by Leah Mercer
I run down the stairs to the kitchen, where Sophie is plaiting Flora’s hair. As usual, Asher is nowhere to be found. I’m beginning to think Sophie’s litany of complaints about his lack of parental participation really does have some merit.
‘Mark’s father responded!’ I say, my voice hoarse with sleep.
‘Brilliant!’ Sophie responds through a mouthful of grips. ‘So does he know where Mark is?’
I shake my head. ‘No, but he wants to help. He lives in Berkhamsted, and I’m going to go and see him.’ This is way too important for a simple phone call. I need to connect with Richard face to face.
Sophie sets down the brush. ‘Do you want me to come with you? I’ll drop this one off at school and then we can go together.’
I ponder the idea for a second, but this journey, and whatever I might uncover, feels like something I need to do on my own. Besides, Sophie still doesn’t know about Margo and I can’t take the time to explain now. ‘No, that’s all right. Thanks, though.’ I take the cup of coffee she offers, then sit at the table and draw her laptop close to me. I pull up the train journey planner website, hoping the trip won’t take too long. Thankfully, there are plenty of direct trains to Berkhamsted, and it looks like it’ll only take about an hour to get there from here, if I’m lucky.
A few minutes later I head out into the drizzly, grey morning. Mist swirls around the chimney tops and the whole world feels dark and foreign. As I walk down the deserted path to the Tube station, I realise I am heading to a foreign place . . . somewhere I had never even thought about until a few days ago – somewhere I had never suspected played a part in our present.
My husband’s past.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Anna
I sit numbly on the train as the landscape flashes by, unable to read or even gaze out the window. I stare at the seat in front of me, eyes gritty and head humming. For the first time I’m going to meet someone who knew my husband before me – someone who raised him and made him into the man he is today . . . and someone who knows his past. I was so eager to see Richard, but the closer that I get, the more uncertain I become. What if he tells me things I don’t want to hear? What if . . . I shake my head. I need to do this. I need to know, to break down the barriers between Mark and me and build us up even stronger – strong enough to face illness and get through it together.
Finally, the tannoy announces the train is approaching Berkhamsted. I haul myself to my feet and push through the throng towards the door. As I step from the train and on to the platform, the skies open up. Rain sluices through the air and wind slices into me, plastering my jacket to me like a second skin. In a way, it feels like the town is protesting my arrival, and I shudder – from the cold or the thought, I’m not sure.
According to the map on my phone, Mark’s father lives close to the station, so I hurry in what I hope is the right direction. A few minutes later, I’m standing on a quiet street with sprawling brick houses on either side. For a second, it almost feels like I’m back in the neighbourhood where I grew up. The same sensations are in the air: the distant buzz of a lawnmower, the smell of damp earth and flowers. The whole place feels safe, tucked away from the crime and noise of central London.
I spot the right house number and hurry down the path, then bang the heavy brass knocker against the door. My heart beats fast as I wait for it to open, and I smooth back my damp hair. Maybe I should have called first, I think, biting my lip. It is the middle of the day, after all, and I’ve no idea what Mark’s father does for a living, or if he even still works.
The door swings open and I’m faced with a frazzled-looking woman. Inside the house, children’s laughter mixes with shrieking and the sound of something crashing on to the floor.
‘Yes?’ She cranes her neck to look past me. ‘Where’s the van? The natives want their lunch, and these groceries were supposed to be here hours ago.’
Groceries? I shake my head. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not here to deliver groceries. I’m Anna. I’m here to see Richard?’ Instinctively I draw back, wondering if I have the wrong house. No, it’s number 42, the same as Richard wrote in the email. Can this woman be his new wife? She looks like she’s only a few years older than me.
‘Oh.’ The woman lets out an embarrassed laugh. ‘I’m so sorry, of course you’re not. The doorbell rang, and I just assumed without even looking . . .’ She shakes her head, hair flying out at all angles. ‘Come in, come in. Too late to escape the madhouse here. It’s not usually this wild, but the kids have an inset day and the nanny’s stuck in traffic. I’ll tell Richard that you’re here.’ And with that she disappears up the stairs, looking all too eager for a second of peace and quiet.
I stay in the hall, not wanting to encounter the pack of wild hyenas that now sound like they’re attacking a piano keyboard in the room next door. I wince at the clashing chords that crash through the air, then peer down a narrow hallway where several photos of seemingly angelic children smile out at me: a girl hovering on the cusp of adolescence, two young boys who look a few years apart and then a toddler girl.
I shake my head, wondering who these children are. I knew Mark’s father remarried, but this young brood can’t be his, can it? If so, he and his wife have certainly been busy. I catch my breath as sadness sinks into me – sadness that Mark and I don’t have a family. Will we ever? Can we ever, given his illness?
A thought flies into my head, and I pause: is that why he left – because he won’t be able to have kids? I don’t know much about chemotherapy, but I remember hearing it could make men infertile. Whatever the consequence of his treatment, we can face all that once he’s well again. I want a child, yes, but I want my husband more: healthy and happy. And I’ll tell him that as soon as I find him.
‘Come on up, Anna.’ The woman’s voice interrupts my thoughts. She beckons me up the stairs with a warm smile. ‘I’m so sorry. I’d no idea you were Mark’s wife – Richard just filled me in. I’m Jude, Richard’s wife. It’s so nice to finally meet you! We would love to see Mark, too – the kids would be beyond excited if he came by. Anyway, follow me.’
I pad up the stairs, trying to absorb the fact that Mark has a whole bevvy of step-sisters and step-brothers I never knew about. I wonder if he did. It’s hard to imagine my husband, who loves children so much, turning his back on this family if he was aware they existed. But then . . . Jude must be about thirty years younger than his father! Is that why Mark doesn’t talk to him?
It’s quieter upstairs, and Jude shows me into the study. A thickset man with a bushy white beard and eyes exactly the same shade as Mark’s is sitting at a heavy oak desk behind his laptop. He gets to his feet and extends a hand and, for a second, I almost feel like my husband is here. Mark has the exact same way of standing, slightly bent at the shoulders, and his brow furrows like his father’s, too. A longing to find my husband – to straighten out those little wrinkles in his forehead one more time – sweeps over me, and I pray that Richard can help.
‘Anna. I’m Richard,’ he says, his grip strong. ‘So nice to finally meet you.’
‘You, too.’ No matter the reason that they don’t talk now – and no matter what Richard might tell me – it is nice to meet someone connected to my husband. I meet Richard’s eyes, wondering what it’s like to be so cut off from your son’s life. Did he try to reach out? Does he care? My own father doesn’t seem bothered, but then our distance was more of a mutual decision. I’d always assumed Mark’s situation was much like mine.
‘Have a seat.’ Richard points to a chair on the other side of his desk. ‘I’d suggest moving to the lounge, but we probably wouldn’t get two words in without my kids jumping all over us. Can I get you a drink? Water?’
I nod. It’s the last thing I want, but I need time to absorb this whole family scenario. He returns with some chilled water for us both and I grasp the clammy glass and gulp it down, wondering where to start. Mark hasn’t talked to Richard for years, and I can hardly open by informing him
that his son has cancer. Besides, I’m not sure how much Mark would want me to tell him.
‘So is everything all right?’ Richard asks, cutting through the silence that’s descended. ‘I’m guessing not, since you wouldn’t be here if it was.’ He shakes his head. ‘I can’t even remember the last time I saw my son. I only found out he got married because one of our old neighbours ran into him at the bank where he works.’
I stare down at my hands, uncertain what to say.
‘I did try, you know.’ Richard leans back, as if he’s heard my unasked questions. ‘I tried to contact Mark many times, but he never responded.’
I shift in my chair, wondering yet again what drove them apart. ‘You said you might be able to help.’ I swallow, praying he can tell me something, although the possibility is looking very slim. ‘Mark is missing. Well, he left,’ I add hastily. I don’t want Richard to think Mark might have had an accident or something. ‘That was over a week ago now, and I haven’t been able to find him. Do you have any idea where he might have gone? Friends, other relatives . . . ?’
He shakes his head, and even though I knew it was a long shot, disappointment crashes through me. ‘I’m sorry. I wish I could tell you something. Like I said, I’m not in touch with his life. I’ve no idea who his friends are now or where he might go.’
I hold Richard’s gaze, my heart pounding. Maybe he can’t tell me much about Mark’s present, but . . .
‘Did you . . . ?’ I draw in a breath, my pulse whooshing in my ears. ‘Did you ever meet Margo?’
‘Margo?’ Richard’s face twists and his voice emerges in a rasp, as if he hasn’t said her name in years. My chest squeezes as I watch the colour drain from his face. However she died, it must have been something terrible.
‘Did Mark mention her?’ he asks finally, taking a sip of water.
‘He visited her grave,’ I say, avoiding the question. I don’t want to lie, but now that I’m in front of Richard, I’m desperate to know what happened . . . to see if there’s something that will help find Mark, yes, but also to help understand why Mark hid her from me – why our perfect marriage wasn’t what I thought it was.
Richard’s shoulders lift in a sigh. ‘Well, I’m glad. He’s never talked about her death, and I’d always hoped that maybe, with time, he could accept it.’
‘What happened?’ I ask, biting my lip as Richard’s face tightens. I don’t want to make him delve into painful memories, but . . .
‘He never said?’ Richard sips his water again. ‘I’m not surprised, I guess. It was a lot for a young man to handle.’ He pauses and meets my eyes, as if weighing up how much he should tell me. I sit still, willing him to talk . . . to fill in the missing pieces of my husband’s past, the pieces I didn’t even know were missing until a few days ago.
‘Margo was very ill,’ Richard says. ‘And Mark, well . . . he tried everything to help, but he couldn’t. She passed away after a long struggle.’ He swallows hard. ‘It was a terrible time for us. The family had pretty much fallen apart already, but losing a daughter . . .’ He turns his head to look out the window, his eyes glazed with tears.
A daughter? Margo was Richard’s daughter? I jerk as I realise my mistake. Margo wasn’t Mark’s wife; she was his sister. Relief shoots through me, so intensely that I nearly slump over. Mark wasn’t married before – I wasn’t his consolation prize after his true love died. Instantly, the images that have been parading through my brain these past few days disappear, as if I’ve flicked off a switch. Yes, my husband still hid things from me, but it’s not even close to what I thought was going on. I feel almost light-headed as I process this information, my relief giving way to grief that my husband lost his sister.
‘I’m so sorry.’ My words are beyond inadequate, but I can’t think of anything else to say.
‘It was thirteen years ago now,’ Richard says, still gazing out the window. ‘And although life goes on – life has to go on – sometimes I still can’t believe she’s not here any more. If it hadn’t been for Jude, I’d probably be downing half a bottle of whisky every night. Thank God for her . . . and the kids. I really wish Mark could meet them, but I understand. It’s part of the reason why I’ve let him be. He needs to have his own life away from what happened.’ He tilts his head like he wants to say more, but shifts in his chair and stays quiet.
God, poor Mark, I think, watching through the window as clouds scud across the sky. No wonder he didn’t want to talk about his past. The impact of his sister’s illness on the family must have been truly horrific for him to shut out his parents like that. Imagine watching a sibling waste away. I wince, unable to even picture going through that with Sophie. Is it any surprise he went quiet from time to time? If it had been me, I’d have fallen to pieces. Tenderness swells inside me, along with admiration for his strength and an urgent desire to reach out and hug him close – to heal whatever wounds are inside him . . . emotionally and physically.
I take a deep breath, deciding that Richard should know about Mark’s condition. He’s already lost one child, and he deserves the chance to find his son.
I pause for a second, conjuring up the terrible words. ‘Richard . . . Mark has cancer. And he’s missing. I don’t know why he left, but I need to find him – I need to be with him to help him through this. I can’t let him go through it on his own.’
Richard stares at me, then shakes his head back and forth, running a hand along the smooth surface of his desk. His eyes narrow and he sucks in air, as if someone has dealt him a silent but deadly punch to the stomach.
‘What kind of cancer?’ he asks. His eyes bore through mine, as if I might have the answers. I wish I did.
‘I don’t know,’ I respond. ‘Mark didn’t even tell me he was ill – he just said he was leaving. I only found out when someone from Macmillan Cancer Support rang him . . . it was a nurse, returning his call. I begged them to tell me something, but they wouldn’t.’ I pause, hoping Richard might give me another reason for why Mark received that phone call, but he stays silent. ‘And everything started to make sense. Mark leaving me, him quitting his job . . . he’d had a lot of time off, apparently. And he’d lost some weight.’ I try to keep my voice level through the fear kicking at my insides. I can’t lose him. I won’t.
‘Cancer,’ Richard says, swiping a hand over his face. ‘Christ.’ He reaches across the desk towards me, narrowing the gap between his world and mine. ‘But look, there are many kinds of cancer, and there have been many advances in treatment. Whatever Mark has, he may not have left because of its severity.’
‘So why would he leave, then?’ I ask, desperate to believe that Richard’s right. Is it what Sophie has said about some people being thrown off course by their diagnosis and just running away?
Richard sits back and lets out a heavy sigh. ‘Mark, well . . . he knows how difficult it is to care for someone with an illness.’ He grimaces, as if the memories are clawing at his insides. ‘I can’t claim to know my son after all these years, but he’s always been very protective of the ones he loves – at least, he was with his sister. So if I had to guess, I’d say he left to keep you away from all of this – away from his disease and all the worry that comes with it.’
I hold Richard’s gaze, my mind whirring. Is he right? Mark has always erred on the side of caution when it comes to both me and our relationship. Even Sophie – my uber-protective older sister – jokes that he’d wrap me in cotton wool if he could. He always checks that I have my pepper spray on the rare occasions when I go out on my own, and that I’m eating enough veggies and getting enough sleep. It can be a little irritating, I have to admit. But it’s always signalled his depth of care and attention to our world . . . to me.
Mark has always pledged to go to the ends of the earth to keep me safe, and I guess – in light of what’s happened with his sister – it makes sense that he’d hide away from me now. Margo does have something to do with him leaving, and I wish he’d told me about her. But now that I know who she is
– now that everything is out in the open – we can face any obstacle that lies in front us and build an even stronger marriage. It won’t be easy, I know, but I’m certain we can do it.
‘I’ve let my son live his life for the past thirteen years,’ Richard says, cutting into my thoughts. ‘I’ve let him make his own way, left him alone. But I can’t stand back now and watch him go through this by himself.’ He leans forward. ‘We need to find him. We need to make sure he’s getting the help he needs from the very best doctors.’
He falls silent for a minute and I can almost see the wheels turning in his head. ‘I know some doctors who specialise in cancer – there’s a network of doctors who all went to medical school with me years ago. We might be able to find out where Mark’s getting treatment, although it’s a very slim possibility.’
‘I’ve rung up most of the centres around London,’ I say, and Richard shakes his head.
‘They’ll tell you nothing,’ he responds. ‘Legally, they wouldn’t be able to. I’m not even sure what my colleagues can do. No one wants to risk being struck off. But having an in like I do always helps.’
‘Sweetie?’ Jude pokes her head around the side of the door. ‘We’re about to have lunch. The children are asking for you.’
Richard’s heavy face lifts into a smile, one that’s so full of warmth and love I have to look away. ‘Thanks, honey. I’ll be right down.’
‘Anna, would you like to stay?’ Jude asks.
The tantalising, homely scent of chicken soup and toast drifts towards me and, despite my whirling emotions, my tummy grumbles. But as much as I’d like to fill my stomach and my heart with this world, I need to get back to finding my husband.
‘No, thanks. I’d better go.’ I stand, and Richard gets to his feet, too.
