Transit(52)

‘So he is her daddy really,’ she said.

Lawrence served the main course, one tiny bird with trussed-up legs each.

‘What is it?’ Angelica asked, as hers was set before her.

‘Baby chicken,’ Lawrence said.

Angelica screamed. Lawrence stiffened, plate in hand.

‘Leave the table, please,’ he said.

‘Darling,’ Eloise said, ‘darling, that’s a little bit harsh.’

‘Please leave the table,’ Lawrence said.

Tears began to roll down Angelica’s cheeks. She got to her feet.

‘Do you know where he is?’ Eloise said, turning away.

‘Where who is?’ Gaby said.

‘The father,’ Eloise said in a low voice. ‘The man you had a one-night stand with.’

‘He lives in Bath,’ Gaby said. ‘He’s an antiques dealer.’

‘Bath’s only just down the road,’ Eloise exclaimed. ‘What’s he called?’

‘Sam McDonald,’ Gaby said.

Eloise’s face brightened.

‘I know Sam,’ she said. ‘In fact, I bumped into him just a few weeks ago.’

There was a cry from the other end of the table. We turned to look and saw that one child after another was rising to its feet beside Angelica, until all of them were standing before their plates, tears pouring down their faces. They stood in a row, their mouths emitting sounds that were indistinguishable as words and instead merged together in a single chorus of protest. The candles flamed around them, streaking them in red and orange light, illuminating their hair and eyes and glinting on their wet cheeks, so that it almost looked as though they were burning.

‘My God,’ Birgid said.

For a moment everyone stared, mesmerised, at the row of weeping, incandescent children.

‘A little row of martyrs,’ Gaby said amusedly.

‘I give up,’ Lawrence said, sitting heavily back down.

‘Darling,’ Eloise said, placing her hand on his, ‘let me take care of it. Will you do that? Will you let me take care of it?’

Lawrence waved his hand in a gesture of resignation and Eloise got up and went to the end of the table.

‘Sometimes human will,’ he said, ‘is not enough.’

Henrietta had remained perfectly erect and unmoving, her round eyes staring, her sheet of red hair like a flaming veil around her bare shoulders.

‘Why haven’t I met him?’ she said.

‘Met who?’ Gaby said.

‘My daddy. Why haven’t I ever met him?’

‘He’s not your daddy,’ Gaby said.

‘Yes, he is,’ Henrietta said.

‘Jamie is your daddy. He’s the one who takes care of you.’

‘Why have I never seen him?’ Henrietta said, unblinking. ‘Why have you never taken me to see him?’

‘Because he’s nothing to do with you,’ Gaby said.

‘He’s my daddy,’ Henrietta said.

‘He’s not your daddy,’ Gaby said.

‘Yes, he is. He is my daddy.’

Water started to pour from Henrietta’s eyes too. She remained absolutely still, her white hands folded in her lap, while the tears ran steadily down her cheeks and dripped over her clasped fingers.

‘A daddy is a person who looks after you,’ Gaby said. ‘That other man doesn’t look after you, so he can’t be your daddy.’

‘Yes, he can,’ Henrietta sobbed. ‘You never even told me his name.’

‘What does it matter who he is?’ Gaby said. ‘He’s nothing to you.’

‘He’s my daddy,’ Henrietta repeated.

‘He’s your father,’ Birgid said. ‘He’s your biological father.’

‘You never even told me his name,’ Henrietta said.

‘Jamie’s your daddy, sweetie,’ Eloise said. ‘He’s known you since you were a tiny baby.’

‘No,’ Henrietta said, shaking her head. ‘No, he’s not.’

‘A daddy is someone who knows you,’ Eloise said. ‘Someone who knows you and loves you.’

‘I’ve never even seen him,’ Henrietta said. ‘I don’t even know what he looks like.’

‘He is not your daddy,’ Gaby said, with finality. She sat, triumphant and glowering, staring at her wine glass while Henrietta wept in front of her.

Nobody spoke. The other adults sat in an embarrassed silence. All around the table tears were pouring down the children’s faces. But the sight of the red-haired girl transfixed with pain was so pitiable that I felt forced to address her. At the sound of my voice she turned her head minutely. Her eyes stared into mine.

‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘I do want to meet him. Does he want to meet me?’

I said I didn’t know. She returned her gaze to her mother.

‘Does he want to meet me?’

‘I suppose so,’ Gaby said bitterly. ‘I’ll have to ask him.’

I could hear my phone ringing in my bag and I got up to answer it. At first nobody spoke at the other end. I could hear scuffling sounds and then a distant crash. I asked who it was. There was a faint sound of sobbing. Who is it, I said. Finally my younger son began to speak. It’s me, he said. He was calling on the landline – his mobile had run out of battery. He and his brother were fighting, he said. They’d been fighting all evening and they couldn’t seem to stop. He had scratches all down his arms and a cut on his face. It’s bleeding, he sobbed, and some things have got broken. Dad’s going to be really angry, he said. I asked where their father was. I don’t know, he wailed. But he’s not here. It’s late, I said. You should be in bed. There were more scuffling sounds and then the sound of the phone being dropped. I could hear them fighting. Their cries and grunts got further away and then closer again. I waited for one of them to pick up the phone. I called down the receiver. Finally there was my older son’s voice. What is it? he said flatly. I don’t know, he said when I asked where his father was. He hasn’t been here all evening. It’s not your fault, I said, but you’re going to have to sort it out. He too began to cry. I spoke to him for a long time. When I had finished I returned to the table. The children and the red-haired girl were gone. Gaby and Birgid were talking. Lawrence sat back in his chair with a preoccupied expression, his fingers resting on the stem of his wine glass. Some of the candles had gone out. The fog pressed at the windows, now utterly opaque. I realised then that none of us could have left Lawrence’s house, no matter how much we might have needed or wanted to.