by Adele Geras
‘And besides,’ he’d added, ‘I’m not divorced from Gareth. Surely you can spend one evening in his company?’
And she’d agreed because, above all, she wanted to be thought of as civilized and doing everything she could to keep things normal for Tamsin. But it was a drag, because for a long time she’d imagined that perhaps Matt’s birthday would be a suitable occasion for her to arrive with Mickey as an obvious couple. She’d even kidded herself that she could just be in her new situation without having to explain anything to anyone. No such luck. That would have to be done quite separately. Perhaps we should host a coming-out ball, tee hee. She was smiling at the thought when she saw Justin coming through the revolving doors. She waved at him.
‘Hello, Justin,’ she said. ‘I can’t get up, this sofa’s too comfy. Come and sit down. You look like hell.’
‘Always so kind, Nessa darling.’ He sank down beside her and gave her cheek a perfunctory kiss. ‘But you’re right for a change. I look like hell because I feel like hell.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘It’s hard to know where to begin …’ Justin said. ‘Can we order something to drink? I need something … how about a glass of wine?’
Nessa stood up and went to the bar. She ordered two glasses of white wine and while the barman was getting them, turned to look at Justin on the sofa. He had an expression on his face which she recognized from childhood. This was how he looked when another kid had taken something of his and not given it back: wounded, aggressive, and on the verge of a tantrum. This, she thought, is going to be interesting.
*
‘It’s always good to see you, Lou, you know that. Even with a piece of information like this.’ Matt smiled at his daughter. ‘And your mum’s always happy to see Poppy, even for a few hours. Can’t you stay the night?’
‘No, not really, Dad. There’s stuff I have to do, but I’m so grateful to you for this idea. And I’m sorry to have sprung it on you. I was upset when Mme Franchard told me. I’ve thought about it since, though, and I don’t know what I believe any longer. It might all be made up. I just felt – well, Rosemary was the only grandmother figure you had, even though you weren’t very close, I know.’
Matt stared down at the slightly worn leather that covered his desk and fiddled with his letter-opener. ‘Come along, then. Let’s have a look and see what’s in the files.’
They made their way down the stairs to the cellar, which had been converted many years ago into a storage room.
‘I had no idea this was down here. So many files! What’s in them all?’ Lou stared around her and Matt laughed.
‘Old wills, property-searches, papers of every kind. Some people think it’s a pile of junk but I prefer to call it an archive. A fantastic filing system in any case, which Rosemary’s husband set up and we’re still grateful to him for it, believe me. Right. Let’s see.’
‘What are you looking for exactly?’ Lou wanted to know. She was peering at the labels as they walked between free-standing shelves, crowded with box files.
‘I know it’s down here somewhere. Yes, here you are. Rosemary’s papers.’ He pulled the file off the shelf and opened it. ‘Not much in here, really. I can honestly say I’ve never opened this before. Let’s take it upstairs and have a look. I’ll get someone to bring us a cup of coffee.’
Seeing Lou sitting in the client’s chair made Matt feel strange. He’d hidden from his daughter the shock he’d felt when she broke her news: that his adopted grandmother might have murdered his father’s birth mother. He was used to hiding his feelings and concentrated on keeping his voice even as he searched methodically through Rosemary’s effects.
‘Birth certificate, marriage certificate, will. Various bits and bobs. I thought as much,’ he said at last. ‘And there are letters in here. From my father to Rosemary. Nothing of much interest. This is her prayer book. She went to church every Sunday of her life as far as I know.’
Matt picked up the leather-bound book. A small piece of blue writing paper fell out of it as soon as he opened the front cover and he picked it up and read aloud what Rosemary had written on it in her spidery hand:
Dearest John,
This letter will be kept with my will. When you read it, I will be dead. I am ready to meet my Maker and if I have any fear, it’s of an afterlife in which what I’ve done will be punished. I have, I hope, been a good mother to you, but I can’t keep the truth hidden any longer. When we were all in the prison camp together, your mother fell ill. I did nothing to save her life. I could have done and I didn’t. That makes me no better than a murderer. She might have died anyway, but I could have made an effort to prevent her death and I chose not to. What I did was unforgivable, but I ask you to understand how desperate I was for a child. You have been that child and I’ve loved you with all my heart, though I realize that I have never been a real mother and may not have shown this very well. I’ve done my best and that is all any of us can do. When I see my beloved friend Louise in God’s presence, I will beg her to understand my motives.
With my love,
Rosemary Barrington.
Matt could feel himself turning cold. When he finished reading the letter, the silence grew, filling the room, and then he spoke again. ‘My father must have hidden this letter after Rosemary died. Folded it into a book he knew wouldn’t ever be looked at again. Filed it away in the cellar assuming no one would ever come across it. And look at the date: 1963. Two years before the publication of Blind Moon.’ He sighed and buried his head in his hands. ‘It’s as though this letter gave him permission to write the book. To tell the truth. And to hide the fact that he was doing so by pretending it was a novel. Making up names for all the characters.’
Lou sprang up and went round to Matt’s side of the desk and threw her arms around him. ‘Oh, Dad,’ she said. ‘This must be such a terrible shock for you. I’m so sorry …’
‘No, no, it’s all right.’ Matt hugged his daughter. ‘It oughtn’t to make any difference and yet … d’you think he knew all the time? From his days in the camp? From his early childhood?’
Lou nodded. ‘Yes, I think so. I think he saw her die. His real mother. It’s very – very vivid. You’ll have to read it, Dad. Now that you know it’s not invented.’
Matt laughed. ‘That’s a bit of a thing, isn’t it? I never read my dad’s books when I thought they were an invention and now this one turns out to be true, so I’ve got no excuse, have I? Have to find out what he went through. Poor bugger.’ Tears came to his eyes and he blinked them away. ‘He had to live with that his whole life. Why couldn’t he have told me? Or my mother?’
‘Constance wouldn’t have been the most sympathetic person, I shouldn’t think. And Grandad wouldn’t want her getting on even worse with Rosemary than she did, would he? He’d have pushed it all down, deep inside him. Hidden it until he came to write the book.’
Matt put the sheet of blue paper back into the prayer book. ‘Let’s go home. I want to talk to your mother. And thank you, Lou, for telling me this. I won’t pretend it’s not a shock, but it’s always better to know the truth.’
Even as he said the words Matt was wondering whether he really believed them.
10
Matt’s birthday was in the second week of August. Phyl couldn’t quite remember when celebrating it had turned into a major family event but they’d had a party of some kind ever since Lou was about five or so. The character of the occasion had changed over time, but nowadays it was generally a dinner on the second Saturday of the month. This year, by a happy coincidence, the day of the celebration was Matt’s actual birthday: August eleventh.
In the past, she’d loved preparing the meal. She used to spend ages thinking about possible menus, and there was nothing she liked better than shopping for whatever she’d decided to cook. What used to make it special, she thought now, was the fact that this was the one day when Constance would deign to come down to earth from the heights of Milthorpe House and sit at her
table. Phyl smiled. And every year I made such an effort to see that everything was perfect. It was a kind of challenge, and most years she succeeded in wringing a few words of praise from her hypercritical mother-in-law. There had been the odd occasion when compliments had not been forthcoming and once or twice Constance had actually cancelled because I’m not really feeling up to it, darling – you understand, I’m quite sure but, for the most part, she was sure that Matt had nothing but happy memories of his own birthday.
There was, of course, no possibility of Constance attending this year. Phyl smiled at the thought of the old woman appearing like Banquo’s ghost at the head of the table. That’d be something to see! For her part, she couldn’t help feeling relieved that her mother-in-law wouldn’t be there ever again. She’d never have dreamed of confessing to Matt that those years when his mother hadn’t made it to the table were more comfortable for her. She didn’t have to feel as though she were competing in some kind of Masterchef event in her own home. That was the thing about Constance – she was the embodiment of judgemental. She judged every single thing that appeared before her. Clothes, people, food, jewels, books, films – she had an opinion on everything and in the case of books or films, didn’t even feel she had to have read or seen the work in question. No, it would all be much more relaxed without her, though there were a few … what could you call them … stumbling blocks? Pieces of grit in the sandal? Irritants, in any case. Things which might go wrong.
There’s me, for one thing, Phyl thought. It was now three weeks since she’d agreed to stay with Matt and she still sometimes woke up in the night full of dread … what if? What if he was just saying that about not going back to Ellie? What if he still went round to the flat in Brighton and they … her mind filled with such horrible images once she started on this tack that she’d had to get out of bed on several occasions and go downstairs and have a cup of tea in the kitchen till she came to her senses. She hated watching Matt like a prison warder, but couldn’t help it. She knew the password on his email account and checked his messages, but Ellie, she was almost sure, didn’t do email. And Matt wasn’t a fool. He’d delete any incriminating texts from his mobile phone. Did Ellie know about texts? She couldn’t ask him.
It’s all nonsense, she told herself as she began to make the pasta sauce. She’d decided on a starter of field mushrooms with a chickpea stuffing, followed by linguine with a fresh crab and saffron sauce. Then they’d have the pavlova – a spectacular affair with meringue and fresh berries which had been ready since this morning. Matt was sincerely sorry. He really does love me, she thought. She remembered how distraught he’d looked when she was threatening to leave and allowed herself to be slightly consoled. The sex … well, she’d done her best to please him and he’d done his best to be attentive and loving and it was okay, but there was something – a shadow – over them both. It would maybe disappear over time, but just at the moment it seemed to her that Ellie was a sort of ghostly presence who managed to slip between them. I’m thinking about her, Phyl thought, every time Matt takes me in his arms. He knows I’m thinking of her. He knows I’m thinking he’s thinking of her … and so it goes. The complications made her feel sick, as though she were staring into some kind of giddying spiral and she tried hard not to bring them to mind during the day. You are never content, she chided herself. He’s not with her, he’s with me. He didn’t want me to leave. He loves me. How many times does the poor man have to say it before I truly, truly believe him? When she was being strictly honest with herself, she knew that in her heart of hearts she never would entirely believe it. Given the choice, no one would choose you over Ellie. That was what Phyl thought in her most secret heart and no amount of factual evidence would convince her otherwise, but she’d lived with the idea so long that she’d managed to squash it down and squash it down till it was no more than a paper-thin wisp of an idea that clung to the edges of her mind.
‘Lou for you,’ said Matt, coming into the kitchen with the phone in his hand.
‘She’s still coming, isn’t she? Poppy’s okay?’
‘Nothing bad, darling, honestly. I’ve already said it’s fine. Got to go.’
Phyl took the phone from Matt, who left the kitchen at once. ‘Hi, love,’ she said.
‘Hello, Mum. I did ask Dad to explain but he says I’ve got to ask you …’
‘Ask me what?’
‘Whether I can bring someone with me tonight – an extra person. Dad reckoned you always make too much food anyway.’
Phyl relaxed. She had no idea why she assumed every single phone call would be bringing her some bad news, some difficulty, something she had to deal with. The relief she felt when it turned out to be good news, or at least not a disaster, was ridiculous.
‘Of course, darling. It’s no problem. Gareth can’t come, it seems. Nessa’s asked if Mickey Crawford can come instead and I said yes. Who’re you bringing?’ For a wild optimistic moment, Phyl wondered whether Harry might possibly have …
‘It’s Jake Golden, the publisher who’s going to reissue Grandad’s book. He wants to meet Dad because of him being John Barrington’s son. He’s totally into everything to do with Grandad. He wants to meet you too of course, but it’s mainly Dad. Jake’s very nice. You’ll like him.’
‘I’m sure I will. Okay, got to go, darling. Lots to do still. When do we expect you?’
‘About five if that’s okay. I want to be able to feed Poppy and get her settled down before we start eating.’
‘Right. See you soon, then.’
Phyl went to replace the phone on its stand in the hall. She calculated numbers in her head … how many were they going to be now? Only seven because Tamsin was with Gareth this weekend so she wasn’t coming either. Not exactly a full house. Briefly, she wondered about Justin. He’d sounded not quite himself when they’d spoken on the phone. And how come, she wondered as she’d often wondered before, he was so beautiful and still unattached? People were very mysterious, she decided. She’d brought Justin up but wouldn’t have said she knew him at all nowadays.
*
You couldn’t really call it a wine cellar, even though this was where Matt kept the wine. It was a large underground space, a couple of rooms under the house which were always cool even in the hottest weather. The garden furniture lived down here and so did the folded-away paddling pool and lots of cardboard boxes in assorted sizes which Phyl insisted on keeping even though, as far as Matt knew, they’d never, ever used one of them. But what if we decide to move? she’d said the last time he moaned about the boxes taking up too much space. To which his answer had been we’re not moving. Not ever.
Phyl thought he was joking, but he wasn’t. He liked this house, his work was here in the town and why would he move? Even when he retired, he intended to stay exactly where he was. He’d never understood the desire people had to rush away from their lives to somewhere where no one knew them and where they had to start all over again from scratch. Now he looked carefully at the wine bottles, stored in racks against the wall opposite the pile of boxes. He knew what he was going to take up to the table – a 1996 Puligny-Montrachet – but he wasn’t in a rush. He sat down on one of the garden chairs and put the bottles on the floor next to him.
Ellie. That was a narrow squeak. Since that night, the night he’d spent with her, he’d been feeling as though a bulldozer were moving over him. He’d been churned up. Turned over and over – shaken. Everyone he loved: Phyl, Lou, Poppy, Nessa and Justin (and yes, he really did love them, even though they frequently exasperated him beyond measure), his friends, his colleagues, his practice, his home … all of that had been on the point of disappearing. He imagined the separate components of his life as though they were sweets in one of those old-fashioned glass jars common in his childhood. Sleeping with Ellie had twisted open the lid. Suddenly, everything was on the point of sliding out. He was about to lose every bit of what was precious to him. Phyl had been packing to leave him. Whenever he wavered, whenever he felt (a
nd he wasn’t in the habit of deceiving himself – he did occasionally feel it) overcome with a retrospective desire for Ellie, this sentence was enough to make him come to his senses. Putting her things into a suitcase. She would have gone. She would also, he was quite sure about this, have managed much better without him than he would without her. She would have gone to Lou at first and then they might have found a bigger flat together. He envisaged an idyllic life for the three of them: Phyl, Lou and Poppy getting on perfectly well without him.
Matt closed his eyes, and shuddered. He ran through the scenario that would have followed: Lou would be on her mother’s side. She might have wanted not to see him again; she might have kept Poppy out of his life for ever. He couldn’t even think about such a possibility without breaking into a cold sweat. His life, his comfortable, easy, pleasant life would turn into a nightmare. He would have the house, although if the matter came to a divorce, a judge may have insisted he sold it and gave Phyl half the proceeds … all kinds of consequences might have followed.
