A Terrible Kindness(100)

Awkward at crossing the threshold, William can tell, even with Gloria’s back to him, that she’s fast asleep. He puts the tea down on the wicker bedside table, in case she wakes thirsty, and walks light-footed out of the room and back down the stairs. Betty is sitting in the lounge, a square room with a sofa and two armchairs arranged in a triangle around a glass coffee table.

‘She’s flat out.’

‘Bless her. When’s the baby due?’

It hits William that it hasn’t occurred to him to ask. ‘I don’t know.’

‘What?’ Her face is half frown, half smile.

‘Long story.’ He sits on the sofa opposite Betty. ‘I didn’t know until yesterday she was pregnant. I left her two months ago.’

She studies him, as if waiting for an alternative version that makes sense. ‘You’re telling me,’ she says eventually, ‘this is the first time you’ve seen each other for weeks and weeks? And you’ve come here?’

A clock chimes hurriedly somewhere in the house. A cat runs in and jumps onto Betty’s lap. She lays her hand on its back and it lies down.

‘I thought if I could make my peace with Aberfan, I might be able to make peace with myself.’ He nods his head at the stairs. ‘And her.’

‘So, whatever troubles you’ve been having’ – she leans back in the chair, crosses her legs – ‘are mixed up with what happened here?’

‘Yes,’ he says, wondering from the look on her face and the comfort of her presence why on earth he didn’t think to come and speak to her sooner. ‘I’ve had dreams, from the day I left here, and flashbacks when I’m wide awake. On the day of the funerals, I decided I couldn’t even think about having children. It was unbearable. I told Gloria, right from the start. I tried to break it off, but she wouldn’t have it.’ The teapot and mugs sit on the table between them, and a plate of biscuits with a paper doily, but they remain untouched. There’s a building pressure in him, to tell her what he’s kept locked up so tightly. She’s perfectly still, watching him, and it takes him right back to the moment she stood opposite him in the chapel vestry, waiting for him to pull back the blanket from the first child. ‘What I’ve never told anyone …’ He pauses, needing to swallow. ‘Is that if I even think about having a child, spend a few seconds imagining what it would be like, I get these images in my head of its damaged body on a morgue table and me having to embalm it. Because if I had a child and they died, I couldn’t possibly let anyone else do it, could I?’ His eyes fill and when he manages to look at Betty, he sees that so have hers. ‘I left her because I thought it was the kindest thing I could do. Let her have a life with someone else. But I didn’t know she was pregnant. I would never have left if I’d known.’

A heavy creak at the top of the stairs gets both of their attention. They look from the staircase back at each other. The long moment of silence is like a held breath, then Gloria’s footsteps move quickly across the landing, a door closes, the chain flushes, more footsteps, then silence.

‘Right.’ Betty stands after a few moments’ quiet, and the cat tumbles onto the floor, looking around confused. She sits next to William on the sofa and holds both his hands. ‘God knows we’ve suffered in Aberfan and it’s been hellish. Long, hard and hellish. But we’re still here.’ Betty’s intent gaze holds him like a hug. ‘And we’ve managed to laugh as well as cry, and there are new children and the school is full and there are reasons for living. Lots of them. What you did here, that terrible job, made unbearable moments bearable. And in my experience, that’s what happens. When we go through impossible things, someone, or something, will help us, if we let them. And in our darkest days, William, you helped us. Now, at some point, God forbid, you might need help. And I believe you’ll get it.’ She frowns a little. ‘And it seems to me that if Mary could find the courage to risk all that agony all over again, you can take that risk too.’

William soaks in Betty’s words, her presence, her goodwill. He feels no need to say anything.

‘You do love Gloria, don’t you?’ Betty asks.

‘Oh, yes,’ he answers, and the resolve with which he says it releases something, something he’s held tight, like a clenched muscle.

Betty pulls a tissue from her sleeve and drops it in his lap.

‘Now,’ Betty says, ‘this is all very private, but I seem to be slap bang in the middle of it, so I’ll say my piece and then I’ll be done. All right?’

‘All right,’ he says softly.

‘It seems to me, that out of all this pain you’ve put people through, including yourself, a very good thing can come’ – she glances up the stairs – ‘for all three of you. The end of this chapter and the start of the next is that you become a father, knowing far better than those who’ve never seen the suffering you have, just how precious this child is, even before it’s arrived! And that, William, seems a bit of a gift, don’t you think?’

He nods.

‘So.’ Betty’s hands rub together, sending a gentle rasp into the room. ‘I’m off out for a couple of hours. I won’t be back till teatime. I’ll get fish and chips and you can stay the night if you like.’

She lifts the tray and takes it to the kitchen. ‘This’ll be cold, but help yourself to anything.’ She comes back into the living room, unhooks her coat from the peg and slides it on in one swift, easy movement. She gives him a wave and closes the door behind her.