The Longing

by Jane Asher

  A policewoman had got up from one of the wooden chairs as they entered and, scooping up the coffee cups, moved towards a second doorway, through which Michael glimpsed a small kitchen.

  ‘Can I get you some coffee or something?’ she asked, throwing an encouraging smile at Anna who was joining them from the hall.

  ‘Not for me, thank you,’ said the policeman. ‘Mr Evans?’

  ‘No, no thank you,’ said Michael, ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Mr Evans, this is WPC Calvert, and this, of course, is Miss Watkins.’

  ‘Hello, Mr Evans.’ The policewoman nodded at him from the kitchen doorway, her hands, being loaded with cups, giving her the excuse not to have to cross back to him to shake hands. She moved into the kitchen as Michael turned to look at the pale young girl who was staring at him from across the room.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down?’ she said.

  As Michael sat down on one of the wooden chairs he noticed a worn-looking fabric cradle tucked behind the sofa. The vividly coloured rattle and tiny teddy that were lying in it seemed out of place in this quiet, ordered room, heavy with its atmosphere of strain and un-happiness.

  The policeman stood by the window watching intently but tactfully as Anna sat in the armchair and stared belligerently at Michael. Michael leant forward and smiled back at her, trying to penetrate the barrier of fear and aggression that she had wrapped around herself like a suspicious animal.

  ‘I’m Michael Evans, and as you know we believe my wife has taken your son. I don’t know how to tell you how sorry I am – oh God, that sounds feeble. I mean I realise there’s nothing I can say to make you believe that I understand how you’re feeling. But I just want you to know that I am so, so sorry. I’ve lost a child too, you see, not in the way you have, of course – how could I ever claim that? My lost child hasn’t ever really existed, you see, but – oh dear, I’m talking nonsense aren’t I? Please forgive me. What I really wanted to tell you was that I don’t think for one moment that my wife would do anything to harm the baby.’

  For a split second Michael thought he saw a flash of something like relief pass over the girl’s face.

  ‘I know she wouldn’t,’ he went on. ‘I’m sure she’ll look after him. Just give me the chance to help you though, in any way I can. At least let me do that. Would you mind if I saw a photograph of him? How old is he?’

  She didn’t reply, but merely jerked her head miserably in the policeman’s direction, keeping her bloodshot eyes always on Michael, as if by lowering her guard, even for a second, she would let in some unforeseen and dangerous threat to her precarious stability.

  The policeman took a brown envelope out of a plastic document case he was carrying, and pulled out of it three small photographs, one of which he passed to Michael.

  ‘That’s Harry,’ said the girl, squeezing the words out of a mouth compressed by misery and hopelessness. ‘Three months. He’s three months old.’

  Michael took the picture and looked down at it. There was an odd pause for a moment, then, as he stared at the dark-haired infant in its blue knitted coat lying in a pram and smiling up at the camera, he quickly brought his hand up to his mouth to suppress a small gasp of puzzlement. The smile he had been bravely maintaining in the face of Anna’s dourness was wiped from his face and he looked intently at the image in front of him as if trying hard to remember something.

  There was a strange silence in the room. Anna’s eyes held a new light of fear, as though yet another unexplained horror was creeping through her.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’ The policeman, too, was puzzled, but as Michael stuttered something in reply, could only catch the words, ‘this child’.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir?’

  ‘I know this child.’

  The sound of footsteps from the kitchen as the policewoman moved from sink to cupboard broke the stillness as Anna stared even harder at the man in the chair in front of her. After a few moments she spoke.

  ‘What do you mean, you know him? You can’t do. That’s my baby!’

  She was almost shouting, outraged at the suggestion that this stranger could have any knowledge of her beloved child, any possibility of a previous acquaintance. She felt out of her depth, in some way outmanoeuvred. Her anger and fear made her look even younger than she was, the smudged black make-up round her eyes at odds with the rest of her pinched white face, like a little girl who’s been dressing up and then turned round to find she’s lost her mummy and doesn’t want to play any more.

  ‘No, you don’t understand,’ Michael lifted his eyes back up to Anna’s, ‘I know him. I’ve known him for years.’

  Anna jumped to her feet and screamed at him, as the WPC came in quickly from the kitchen and moved towards her.

  ‘Get out! Get out! I knew I shouldn’t have let him come here. What do you mean, known him for years — you’re as crazy as that fucking wife of yours! My baby’s only three months old, my baby, oh! My baby! Oh Harry! I want him back, I want him back! Give him back!’

  The policewoman had put a steadying hand on Anna’s shoulder, and as the shouting turned to sobs she gently eased her back down into her chair, while her colleague turned and bent to speak gently in Michael’s ear.

  ‘I think we’d better go now, sir, if it’s all right with you. We don’t want to upset the young lady any more, do we?’

  He straightened up again and nodded at WPC Calvert, who still had an arm round Anna’s shoulders. The kidnapping of a baby was serious and rare enough to justify immediate and solicitous police attention, so Anna was being given every support possible. A media blackout had so far successfully protected her against intrusions from press or public, but the appointment of a Family Liaison Officer in the person of WPC Calvert was an added precaution. If there was anything further that could have helped to alleviate her distress, it would have been provided. There wasn’t of course. Nothing could help Anna but a pair of soft arms around her neck, a fuzzy round head laid sleepily on her shoulder and the quiet, nuzzling whimpers of her own sweet child. The need for him was a physical hunger, and her guilt at what she saw as her wickedness in leaving him in the pram chewed at her continually like a dog worrying at a toy. A part of her was missing, and she felt that if she wasn’t able soon to bury her nose once more in the warmth of the yielding little folds of his body, and breathe in the smell that felt as necessary to her as breathing itself, she would surely go mad.

  Michael was ushered from the room and out of the front door on to the graffiti-strewn balcony. He felt foolish and ashamed. He hadn’t even begun to say any of the things he had wanted to, hardly a word of comfort or understanding had been uttered. Perhaps the police were right; it had been a foolish idea to see the girl, and it had only served to upset her even more. But he had so much he wanted to tell her, so much sympathy to pour out to her. If only he hadn’t seen that photograph. How could he explain? How to begin to make anyone understand that he had seen that baby every day and night in his thoughts and his dreams for the past ten years? How was it possible that the image conjured up again and again by his yearning imagination had been so uncannily brought to life in this tiny flat in a corner of Streatham? He hadn’t just seen a familiar face in that photograph – he felt he had seen his own son.

  ‘Oh hello, Mrs Evans, how are you feeling?’

  ‘Well, I’m fine, but what I was—’

  ‘Yes, of course. I know quite well why you’re telephoning. Now, I’m sure you’ll be delighted to hear that we have three of your eggs here that have been successfully fertilised and—’

  ‘Oh, that’s wonderful! That’s just so wonderful. Oh thank you so much, thank you!’

  ‘Well, my dear, you’ve nothing to thank me for, but I’m very glad to be able to give you such good news. Now, let me – I think Dr – yes, Dr Northfield said for you to come in this afternoon about four o’clock if that’ll suit you?’

  ‘Oh yes, that’ll suit me beautifully. That’s absolutely fine, thank you.’

 
‘All right, we’ll see you then. It won’t take long and you can go home again later after a short lie-down.’

  ‘Yes, right, thank you.’

  Juliet said goodbye but kept the receiver in her hand and began to dial Michael’s work number. As she pressed the first couple of digits she imagined the conversation she would have with him. ‘Michael! Michael! It’s worked! I’ve got to go back. They’re fertilised!’ She could hear herself shouting down the telephone and pictured Michael behind the desk in his small office in St Martin’s Lane leaping to his feet, beaming and over-excited. Then she quickly squeezed her eyes shut to obliterate the scene. It was all too clear, too predictable and she didn’t like it. She stopped dialling and pushed down on the cradle and released it again, lifting her eyes to look out of the kitchen window. She caught sight of herself reflected in the pane, the outline of her face highlighted by the weak London sun, but the features too dim in the watery glass reflection to be seen in any detail. She felt a sudden need to look at herself, to make herself feel real. She put down the receiver and walked over to the mirror that hung above the pine table that they had bought in an over-priced second-hand furniture shop in the Wandsworth Bridge Road when they first moved in. The face looking back at her gave no clue as to the extraordinary news that she had just heard. A sudden rush of despair welled up from deep in Juliet’s belly and made her catch her breath.

  ‘What?’ she said out loud. ‘What is it’. What’s your problem, for God’s sake?’

  She moved back to sit at a stool by the worktop where the phone was waiting, but this time dialled a different number and smiled to herself as she heard Harriet’s familiar voice answering in her brisk but accessible tone.

  ‘Four six nine two – hello?’

  ‘It’s me. Julie.’

  ‘Oh, hi – how’re you doing? I was just thinking about you. What news?’

  ‘Great. Three! Three ready to put back.’

  ‘You’re kidding! That’s fabulous! You must be thrilled. Hey, you clever old thing – this is really working out, huh?’

  ‘Oh Christ, don’t say that, there’s—’

  ‘I know, I still say it’s working out great. Just wait and see. Mike must be jumping up and down – well, when I say jumping up and down, I guess I mean he must at least have stood up or something?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Isn’t he? I mean, come on, the man’s been almost as wound up as you, Jules, he must be pretty – Jules, isn’t he? Hey, what’s up – you don’t sound right, what’s the matter?’

  ‘I haven’t told him.’

  ‘Why not? Where is he?’

  ‘He’s at work.’

  ‘Well, come on, phone the guy, for God’s sake!’

  ‘I’m going to, I just—’

  ‘You just felt you had to tell your old pal first? I understand. They’re so bloody – well, I don’t know – it’s just good to have these things inside your own head for a bit, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, exactly.’

  ‘OK, but now you have to give him a break and phone him. Or I’ll do it for you.’

  ‘No, don’t you dare, he’s—’

  ‘Don’t be daft, I’m only kidding.’

  ‘Hang on, I’m blipping.’

  ‘You’re what?’

  ‘The phone’s blipping. There’s someone else trying to get through. I’ll call you back.’

  ‘OK. But remember, you silly bitch, it’s great news, yeah?’

  ‘Yes, yes I know. Bye.’

  Juliet could never remember the sequence of phone buttons that would transfer her directly to the caller waiting on the line, so instead of trying she pushed down again on the cradle with her finger. It rang back almost immediately.

  ‘Julie? It’s me. Was that them? Were you on the phone to them? What did they say?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t. I already rang them before. It’s good news, Michael, I’ve got three to put back.’

  Michael had noticed before how often lately Juliet referred to ‘I’ instead of ‘we’, and this time, combined with the casualness of her tone, it got to him. He had been sitting next to the telephone in almost unbearable suspense for the last half hour or so, willing it to ring with their result, and the relief of hearing the good news released some of the resentment that had been building up in him.

  ‘We have three to put back, Julie, we have three. Why the hell didn’t you ring me straightaway?’ He paused in silence, then took a deep breath and went on. ‘But it’s wonderful, darling! Oh, that’s so wonderful! I told you, didn’t I?’

  Juliet didn’t answer and there was a moment’s silence.

  ‘Who were you talking to just now?’

  ‘Harriet.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘No, Harriet.’

  ‘Don’t be cheap, Julie. Did you tell her?’ ‘Of course I did.’

  ‘How could you? Why didn’t you phone me? Don’t you realise what this means to me? I just—’

  He was interrupted by a knock on the door, and looked up to see his secretary’s face peep round it.

  ‘Mrs Rutherford is here, Michael.’

  ‘Give me a couple of minutes, then show her in.’

  The face disappeared again and Michael lowered his head to speak into the receiver. ‘I just don’t get it. Are you deliberately trying to hurt me, or—’

  ‘OK, OK, I’m sorry, don’t make such a thing of it . . .’

  ‘Yes, well that’s what you always say.’

  ‘No I don’t.’

  ‘You do, you know.’

  There was another pause.

  ‘Anyway, what time do we go in?’

  ‘About four o’clock. But I want to go on my own, Michael, please let me do that. I’m sorry I didn’t phone you, but really I’ll be fine. I don’t want to make an outing of it – just let me get it done and I’ll see you tonight. We agreed, do you remember? Oh God, I wish it was right now. I just want to get going, darling. I want them in there, do you know what I mean?’

  ‘Look, I’ll come back and take you—’

  ‘No, no, don’t. We agreed I could do this bit on my own. It’s terribly simple they said, remember?’

  ‘No, I think I ought to take you. I’m sure it’s best.’

  ‘Michael, I really don’t want you to. I’m fine, really I am. I’ll take a taxi.’

  ‘So are they going to put all of them back?’

  Before he could hear her answer the door opened again and he covered the mouthpiece of the phone as a smartly dressed middle-aged woman was ushered into the room. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Mrs Rutherford; do forgive me, I’ve just had some rather good news. Will you bear with me for just a moment?’ He gestured at her to sit in the chair in front of his desk, then turned away from her and spoke into the phone again, more quietly. ‘Are they going to put all three back?’

  ‘Well, of course they – no, I don’t really know. I assume so. I’ll know when I get there.’

  ‘All right, darling, if you’re sure. I’d much rather be with you, but—’

  ‘Michael, do stop fussing. It’s as simple as having the injections. I’m better on my own. Don’t make such a thing of it, it’s fine. I keep telling you.’

  ‘I know. I just want to be part of it – you know.’ He had lowered his voice a little and turned further away from his client, who had tactfully started rereading the details of the policy documents she was holding in her gloved hand.

  ‘Well, you can’t. None of the others do – oh Michael, I don’t want to talk about it any more. Don’t spoil it, you always spoil things by fussing, I—’

  ‘All right. Look, I must go. Let me know how you get on, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll ring you when I’m home. Bye, darling.’

  ‘Bye.’ He put down the phone and turned back to his client. ‘Sorry about that, Mrs Rutherford. Now, your contributions.’

  ‘Do you need to go somewhere, Mr Evans – do feel free to—’

  ‘No, no thanks. Everything’s f
ine. Indeed, it’s wonderful.’ He couldn’t help smiling, and felt suddenly benign towards this lady seated in front of him. ‘Your insurance. I know you’re very keen to make provision for your children, Mrs Rutherford. Very important.’ He was grinning broadly now.

  At four-thirty that afternoon, Juliet lay with her legs apart and raised uncomfortably in stirrups, fully awake this time and not liking to imagine the undignified picture she made. She felt an almost irresistible urge to bring her arms down over her hips and cover her exposed crotch with her hands, but forced herself to take a few deep breaths and produce a kind of superficial calm. She detached her mind from her surroundings and indulged herself for the thousandth time in the dream that inspired her life, that gave it meaning, that gave it hope; she clutched at the thrilling, terrifying thought that had become her mantra. She saw herself lying like this in nine months’ time, not emptily waiting to have a millilitre of fluid inserted into her, but straining to expel that very same substance changed by time and the succour of her own body into a human baby.

  ‘I’m just inserting the pipette now, Mrs Evans.’

  Dr Northfield’s voice brought her back to the clinic and to her lonely discomfort. She glanced at him as he spoke, seeing only the top of his head as he bent over her, his arms reaching towards that most private part of her that seemed to be everyone’s property these days but her own. She thought wryly of how shy she used to be and a part of her floated to the ceiling and looked down on this extraordinary scene; the vision she saw of herself with this young man grappling between her straddled legs gave her a twinge of excitement, and her tension disappeared for a moment and her thighs relaxed even further apart. She felt wanton and uncaring, aware of her sexuality and of the doctor’s hand playing around the entrance to her vagina. Would he be able to see that it was swelling and reddening with the thoughts that were beginning to race through her head? She pictured his arm pushing up inside her until it reached the neck of her womb, and she moved her hips slightly down and forward to encourage him.