One Secret Summer

by Lesley Lokko

  ‘Of course, Diana. I—’ He hesitated for a second, his professional mask momentarily giving way. ‘I’m dreadfully sorry. I don’t know what to say. You, of all people. I’m sorry. It just doesn’t seem fair, somehow.’

  ‘Thank you, Geoffrey.’ She nodded her head gravely. ‘Who’s to say what’s fair?’ She touched him briefly on the arm and left the room before either he or she could say another word.

  There was a cab waiting for her as soon as she stepped outside the door; Judith would have organised it. ‘Primrose Hill, please,’ she directed the driver. She couldn’t return to chambers just yet. There was a tea shop on Chalcott Crescent that she hadn’t been to in years. It was just the sort of place she needed to go right now. She needed to be alone. There were things she had to think through first.

  ‘There we go.’ The smiling waitress put down a cup of tea and a slice of home-made cake in front of her. ‘Can I get you anything else?’

  Diana shook her head. She looked at the pretty cup with its pattern of pink and red roses and smiled faintly. It was the sort of cup her mother would have appreciated. Bone china, hand-painted, delicate – just the sort of old-fashioned English aesthetic that she had liked. She lifted it to her lips. It had been a long time since she’d thought about her mother. It felt as though she’d been gone far longer than the twenty-odd years since her actual death. It had always been that way; memories would come to her in the oddest moments, catching her unawares. For most of her life, she’d barely registered her presence, and when she died, it seemed to Diana that she’d already mourned her passing long before. She couldn’t remember much about her; her presence in the house had always been overshadowed by Diana’s father. She put the cup down with shaking hands. It was odd how she came to mind, not in anything she did or said, but in those little details that were so insignificant Diana had difficulty remembering how she’d come by them in the first place. The bone china cups; the colour of the curtains in the living room; the flowers she favoured – pale, pretty, nothing flamboyant or particularly memorable. Much like herself, in fact. Diana was suddenly unable to swallow her tea. She couldn’t even remember the exact details of her mother’s death. What was the cause? Dementia, was what she remembered everyone saying, but how old had she been? Sixty? Sixty-five? Did people really die of dementia? Some illness brought on by her drinking was much more likely. What would that have been? Something to do with the liver. She brought her hands up to her face. Her cheeks were wet. How was it that she remembered so little of either of them? She’d principally been afraid of her father; fear was what she’d always associated with him. Fear and the terror of being hit. In more ways than she cared to admit or remember, her ability to live with secrets had come from there. Behind the respectable façade, things had gone on in that house that no one should ever have known about, least of all a child. Her father was a doctor; he knew precisely where and how to hit. Her mother rarely, if ever, showed the scars. She’d taken it all in – the beatings, the rages, the uncontrollable moods, the bullying. All Cathy Pryce ever did was turn the other cheek. From her Diana had learned how not to be a woman, not the other way round. Her mother sickened her; she hated the excuses and the way she put up with things, excusing him for everything, even beating her half to death. There were times when she’d hear him hitting her, softly at first, then with increasing anger and rage, and she’d stand at the dining room door, her hands pressed over her ears. It made no difference. His voice and his fists came through the walls as if they were paper. Later, much later, she would hear her mother petting him, tending to the bruises on his fists and sometimes the small cuts on his fingers as if it had been the other way round. She would do anything to block out the sound of that. Her mother’s weakness enraged her. In the terrible closeness of such moments, when they were shouting and struggling with each other, it seemed to her like a murder. One day she would kill him, that was what she thought. One day. Soon. It was Rufus who’d first put the words into her mouth. She’d gone next door as she always did when they fought, only this time, there was a faint bruise showing up underneath the lightly freckled skin of her cheek. She’d been in the way of his hand as he reached across the dining table to administer a slap. She sat there, the pain gathering under the surface of her skin, unable to say or do anything until he’d told her to leave the room. She knew what it meant, of course … that the beating he was about to administer would be harder and worse, partly to assuage his own guilt at having hit her, even inadvertently. That was the rule – only her mother, never her.

  ‘Did he hit you?’ Rufus’s voice was low and controlled.

  Diana shook her head mutely. ‘No. It was an accident. I got in the way.’

  ‘Good. ’Cos if he does, I’ll fucking kill him.’ It was said with such clarity and assuredness … that was the day she’d fallen in love with him. He would protect her in a way that no one else could or would. She’d been wrong, as it turned out. Rufus wasn’t capable of protecting anyone, least of all himself. It was Harvey. Kind, gentle Harvey. He’d watched it all silently, never saying anything, no dramatic outbursts like Rufus. Just a quiet, confident watchfulness. When the time came, and she really was in need of protection, it was Harvey who’d stepped forward, not Rufus. But it didn’t change a thing. It was Rufus who held sway, not Harvey. No matter that she’d married him.

  She picked up the teacup and drank slowly until it was drained. Then she reached into her briefcase and pulled out her phone. She looked at it for a second, then dialled.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘The Russian Tea Room. It’s on Chalcott Crescent, just—’

  ‘I know where it is. Give me half an hour. And Diana?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t run away this time.’

  The tea room was almost empty by the time Rufus arrived. Diana was on her third cup; the slice of cake was still untouched. She couldn’t bring herself to eat.

  ‘Diana.’ She looked up. He was suddenly in front of her. He filled the frame of her vision, as always, larger than life. She felt her eyes suddenly fill with tears. ‘Sorry, traffic was heavy,’ he said, sliding into the seat opposite her. ‘Surprised you’re still here, actually. Half-expected you to have gone.’

  She blinked away the tears and took a deep breath. ‘Nowhere to run to,’ she said slowly.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  She’d never been able to hide anything from Rufus. Never. She took another deep breath. ‘Something’s come up,’ she said. ‘I need to talk to you.’ She signalled to the waitress.

  His dark brown eyes regarded hers evenly. ‘Mind if I smoke?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘No, go ahead.’ She waited until the waitress brought a fresh pot and cup over. She took a deep breath. ‘Look, I’m not going to beat around the bush. There’s no point. I’ve just come from seeing Geoffrey Laing.’

  ‘Harvey’s friend? The oncologist?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, the oncologist.’

  ‘Is it Harvey?’

  She shook her head again. There was a short silence. She watched him light a cigarette, carefully disposing of the match. ‘So, it’s you,’ he said slowly. ‘And it’s cancer.’

  ‘Yes. It’s me. And yes, it’s cancer.’

  ‘Where?’ His voice was terse.

  ‘Breast.’

  ‘Operable?’

  Diana paused. She pulled her lower lip into her mouth, releasing it slowly. ‘There’s new treatment available, Geoffrey says. More radical and more invasive … but it’s too early to tell if it works or not. He wants me to do it, of course—’

  ‘What does Harvey say?’ Rufus interrupted her.

  ‘I haven’t told him yet.’ Diana lifted her shoulders and let them drop again. ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen, Rufus. Obviously Harvey and I will talk it over … see what the options are. But I don’t want to leave things too late. And I don’t want to leave things unsaid. Just in case.’

  ‘What’re you talking abo
ut? Don’t be silly, Diana. You’re going to be fine. You’ll have the best treatment available … Harvey’ll see to that, of course he will.’

  ‘This isn’t about the treatment I’m going to get, Rufus. This is about what we do if it doesn’t work. Or if I opt not to have it.’

  ‘Of course it’s going to work. Of course you’ll have it. There’s no question.’

  Diana was quiet. The waitress brought over a fresh pot of tea and poured two new cups. Diana waited until she’d gone before she spoke again. ‘It’s out of my hands, Rufus. That’s what I feel. I’m not religious, you know that. But there’s something … I don’t know how to explain it.’ She spread her hands flat out on the table and gave a rather shaky laugh. ‘It’s as if I’ve somehow brought this on myself.’

  ‘Don’t.’ Rufus was shaking his head at her. ‘Stop it. That’s absurd.’

  ‘Is it? Rufus … think about what we did. What I did. I can’t stop myself thinking about it.’

  ‘And believing that this is some kind of divine retribution is going to make it easier?’ Rufus’s voice was scathing.

  Diana flinched. ‘You can mock me all you like,’ she said tightly. ‘I don’t care. All I care about is that we do the right thing.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘We’ve got to come clean. We have to tell Josh.’

  ‘Why? What good could it possibly do him now?’

  ‘He has to know. He has a right to know, Rufus. I can’t … what if something happens? To me, I mean. What if the treatment doesn’t work and it turns out that …’ She stumbled over the words. ‘That I don’t have much time left. I can’t leave things the way they are. It’s not fair.’

  ‘And what if Josh tells Harvey?’

  ‘He won’t.’

  ‘How do you know he won’t? How can you be so sure?’

  ‘I know Josh. He’s my son, Rufus.’

  ‘Don’t forget, Diana, he was mine first.’

  91

  MADDY

  London, September 2000

  Maddy put the phone down and only just managed not to scream out loud. With delight. With joy. She stared at the phone, unable to wipe the grin off her face. The gods were on her side. Smiling down upon her. Her prayers had been answered. She’d missed out on one part but somehow, against the odds, another had appeared. She’d jotted down the address where auditions were being held the following Friday; it was another small role – very small, Stef warned – but again, it might lead to bigger things. She wrote down the name of the play – Phaedra – hands shaking with excitement and rushed upstairs to the study, where she switched on the computer and tried to find everything she could about the Greek play. She looked at the address again. Goodge Street Studios, just off Tottenham Court Road, a ten-minute walk away. Yes, the gods were truly listening. Auditions would begin at 9 a.m. sharp. She’d be there at 8.30, just to be sure. She would drop Darcy off at playschool first and pick her up at lunchtime, hopefully with a smile on her face.

  She printed off a list of books she would buy and devour in the week … by Friday, she’d be ready and raring to go. She picked up the phone again. She couldn’t wait to tell Julia. She frowned. It suddenly occurred to her that she hadn’t spoken to Julia in almost a fortnight. In fact, she’d hardly spoken to her all month. Julia had been very busy in the weeks that followed their return from Mougins; there’d been another conference somewhere, Maddy couldn’t remember where. Then she’d had an important case to prepare for; then she’d been unwell for a week – a cold, a stomach upset … again, Maddy couldn’t remember the details. They’d made loose plans to have dinner and to invite Niela, but there’d been one reason or another why she couldn’t make it. Diana had invited everyone to Sunday lunch a fortnight or so ago but then had called to cancel it. Strange. Strange, too, that Maddy hadn’t noticed how quickly the time had gone by.

  She dialled Julia’s number. The phone rang and rang but there was no answer. She left a message and put the receiver down slowly. She hoped nothing was wrong. She suddenly missed their chats. Come to think of it, Julia had been odd since the last few days of their holiday. She’d hardly seen her or Aaron on the last day, or since. They’d all left at different times – Niela and Josh had been the first to go; she, Darcy and Rafe had driven to Cannes the following morning and caught the afternoon flight back … Julia and Aaron had driven all the way down from London – they were the last to leave. She looked at the phone again. She hesitated; should she call Niela and share the good news? She’d enjoyed spending time with her in Mougins but there was a natural reserve in Niela that had always kept Maddy at bay. It wouldn’t hurt to reach out, though, would it? After all, that was exactly what she’d done with Julia and it had worked … She picked up the phone, her fingers hovering over the keypad. But after a few seconds she replaced it gently. Better to wait. Let others come to her every once in a while, not always the other way round. It was the one lesson she’d learned in the nearly four years she’d been in the UK. She was an over-eager, impulsive and impatient American – but she didn’t always have to act that way. She picked up her reading list and began to go through it, her earlier excitement slowly returning as she contemplated what books to buy.

  Her part was small, just as Stef had warned. Maddy couldn’t have cared less. The feeling of being back in a theatre again, surrounded by actors, director, agents and producers, hit her like a thunderclap. The director, a short, intense, energetic man named Jack, looked her up and down, nodded to himself and asked her to read out a few lines of a script that he handed over in his office, just like that. Maddy stared at him nervously, cleared her throat and began. ‘No, no … it’s an English part. Get rid of the American,’ he interrupted her almost immediately. She stopped. She felt the cold hand of fear snake its way up her back. She coughed, cleared her throat again and started afresh. She could feel the sweat prickling under her arms. Stef wasn’t there; it was just her and Jack in his small, untidy office. She glanced at him, half-expecting him to yell at her to stop again. But he didn’t. He nodded to himself several more times and then grinned. ‘Yeah, all right. We were right. You’ll do.’

  Maddy had almost stopped breathing. ‘I will?’

  ‘Yep. You’ll do. You’ve got the part. Your accent’s near-perfect. I like your hair, too.’ And that was it. She stumbled out of his office, clutching her lines to her chest.

  Stef was pleased, but not unduly surprised. ‘I told you he liked your tape. It’s just a small role, Maddy. You’ve got a handful of lines but you and Carys Douglas complement each other. Good for you. Well done. See you back here on Monday.’

  ‘I play Phaedra’s handmaid,’ she told Rafe that night, her voice rising with excitement. ‘I’ve only got a few lines but I’m in almost every scene. Carys Douglas is playing Phaedra. You’ve seen her. She was in that Dickens adaptation that we watched, remember? The dark-haired woman with—’ She stopped mid-sentence. Rafe’s attention was elsewhere. Anywhere but on her. ‘Am I boring you?’ she asked stiffly.

  ‘Huh? No, no … I was just drifting off for a bit. I’m tired, that’s all. We had a hell of a list today. Two similar cases of arteriovenous malformation and a cranioplasty that pretty much took up the whole afternoon. I told Giddens that he could make the primary incision in the afternoon case but he was surprisingly nervous. I suppose I keep forgetting that he’s only a year post-qualifiying. It takes quite a while to—’ It was Maddy’s turn to drift off. No matter how hard she tried to interest Rafe in things beyond the scope of his own world, the conversation always returned to him. She finished the rest of her dinner in silence – not that Rafe appeared to notice. He had some post-operation notes to complete, he said, getting up from the table as soon as they’d finished. And that was pretty much it.

  By the time she climbed the stairs to their bedroom, he was already in bed and asleep, one hand still loosely holding a copy of a memo he’d been reading. She glanced at it. It was a departmental circular. To All Heads of Surgical
Wards. She sighed. There were times when the worlds in which they moved seemed so diametrically opposed, she wondered if they would ever meet. In the beginning she’d found the differences between them fascinating. Rafe’s work and the mystery of it had captivated her. Now … she hesitated to say it, even to herself. Boring. It was boring. She was no longer interested in the minutiae of his daily life, much less his operations. A cranioplasty was much the same as an endarterectomy. There’d been a time when she’d dutifully noted all the different terms, struggling to understand the intricacies of each. Now she couldn’t even remember a quarter of them. There seemed to be very little point. Rafe probably wouldn’t be able to tell her the name of her character or the play’s title. He probably didn’t even know when the damn opening night was. She climbed into bed beside him, her chest tight with resentment. It occurred to her just as she closed her eyes that Julia still hadn’t rung back. She made a mental note to call her again in the morning. It was most unlike her, she thought as she drifted off to sleep. Most unlike her.

  92

  JULIA

  London, September 2000

  Julia’s first waking thought each and every morning was: Today’s the day. Today I must tell Aaron. She should tell him. She ought to tell him. But what exactly was she going to say? Soon it would be too late and she’d be forced to keep it. Keep it? She had to keep reminding herself of the fact that there was no ‘it’ – there was a child, hers and Josh’s, which, if the passing of time had anything to do with it, was slowly beginning to take shape in her body and mind as her child, not his. If that meant bringing the child up as hers and Aaron’s, well, that was just the way it would have to be. After all, what was the alternative? She and Aaron had been trying for months and it looked increasingly as if nothing would ever happen. It was a lie, but was it really so terrible?

  She plugged in the kettle and made herself a cup of tea. Aaron was in the bathroom; she could hear the familiar sounds of the shower being turned on and off, the tap that dripped unless you tightened it all the way and then she’d have to call him to come and loosen it for her again, the sound of the medicine cabinet door being opened and closed; the small rhythms of their daily life that set the day on its course. Now all that was about to change.