I thanked him and went to fill the kettle and a couple of saucepans.
Later, while we were eating sandwiches at the dining room table, Barry told me that he was a single parent. I asked who took care of his daughters when he was working.
“My sister does her best, but of course they're convinced that they're too old to need minding. I always thought things would get easier as they got older, but actually it's harder. Nowadays I can't tell them to do anything.”
“They'll be grown up soon,” I said. “And you won't have to worry about them anymore.”
“I wish it were that simple. Wait until you have children. Then you'll see.” He sighed and took another bite of his ham sandwich.
In an effort to distract him from what seemed to be a painful topic, I enquired about the plumbing. There was a problem with the valves, and for the rest of the meal Barry described the intricacies of our sink, sketching in the air for me the nature of the difficulty.
I went back to my painting. As I opened a new tin of paint, I thought about what Barry had said. In the past when people had made remarks about their children being intractable, I had secretly harboured the opinion that they had only themselves to blame, but in getting to know Jenny I had learned that a child could be as stubborn and determined as any adult. I felt a terrible wave of apprehension at the thought of living with her; it would not be like living with an adult, who would come and go and have her own life. She would have our life.
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By the time Stephen returned, I had begun work on the fourth wall. He stood in the middle of the bare yellow room, looking around admiringly. “This is great,” he exclaimed. “I thought you were only going to do a little bit. You must have been working all day.”
“I wanted to finish it,” I said. I smiled at him over my shoulder and continued rolling up and down.
“I'm glad you didn't, else I'd feel guilty. Tomorrow you can stand around and direct me while I do the ceiling.” He walked over and tentatively touched the paint near the window. “What about Barry?” he asked.
“He needs a couple of parts. He'll be back on Monday.”
“Oh, well, we thought that might happen,” said Stephen. “I bought you a present.” From behind his back he produced a poster tube. “It's for your newly painted walls.” He unwrapped it and held it up for me to see. The poster was titled “How the World BeganâPart I” and showed various kinds of rocks and fossils.
“Thank you. We'll have to put it up when we finish painting.” Even as I spoke I remembered that this was Jenny's room; it was not for Stephen and me to decide what should go on the walls.
“Why don't you stop now? I can tidy up.” He took the roller out of my hand and gave me a little push in the direction of the door.
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While we were making dinner, I asked how the day had gone. “It was fun,” said Stephen. “The exhibition was very nicely laid out, and there were lots of games and questions for the children. Did you know that you shouldn't feed birds during the spring?”
I shook my head. “Why not?”
“Apparently, stale bread isn't good for them when they're nesting. I suppose it's like eating only chocolate when you're pregnant.”
He was sitting at one end of the dining room table, cutting up vegetables. I was standing at the opposite end, grating cheese. “That makes sense,” I said. “Did Jenny seem upset?”
“No, she was fine. Of course Anna was there, so there was lots of girlish giggling and no chance for major conversations, but she seemed her usual self. She did tell me about a dream she'd had in which she and Helen and I were living in our old flat.”
“And what happened?”
“Nothing, as far as I know. She only mentioned it in passing. I was glad because it suggests that she's forgotten the strain of those last six months.”
“Perhaps she didn't realise how much of a strain they were.” I pushed the cheese against the grater and watched it emerge out of the holes in soft strings.
“Of course we tried to shield herâwe would have furious arguments entirely in whispersâbut it's impossible to keep that sort of thing secret. You can't lie to someone you live with, or at least not for long.” Stephen smiled at me and reached for a pepper.
“I'm not sure about that,” I said. “Look what happened with my parents. I would have been prepared to swear on the Bible that they were happily married. Even when they told me they weren't, I didn't have that experience of everything
suddenly making sense. In fact it was the reverse: everything suddenly made nonsense.”
“From what you've told me, it doesn't sound like your parents were lying,” Stephen said. “They were happy; they just weren't happy to be married to each other.” He began to dice the pepper, bringing the knife down through the green flesh.
I returned to the kitchen to beat the eggs and pour them into the frying pan. As I stood at the stove, watching the yellow liquid bubble and solidify, I thought of the other main example of deceit in my life: Lewis. But that had been different from my parents; I had wanted so badly to believe him that no one could have hoped for a more willing collaborator. I added the mushrooms and cheese and turned down the heat.
After the initial shock, Helen's phone call ushered in a period of comparative calm. Everyone seemed happy that Jenny was going to live with us. Stephen wanted to be a full-time father; Joyce and Edward were ecstatic to have their granddaughter back; even Suzie, when I told her the news, jumped up and hugged me. Probably the only person who shared my reservations was Jenny, and she, like me, had no voice in the matter.
There was, however, little opportunity to gauge her reactions; in the weeks that followed we scarcely saw her. School ended and she visited her maternal grandparents in Reading for a fortnight, spent another fortnight with Joyce and Edward, and then went with her mother to the seaside town of Nairn for a week. Stephen too was on holiday, and he began to renovate our house at a furious pace. His diligence gave me a pang. He no longer spoke of our having fifty years to get all the work done; now he wanted everything to be finished before Jenny moved in. He employed a couple of boys from his school, and with their help the house was rapidly transformed. In the evening I came home from the office to find the house smelling of paint, and Stephen waiting to show me what he had done that day.
In August I took a fortnight's holiday. We found a local teenager to take care of Tobias and Selina, and drove south. We spent the first week with Lynne and Greg, who were renting a cottage on the coast in East Anglia. Beforehand I had fretted as to whether Stephen and they would like each
other; almost immediately it was apparent that the three of them were going to be friends. Lynne and Stephen had long discussions about education, and Greg, who with Lewis had tended to talk about work, became in Stephen's company relaxed and playful. The slight tension that had existed between them and me since Christmas eased.
The week that had seemed so long in anticipation passed swiftly. We spent the days on the beach or exploring the countryside. At night we took turns cooking, and after dinner played games or went to the local pub, where we could sit outside and read Eve stories until she fell asleep. The only flaw in my pleasure was that I was never alone with Lynne for more than a few minutes; I had imagined that there would be ample time for long conversations, but we were always in a foursome. Not until the last day of our visit, when Greg and Stephen took Eve shopping, was there an opportunity for us to talk at length.
When they had finally goneâGreg had come back for the shopping list and Stephen for Eve's favourite bookâwe went out into the garden to pick raspberries for supper. It was midafternoon, and as we walked across the lawn our shadows followed us, razor sharp in the bright sun. The raspberry canes were at the bottom of the garden, next to the hedge, and a slight breeze carried the scent of hay from the neighbouring fields. Lynne handed me a basin, and we set to work on opposite sides of the first row of canes. The plants were so tall and leafy that we were entirely hidden from each other, and the berries hung in juicy plenitude.
All week we had been exchanging news in snatches over the washing up or on the beach, and now that it was possible to talk at length, I scarcely knew where to begin. We both commented on how good the raspberries tasted. Then I said, “It's amazing how much Eve has changed since Christmas.”
“Yes, going to kindergarten has really made her grow up.
Especially in the first few months, she learned something new almost every day.”
“This morning she told me that she liked Stephen and that she thought we were very compatible.” I reached for an especially large cluster of berries.
Lynne laughed. “I don't know where she picked up that word, but she's inordinately proud of it. What class is Jenny in?”
“She'll be starting junior six next term,” I said.
“And the plan is she'll move in with you when you get back?”
“Yes. She'll be living with us from the end of August until next June.”
“What about seeing Helen?”
“She'll go to Paris in December. We haven't talked about Easter yet, but I'm sure she'll go then too.” During our fragmentary conversations I had become aware that Lynne now regarded me as having motherly concerns similar to her own; I realised that unless I exerted myself she would happily spend our whole time together discussing children.
“That seems awfully hard,” she said. “Three months is endless when you're Jenny's age. What I don't understand is how Helen can bear it; I begin to fret when I don't see Eve for a few hours.”
An overly ripe berry turned to pulp in my hand. I licked the sweet juice from my fingers and thought I must speak. “It seems endless to me too,” I said. “I worry about how I'll manage. If Jenny had been living with Stephen all along, then it would be different, but as it is, it's going to be a huge adjustment.”
There was a pause. The leaves stirred, marking Lynne's passage. Then she said, “I can remember worrying before Eve was born that she'd come between Greg and me. After all, we'd no longer be free to jump into bed at a moment's notice.
But having a child changes you in ways you can't imagine in advance. I would never have believed that we would often feel closest when we're doing something ordinary, like feeding the ducks with Eve.”
“You're Eve's mother. She loves you,” I said indignantly. “That's not how Jenny feels about me. She would like nothing better than to see me vanish.”
“That's absurd, Celia. You're great with children, and according to Stephen, Jenny worships you.”
Ahead of me between the canes hung a dark cloud of gnats. I stood staring at the minute, quivering insects. I had expected to find in Lynne an ally, who would understand my predicament with Jenny, and her optimism only increased my despair. I had barely touched upon my true fears. I remembered all the occasions when we had argued about Lewis. Then it was I who had claimed that everything was going to work out and she who had raised objections. “Stephen doesn't know,” I said. “She really dislikes me.”
“You're too sensitive,” said Lynne. “You know the quarrels I have with Eve, and in the present situation there's bound to be friction between you and Jenny. It can't be easy to share her precious father when she only sees him one day a week, but once she's living with you, that will change.”
“No. Things have happened.” I stopped. In my head I had rehearsed the incidents which had convinced me of Jenny's antipathy, but now that I was on the verge of reciting the list, I was suddenly aware that everythingâthe dress, the lie Jenny had told to Stephen about me, the curious events of her birthday picnicâcould be perceived as mere accidents. Even Julius's troubling remarks did not count as evidence.
I hoped that Lynne might question me further, but she ignored my remark; perhaps, given the low voice in which I had spoken, she had not even heard it. Instead she asked if Stephen and I planned to have children.
Although she could not see me, I nodded as if the gesture
conveyed more certainty than speech. “The only question is when. Given present circumstances, it's hard to make a plan.”
“There's no hurry,” said Lynne. “I'm sure Stephen will be a wonderful father. Do you think we might have picked enough by now?”
I showed her my berries, and we agreed that we had plenty. We emerged from the canes. A robin landed on the edge of the lawn. Keeping its bright eyes fixed upon us, it bobbed cautiously forward. In the field beyond the hedge the cows were lowing, and from the copper beech tree in the far corner of the garden came the liquid sound of a thrush in full voice.
“I wish we never had to go back to London,” said Lynne. “Recently I've been feeling more and more strongly that I want to move to the country. I hate all the restrictions that living in a city puts on Eve.” The robin retreated a few steps, then took flight.
“Your house must be worth a fortune by now.”
“It is, but everything within a hundred miles of London costs a fortune. And then what would we do for money? Greg grumbles about being in advertising as if he would quit at the first opportunity, but the truth is he loves it. I just wish he would admit it.” She pushed back her hair, leaving a faint smear of raspberry juice across her forehead.
“You should come to Edinburgh,” I said. “The city is beautiful, house prices are low, and it's easy to get out to the country.”
“It sounds perfect,” said Lynne. “I envy you.”
I felt a flush of pleasure; in the entire history of our friendship, Lynne had never envied me anything.
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Next morning Stephen and I drove to Oxfordshire, to stay with my mother and her family. I had always found my visits to them an ordeal, but now, as with Lynne and Greg, Stephen's presence made everything easier. His reaction to my mother was perfect; he thought she was selfish and not
particularly beautiful. In the face of these criticisms I was able to admit that she and Harry did have some good points, not least that they immediately liked Stephen. For the first time as an adult I enjoyed my mother's company.
The biggest change, however, was in my attitude towards my half-sister, Julia. A year after the separation my mother had telephoned to announce that she was going to have a baby. “A baby!” I had said incredulously. “How could you?” She had laughed. Months later when she rang from the hospital to tell me that I had a sister, I said I was too busy to visit. I could not forgive her for all those years of longing, when a sibling would have transformed my life, nor for the indecency of having a baby at the age of forty-one. Julia herself had not improved the situation by inheriting my mother's beauty and both her parents' musical abilities. In the past I had remained stubbornly aloof; now I was eager to befriend her, and she responded gladly to my attentions. Every morning she brought Stephen and me tea in bed. She showed me secret places, asked me to read to her, taught me games, and generally made much of me. She was a year older than Jenny and almost six inches taller. I could not help thinking what a sweet little girl she was.
Julia was particularly excited about the fact that my birthday occurred during our visit. That morning she brought us a lavish breakfast tray, decorated with nasturtiums. “You're going to get a surprise,” she said, giggling, as she left the room.
In spite of this warning, I had no suspicion of intrigue when Stephen suggested that we go into the village to collect some groceries. I was amazed on our return to find my father laying the table for lunch. “Happy birthday,” he said. He picked me up and swung me round as if I were a child. I was still exclaiming over his presence when Stephen came in, followed by Harry, Julia, and my mother. The three musicians serenaded me with “Ode to St. Cecilia,” followed by “Happy
Birthday.” Then we sat down to lunch. My mother had made artichoke soup, Harry had prepared smoked salmon, and Stephen had baked a cake. My father had contributed the champagne, of which we all drank too much.
When the cake was served it was time to open gifts. Year after year my mother had unerringly given me presents that made me feel inadequateârecords of operas that I could not understand, clothes that I did not have the nerve to wearâbut this year when I opened the bulky package, I found a beautiful Le Creuset casserole of the kind usually given as a wedding gift. “With love from Evelyn, Harry, and Juliaâfor your new home,” the label said. My father gave me a subscription to
The Economist
. Stephen gave me a handbag of soft black leather; inside was a card with the inscription “I love you utterly.”
Late in the afternoon, when lunch was finally declared over, we went for a walk in the Chiltern hills. My mother and Harry walked hand in hand, and I followed with my father and Stephen. They were discussing the controversial photographs taken by the spaceship Voyager III. I listened and talked to Julia. From time to time she ran over to show me something: an oddly shaped stone, or a spotted beetle.
In many ways it was the perfect birthday, but that night as I lay in bed the gaiety of the day evaporated and I felt instead a sense of loss. My father was so at home in my mother's household. If it were not for their conversation, I might have dismissed my entire childhood as a mirage. He and she talked freely about the past. “Oh, that was the year we went to the Lake District,” one of them would say, and the other would respond, “Yes, and we argued the whole time.” He treated Julia as a favourite niece or godchild, and she called him “David” and held his hand.
Stephen was the only person I had ever known who seemed to understand why I found the amicability of my parents' separation hard to bear; I felt that it robbed me of not one but
both parents. After my mother's letter I had spent the remainder of the university term indulging the fantasy of a new life with my father. I thought that he would turn to me for solace; at last he and I would have the kind of companionship I craved. When I went home for Christmas, however, it was only too apparent that he was flourishing in his new single state; he had turned into a competent cook, rearranged the furniture, and seemed suddenly to have a host of friends. Like my mother, he had been longing for change, and during the decade that followed, I watched him, grey-haired, no longer lean, become involved with a succession of women half his age. He loved to teach, and I came to suspect that what he sought was not so much physical but didactic pleasures.