Last Kiss Goodnight

by Teresa Driscoll

  As Kate sits in the reception area of the local police station, her mind is in overdrive. First and foremost she is thinking what the hell she will say now to Toby. How to explain this bizarre and unexpected twist. Martha streaking in a public building…

  The irony of the timing feels cruel. Just last night in bed, she and Toby had lain holding hands and he talked about how he was coming round; surprised at the positive impact of Martha’s stay.

  I mean it, Kate. I owe you an apology. I was completely dreading it, as you know. Felt that having a stranger around was the last thing we needed right now, but to be honest, you’re right. She’s quite a puzzle – Martha – but an interesting woman, and it has been lovely to see the change in you.

  That was the point at which he had reached out for her hand in the darkness. For just a moment she had tensed up, dreading that he would try to take it further, which these days always ended so badly. Her in tears. Him apologising. But last night he had just held her hand and they had lain there in the dark talking for quite a long time, and it had actually been very comforting. Nice. Not happy. Not quite that, of course. But it had felt… all right for once, and Kate had been so pleased for Toby, that, at least for a little while, there in the darkness, she could offer him something that felt a tiny bit… all right.

  I had an idea, Kate. How about we get away – just you and me. To Paris maybe? A week or so. Just go and look at some of the galleries and museums. Eat some good food. Drink some good wine. What do you say?

  Oh, I don’t know Toby. I don’t know about that…

  Well, how about you just think about it? I don’t mean a holiday. That wouldn’t feel right. I do see that. But just a change of scene. Some time away on our own.

  She knew why he had suggested Paris and was silent for a moment.

  I mean… it doesn’t have to be Paris, of course. If that would feel too…

  He paused and she found herself clenching his hand and he had clenched hers back and for the first time in a long time, she didn’t want to let go.

  What I meant to say was that if Paris wouldn’t feel right, we could think of somewhere else.

  Maybe. I’ll have a think. Perhaps – once Martha has got herself sorted.

  And then they had gone to sleep, still holding hands, and it had felt like some small breakthrough.

  And now?

  ‘They’ve been granted bail.’ The duty officer reappears at the front desk to confirm that, after three long hours, things are finally moving. ‘But they’re in court tomorrow. Breach of the peace. Nine thirty.’

  Kate takes a deep breath, not at all sure what she should say to Martha; not even sure what she thinks. How best now to go forward.

  There is a commotion behind the counter and Kate watches as the door alongside reception finally opens to reveal Martha and Maria, pale and disorientated but arm-in-arm.

  Kate cannot help herself – her gaze drifting to Martha’s stomach. Thinking of that shock beneath the jumper. The haunting smile of scar tissue…

  ‘We’ve been charged,’ Maria gasps in horror as Carlo, seated alongside Kate for the long wait, now moves forward quickly to console his wife.

  ‘We’ll get you a good lawyer.’ Kate clears her throat and looks away from Martha as the duty officer hands over two large envelopes containing their personal effects. ‘I’m sure the magistrates will be lenient. Once they know the full facts.’

  ‘I really am so very sorry, Kate – about all of this.’ Martha is checking inside her envelope and Kate can feel that she is staring at her but does not yet feel quite ready to meet her gaze and so picks at some imagined fluff on her coat.

  ‘It’s OK. We’ll work this out. But you do realise you’ll be in the papers, ladies.’ Kate checks her watch next, smooths her hair and tucks it into the neck of her coat, ready for the wind outside.

  ‘The papers?’ Maria turns to Martha, her expression initially of shock but then a slow change to something else entirely, as if she has just understood the punchline to a joke.

  ‘Of course. The newspapers, Carlo.’

  And then suddenly Maria is turning to her husband, smiling and cupping his face in both hands before kissing him loudly on the mouth.

  ‘Placards, Carlo. We need to get home and make some placards.’

  ‘Placards?’

  ‘Yes, Carlo.’ Maria is grinning broadly now, completely rejuvenated, as Kate finally meets Martha’s worried stare. ‘Placards. For our campaign.’

  24

  At the age of seven Kate contracted nits. Three other girls shared the shame in her class – singled out and sent home by the nit nurse – but Kate took it especially badly, weeping not at the sting of the foul-smelling shampoo her mother scrubbed deep into her hair but at the very physical thought of the invasion; the vivid picture in her head of the tiny beasts creeping across her skull. They choose the cleanest hair, her mother reassured as she massaged, night after night, the cocktail of chemicals into her roots. They look across the class, honestly they do, and when they spy the shiniest, most beautiful hair, they say to themselves – that’s where I want to be.

  Kate smiles at the memory of her mother’s silver tongue and wonders if it is the same with spiders as she watches two webs being spun expertly across the top of the curtains (hoovered only yesterday). Have they picked her home, these spiders, because it is so clean? Out of spite?

  One of the invaders, as if reading her thoughts, pauses momentarily – caught in the sunlight, its silken thread a tiny laser beam. The second – now in shadow, its line invisible – gives the impression of a flying spider. Suspended in mid-air.

  ‘I really am very sorry about this morning, Kate. And so grateful for your help today.’ Martha has made the hot chocolate this time – no cream and no marshmallows – and places Kate’s mug on the small, low coffee table next to the sofa. Only now does Kate realise just how tired she feels. Sorting out a lawyer has taken most of the day. The on-call solicitor at the police station earlier was OK but Kate has sourced someone a bit more dynamic. She’s confident he’ll do a good job, but is still very anxious about Toby’s reaction, relieved that he has phoned. Is to be late home.

  ‘I should start something for us to eat.’ Kate feels the muscle in her neck strain as she reaches too quickly for the drink.

  ‘I’m going to say it was a publicity stunt. The stripping off. The solicitor you found reckons that if I say it was a one-off, for publicity, the magistrates will accept that. I should get a caution or be bound over. No reports. No psychiatric reports, I mean.’

  Kate immediately feels the frown. Reports? This is the currency of her world. What does Martha know of courts requesting psychiatric reports?

  ‘The thing is, Kate...’

  Kate puts her mug back on the coffee table and sits up now, moving her head from side to side to check that she has not pulled the neck muscle too badly.

  ‘The thing is, I was talking to Toby in the garden. He was saying what I already know. That you’re not at your best just now. And so I feel awful. You don’t need this, clearly. So I feel I should come clean. The truth is – oh God – there’s something I should tell you now, Kate, because I am worried it will come out and be misunderstood.’

  Kate finally stills herself.

  ‘I suppose I should have mentioned it before. Right at the beginning when you very kindly invited me to stay. But it was a long time ago. And I – the thing is. Oh lord. I was in a psychiatric hospital for a time, Kate. Millrose Mount psychiatric hospital.’

  Kate can suddenly feel her own pulse. In her fingers against the warmth of the mug in her hand. One. Two. Three. And also in her ear.

  ‘It was such a long time ago. And I promise you that it was never serious. I was never any danger. To others, I mean. More of a mistake really.’ Now Martha is talking very quickly. ‘And it’s all very much in the past, but the solicitor. Well – I felt it was best to come clean with him too. And he reckons there is a chance – only slim – that it could all
come out because of this. If the court asks for reports, I mean. Over the streaking.’

  Kate, bolt upright and her pulse still pounding, is now wondering how on earth she is going to explain this new twist to Toby. Not just Martha’s streak but this. Just when he was coming round…

  ‘But why, Martha? Why on earth were you in there?’

  The scars on her wrists. Of course. She should have paid more attention. Listened to Toby’s worries early on.

  ‘And Millrose Mount? I mean, there was that big scandal up there. The TV documentary. Good God, Martha. Millrose Mount?’ Kate’s brow is tense as she tries to remember the details.

  It had been in all the papers. Made the national news. Neglect. Allegations of ill treatment. Worse. Abuse. When they were on the beach, Martha had pretended not even to know of this.

  ‘I just don’t like to talk about it, Kate. But I promise you – promise you –that there’s nothing to worry about. Really there isn’t. It’s in my past and I wasn’t involved in any of the stuff that closed the place. I was there much earlier. A long, long time ago.’

  Kate turns back to the spiders – the most ambitious now suspended on a line several feet in length.

  Martha takes in a long breath. ‘Though I’ll completely understand if you want me to leave. Go back to the hostel.’ She stands. ‘I’ll pack.’

  ‘No, Martha. That won’t help anything.’

  Still Kate is worrying what the hell to tell Toby. He will find out soon enough – the story bound to make the papers. Pictures too, if Maria has her way. She is completely fired up now, planning the protest rally for the court hearing like a military coup. For just a second Kate opens her mouth to broach the subject of Martha’s wrists, but then the air seems to chill as she remembers the other scar.

  On her belly. The unexplained child…

  ‘I’ll start a risotto. I think we have some pancetta. And some good mushrooms too. We need to eat.’

  ‘It was a long time ago, Kate. There’s nothing for you to worry about. I promise you.’

  Kate tries to smile, pausing before heading into the kitchen to start supper.

  25

  Matthew sees her through the glass of the piano shop door just as he is about to turn the sign to ‘Closed’.

  ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘What a day.’ Geoffrey is emerging from his office, coat over his arm. ‘I still can’t take it in. Martha streaking at the council offices. Unbelievable.’

  And then Geoffrey stands very still as Glenda and Matthew stare at each other through the glass – each frozen – she apparently reluctant to step inside.

  ‘What is it, Matthew?’

  ‘It’s my mother.’

  ‘Well, goodness, lad. What on earth are you gawping for? Invite her in. Invite her in.’

  Matthew opens the door and Glenda steps silently inside. Tentatively she hugs him, squeezing tight – Matthew pulling away.

  Geoffrey looks from one to the other, pausing before stretching out his hand.

  ‘I’m Geoffrey. I own the place. A wonderful boy you have. We feel so lucky to have him here.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Yes… Thank you.’ And then Glenda is turning back to Matthew. ‘You OK, Matthew? You look well. You have somewhere to stay?’

  ‘I didn’t want you to come here— ’

  ‘So. Best I’m off, then. Will you close up for me, Matthew? And don’t worry about supper later. I expect you’ll be wanting some time with your mum now.’

  ‘No. It’s fine. I’ll see you later as planned, Geoffrey. Eight o’clock?’

  ‘No, no. We can do that another time. I’m sure your mother— ’

  ‘No. Eight o’clock is still fine. Thank you, Geoffrey. I’m looking forward to it.’

  They stand in silence. All three of them exchanging a stare. Two seconds. Three. Four. Until Geoffrey finally breaks the moment and, smiling at Glenda, is gone.

  ‘I just needed to know that you’re OK.’

  ‘I told you on the phone that I’m OK.’

  ‘Well. I’m here now.’

  ‘And Dad. Is he here too?’ Matthew is glancing anxiously back through the glass of the door.

  ‘No, love. He’s not.’

  ‘Well, that’s something, I suppose.’ Turning the sign to ‘Closed’ and bolting the door. ‘Look, Mum. I don’t know what you were expecting, but I don’t want to do this now. You shouldn’t have come. I don’t want another row.’

  ‘I’m not here for a row.’ She is fumbling in her bag. ‘I brought you these. I didn’t want to risk the post.’

  Matthew glances down at the tattered brown envelope.

  ‘There’s not much. Just two papers we were given. But they have the name of the agency. The dates and everything. It’s all there was.’

  ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘Well, you said Aylesborough. I always realised you’d come here. And when you mentioned on the phone before you had a job in a music shop, I got the train and I asked around.’

  Matthew is skimming through the two faded papers, trying to take in the information. Just a few lines. The name of the adoption agency. A faded stamp with the date. Two signatures. Disappointing. Very little detail.

  ‘I never meant to hurt you, Matthew.’

  ‘Well, you did.’ Matthew can feel the anger bubbling back up inside him. This is exactly what he didn’t want.

  ‘I know that. And I’m really so very, very sorry.’

  ‘How could you not tell me? Twenty years. You lie to me for twenty years. How the bloody hell did you think I would react?’

  ‘We thought it was for the best.’ She says this very quietly, looking at the ground.

  ‘Best for who?’

  ‘Oh, Matthew.’

  And then she sits on one of the piano stools – the whole of her body crumpled over. Shrunken somehow. And slowly and steadily she talks and talks while Matthew says nothing.

  She tells him of a different time. Of meeting his father when they were young and hopeful and when everything in their life seemed straightforward.

  She tells him of the years they tried for a child. Doctors. Tests. Hospitals. Of the shock. Of the hole in their lives. Of the decision they made to keep the adoption secret, which at the time seemed perfectly fine – and only now, in a different light, seems so wrong. Has all unravelled so horribly.

  ‘It was the norm back then, Matthew. No contact afterwards. No big discussions. It was just how it was.’

  She talks and talks. On and on. And the light fades and Matthew, in the end, softens a little and makes tea and offers to find her a room at the bed and breakfast, but she says no. She is going back on the train to stay with her sister. It’s all arranged. She’s left her suitcase at the station.

  ‘So you’re not going back home?’

  ‘No. Not back home, Matthew.’

  Two hours later at Geoffrey’s, Matthew is still in shock as he watches him cook.

  Geoffrey concentrates on the food. ‘Everything OK with your mum?’

  ‘Fine. Everything’s fine.’

  ‘It was my wife who taught me this.’ Very carefully he is separating eggs into two glass bowls before whisking the whites furiously, twisting his face with the effort. Tongue lolling.

  They pointedly do small talk. The parts on order for the Steinway. Which sheet music is moving fastest. Whether they should stock more recorders for the schoolchildren.

  Matthew is surprised, glancing around, to find the home has a series of very obvious adaptations. Handrails along the main walls, and a stair lift. He doesn’t at first like to ask. Geoffrey is a fit man for his age – early sixties, he guesses. And then, as he glances around some more, the explanation smiles from the shelves. Pictures of a younger Geoffrey with his late wife beaming from her wheelchair. By the seaside. By a coach with a cathedral in the background. Where is that?

  Matthew leans in. Geoffrey and his wife, each with Mr Whippy-style ice creams. ‘Isn’t that the Kent coast?’ Yes. Matthew recognises th
e shingle and the wooden posts of Whitstable.

  ‘You know it? Yes. Jean grew up there. Kent. She loved to go back.’

  Geoffrey watches his guest lift the picture carefully.

  ‘She had multiple sclerosis.’ Geoffrey has now finished whisking, the egg whites bulky and frothy, and puts a dot of butter with a dash of oil in a small frying pan.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. It was a stroke in the end. The MS never stopped her doing anything. Well – most things.’ And then Geoffrey turns to smile directly at Matthew. ‘Jean would have liked you. Had a very discerning ear. Would have loved to hear you play that Steinway.’

  Matthew is now struggling for a moment to set the picture back on the shelf. There is something amiss with the cardboard flap at the back – the angle wrong at first so that the picture nearly falls over and Geoffrey has to step in to help.

  So is that why there were no children? Matthew had not liked to ask. There is a hiss as Geoffrey tips the combined eggs in the pan, moving the mixture with a fork as Matthew wanders around the room to look at other pictures and books.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me being nosey.’

  ‘You say that as if I have a choice.’ Geoffrey is laughing as he lights the grill above the hot plate and, with a tea towel to protect his hand, lifts the frying pan up to rest under the heat. ‘Now. Watch this.’

  And so Matthew turns to watch the first omelette rise, puffing up like a feather pillow plumped from all sides. Quickly then Geoffrey uses a spatula to flip the omelette onto a plate, insisting that Matthew should eat while it is still hot as Geoffrey begins cooking his own.

  ‘I still can’t get over it. Martha streaking. Whoever would have believed it? I thought that only happened at big sporting events. And Maria. Getting themselves arrested.’ Matthew is eyeing the sauce on the table.

  ‘Well, it was a shock for all of us. The eviction letters. Only a month back I phoned the council about the lease renewal. And there wasn’t a whisper of a problem.’

  ‘So what do you think’s really going on then? And what are you going to do, Geoffrey?’