The Secret Mother

by Shalini Boland

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I wake up to darkness. Hot. Panicked. Where am I? And then I remember: me and Ben. We… Oh God. I’m in his bed, his arm draped around me. I slept with my boss! That sounds so seedy. But it was more than that, wasn’t it? We had a moment. A real moment together. But he’s still my boss. Shit. Has this put my job in jeopardy? I inhale and try to clear my head, squint at my watch to make out the time – 2.30 in the morning. I’ll tell him it was a mistake – no, that sounds too harsh. I’ll tell him it was an amazing night, but probably a bad idea. I’ll make light of it, joke about how we got carried away. Then, hopefully, we can go back to being friends again.

  I turn towards him, my eyes adjusting to the darkness, taking in his features – the strong jawline with a hint of new stubble; full lips, Roman nose, dark eyebrows, and that stray lick of hair that falls over one eye. In another lifetime, Ben and I could have been something, I’m sure of it. But in this life, things are too difficult. I can’t drag him into my drama, my sadness. He’ll go off me. He’ll run for the hills and then I’ll have lost him, too. He’ll leave me heartbroken and I’ll have to stop working at Moretti’s, and find a crappy job in a soulless chain-store garden shop somewhere. It’s better this way.

  He stirs. I look away quickly and close my eyes.

  ‘Tess? You awake?’

  I stretch and open my eyes again. He turns towards me and props himself up on one elbow. Dips his head to kiss my mouth, and the fire inside me begins to glow once more. But I can’t do this, I remind myself. I pull away.

  ‘I… I’d better go,’ I stammer, my voice too high. ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘Who cares what the time is.’ His hand comes beneath the covers to rest on my hip, and I realise I’m naked.

  ‘Sorry, Ben,’ I say, shifting away from him and out of the bed, looking around for my clothes. ‘I ought to get back home. I’ve got work tomorrow morning, in case you’d forgotten.’ I’m trying to keep my voice light, but it sounds a little hysterical to my ears.

  ‘Tess, what’s wrong? Come back to bed. Stay here, then you’ll already be at work for tomorrow.’

  ‘Honestly, I can’t. I need to go home.’ Where’s that jokey attitude I wanted to project? Why do I sound like I want to get as far away from him as possible, when in fact the opposite is true?

  Ben sits up as I awkwardly pull on my jeans and jumper, clutching my underwear in my hands. ‘Have I… done something wrong?’ he says. ‘Did you not want to…?’

  ‘Oh, Ben, no. Tonight has been amazing,’ I say. ‘More than amazing.’

  ‘So stay.’

  ‘I can’t. I can’t do any more than… this. We can’t be together or anything. Not that I’m suggesting you want us to be together. I just mean, tonight was wonderful, but let’s not make things complicated. I work for you, remember?’

  ‘There’s nothing complicated about it,’ he says. ‘I told you before, I like you. That hasn’t changed.’

  ‘I like you too,’ I reply, taking a step towards the door. ‘But I have a lot going on in my life right now. Heavy stuff.’

  ‘So share it with me. I’m a good listener.’

  My brain is still fuzzy from sleep. I wouldn’t know where to begin telling Ben what’s been going on, he only knows the half of it. The rest would send him bolting in the other direction, I’m sure. ‘It’s not something I can talk about at the moment. Let’s stay friends, yeah?’

  ‘Friends.’ His voice is flat, dull. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Ben? Are we okay?’

  ‘Yep, fine.’

  Shit. ‘You sound… Never mind. I’ll see you in a few hours, at work.’

  ‘Okay.’

  I’ve screwed up big-time. He’s already pulling away from me. Why did I sleep with him? He’s too nice a guy to be messed around. I can’t let myself think about how it felt to be with him. How everything bad fell away for those moments. But it wasn’t real. And it wouldn’t last. Better to stop it now before it goes any further. I just wish I didn’t like him so much, I wish I could enjoy the moment. But I know how easy it would be to fall for Ben, and after Scott… how can I trust anyone again? Anyway, once Ben realises what a mess I am, he’s bound to lose interest, and I can’t put myself through all that. I’m not strong enough.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

  ‘Me too.’

  I turn away and walk out the door.

  I only had a few sips of wine, so I’m fine to drive home. The journey is short, the roads deserted. Once I’m through my front door, I trudge straight upstairs and curl up in my bed. I’m desperate to play back every wonderful moment of last night, but too scared to let myself think about it in case I do something stupid, like jump in the car again and head straight back to Ben.

  * * *

  At 8 a.m. I’m on my way back to Moretti’s. I’m not used to being out so early on a Sunday morning. The roads are quieter than usual, dark and cold. Just the sound of my footsteps and the occasional whoosh of a car going past – maybe people going to work, but more likely coming home from a night out.

  I must have had about three hours’ sleep in total last night, but I’m too wired to feel tired. In addition to all the stuff going on with Fisher, I now have this extra guilt over last night, setting my guts swirling and my teeth on edge. I’m so nervous about seeing Ben this morning at work. God, I’m such a cliché. Going to bed with my boss and then regretting it. But the truth is, I don’t regret it. Not at all. I’m just scared of the weirdness it’s going to create between us.

  At work, I keep myself busy, keep my head down, hardly stopping to draw breath, talking to customers without really hearing what they’re saying, going about my daily tasks without paying any attention to what I’m actually doing. I’ve already said hi to Jez and Janet, and to Shanaz, a college student who only works weekends and holidays, but Ben is nowhere to be seen. He’s obviously keeping a low profile – I don’t blame him.

  I’m half tempted to go and ring on his doorbell, to try to set things straight. But my palms go clammy at the thought of it. No, I’ll probably only make things worse. Best to leave it, let the dust settle. Maybe by tomorrow the awkwardness will have passed. Or not.

  Carolyn arrives at lunchtime and I’m finally able to leave. I suppose I could have swapped the whole day with her – it would have been easier – but I’ve never missed a Sunday at the cemetery. It’s something I have to do for my children, or I’d feel I was letting them down somehow. Abandoning them. I couldn’t save them in life, but I can at least be there for them in death.

  The familiarity of being at the cemetery calms me a little. The weak sunshine gives out scant heat, so I walk briskly along the pathways, the crunching gravel underfoot oddly satisfying. It’s a tranquil place – sixty acres of woodland cemetery, with a Victorian chapel at its heart. The pathway curves this way and that, and it’s a good twenty-minute walk until I reach them, my babies, resting under a sycamore tree. They said we were lucky to get Sam a space next to his sister. If ‘lucky’ is a word you’d use in such a circumstance.

  I step off the path and up onto the frost-tipped grass, where a magpie hops away and takes flight. One for sorrow. I give a bitter inward laugh. But then I shake off the bolt of sadness and try to be cheerful for their sakes. They don’t want to see a miserable face each week.

  I tidy away last week’s shrivelled snowdrops and pansies, and replace them with buttery daffodils for Lily and a bright clump of barberry for Sam, its miniature yellow flowers spilling out over shiny dark green leaves. Each week I bring them something different, taking my time to select flowers I think they would like. Pathetic, really – I know they can’t see my offerings.

  Maybe I’m laying the flowers for myself. For my own comfort. I have this same tussle in my head every week, never coming to any firm conclusion. There’s no revelation. No sign from above. Just me standing above their graves with different bunches of flowers. Maybe if Scott had come with me each week, it would have been different. We co
uld have talked about our children together. Brought them to life in shared memories. Recalled funny incidents from Sam’s past, imagined how he and Lily would have played together. Wondered what kind of adults they would have become. Instead, it’s always been me, alone with my thoughts, trying to remain positive, but failing to prevent the darkness from sneaking in.

  I sit on the damp wooden bench opposite their gravestones and try to recall them: Lily’s angelic sleeping face and Sam’s cheeky grin, his occasional scowl, his breathless, hysterical laughter when Scott pretended to be the tickle monster. I push out the later images of his sallow-skinned bravery, lying in the hospital minus his glorious dark curls. The tubes protruding from his body giving him a few more precious weeks of life, but making him less like himself and more like there was some alien creature taking him over.

  I stand up and blink away hot tears. I can’t bear to leave, but I’m not strong enough to stay. Not today. I’m unable to conjure up any of my usual chatter for them, my thoughts spiralling off down dark corridors. And instead of my children’s faces, I picture Fisher and his son. It was only a week ago that Harry appeared in my kitchen. Maybe tomorrow, once I’ve been to the clinic, I’ll have more of an idea what’s going on. Maybe then I’ll find some peace.

  I send silent kisses to their graves and hold them tight in my mind’s eye before I turn away and crunch back down the gravel path. The familiar twist of guilt tugs at my guts as I leave my babies behind for another week.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Monday morning, the traffic is heavy. Maybe I shouldn’t have driven. But I wanted the peace of this heated tin box, rather than the chilly, crowded bus. And with the luxury of a satnav, I barely have to concentrate on the journey – just follow the green arrows on the dashboard screen while I psych myself up for whatever it is I’m about to discover.

  I park in the NCP car park and walk the two blocks to the Balmoral Clinic. Damp, cold air seeps through my clothes while dark clouds threaten rain. I quicken my pace. The building is bigger than I remember, more imposing, and I’m not prepared for the sharp memories that assail me as I approach the place. Remembering how Scott dropped me at the entrance late that night while he parked the car and then raced back. It was exciting, if a little scary. The final day that my life was still on track to be good. Before all my hopes began to collapse. The sliding doors open and I walk inside, my boots echoing on the tiled floor.

  The foyer is empty, decked out with seasonal decorations. I walk straight ahead to the curved reception desk, the sudden warmth of the place a little too cloying, mingling with the scent of floral air freshener that catches in the back of my throat. A woman in a skirt suit, an ugly red bow/cravat thing around her neck, comes out of a set of swing doors to my left, her heels clacking. She looks like an air hostess and fixes me with the same brand of corporate smile.

  ‘Good morning,’ she says, walking over and stepping behind the desk. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘Hi. My name’s Tessa Markham. I called a couple of days ago to ask about finding out the name of the doctor who delivered my twins. It was a while ago, and I don’t have his name.’

  ‘You want to know who delivered your twins?’

  ‘Yes, please. They told me I had to either put my query in writing or come in, in person.’

  ‘Okay, hold on a minute. I’ll go and ask admin.’ She disappears through a door behind her and I wait, trying not to think about the fact that this is the place where Lily took both her first and last breaths.

  A couple of minutes later, the woman returns. ‘Do you have any ID on you?’

  I nod, dig in my bag and pull out my photo driving licence and a council tax bill.

  ‘Great, thanks.’ The woman takes them, looks at the picture on my licence, looks at me, then examines the bill. She nods, satisfied. ‘If you’d like to come through, our office manager, Margie Lawrence, will help you find what you’re looking for.’ She hands me back my ID and I stuff it back in my bag while following her through the door.

  It’s a generic open-plan office with half a dozen staff sitting at desks, some tapping away at their computer keyboards, others on the telephone. A woman at the back of the office gets to her feet and comes over to meet me, her hand outstretched. I shake it.

  ‘Hi, I’m Margie.’ She looks up at the receptionist. ‘Thanks, Sharon.’

  I mutter my thanks, too. Sharon disappears back through the door and I follow Margie over to her desk.

  ‘Please, sit down,’ she says, pushing her glasses back up her nose and taking a seat opposite me. ‘Sharon said you wanted to know the name of the doctor who delivered your baby.’

  ‘Yes, please. It was actually twins.’

  ‘Aw, how lovely,’ she says.

  I cut her off before she starts asking questions like How old are they now? and Are they boys or girls? I launch straight in with: ‘My name’s Tessa Markham and the father’s name is Scott Markham. The date of delivery was the third of March 2012.’

  Margie begins tapping into her computer. ‘Bear with me,’ she says. ‘The system is on go-slow today.’

  She’s probably expecting me to come up with a response like Well, it is Monday morning. Then we’d both laugh and roll our eyes. But I can’t bring myself to make light-hearted comments in this place. So I simply give her a wan smile and say, ‘No problem.’

  ‘You gave birth to Samuel and Lilian Markham, is that correct?’ she asks, looking at the screen on her right. ‘Samuel Edward Markham born at 4.46 a.m. and Lilian Elizabeth Markham born at 5.14 a.m.’

  ‘Sorry, what time does it say she was born?’ I ask.

  ‘5.14 a.m.’

  ‘That’s not right,’ I say. ‘She was only born ten minutes after Sam.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ she asks.

  I’m pretty sure I know when my own children were born. ‘Yes.’

  Margie sticks her chin out as she studies the screen further. ‘It says the doctor on the ward that night was Dr Friedland,’ she says.

  I frown. ‘No, that’s not right, either.’

  ‘That’s what it says here. He was your consultant, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘He was my consultant, but he was ill that week and another doctor took over. I can’t remember his name.’

  Margie frowns and taps at the keyboard some more. ‘I’ll pull up the roster from that night. Hang on.’

  What if she can’t find out the name? Or what if Fisher really wasn’t there that night and my mind is making connections where there aren’t any?

  ‘Here we go,’ she says cheerily. ‘Found it.’

  My heartbeat amplifies in my head as I wait for her to tell me what she’s found.

  ‘So, the midwives were… blah-blah-blah blah-blah-blah.’ She skips through all the other information. ‘And the on-duty obstetric consultant that night was…’ Her eyes skim back and forth along the screen. ‘Yes, here we are, same name – Dr Friedland.’

  No, it can’t be true! I know it wasn’t him. I push a breath out through my mouth, almost like I’m in labour. I remember… I remember Friedland was ill that night. They said it was gastric flu. I remember. Don’t I?

  ‘You okay?’ Margie looks up.

  ‘Are you sure it wasn’t a Dr James Fisher?’ I say. ‘Can you check again? It’s the third of March 2012.’ I pray that she’s looking at the wrong date, that she’s made a mistake.

  ‘Here,’ she says, ‘come and see for yourself.’

  I get to my feet and walk around to her side of the desk so I’m staring at the screen, at the line of text she’s pointing to. I see the date and the times, and I see the name ‘Dr Friedland’. Tears spring to my eyes. ‘It can’t be,’ I say. ‘I thought it would be Dr Fisher.’

  ‘We don’t have a Dr Fisher here,’ she says. ‘You must be mistaken. Didn’t you say you couldn’t remember who was on duty that night?’ She looks up at me. I can’t tell if that’s concern or mistrust in her eyes.

  ‘Fisher moved to Dorset not l
ong afterwards,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, okay, so maybe he did practise here,’ she says, ‘but that’s a bit before my time. I’ve only worked here for three years, although sometimes it feels like a lot longer.’ She smiles up at me, but I can’t smile back – I’m too disappointed that my theory has been proved wrong. ‘Let me check our employment records.’ She taps on the keyboard some more. ‘Ah, yes, you’re right, Dr Fisher did practise here during that time. Just not on that particular night.’

  I realise with a dull thud in my heart that all my suspicions appear to have been wrong. ‘Is there any other documentation that might show the name of the consultant on duty?’ I ask.

  ‘Not that I’m aware of.’ She shakes her head. ‘Maybe you just remembered it wrong. I mean, both names start with an F. It’s easy to forget something from that long ago.’

  I shake my head. ‘Dr Friedland was sick that night.’

  Margie shrugs helplessly, palms splayed, as if to say she doesn’t know what else she can tell me.

  ‘Can I speak to Dr Friedland?’ I ask. ‘Is he here?’

  ‘No, he retired last year. He and his wife moved to Spain.’

  ‘Do you have a contact number for him?’ If I could speak to him, maybe he’d remember me. Remember having gastric flu.

  ‘Sorry,’ Margie says, her expression sympathetic, ‘we wouldn’t be able to give out that information.’

  I stand there for a moment, racking my brains to think of anything else that might help me prove what I know is true. But I can’t. ‘Okay, well, thanks anyway.’ I leave the office, shoulders slumped, head down.

  Out in the foyer, the receptionist says a cheery goodbye and asks if I found everything I was looking for. I nod, mumble a thank-you and make my way across the foyer, back through the sliding doors.

  Outside, the sky is still heavy with unshed rain and I pause for a moment, suck in a breath of polluted, moisture-laden air. Am I losing the plot? Was Scott right about me? But despite what Margie told me back there, I’m still not convinced that the information on their system is correct. The time of Lily’s birth is out by twenty minutes – unless I really am remembering it wrong. What if Fisher was working that night, but he was negligent, somehow responsible for Lily’s death? He could have accessed the computer system and erased his name, changed the time of birth.