‘That’ll be fun,’ Lucy said.
When the flush had finally subsided and Annie looked at her daughter again, she could see Lucy was regarding her carefully, a small frown on her face.
‘Work OK?’ Annie asked.
‘Mmm, yeah. Nothing special.’
Lucy wandered over to the stove.
‘This looks like a bit of a feast, Mum. What’s the occasion?’ The ‘feast’ included rolls of smoked salmon sprinkled with lemon and pepper, each roll pierced with a cocktail stick and arranged on a round wooden platter; a large roasted sea bass nestling in foil with thin slices of fennel, spring onion and lemon caramelising on the top;
rosemary potatoes; pak choi with ginger and soy sauce, and a chilled bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.
‘Oh, nothing. Just felt like cooking. You know me.’
‘You’re being unusually, well, sort of kind at the moment.’ Annie caught her daughter’s questioning gaze again, but continued scraping the small, crisping chunks of potato from the roasting tin and spooning them into a warmed white china serving dish.
‘Aren’t I always the kindest and most considerate mother on the planet?’ She raised an amused eyebrow at Lucy.
‘Uh, well, reasonably so, I suppose,’ conceded Lucy with a grin. ‘But this last week you’ve been particularly, well, sort of extra kind.’
‘Have I?’
‘For instance, you offered to pay for my Africa trip if I get the job, even though you think it’s stupid and dangerous. You didn’t go off on one when Mash said she was getting a tattoo on her ankle – which, by the way, she totally won’t. You agreed with Dad about the new car, even though you hate those Honda hybrid things. And you didn’t even nag him when he put the plates in the dishwasher without rinsing them. That’s a first!’
Annie laughed. ‘I hadn’t noticed. Right: can you give Dad a shout? Supper’s ready.’
But Lucy wasn’t to be put off.
‘Dad,’ she said, as soon as her father appeared, ‘have you noticed Mum being a bit sort of
different
recently?’
Richard kept an admirably straight face.
‘Different in what way?’
Lucy frowned again, her gaze darting between her parents.
‘I don’t know … something …’
Richard put his arm round her, gave her a squeeze. ‘Can’t say I have,’ he lied.
Annie shot him a grateful look. It amazed her that Lucy hadn’t clocked something was up before this. She knew she’d been distracted, almost euphoric at times, since the letter had arrived. And her daughter had always been overly sensitive to atmosphere.
Lucy shrugged, shook her head. ‘OK, don’t tell me then. As long as it’s not cancer or one of you having an affair.’
There was silence for a moment, then Annie and Richard both let out an awkward laugh.
‘You’ve got too much imagination,’ Annie told her.
‘Drink?’ Richard pressed a glass of chilled white into his daughter’s hand.
‘So … have you arranged the meeting yet? With the boy?’ Richard asked, his voice lowered, even though Lucy had gone upstairs to bed a while ago.
Annie nodded. ‘Saturday week at Marjory’s.’
‘Great. I’ll drive you down.’
She didn’t reply for a moment.
‘Thanks, darling, but I’ve asked Jamie to come. I thought … well, he was there at the time, and he knows Marjory …’
She winced as she saw the hurt flash across his face. ‘I know Marjory too,’ he said.
‘Richard, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think you’d want to be involved at this stage … it being my past, before we met.’
‘It may be your past, but I’m totally involved in everything in your life now, aren’t I?’
He still looked upset, which she couldn’t bear. They’d never talked about her baby, and she’d always thought it was because he didn’t want to imagine her with another man. Most people of her generation had some sexual history, but often it was hidden or merely hearsay. She still found she was embarrassed by this living, breathing evidence of a life before she’d met Richard.
‘Come with us then. Please, Richard. It would be great to have you there.’
He shook his head. ‘You’re probably right … and we don’t want to frighten him off with great crowds of us.’
‘It wouldn’t be crowds.’
‘No, but perhaps it’s better, this first time, that you keep it simple.’
She reached for his hand. ‘I’m sorry. I should have discussed it with you.’
‘Doesn’t matter. No harm done.’
5
Annie’s bed looked as if she were clearing out her cupboards for a jumble sale. Discarded clothes lay in untidy heaps as she tried on one thing after another. She paused to look in the long mirror at the latest – navy trousers and a blue pastel cashmere V-neck – then ripped them off again. Nothing looks right, she wailed silently. It feels exactly like when I was young and dressing to meet a new date.
She was passionate about clothes, her style classic yet individual. When she had the time, she would spend hours in the local north-London charity shops where, to the irritation of her relatively impoverished daughters, she would ferret out designer gems for less than five pounds. But what on earth do you wear to meet a long-lost son?
Richard poked his head round the door. ‘Jamie’s here.’
She turned from the mirror in a panic.
‘Already? What’s the time?’
‘Nearly ten,’ Richard’s expression was solemn. She
wasn’t sure he had quite forgiven her for the arbitrary way she had organised the meeting without him.
‘But I’m not ready!’
‘You look great.’
She pulled a face, turning back to the long mirror. By now she had on black jeans, a white tee shirt and a dusky-pink fitted Chanel wool jacket with bold pink and gold buttons she had picked up in one of her charity-shop forays many years ago.
‘I love the jacket,’ Richard added, ‘but isn’t it a bit smart for Marjory’s kitchen?’
She sighed impatiently and ripped it off. ‘I know, but I feel good in it. Well, what should I wear then? Some hideous old cardie?’
‘As if.’
She picked up a charcoal wool tunic. ‘This’ll have to do. What do I care if he thinks I’m a frump?’ She pulled it quickly over her head and began to fiddle with her hair, which she’d had cut just above her shoulders the day before and which was, in her opinion, much too short. While wondering what Daniel would look like, she wondered as well what he would make of her. She knew she favoured her late father more than her mother. She had strong cheekbones, her father’s elegant, aquiline nose and wide-set grey-blue eyes. She knew she wasn’t beautiful, but hoped she passed for good-looking. People said she looked much younger than she was – not too much sagging and bagging yet, thank goodness – but would her son approve?
‘OK … that’s it. I can’t do any more.’ She cast an agonised look at Richard. ‘I’m scared.’
Her husband smiled sympathetically. ‘Of course you are.’
‘You could still come with us?’ She reached to kiss him on the cheek.
‘Thanks, but no. I’ve got work to catch up on,’ he replied. ‘You’d better get going.’
Annie drove. She had long since refused to go in Jamie’s car. He not only drove like a boy racer, but kept the interior so immaculate that if she so much as breathed he would tut and whip out a wet-wipe.
‘How do you want to play it? Do you want me to stay in the room while you meet him?’ Jamie asked, as they sat in the Saturday-morning traffic clogging up Lewisham High Street. ‘Or hover? What?’
She shook her head. ‘I just can’t imagine it. I mean, what will we do? Hug? Shake hands?’ She drove in silence for a while. ‘And what will we talk about?’ She glanced over at her friend. ‘Can you stay at first? Make it a bit more normal, so it’s not just him and me.’
‘Well, if you think I’m normal, or Aunt Best for that matter! Let’s hope he hasn’t led a sheltered life.’
She laughed nervously. It had been Jamie’s suggestion she meet Daniel at Marjory Best’s house in Kent. Annie had first met Aunt Best – as she was known to the girls – one freezing day in December 1966. Six months pregnant
and terrified by the unexpected turn her life had taken, she had arrived at the comfortably chaotic vicarage, dropped off by her mother as if Eleanor was unburdening herself of an awkward pet. At that time there was one other girl staying in Marjory’s sanctuary for unmarried mothers – a shy, annoying seventeen-year-old who spent all day crying. Annie, who’d been brought up never to cry unless seriously injured, and then as little as possible, looked upon Clemency with a disdain worthy of her mother. But Marjory had taught her compassion, shown them both respect. And, indeed, love.
‘Marjory’s not legging it, is she?’ Jamie was asking.
‘No, so you can talk about the weather or her beloved magnolias while Daniel and I get used to each other.’
‘Yeah, see how it goes. If you want us to leave, just cough loudly, or scratch you nose – whatever – and we’ll make ourselves scarce.’
‘I’m terrified, Jamie. I keep getting goosebumps when I think of seeing him.’
He didn’t respond for a moment, then said, ‘He’s going to want to know what happened, isn’t he.’
‘You mean why I gave him away?’ She sighed. ‘It’s haunted me since the day they took him.’
‘What will you say?’
‘What can I say? I wasn’t some poor girl from a starving family with eighteen to a bed and coal in the bath. I was rich by most people’s standards. At least Mother was rich. We had a house large enough for five Toms …
Daniels.’ She looked across at her friend. ‘Not much leeway there.’
‘Just tell it how it was, darling. If he doesn’t understand, there’s not much you can do about it now.’
They pulled off the motorway, following signs for Faversham. It had begun to spit slightly and the windscreen wipers dragged noisily across the car window. This was a familiar route for her. She had spent much of the year after Tom’s adoption driving down from London to be with Marjory – like a murderer revisiting the scene of her crime. But it was comforting to have a friend who was prepared to talk about what had happened and listen to how she was feeling. Her mother certainly wasn’t.
The Georgian vicarage looked just the same, elegantly decaying in its mature garden, neglected now that Marjory couldn’t physically indulge her passion. Annie hadn’t been down for over a year, but she met Marjory in London every few months, collecting her off the train at Charing Cross and walking slowly with her to the National Gallery. Marjory had always chosen which work she wanted to view that day; it could be anything, modern or ancient, sculpture, watercolour, oil painting or a drawing. Her friend was eclectic in her taste. She would settle down in front of the piece, silently absorbing the whole at first, then talking in detail to Annie about how it was created, its provenance, the artist, the period, why she liked it. It was a treat for Annie, who had been introduced to art by her Uncle Terence but had had no formal education in
the subject. Then, when the old lady had decided the painting had been given due respect, they would wander down to the gallery cafe and have lunch.
As the car drew up on the weed-ridden gravel drive, Marjory appeared in the doorway, propped on a thick, ebony cane. She looked every inch the artist she was, her tall, lean figure, silver-haired and elegant even in baggy corduroys, a black polo-neck sweater and a red knitted scarf slung casually round her neck, gave the appearance of being younger and more robust than Annie knew her to be.
‘God, she hasn’t changed a bit!’ Jamie exclaimed as he got out of the car and went to greet the old lady.
‘Jamie, dear, this is such a pleasure for me!’ Marjory embraced him, then moved to kiss Annie. For a moment Annie clung to her, wallowing in Aunt Best’s reassuring love.
‘Sorry, guys, need a pee.’ Jamie carefully sashayed past Marjory into the hall.
‘End on the left,’ Marjory called, looking after Jamie. ‘He hasn’t changed at all. He still looks so young.’
‘That’s exactly what he said about you.’
‘Would that it were true.’ Marjory shook her head, a wry smile lighting her washed-out blue eyes. ‘I’d make a pact with the devil to be mobile again, but the bastard hasn’t made me an offer yet.’
They went through to the kitchen, where Marjory had
set out lunch on the oak table. Unlike the rest of the large house, the room was warm. What will Daniel make of this place, Annie wondered, glancing around with a new eye now that she had her son in mind. It had not been redecorated in at least two decades and was gloriously untidy, filled with piles of books, newspapers, sketches on torn-off scraps of paper, paintbrushes soaking in jam jars full of murky water. She knew Marjory still had her ‘morning woman’, as she called Mrs Blundell, but Joan was almost as ancient as Marjory. Annie revelled in the familiar chaos. She sank gratefully into the worn armchair by the Raeburn, almost hoping that her son wouldn’t come, as she listened to Marjory and Jamie catching up on the decades since they had last met.
‘Sit, sit,’ Marjory urged her guests, pouring a glass of red wine for each of them. They ate the smoked mackerel, potato salad, sliced beetroot and brown bread in silence for a while, perhaps nobody wanting to be the first person to mention the reason why they were there.
Marjory eventually took courage. ‘He’s coming at two?’
‘He said so, yes.’
‘He knows how to get here, I assume.’
‘I only gave him the address. Do you think I should have sent him detailed directions? It’s not that easy to find.’ Annie began to panic.
Jamie laughed. ‘He’ll ring if he’s lost, darling. We live in the twenty-first century now. He’s not a child.’
Annie was upset by her friend’s remark. For a moment
Daniel’s missing childhood hovered between them. She looked yet again at the large station clock ticking loudly on the wall beside the wooden dresser. It said one thirty-five, three minutes later than when she’d last checked. Her heart was fluttering and her mouth dry. She wished she hadn’t had the glass of wine. Would he smell it on her breath?
‘Shall we sit in here when he comes?’ Marjory asked. ‘I’ve done a fire in the sitting room, but it’s still not very warm in there.’
Annie glanced at her two friends, waiting for guidance.
‘Let’s stay in here. It’s properly cosy … love it.’ Jamie declared, throwing his arms wide to embrace the mess as if it were an artwork. ‘OK if I just go for a wander in the garden before he gets here?’ he asked, getting up from the table.