An Enormous Yes

by Wendy Perriam

  Maria refrained from comment, unwilling to admit that Silas had never had anything resembling a career and had somehow managed to get by without even a basic job, crazy as that sounded.

  ‘And how about his school or university? They’ll have old-boy networks and alumni associations, which are often a good source to try.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Amy, I’m not trying to be difficult, but he didn’t go to university and, as for his school, I’m not sure he ever mentioned it – well, except to slam education in general. That was one of his great bugbears. He hated rigid syllabuses and saw schools as sort of … prisons that force children to conform to some tamely bourgeois model and stifle all their natural talents in the process.’

  Amy banged down her glass impatiently. ‘Mum, unless we refine the search, it’s going to take forever. We need more detail and, preferably, a few solid facts. A definite town or region always helps, so let’s start there, OK? Presumably he’ll still be living in London.’

  ‘We can’t assume that, no. As I said, he had plans to live abroad – maybe America or …’ Why was she perpetuating the myth of Silas’s globetrotting, when it had been obvious at the time that, for all his grandiose ideas of relocating, he couldn’t actually survive without the life-support system provided by his London friends? Admittedly, he had often complained that the English literati didn’t rate him and thus reckoned he would have more chance somewhere like New York. But he would be forced to live on air if he moved away from that cosy little circle who were invariably on hand to bail him out. Besides, however would he raise the cost of a Transatlantic fare? She was beginning to see, as she reflected on the past, that while her lover could talk the talk, following it up with action was a different matter entirely. And, even if he had totally changed in the forty years since she’d seen him, she still had a strong gut feeling that, with his high-flown love of culture, he would never have left the capital. So why not share that feeling with Amy, who, like a tenacious terrier determined to track its quarry down, was continuing to question her?

  ‘Is there anyone you could contact who knew him in the past and might have kept in touch right up till now?’

  ‘No, not a soul.’ Maria was increasingly aware how woefully negative all her replies must sound. But Silas’s associates had been eager moths circling the flame of his brilliance and had barely even noticed her own dim and wavering light. And once she had fled back to Northumberland, she had never seen or spoken to a single one of them again.

  ‘What about his relatives?’

  ‘I feel awful keep saying no, but to start with he’s an only child, and his parents would almost certainly be dead by now, and actually I never heard him mention a single member of his family.’ Again, she forbore to say that Silas regarded families as pressure-cookers of seething, bubbling resentments.

  ‘Well, however little we have to go on,’ Amy said, decisively, ‘I’m sure we’ll find him in the end. We need to start with the obvious sites – Google, Facebook, MySpace, Twitter – and, of course, try the online phone books and the mail-address directories. And if we draw a blank with those, we’ll use one of the specialist people-finding services. There’s a whole load out there, covering almost every country in the world. OK, they charge, but their fees are fairly reasonable and I’ll pay, in any case.’

  ‘It’s not a question of money. I—

  Amy cut her off. ‘Remember my college friend, Henrietta? I’m still in touch with her and, last time we spoke, she told me she’d used a site called Tracesmart to find a long-lost uncle and, within seconds – literally seconds – she had his details, including his address and phone number.’

  ‘What, they give out people’s private addresses?’ Maria asked, in horror.

  ‘Absolutely. All those companies have access to vast databases: electoral rolls, public records, census records and God knows what else besides. A few clicks of the mouse and by this time next week I could be sitting opposite my father.’

  ‘No!’ she said, appalled.

  ‘What do you mean, “no”? If you won’t do it, I most certainly will. In fact, I’ve been an absolute saint not doing so before. I promised you I wouldn’t and I’ve kept that promise all this time, despite the fact you don’t seem to have the slightest notion how difficult that was. Again and again, I was tempted simply to type in Silas’s name and conduct a private search, without telling you a word about it. But you’ve always played fair with me, so I felt honour-bound to do the same. Now, though, things are different, and I feel obliged to act, for the baby’s sake, as much as mine.’

  ‘No, no! Please don’t. Leave it to me, I beg you. Except,’ she added, wrestling with her conscience, ‘that means breaking my promise – the one I made to Silas.’ It had been more like a solemn vow – he had made her swear on the Bible, on her very life, never to contact him again. She had insulted him so deeply, he averred, he wanted to eradicate not just the baby but all memory of their affair.

  ‘I’ve told you, Mum, he had no right to—

  ‘Your sandwiches, mesdames.’ The waiter set down two large platters, garnished with tomato flowers and fronds of curly lettuce. ‘Enjoy!’

  Enjoy? No word could be less apt. ‘Look, he may well be dead by now. He was ten years older than me.’

  ‘Well, better for us to know. At least I’ll have something to tell Hugo. He’s involved as well, Mum, which you seem to keep forgetting.’

  ‘I don’t forget. I’m well aware how much this means to both of you. It’s just that if we track your father down, that may open up a can of worms and I’m frightened you’ll get hurt. Suppose he doesn’t want to see you even now?’

  ‘I can handle that.’

  ‘Or he may think you want revenge, or money.’

  ‘I’ll make it clear I don’t – that I’d simply like to get to know him.’

  More gales of laughter rose from the adjoining table. How could anybody laugh, Maria wondered, as she tried a different tack. ‘There might be other people involved and you’ll get entangled in a whole web of messy relationships. Surely you don’t want that?’

  ‘I’m not a child, Mum. I can deal with any complications that may or may not arise. Anyway—’ She glanced at her watch ‘—we haven’t time to argue the toss. I want you to find Silas and, if the free sites get you nowhere, then I suggest you use Tracesmart, OK? Henrietta’s no fool and if she thinks highly of them, that’s good enough for me. But will you make a start this week, please?’

  ‘Amy, I … I can’t.’

  ‘You owe it to me, Mum. To be brutally honest, I’ve never understood how you could take the risk of bringing up a child without a father, when you knew from your own experience what a huge loss that is. It’s almost like you said, “I had no dad, so I’ll make sure my child doesn’t have one either.”’

  ‘That’s totally unfounded!’ Maria cradled the knife – sharp, cold, unkind. ‘And cruel.’

  ‘Well, you’re being cruel, refusing even to let me meet my father.’

  ‘Look here, Amy, you seem to think you’re the only one who suffered. Have you ever stopped to wonder what it was like for me, bringing back a fatherless child to that narrow-minded village and having somehow to explain it to Hanna’s ultra-pious Catholic circle? Things were very different then – far less liberal than nowadays. People used to talk behind my back – you know, about how I’d gone to the bad and what a shock it must be for my poor, long-suffering mother. And there was endless speculation about who the father was and why he’d left me in the lurch. One neighbour even said she hoped I felt thoroughly ashamed, because my own father was a war hero and I’d let him down in the most appalling way. And, if that wasn’t enough, I had to give up all my dreams of being an artist.’

  ‘So you’re blaming me for that?’

  ‘I’m not blaming anyone. It was just hard, that’s all. I was like a fish out of water, up there in the sticks, after my years at art school. And I never met another man – not with Hanna breathing down my neck. She seeme
d to think that if I got the slightest bit involved with any other male, the same thing would happen again and, since I was living in her house, it wasn’t exactly easy to invite a bloke back, or even stay out late.’

  ‘So that’s my fault, too, I suppose?’

  ‘No, of course it isn’t. I’m just trying to make you realize that I paid a high price, too. It’s not easy being a single parent and seeing everyone else in couples. You take all that for granted, Amy – Hugo and your marriage, and being loved and cherished, not to mention having money to do anything you like. I’d have given my eye-teeth to be in that position. OK, I was totally in the wrong. I’ve never tried to dodge the fact that it was my fault, a hundred per cent, but I did my bloody best trying to make it up to you. All through your childhood, and afterwards, I showered you with devotion.’

  ‘And now you regret it, I suppose – wish you’d buggered off and left me alone with Grandma?’

  ‘Amy, that’s unforgivable! How could you say such a thing?’

  Amy sprang to her feet, rummaged in her purse and flung a handful of notes on the table. ‘Well, since you’re obviously so resentful, maybe it would have been better if you had.’ Then, bursting into tears, she swept towards the door.

  Chapter 11

  ‘MARIA, YOU must stop crying. Of course you’re upset – any mother would be – but it’s not the end of the world.’

  ‘It feels like it,’ Maria sobbed, sitting hunched over the kitchen table, the pale pinewood branded with dark stains from her tears. ‘I’ve never said those things to Amy before, so now she thinks I didn’t want her.’

  ‘Of course she doesn’t.’ Kate sat, helpless, beside her, the table strewn with soggy balls of Kleenex. She had offered lunch, and coffee; both had been refused. ‘I’ve seen you two together and it’s obvious how close you are. In any case, why would she have invited you to live with her if she didn’t love you to bits?’

  ‘Well, she won’t any more – not after today.’ Was there such a thing as love?, Maria wondered, desolately. Silas, she was increasingly sure, had loved only her submissiveness and the rare prize of her virginity. And when Amy trotted out her frequent ‘Love you, Mum!’s, was she hiding huge resentment?

  ‘Look, let’s try to work out a rescue plan. Why don’t you write her a note and leave it in her office, later on today? You can say you’re really sorry for the row and that you’ll agree to search for Silas.’

  ‘But I can’t – I’ve told you, Kate.’

  ‘I’m sure it won’t be anything like as bad as you imagine. Either he’ll be dead, which will be sad for Amy, of course, but at least that will let you off the hook. And if he’s still alive – let’s face it, an old man of nearly eighty is hardly going to be breathing fire. He’ll have mellowed hugely by now – may be married with kids and grandkids of his own and only too glad to welcome a few new relatives.’

  Maria tried, in vain, to picture such a scenario. The Silas she had known was egotistic, self-absorbed and wary of true intimacy. On the other hand, she had to concede, if only from her own experience, that people could change, and change profoundly. The besotted, reckless, love-enslaved mistress-of-a-would-be-poet of 1969 had morphed into the manic, hate-filled termagant of 1971, then changed again, radically, to the devoted mother and dutiful daughter of 1974, even her former steadfast religious faith restored.

  ‘And I’ll help, if you want. It’ll be far less nerve-wracking, if we do the thing together. And better for us to do it, anyway, than leave the search to Amy.’

  ‘Lord, yes! Silas doesn’t even know that she exists. I’ll have to break the news, hope it’s not too much of a shock, and somehow persuade him to agree not to breathe a word about wanting to get rid of her.’ Maria wiped her eyes on her sleeve, having worked through the whole packet of tissues Kate had kindly provided. ‘And even if that works – and it’s a big “if”, I assure you – Amy may still be disappointed when she meets him in the flesh. I mean, she’s so high-powered herself, she might not have much sympathy for a man who always got by on his wits.’

  ‘That was way back in the past, though. He might have settled, years ago, for a nice safe job in banking or insurance.’

  ‘That’s as unlikely as an elephant flying.’

  ‘So how did he actually live?’

  ‘Well, he had such charm and confidence, people were like putty in his hands. He’d eat their food and borrow their flats and even cajole them into coughing up handouts. And, believe it or not, they never seemed to object, because he was just so charismatic. He looked the part, as well. He’d pick up amazing vintage clothes at Portobello Market. It was really cheap in those days – not like now. And he’d gatecrash snazzy parties and fill up on drinks and canapés and stuff.’

  ‘Forget charismatic – he sounds a total shit!’

  Maria braved a laugh. ‘Amy said the same.’

  ‘You should be spitting fire, not laughing – I mean, the way he used you when it suited him, then left you to take the consequences, seems quite disgusting to me.’

  ‘I used him just as much, though, especially at the start. You see, I met him just as I was finishing my foundation year at the Cass and about to move to another art school. At that point, I was terribly vulnerable – scared of the upheaval, and already daunted by the prospect of eventually losing the security of college altogether and trying to make it as an artist on my own. So Silas became my life-raft. He invited me to share his flat – a little place in Tufnell Park he’d borrowed from a mate – and he gave me a sense of purpose in life, very much tied to his own. He was so sure of himself – so sure of everything – and I needed that to make up for my own wimpishness.’ Whatever Kate or Amy might think, it was essential for her self-respect that she didn’t damn her lover totally, but retained something of the great romantic idyll.

  ‘Well, wherever he is and however he lives, we’ll have to go and dig him out. I can drive you, if you like, if he’s moved a long way away.’

  ‘But why the hell should you, Kate? I feel bad enough already, turning up on your doorstep in such a hysterical state and expecting you to drop everything for me.’

  ‘Don’t worry – I was only tidying Polly’s room, which she ought to do herself. And, anyway, I do actually believe that Amy’s right in wanting to find her father. But let’s not go into all the details till we have more idea of where he lives or whether he’s alive at all. What matters at the moment is to make some sort of peace with her. And, you know, whatever the rights and wrongs of any argument, I feel it’s the mother, not the child, who should be prepared to make the first move. I’ve learned that with my own daughters, and I’m sure it applies even more to grown-up kids. It doesn’t really matter who’s to blame. What’s essential is to try to patch things up. And Amy’s pregnant, don’t forget, so she may be a bit hormonal, and perhaps secretly worried about how she’s going to manage motherhood on top of everything else. And she’s probably missing Hugo, too.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. I should have been more understanding, especially about the Hugo thing. It must be quite a strain for her, him being away and all the hassle in Dubai, added to his normal pressures. And she’s worried about Chloe, too.’

  ‘Who’s Chloe?’

  ‘Oh, one of her friends from way back. She’s expecting twins and much further on in her pregnancy than Amy, so she’s suffering with backache and leg-cramps and what-have-you, and stuck at home a lot of the time. Amy feels bad about not popping in more often, and also scared, I suspect, that she’ll develop all those symptoms herself. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I feel I should do what you suggested and write her a note of apology. And, if I did it right away, I could head straight back to her office with it, and maybe leave that lovely baby shawl as well – you know, as a peace offering.’

  ‘Perfect! And why not add a line saying the shawl is for Mother’s Day, because Amy’s the best present any mother could have?’

  ‘Oh, Kate, that’s brilliant!’

 
‘Hang on a sec – I’ll fetch some paper and a pen.’

  While she was gone, Maria sneaked a quick glance in her handbag-mirror, recoiling at the sight of her swollen eyes and tear-stained face. She looked an utter wreck and also felt distinctly awkward at having wept all over Kate and burdened her with the whole tangled story of her past. Never had she revealed such things to her friends back home, despite the fact she had much more in common with Carole, June and Jacqueline than she did with wealthy Kate. Not only had she known them years, but they, like her, were shabbyish and poorish, and more used to digging cars from snowdrifts, rounding up stray hens or nursing orphan lambs than attending opera galas or swilling champagne at the Carlton Club. Yet, for all their differences in lifestyle, it was Kate she felt a bond with – and that had led her to confide all the pangs and perils of her early, fated love affair.

  She tissued off the streaks of smudged mascara, then leaned back in her chair and tried to cheer herself by soaking up the atmosphere of this bright, convivial kitchen, with its poppy-printed china and sunshine-coloured walls. Her eye was caught by Polly’s drawings, Blu-Tacked to the fridge: a three-humped camel, a stripy horse and a lopsided yellow castle. Her doll’s pram stood in one corner, while Clara’s skateboard was propped against the wall. She relished the thought of Amy’s kitchen bearing this same evidence of children in just a few years’ time.

  ‘Sorry I was so long,’ Kate called, sweeping back in with paper, pen and envelope, and also a glass of something amber. ‘I was trying to hunt down Paul’s brandy. Here,’ she urged, ‘drink this. It’s best vintage cognac – guaranteed to make anyone feel better!’

  ‘Oh, Kate, I shouldn’t, honestly.’

  ‘You’re always saying you shouldn’t, but why not, I’d like to know? Most people in my circle assume they have a natural right to every perk and privilege on offer, but you’re completely different, Maria, as if you feel you don’t deserve a thing. Have you never heard the slogan “because I’m worth it”?’