EMERGENCE

by R. H. Dixon

  John ran a hand through his thick hair, his full-lipped smile weary. ‘Would you like to come through?’ He gestured towards the lounge.

  ‘Only if I’m not interrupting anything, I’d hate to…’

  ‘No, not at all. Emily’s taken Seren away for the night. There’s just me.’ John urged her to lead the way and, once in the lounge, he seemed compelled to explain, ‘Emily’s my kid sister by the way.’

  ‘Oh?’ Natasha sat on the edge of the couch, clasping her hands together, her shoulders rigid.

  ‘My dad’s big scandal,’ John explained, easing down into the armchair opposite.

  ‘Right, I see. There were a couple of Gimmerick scandals that year as I recall.’ She tried to intimidate him with a hard stare, but her voice lacked its intended venom.

  John’s face reddened, nonetheless, and he averted his gaze. ‘Can I, er, get you something to drink? Tea? Coffee? Something cold?’

  ‘No, I’m fine thanks.’ She looked around. ‘So, this place has changed quite a bit.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s been a while.’

  ‘How come you’re staying here? Is your mam…’

  ‘On holiday. She asked me to mind the place while she’s away.’

  ‘And your little girl?’

  ‘Yeah she’s been staying with me too. Only, not tonight.’ He shuffled back in the armchair, perhaps to give the illusion of ease, but he looked anything but comfortable. ‘So how about you? What’s back in Whitby? Husband? Kids?’

  Natasha shook her head and said, ‘This isn’t a social call, John.’

  ‘Yeah. Sorry. I just hoped to hear that things are going well for you.’

  ‘To ease your guilt?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Longterm boyfriend,’ she sighed. Then for reasons she didn’t understand, she felt compelled to lie. ‘We’re going to be married.’

  ‘Nice. Congratulations.’

  ‘What about you?’ She felt obliged to ask, though, admittedly was curious to know the answer.

  ‘Usually home is Leeds. Just me and Seren.’

  ‘Does she still see her mother?’

  ‘No. Amy passed away. Three years ago.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  Natasha shuffled about. She felt awkward. They had way overstepped some privacy boundaries they had no business overstepping. He didn’t know her and she didn’t know him. They were strangers, alienated by a troubled past. No amount of chit-chat would fix that. ‘Listen, let’s cut to the chase eh?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he agreed, sitting forward again. ‘I don’t think it’s nice for either of us, especially you, for all this to be…dredged up. I really didn’t mean to upset you on the phone. I’m sorry. It’s all been hard for me to swallow. That is, this latest business with Megan…’

  Natasha hadn’t known what to think when John had told her on the phone that he’d seen the ghost of their daughter. And sitting here now she worried about his mental stability. But, still, she had to see for herself. Had to know for sure. ‘So, what was she like?’

  ‘All grown up. Beautiful.’

  Natasha’s eyes felt hot with tears and she clamped her teeth together, the last thing she wanted to do was to cry in front of John Gimmerick. He rocked forward as if to get up and go to her, then relaxed back as if having thought better of it.

  ‘And where was it you saw her?’ she asked.

  ‘Upstairs. In my old room.’

  ‘Is that the only place?’

  ‘Yeah. But Seren’s seen her all over the place. And Emily saw her in the kitchen.’

  ‘You’ve all seen her?’

  ‘Yeah. And now that you’ve come all the way from Whitby, I hope you do.’

  ‘Me too, I certainly didn’t come all this way to see you.’

  John frowned. ‘No, given the choice I imagine I’m the last person you want to see.’

  ‘You’re not wrong.’ This in itself was another lie. In truth she’d longed to see him, if only to be reassured that in the long run he’d done her a great service by leaving her. She needed closure. She’d hoped to find that John Gimmerick was an irritating waste of space, someone she could continue to loathe, but the reality was very different. If anything she felt pity towards him, which was a totally unexpected development. This meeting was turning out to be a different kind of therapy altogether. But perhaps a better one. Who needed a constant source of anger? Life was tough enough.

  ‘Are you sure I can’t get you something to drink?’ John asked.

  Her shoulders relaxed a little and she managed a wan smile. ‘Well, only if you’re having one.’

  ‘Tea? Coffee?’

  ‘Tea would be great thanks.’

  ‘Or a glass of wine maybe?’

  ‘I’d better not, I’m driving.’

  ‘You could always stay. I mean, not like that or anything. God, obviously not like that. Wow, I’m sorry, that sounded weird. I just meant…she might come to you if you do.’

  Natasha pondered the offer and surprised herself by accepting so readily. ‘Alright then, I will.’

  John disappeared into the kitchen and came back with two crystal cut glasses full of red wine. ‘I can’t promise you will see her,’ he said, handing her a glass. ‘But I hope you do. I really want you to.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She took the wine and sank back, allowing the sofa’s cushions to mould around her. A faint beeping alerted her to a text message. She took her mobile from her handbag and saw she had a message from Lee: You busy?

  She looked at John, who was watching her with what she thought was bewildered awe. ‘Sorry, just got to reply to this,’ she said, her finger already tapping out a reply: Yes, sorry. Long story. Will explain tomorrow.

  She balanced the phone on her knee and took a sip from her glass. ‘So, did Megan say anything to you at all?’

  John tugged on his bottom lip, pondering his answer, then just as he readied himself to speak her phone beeped again. Lee: Don’t bother calling. Going away for a while. Need to get head in order.

  What?

  How long was a while? A day? A week? A month? Eighteen years?

  So, he intended to leave her hanging for an indefinite amount of time?

  No chance.

  She put the phone back into her bag without responding. She didn’t have the emotional capability to do so sensibly. It was taking all of her resolve to keep a neutral face, what she wanted was to excuse herself and go to the bathroom so she could lament in peace. Lee had as good as sealed the fate of their future.

  ‘Everything alright?’ John asked, obviously sensing her upset.

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ She waved a hand dismissively, aware that her demeanour probably made it clear that everything wasn’t. ‘So, you were about to say?’

  John nodded, his face reflecting his quiet concern, but he was careful to respect her situation and avoid causing embarrassment. ‘Megan spoke of another person, someone female. But she wouldn’t say who. She said that the brooch was this other female’s link to me, and to the children. Does that mean anything to you?’

  ‘Not specifically, no, but I do remember the brooch. It came to me suddenly after you’d been on the phone. Do you remember when…’

  _

  35

  _

  ‘Do you think she’ll recognise me today?’

  ‘I dunno.’ John squeezed Natasha’s hand. ‘Try not to get too upset if she doesn’t though.’ It wasn’t often that he went to Eden Vale with Natasha to visit her mother. It was a depressing place full of elderly and sick people. It highlighted his own mortality and reluctance to grow old. Also, he felt like an intruder getting in the way of Natasha’s time with her mother. Diane Graham never remembered who he was so he would just sit there quietly, on standby, ready to offer emotional support to Natasha should she need it. Today Natasha had specifically asked him to go with her because she wanted them, together, to tell Diane Graham that she was going to be a grandmother. Even though
they’d told her four times before.

  Pushing through the entrance swing doors and stepping into the dowdy foyer, John and Natasha were greeted by the smiley receptionist, Angie. She was an attractive woman in her mid-thirties whose permed, lacquered hair and slouchy Arran cardigans made John think her sense of style might have come to a halt at the onset of motherhood some ten years before. He wondered if the same thing would happen to Natasha. Looking at her now, though, with her ‘Rachel’ haircut and a cropped denim jacket worn over the top of a stretch midi dress, which hugged her baby bump and curves, he didn’t think he’d mind at all.

  ‘Afternoon,’ Angie said, beaming at the sight of Natasha. ‘Look at the size of you now. How long?’

  ‘Five weeks and counting.’ Natasha smiled, rubbing the mound of her belly. ‘Is it okay for us to go up, Ang?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. I think she might be in the communal room, probably watching Countdown or some such. Richard Whiteley seems to perk the lot of them up. I think it’s his ties.’

  Natasha laughed and climbed the stairs to the first floor alongside John.

  Eden Vale smelled stale, of too many sick people being cooped up together over too many years. The carpet throughout was navy with a repetitive yellow-gold pattern somewhere between crooked tree and fleur-de-lys. It felt flat underfoot and was just as cheerless and dispiriting to look at. Striped blue and cream wallpaper adorned the lower half of the walls and dividing it from the stark plain whiteness of the upper half was a pink floral border. The walls clashed with themselves, as well as the carpet. And with the regular passage of wheelchairs and tea trolleys by the looks of it. Numerous wall-moustaches had been added to the wallpaper’s vertical stripes where wheels and hard edges had scuffed past.

  In the communal room Diane Graham was sitting in front of the television on a brown leather three-seater. Next to her was an old woman in a lilac pointelle jumper, her fat ankles were the colour of corned beef and angry with water retention. At the other end of the couch an old man in a bobbly grey cardigan sat with his mouth open. All three of them looked engrossed in some celebrity chef’s witticisms on screen, but most likely none of them were listening to a damn word he said. In the corner of the room three men and a woman were playing cards and a thin grey-haired woman paced the floor on slippered feet. ‘It’s no good,’ she kept saying to nobody in particular. ‘No good at all. We need to get out.’

  John and Natasha pulled up plastic chairs which reminded them both of being back at school, and sat down by the side of the couch.

  ‘Mam?’ Natasha touched the back of her mother’s hand.

  Diane Graham remained facing the television, unresponsive, but the woman in the lilac jumper turned and hushed Natasha with vexed eyes. So Natasha and John waited thirty minutes in uncompanionable silence and watched as the celebrity chef and his panel of guests diced veg for a Mediterranean stew, then cooked and ate it. Eventually Natasha shook her head at John and stood up. It was one of those days when Diane Graham just wasn’t responsive at all and no amount of sitting with her or talking to her would change that. John cleared their chairs away while Natasha said her goodbyes, then the two of them made for the door. Before they got there the old woman who had been pacing the floor stood still and shouted, ‘A baby. A beautiful baby girl!’

  The four card players stopped what they were doing and looked up.

  ‘I’ve got a baby,’ one of them said. He was an overweight man, in his forties, who had alopecia. His skin looked dewy and radiant.

  ‘Give your head a shake, Barry, no you don’t,’ said another of the men, before taking a lengthy draw on the end of a biro. He looked considerably older than the fat man, with thin brown hair and lenses in his glasses that looked as dense and discoloured as the bottoms of empty coffee jars. He tapped his finger against the pen, knocking invisible ash off onto the table. ‘You’re a right crackerjack you are, lad.’

  ‘I do have a baby,’ Barry argued. ‘Her name’s Martha and she’s the sweetest thing. Oh aye. I’ve got most of the hearts an’ all. I’m gonna win this time.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ the pen smoker said. ‘You’re nowt but a cheat and a bloody big liar. I can see you’re hidin’ something up your sleeve there.’

  Barry slammed his arms hands down onto the table and blushed profusely.

  ‘Eee now here, Bazza, you better not be hiding the Queen of Spades.’ The woman card player stood up, her voice shrill and phlegmy; nauseating like teeth on wool. She jabbed her finger in Barry’s direction to demonstrate her disapproval, the loose skin of her upper arm flapping about like an offcut of meat. ‘Nev, is that what he’s got? Is it? Is it? Can you see? Bloody disgrace if you have mind, Bazza. Bloody disgrace.’

  Barry stood and whipped a card from his shirt sleeve. He slapped it down on the table, his face glowing with rage and the embarrassment of being caught out. Without another word he turned and stomped towards the door.

  The slippered old woman cackled and called after him, ‘Fairness fades the Queen of Spades, but you oughtn’t hide her, you know. Keep her in your hearts, she’ll do well. She always wins.’ She then returned her attention to Natasha and crooned, ‘Baby girl.’

  Something about the way the old woman grinned unsettled John. Her eyes looked cunning, not befitting the confused state of mind she had at first appeared to keep. In fact he thought there was a sharp level of awareness about her, an intellect that was crude and calculating. He kept his hand on Natasha’s arm.

  ‘We’re not sure what sex the baby is yet,’ Natasha said, smiling politely. ‘We’ll have to wait and see.’

  ‘I’m telling you,’ the old woman said, moving closer. ‘It’s a girl.’ She dropped her hand into the pocket of her cardigan then pulled something out and offered it to Natasha. ‘Here, for the baby.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ Natasha said, ‘but no thank you.’

  The woman’s arthritic hand uncurled, revealing an antique brooch. A lady’s head and shoulders in cream enamel contrasted against a burnt orange background, surrounded by ornate brass filigree. ‘Please. Take it.’

  ‘No really,’ Natasha said, edging away. ‘I couldn’t take your belongings from you.’

  ‘But I insist.’

  ‘It looks expensive, and I’m sure it must have sentimental value. You keep it.’

  ‘No! Here…’ The old woman lurched forward but John was quick to intervene.

  ‘Look, missus,’ he said, his hand closing around hers so that her bony fist kept the brooch, ‘it’s very kind of you, but we can’t take your stuff.’

  At first the old woman looked startled, but then her eyes mellowed and she smiled. ‘Ah, the baby’s father?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She looked at Natasha and winked. ‘Very nice indeed.’

  Natasha, in turn, looked at John and raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Such pretty eyes,’ the old woman said. ‘She’s quite partial to young men, especially them that’s got pretty eyes.’

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘Alright, well it was nice meeting you.’ John squeezed Natasha’s arm, a prompt to get her moving.

  ‘Young men, so full of haste and hormones and no experience,’ the old woman said. ‘She finds that irresistible.’

  ‘I’m sure she does,’ he said moving off.

  The old woman grabbed the sleeve of his hooded sweater, the fabric bunching tightly in her fist and her fingers digging into the skin of his forearm. ‘Wait!’ she rasped, pulling him to her.

  A warm stink like blocked drains emitted from her mouth and John reeled from the fetid impact as it hit the back of his nose. He tried to shrug away from her raptor-like grip, nauseous because of her breath and confounded that she possessed so much strength. ‘Let go of me please.’

  She released her hold but took his hand and pressed the brooch into it. ‘Here, for the baby,’ she said. ‘Take it. Take it!’

  Everyone in the communal room turned and looked, Diane Gra
ham included.

  ‘Okay, okay, I’ll take the damn thing,’ he said, shaking his head despairingly.

  Natasha put her hand in his and they both hurried from the room.

  Downstairs, at reception, John showed Angie the brooch. ‘Hey Ang, some old lady gave me this. I didn’t want to take it, but she was adamant…’

  Angie started to laugh. ‘Oh that’ll be Sissy. She’s always trying to give that thing away.’

  ‘She seemed like a bit of a handful, so I didn’t want to argue too much,’ John said, putting the brooch on the counter. ‘Could you give it back to her please?’

  ‘Gosh no, she is a handful and she’d have a dicky fit if I took that back up to her. No way. My advice is to just take it. If she asks for it back, I know where to find you. But I’ll bet you a million pounds she won’t.’

  _

  36

  _

  John went to bed with a heavy heart and a loaded conscience. What did the brooch from Eden Vale have to do with Megan? Had the old woman, Sissy, cursed him? Was it her fault that he and Natasha had lost Megan? Moreover his own fault because he was the one who’d taken the brooch. The idea made him feel physically sick. He’d left Natasha downstairs, sleeping on his mother’s couch. They’d both been in a state of melancholic shock by the time they’d finished discussing the brooch and all it might mean. Just days earlier John had thought his life could only improve, that things could get no worse, but now he realised he’d been wrong. This was a new level of torture that he’d been totally unprepared for.

  He’d felt awkward about leaving Natasha in the lounge, but she’d declined the offer of a bedroom; probably uncomfortable about the entire situation, but curious enough to want to stay the night if only for a glimpse of her daughter. John felt wracked with guilt in case he’d built her hopes up unfairly, in case Megan didn’t reveal herself. But then he reasoned with himself that Natasha had a right to know what was going on.