The Frances Garrood Collection

by Frances Garrood

  To her great surprise, she adored Finn from the start. Never having had much time for babies before, she put her feelings down to hormones and waited for them to wear off. But the love increased as Finn developed from what looked like a rather surprised baby hedgehog into a plump, sunny human infant, who slept through the night, ate all the right things, and was quite happy to be handed round and looked after by anyone to whom his mother gave him.

  Of course, a baby was not the greatest of career moves. The local newspaper for which she had been working was male-dominated, and while she wasn’t exactly discriminated against (that wasn’t permitted), little allowance was made for her new status as a mother. Alice had made her decision, and she would also have to make such arrangements as were necessary to look after her child.

  So Alice juggled. She had read about mothers juggling children and careers but had never realised how hard it could be. Even when she was able to work from home, Finn and his needs were a constant distraction, and despite the services of an excellent childminder, things could go wrong. Besides, children didn’t always go according to plan. They could be sick in the night, springing sudden alarming fevers; they could have accidents, the aftermath of which required the presence of a parent. Later on, there were school sports days, speech days and school plays. Finn wasn’t much of an actor or a sportsman, but had still been given small parts requiring a maternal audience (a tree in a nativity play; a reserve for the school second football team), and since Alice was a perfectionist and this now extended to motherhood, life became complicated. But after fifteen years, Alice would have been the first to admit that having Finn had made her a better person. She no longer fretted over a dirty kitchen floor or an unironed shirt, or whether fish fingers twice in a week would permanently damage Finn’s health. There simply wasn’t time. She became more relaxed over her own minor shortcomings and more tolerant of those of other people.

  “Welcome to the real world, Alice,” said her mother.

  It had taken Alice two years to decide to contact Finn’s father. It had been quite a job tracking him down (the friend of an acquaintance of a friend — that sort of thing) and had required a lot of courage to phone him. At first, he’d been disbelieving, then shocked, and then angry.

  “Two years? All this happened two years ago, and you didn’t think to tell me? If I am this child’s father, which I very much doubt. As for you, I can’t even remember your name, never mind your face.”

  Alice refrained from reminding him that it probably wasn’t her face that had preoccupied him at the time, and explained who she was.

  “A journalist? I don’t trust journalists. How do I know you’re not going to sell your story to some sleazy little newspaper?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. This is strictly between you and me.”

  “Well, I’ll need DNA of course. Proof. You can’t just go around telling someone you met two years ago that they fathered your child, and not expect him to want proof.”

  “Of course you can have proof. I expected you’d want it, and you can have it.”

  “What’s it like, this child?”

  “He. He’s a boy.”

  “He, then.”

  “Blond. Blue-eyed. Very sweet.”

  “I’ve got brown eyes.” The voice was indignant.

  “Well, I’ve got blue eyes.”

  “Brown eyes are dominant. Everyone knows that. If it — he — was mine, he’d have brown eyes.”

  Alice had sighed. “Let’s just do the DNA thing, shall we? Then we can talk about the colour of his eyes.”

  Finn’s father turned out to be an artist of mediocre talent and minimal means. Known to his friends as Trot (something to do with an interest in Trotsky as a boy), he was, Alice thought, pleasant enough, although when they met, she didn’t recognise him at all. He was not exactly what she would have chosen as the father of her child, but she could have done a lot worse. Once the DNA was sorted out (eye colour notwithstanding), he seemed to warm to the idea of fatherhood, and while he made it clear that financial support would not be forthcoming (Alice never asked for any), he did take an interest in Finn. Trot was bad at birthdays and Christmas, but good at exciting trips and occasional surprises, and he and Finn got on remarkably well. Finn never called him Daddy or Dad, and nobody asked him to. He was just Trot. Alice privately thought that Finn preferred to think of Trot as a mate, and that was fine. At least he had a father. What he called him was immaterial. Trot remained single, and this seemed to please Finn, although Alice wasn’t quite sure why.

  Now Alice loaded her groceries into the back of her car and started the engine. If she hurried, she would just about make it to the school in time. Finn was a poor timekeeper and was probably still changing out of his football gear or gossiping in the changing rooms. He disliked football but was fond of the master in charge, and the second team was short of players. Alice reflected that in spite of his shortcomings, Finn had a very kind side to him. She hoped very much that he had had a shower.

  While she was preparing their meal, Alice asked Finn about his plans for the weekend.

  “Fishing with Trot,” was the somewhat unexpected answer.

  “What?”

  “Yeah. Trot’s taken up fishing, and wants me to go with him. He’s picking me up from Kenny’s in the morning.” Finn was spending the night with Kenny, a friend of whom Alice didn’t altogether approve.

  “Is this another of his crazes?” Trot was given to sudden enthusiasms, which as often as not fizzled out before they’d had a chance to get going. To date, he’d clocked up, among other things, birdwatching (he got bored), horse riding (he fell off and lost his nerve), motorbikes (ditto), and visiting steam railways (Alice suspected that the necessary travelling involved too much effort). Finn frequently accompanied his father on these forays into new, if not always fascinating, territory, and never seemed to mind if they didn’t last. Trot was fun to be with, and Finn enjoyed the fun, if not always the activities.

  In some ways Alice was envious of their relationship. While she’d never wanted or expected any help with Finn’s upbringing, she couldn’t help feeling that Trot had all the fun of parenthood with none of the responsibility. She had borne him an intelligent and on the whole rather nice son, and Trot was free to pop in and out of Finn’s life at will, taking him out when he felt like it and yet sometimes not bothering to contact him for weeks on end. Oddly enough, Finn didn’t seem to mind, possibly because Trot had always been like that and he didn’t expect anything else, but Alice found herself minding on his behalf. On his last birthday, Finn had only received four cards (theirs was a small family), and Alice had felt for him. It wouldn’t have hurt Trot to make the effort; he certainly knew when Finn’s birthday was. But as Trot himself had said, he’d never been good at birthdays.

  “Birthdays, smirthdays…” he’d mocked when Alice had mentioned it some years ago. “Who cares?”

  “Children care,” she’d told him. “Birthdays mean a lot to a child.”

  “They didn’t to me.”

  “Well, you had a mother and father, and as far as I can recollect, grandparents. I doubt very much whether you went short on your birthday. Would it be so difficult just to send a card?”

  “He might expect to find money in it. I’d hate to disappoint him.”

  “Well, money in it wouldn’t be such a bad thing,” said Alice, infuriated. “After all, you spend money on him at other times.”

  “There you are, then,” Trot said. “I am a good daddy after all.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re just another kid. That’s why you and Finn get on so well.”

  “I rest my case.”

  But fishing sounded like a good idea. It would get Finn away from his computer and out into the fresh air, and as she was behind with her current deadline and was going to have to put in some extra work, they wouldn’t be missing time together.

  “Oh, I forgot. Trot asked if I could bring some lunch with me,” Finn said.

>   “Now you tell me!”

  “Just a few sandwiches. I’ll make them.”

  “We’re nearly out of bread. I do wish you’d told me this earlier.”

  “Sorry. I forgot.”

  “And I suppose Trot intends you to feed him, too.” Trot’s domestic arrangements were haphazard.

  “As a matter of fact, he did ask. He’s had a busy week.”

  “And I haven’t?”

  “He’s got an exhibition coming up.”

  “When?”

  “Well, not for a few weeks, but he’s busy getting it organised.”

  “Well, I’m busy trying to earn enough money to keep you in peanut butter and cornflakes.”

  “Twisty Chocolate Honey Flakes,” Finn said. “I like those.”

  “Okay, whatever. The point is that I work, Finn. Work. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “All right. Keep your hair on.”

  “And,” Alice said, trying very hard to keep her temper, “Trot is not busy. Or certainly not as busy as I am. He’s his own boss, he’s got no one else to think about, he can work when he wants, and… and… go fishing when he wants. And make his own bloody sandwiches!” She dumped a pile of folded laundry on the kitchen table. “I wish I had time to go fishing!”

  “He’s bringing the drink,” Finn said.

  “What drink?”

  “Oh, just a few cans.”

  “Finn, you are underage, and Trot will be driving.”

  “We won’t have much, and it’ll have worn off by the time we come home. Trot doesn’t do drink-driving.”

  “Well, if you say so. But you know how irresponsible he can be. You’ll have to try to be the sensible one.”

  “Aren’t I always?” Finn, who had been foraging in cupboards, piled packets of crisps and Kit-Kats, a bag of tomatoes, some apples, and a large packet of cheese on the worktop. “There. One picnic lunch. I’ll just hard boil a few eggs, and that should do us.”

  Alice looked at what amounted to a large proportion of their weekend supplies and bit her tongue. After all, it wasn’t Finn’s fault if he had a feckless father, and a feckless father who was in touch was better than no father at all.

  “Do you think Trot would like to come back for supper afterwards?” she asked.

  “Really?” Finn beamed. He loved it when the three of them got together, and it rarely happened. “I’ll ask him.”

  “It’ll probably have to be something simple as I’ve got this article to finish, but that’s okay, isn’t it?”

  “No problem.”

  Later on, as she set off for her evening with Mavis and Gabs, Alice wondered whether she and Trot could ever have made a go of their relationship. He was personable, amusing, and intelligent, and she could certainly have done a lot worse. But no, it would never have worked. Quite apart from the fact that he wasn’t her type, Alice knew that Trot would have driven her mad within days. It would have been like having another child.

  Besides, there was Jay.

  Only the members of the Basic Theology group knew about Jay, and of course Father Cuthbert (who no longer counted), but none of her family and friends knew, not even Finn. Especially not Finn. The affair had been going for nearly four years now, and while Alice accepted that there was no future in it, she couldn’t bring herself to let go. She didn’t so much mind not being married to him or living with him; she could cope with that. What she found difficult was the secrecy.

  Before their affair had begun, Alice had had no idea how many pitfalls awaited those engaged in an illicit relationship. A car parked in the wrong place, the risk of bumping into someone they knew, the difficulties involved in arranging any time together — there were times when the problems seemed insurmountable. Weeks would go by when they scarcely saw each other, and had to make do with the odd snatched phone call or brief unsatisfactory meeting. And yet in some ways, it was the risk — the excitement, perhaps — that kept the relationship fresh, for it was hard to grow tired of someone when you hardly ever saw them.

  Alice had met Jay on a crowded train. Jammed up against each other (there was standing room only), they had struck up a conversation. The train was slow, and Jay was a good listener — attentive without being intrusive — and by the time Alice reached her destination, she realised that she had spent most of the time talking about herself, and that she knew virtually nothing about her companion.

  “Gosh. I’m sorry. I haven’t stopped talking, have I?” she said as the train began to slow down. “What must you think of me?”

  “Does it matter what I think of you?” Jay had asked her. His tone was teasing, but his expression was serious.

  They had held each other’s gaze for a long moment before Alice blushed and looked away.

  “Yes. Yes, it does,” she said, wondering that she should mind so much about the opinion of a stranger.

  “That’s good. Because — because I’d like to see you again. That is, if you don’t mind.”

  And that was how it had started. Afterwards, Alice often wondered at the coincidence of their meeting. If it hadn’t been one of her London days (her job on a Sunday colour supplement enabled her to do most of her work from home); if she hadn’t missed the earlier train; if she had been able to find a seat… all those ifs. But they had met, and before she left the station that evening, Alice knew that her life was about to change.

  Their first meeting took place in a discreet coffee bar halfway between their homes (they lived some distance apart), and there was none of the awkwardness that Alice had feared.

  “I’m afraid I did nearly all the talking last time,” she said. “Now it’s your turn.”

  “What do you want me to say?” Jay had asked.

  “Tell me about yourself. After all, you already know quite a lot about me.”

  “Well, I live in town, I support Manchester United, I have two black labradors, and I’m allergic to shellfish. Will that do?”

  “Hardly. For a start, I want to know what you are, what you do for a living.”

  “I’m a medic.”

  “That doesn’t tell me much! What kind of medic?”

  “Oh, this and that. Nothing particularly interesting.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Not quite. But I suppose I’ve got out of the habit of talking about it, partly to avoid people asking my advice. If you tell anyone you’re a doctor, you’re considered fair game, even at social gatherings. So I try to avoid it. Sometimes I just tell them I’m an accountant. It seems that no-one’s interested in accountants.”

  Alice laughed. “So you won’t tell me any more? Even if I promise never to ask your advice?”

  “I hope you’ll never need it. I’m an oncologist.” Jay smiled at her expression. “Cancer,” he explained. “I work at the District General, and I also look after the local hospice.”

  “Isn’t that a bit depressing?”

  “People do get better, you know. More so now than ever. And if they don’t, well, at least I can help to make things a bit easier. Make a difference.”

  Looking at Jay — at his dark, serious eyes and warm, sympathetic smile — Alice could well imagine that he would make a difference. She had only spent a couple of hours in his company, and he was already making a considerable difference to her.

  “You wear a wedding ring,” she said now. “You’re — married?”

  “Yes, I’m married.”

  “And?”

  “And we will talk about it, but not now.”

  “Children?”

  “No children.”

  Alice nodded. A waitress whisked past carrying a tray; two women at a corner table were discussing a party they’d been to. Alice picked up her bag from the floor, and then put it down again. The seconds ticked by.

  “I don’t — do this kind of thing,” she said, after a moment.

  “Neither do I.” Jay touched her hand. “I’ve never ‘done this kind of thing,’ as you put it, before.”

  “Then — why…?”
>
  “I think you know why.”

  “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  For the attraction between them was overwhelming; something Alice had rarely felt before and had almost given up hope of finding again. And while she realised, even at that early stage, that the way ahead would almost certainly be both difficult and painful, she felt powerless to stop.

  One of Alice’s rules had always been never to date married men, but she had been completely swept away by Jay, and their affair had developed rapidly from there. Because of the distance they had to travel (given Jay’s work, that was probably just as well), meetings between them were infrequent and not easy to arrange, but they saw each other when they could, and phoned often. It wasn’t ideal, but it had to be enough. Alice considered that it was a price worth paying, and so, apparently, did Jay.

  Over time, Alice discovered that Jay was something of an expert in his field, but while he did sometimes discuss his work with her, he was dismissive of any accolades.

  “It’s just a job,” he would say. “I’m fortunate to be doing something I love.” And he would leave it at that.

  “Am I allowed to be proud of you?” she had asked him on one occasion, when he had been invited to open a new wing of the hospice.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, if I were — related to you, I’d be proud of you. Of what you do. All those people you help; all those families. Are mistresses allowed to be proud?”

  Jay had laughed. “You can be proud if you want to be. Of course you can. But I just do my job. As you do yours.”

  Alice knew that Jay’s marriage was an unhappy one, but they never discussed it. It was bad enough to betray another woman by sleeping with her husband; to ask questions about her seemed almost worse. Fortunately, Jay seemed to feel the same way, so Angela remained an unknown quantity. All Alice knew was that after many shared years of trying (and failing) to produce children, Jay felt that the least he could do was to stay with his wife. As he said, if he allowed himself to be free, he might be tempted to find someone with whom he could have a family, and that would be unforgivably hurtful. So in that respect, Alice was a reasonable solution. She didn’t want more children even had she been young enough to have them, and she made very few demands.