In the car on the way home, Martha is thinking of her own visit, which went well too – Matthew coping better, full of plans for the Christmas concert. His perfect distraction.
She thinks also, lulled by the engine and the classical music on the car radio, of those much more tense and difficult early visits when there was so much to say and always too little time.
Martha decided very quickly, after Matthew’s sentencing, to tell him absolutely everything. Every single detail.
So they took me from you? When I was tiny?
Yes, Matthew. When I was asleep. I had no idea they would go that far…
She told him of Millrose Mount, and how long it took her to get out and start looking for him properly. The whole story. How she very quickly learned she had no rights. No means to trace him. How, in despair, she took to travelling and had spent her whole life since in limbo, just hoping and praying that somehow one day this reunion would happen. Most important of all, she told him over and over that he was born of love. That he was very much wanted. That she would never have given him up voluntarily.
Afterwards things slowly improved between them. On subsequent visits Matthew began to open up. To tell her about his own life. His music and his dream of college. And then on one visit, when she was telling him about those rare, precious times in the middle of the night, feeding him in the charity home all those years ago while looking out at the stars, Matthew suddenly stretched out his hand to the centre of the table. Martha stared at it for a moment, so nervous as she took the cue, slowly placing her own hand on top of his. She could feel tears, first in her eyes and then on her cheeks, and stood up, wanting so much to take him in her arms – but a prison officer stepped forward. Sit down, please. No standing. And so Matthew instead took her hand properly in his for the very first time. Held it momentarily very tightly.
On the next visit Martha told him everything about Josef – Matthew’s face white in shock. Josef Karpati? THE Josef Karpati?
He wasn’t famous then. We were very young. But we were in love…
And so this new dilemma was born between them. If and when to contact Josef?
Staring now out of the car window, watching the green and brown blur of a field – cattle grazing and a copse of oaks in the distance – Martha still does not know what to do for the best.
Matthew has insisted Josef must not be contacted until he is out of jail. Has cleared his head. He is worried Josef will think they are after his money. He will probably want nothing to do with me. He will insist on tests. It will be awful…
Martha has agreed to wait. Enough for now that she has her beautiful boy back in her life. She dares not push the dream. Dares not tell anyone, not Matthew and not even Kate, about the new and dangerous hope which all this talk of Josef has stirred.
For Martha is still in love with Josef Karpati. Has always loved him. And in quiet moments, tossing and turning in the middle of the night in Kate’s box room, she cannot help herself. Worrying and wondering if she dares to once more open the door on this.
This question. This dream.
Could it, would it be completely ridiculous to hope after all these years that Josef might have room left in his heart not just for Matthew.
But for her too?
Epilogue
December 1979
And now once more we follow the wind – this time a softer, gentler breeze that rustles through the few leaves left from autumn.
A breeze that strokes faces – just strong enough to catch loose strands of hair. But not annoying – this. The kind of fresh and welcome breeze that makes the people smile, surprised to say out loud… Goodness. What a lovely day.
Sweeping and swirling down to the quay where Geoffrey is arriving, checking his watch and waving to Wendy next door.
Their shops are freshly painted – cream and pale blue. Windows sparkling in the winter sunshine. The leases renewed. Five years. No catches.
It is cold – yes – but with this bright, clear sky. And just along the quay Carlo is wiping down the café’s new outdoor tables where people will sit in their coats and their scarves to watch the boats a-bobbing. Setting out. And later coming home. The fishermen smiling. Iceboxes full.
Look closer now and you will see two men heading up the hill, laughing together. Tall and slim with matching, striking eyes. They wave to Geoffrey as he stands at the door of the piano shop, smiling back.
A couple waiting for the café sign to switch to ‘Open’ watch, mouths gaping.
It can’t be. Josef Karpati?
I tell you – it was. Definitely.
No. No way…
The breeze for a time plays with a sweet wrapper, dropped by Maria’s granddaughter – now grown chubby and gorgeous, all smiles and tantrums and treasured mischief. The picture of her christening in the shawl knitted by Martha still has pride of place on Maria’s mantelpiece upstairs.
The stray wrapper darts along the street. Then stops. Then moves again. Crackle. Still. Crackle. Still.
And then our breeze loses interest in the ground and rises higher, higher. Up to the rooftops, to stir the feathers of the birds, watching those tables of the café below.
Across to the quayside now, where a tree with woollen leaves is being admired by tourists new to the town.
Quite lovely… but why woollen leaves? We must ask. The wool shop – there. Let’s ask in there. They’ll know.
Higher and higher now, up through the town to the hill where once stood Millrose Mount Hospital. Gone. Demolished.
The ugly fence and the whole place – gone.
Instead we see a park – neat lawns, trees with bare arms outstretched – and in the middle a white and beautiful thing. A bandstand, with a stunning view of the sea, where very soon Josef Karpati will play a concert for the town.
Secretly he owns it now, this Millrose Mount plot – the developers long ago bankrupt – though the breeze will whisper that you must not tell. He doesn’t want the fuss – Josef. Or credit or thanks. It is for justice, this thing he has done. This gift.
For the ones that he loves…
And now – ah yes. See. Down below; through the window, there she is.
‘Do you think it will?’
‘Will what?’
‘Snow.’ Martha’s voice is raised as she works on the Christmas tree – Kate busy in the kitchen next door.
All morning Martha has been babbling away. Nerves. Matthew spent his first Christmas free with Glenda – this to be his first in Aylesborough. And she so wants everything to be perfect.
Kate decides enough of the raised voices and walks through, flour-covered hands upright, like a surgeon walking into theatre.
‘If you put any more on that tree, it will fall over.’ She tilts her head in line with the lean of the tree. ‘And no. For the record, I don’t think it’s going to snow.’
‘You really think it’s too much?’ Martha’s tone is deflated, standing back from the tree and tilting her own head to reappraise her work.
‘Yes, I think it’s too much. But, to be honest, I think that’s the point, isn’t it?’
‘Do you know the bookies have a man standing on the roof of the Met Office with a dinner plate? To check for snow?’ Martha removes one bauble and begins squashing all the tissue paper back into a large cardboard box. ‘It apparently takes just one flake and they have to pay out.’
‘I thought it had to settle.’
‘No. One flake. At least that’s what I read.’
The doorbell then, and Kate watches Martha’s eyes change. It will be Matthew and Josef back from the quay. Hands still aloft, Kate returns to the kitchen where she will smile. And listen.
Surreal, still, to watch them all these days – bickering amiably as if everything that went before is a false memory. Something that happened in a parallel world.
‘Good God. What have you done to the tree, Martha?’ Matthew is the first to tease. So often taking the mick – the tone affectionate, though always he call
s her Martha. Perhaps always will. ‘You can hardly see the green. And it’s leaning. We’re going to have to take some of that off or it’s going to take out the window.’
‘No way. I’ve spent hours. Tell him, Josef. It’s not leaning. It’s just the shape of the tree.’
‘Your mother is right in all things, Matthew. This you should know by now. That lean. It is entirely in our imagination,’ Josef winks, leaning to the side to mimic the tree and then kissing Martha on the forehead by way of apology. Reaching out also for her hand.
Kate is now beaming as Matthew pops his head around the kitchen door to hand over a Tupperware box. ‘Mince pies from Maria.’
‘You are kidding me? She’s supposed to be taking it easy.’ Kate shakes her head.
‘Not in her vocabulary. The fishermen have just handed over a motorised wheelchair for Christmas. She is racing children on the quay as we speak. Carlo is going bananas. He says, and I quote— ’ Matthew here adopts a rather poor Italian accent. ‘“Anyone else who has been partially paralysed, Maria, would have the decency to behave just a little bit disabled.”’
And now, laughing out loud, Kate shoos him from the kitchen, to return to her biscuits.
Three cutters on the worktop. A tree, an angel and a holly leaf – though the angels are proving a mistake – the deformed first batch cooling on a wire rack more like hunchbacks than angels, staring their disapproval.
She taps out six more leaves and glances at the planning list Martha has pinned to the fridge, reminded of the list they made together for that very first dinner.
Josef Karpati. In our house for dinner.
It was Kate who wrote the letter. Matthew and Martha – so nervous, putting it all off and going round and round in circles.
Right. So I am going to write the bloody letter to Josef’s agent. And let’s see, shall we? If he doesn’t want to know, he doesn’t want to know. We have, at least, to find out.
And then – the phone call within twenty-four hours to say that he was on a plane.
Kate cannot think of it still without this little burst of pure joy inside.
Those eyes on their doorstep. Disbelief as he spoke her name, ever so quietly.
Martha…
And now it is Kate’s turn – the key in the door and she wipes her hands quickly on a tea towel. Must be Toby, back from the paper shop.
From upstairs there is the familiar shriek of delight. She did not sleep well last night, and is supposed to be napping, but can see out of the window from her cot and Kate is glad she left the sidebar in place. For Molly can get out of bed if she really tries – and she gets herself in such a state. So easily overexcited.
And so Kate runs up, two steps at a time, and scoops their daughter onto her hip to carry her down, weaving her way around a book. A doll. A discarded puzzle.
‘Daddeeeeee.’
All curls and cuddles – this wriggling and over-excited mass, transferred from her hip to his.
Toby has no newspapers but instead a new kite. Molly can hardly believe it. Already – so many kites.
Kate smiles at her husband. ‘You’d better hang on a minute, Toby. I’ll get her a thicker jumper and coat. A hat too – it’s really cold.’
‘Cold enough for snow?’ Martha shouts from the conservatory.
‘No.’ Kate is shaking her head, laughing again.
‘You’ll join us? With the kite on the beach? Gorgeous sky and just enough wind.’ Toby is staring at Kate.
‘Yes, of course. But you go ahead. I’ve just got a couple of things to do and I’ll be along in just a moment. When the final batch of biscuits is done.’
‘OK.’ He smiles, still staring at Kate. He kisses her nose and she touches his cheek with her palm before kissing him back on the mouth.
And then, as Kate closes the door, Josef and Matthew start to rehearse. It is a new piece for the concert. They have been practising for days now. Haunting. Beautiful.
The Steinway is allegedly on loan – though Geoffrey shows no sign of wanting it back. You use it, Matthew. Please. Get yourself ready for music college…
And now Kate pauses, standing terribly still; she knows this feeling well and knows too exactly what she needs.
It is Martha who notices her grab her coat and her hat, tucking her hair, grown long and wild again, into her collar to head out into the garden… to the bench at the far end, set in the winter sunshine where all the planning and the planting has finally come good. Evergreens and silver-leaved plants which glint in all lights, even this gentle, December glow.
Kate wraps her coat tighter, tighter, and closes her eyes.
‘Mind if I join you?’ Martha, in coat and hat also, has her knitting as she stands by the bench.
Kate nods.
‘I sometimes wonder, Martha, what on earth my life would be if you hadn’t made me write back to Toby. Can you imagine?’
Martha sits and sets to work, smoothing the new ball of wool and tucking it inside her bag. Click, click…
‘It might have taken a bit longer. But he wouldn’t have given up on you, Kate. As I’ve found out myself – the good ones apparently don’t.’
Kate smiles and wraps her coat tighter still, closing her eyes once again.
It was the present tense that did it. How, in all those letters, Toby was the only person who still talked about their son in the present tense…
No one has another child, Kate, because they want to stop loving the first…
And it was like this sudden flash of understanding.
‘I used to look for him in all the wrong places.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Daniel. I used to look in the wrong places.’ Kate is thinking of the imaginary swimming. The bus trips and the dark, dark shadows. A different bench. A different Kate.
‘I know, darling.’ Martha squeezes her arm. ‘But not any more?’
‘No. Not any more.’
They sit then, very quietly, and Kate keeps her eyes closed very, very tight.
‘I am so very thankful I got off that bus, Martha.’ Kate links their arms loosely, eyes still shut.
And as she listens to the music, and the click-clicking of the needles, she feels calmer; soothed and safe, and for a moment almost weightless. Just like the snowflake which may or may not fall on the dinner plate tomorrow.
So that as she thinks now of Daniel, she knows that she will find him easily.
Today by a lake. Look. He is smiling and waving, watching the ducks – ripples spreading like soundwaves from the Steinway, stretching out across the water as they splash and they play.
And Kate does not give it a name – this place. Enough that she has found it now. This place to visit. This place to believe in. This place in her heart and in the present tense, where her son’s eyes say always now that he is safe. That he is happy.
And best of all.
Just like her sweet Molly at the beach.
That he is waiting…
* * *
THE END
Letter from Teresa
Thank you so much for reading my second novel, Last Kiss Goodnight. A lot of people ask where the idea for a book comes from, and in this case the seeds go back a long way.
When I was a television reporter in London, I was sent once to cover a campaign launch at the House of Commons. A group of women were releasing balloons… each one, I was told, representing a child they could not find. The estrangements were for all sorts of different and heartbreaking reasons, and I have always been slightly haunted by the image. All those balloons…
As for Martha’s awful experience? I so wish I could say it could never happen. But my husband is also a journalist and he once interviewed a woman who finally found her birth mother in a psychiatric hospital, sadly too institutionalised to ever be released. She was never mentally ill.
I make no apology for giving my fictional Martha a much happier ending.
I was very touched by the lovely reviews for my debut novel. So – if you’ve
enjoyed this one too, I’d be very grateful if you would share your thoughts on Amazon. It really does help other people to discover my books.
I love to hear from readers, so do feel free to get in touch any time – on Twitter or via my author Facebook page.
Also, if you’d like to hear about all my latest releases, just sign up here:
Teresa Driscoll new releases email
With warm wishes,
* * *
Teresa Driscoll
@teresadriscoll
teresadriscollauthor
www.teresadriscoll.com
Acknowledgments
There are so many people I must thank for supporting me through the writing and editing of this – my second novel.
I always knew this particular book was to be a ‘big story’ and that working out exactly how to tell it would be a challenge. So special thanks go to my editor Claire Bord, whose expert guidance helped me so much in shaping a complex story into the novel here.
Thanks as always to my gorgeous husband Peter and sons James and Edward for patience, especially when things got a bit feral on the domestic front during editing! A hug too to fellow authors at Bookouture for their terrific camaraderie and to the many writer friends at regular lunches and get-togethers in Devon, who provide invaluable insight and encouragement always.
I must also mention the fabulous blogging community, my lovely book club, and especially the very dear school friends who supported my debut so brilliantly and even cooked some of the recipes from it for a recent reunion. That was very special.
And, as ever, my final thanks go to my agent Madeleine Milburn…who made the dream come true.
Published by Bookouture
* * *
An imprint of StoryFire Ltd.
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