by Robin Byron
Jake had no objection to being honest with Helen, but was unsure what, if anything, Leah had said to her mother. He was also in some doubt how to describe the current state of their relationship.
‘Shouldn’t you ask Leah that?’ he said.
Helen ignored his comment. ‘I am extremely upset and disappointed with you. Leah has just finished school – we thought you were looking after her. We trusted you. You were giving her some work experience.’
‘She’s eighteen, you know, and…’
‘Yes, and you are twenty-six and her cousin. You are a close relation and you have exploited a position of trust in a really shocking way. Do you remember, Jake, when we were over here the year after your sister died? You took Emma and Leah out for a hamburger. Two little girls aged twelve and ten. You were like an uncle to them. And that’s how it should have remained.’
‘People grow up…’
‘I think it’s a disgrace and you should stop seeing her. I don’t want her going to your office anymore either.’
Jake shrugged. ‘Of course, if she doesn’t want to.’
‘I’m asking you to show adult responsibility – I don’t intend to let this go…’
Fortunately for Jake, he was rescued by Leah’s return to the kitchen and the subject was not alluded to again. After a decent interval, he took his leave and Leah came down to the street with him.
‘Was Mum giving you the third degree?’
‘Afraid so.’
‘I came as soon as I realised you were alone with her.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I’ll walk to the station with you.’
As they walked up the road and back across the Cathedral piazza neither spoke, but Leah took his hand. When they reached the station, she gave him a chaste kiss. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I won’t give up on this and neither must you.’
31
Marianne screwed up the piece of paper and threw it into the bin. She rubbed her cold and painful hands and called to Anna to check the thermostat. Well, the oil should last another week and then it won’t be my problem anymore, she thought. No more problems – except for this letter to Callum, and, of course, there was still Anna. But first of all, Callum; she took another piece of paper and wrote, My darling Callum, then she stopped as the telephone rang.
It was Helen. This was an unusual event and Marianne wondered what had provoked the call; Helen didn’t take long to get to the point. Was it true she had encouraged Leah to start a sexual relationship with Jake? Marianne didn’t feel any need to apologise. She denied encouraging her, but yes, Leah had implied that something was going on with Jake and she saw no reason to criticise – indeed she had been delighted at the news. She then had to listen to Helen’s many objections before the call came to an awkward and unresolved ending.
‘Some problem?’ said Anna.
‘I’m in trouble with Helen. She objects to Leah’s involvement with Jake.’
‘Is that your fault?’
‘She thinks I encouraged it.’
Anna laughed. ‘I was surprised when you tell me – but I like Jake. I think he’s OK for Leah. You should ask him to visit you again – I think he made you cheerful, no?’
‘Jake – yes, I did enjoy his visit. Anyway, I must get on with this letter.’
‘OK, I will leave you for half an hour and go to the shop; we need more coffee if Callum is coming tomorrow – just Callum, is it?’
‘Yes, just Callum.’
Marianne turned her attention back to the letter, but the telephone rang again. This time it was Nikhita Singh, the nurse she had seen at the clinic, checking to see how she was coping.
‘I know it can be a difficult time,’ she said.
Not half, Marianne thought, as she assured her nurse that she was coping fine.
Turning back to the letter again, the right words wouldn’t come. No, leaving a letter for Callum till after she was dead wasn’t the right way; she realised that now. What she had to say must be said to his face.
When Callum arrived the following day, he greeted her cheerfully, chatted to Anna, and appeared to Marianne to be surprisingly relaxed; no sign of someone being buffeted in the vortex of the family’s angst about her decision to end her life. Then she thought, is it because he doesn’t have Helen with him? Callum sat down in a chair close to hers and held her hand.
‘So what on earth was Jake doing coming to see you?’ he said.
‘Sent by Claire, of course.’
‘Even so, I’m surprised you let him.’
‘Well, I wasn’t going to, but somehow he persuaded me and I’m glad he did. He’s a charming boy and I think he might be interested in finishing off the diaries.’
‘Yes, he mentioned that to me – which, of course, was quite unnecessary since you know I don’t care about all that stuff. What he really wanted to do was to tell me I shouldn’t let you go.’
‘You mustn’t blame Jake, or Dorrie, or anyone else. They are just doing what they think they have to.’
‘You realise Jake is not exactly flavour of the month in our household?’
‘So I gather.’
‘I’m sorry Helen called you – but I can’t believe you actually encouraged Leah.’
‘I don’t think it’s anything to be too upset about.’
‘Honestly, Mum – she’s just out of school. What were you thinking? He’s an older relation who was supposed to be looking after her – mentoring her. We are really quite shocked.’
‘Well, I’m sorry if I did wrong. Put it down to a touch of dementia on the part of your old mum. From my perspective eighteen and twenty-five – or whatever he is – seem like pretty much the same age. But tell me about Claire?’
‘Claire was pretty sensible, I must say. I’ve got a lot of time for Claire.’
‘And she likes you. Always has. After all, you did save Julie. She told me once that I underestimated you.’
‘It’s nice to have been a hero once in your life – but all I did was carry Julie to the road.’
‘It was a long way.’
‘That’s true – I could hardly move my arms the next day, they were so stiff.’
‘And you photographed the snake.’
‘It was just lucky I had got my new phone with a camera – it was one of the first ones. I think that’s what amazed Claire. She didn’t know then that mobile phones had cameras.’
‘Anyway, what was Claire’s pronouncement?’
‘She was just anxious to know whether you were really fixed on the idea.’
‘I hope you said that I was?’
‘I did.’
‘So she didn’t urge you to talk me out of it?’
‘She said I should keep trying to dissuade you because that would test your resolve.’
‘Sounds reasonable.’
‘She said that she wasn’t really surprised. She thinks that you have a bit of an obsession about being in control. This would be your final demonstration of your power to control your own destiny.’
‘My destiny – that’s a bit dramatic. But maybe an element of truth in it.’
‘When she told me that, I couldn’t help thinking of the time when we were going to France and there was a delay at the airport and you got so impatient,’ said Callum, laughing.
‘Oh that.’
‘You insisted that we cancel the flights and travel back into London; we then got the Eurostar to Paris, lugged all our gear into a taxi to the Gare de Lyon…’
‘I’ve heard all this before.’
‘… then another train… we would have been there a whole day earlier if we’d stuck to flying – and it cost a lot more money – but you felt empowered…’
‘And I’ve never heard the end of it.’
‘Claire was very amused.’
‘She was; man
ically impatient, she called me – or something like that.’
As they continued to chat and laugh and reminisce, Marianne had a sense of ease talking to Callum which she hadn’t felt for years. This is how it should always have been, she thought. There has been nothing missing in my love for Callum – just circumstances coming between us. And in so thinking, there welled up inside her such a tenderness for Callum and such shame at her own doubts that she felt shocked that she could have contemplated leaving that letter behind for him after she was dead.
‘Callum, there’s something I need to tell you,’ she said.
‘Yes?’
‘I think that when you were growing up you always believed that Andy was actually dead.’
‘Wasn’t he?’
‘No.’
‘So what are you telling me?’
Marianne set about explaining to Callum how it had been. How, in her whirlpool of grief at Izzy’s death, he had been her lifebelt and how she had vowed that she would be his protector. She told him how she had fought with Edward over his adoption and exaggerated the extent of Andy’s injuries.
‘I don’t think I ever lied to you directly,’ she said, ‘but you got it firmly into your head that Andy was dead and it seemed easiest to let you go on believing that. Dad wanted to tell you, but somehow it never seemed to be the right time. I also wondered whether it would be fair on Andy.’
‘So are you telling me he was absolutely fine – nothing wrong with him?’
‘More or less. I mean, he nearly died in the accident, but he gradually recovered – although we didn’t know his state of health after the adoption because we had no contact with him.’
‘You’re not telling me he is still alive now?’
‘No. After Dad died I thought that I should find out what had happened to him, so I wrote to his mother but never received a reply. I then travelled to Glasgow and went to the last address we had and she was still there. She wasn’t very friendly but she told me Andy had died of a stroke a couple of years earlier. She gave me the impression that this was all due to the accident; that his health had never been the same again.’
As Marianne was talking, Callum got up from his chair and started to walk around the room. ‘Well, I can’t pretend it’s not a bit of a shock,’ he said. ‘So Andy – my real father – lived on till just before Dad died. So when I was around thirty.’
‘Yes.’
‘He can’t have been more than fifty when he died?’
‘I suppose so. I think perhaps he never fully recovered – as his mother suggested.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me? I mean, once I was grown up?’
‘It didn’t seem necessary. Would you have wanted to meet him?’
‘I can’t say now, can I? The point is, I never got the chance.’
‘That’s why I am telling you now. I prevented you ever knowing your real father, and I prevented Andy from ever knowing his son. You have every right to blame me for this. I am sorry to spring this on you, but it is right you should know the truth before I die.’
Marianne watched as Callum tried to digest this knowledge. Some men would have remonstrated, shouted, perhaps sworn, but this was not Callum’s way. She watched as he tried to reconcile his conflicting emotions. So like Edward, she thought; he’s unhappy about what he’s heard but he wants to understand it from my point of view. That’s both his strength and his weakness – he can always see the other point of view. On this occasion Marianne felt grateful for his considered reaction.
‘I am surprised Dad never told me?’
‘That wasn’t his way. He disagreed with me, but he left it for me to decide.’
‘But anyway, Andy gave up any right to see me – I mean, when he agreed to the adoption.’
‘Yes.’
‘He didn’t have to consent – and you told me the adoption took ages to go through.’
‘It certainly seemed like ages.’
‘So I don’t think you can say you deprived Andy of anything – he made his own decision.’
Marianne was silent as she watched Callum rationalising what he had heard; stacking the pieces in a logical and ordered pile.
‘When you think about it, he was probably relieved. Absolved of any responsibility for the child.’
Marianne shrugged.
‘And as for me, I lost nothing. I didn’t want another father. No, I think you did the right thing.’
‘I don’t know whether you are just saying this – but thank you anyway.’
‘Mum, don’t be stupid – I’m not just saying it. I mean it.’
Callum sat down next to Marianne again and took her hand. ‘If you’ve been getting yourself worked up into a great state of guilt then you shouldn’t. My mother was dead. You took on the raising of your grandson when his natural father was neither willing nor able to do so. Letting me think he was dead was just for my own protection – and perhaps for his as well. You have no reason to blame yourself.’
‘Thank you, darling.’
‘Perhaps you could have told me when I was in my twenties – that’s the only thing I would say.’
‘I should have done, darling, and I’m very sorry – but there never seemed to be a right time.’
‘It’s something we have in common – not knowing our biological fathers. When you think about it, you know even less than I do – a Latvian soldier in the German army. You don’t even know for sure that he died in the war.’
‘No, I can’t be certain.’
‘And you said it never mattered to you and it doesn’t matter to me. So we don’t need to discuss it any more. Does Claire know?’
‘I don’t think so. I think she believed Andy had died a few years after the accident.’
Callum laughed. ‘Claire would have a field day if she knew this – more evidence of your controlling nature. You have always wanted to mould events to your will, she would say.’
After he had left, Marianne thought about Callum’s visit. Perhaps Claire was right and she did underestimate him. First, he had made a decent job of persuading her that what she had done was nothing to be ashamed of – she wasn’t quite convinced but it was good to hear his absolution; then he succeeded in cheering her up by being relaxed and not too serious; finally, he had made a short but powerful plea: not so much that she should change her mind but to postpone her appointment at the clinic. Live for another six months and see how it goes. Why not?
She had not succumbed to his blandishments but they had seemed heartfelt. What he doesn’t know, she thought, is that I have been giving myself a few more months for the last year before I made the final decision. She had to acknowledge, however, that it was tempting and she had promised to think about it seriously. And I will, she thought. After all, what else do I have to think about?
32
The feeling was extraordinary; a kind of weightless euphoria had taken hold of her. She felt wonderfully energised but also completely calm. Her many sources of pain were still there in the background but had become irrelevant, as if they belonged to someone else. Apart from the occasional joint in her student days, she had never been one for recreational drugs. Perhaps I should have been more adventurous, she thought. I have never had a high quite like this before.
The reason for her sudden elation was that Marianne had decided to live. That is to say, she had decided to postpone for a while her final appointment with the AD clinic. She couldn’t explain exactly how or why she had made this decision. Indeed, she didn’t recall making the decision at all; she had just woken up in the morning knowing that the decision had been made. Perhaps it was down to Callum, perhaps it was Dorrie or perhaps she had just lost her nerve, but now she was wallowing in a warm bath of rapture, the like of which she could never before remember.
So far she hadn’t told anyone, but she had been upbeat when she spoke to Callum tha
t morning, hinting that she might change her mind. She planned to call the clinic on Monday and let them know. In the meantime, comforting ideas floated around her head. She thought of her mother’s diaries and then she thought of Jake. I could work with him. He could be my research assistant. To make sense of it all I need to look at contemporary records from wartime Normandy. It’s all too much for me on my own but with his help… Yes, together we could make something of it, she thought.
Then she thought about her other grand-daughter, Emma. I would like to see her again before I die. I don’t want to summon her from the other side of the world to a death-bed scene so I have an idea that I could travel out halfway and spend a few days with her and perhaps Leah could come too. I could stay in one of those luxury Asian hotels I have read about, perhaps even swim in the sea again. A warm sea which would wash away all my aches and pains. It would be expensive but there’s still a bit more I could borrow on the house. Perhaps we could all spend Christmas out there, she thought, and images of herself lying in the shade of a palm tree while the girls played on the beach (had they suddenly got ten years younger?) floated before her.
Surely I’m not too old to travel, she thought. My friend Penny flew around the world last year and she’s nearly as old as I am. She said that if you fly business class it’s not uncomfortable and they whisk you through the airports on those electric carts. After all, if I peg out on the way, so what? It wouldn’t be a bad way to go.
Thoughts of the future mingled with memories of the past. She recalled that moment of exhilaration when she realised she was being released from her Moscow detention and was no longer at risk of a lengthy prison sentence. Then another image from Moscow came to her. She is attending a conference on Pushkin – it must have been the end of the nineties, a good few years after the demise of the Soviet Union – the first time she has been back. She is chatting to another delegate in the bar after dinner. He introduces himself as Nicholai; a good-looking Russian professor perhaps ten years younger than her.
He pours her some vodka and they drink a toast to the great names of Russian literature. They talk about poetry, about their families, about the old Soviet Union and the new Russia – where his friends are trying to keep their heads above water in the wild, anarchic, mafia-dominated world of the modern Moscow. He seems well acquainted with her CV, and asks her about her time in Moscow in the seventies. Perhaps it’s the vodka, but suddenly she is doing what she has never done before; she is pouring out the whole story of her arrest and expulsion from Russia – and how the photos were later used to try to blackmail her.
