The Child

by Fiona Barton

  “It’s a bit difficult. I’m trying to finish this book by my deadline.”

  “Well, if you’re too busy. You must prioritize, I suppose.”

  “That’s not fair,” I say. “Of course my work is important to me, but so are you.”

  “Right,” she says. “But not enough to spend some time with me. Never mind. There’s a new Sunday serial starting on the radio. I won’t be bored on my own.”

  “I’ll come, I’ll come,” I say, back to being the sulky teenager.

  “Lovely,” Jude says. “I’ll cook a birthday lunch tomorrow, then. Will Paul be coming? He’s always welcome, of course, but it might be nice to just be the two of us.”

  I’m silently furious on Paul’s behalf, but he wouldn’t want to be there, anyway. He has tried his best to like Jude, but he struggles.

  “I admire your mother’s intellect,” he’d said after meeting her for the first time at a particularly sticky Sunday lunch in Covent Garden. “But she is determined to be the cleverest person in the room, isn’t she?”

  His tiny revenge is to call her Judith, a name she detests.

  “Actually, Paul’s busy with an open day at college, so it will only be me, anyway,” I say.

  “See you at twelve, then. Don’t be late,” she says. “Lots to talk about.”

  ELEVEN

  Jude

  SUNDAY, MARCH 25, 2012

  She’d put the food on to cook far too early in her eager anticipation of Emma’s arrival and she could smell it beginning to catch.

  The fug of simmering lentils had fogged up the window when Jude went into the kitchen. She whipped the saucepan off the electric ring and put it on the draining board, ready to reheat once Emma arrived.

  She went to look out of the sitting room window again. Hovering. Restless. She hadn’t realized how much she’d been looking forward to seeing her spiky only child. It had been at least six months since the last time—maybe nine. She didn’t know why she bothered. Emma clearly didn’t.

  From the moment she’d brought Emma home, she’d been determined to have a completely different bond with her daughter from the tense relationship she had had with her own mother. She played the big sister card, treating Emma as an adult instead of as a child, but it had exploded in her face.

  The terrible teens. Jude leaned her forehead on the cool windowpane as her mind filled with the vision of Emma screaming and slamming doors. And the silence as she’d trudged away from her, up Howard Street, two bulging carrier bags pulling her shoulders down. Her own shoulders drooped and she closed her eyes. She could still taste the dry, sour fear she’d felt as she watched her child disappear.

  She’d had to throw her out. Well, hadn’t she? “The monster in our midst,” her boyfriend Will had said.

  But, that was then, she told herself firmly as the doubts threatened to overwhelm her again. Emma’s an adult now. We have both moved on.

  She focused on the lovely time they were going to have and put on a Leonard Cohen CD to give herself something to do, singing along with the well-worn lyrics and pushing books and papers into more pleasing piles.

  But five minutes later, she was back at the window to watch the street for her child.

  “I wish she’d just get here,” Jude suddenly said out loud. She was talking to herself more and more lately. An unattractive habit, she felt. It made her sound a bit mad and old, but the words just spilled out of her before she could stop them.

  Funny how things change, she thought.

  There’d been a time when she would have paid money to get rid of Emma for an afternoon. She was a little chatterbox, going on and on about things until Jude’s head hurt.

  And she never stopped talking about her father. Her bastard father. Ironic how absence makes the heart grow fonder, Jude thought. The unknowing heart.

  She remembered how Emma used to invent stories about him. He was always the hero, of course. Brave, kind to animals, handsome, and once, at the age of eight, in a piece of homework titled “My Family,” even a member of royalty.

  Jude had been called in by the teacher to be told her daughter had an impressive imagination, but they needed to be careful this imagination didn’t spill over into telling lies. The teacher had called her Mrs. Massingham even though she knew Jude was unmarried.

  Her face darkened at the memory of how she’d slunk away, admonished. She’d wanted to tear the teacher’s head off, but she didn’t want to draw more attention to herself. Or to Emma. But she remembered very clearly her anger when she got home. Emma was down the street at Mrs. Speering’s, doing her homework.

  She’d snapped at her child about calling her father a prince and Mrs. Speering had laughed, thinking it was a joke, but she’d shut up when she realized it was serious.

  Emma had looked up—cool as a cucumber, Jude recalled—and said: “I heard you say he was called Charlie. That’s the name of a prince.”

  Jude had wanted to shake her. Instead she’d told Emma her father wasn’t a prince. He was nothing.

  Her child had looked devastated and Jude always suspected that it was at that moment that her daughter became determined to find out the truth.

  As far as Jude was concerned, the Truth was greatly overrated. It could be so many things to different people.

  But she’d ended up fueling her daughter’s mission. Her obsession.

  Jude hadn’t wanted her to even think about her father. He had done nothing for her, literally nothing. He’d left as soon as he could.

  But, as Emma got older, she’d latched onto any male figure in their lives—the man at the corner shop, one of her teachers at school, her best friend Harry’s dad. And Jude’s boyfriends. She invented stories about them, fantasizing about them being her father, and Jude had had to stamp on that and later silly lies.

  • • •

  The fierce buzz of the doorbell made the cat run under the sofa. Jude pushed the button to release the front door for Emma and felt a clutch of nerves as she waited for her to appear.

  “Hello, Jude,” Emma said loudly, trying to be heard above Leonard Cohen’s mournful growl, and kissed her cheek.

  “Sorry, I’ll turn it down,” Jude said. “I was listening to it while I waited. You took your time.”

  “It’s only ten past twelve,” Emma said quietly.

  “Oh right, I thought it was later,” Jude said.

  She could hear the irritation in her voice and tried to stop herself. This wasn’t how she’d planned it. She’d imagined them sitting and chatting over a glass of wine, laughing, even, about some silly shared joke. Like friends. But here she was, snapping at Emma straightaway, as usual. Their dialogue seemed to run along well-worn grooves with a gaping hole between them.

  Her frustration exhausted her and, for a moment, she wished Emma hadn’t come. But she handed her daughter her present. It was a biography of David Bowie that she’d chosen specially.

  “This is lovely. Thank you,” Emma said and hugged her. Jude held on for a second too long and felt her child let go first.

  “Thought you’d like it. Do you remember that poster in your room? You used to kiss him good night. Do you remember?”

  “Yes,” Emma said and laughed. “My first love. I’ve still got that poster.”

  “No! It must be in shreds by now,” Jude said.

  “There is a bit of sticky tape involved,” Emma said.

  This is lovely, Jude thought, hoisting herself out of her seat to pour the wine chilling in the fridge.

  “Shall I put lunch on the table while I’m up?” she asked, and Emma nodded as she looked at the photographs in the book. In the kitchen, Jude heated up the food and dished it out onto two plates.

  “Lentil casserole,” she said. “Used to be your favorite.”

  Emma smiled and murmured, “Thanks.” But Jude watched as she pushed the foo
d around the plate, rearranging it to make it look like she was eating.

  Back to your old tricks, Jude thought. But decided not to say anything.

  She was about to speak when Emma suddenly said: “Did you see that a baby’s skeleton has been found in Howard Street?”

  “Really?” Jude said. “Howard Street, of all places? What a horrible thing to happen. Where was it found? I bet it was one of the heroin addicts from the end of the street. Do you remember them?”

  “No,” Emma said. “Oh, was that the house with all the rubbish and empty milk bottles outside?”

  “That’s it. How did you hear about it?” Jude asked, pouring herself another glass of wine.

  “It was in the paper.”

  “But what happened? Was it murdered?”

  “They don’t know,” Emma said and put some lentils in her mouth.

  Jude did the same. When she finished her mouthful, she said, “Well, we don’t want to talk about dead babies, do we?” and moved the conversation onto Emma’s work.

  “Are you still in touch with Will?” Emma said, cutting her off mid-sentence.

  “Will?” Jude was caught completely off guard. “Er, well, yes. On and off. Actually, he rang me a few weeks ago. Out of the blue, about some university fund-raiser. We had a bit of a chat.” She looked at Emma’s face for clues but there was nothing.

  “Why are you asking about Will?” she said, nervously. She wouldn’t have dreamed of telling Emma that Will had been back in touch. She knew it would have been taboo. But her daughter had been the one to mention him.

  “I just wondered,” Emma said, and there was silence at the table apart from the scrape of spoons on plates.

  “He was an important part of my life for eight years, Emma,” Jude said defensively, her face flushed by the alcohol. “An important part of yours, as well. For a couple of those years at least.”

  Emma’s face froze.

  “Well, I know you had your differences,” Jude said. “But that was so long ago, Emma. Surely you’re not still sulking about that.”

  Emma looked up from her plate but said nothing.

  She’s jealous, Jude thought. She always had a crush on him.

  The subject appeared to be closed and Jude’s disappointment sucked all the energy out of the room. Her daughter stood wearily to help with the washing up and they both knew she would leave as soon as was decent.

  At the sink, Emma dried while Jude washed. They’d turned the radio on to have voices in the room.

  “I ought to get back—Paul will be home soon,” Emma said to her mother’s back. “Thanks for the lovely book and lunch.”

  “You didn’t eat it,” Jude said over her shoulder. “Don’t think I don’t know. You can’t hide anything from me, Emma.”

  Emma kissed her mother’s cheek once more and walked out, closing the door quietly behind her, the only sound the click of the latch.

  TWELVE

  Emma

  SUNDAY, MARCH 25, 2012

  The walk back to the tube seems to take twice as long because my legs are so shaky.

  I’d got it all wrong. I’d steeled myself for the baby conversation, had my responses ready for possible interrogations, but I’d had to ask her that last question. About Will. To reassure myself that he was no longer in the picture. But of course he is. How could it be otherwise?

  I try to do my breathing, but my heart is still bumping against my ribs when I finally sit down on the Central Line train.

  I sit in a daze. In between stations, I can see myself reflected in the window opposite.

  • • •

  When I finally get home, hours later, Paul has cooked his chicken thing—I can smell it; it smells of home—and is waiting patiently when I turn the key in the lock. I’d remembered to call him earlier to tell him I’d decided to have a look round the shops while I was in town.

  “Darling, you look frozen,” he says. “Come in and get warm. Shall I run you a bath?”

  “I’m fine, Paul,” I say and sidetrack him with how the lunch went.

  “Jude cooked lentil casserole,” I say and he laughs. He knows I’ve always hated it.

  “Of course she did,” he says. “What was her flat like?”

  And I have to think.

  “Wall hangings and scarves over the lamps,” I say. “She’d probably describe it as shabby chic but it’s more shabby shit.” Paul smiles.

  “Did you have far to walk?” he says and pulls my feet into his lap to warm them.

  “It’s miles from the tube—in the land of shops selling secondhand fridges. Actually, I felt a bit nervous walking down her road. I don’t know why she chose to live there.”

  Jude moved north of the river years ago. She’d felt like a change, she told me later, when I got back in touch, when I made the first move to make the peace. It had been years since we’d spoken, but you know how things reach a stage when decisions get stuck in stone. My own anger about being chucked out would probably have cooled down pretty quickly if I’d been left to myself, but I went to live with my grandparents for a bit and Granny loved the opportunity to be proved right about her daughter’s shortcomings as a mother. She ramped up all the ill feeling, putting the phone down on Jude so she couldn’t talk to me—“It’s for your own good,” she told me. And by the time I left to fend for myself, the silence was total.

  Of course, I wondered about Jude, over the years, and sometimes fantasized about a reunion. I thought I’d see her when my grandfather died, but the conflict between her and her parents was too deep-rooted to be negotiated by then, I suppose. She didn’t come to his funeral—or Granny’s a year later. She probably hadn’t guessed that they’d left her some money, and I wondered if she’d felt guilty when she got the executor’s letter.

  I kept putting the idea of getting in touch aside for later. I was busy, finding jobs and bedsits, shifting around and rootless for a few years. Then university and Paul. Life got in the way, I suppose. And I didn’t know what I’d say to her.

  It was my fortieth birthday that made me want to get in touch. A landmark birthday, Paul said.

  I sat for ages worrying about what to write—how to say hello after twenty-four years? In the end, I put Dear Jude, How are you? I have been thinking about you—about us—and I would like to see you again. I am married now and living in Pinner. I will understand if you decide not to, but if you would like to contact me, please write or phone. Love, Emma. I still sounded like a child.

  I waited and waited for a response, hurt at first, then angry, and then I panicked that she was dead and I’d left it too late.

  I rang our old number at Howard Street—for the first time since I was sixteen—to find out, shaking and hanging on to the phone. But when I finally got an answer, it was another woman’s voice.

  “Who?” she said. “Oh, her. She’s long gone. Blimey, must be ten years since I moved in. Funny, there was a letter for her a couple of weeks ago.”

  “I sent it,” I said. “She’s my mum . . . Do you know where she is now?”

  “No, don’t know where she moved to. Sorry.” The woman sounded sad for me. “What shall I do with the letter?”

  “Throw it away,” I said.

  I rang her old office the next day—more strangers—but they told me that, according to their records, Jude was still alive and they agreed to forward my details to her.

  She kept me dangling another three months—and I began to believe that I might never hear from her again. To be honest, I didn’t know how I felt about that. Some days, I was devastated—I felt abandoned all over again—and other days, I felt a sense of relief. I’d tried. But I could put it away now. Get on with my life.

  Then her short note came through the letterbox. I remember smelling the paper as if I could catch a scent of her, and I rang her new number immediately to tell her how gl
ad I was to hear from her.

  I’m not sure what I was expecting, but Jude didn’t scream with excitement when she realized it was me. Not her style. Nor did she apologize for the rupture in our relationship, for throwing me out, for choosing Will over me.

  “I needed to put myself first for a change,” she said. “I needed to find myself. After Will left me—those were difficult years, Emma. But I think you and I can put it all behind us now. We’re different people now.”

  And I agreed.

  “I think we should meet somewhere neutral,” she said. “Have a cup of tea somewhere. What do you think?”

  Her terms, her territory, I suppose. She’s never been to our home. Jude calls it “Paul’s house” and says it’s too far for her to travel. “Pinner—it’s about to fall off the edge of London, Emma.”

  The first time, she chose a café in Covent Garden and I took Paul with me, holding his hand tightly. Jude didn’t bother to hide her shock at the age gap between us, and there was an awkward silence while we pretended to study the menus and I waited with clenched stomach for the inevitable remark. But she held back. Nothing was said. And it had been all right in the end. No big emotional reunion but, then, no row, either.

  “Well, that wasn’t too bad,” Paul had said as we walked away.

  • • •

  What did you buy? Anything nice?” Paul says now as he gets up to set the table, and for a moment I don’t know what he’s talking about.

  “Oh, no, nothing, in the end,” I say when I realize. “I just had a look.” And I sit quietly for a moment. I haven’t been shopping.

  • • •

  I should have taken the Central Line west to get back to Pinner, but I didn’t. I went in the opposite direction. I remember thinking, I’m not going home. Well, I was in a way. I was going back to Howard Street.

  The journey passed in a blur, stations coming into bright focus and then flashing back into the darkness, walking up and down concrete steps with the crowds to change to the Jubilee Line and then up into the daylight again at Greenwich. The 472 bus to Woolwich took a long time to come—It’s Sunday, I kept telling myself. I watched the digital display count down the minutes until I could board. Three mins. One min. Due.