“I love you too,” she said, smiling, leaning gently against him now. “I love you so much.”
“Good,” he said, “you’ve come to your senses. Now let’s go to bed.”
He wrapped her tenderly in a towel and half carried her to the bed. And unwrapped the towel again, and lay, looking at her, at her face, ravished with weariness and sex, at her body, her neat, tough little body, her mound, perfectly waxed. “There’s just one thing wrong with you, Martha Hartley,” he said, wiping her face on the sleeve of his bathrobe.
“Only one?”
“Only one. Your pubes. I know you like minimal, but there’s a time and place for everything—and right there and as soon as possible, I’d personally like more of a bush. Will you grow it for me? Prove that you love me?”
“I will,” she said. “If that’s all it takes.”
At that moment the landline went, and the answering machine cut in.
“At last,” said Jocasta, “she said she only just got back. She obviously had someone with her.”
Fergus had left. It was agreed that he should, that this was best handled by the three of them. Gideon had come home, and gone straight up to bed. If he was curious at the presence of his wife’s ex-lover and her best friend in his house, he didn’t show it. “Enjoy your party,” was all he said.
“I’m sorry, Gideon, I’ll explain everything in the morning.”
“Fine. Good night all of you.” He left with a wave, and his oddly sweet smile.
“I want to come,” said Ed.
“No, Ed, you can’t. I’m sorry. It’s too…complicated. But I will be back, I swear, and I’ll tell you everything then.”
“All right.” He sighed. “But I don’t like you driving. You’re exhausted, you’re upset—”
“I’ll be all right. Promise.”
“Suppose I drive you over, wait outside?”
“No, Ed. I might be hours.”
“I’ve waited weeks for you already,” he said. “What’s a few more hours? Please, Martha.”
She looked at him. “All right. If you really want to.”
“I really want to. And I don’t mind how long you are.”
Jocasta opened the door; she had put on some jeans under her oversized T-shirt and looked about seventeen. She smiled at Martha.
“Hi. Come in.” She peered out at the car. “Is that someone with you?”
“Yes, but he’s waiting outside,” said Martha. “I don’t want him with us while we talk.” Jocasta led the way into the drawing room; Clio had made a jug of coffee.
“Hi, Martha. How are you? You were so good tonight.”
“Thanks. First and last time, I guess.” She managed a cool, slightly sad little smile.
“I’m sorry about this, Martha,” said Nick, holding out his hand rather formally.
She took it. “Not your fault.” They all sat down again.
“Look,” Martha said suddenly, “this is a bit…hard for me. I don’t really want to talk to all of you at once.”
“That’s fine,” said Jocasta. “We’re only all here because—well, because Nick knew I’d be able to get hold of you. And it was obviously urgent. God knows who else she might have told.”
“It’s not in the other papers,” said Clio quickly. “We went to Waterloo and got them, so we’ve got a few hours at least. Days hopefully.”
“But it’s got to happen, I suppose? Got to come out?” Martha sounded vulnerable at last.
“I would say so, yes. I’m so sorry.”
“No, no, it’s very nice of you to try to help, I haven’t exactly been very friendly to you.”
“Well, we know why now,” said Jocasta.
“Anyway,” said Clio, “we felt that, perhaps, you might find it easiest to talk to me. I’m a doctor, Hippocratic oath and all that.”
“Actually,” said Martha, “you were right. I think I would like to start with you, Clio. If you others don’t mind.”
“Of course not,” said Jocasta. “We’ll be in the kitchen if you want us.”
“I cannot believe I’ve been so stupid,” said Martha suddenly, “telling that bloody woman. I mean—why her?”
“It was at the party, wasn’t it?” said Clio. “You were obviously very distressed. Ill, actually, I’d say. And you had just been confronted by it all. Literally.”
“I suppose so. But—oh God. Oh God, oh God…” She dropped her head into her hands and began to cry. Clio went over and sat next to her, put her arm round her.
“I’m so sorry,” Clio said. “Really, I couldn’t be sorrier. I can’t imagine how you must be feeling. But we do all want to help. We’re totally on your side.”
“I know,” said Martha, pulling a handkerchief out of her pocket. “And I do appreciate it. I’m sorry. Sorry I wasn’t more friendly, Clio, so sorry.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Look, why don’t you try telling me about it? When you’re ready. There’s no hurry.”
And Martha sat there with Clio, in the quiet drawing room, already growing light in the midsummer dawn, and started.
Because she had done it just a few weeks earlier, it was easier than it might have been, but she still had to force every word out of herself, the painful, difficult words. It was a bit like giving birth again, she thought, giving birth to Kate, and she couldn’t believe she was releasing them: the words she had kept inside her head, buried deep in her consciousness for sixteen years. Telling of the dreadful days, weeks in Bangkok, in the awful, airless room, the terrible boredom, passing the time by walking, walking miles and miles round the hot, dirty, stinking city, and reading, reading—“I got some of the cheap travellers’ used paperbacks.”
“So, how long were you there?”
“About two and a half months. It was horrendous at first; I thought I’d go mad. But actually, it got better. I worked myself into a routine, just took one day at a time. I went to the markets a lot, I stayed downtown, on the left bank of the river, there’s a kind of ghetto of guesthouses, really cheap. Anyway, I found a room there, without windows—you can imagine how cheap they are—and ate off those street stalls. I tried to eat properly, I realised that mattered, but I must have been spending about a pound a day altogether, and I just waited, waited for the baby to be born. I—well, I sort of hoped I could have it there, by myself.”
“By yourself! You thought you could have a baby all by yourself?”
“Well, yes. I mean, people do. I kept thinking about a girl I’d read about in the paper once, who had a baby in her bedroom while her parents watched television downstairs, they had no idea, and then she took it out and left it on a park bench and went back to the house and went to bed. I thought if she could do that, then so could I. I’d bought a medical book in Australia, so I knew exactly what to expect. I knew all about cutting the cord and everything. I bought some really big, sharp scissors and some strong string—”
“Martha, this is a terrible story! God, how brave you must be. And you must have felt so terrible, so alone.”
“I did, yes. But I had to manage. There was a lovely old Thai woman I made friends with; she was so kind and she used to give me massages and rub my back and everything. In return I taught her English. I thought she’d help me if—well, things went wrong. And of course, there was no way she could ask awkward questions.”
“But what did you plan to do with the baby, Martha? Afterwards? What did you think would happen to it? In a place like Bangkok?”
Martha met her eyes with great difficulty.
“I…I decided to take it to a hospital. I investigated them all—you’d have thought I was going to have it there—and finally decided on the Bangkok Christian Hospital. I thought I could leave it there, by the main door, and it would be found by someone, and be really well looked after. And then probably adopted by someone European. I’m sorry, Clio, I can see you think it’s appalling of me, but you have to understand how desperate I was. It wasn’t really a baby to me. It was something dreadful that I’d do
ne, that I had to…to put behind me. Literally. I had to have it, and then leave it behind. So I could go home, and everything would be all right again and I’d be safe.”
“Yes. Yes, I see.”
“And the baby just wouldn’t come. After all those weeks, it wouldn’t come. I tried everything, I took castor oil and walked miles and jumped off the bed, and sat in a hot bath, and the old woman gave me an enema, and lots of herbs and stuff, but it wouldn’t come and I had to get home. I was completely out of money, completely. I could never have got another ticket, the cheap flights were all booked anyway for weeks ahead. So I thought, Well, I can’t stay here forever, I’ll just have to go and sort something out when I get back. Maybe go to a hospital somewhere in the north of England—I just wasn’t thinking logically at all. And then, it started on the plane. I crawled off it, and headed for a lavatory, and saw this room on the way in marked Staff Only. It had cleaning stuff in it, and a sink, and just room for me to lie down—and I had her there. I just did. It was…well, quite awful. But I didn’t have any choice. If anyone had known, I’d have been taken off to hospital and I’d have had to give my name, my parents would have been told…”
“Martha, couldn’t you possibly have told your parents?” Clio’s voice was very gentle. “Had the baby adopted after that, fine, but at least told them, got some help?”
“No. I couldn’t. Well, I can see now, that just possibly I could have done, but then—Clio, you don’t know what Binsmow’s like. You can’t sneeze without everyone knowing, and discussing where you got the germs from. I was the vicar’s daughter and I’d done the most awful thing a girl could do. I’d have brought disgrace on them.”
“You’re talking like a Victorian novel,” said Clio, and smiled for the first time. “Bringing disgrace on them? Martha, for God’s sake, this was the 1980s.”
“But I would have done. The whole parish respected my father so, he would never, ever have recovered. I honestly believe that he’d have had to move away, he could never have lived it down. I was the star of the family, you see, they were so proud of me, getting into Bristol, getting straight A’s in my A levels, doing law, all his parishioners were so impressed, how could I have failed them, said, Sorry, I’m not what you thought, I’m not your darling innocent daughter, I’ve done something terrible, I’ve had a baby. And I did think of it like that, as something terrible I’d done—”
“So how did you feel? When you left her?”
“I rested for a bit, and—and cleaned myself up, and then I thought, Well, that’s it, it’s over, I’ve done it. And I held her for a little while and then wrapped her up very carefully in a sheet and a blanket I’d bought for her in Bangkok, and laid her in a sort of trolley basket thing with towels in it. And then I went and sat on a bench just opposite, and waited until someone found her. I was very worried because I’d somehow not thought to get her any nappies; I thought she’d pee on the blankets. After all that, and I was worried about a bit of pee. Anyway, someone did find her, some Asian woman cleaner, and she came out calling for help and there was a lot of fuss, of course, and people coming and going and then a policewoman just took her away.”
“Didn’t you feel—upset?”
“Honestly? No. Not then. Just relief. I thought, She’s safe now, and it’s over, and that’s all I felt. I’m sure you must think I’m dreadful, but I didn’t feel sad, or any of the things you might expect. Later on, yes, but not then.”
“I don’t think you’re dreadful,” Clio said. “I’m just so sad for you. And full of admiration, that you could be so brave.”
“I told you, I had to be. And then I just thought, Now I can go home. Only of course, I couldn’t, not straightaway, I didn’t dare, my parents might have noticed something. I wasn’t feeling very well. I was…was bleeding quite a lot. So I went into the ladies’, and had a shower—that was so nice—and then I lay down on some seats upstairs and slept for ages. I felt quite happy, actually. I knew the baby was safe, and that was all that mattered. She wasn’t my worry anymore. And that was when it began: I just knew I had to put her out of my head. I’ve read lots of articles since, about women who have given up their babies at birth and even do what I did. And they go into denial, complete denial. They don’t allow it into their lives anymore, they block it out, it’s just something that happened, that they’ve put right away from them. That’s what I did.”
“Yes, I see. I have heard that. So when did you go home?”
“After a couple of days—well, four, actually. When…when I seemed to be all right. I went to a YMCA hostel in Hayes; I had just enough money, and I slept a lot and looked after myself as best I could.”
“Didn’t you get milk?” asked Clio very gently.
“Yes, I did.” Tears welled up again. “I wasn’t expecting that. It was awful. That did make me cry. I kept looking at it, I didn’t know what it was at first, and thinking, This was meant for her. It was horrible. And quite painful. I bought some pad things at Boots and stuffed them in my bra. After a few days it dried up.”
“And your parents didn’t suspect anything?”
“Why should they? I’d put on some weight, of course, but plenty of people do when they’re travelling. I’d bought lots of kaftan things, and those fisherman’s trousers, so I wore them. I was all right. I was very tired, but that was to be expected.”
“And what about letters, didn’t they want some kind of address all that time?”
“Yes, and I gave them the poste restante in Bangkok. Told them I was doing some more travelling in Thailand. I told them I ran out of money, so I couldn’t go to America. And I’d done enough to satisfy them. Singapore, Australia, Thailand—it sounds a lot to people who’ve never left England. Quite enough to fill a year.
“Anyway, I knew I’d done the right thing. And every day I felt safer. I got a sort of high just from doing it, getting away with it. And I knew she was all right, because I read the papers.”
“Did you keep the papers?”
She hesitated. “No, I didn’t. I know that sounds awful, but it was all part of her not being anything to do with me. I couldn’t let myself think about her, because then I’d acknowledge her.”
“Yes, I see,” said Clio carefully. “And how did you cope? Didn’t you feel unhappy at all?”
“Well, in a way, yes. But I just buried it and buried it. And got on with my life. Worked terribly hard, did well. It helped. And developed into the control freak you see before you. But all alone, in private, I’d remember her quite suddenly, remember what she looked like, remember holding her, specially on her birthday—that’s always hard—but even that somehow wasn’t real. It was like something that had happened to someone else, not me. But over the years, if anything upset me, it would—sometimes, not always—come back to her. I would start crying and go back to that time. I did cry a lot at the beginning. I felt very…strange. Very confused. Funnily enough, she never got any older than about one. Not in my head. She stayed tiny, I never grew her up.”
“Didn’t you long to tell someone?”
“No, I was terrified of telling someone. I was terrified of getting that close to anyone. I had very few friends, always. Men were a bit safer. It wasn’t the sort of thing you’d tell a man.”
“I suppose. Oh, Martha. What a story.”
“It is quite, isn’t it? And then all these extraordinary coincidences that have brought us together. That was such a terrible day—I was out running and there she was in the paper: Abandoned Baby Bianca. I did go a bit…strange then.”
“And now?”
“Now I don’t know,” she said. “I really don’t know what now. I mean, it’s the end of my life as I know it.”
“Martha, no it isn’t!”
“Yes, it is. Look at me, a highly paid lawyer. It’s a criminal offence, you know. Abandoning a baby. You can get ten years in jail for it. And worse than that, I’m a prospective parliamentary candidate. For Binsmow, for God’s sake. Where my father’s the vicar. You
have to sign something saying there’s nothing in your past that would cause your party any difficulty or embarrassment, you know.”
“Yes,” Clio said quietly, “I can see you’re right. Martha, the father—did he ever have any idea?”
“No,” she said quickly, “absolutely none. I couldn’t possibly have told him. Not possibly.”
“Because?”
“I don’t want to go on with this,” she said. “Sorry.”
“All right. But what about Kate, Martha? She’s going to have to be told.”
“I know. I know. How on earth is that going to be done? Who’s going to tell her?”
“Well, I thought you should,” said Clio, very gently. “You’re the only person who can make her understand.”
Martha stared at her. “I really don’t think I can do that.”
Chapter 35
“Poor you. Poor, poor you.”
Ed’s voice was very gentle. Taking courage from it, Martha forced herself to look at his face. It was tender, concerned, there was no judgement, no shock, even; it was as if she had told him someone dear to her had died. She supposed, in a way, that was right: the cool, efficient, hypersuccessful Martha had died, and in her place was someone flawed and very frightened, someone who had done something so shocking and shameful that she had kept it hidden for sixteen years.
“You’re going to have to tell me what to do, Ed,” she said. “For the first time I have no idea. No idea at all.”
“I’ll try,” he said. “I’ll try very hard. I’d like to meet your friends, talk to them.”
“Of course. They’re being so good to me. I really don’t deserve it, I was vile to them.”
“I tell you what’s the first thing you should do,” he said. “You should stop crucifying yourself. You haven’t committed a crime.”
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