Five Winters(64)

A tidal wave of relief washed over me. Iris wasn’t talking about Grace at all; she’d got confused.

“It’s Louise who’s having the baby, I think,” I told her. “Grace’s sister.” I was going to add something along the lines of, She seems to go in for Christmas babies, but Iris frowned, her expression indignant.

“That is Louise,” she said. “Her that’s just gone to get my knitting bag. That’s Louise.”

Before I had the chance to reply, Grace was back, carrying a rose-patterned knitting bag. Iris took it from her and reached inside to pull out a soft, pink matinee jacket, handing it over to Grace triumphantly.

“There you are, Louise. Knitted specially for your little one when she comes. Love in every stitch there is.”

Shit.

I couldn’t look at Grace. Couldn’t stop myself from looking at Grace.

Her expression gave away nothing. But the way she swallowed, the way her fingers gently stroked the lovingly knitted baby jacket, said absolutely everything there was to say.

Eventually, with great composure, she smiled. “Thank you, Nanna. It’s really beautiful.”

Iris beamed, patting Grace’s hand. “You’re welcome, pet.”

Soon afterwards, Iris said she was tired and asked Grace to take her back to her room, so we said our goodbyes. After I’d watched Grace wheel her grandmother away, Jasper and I did a few more tours around the residents. But even as I chatted and smiled, agreeing that Jasper was indeed very cute, I could still see Grace’s fingers moving over the soft wool. If I’d ever wondered whether Grace yearned to have a child or not, now I had my answer. Difficult as it was to imagine, Grace was just like me.

I’d left Kenwood Place and was clipping on Jasper’s seat belt when Grace emerged. For a moment, I thought she was going to just call out a goodbye and take off, but to my surprise, she came over.

“I hear you’re trying to adopt.”

I wondered who’d told her. Sylvia, perhaps. “Yes.”

“I hope that works out for you.”

“Thank you.”

“Though, presumably, you do know it’s going to be incredibly difficult? One of my clients adopted a child a few years ago. The little girl turned out to have foetal alcohol syndrome. It’s affected her development in so many ways. It’s been very tough for Helen and her husband. But worthwhile too, obviously. She wanted so much to be a mother.”

As soon as I’d stopped reeling from Grace’s sad tale, I nodded. “It is a very strong impulse.”

“Yes,” Grace agreed, “it is.”

There was silence for a moment. Then she looked at me. “I expect you know Mark and I have been having trouble conceiving?”

“I did wonder. But I wasn’t sure, no.”

She gave a little shrug. “We’ve had the tests. Apparently, there’s no reason for it. Nothing physically wrong with either of us.”

“Well, then, perhaps it will happen in time?”

“Perhaps.”

Suddenly I wondered if I’d ever seen who Grace really was. She’d always spoken to me with such self-assurance. Bossiness, even. As if I were the younger one, not her, and she needed to bestow her superior wisdom and advice on me. Yet here she was, just as vulnerable as I was. Of course she was. Everyone was vulnerable beneath the surface. Some people just hid it better than others.

She was fiddling with her car keys. “But getting back to your situation, I do think it’s a shame.”

I frowned. “What d’you mean?”

“Well, the girls. If you’d stayed with Jaimie, you’d have had two perfectly good stepdaughters to fill the void with.”

I flushed.

“They were upset, you know, when you left so suddenly. Oh, they didn’t say as much, but I could tell. I know them so well, you see, and I think, in some ways, to them, it was like losing their mother all over again when you went.”

What? “But they haven’t lost their mother. Harriet’s alive and well. Very much so.”

She shook her head. “Maybe that’s why it didn’t work out for you with them, then,” she said. “You not understanding that. The girls might see Harriet, spend plenty of time with Harriet, but what about when they need her when it’s Jaimie’s weekend to have them? Sometimes only a mother will do.”

I could feel the blood drain from my face. The familiar sick feeling in my stomach that came with a chasm of memories opening up. A chasm it sometimes felt as if I’d spent my whole life tiptoeing around.

Grace reached out a hand, not quite making contact with my arm. “I’m so sorry, Beth. That was extremely tactless of me. Of course you of all people must understand that.”

“Oh, yes.”

For about a millisecond, we’d been within touching distance, Grace and I. And now we weren’t. There didn’t seem to be anything else to say.

“Well, look, I’d better go. But good luck with your application, okay? I hope it works out for you.”

“Thanks. And I hope . . .” But I wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence, so my voice trailed off.

“Thank you. Goodbye, Beth.”

“Bye, Grace.”

She began to walk away, then turned round for one last parting shot.