Girl Unknown(45)

My lecture took place on the second morning and passed off well. Afterwards, there was a lunch in the dining hall alongside some of my old professors. I enjoyed their company, and we talked about the passing years, as well as engaging in a lively discussion about the rise of Islamic fundamentalism in the West, so it was with some reluctance that I excused myself, found a taxi outside the main entrance and instructed the driver to take me to an address in Holywood, outside the city.

I sat in the back of the cab, staring out at the massive yellow Harland and Wolff cranes, the concrete bridges under which the road passed, the verges becoming green and lush as we left Belfast behind us. I thought of Linda, curious to see how, where and with whom she had lived all those years without me. It was hard to imagine the Linda I knew – flighty, scornful of formal commitments, loath to be tethered to anyone or anything – succumbing to marriage, an institution she had roundly derided in the heady days of our love affair. I felt a little nervous, unsure as to what I wanted to happen at this meeting. I hoped to smooth things over, let Gary know that I was on the scene now, and that whatever kind of relationship he had with Zo?, the role of father-figure he might have played, it was different now.

The taxi stopped at a terrace of houses with pebble-dashed walls and small gardens, facing out on to a green. Some of the gardens were well maintained, while others were strewn with kids’ bicycles and plastic slides, dustbins shoved alongside breeze-block walls. A group of sullen teenagers were sitting on a wall, staring as the taxi approached. I tried to imagine Zo? playing on the green as a child, cycling along the road.

I paid the fare and stepped out to a house at the end of the terrace, purple and blue hydrangea bushes in the garden, a green Volkswagen Golf in the driveway. I imagined Linda coming home from work every day, pushing a buggy along that footpath, opening the door every morning to take in the milk.

Holywood, I knew, was an affluent town, part of Ulster’s gold coast, but there was something down-at-heel about this street. Not that there were flags hanging from the lampposts or kerb-stones painted with the Union Jack. But for all its neatness, there was an impoverishment. I used to think all of Belfast was a bit too small to contain Linda, let alone this choked suburb.

I rang the doorbell, and after a moment’s wait, a shadow appeared behind the frosted glass. The door opened and I was met by a tall, gaunt man. He was, I guessed, in his early fifties. In brown cords, a black knitted cardigan and horn-rimmed glasses, he reminded me of a geography teacher I might have had at school.

‘David,’ he said, extending his hand to shake mine.

His voice was deep and his handshake was strong. At his request, I followed him inside. He led me through a narrow hallway into a kitchen at the back of the house. ‘Coffee?’ he asked.

‘Please.’

The kitchen was long and narrow, lined with white cabinets, a butcher’s block surface that was almost entirely free of appliances apart from a red Gaggia next to the sink, which Gary began fiddling with.

‘Please, make yourself at home,’ he urged, directing me to a light-filled room that opened out of the kitchen.

What I had seen of the house so far had seemed fairly mundane – even characterless – but when I stepped into the sunroom, I understood I was in its heart. Floor-to-ceiling windows gave on to an immaculate garden, and even on that gloomy afternoon, light poured through the skylights in the ceiling on to honey-coloured wooden floors. The walls were filled with books and prints, shelves stacked with paperbacks in haphazard arrangement, a reading lamp sitting on top of a neat tower of magazines. There were framed photographs everywhere, photographs of weddings and parties and visits to foreign cities – some with Gary, some of Linda alone, one or two of her among a group of people I didn’t recognize. My eyes were drawn to them, searching for her. How strange it was to see that woman with her careful smile, her monochrome clothes, and realize she was Linda – my Linda. It was a shock to see her hair cut short, tamed into a neat bob, still blonde but dark at the roots. I suppose she might also have been surprised at how I had aged – the young man she had fallen in love with had grey hair, a forehead furrowed with age-lines.

I picked up one of the framed photographs from the side table. It was of Linda, standing outside Belfast City Hall in a yellow dress, holding in one hand an umbrella, in the other an oversized hat.

‘We thought it was going to rain,’ Gary said, coming into the room and putting a tray on the coffee-table. ‘Our wedding day. I insisted we bring an umbrella,’ he said, smiling. ‘Linda was holding it up because it hadn’t rained.’

‘When was that?’

‘Twelve years ago in March. I’ll let you help yourself to milk and sugar.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, putting the photograph back where I had found it, but not without wondering where Zo? was when the picture had been taken. In my mind’s eye I saw a six-year-old girl in a blue dress, hair in plaits, gaps in her teeth showing as she smiled for the camera. But she was not in that picture, or any other. As my eyes took in the room, I found there wasn’t a trace of her anywhere.

‘The last time I saw Linda,’ I told Gary, as I took my cup and sat in the armchair opposite his, ‘she was preparing to go to Canada to do her PhD.’

‘Yes, well, she did go, but things happened. She dropped out and came home.’

Things happened. Pregnancy. Motherhood. I listened for the trace of unspoken accusation in his voice but there was none.