If I wasn’t so nervous, the walk from Blackheath station to Anaïs’s house would have been enjoyable. They live in a leafy street of pretty, but modest, semi-detached houses, about a mile from the station. It’s a quiet residential street – a cul-de-sac, so no through traffic. Children are out playing on their bikes and in the gardens. Anaïs’s front garden is colourful with a mass of bright flowers.
I stand on the step, my heart jittery as I wait for them to respond to the bell. After a minute, there’s a lengthy jangling of keys as someone unlocks the door, followed by the thud of a bolt being pulled back at the top, and then the bottom of the door. Is everyone in London so security conscious?
Anaïs opens the front door, carrying a little girl of four or five tucked into her hip. She smiles and leans forward to kiss me, the formal French way of greeting: one cheek and then the other. Can she hear the hectic thumping of my heart? Nina watches me with big eyes, her finger stuck in her mouth.
‘Nina, this is Papa’s brother, Donal,’ Anaïs tells her, as I follow them inside.
‘It’s Papa.’
‘Not Papa, sweetie, it’s Uncle Donal.’
Nina regards me cautiously, suspiciously.
‘It’s good to see you again, Anaïs,’ I stammer, handing her a bunch of flowers I bought at the station. She looks surprised.
‘Oh, Donal, they are very beautiful, thank you. Look, Nina – aren’t they lovely? I’ll put them in water.’
‘Pretty,’ she says.
I take off my jacket and Anaïs puts it over the banisters. She turns and suddenly stops mid-step, her eyes wide, one hand holding my arm gently.
‘Oh …!’
I look around to see what has caught her attention, and then realise it’s me she’s looking at so intently. I immediately fear I’ve made some terrible error of dress code.
‘You are wearing it.’ She places her hand on my chest. Her touch sends shock waves through my body. I gulp and hold my breath.
She must have noticed my look of confusion.
‘That shirt. I gave it to Barry. It’s so long ago and he never wore it. I thought he’d thrown it away. Perhaps because I gave it to him.’
She looks at me, a sad smile on her face.
‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t know. I shouldn’t have worn it … I just didn’t have anything else to wear.’
‘No, Donal, how you could know? I’m pleased you did wear it. It suits you.’
‘Well, thank you. It’s a lovely shirt.’
Nina is standing at a slight distance, closely watching us together, looking a little puzzled.
We continue into the sitting room. Anaïs does an expansive sweep of the room with her right arm, as if to indicate ‘sit where you like’.
I sit on the floor, and hand Nina a box of little figures and animals I bought for her at Charing Cross station. She tips them out on the rug and smiles up at me for the first time.
Anaïs kicks off her shoes and sits opposite me on a low velvet sofa, her legs curled underneath her. Nina heads off into another room.
Alone with Anaïs for a few moments, I’m able to look at her properly for the first time. She’s slender in close-fitting jeans. A casual top of vibrant colours in abstract patterns give her an exotic look. Her hair is dark, but glinting with a subtle auburn tinge from the light behind her. Her face is delicate, with a smooth forehead, high cheekbones and large, dark eyes.
Nina brings in three little toy figures. She puts two down on the low table and hands me the third. She laughs when I make the toys ‘talk’ to one another.
‘She likes you,’ Anaïs mouths at me.
Conversation between us is a bit self-conscious and stilted at first, but after a while, the atmosphere softens; we relax together. Nina trots in and out of the room, bringing things to show me. Anaïs watches me pensively.
‘Have you seen any more articles in the newspapers, Donal? Do you think there has been an inquest yet? Are they going to investigate his death further? You know, look into exactly how and why he might have died?’
‘Not that I know of, not yet. I’m buying a newspaper every day and making sure to look carefully to check for any more reports.’
‘We must think carefully how we tell Marie, don’t you agree? It will be such a shock for her, so terrible. Oh la-la – la pauvre!’ She shakes her head and dabs at her beautiful eyes with a tissue. ‘Well, let us not talk about it more just now,’ she says, indicating Nina with her eyes. ‘Now, it is time for supper – no, Nina? Come, Donal, you sit down here at the table. I must just finish the main dish – one or two minutes. Nina – please come to help me.’
I sit, as Anaïs indicated, to the right of what appears to be her place, and opposite Nina’s chair, which has a cushion on it to boost her height.
After a minute Nina appears, carefully carrying a wooden bowl with a green salad. Her face is a picture of deep concentration as she climbs on her chair to place the bowl in the centre of the table. I wink at her and she smiles shyly, before dashing back to the kitchen.
The clatter of dishes and pans, mingling with the soft murmur of Nina and Anaïs’s voices, drifts through to me. A homely, domestic sound. After a few minutes, Anaïs reappears, carrying a large earthenware dish, from which emanates a mouth-watering aroma. She sits down and smiles at me. Nina follows.
‘Piperade!’ Anaïs announces with a little smile. ‘A traditional Provencal dish. Onion, garlic, peppers, mushrooms, tomatoes and beaten eggs. Very simple, but very tasty. Nina, please pass the bread to your uncle.’
‘Wonderful. It smells delicious.’
Anaïs glances up at me, as if checking my comment was genuine. She gives me a small smile.
The fragrant, savoury mix is truly delicious, and instantly becomes one of my favourite meals. Served with a green salad and crusty French bread, it is perfect.
To finish, Anaïs h
as made a crème brûlée, crisped under the grill. I thank her for going to so much trouble.
After coffee, I read a book of Nina’s choice – about a family of elephants living in the jungle. I love the feel of her warm little body on my lap, her head resting trustingly against my chest. Then Anaïs takes her up to bed. She seems to settle to sleep quickly. I’m conscious of not wanting to overstay my welcome.
In the sitting room, Anaïs and I get straight down to discussing how to talk to Marie. We ponder at length together how Marie might react – on the one hand, to news of the death of her one son, Barry, and on the other, to the sudden reunion with her other, long-lost son, Donal. How cruel is fate to give my mother the gift of one child, apparently so desperately longed for over thirty-four years, while at the same time snatching away her other child – flawed, problematic and difficult, but still deeply loved by Marie nonetheless.
I have to keep reminding myself that this is Barry’s ex-wife, that there has once been a romantic relationship between them, one that subsequently became deeply troubled. The possibility of domestic abuse at Barry’s hands has been alluded to, even by Barry himself.
As the evening wears on, we become more relaxed with one another. Conversation flows more easily, despite the fact that I’m careful, and nervous of saying the wrong thing somehow. Still, we begin to talk as friends, ranging many topics. She’s much more travelled than I am – I’ve barely left the North East! I’m happy to listen to her anecdotes of adventures she’s experienced when younger.
We both share a love of books, the countryside, and we each discuss some of our favourite films. She even laughs at some of my jokes.
When it’s time to go, we embrace with genuine warmth rather than French formality – on my side at least.
‘Goodbye, Donal,’ Anaïs says, looking directly into my face. I hesitate by the door.
‘Thank you very much, Anaïs, it’s been a really … special evening,’ I say sincerely, feeling the inadequacy of words, the potential for misunderstanding.
‘Yes, it’s been good to spend time with you, Donal. I have enjoyed our evening together.’
I edge on to the outer doorstep. Anaïs stands by the front door, smiling, yet gazing at me with a slight frown, as if trying to puzzle me out.
‘So, Donal … at least now, we have a plan,’ she says, following me outside. We stand facing each other, compressed by the limited space. ‘I will come to the flat tomorrow and we can go together to speak to Marie.’
I have a sudden thought.
‘What about Nina, Anaïs? Will you have to bring her too?’
‘Oh no. It’s good that you think of her, though. Nina has school. That’s why I arranged to meet at two. We can concentrate completely on talking with Marie. Also the school is not far from her house.’
‘That’s good – well done. You’re very organised.’
‘It won’t be an easy meeting. We will have to tell Marie about Barry first. That will be the hardest part. Of course, she will be so, so happy … about you, I mean, but also so very, very sad, about Barry.’
‘I know, thank you for making the arrangements, Anaïs, but I dread having to cause her such distress.’
‘Yes, it is horrible. But she is very strong, I think. You will see.’
I raise my hand in a final greeting and begin to walk away. As I turn briefly by the garden gate, she lifts her hand suddenly towards her face, as if considering whether to blow me a kiss, then pausing uncertainly. The raised hand gives me a last wave and Anaïs gently closes the front door.
Chapter 41
2004
Marie
The doorbell rings and gives me a start. I should have left the front door open for them, but Barry’s always urging me to keep it locked for security and it’s become a habit. I hurry to open it, feeling so excited to see them both. Especially Barry today – he’s going to tell me all about Donal, and when he’s going to bring him here. I can’t wait!
The two of them are standing on the doorstep. It’s so good to see them together – happens so rarely these days, sadly. I open the door wider. Anaïs is in front, and Barry hanging back a bit. He’s looking down, as if he’s anxious about something. That’s not like Barry; it seems a bad sign, I think. Immediately I start to wonder if something’s not right. I’m wondering if he’s done something he doesn’t want me to know about.
Anaïs hugs and kisses me warmly, as usual, and then steps around me into the hall. Barry follows, still looking down – but as he reaches me, he suddenly throws his arms around me and draws me into a huge embrace. He nearly lifts me off my feet. He clings to me tightly, as if his life depends on it. I can feel his chest kind of convulsing, almost as though he’s holding back tears.
‘Hello, son … hello, my dear darling,’ I say, though the words are muffled because my face is buried in his chest. I can hear his heart beating. How affectionate Barry’s being today, how emotional. It gives me joy; he’s not often so demonstrative.
‘Mum, Mum …’ he says, stroking my head close to him – and then I realise he’s crying.
‘Barry …?’ I manage to get out, starting to feel increasingly worried now. What’s happened? What’s wrong?
‘Mum, Marie, Mother …’ He gulps through his sobs. Now there’s an uneasy squirming feeling in my stomach.
‘I’m sorry … I’m so sorry …’ Barry repeats.
I prise his arms from me and push him back and upright. It’s hard, him being so much taller than me. It takes all of my strength, but I need to look at him properly. What does he have to be so sorry about? What has he done? He’s trembling all over, poor lad, the tears running down his face. He covers his eyes with his hands. His whole body is racked with the sobs. I glance round at Anaïs, and see she is crying too. Fear sends little sharp spikes through my heart. What on earth is going on?
And then suddenly it comes to me. Suddenly I know – and yet how could I know? How could it be? Could this hope, now starting to leap in my heart, be real? I stare at his face … yes, is there is something? Is there a difference? A softness? Is it possible? Is it really possible?
‘Donal …?’ I whisper. ‘Donal … is it you?’
For a minute he can’t answer – just makes a gulping sound that shakes his whole body.
‘Robert, is it …?’ I try.
‘Yes, Mother, it is … yes, it’s me, Donal … it is … I’m so sorry …’
His words come out as a strangulated croak. They take a while to sink in, for the meaning of them to be real.
Then I hear my own words, as if they come from someone else. I howl them at him; I howl so loud my throat hurts.
‘Is it really true? Can it be? You’re Donal? My Donal? Are you come back to me after all these years? My Donal, oh my dearest boy!’
I reach my arms out to him and we embrace again. We hold each other. I cling to him, to my precious son, and we are both crying, and Anaïs too. And she comes and hugs us. The three of us, bathed in one another’s tears, holding each other, as in some strange dance, a dance of sheer unbelievable joy.
‘But, Donal,’ I whisper at last, ‘why did you say you’re sorry, when you’ve brought me the greatest happiness imaginable? Why are you sorry when you’ve brought me this wonderful, wonderful miracle?’
He takes a deep, juddering breath. ‘Yes, Mum, being here with you is a miracle, an answer to prayers I’ve been saying silently over and over again without even knowing it, these last thirty years and more – but … but, Mum, I have to tell you something …’
I stand back for a moment to look up at his face. There’s something not right. I can feel it. I can tell. Fear clutches at me.
‘What? What is it? Something … bad?’
I’m shaking all over.
‘I’m sorry, so sorry, Mum … something sad, so sad …’
He sounds like he’s choking.
‘Tell me, Donal, you have to tell me.’
‘Mum, I’m so sorry that I bring you a great sadness
mixed with the happiness of our reunion.’
‘What possible sadness can there be when you’ve made me so happy?’
Anaïs comes close to us both and speaks softly. ‘Come, let’s move to the sitting room. Let’s go and sit down.’
So we all go in and sit down in the sitting room. I can’t take my eyes off him, my Donal. Him, who I’ve thought about, longed for, prayed for all this time for as long as I can remember. I’m afraid it’s my mind playing tricks. Perhaps I’ll wake suddenly and find it’s all only a dream. But I pinch myself and the truth is still there. Donal is here with me, and I recognise him – I’d have known him anywhere. I see the baby in him. It’s still there – it’s not a dream. Donal has really come. He’s found me. I will never, ever let him go again, never.
‘But where is Barry?’ I ask.
Donal goes very pale. He tells me that Barry had written to him two months ago. He describes how he’d been unsure whether to trust the contents of Barry’s letter at first; he’d wondered if it was some sort of cruel hoax.
As he talks about their meeting in Durham I feel an icy cloud of fear enveloping me. This is not a story with a happy ending. I can sense that. But I listen intently to Donal’s description of Barry’s odd appearance, how they’d got on well, and had agreed to meet again in York shortly after. Barry had given Donal some money, and suggested they meet in one of his favourite places, high in the hills of Northumberland. A chance for them to spend a few days together, Barry had explained, to really get to know one another.
‘Yes, he loved Northumberland. I think it was a relief from all the tension he felt in London,’ I say tentatively.
‘I went to the agreed remote meeting place,’ Donal tells me. ‘I’d been nervous, frantically excited to be seeing my brother again. Never having had any sort of family, it meant such a lot to me to think of having a twin brother. I’d hoped we would form a close and permanent relationship, and see each other regularly. I’d hoped too, that it would lead to discovering other members of my birth family, especially to finding you, my mother.’