A Terrible Kindness(65)

She stops in the cafe doorway. ‘You’re not talking rubbish. You say lovely things.’

He queues for the tea and teacakes, watching the butter dissolving into the teacake as the woman takes his money. As he walks towards Gloria sitting with her back to him, he plans to talk about the tutting lady; he wants to laugh with her again. He has to concentrate on the tray because the metal milk jug has been overfilled, but Gloria turns to look at him and his mouth goes dry. Laying the tray carefully onto the melamine table, he leans across and pats her arm. Her sobs are barely audible, but it must be clear to everyone in the cafe that she’s crying.

‘Sorry,’ she says, touching the corners of her eyes with the pad of her finger. William notices the two women on the adjacent table have only crumbs left on their plates and he hopes they leave soon. He sits down.

‘I’ll be all right, won’t I, William?’

‘Of course you will,’ he says, leaning towards her, ‘it only happened three weeks ago.’

‘I know I was barely pregnant,’ she says, her breath catching, ‘I wasn’t even showing.’

‘You were,’ he says. She’s staring at him and he thinks he’d probably do best to keep quiet, but she looks so eager, he carries on. ‘Everything about you was different.’

Gloria watches him for a moment, then blows her nose on a paper napkin. ‘It’s the guilt.’ She’s matter of fact now. ‘When I knew I was pregnant, I cried all morning.’ She leans towards him, so their heads are almost touching. ‘What if the baby knew I didn’t want it?’ she whispers. ‘What if that’s why I lost it.’

He takes both her hands; she pulls one away to wipe the drips from her chin but slides it back. William’s elbow is nudged by the departing woman next to him, trying to tuck her chair back under the table.

‘That can’t be right.’

‘I did feel like a mother,’ she says, ‘and that mattered more than all the other stuff – the shame, the rubbish wedding.’

‘You’d have been great.’ The words hang heavy and final. ‘And you will be great,’ he adds.

She looks at the table. ‘What if that was my only chance? I’m used goods now, aren’t I?’

‘Don’t ever call yourself that! And anyway, no one even knew you were pregnant. I did, but that’s different.’

‘Why?’ She’s waiting for him. Again.

A waitress has appeared next to them. ‘We’re closing in ten minutes.’

‘Thank you,’ says William, glancing at the pretty young woman. For a brief moment he imagines his heart being free to flirt with her, to start something new and fresh, without all the hurdles that lie between him and Gloria, without all these failures and missed opportunities weighing him down. The waitress clears their table and walks away, her flat shoes squelching on the floor. It’s a fantasy. His heart isn’t free, so why bother imagining it is?

‘Maybe I won’t be able to get pregnant again. Or maybe I will, but I’ll keep having miscarriages.’

‘I’m no expert,’ he says, feeling woefully inadequate, ‘but I’m pretty sure lots of women have miscarriages and then have healthy babies.’ He stands and slides his jacket on, then pulls her coat off the chair and drapes it over her shoulders. ‘I think you should try and be positive, for your own sake.’

‘Easier said than done.’ Gloria gets up.

‘Another quick wander in the gallery before we go home?’ William stands up. ‘If we go in the opposite direction, we can do a loop and have one last look at Ophelia before we go.’

‘Is that what you normally do?’ There’s a slight smile on her face.

‘Yes.’ He smiles back.

Even though he’s on edge, he feels a lifting, a lightening at the delicate colours and textures of the Millais, the seeming miracle of transparent, colourless water rendered so perfectly. By paint! It’s a relief to be standing there without the need to speak. Eventually, Gloria says quietly but clearly, ‘I never loved him.’

Grateful that she’s looking at the painting and not him, grateful that he can reply to the painting and not Gloria, he asks, ‘Why did you go out with him?’

‘He was funny. Charming. We had a laugh.’ She pauses and turns to him, but he keeps his gaze on the painting. ‘And he asked.’

After a few minutes without either of them moving, she says quietly, ‘I’m not sorry Ray’s buggered off. But I am sorry I’ve lost my baby.’

And that’s enough. He feels softened, yet bold enough to put his arm through hers. ‘Uncle Robert said on the phone last night that they’re booking tickets for the Ladies’ Dinner Dance in Nottingham. It’s the annual posh do for the Midlands Chapter of embalmers, don’t know why they call it that.’ He’s talking faster and faster, suddenly desperate that she comes. ‘It’s on 22nd October, the day after I graduate. Want to come? It’ll be something to look forward to.’

‘Yes.’ She puts her head on one side and smiles. ‘Why not?’





44


NOVEMBER 1970, SUTTON COLDFIELD



The pile of tiny coffins reaches to the ceiling. He has to stand on a chair. His slurry-coated hands slip on the wood; he can’t get enough purchase to pull it down. On tiptoe, he manages to hook one finger over the coffin’s edge. His ankles wobble as he pulls it towards him. As the white casket tilts downwards, it knocks him back and a child’s body flops out onto his chest. He hits the ground and the crushed skull nestles under his chin, the dried, bloodied hair scritch-scratching his throat. A woman kneels down, looks at the body draped over him, and starts to scream. He sits up.