The Cactus

by Sarah Haywood

  “There’s really no need.”

  “There is, as far as I’m concerned.” A pause. “Anyway,” he continued, “tell me what you’ve been up to?”

  “I’ve been busy with paperwork for the court case,” I told him, finding that I was relaxing into the conversation. I explained what I’d discovered in my mother’s medical notes. He was surprised; Edward had never mentioned the diagnosis of vascular dementia. On the subject of Edward, he said that the two of them had had a falling-out. My brother knew we’d been to the New Year’s Eve party together; he’d called Rob a double agent and a treacherous, backstabbing bastard. I couldn’t help smiling. I told Rob about my pregnancy complications and my stay in the hospital. He said he wished Kate had called him so he could have visited me. He was very sorry he hadn’t been around for support.

  Our conversation must have lasted over an hour, although I wasn’t watching the clock. Toward the end, I just happened to mention that I’d be traveling up to the Midlands by train on Friday to meet the vicar and to organize the signing of the various witness statements.

  “That’s perfect. I’ll meet you at the station and drive you wherever you want to go.”

  I declined his offer, perhaps not as firmly as I might have done, but he stood his ground.

  “You need someone with you,” he said, “because of your health scare. You don’t want to be on your own if something happens again.”

  I admit I felt very happy indeed that he’d insisted; it would certainly save on both time and taxi fares.

  * * *

  I was uncharacteristically fidgety and unsettled on the journey to Birmingham. I couldn’t identify the reason; perhaps it was anxiety about meeting the vicar or about seeing Rob, but neither made sense. I tried to focus on the baby-training book I’d bought the previous week. I realized, however, that I was reading the same paragraph over and over again. Kate had told me to ditch the book. She said that babies couldn’t be trained like performing chimps; that you just had to “do what comes naturally.” That’s fine for her to say, but what if it doesn’t? A groundless thought; of course I’ll know what to do.

  Squeezing through the ticket barrier at New Street station, I saw him before he saw me. He was looking at the arrivals board and checking his watch. I experienced a jolt of recognition; it was nothing to do with his appearance—it was something else. The sensation was a little like opening your front door after a long period away; a feeling both that you’re reencountering something familiar and that you’re seeing it anew. Rob spotted me and came striding over. When he reached me, he stopped, hesitated, then seemed to make up his mind. I found myself reciprocating his greeting. I confess I even buried my face in his donkey jacket as he buried his in my hair. A line had been crossed. Utterly ridiculous, I know. I feel pitiful even recounting this. I have no idea what on earth we must have looked like: a small, heavily pregnant, immaculately turned-out woman, and a tall, floppy-haired workwear-clad man. My brain had clearly left my head.

  I was surprised to discover that Rob had cleaned his van, inside and out. He’d even put a rug over the filthy seat, and hung up an air freshener. Not exactly limousine service, but an improvement on the last few times. En route he told me that work had been slow recently; it always was in winter. While he’d been away in Edinburgh and Liverpool, Billy had been overseeing the renovation work on his house. It was now almost finished, and he thought he could sell it for a good profit. Coincidentally, a friend of his with a successful landscape gardening firm in London had called him to say he was receiving far more inquiries than he could possibly handle. He’d asked Rob if he’d like to join forces. It was a shrewd proposition, Rob thought; there was a bigger potential client base down south, and he had nothing tying him to Birmingham. He appeared to want my approval. I don’t know why. I told him his commercial and domestic arrangements were none of my business.

  “Maybe. But it’d help if I knew what you thought.”

  Rob continued to sketch out his embryonic plans, and was still doing so when we pulled up next to the lych-gate of St. Stephen’s Church. He jumped out of the van and came round to the passenger side to help me maneuver myself down.

  “Shall I come in with you?” he asked. “Bit of moral support?”

  “No, I’m really not expecting this to take long. Just wait for me here.”

  * * *

  Rob was in the graveyard examining the headstones when I shoved open the church door and thundered back down the path a few minutes later. He picked his way across the wet grass and met me at the lych-gate.

  “One call down, two to go,” he said, after I’d heaved myself back into the van.

  I didn’t answer. I just stared straight ahead.

  “Susan, are you okay? Shall I drive you to Margaret’s?”

  A pause.

  “I think I’ll leave that for another time.”

  “It’s your call. Are we heading straight to your aunt’s house then?”

  “No, no, I don’t want to go to Worcester. Definitely not.”

  “I thought you were going to spend the night there. Won’t she be expecting you?”

  “Did you not hear me, Rob?” I snapped. “Are you deaf or stupid? I don’t want to go to Aunt Sylvia’s house. I don’t want to go to Margaret’s house. I don’t want to go anywhere.”

  “Come here,” said Rob, endeavoring to put his arms around me. “I don’t know what that bloody vicar’s said, but I can see it’s upset you. Do you want me to go in there and break his legs?” I pulled away and leaned my forehead on the passenger window. “Sorry. Let’s get you back to mine,” he added, starting the engine.

  * * *

  On the journey to Rob’s house I thought about what had happened at my meeting with the vicar. It had been ice-cold in the vestry this time; the heating system was playing up, and the antiquated two-bar electric fire was doing nothing to counteract the February bitterness. We sat in our coats and scarves, the vicar with the addition of a tweed cap and fingerless gloves. I began by showing him the brief witness statement I’d drawn up in his name, which summarized the facts he’d told me last time we’d met. He read through the statement, then placed it on the desk in front of him. He put his hands palms-down on top of it.

  “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I can’t sign this in its present form.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not that I disagree with anything you’ve written, but there’s one further matter that needs to be included if I’m to give evidence in this case.”

  “And that is?”

  “It’s best if I just come out with it. Susan, your mother was feeling very down in the dumps in the last few months of her life. She’d been keeping a secret. She suspected she might soon be meeting her maker, and was agonizing over whether or not to open up to you. Can I ask—have you ever seen your birth certificate?”

  “No,” I said. “My mother lost it years ago.” I’d never bothered obtaining a copy. I suppose I might have done if I’d wanted to apply for a passport or a driving license, but I’d never been tempted to do either. “What’s that got to do with the matter in hand, anyway?”

  “Your mother didn’t lose your birth certificate. She hid it.”

  “Why on earth would she do that?”

  “She didn’t want you to stumble across it, because if you found it you’d see that she wasn’t your birth mother. My dear, I’m very sorry to have to tell you this—you were adopted by your parents when you were a few weeks old.”

  “Ha. She really was losing her marbles,” I said. “She actually thought she didn’t give birth to me?”

  “This wasn’t a delusion. We had many, many discussions on the subject—on the moral dilemma of keeping it a secret from you and the pain it would cause should you find out about it. The story she told was too convincing and plausible to be a product of her imagination. I know it must be a terrib
le shock to you.”

  “This isn’t true. This is a lie. I would’ve known if I’d been adopted. I would’ve sensed something. Everyone’s always said how much I look like my parents. Where’s the proof? I’ve only got your word for it. For goodness’ sake, you could be making it up for all I know.”

  “If you’re finding this hard to accept—and I understand why you would—may I suggest that you look at your birth certificate? Your mother told me where she kept it. I think she might have been anticipating a situation such as this.”

  “So where did she say it was, then?”

  “In her jewelry box. The lining in the base is loose. She hid it underneath. I really am very, very sorry.”

  “So you should be, passing on preposterous stories like this without checking your facts. It’s unworthy of you and your position. I’m going to make a formal complaint to the bishop or synod or whoever.”

  I grabbed the unsigned statement that was still sitting on the desk in front of the vicar and left.

  * * *

  Stepping into the hallway of Rob’s house, I was hit first by the warmth—welcome after the heaterless vestry and drafty cab of the van—and second by a smell of paint, wood varnish and wallpaper paste. The place had been transformed from a bare shell into something almost resembling a home.

  “I have to make a phone call,” I told Rob, handing him my coat.

  “You can do it in the living room. I’ll put the kettle on.”

  Kate’s mobile rang at least half a dozen times. Finally, she answered.

  “I need you to do me a favor,” I said. “Can you use the spare key to let yourself into my flat and get my mother’s jewelry box down from the top shelf of the bookcase?”

  “No problem. Hang on a minute.”

  I heard the jangle of keys, footsteps on the stairs, the sound of locks being opened and the burglar alarm being deactivated.

  “Right, I’ve got the box. What do you want me to do with it?”

  “Take the upper shelf out, empty the base and see if the lining’s loose.”

  Noises of fumbling.

  “Yes, it is. There’s a piece of folded paper inside. It looks like a birth certificate.”

  My heart was thudding, my hands were damp. I thought I might drop the phone.

  “Can you unfold it and read out the names of the baby, the mother and the father.”

  “The baby is Susan Mary Green. Oh, it’s your birth certificate. The mother’s name is Sylvia Grainger. Under father’s name it’s blank. What’s going on, Susan? Are you okay?”

  “Thank you for doing that,” I said. “Can you put everything back where you found it and lock the door behind you?”

  I hung up. I felt sick; the room began to dissolve, like watercolor paints leaching into one another. I lowered myself into an armchair and leaned forward, elbows on knees, head in hands.

  * * *

  Things were beginning to come back into focus as Rob entered carrying a tray laden with a stainless steel teapot, mismatched mugs and a packet of chocolate digestives.

  “This’ll sort you out,” he said, setting the tray down on a low table. He looked at me. He saw that it wouldn’t.

  “Do you want to talk?”

  “I’m not feeling well. Could I possibly lie down somewhere? Just for a while.”

  “The baby’s not coming, is it?”

  “No, nothing like that. I just need to rest.”

  He led me upstairs, saying he only had the one bed at the moment, but that I was welcome to use it. The room was austere; freshly decorated and yet to be personalized. The only indication of the room’s occupant was a pile of horticultural books on the bedside table. After pulling back the covers, Rob helped me take off my shoes.

  “I’ll ring your aunt and tell her you’re not coming. I’ve got her number somewhere from when she wanted me to do her garden. Sleep for as long as you like. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

  I closed my eyes, but there was no possibility of rest with the pounding in my head. My aunt was my mother and my mother was my aunt; my father wasn’t related to me at all. It was almost impossible to take in. I tried to work it out. Aunt Sylvia was fifteen years younger than my mother, so she would have been seventeen when I was conceived. That was a few years before she married Uncle Frank. My mother would have been in her early thirties, married to my father for six years. I couldn’t understand how Aunt Sylvia could have given away her baby. A baby she’d carried, just as I was carrying mine. Neither could I understand why my parents would want to adopt someone else’s child. And why did they all hold on to their secret? I’d never gained the impression from any of them that our relationships were other than they appeared to be. Aunt Sylvia had visited our house with an annoying regularity, but she did have a very close relationship with her sister. And she’d always been keenly interested in what I was up to, but I’d assumed that that was just her nosy nature. Aunt Sylvia: silly, vain, self-obsessed. The thought that I was her daughter appalled me. My childhood—everything that had been said or done to me, everything I’d experienced or felt—was based on a lie.

  * * *

  An hour or so later, I drifted back downstairs. It had turned dark outside; the curtains had been closed, lamps lit and a sputtering gas fire switched on. I heard the sound of a radio coming from the kitchen, where I found Rob sitting at a table reading the local newspaper. He stood up as I entered and asked how I was feeling. I apologized for my peculiar behavior. I explained that the vicar had told me something about my mother that had shocked and upset me. He asked again if I wanted to talk about it; I told him I didn’t.

  “Are there any hotels nearby?” I asked. “There are things I need to discuss with Aunt Sylvia. I’ve decided to go to her house in the morning, so there’s no point getting a train back to London tonight.”

  “Forget it,” Rob said. “You’re staying here.”

  To be honest I needed the company. I was in no state to be on my own. We passed a somber, rather domestic evening together. I helped Rob prepare the vegetables for the recipe he was following, then watched as he busied himself at the hob. We shared a bottle of wine; I needed it. Once we’d eaten, Rob washed up the dinner things and I dried. We talked about our recent work projects, about how Birmingham had changed over the years, about films we’d both seen or wanted to see, carefully skirting the subject of what I’d been told at St. Stephen’s. Toward the end of the evening, I could see that something was playing on Rob’s mind. As I was about to go up to bed, he broached the subject.

  “Shall I sleep on the sofa, or shall we share? It’s a king-size, so there’s plenty of room for the two—I mean three—of us.”

  I was unprepared for the suggestion. Obviously, if I’d had time to think about it, or had been a little more my usual self, I would have had no hesitation in instructing him, unequivocally, to sleep on the sofa.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It’s your house—it’s up to you.”

  “Okay then, we’ll share.”

  I suppose I could have told Rob I’d decided I’d prefer to sleep alone, after all. But I didn’t. I have always been a person who deplores inconsistency.

  And waking the next morning, finding his warm body molded to the back of my own, and his arm draped across my bump, it was—well, it wasn’t entirely unwelcome.

  24

  “It’s a shame you couldn’t’ve come yesterday, ’cos you’ve missed Wendy and Chrissie. They were devastated not to see you, but they had to head off at the crack. They’ve gone skiing. I can’t remember where. It sounded Eastern European, but that can’t be right. Uncle Frank’s seeing them off at the airport. He’ll be back before lunch. Rob phoned yesterday to say you were under the weather. It can happen when you’re this late on, if you don’t take it easy. I was just the same when I was carrying the twins. ‘Sylvia, stop racing around like the
re’s no tomorrow,’ Uncle Frank would tell me. But you know what I’m like. I can’t sit still for a minute. That’s how come I stay so trim.”

  She broke off, momentarily, at the sound of tires on gravel.

  “Oh, Rob’s driving off. Is he not coming in? I was looking forward to a natter with him. I’ve seen a Michelangelo’s David that’d look brilliant by the gazebo, but I want his artistic opinion. Ta-ta, Rob, love—I’ll see you later. Susan, I can’t tell you how thrilled I am you two’ve got together. He’s such a catch. I’ve always liked a man with his own business. You’d be fighting me for him if I was twenty years younger.”

  All of this before I’d crossed the threshold of Wendine, or even said ‘hello.’ Earlier that morning I’d explained to Rob that his role for the day was simply one of taxi driver; his presence at my meeting with my aunt would be a hindrance. He said that was fine by him. There was a house and garden designed by Capability Brown nearby, where he could happily while away a couple of hours. Perversely, however, as I watched his van disappearing down the long driveway, I almost regretted that I hadn’t allowed him to accompany me. The burden of the matter I was about to raise with my aunt was heavy on my shoulders.

  Standing in the kitchen while we waited for the coffee to brew, I made a monumental effort to engage in chitchat with Aunt Sylvia on the important topic of whether she would suit a fringe. Eventually, once we had considered the subject from every possible angle, she pushed down the plunger on the cafetière and bent to peer at its contents.