‘I was on the dole for a while, but they made me take these sod-awful jobs. Well, demeaning work like that kills the poetic instinct stone-dead and, eventually, the stress took its toll and I went down with a series of illnesses. Then, to cap it all, I was diagnosed with bowel cancer, seven years ago.’
‘Oh, Silas, I’m terribly sorry.’ For all his pretentiousness and self-deception, all his sponging off other people, she did feel genuine pity. No one could deny he looked a broken man. He had always been skinny, but now he was near-skeletal; his complexion porridge-grey, and dark circles etched beneath his eyes. His eyebrows alone seemed healthy – still dark and fiercely thick – but their very vigour only emphasized the pallor of his face.
‘You’ve no idea how humiliating it was. I even had a colostomy-bag at one stage and, before that, chronic diarrhoea. It got to the point where I didn’t dare go out, for fear of being caught short.’
Mixed with her compassion was a distinct feeling of revulsion. This was her one great love, for God’s sake – her Byron, Shelley, Swinburne – but romance simply couldn’t co-exist with diarrhoea and a colostomy-bag.
‘I lost my hair, of course and, although it grew back, it was thinner and much greyer. And then, just as I dared hope I was in the clear, the cancer returned, last year. So I was back to the horrendous round of chemo and radiation, and it was much worse, second time around. Apart from anything else, not a single hair has regrown, as you can see.’ He touched his bald pate with an expression of disgust. ‘In fact, I’m surprised you recognized me. I did try a wig, but it was hot and itchy and I was terrified it might fall off.’
Byron in a slipping wig! Her sympathy was tainted with a sense of crushing disillusionment. She was even beginning to wonder if she had ever been in love at all, or just mired in self-deception, on a par with his. Or perhaps she’d simply mistaken excitement for love. There had been a definite thrill in being swept into a different world by an older man who scorned religion and convention and all her former values. Despite her years at art school in so-called swinging London, the sixties had passed her by entirely and she had remained devout, naïve and timid, until Silas exploded her into life.
Aware that he was still talking about his illness, she forced her mind back to the present. ‘But how are you now?’ she asked. ‘What’s the current prognosis?’
‘Well, they say I’m in remission but … but …’ As he fumbled for the words, an expression of fear suddenly flickered across his face. ‘I mean, they could find another tumour any time. I just have to live from day to day.’
In the ensuing silence, the rain drummed against the window with callous mockery, as she sat, wrestling with her conscience. She could hardly expect a hopeless invalid to take an interest in a child he didn’t even know existed. Yet she was spending tomorrow with Amy, for another of her antenatal check-ups, and how could she possibly admit that she hadn’t so much as broached the subject when her daughter was expecting a full report?
As if in reproach, a baby started crying somewhere in the block, the noise barely muffled through what must be cardboard-thin walls. Again, she felt a surge of guilt that Silas should be living in such inadequate surroundings, but then it suddenly struck her that he had failed to ask how she was, or put a single question to her about her own life and circumstances. For all he knew, she too might have been diagnosed with cancer, or sacked from a job, or living in a dump. Did he even care? Had he ever cared about anyone except himself and his non-existent talent? She’d been so dazzled by his charisma at the start of their relationship, so grateful for a saviour and a life-raft, she had simply clung on to him blindly; ignoring his narcissism, his self-absorption, his belief that other people existed only for his benefit.
‘Silas,’ she said, abruptly, abandoning her plan of a gentle, tactful build-up to the subject of their child, ‘there’s something I need to tell you – something you won’t like.’
His eyes narrowed in suspicion. Too bad. In fairness to Amy, she had to keep her promise. ‘You can’t have forgotten that when I “walked out”, as you put it, I was pregnant with your child.’
‘Yes—’ His voice rose in anger ‘—a child you tried to trick me into having, although you knew damned well I didn’t want kids.’
‘That was wrong, I admit it, but please don’t interrupt, because there are other things you don’t know.’ She was still scared of his reaction and only managed to continue by fixing her attention on Amy and her needs. ‘You see, despite all your insistence, I didn’t have an abortion. I went ahead and had the baby – a daughter who’s now nearly thirty-nine.’
He stared at her a moment, clearly needing time to register her words. Then, as the unwelcome news hit home, he jumped to his feet, his face contorted with rage. ‘I can’t believe what I’m hearing – that you gave birth to my child, completely against my wishes or even knowledge! That’s another betrayal – an act of base deception. No wonder I feel bitter. There’s not a soul in the world I can trust. In fact, now I come to think of it, you’ve betrayed me twice over, because you made a solemn vow never to contact me again. Oh, I realize why you’ve come now – you’re going to dun me for maintenance, backdated thirty-nine years. Well, I’m afraid you’re in for a shock, woman! I don’t have any cash, except my pension, which is barely enough to live on.’
‘I don’t want a penny from you,’ she retorted, incensed by that demeaning ‘woman’. ‘My daughter happens to have a very good job and doesn’t need your hand-outs. But, actually, I thought you might feel some shred of interest in her. You haven’t even asked her name, yet she’s flesh of your flesh and carrying your genes. In fact, that’s the reason I’m here. She’s expecting a baby herself and the hospital need to know your medical history. And before you interrupt or object, I want you to understand that I did my absolute best to keep my promise to you. Amy’s almost middle-aged, for God’s sake, and not once did I come near you, or breathe a single word about her existence. Yet, all her life, she’s longed to know who her father is and to lay eyes on him at some stage. Can’t you imagine how difficult that was for me, always having to say no to her and deprive her of a father’s love and interest? Well, now it’s different, I’m afraid, because it’s a matter of hereditable diseases that could threaten the health of her child.’
‘Life itself is an inheritable disease,’ he interjected, virulently, pacing round the tiny room like a lion enraged by the confines of its cage, ‘as I’ve come to see it, anyway.’
‘There’s no need to be so bitter.’
‘You’d be bitter, if you’d suffered as much as I have.’
‘And how do you know I haven’t? You’re so eaten up with self-pity, it hasn’t even occurred to you to find out how things have been for me. Surely, out of simple good manners, you should have asked me how I am.’
He had the grace to look shame-faced and slumped down in his chair again. ‘Well,’ he said, although grudgingly, ‘how are you?’
‘Well, things weren’t too brilliant in the past, but I’m OK now and what matters at this moment is our daughter. I deliberately say “our”, Silas, because she is your daughter, whether you acknowledge it or not.’
‘A daughter I didn’t want, as I’ve told you twice already.’
‘Can’t you be less self-centred and try to see things from her point of view? She’s not to blame in all this and what she dearly wants is recognition from you and a chance to meet you, before it’s too late.’
‘It’s already too late. I can’t cope with any more problems in my life, let alone responsibilities.’
‘No one’s asking you to be responsible for anyone. Amy has a perfectly good husband and I shall be the baby’s live-in nanny. All she wants from you is just a couple of meetings, so she can tell her child about—’ The sentence stumbled to a halt. Would Amy actually want that, in these new, unfavourable circumstances? Might it not be wiser to allow her to preserve the image of a talented, handsome, decent sort of father, rather than a selfish wreck?
She could always emphasize the cancer and persuade her daughter how impossible it was to make demands on a dying man. Yet part of her was maddened by Silas’s sheer intransigence. Perhaps he was so resentful at not having published a single poem, or made any contribution to culture or society, he was blind to any further possibilities.
‘Listen, Silas, there are other things in life besides poetry and fame. Many people settle for a quite different type of immortality, through their children and their grandchildren, by passing on their genes and leaving them with memories of who they were and how they lived. You can do that, too. You still have time to get to know your daughter and your grandchild, and create some new relationships.’
‘I don’t want relationships. I’m in no fit state to get to know anyone, let alone some shrieking brat. There are quite enough of those round here, all with useless parents who let them caterwaul all night. Nor do I have the slightest wish to be saddled with strangers who’ll expect me to cough up. In fact, I’ll have to ask you to leave, Maria – now. All this has been incredibly upsetting for me and I need time to rest and recover.’
‘Fine!’ she yelled, sarcastically, marching to the door. Typical of Silas to fail to see that this encounter had been ‘incredibly upsetting’ for her, as much as for him, and would be even more ‘incredibly upsetting’ for their frustrated and still fatherless daughter.
Chapter 18
SEEING AMY REAPPEAR at the door of the waiting-room, Maria jumped up from her seat and went to join her.
‘Sorry, Mum, we’re not done yet.’ Amy gave a shrug of resignation. ‘The midwife says my blood pressure’s a bit high and my haemoglobin’s too low. She needs to discuss the results with the doctor, but he’s busy with another patient, so she told me to come back here and wait.’
‘Oh, darling, I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t worry, it’s nothing serious – just a damned nuisance coming on top of everything else.’
Coming on top of Silas, Amy hadn’t said, but Maria picked up the subtext, knowing how desolate her daughter was at the news of an outright rejection. ‘I’m sure you’re doing far too much,’ she added, as they returned to their former seats, ‘which alone might account for the blood pressure.’
‘It’s only slightly raised, Mum. The midwife thought—’
The sudden shrieks of a toddler cut across her words. Several other under-fives were waiting with their pregnant mothers, adding to the general hubbub. Every so often, a nurse would come to the door to summon a patient, but, for each one that left the room, another took her place and there was now barely a free seat.
‘All the same,’ Maria said, once the toddler’s yells had subsided, ‘I do think you ought to rest more. Isn’t there any chance you could start your maternity leave earlier?’
‘Mum, for goodness’ sake, don’t fuss! I’ve arranged to stay until 22 July and I can’t just change my mind and let them down. Anyway, that gives me four whole weeks before I’m due, which should be quite enough rest. You don’t seem to understand that I’m in the middle of really tricky negotiations for one of my top clients, which are likely to go on for at least six or seven weeks. And then there’s my lead candidate for the CEO job in Hong Kong – he’s sticking out for more share options and a bigger bonus. The chairman thinks he’s simply being greedy, so I’m caught between the two of them.’
Maria also felt caught – between her desire to reduce the pressures on her daughter and her instinct that she shouldn’t interfere. ‘But suppose,’ she ventured, warily, ‘you stop work on the 22nd but take longer than three months off? I thought six months was more the norm, in fact, or even a whole year.’
‘Not in this present economic climate, with people being sacked right, left and centre. I can’t afford to be away too long or they might start thinking they can manage fine without me! And, anyway, I lose all my bonuses while I’m on maternity leave and that money will come in handy for the baby.’
Maria refrained from saying that the baby, however precious, didn’t actually need the £500 cot Amy had ordered last week, or the cashmere babygros recently sent by Hugo’s parents. Didn’t Beatrice realize that cashmere was a devil to wash and that the child, not even born yet, already had a wardrobeful of clothes? An infant could thrive perfectly well wrapped in an old cardigan and put to sleep in a drawer. But, of course, Amy lived in a different world from most of the women here. She only had to look around and see their casual, comfy clothes to realize that Amy’s elegant suit and sleek designer briefcase put her in a class apart.
‘And even Hugo can’t count on really well-paid work once the Olympic project’s finished. I suspect the issue of his future is preying on his mind, along with the whole Dubai thing, of course. The legal wrangles seem to be dragging on forever, with constant emails back and forth, and sometimes phone calls in the middle of the night – which really isn’t on. They seem to forget the time-difference, or perhaps they all work twenty-four/seven! I can’t help being anxious, though, because at the start he was pretty certain his old firm would win, but now he’s getting jittery, which really is unlike him. And when I try to probe, he’s strangely reticent, as if he’s hiding something.’
‘But surely he’d be frank with you?’
‘Well, he always has before, but I get this feeling he’s somehow on the defensive.’
‘When will he know the outcome?’
‘God knows! They’re forever changing their minds and, anyway, corruption’s rife over there, so you’re never quite certain how things will pan out in the end. And, when it does come to the trial, he’s bound to be nervous, poor darling. He’s never appeared in court before and he doesn’t know the language. And translating from the Arabic often leads to misinterpretations, with all the regional variants and suchlike. The culture’s entirely different from ours, so, what with nepotism and face-saving and the whole religious thing, it could be a bit of a minefield.’
‘I’m terribly sorry, darling. It’s the last thing you need at the moment. But, court case apart, do you think Hugo misses Dubai – maybe even wishes you’d never left?’
‘Oh, no. I can’t imagine bringing up a child there. And we’d both had enough of living in high-rise apartments, so we’re much happier in our London house. And he actually prefers his current job, although he’s no less busy, unfortunately. I mean, take today – he arranged to have the morning off, so he could come with me to this—’
‘I hope I’m not a poor substitute?’ Maria interrupted.
‘Mum, of course not! In fact, he’s much less patient than you are, so he’d probably be getting grumpy by now, having to wait so long. But, going back to Dubai, our three years there seemed exactly right and, businesswise, taught me a hell of a lot, but now we’re in a new stage of our life. I just wish we could draw a line under the whole court case thing, instead of being involved in all this hassle. Wow, the baby’s kicking like crazy! It’s probably picking up my stress. Here – feel it, Mum.’ Amy reached for her mother’s hand and laid it across her stomach.
‘Lord, it’s going bananas! You’d better take some deep, slow breaths to calm the poor thing down.’ She felt privileged to touch Amy’s ‘bump’; feel it heave and bulge; be in such intimate contact with her grandchild.
Amy laid her own hand over her mother’s, as if bonding the three generations. ‘You know, I can hardly bear to think of Chloe – how close she must have felt to Simon, long before he was born, and then to lose him at the end.’
‘Try not to think of it, darling, if only for the baby’s sake. You need to send it good, positive vibes and believe everything will be all right.’
‘Yes, but even the surviving baby, Sam, looks so frighteningly small and he’s all wired up to tubes and things.’
‘Do you think you ought to have seen him? Neo-natal intensive care is enough to frighten any pregnant mum.’
‘I had to, Mum, and anyway, she was really pleased to have me with her at the hospital, if only for an hour or two. Apart from anything else
, it must be an awful strain for her, having to live there, more or less. Of course, she needs to be with Sam as much as possible, but even so—’
‘Perhaps I could pop round to her house one morning before she leaves and see if I can help in any way – maybe cook a meal for Nicholas or something?’
‘Yes, great idea! Forget the cooking, though. I think what she’d really like is someone older to talk to. Neither she nor Nicholas has any parents to hand and she’s obviously quite shell-shocked at the moment. In fact, is there any chance you could make it fairly soon, Mum, because I feel she needs a boost right now – maybe even a shoulder to cry on?’
‘Yes, no problem. I’ll drop by tomorrow morning.’
‘Great! I’ll phone her and let her know.’
‘Mrs Talbot?’ The nurse had returned and was scanning the room for Amy.
‘Want me to come with you?’ Maria asked, as Amy rose to her feet.
‘No, I’m fine. Read a magazine or something. You must be sick of waiting.’
Impossible, she thought, to read any magazine, with so many problems weighing on her mind – not just Amy’s, but Chloe’s and Hugo’s, too. In fact, her former blithe assumption that her daughter had broken with the family tradition of suffering and sadness seemed less certain now, what with these new health concerns, the continuing worry over Dubai and, most of all, her bitter disappointment about being unable to meet her father.
And she herself was gutted by the fact that she had left her bag behind in Silas’s flat. Fine to march out in fury – not quite so clever to leave her credit cards, her mobile and her free travel pass in his possibly vindictive hands. Only when she was halfway down the stairs had she stopped in horror and realized what she’d done, but although she’d instantly dashed back and rung his bell repeatedly, he had refused to open the door. All evening, she had tried to obtain his phone number, but had drawn a blank with Directory Enquiries, and then with Tracesmart, Barbara and even with Ian Johnson. Finally, in desperation, she’d rung Felix and poured out the story, but he’d been so incensed with Silas he’d threatened to break the rotter’s door down – which was hardly any help.
An Enormous Yes Page 19
