Keeping Secrets (36 page)

Stephen said bluntly: ‘I hear from Daphne that she's a bit of a disaster.'

Jonathan flushed. ‘I don't think that's very fair. It's hard, being over here in a strange house, with all those kids. They've had too many au pairs anyway – she's just one more. I'd hate to be in her shoes.'

‘Still … she must have had some idea what was expected. It's a pity, when she's come on my recommendation, so to speak.'

‘Oh, Dad! Don't start getting heavy, she'll settle down.'

‘I hope so, she seems all right when she's with us. Bit quiet.' He took another sip of his beer and said casually: ‘Are you sleeping with her?'

‘God, what is this? So what if I am? And don't start telling me I mustn't let her distract me from my A levels, because I've already had all that from Mum.'

‘Calm down,' said Stephen, not unkindly. ‘I didn't mean to upset you.'

‘Some things are private, okay? Mum said you might want a man-to-man chat – I suppose you've both been talking about me and decided to put the screws on together.'

‘Actually,' said Stephen, ‘nothing could be further from the truth. I'm sorry – I didn't mean to pry. It was just … never mind.'

‘Just what? Curiosity?'

‘That's enough. God, you're touchy. I wanted to talk to you about … something else.' He broke off. ‘On second thoughts, I don't think this is quite the time. Come on, Jon, let's not get in a flap. What do you want to eat?'

They ordered a vegetarian lasagne for Jonathan, steak-and-kidney pie for Stephen. ‘Tell me about the UCCA forms,' he said, while they were waiting. ‘Where do you want to go?' Discussing this, the atmosphere grew lighter and more neutral; their plates were brought by a young waitress in a pale blue sweatshirt with very short fair hair. Stephen flashed her a smile. ‘That looks delicious. Thanks.'

‘You can't resist it, can you?' said Jonathan, as they began to eat.

‘Resist what?' Stephen asked innocently, and they laughed.

‘I told Mum,' said Jonathan, through a mouthful. ‘God, this is hot!' He grabbed his glass. ‘Bloody microwave.'

‘Told Mum what?'

‘That you turned it on for all the girls. Even Marietta – I think she secretly prefers you, to be honest.'

‘Well, you're safe there,' said Stephen. ‘It's all right, I'm
teasing.
She's too young for me, that's all.'

‘I'm glad to hear it.' Jonathan broke his roll into pieces. ‘Mum even seems to think you might have a lady in London.'

‘What?' Stephen stopped eating.

‘I told her it's all show with you.' He drained his glass. ‘I think I'm going to need another with this – d'you think two pints are safe on the bike?'

‘No. Here.' Stephen tipped some of his beer into Jonathan's glass; beer slopped on to the table. ‘Damn.' He wiped it away with his napkin. ‘What on earth made Mum think that?'

Jonathan shrugged. ‘I dunno. She's been getting some funny phone calls, though – there was one before I came out. Still, she said it was a breather. I presume you don't associate with women breathers, do you?'

Could that really have been Hilda telephoning?

Stephen said quietly: ‘Jon. Be serious for a moment, will you?'

He looked up. ‘Why?'

There was a pause, in which Stephen felt his heart begin to thump. What he was about to say – was he really, at last, about to say it? – could never be unsaid: one sentence and everything would be changed for ever, home no longer a retreat but a place of confrontation, even danger. But perhaps it was better – honesty after years of secrecy; involving everyone, for once, instead of living a solitary lie.

‘Dad? What is it?'

‘I don't know if I can tell you.'

‘Course you can. Go on. As I said to Mum, you're looking at a man of the world here.'

He did not smile. His heart thudded as if he were about to go out on stage and tell the world, and he thought: no, I can't. Better, far better, to leave things as they are. But then, with sudden apprehension: when a love affair ends, and you try to pick up the pieces of your old life, perhaps you find they're not there any more. Everything's different, everything's changed – you, and the family you've neglected. And perhaps, if they have known nothing, returning is even more painful. It is one thing to live a routine buoyed up by a secret life, by thoughts and feelings that have nothing to do with your partner, and everything to do with someone else; one thing to keep up appearances when you're inwardly miles away. But to go back, when it's all over, and they notice nothing – my God, keeping up appearances then must feel so bleak, so flat, so empty.

That prospect seemed, indeed, suddenly unbearable, so much so that he said quickly to himself: but what am I thinking of? Who said my life with Hilda is ending? She's probably right – Jon's old enough to know; perhaps he has even guessed. And perhaps, now Sam's here, he even has a right to know.

‘Dad! You look dreadful.'

‘I'm thinking.'

‘Oh, come on, tell me – come on, you're giving me the creeps.'

And as if from a long way away Stephen heard himself say clearly: ‘There is someone in London.'

Jonathan slowly put down his fork. ‘Oh. Oh. God, I must be thick.'

‘What did you think I was going to say?'

‘I don't know – perhaps that you'd got some illness, or something. Or something about work. I don't know.' He was turning his fork over and over on the plate. ‘Actually, I don't think I want to hear any more.'

But it was begun, and already could not be forgotten. Stephen reached out his hand. ‘You know things with Mum and me … they haven't been too good for a long time.'

‘Haven't they?' Jon said flatly. ‘They seem all right to me.'

‘Do they really?'

‘Well … good enough. You seem okay: you don't fight, you're still together. I'm one of the few people at school whose parents' marriage has stayed out of trouble. Mike's parents fight all the time. There were two divorces in my class last year.' He looked at Stephen directly. ‘You're not about to tell me you're going, to divorce.'

Stephen hesitated. ‘I don't think so. But do you think people should stay together when they're unhappy?'

‘You're
not
unhappy!' It was said with vehemence.

‘How do you know? Do you think Mum's happy?'

Jonathan drew a deep breath. ‘I think she's lonely a lot of the time, I think she's a bit sad, but … God, I'm sure she doesn't want a divorce.' There was a silence; he pushed his plate away. ‘I can't eat any more of this. Go on, then, tell me if you have to. Who is this London woman?'

‘She's called Hilda,' Stephen said slowly. ‘I've known her a long time, since James and I went into partnership. She's – actually, you've met her. Very briefly.'

‘When?'

‘Last summer. You came down on that school trip and found us having lunch near the British Museum. Remember?'

Jonathan stared. ‘Not her. I mentioned her to Mum tonight as reassurance.'

‘That's extraordinary.'

‘Isn't it?' Jonathan's face was hard, something it had never, ever been. ‘You said she was a client.'

‘I know.'

‘But … God Almighty, Dad, she was pregnant.'

Stephen looked steadily back at him. ‘Yes.'

There was another, much longer silence.

‘I don't believe it,' Jonathan said at last. ‘I don't believe it. Jesus!'

‘Jon …' He leaned across the table. Around them the noise of the crowd grew louder; there was a lot of laughter, and the door banged open and shut.

‘Are you telling me,' said Jonathan, screwing his napkin into a tight, hard ball, ‘what I think you're telling me?'

‘Yes. You've … got a baby brother.' Stephen swallowed. ‘He was born in August. He's called Sam.'

Jonathan looked away. Then he said slowly: ‘I'm going to kill you.'

‘Jonathan … darling …'

‘Don't you darling me!' He got up, kicking back his chair, and hurled the napkin across the table. ‘I'm going to fucking kill you, got it?'

Heads turned; Stephen said quickly: ‘Please! Sit down!'

‘I will not. I'm going to see Marietta, and you'd better go back to Mum. And sort it bloody
out
, all right?' He was almost crying, grabbing his things.

‘Please,' Stephen said again, and thoughts he'd had earlier of involving everyone in drama whirled away, leaving him gasping, ‘Please don't go.'

Jonathan pushed through the crowd, and slammed out of the door.

‘Miriam? Miriam!'

There had been no light on outside the garage, and the house itself was dark, except for the kitchen, which was empty. He made his way through the hall again, slowly followed by Tess, checking the sitting room, going upstairs, into every bedroom, flicking switches.

‘Miriam!'

No answer. Downstairs again. He stood in the hall; her car was in the garage; she must be here. At his feet, Tess began to whine.

‘Stop it!'

He went to the front door again, and pulled it open, peering out into the garden; across the lane the bare trees sighed in the wind.

‘Miriam!'

No answer. Beside him, the dog whined again.

‘Where is she, Tess? Where is she?'

He went back inside, noticed, suddenly, that the cellar door was ajar.

‘Down there?' He walked over, reached inside and switched on the light. Pushed open the door and looked down. Everything was as usual, the saw hung up on the wall, garden tools leaning against it, wine bottles glinting in the rack. The smell of sawn wood from the log pile; the stack of old paint tins. One had fallen over on its side, and a trickle of white ran through the dust. He went down to pick it up, Tess's claws clicking on the wooden steps behind him. He picked up the tin and set it upright, pushing it back against the others, out of the way. As he did so, there was a chink.

His hand on the cool wall, Stephen leaned over the pile of tins, and looked down into the corner. The white tops of whisky and gin bottles, side by side in a small cardboard box, looked back at him.

‘Christ.'

Behind him, Tess was nosing among packets of firelighters, boxes of nails. She stepped in the little trickle of paint, and he pushed her out of the way.

‘Not there! Come on, girl.'

He climbed the wooden steps again, and closed the door behind them. The dog left a line of white pawmarks all through the hall and down the passage as she followed him into the kitchen; he flung open the garden doors.

‘Miriam!'

He ran across the damp grass, the light from the kitchen spilling into the darkness, and down through the gap in the hedge. He hadn't locked the studio door this morning: had she locked it behind her now?

He tried the handle, turned it, lifted the latch. Inside, Miriam was sitting in his swivel chair. Her back was to him, and a glass and a bottle of whisky stood on his desk, among an untidy heap of papers. It had not looked like that this morning.

‘Miriam …'

‘Go away.'

For a moment he did not take in what she had done. Then he saw the drawing board, scrawled over with thick black pen, the plans ripped from the board above his desk, torn and crumpled, the photographs scattered in pieces on the floor.

‘Christ Almighty.'

He moved toward her, and the swivel chair spun round. ‘Go away!' Her face was terrible. ‘Go away, go away, go away!'

Behind him the door was pushed open, and Tess came in from the garden, smelling of earth. She made her way slowly towards Miriam over the mess on the floor, and laid her greying nose in her lap. Miriam bent down and put her arms around her, howling.

He sat with her at the kitchen table, a pot of black coffee between them, the room warm. Back in her basket, Tess slept deeply. The clock ticked; every now and then cinders in the Rayburn shifted and sank, rattling into the ashpan.

They did not touch, sitting next to each other at right angles; their voices rose and fell.

‘I didn't mean to do it.'

‘I know. I know.'

‘Can you save it? Any of it?'

‘I expect so, I'll try. It doesn't matter.'

‘Of all the things I imagined – somehow I never thought of that.' Her hands clasped the coffee cup, still trembling.

‘I was going to tell you – Jonathan first, then you …'

‘Why?'

‘I thought he could take it better. I thought he was growing up, growing away from us …'

‘Did you? And how did he take it?'

Silence.

‘How could you do it? How could you?'

‘Only because … she wanted it so much.' He hesitated. ‘You can probably understand that better than I can.'

She looked at him. ‘So this baby has nothing to do with you.'

‘I didn't say that.'

‘But she's bringing it – him – up by herself.'

‘Yes.'

‘And how long is she going to do that?'

‘I …' He shook his head. ‘It was her decision, so far she's managing.' Another hesitation. ‘She's very strong.'

‘She must be,' Miriam said bitterly. ‘You have to be strong, bringing up a child alone.'

‘Stop it. You haven't been alone.'

‘Haven't I?'

‘Not like that.'

‘Does it matter how?'

Silence.

She said slowly: ‘You must have loved her.'

‘Yes.'

‘And now?'

‘Stop it, stop it, please don't cry again.'

‘But what about now? You were going to tell us – why? So we could make a decision for you? Or have you made it already?'

‘No. I don't know. Jesus.' He put his head in his hands. Nothing he had imagined in trying to prepare for this had even begun to prepare him for it. He thought of his confusion in the pub, barely two hours ago; he remembered, suddenly, the summer evening when he had sat outside on the garden bench, after the long hot drive from London, and watched Jonathan, barefoot, almost naked, stretch out his arms, laughing as Miriam sprayed him with the hose. The water shimmered in the evening sun, the grass shone. He had thought then: to leave all this would be impossible.