Astonishing Splashes of Colour (22 page)

“Kitty!”

I nearly drop the KitKat and the comb in surprise. I never expected to be recognized on the number 11 bus. I raise my eyes and find myself looking into the slightly shocked face of Hélène, the au pair from outside the school.

“Sorry?” I say, unable to think.

“Kitty, it is I, Hélène.”

“I’m sorry. You must have the wrong person.”

But she knows. She looks into my eyes and knows that I’m Kitty. “You disappeared. You ran away, never came back.”

I can feel my face going very red and hot. I reach up with a shaky hand and try to wipe my forehead, but the sweat keeps coming and I can feel it dripping off my eyebrows on to my cheeks.

I look at Hélène, who seems to be opening and shutting her mouth as if she’s talking, but I can’t hear the words. “Got to go,” I mutter and stagger to the front of the bus.

The bus stops obligingly and I get off, suddenly terrified that Hélène has followed me. But the bus sets off again and I can see her in the back window, looking out at me, her face sad and confused.

I stand at the bus stop for some time, trying to stop shaking. As I begin to calm down, the next number 11 comes along and stops for me. I climb on and sit at the front. The young man next to me has a yellow and orange backpack sitting awkwardly on his lap, and his feet—in Reeboks—smell.

I didn’t mean to abandon her. Twice. What else could I do?

I
LOOK INTO THE PORCH
of Jake’s house, which is really Suzy’s house, and see the dark glossy-leafed plants wilting slightly, and dried mud from someone’s footstep lying where it fell. This tells me much about Suzy’s condition. I wonder why she isn’t in. She can’t possibly be feeling better already. I have a moment of panic when it occurs to me that she might have taken something for the sickness. Does she realize how dangerous that is in the first three months? Has she been to her GP, had it confirmed, received an appointment at the hospital?

I remember that first appointment—the bumpy ride on the bus, jumping off to be sick, getting the next bus just as I started to feel sick again. I remember the feel of the hospital: sterile, alien, smelling of disinfectant; the doctors in white coats, some of whom must have been students; women at various stages of pregnancy being led round the system by competent nurses; flat stomachs, bulging stomachs, gigantic stomachs; people talking to you about “your baby,” when you’ve not quite identified this tiny being who lives inside you.

I remember something I’d almost forgotten. Henry was a mistake. He took us completely by surprise and we didn’t know what to do, because we didn’t think we were grown-up enough to be parents. I was twenty-nine, James thirty-four, but we didn’t have any experience. James was as worried as I was. Then, one day, we were standing by the fountain in Victoria Square. It was very hot and several children had taken off shoes and socks and jumped in. Some of them tried to splash passersby, others practised doggy paddle, their little heads determinedly upright, swallowing the water and spitting it out. The fountain was alive with vividly coloured T-shirts, red, green, pink, turquoise, and parents sitting at the edge, bowed by the heat, longing to jump in too. The children looked very happy.

“But the water’s dirty,” I said.

James smiled and kissed my cheek. “We won’t let our children go in then,” he said.

His voice of acceptance went right through me, cleaned out the fear and replaced it with a surge of warmth that had been waiting for exactly that moment.

“It’ll be all right, won’t it?”

“Yes,” he said.

I’ll go and find Jake. He’ll be able to tell me when Suzy is due home.

I take another bus into the city centre and look for Jake in New Street. As soon as I catch sight of him playing his violin, I’m shocked, even though I knew perfectly well that I’d find him here. He should have gone to the hospital with Suzy. She must need his support if she is so sick, and he should be able to sympathize because of his vast experience of ill-health.

He is playing Vivaldi. I stand on the edge of the group who have stopped to listen and I watch him. As he ripples through the frantic, glittering demi-semiquavers, he tosses out a misty, carefree spray of music on everyone who listens. In these brief, entertaining moments, the drops fly though the air, light and frivolous, and Jake looks almost cheerful.

There is a group of workmen in the crowd. “Play us an Irish jig,” one of them calls out when he finishes the Vivaldi.

So Jake plays an Irish jig and becomes lighter still, his left foot tapping as he plays. Most people have stayed and when the workmen start to clap along with Jake, everyone joins in. I clap too, carried away by the fun of it all, and we are laughing, clapping, dancing on the spot, while Jake plays faster and faster. I’ve no idea if he’s playing a recognized tune or if he’s making it up as he goes along.

He finishes with a flourish and puts his violin down. His face is red and shiny with the exertion and he’s out of breath.

The crowd, a big one by now, throw money into his open violin case and drift away. Some hang around and speak to him. He talks familiarly to them—he must have regulars, people who come especially for a cheap concert; free if they don’t have any money. I’m sure Jake doesn’t mind about the money. Suzy earns enough for both of them.

He knows I’m here. He talks to a small group for a few minutes and then comes over to me.

“Hello, Kitty. Shouldn’t you be at home, working?”

I don’t understand what he’s talking about. Why should I be at home now? I can work all night if I need to. “Jake,” I say, “which hospital is Suzy going to?”

His face freezes and I can see shock creeping up into his eyes. “What do you mean? Has something happened?”

“No, no.” I lay a hand on his arm, realizing that I’ve confused him. “It’s all right. Nothing’s happened. Suzy’s fine.”

His face clears and he turns away briefly to give a wave of thanks to someone who has put money in his case.

“I mean the baby.”

“What baby?” His face seems to close up.

“Suzy’s baby. Which hospital has she been sent to?”

“What are you talking about?”

I swallow hard and try to relax my voice. “The baby, Jake. Your baby, Suzy’s baby, that you’re expecting in seven or eight months.”

His voice is tighter and less familiar. “Go home, Kitty, and talk to James. I can’t deal with this. Adrian was right.”

He turns away from me, a stranger. What happened to the kind, sympathetic brother who gave me sanctuary not so long ago? Why does everyone have more than one face?

He lifts the violin under his chin and changes the tension on his bow.

“But where is Suzy? Which hospital?”

“Go home, Kitty. You’re distracting me. Phone me later if you want to. I’m busy now.”

“But where is she?”

“At work, of course. Where would you expect her to be?”

He turns away from me and brings his bow down fiercely, but with absolute control. The music that comes out this time is deep and passionate. The violin almost speaks, the way the bow pulls at the strings and lingers on the low notes. A new crowd gathers almost immediately, drawn by the anguish of the sound, and I watch them for a while, wondering what they hear. Does he take them down his road, or does he open a different door for every individual?

Jake plays to me, to Suzy, to the baby, even though he won’t acknowledge it. He refuses to turn in my direction, because he knows I’m still here. Now the music is so deep, so dark that it hurts me inside.

I walk away, but as I walk, I can still hear the music and I can feel a cold fear creeping through me. I have to stop and catch my breath as I begin to understand what the violin is telling me.

I step into Suzy’s bank and immediately see her at the far end, standing amongst the desks and paperwork, shaking hands in a business-like way with a middle-aged man with greying hair and earnest glasses. She’s wearing a green suit—just above the knee—and a white silk blouse covered with geometric patterns in a green that matches the suit exactly. Her hair is washed and flicked back in an immaculately carefree way. She looks very good.

She glances past the man and sees me. She waves, says a few more words to the man and comes over to me.

“Kitty! What are you doing here? Not arranging another mortgage, I hope?”

“Why are you back at work?” I say softly.

She looks confused, then smiles. “Oh, you mean my stomach
upset. That was ages ago. It was just a twenty-four-hour thing anyway.”

I examine her face. Now that I’m closer, I see that she looks paler, more tired than usual. As if she is not sleeping well.

“A guilty conscience,” I say.

She frowns. “What are you talking about, Kitty?” But she gives herself away. I see from her eyes that I’m right, and there’s only one possible explanation for her denial. Jake’s music throbs inside me. I want to scream at her.

“The baby,” I say and watch her reaction. “Where is it?”

She pauses for a few seconds. She has understood. “What are you talking about?” she says again.

“You know.”

She looks irritably at her watch. “Look, Kitty, I have an appointment in two minutes’ time. Can we discuss this later—whatever it is?”

“No,” I say, and my voice is louder than before. “I want to discuss it now.”

People are watching us. Young men with open, friendly faces, in pinstriped suits, young women cashiers behind bulletproof glass, who smile a lot and know how to say “Good morning” pleasantly to everyone.

Suzy turns to the next desk with a warm, genuine smile. Her voice is bright and professional. “John, I’m expecting Mr. Woodall in a couple of minutes—you know him, don’t you?”

John nods.

“Could you ask him to wait five minutes for me. I am a little behind schedule.”

“Of course,” says John. “No problem.”

“Come with me,” she says and leads me away from the working area.

We go through a red door (“Please keep shut”) and up two
flights of stairs. Two fire doors, another door and we arrive at a small office with a desk, a computer, two chairs and a filing cabinet. This must be the room they use when they call in the overdraft, refuse the loan. The room of bad news.

Once we’re in the room, we sit down, Suzy behind the desk, me in the lower, comfortable chair.

“Now look, Kitty. This won’t do. I’m in the middle of a working day. I’m very busy and I let people down if I can’t keep to my time commitments. You can’t just turn up and talk nonsense and expect me to be pleased to see you.”

“I don’t expect you to be pleased to see me,” I say. “I expect you to tell me the truth.”

“And what exactly is the truth? Why are you here?”

“The baby.”

“What baby?”

“You were pregnant, weren’t you, when I saw you the other day?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I was ill.”

“No,” I say slowly. “I can tell. I know how it feels to be pregnant, I know about the sickness.”

She picks up a pen and starts to doodle on an empty pad. “This is nonsense, Kitty. I’ve told you, I was ill.”

“No,” I say. “You were pregnant.”

“I am not pregnant.”

“No,” I say—Jake’s music was unmistakable. “But you were then.”

Her face loses all its colour, and the words that come out are tight and furious. “You are completely wrong. But even if you were right, what business is it of yours? Who do you think you are, coming here in the middle of the day, accusing me, refusing to leave, making a scene in front of everyone?” She’s pressing harder with the pen, moving it angrily, making vicious ridges in the paper.

She’s admitting it. She’s angry because I’ve discovered the truth. “I can’t believe—” I say, and my voice is shaking, “I can’t believe that you could have had—” I can’t use the word. I don’t want it in my mouth.

“Why is it such a terrible thing?” She spits the words out and uncrosses her legs with her frustration. She doesn’t look entirely at ease sitting there and I realize she must still be sore. “People have different opinions about that, don’t they? Otherwise it wouldn’t be legal. Who are you to say if it is right or wrong for me to have a baby? You live your life, I live mine. You like your job. I like mine. I’m good at it. I want to go on working. I already have a child at home. His name’s Jake and he needs a lot of my time and care. How dare you come here and make accusations you can’t back up and judgements about how I should live my life?”

I watch her. She’s looking over my shoulder, as if there’s someone standing behind me. I think she’s holding back the tears.

She takes a breath. “Look, Kitty,” she says more gently. “I’m sorry about—everything. I wish it hadn’t happened, but nothing I do is going to make any difference. I’d like to help you in some way, but I don’t know how.”

I can’t speak to her any more. There’s a howling rage inside me which is unfamiliar and frightening. I want to leap up and grab her perfect hair, to pull at her professional suit and tear it apart, shake her and shake her for the terrible thing she’s done. I can’t look at her. My hands are trembling.

“I think you should go now,” she says, standing up and opening the door.

I follow her silently downstairs. At the bottom she opens the fire door and I go through. As I leave the bank, I see her going over to a man in a suit with a briefcase. “Mr. Woodall,” she says
and holds her hand out to him. She looks utterly professional. Her smile is wide and welcoming, her voice warm. There are just two red spots on her cheeks to reveal that she might have been mildly unsettled by my appearance.