She stepped into the newsagent’s, although the only news she wanted was some definitive word of Silas. If he had opened an account here, they might have his name on record still, or one of the staff or paper-boys remember him. In the sixties, he had never actually read the papers, damning them as ‘capitalist lies’, but that view had probably changed now.
Having waited a good five minutes in the long queue at the counter – a single Asian trying to deal with all the customers – she decided to try the café first and come back later on. In any case, a strong coffee might revive her; renew her flagging energies. Indeed, once she saw the menu, with its cheap, substantial dishes, she was tempted to order a proper meal. She sat debating between fried fish with mushy peas or corned-beef hash and chips, but eventually rejected both: all her available funds had to go towards the search, not be frittered away in cafés. Amy had offered repeatedly to shoulder the costs herself, but it seemed unfair to add a financial burden to the existing emotional one – not to mention all her daughter’s stress about the contention in Dubai, still a source of deep anxiety. Besides, Amy already paid the phone bills, which were increasing substantially, now that every possible Silas Keegan had to be rung and checked.
‘A white coffee, please, and a round of toast.’
The waitress seemed a friendly type, so Maria delayed her a moment to give a brief description of Silas, repeating his name, in the hope the girl might recognize it.
‘No, it doesn’t ring a bell. But then we don’t get many regulars – more just passing trade. And, of course, I meet so many different people, it’s hard to remember individuals.’
‘He’s very tall and thin,’ Maria reiterated. ‘And the one thing you’d notice are his extremely dark eyebrows.’
The girl shook her head. ‘I can’t recall anyone like that. But I’m terribly unobservant, so my mother says. She reckons Lady Gaga might wander in one day and I wouldn’t even notice!’
Maria forced a smile, although she was beginning to wonder if this whole day was just a waste of time. After all, there was no real proof, as yet, that Silas was even alive. His name had failed to come up in her extensive searches through a variety of death records but, since none of those records extended to the present, there was no way of knowing if he had died in the last few years.
Although she could barely admit it, even to her herself, let alone to Amy, one shameful part of her couldn’t help wishing that he would turn out to be dead. At least it would spare her the ordeal of having to meet him, face to face, when he had several well-founded reasons to be angry: her pretence at being on the Pill, her lies about an abortion she wouldn’t have contemplated in a thousand years, and her breaking of a solemn vow never to contact him again.
‘Do you want jam on your toast?’ the waitress asked, returning with a small, chipped plate and a watery-looking cup of coffee.
‘No, thanks.’ At school, they’d been exhorted to refuse any proffered treat, be it sweets, or cakes, or jam, because of the constant need, encouraged by the nuns, to make retribution for one’s sins. And, since her transgressions against Silas had been indefensible, no way must she indulge herself today.
So, as she sipped her sugarless coffee and swallowed a mouthful of flabby toast, spread thinly with low-grade margarine, she tried to take pleasure from the fact that, for once, she was tempering her greed.
Chapter 15
‘MUM?’
Maria jumped at the tap on her door. She was still in bed, half-dozing, and certainly hadn’t expected Amy to be up so early on a Bank Holiday. ‘Yes, come in, darling,’ she called, praying it wasn’t some emergency. Her daughter was doing far too much, rarely found time to rest and hadn’t yet enrolled in any antenatal classes.
Her anxiety redoubled as she saw Amy pale and dishevelled in her night-dress, looking stricken, tense and close to tears. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, springing out of bed.
‘It … it’s Chloe … Nicholas rang late last night. I didn’t tell you because you’d already gone to bed, but he was absolutely distraught.’
‘What’s happened?’ Aware her daughter should be sitting down, Maria steered her towards the bed.
‘Well, she went into labour yesterday but there was some sort of complication so she had to have an emergency Caesarean, and … and one of the babies died and the other’s in intensive care.’
‘Oh, my God, how awful!’ Maria clasped her hand in sympathy. ‘But what on earth went wrong? I thought she had one of the country’s leading obstetricians.’
‘She does – she did – but I suppose even the top guys have their off days. Nicholas didn’t give me any details and I didn’t like to press him, when he’s so worried about Chloe. She needed a blood transfusion and she’s still incredibly weak.’
‘Is there anything we can do?’
‘No, she’s not allowed visitors, except Nicholas, of course. He’s staying at the hospital until things are a bit less fraught.’
‘Is the surviving twin in danger?’
‘No, thank God. He’s very small, but basically OK and they say he should be fine, once he’s reached his proper weight. It’s Chloe I’m concerned about. Having a baby die when you’ve carried him for thirty-eight weeks must be quite unbearable. In fact, I feel so gutted, I don’t know how I’m going to get through today.’
‘Do you have to go?’ Maria asked, annoyed that, even on a Bank Holiday, Amy was expected to be on duty. ‘Couldn’t you explain the situation and say you don’t feel up to partying?’
‘No way! Jonathan’s my most important client.’
‘Yes, but if it’s a great big bash, there’ll be crowds of other people flocking around, so surely he’ll let you off.’
‘Mum, he expects me to be there and that’s an end to it. And, anyway, it’s not a great big bash. His house is on the Royal Procession route, so half of London’s been angling for an invite and he’s had to restrict the numbers to, mainly, the top brass.’
Maria sat in silence for a moment, trying to judge the situation. Maybe attending a glitzy champagne brunch would be better for her daughter than staying at home and brooding all day long. ‘Well, actually, it might be a good thing, you know. At least, if you go, it’ll take your mind off Chloe. Besides, if you cancel so late on, you’ll only fret about that, too.’
‘Yes, Hugo said the same.’
‘Well, there you are – great minds think alike! But, seriously, why not try and enjoy it? Oh, I know it’s basically work, but it is a special occasion – one you can brag about to your grandchildren!’
‘Yes, it’ll certainly be a splendid affair, but it seems so crass to be partying when poor Chloe’s in such a state.’
‘Darling, there’s nothing you can actually do to make things any better for her – not at the moment, anyway. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I feel you should stick to your plan and be there for Jonathan. So what I suggest is you go back to bed for a couple more hours and try to catch up on your sleep, then you’ll have some energy to put on a good show. That’s the most important thing right now.’
‘Oh, Mum, you sound so calm and sensible, and you’re right – I know you are. It won’t do any good at all if I let everybody down.’
‘Well, off you go and get some rest. I’ll see you later, OK?’
Once alone, Maria stood by the attic window, feeling anything but sensible and calm. If an eminent obstetrician at one of London’s finest hospitals couldn’t prevent so dire an outcome, what hope for Amy on the NHS? And Chloe hadn’t worked for at least the last three months, whereas the pressures on Amy seemed continually to increase. The night before last, she’d been involved in a client presentation and hadn’t got home till ten. And two weeks ago, she’d stayed late again, for what seemed a ludicrous reason: she personally had to inspect the canapés and petits fours ordered for a VIP reception to be held at her office the following day. Batches of each item were actually made up in advance, so they could receive her imprimatur before the final order
was sanctioned. But then, if you were entertaining some of the highest paid toffs in the land, presumably even the garnish on a canapé or the glaze on a petit four was a matter of the utmost seriousness.
The thought of food made her hungry, so she mooched into her kitchen and raided the biscuit tin, yet even whilst guzzling ginger nuts her mind refused to shift from Amy. At twenty-four weeks, the baby was now technically viable – an important milestone, they’d assumed – yet Chloe’s baby had died at a much later and safer stage, so obviously there was no certainty in anything. The thought of a similar tragedy happening to her daughter was all but unendurable.
She made a determined effort, though, to banish gory images of waxen infant corpses or post-partum haemorrhages, and to remind herself that Amy was remarkably fit, the baby growing well and that, in any case, there was far more risk with twins. Rather than resorting to comfort-food, she ought to get showered and dressed, then she could busy herself with the continuing search for Silas.
However, once sitting at her laptop, her mind veered off to another problem: Felix. Impulsively, she dialled his number, only to get his answerphone – again. She suspected he was deliberately avoiding her after their recent argument. That argument – the first they had ever had – was entirely her own fault. Admittedly, he had rung at the worst possible time, when she’d just got back from Tolworth and was feeling tired and low, but that was no excuse for her negative response. His only crime had been to suggest that they escape the Royal Wedding and spend the day together in Brighton, but, instead of accepting with alacrity, she had snapped at him and said she hadn’t time. And, when the poor man asked her why she was so suddenly so busy, she’d hesitated, stalled and finally said she couldn’t tell him, which had upset him even more.
Well, serve her right if he had found another woman – someone decades younger, far less tense and tetchy, and not busy on a mission she was unable to divulge.
She jabbed the keyboard irritably, aware of the ironic fact that, although she’d pleaded busyness to Felix, she had completely lost her concentration and was unlikely to achieve anything today. In truth, she was growing weary of the task. She had tried several different sites now – not just Tracesmart, but Find-A-Person, People-Finder, Lost Amigos and Friends Reunited – yet seemed no further forward, despite the fact she’d decided, quite some time ago, to limit her search to London, since expanding it countrywide, or worldwide, was just too overwhelming. Yet, even with that restriction, she continually drew blanks. In light of which, she must be mad, if not masochistic, to have opted for the unlikely hope of finding shadowy Silas over the certainty of a happy day with alluringly substantial Felix. And with the usual Friday class cancelled on account of the Bank Holiday, and Kate away in France, there was little chance of any other distraction.
All at once, her mobile shrilled. Felix, she prayed, ready to apologize and say she could leave immediately for Brighton – or even John O’Groats. But instead of Felix’s throaty tones, Ruby’s shrill and eager voice vibrated in her ear.
‘I know it’s the crack of dawn, Maria, but you did say you’re an early riser, and I’ve just had a great idea – why don’t you come down to Tolworth and watch the Royal Wedding with me on television?’
Maria mumbled something about having other plans. Having listened to Ruby yesterday, at length – a monologue centred on Graham: his job, his hobbies, his fear of water, his passion for Man United, his preference for bitter over lager – her patience was wearing thin. In fact, if she watched the wedding with so garrulous a woman, she doubted if she would hear much of the commentary. It would be less Kate and Will than Graham, Graham, Graham.
‘Oh, what a shame! You see, I’d also planned to give you some good news – I’ve thought of a way we might track down your friend, Silas.’
Maria rallied instantly. ‘Couldn’t you tell me now?’
Ruby also seemed to brighten at the prospect of a longer conversation. ‘Actually, I can’t think why it didn’t occur to me before. But sometimes these things just pop into my mind, when I’m miles away, doing something else. So, there I was, cleaning my teeth this morning, when I suddenly remembered a girl in the road called Barbara, who used to go out with the Johnsons’ son. She was only eighteen at the time, but there was quite a thing between them, so she was often in the Johnsons’ house. Well, she must have seen your Silas sometimes – that’s obvious, don’t you think? And it’s just possible she knows his present whereabouts. And even if she doesn’t, she’ll definitely have the Johnsons’ new address, so maybe she could ask them on your behalf.’
‘Oh, Ruby, that’s fantastic!’ Maria was tempted to cancel her mythical plans and scoot down to Tolworth straightaway to seek out this miraculous Barbara. However, she certainly didn’t want a wasted journey. ‘Would she be in today?’ she asked, warily.
‘No, ’fraid not. I met her mother yesterday in Sainsbury’s and she said the whole family were off to Sussex – you know, taking advantage of the four-day break. The lucky things own a little country cottage, although it beats me how they afford it when the husband’s only a glorified clerk. She told me they’re having a big street-party in the village, which is more than our street would ever think of doing …’
While Ruby elaborated – again – on the unfriendliness of Tolworth, Maria tried to work out whether to let her make the preliminary enquiries, or to go down in person, as soon as Barbara was back. She opted for the latter, partly because it was so important, and partly to satisfy Ruby, who was still pressing for a date for the pair of them to meet.
Once she’d rung off – a feat in itself – she decided to start a new painting. She had recently ventured into oils, and needed much more practice in what, for her, was a challenging medium. And, anyway, there wasn’t much point in pressing on with the Silas search until she had gleaned more information from Barbara and also tried to ascertain if this particular Silas was the one she actually sought.
There was no escaping Felix, though, since it was he who had given her the oil paints, insisting they were ‘spares’, despite the fact the tubes looked almost new. Their vivid colours – burnt umber, cobalt, alizarin crimson, viridian, French ultramarine – seemed to echo the flamboyant brilliance of his love-making. Miserably, she wondered whether she would ever go to bed with him again and, when her mobile rang, she was torn between distaste for a second dose of Ruby and a longing to hear her lover’s voice. She reached for the phone with the utmost caution, ready to tell Ruby she was just dashing out of the house, but then saw Carole’s name flashing up on the screen.
‘Hi, Maria. I knew you’d be up early so I thought I’d ring for a chat before you have to set off for the abbey!’
‘If only! Though, actually, I doubt my bladder would be up to it. The guests have to be in situ two or three hours before the service even starts.’
‘You’ll be going to see the sights, though, I presume?’
‘Well, no, I hadn’t planned to.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Maria, you’re right on top of everything! I’d give my eye-teeth to soak up all the atmosphere in person, instead of having to watch it on the box.’
‘I’m not that bothered, to be honest. Princess Diana’s wedding was enough to last me a lifetime.’
‘Oh, yes, remember that wonderful street-party we had, with Amy and Becky dressed as fairy-queens and Eddie in charge of the bar? And I’ll never forget Hanna’s cakes. She must have baked enough for the county!’
Maria felt a sudden pang for her home, her former life. In 1981, Hanna had been fit and compos mentis, and Amy just a child of nine, with few concerns about her father and no real pressures on her save to win a place in the netball team. ‘Are they doing anything similar this time round?’
‘Well, nothing on that scale, but there will be a celebration in the village. I’ve been cooking up a storm – Hanna would be proud of me! And as well as all the cakes, I’ve made cardboard crowns for the grandkids and a Prince William mask for Eddie, to hide his jowls
and crow’s feet!’
For a crazy moment, Maria considered travelling up for the day and being part of the whole jamboree. But Bank Holiday trains were bound to be infrequent and by the time she had hung around at Hexham for the second, slower train, and waited even longer for an unreliable bus that trundled round the side roads to her village twenty miles away, any celebration would be over. Besides, she needed to be here when Amy returned from the reception, in case she was still upset over Chloe.
‘So when are we going to see you?’ Carole asked, as if she had tuned in to her fantasy of a day-trip to Northumberland.
‘Soon, I hope.’
‘You’ve been saying that for ages, yet we never get a glimpse of you.’
‘I know. It’s just there’s so much going on.’
‘Oh, the lure of London life! I reckon we’ve lost you, Maria. You’ll never want to come back to the sticks.’
‘You’re wrong. I miss it – miss you all. Give me another couple of weeks and I promise to make a date.’
‘Good. I’ll keep you to it. Meanwhile, don’t worry about the cottage. I go round and check it regularly and everything’s hunky-dory – no problems, inside or out.’
‘You’re an angel, Carole. Thanks.’
‘Well, happy Royal Wedding! And, for goodness’ sake, go and join the crowds in The Mall, then you can report back to your benighted country cousins.’
An Enormous Yes Page 15
