Dying Flames (6 page)

“So I'd imagine. You know we met when we were both in a school play, don't you?”

“Yes, Grandad told me that.”

“She had testosterone-stoked young men around her for those three months, all lusting after her like crazy. That's probably where she got the thirst for being the center of attention.”

“Do you think? I'd have thought she became an amateur actress
because
of liking the limelight.”

She's really very sharp, thought Graham. Or has learnt a lot from her upbringing. At the door she kissed him.

“A chaste kiss from your nondaughter,” she said. “And we'll keep in touch.”

She made it sound inviting.

It was over a week before Graham heard from Christa again. He found the days long and empty. It was ridiculous to have become dependent on seeing or hearing from someone he had initially regarded as a threat, but there it was…. He told himself now and then that he was just curious to know whether Christa had turned up any facts about the boy who was his son, but he knew that was not so. It was Christa herself, her personality, her enthusiasm for life, that he missed.

One day, when he was out, she left a message on his answer machine. It just consisted of “Love you, Christa.” Not very sustaining in itself, but it gave him the sound of her voice, and he didn't wipe the message. He thought it was a lovely voice—a joyful, heart-lifting voice. The voice of an actress's daughter. He thought about Peggy, and her parents' story about her having won a scholarship to one of the drama schools. What wonderful things might have happened if it had been true! What rich pleasure she might have brought to theatergoers, television watchers, and cineasts up and down the country. He was convinced, like everybody in
St. Joan,
not just that she had talent, but that it was a peerless talent, that with training she could have stood alone among actresses of her generation.

Now he heard the same notes in the voice of her daughter. He wondered, like her, who Christa's father was. Someone quite ordinary, probably. But not him, anyway. That was a cause for satisfaction and relief. Christa was not his. So anything else was possible.

She rang him nine days after coming to see him.

“I think things are beginning to happen,” she said.

“
What
things are beginning to happen?”

“You
know.
” And of course he did know. He was only playing for time. To decide how he should act. “My big brother. The one who should have been around as I was growing up to defend me from school bullies and teach me how to smoke.”

“You mean my only son,” said Graham quietly.

“Yeah—that too. You
are
interested, whatever you pretend. There's been a message on the Find Your Family Web site. It's looking for a woman who had a baby in the Romford area in the spring of 1980. Possible names: Summers or Somers.”

“And what's his name?”

“Terence John Telford.”

“Doesn't ring any bells.”

“Why would it, if he was given up for adoption?”

“No, of course it wouldn't.”

“Mum probably never knew the name of the couple who adopted him. Weren't the authorities pretty strict then?”

“I don't know. I know nothing about it myself, remember. I was certainly not kept informed. But you're probably right about the authorities. Anything else?”

“Well, there's something that's a bit odd. He gives the date of his own birth as five-fifteen-80.”

“What?—Oh, I see.”

“The American way. Meaning the fifteenth of May—what we'd write as fifteen-five-80. And he spells
favour
as
F, A, V, O, R.
He asks anyone who might have any information about his mother ‘as a favor' to write to Terence John Telford at his address.”

“What is his address?”

“Somewhere in Wimbledon.”

Graham was silent.

“The spelling could just be a typo, but taken with the date, and his wanting to know about a baby born in spring '80…This seems to be the man we are after, and he apparently has some kind of American connection.”

“The family who adopted him could have gone out there to live, or to work temporarily, at some time while he was growing up.”

“They could. That became much more frequent in the eighties.”

“Well?”
Graham was silent, thinking, so Christa amended that to “Are you interested?”

“Yes. Yes, I think I am.”

“So what do I do?”

“Does he give an ordinary postal address?”

“Yes—the one in Wimbledon.”

“Of course. Well, couldn't you write to him briefly, say there is a Margaret ‘Peggy' Somers at Milton Terrace who you believe had an illegitimate son at about the time he's interested in, and leave it at that? Send it ordinary mail, so as to be more private.”

“So that's what you think I should do, is it?”

“Yes, I think that would be the right thing.”

“Good. Because that's what I've already done.”

“Graham, I think we should meet.”

It was pure pleasure to be called Graham.

“Sure. What's happened? Has contact been made?”

“Yes, it has. He's been for a visit.”

“He moves fast.”

“Very. You'd think they'd known each other for years.”

“You saw him, then?”

“Oh, yes. I wasn't meant to, but I did.”

“I bet you did. What were your impressions?”

There was a silence.

“I think we should meet again, Graham. This is all complicated. He's my brother, and presumably your son. Ten or twelve words on the telephone don't seem enough.”

“Of course you're right.” Graham was surprised but impressed by her compunction. “Suggest somewhere where we could meet.”

“Could it be London? Not Romford. Proper London?”

“Proper London would be fine. Where should it be? Green Park is nice at this time of year.”

“Green Park on Thursday at three p.m.?”

“Fine. Why Thursday?”

“Thursday afternoon's my free day at college.”

Graham noted that she hadn't asked if Thursday was a free day for him too. He rather liked the idea that she was taking control. Perhaps she was the sort of woman who always would.

Green Park on Thursday at 2:55 was looking beautiful, but it was also looking crowded. There were empty seats, but how long would they remain empty if he and Christa sat on one of them? Even before she arrived, Graham had decided they would sit on the grass. She walked down from the tube station, immensely self-assured. Graham kissed her in a stepfatherly sort of way, then led her toward a tree, spreading shade around it, which would probably keep most of the sun worshipers in the park away. Christa nodded her agreement with his choice.

“Yes, we need to be on our own,” she said, with the gravity of an adult. “Not that I have anything very scandalous to report—”

“But we do need to be private,” agreed Graham. “Afterwards I thought we might go for tea at the Ritz if you'd like that.”

“Is that something special?”

“Very much so.”

“Then I'd like it very much!”

He liked her naïveté, but he also liked her quickness in picking up the implications of his words. When they had settled down and Christa had taken a Crunchie bar from her bag and contentedly worked her way through it, remarking that tea was some way away, she consciously ordered her thoughts, a process that was clearly visible in her young, impressionable face, then began.

“Right. Well, I told you I wrote this young man a note telling him about Mum. I gave a fictitious name and said he could contact me through Darren Clarkson, that's my boyfriend. He didn't. He must have checked Mum's name and address though, probably through the telephone directory. He contacted her direct, I think it must have been last Tuesday, early on, before she went to work, because when I got home in the evening after college, she was very not-with-it and disturbed. I dropped in at Halliburton's—that's the greengrocer's—the next afternoon and they said she'd been acting odd all the day before. So I reckon he must have rung her, told her that he was the baby boy she'd given away twenty-five years ago, and talked over what had happened to him, what he'd done, in those years.”

“That sounds likely enough,” said Graham.

“And Peggy—I often call her that—was naturally a bit shaken by that. They must have left it open if and when they'd meet, because it was a few days later before she began making hints that she'd like me out of the house on Monday evening. ‘Why, have you got a new man coming round?' I asked. She wasn't embarrassed or anything—she's beyond that—but she just said, ‘Sort of,' and went on insisting I find something to do on Monday evening. Finally I said I'd go along to my friend Josie's, to put in some work on a college project I said we were doing.”

Graham was silent. He still found it difficult to imagine the mental state of children whose mothers (or fathers, come to that) had a succession of partners. Flashing across his brain came an image of his mother at the sink washing up, or with a head scarf knotted around her hair, trotting off to the shops to get something nice for the family's tea. He just nodded.

“Anyway, Monday came, and after college I had some tea and then made a big show of getting books together for the project. I took all the impressive ones, and when Mum asked what the project was, I said it was ‘interdisciplinary.' That floored her. Anyway, when she began to get nervy—it doesn't take much these days—I waved her good-bye, left the house, and settled down in a garden four doors down, where the house is vacant and up for sale.”

“So as to catch a glimpse of him?”

“Yeah, and I didn't have to wait long. You know Milton Terrace, don't you?”

“Yes, I've been there.”

“I know. Mrs. Poulson next door told me about this man asking after Mum, and I guessed it was you. Anyway, not many people come along it apart from the residents, and certainly not in the evening. So it didn't take much detective skill to work out that the young man walking along looking at numbers was Terence John Telford.”

“What was he like?”

“Not like you. Not like Mum either, come to that.”

“No reason why he should be. I'd have said that people who looked like either of their parents were the exception rather than the rule.”

“I've never really thought about it. Adam doesn't look like either of his. I think I'm a
bit
like Mum, though
only
in looks. I'm not at all like her in character.”

“You prefer truth to fantasy?”

She thought.

“Yes, I prefer the truth.”

“You still haven't told me what this young man
did
look like.”

“Well, he looks his age: midtwenties. If you'd asked me to guess, that's what I'd have said. He's a lot bigger than you, quite wide across the shoulders, but there's a lot of flesh there. I like my men skinnier. He's probably an inch or two taller than you, and he's got these chubby cheeks, wavy dark hair, and he kind of looks—I don't know…”

“What?”

“Of being, on top, rather smug, though underneath I think he's rather confused.”

“You got a lot out of a brief glimpse.”

“Oh, but I didn't have
just
a glimpse…I let him go by and saw him go into number twenty-five. Then I just sat and waited for a half hour or so. I didn't want to interrupt their long-overdue reunion.”

“Sensitive of you, if rather cynically expressed.”

“That about sums up my feelings about Mum. I could have imagined that she might be pleased and emotional about the whole thing, but she's never mentioned him. So that I couldn't believe that he meant very much to her.”

“But eventually you invented an excuse for going back, I assume.”

“Of course. I gave them plenty of time to take the first steps, then I walked back home, let myself in, shouted, ‘Sorry, I forgot a book,' and went straight upstairs. I nearly shouted, ‘I won't interrupt,' which I would have done if it had been one of Peggy's men who was there, but I definitely did intend to interrupt, so luckily I didn't. As it turned out, when I came downstairs with a book in my hand—I'd left my bag with all the other books in it down by the gate—there he was in the door of the sitting room. He came forward with his hand out. ‘Hi!' I said. ‘I'm Christa Webster, Peggy's daughter.' He shook my hand. ‘I'm Terry Telford,' he said. ‘I'm Peggy's son. Your elder brother.' ”

“Did you act surprised?”

“If I did, I didn't do it convincingly. Mum was behind the sitting room door, watching us. She said, like she was accusing me, ‘You
knew.
Knew about Terry. Someone told you.' Poor Terry was starting to look really confused by this time. She said, ‘It must be that blasted father of mine. Though he and Mum were very keen to keep it quiet at the time, and I thought they had since as well…. I'm pretty sure Graham never knew, but you've met him recently, and I did sort of…' And Terry said, ‘Who's Graham?' Peggy didn't reply directly. She just took him in her arms and said, ‘I think there've been enough surprises for one evening, don't you, Terry darling?' ”

“I can see her point,” said Graham.

“Yeah, I guess. Better not make a meal of it. Anyway, Mother gave me a warning look, meaning I should make myself scarce, so I thought I'd stay a little longer. I looked at Terry and said, ‘So where have you been all my life?' which was really aimed at
her,
not him. He smiled, a bit awkwardly, and said he'd been with his adoptive parents, and they'd gone to America for a while, but now they were home again, and so was he. I said, ‘Are you still living with your parents?' and he said no, he'd moved out, and was doing supply teaching.”

“Supply teaching? That can be tough. Is he doing it in the London area? I should think that's tantamount to slow suicide.”

“I think it's in London,” said Christa thoughtfully. “His parents live in Wimbledon, and he used their address when he posted his appeal on the Internet. He says he's trying to get his American degree recognized here, then he'll apply for permanent jobs.”

“Well, that fills in the gaps,” said Graham. “Anything else?”

“When I refused to go, or rather just stood there, he and Peggy disappeared into the kitchen, where she was making one of her delicious little suppers for him, just as if he was one of her fancy men—that's what she calls them, unless she's got hopes that they will become something more permanent. They began getting—not lovey-dovey exactly, but sort of giggly, almost flirting, and a bit embarrassing to watch.”

“Young people always do get embarrassed by age differences,” said Graham, a touch of bitterness entering his tone. Christa's face betrayed irritation.

“I
don't.
I'm old-fashioned. I like older men myself, and that seems perfectly natural. Somehow I just can't see a young man getting the hots for an older woman.”

“That's a horrible expression. I expect you got it from the Australian soaps.”

“I'm not wised up about etymology,” said Christa, her tone becoming satirical. “Do you really watch
Home and Away
and
Neighbours
? I can't imagine it.”

“Just now and then. One has to keep up with what young people are watching.”

“You should keep up with what young people are doing and thinking—what their lives are like.”

She sounded like a schoolmistress of an earlier age.

“I sometimes wonder whether they have a real life at all,” said Graham.

“Cynic. You know nothing about it.” Christa got up. “Come on. It's time to see what real life is like. Take me to the tearoom at the Ritz.”

Graham had had tea at the Ritz before, but not often. He was delighted to see that Christa was wide-eyed. He had booked a table, and the headwaiter said, “Ah, yes, Mr. Broadbent—delighted to see you, sir.” Christa took this to mean that her companion had been recognized, but Graham suspected that the name had been registered, and the man was hedging his bets in case Graham turned out to be the reasonably well-known novelist. They sat down and surveyed the menu of traditional goodies. Christa expressed a healthy distaste for Earl Grey, but let Graham select from the remaining teas, and herself chose greedily from the list of edibles. When the order had been taken, Graham sat back in his chair, saw that all the tables nearby were deep in conversation or social chitchat, then said softly:

“And is that all that happened when Terry came a-visiting?”

“Pretty much,” said Christa. “While they got more and more mother-and-son, I decided to slip out. I did drop in on Josie and came back home at the agreed time. Mother was on her own, mooning around the house. She had a bit of a go at me for coming back earlier, but she was in such a good, dreamy mood that it was like water off a duck's back. I tried to get into a discussion about my new brother, but she sailed off to bed singing, ‘You are my heart's delight,' which was one of my gran's favorites. My granny Somers, that is, who died, not my granny Webster in Stanway, who is my stepfather's mother. I've always been closer to her than I was to my stepfather.”

“And that was it, was it?”

“Pretty much. A bit later Adam came back, I told him what had happened, and he went ballistic.”

“Adam. I keep forgetting about Adam. That's probably because you so seldom mention him.”

“Not much to say. He's just a kid, though he doesn't realize that. Sports mad—especially football and athletics. The only reason he doesn't bunk off school most of the time is because school is where he can do both things, and he's desperate to get into the teams. Typical fourteen-year-old—chunkier than most, quite moody and aggressive at times.”