The Child(66)

“I can’t get started, Harry, that’s the problem. I feel like I’m in a thick fog most of the time. I can’t make out what’s ahead. I’m too scared to move forwards. It might be worse than this. I keep telling myself: Stay where you are. This is the safest place to be.”

“What happened to you?” she said.

“There was a baby,” I said.

“Oh, Em,” she said.

“I couldn’t tell you—or anyone. I did a terrible thing.”

She was silent again.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m sure it was the right thing to do at the time.”

I remember being startled at the remark. How could it be the right thing to do? But then I realized she thought I was talking about having an abortion, and for a moment I almost corrected her mistake. But the relief that I didn’t have to explain further stopped me.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” she said when I quieted. I rested my head on her shoulder and dreamed a future.

“I’m thinking about going to university, Harry,” I said.

“Okay,” she said. “You’ll need A Levels, but with your huge brain . . .”

“I’m not sure what’s left of it,” I said and she squeezed my hand.

“Loads,” she said. “So . . . ?”

“I once thought I’d apply to do evening classes.”

“Sounds like a plan, Emma.”

“Yes, I’ll be a schoolgirl again,” and I laughed and there was something light in my head I hadn’t felt for a long time.

? ? ?

But there is nothing light in my head now. The coffee is going cold as I struggle to tell Harry everything and nothing.

I know she’ll bring up Alice Irving—the Howard Street connection is irresistible.

“What about this baby Alice story?” she says. “We used to sit in your garden, didn’t we? That last summer before you went to your grandma’s. You had deck chairs, didn’t you? Do you remember? We used to argue over who got the yellow one.”

“I think the baby in Howard Street is mine,” I say. “I’m having dreams about it.” And she looks at me hard while she’s thinking what to say.

“It isn’t, Emma,” she says slowly, as if to a child. “It is Alice Irving. The police tests show that. You mustn’t talk like this. I can see that this story has really upset you, but don’t you think it’s because of your abortion? It’s dragged up all those feelings you had at the time. It’s completely normal. It was a terrible thing to cope with. Have you told Paul?”

I shake my head.

“Well, maybe you should. He loves you, Emma. He’ll understand.”

I nod.

“But you have got to stop saying this is your baby. People are not going to believe you if you say these things. Okay?”

I nod again. She’s right. I’ll keep quiet until people find out for themselves.





FIFTY-THREE


    Angela


SATURDAY, APRIL 14, 2012

Asda was heaving with people throwing bags of Monster Munch into trolleys and screaming at their offspring.

“Kylie, put that down,” the woman in a Southampton football shirt shouted behind her in the queue for the till and Angela ducked her head against the noise.

“Sorry, love,” the woman said. “But the little bleeders need telling, don’t they?”

Angela mimed that she had forgotten something, pretending to search through her trolley, and walked away from the queue. She carried on out of the supermarket and sat in the car with her eyes closed and her hands over her ears. Her sensitivity to noise had become unbearable since Alice had been found. She found everything unbearable, really. She’d thought it would be easier, knowing where her baby was after all those years, but it wasn’t. It was a piece in a long-abandoned jigsaw but there was still no picture, still no answers.

She sat on until it began to rain, then started the car and set off for home. When she drew up in the drive feeling cold to her bones, she didn’t remember whole sections of the journey. Nick came out to get the bags of shopping from the boot. And she remembered her discarded trolley in the supermarket.

“I’m sorry,” she said when he opened the car door. “I didn’t get anything. I couldn’t bear it in there. Everyone was shouting . . .”

He put his arm round her and shepherded her to safety.

“I’ll go later,” he said. “Give me your list.”

Angela watched the television without seeing anything. Nick had been watching sports, but the images of Howard Street, the mud, and the flapping tape played over and over in her head.

“It’s not getting any better,” she said when he sat down beside her.

“Louise will be here in a minute. I’ve given her a call.”

“You shouldn’t have rung her. She’s got her own life. She can’t keep running round here.”

“She wants to come. She’s worried about you. We all are.”

? ? ?

Louise came round the living room door cautiously, as if afraid to wake her, and Angela went straight into “Mum mode,” jumping out of her chair to greet her daughter and offer tea. “Or a sandwich? Have you eaten, love? You need to eat properly.”