Keeping Secrets (8 page)

‘If you were invited,' said Hilda recovering, and he laughed.

‘Well, of course. Perhaps I assume too much, I'd better watch my step. All I wanted to say to you was, I'm just so sorry it can't be like that.' He was stroking her hand. ‘Do you understand what I'm saying? That I want you to know from the beginning how much I feel for you, how sorry I am that there'll always have to be …' He broke off.

‘You're trying to tell me,' said Hilda, ‘that you are never going to leave your wife.'

There was a silence.

‘Because of …' she wavered, trying to remember his son's name. ‘Because of Jonathan.'

He looked away. ‘I just couldn't do it. I know I couldn't. Perhaps when he was little – there were times, then … But not now.' He looked back at her. ‘Do you understand?'

‘Yes,' she said. ‘Of course I do. Anyway, I don't think I could feel very much for someone who could do something like that.'

‘Dear Hilda, it happens, doesn't it? It happens all the time.'

‘I know it does, but it's not my scene. So messy. And I don't know anything about children, I'd hate to be involved in … all that.'

Stephen was silent again. Then he said: ‘You don't ever want children?'

‘I never have.' She kissed him again. ‘It's you I seem to have fallen for, not some dreadful screaming baby. I can't think of anything worse.'

‘Is Alice's baby dreadful?'

‘No, she's sweet, but … Come on, that's enough, now. Don't you have a journey to make?'

‘One last embrace. I love you. I love you.'

Hilda held him, filled with a hitherto unknown, weightless sense of delight. ‘Yes,' she said. ‘Me too.'

That was the beginning, that was years ago.

In the beginning, after that first, undreamed-of encounter, Hilda had tried, for a while, to hold back, to regain and maintain her customary caution. Then she gave up, and was taken over. She'd wanted Stephen, Stephen, Stephen: to hear his voice on the phone, his car drawing up outside, his ring at the door. She wanted him all the time, it was like an illness, living from one meeting to the next, wanting to make a moment, an hour, a night, go on for ever, trying to make days and weeks fly past.

On her bedside table stood a photograph in a silver frame: Stephen leaning back against a low wall outside a pub in Highgate, his eyes half-closed against a sharp, winter-morning sun, but smiling at her, as she held up her camera before they went into the pub for Sunday lunch, as if everything were ordinary, and without complication, as if the photograph might be merely one of many taken during their life together. He had wanted one of her, but had never taken one, and in the end she gave him an old passport photograph, in which she looked rather severe, but which was small enough for him to tuck away. He zipped it into the inner pocket of his jacket and kissed her.

‘I wish you didn't have to go,' she said, as he put his case into his car.

‘So do I,' he said, and closed the boot.

They kissed again, but lightly, quickly, not wishing to be observed by Anya, who was conspicuously silent about Stephen's comings and goings. Hilda watched him drive away through the square, and returned to the house, and the photograph.

Looking at it over the years, knowing it was foolish to do so, she had nonetheless woven any number of lives together round that loving smile. She spent so much time with it that after a while, when he went home to Norfolk, she found that she returned to the photograph as if that were the real Stephen, waiting for her, not the man she had just said goodbye to, and was waiting for again. Sometimes, next time they met, the real Stephen was at first a disappointment, the smile not quite how she remembered it. There were times when she felt as if she were having a love affair with herself – it wasn't Stephen who saw her cry when she came back upstairs again, it wasn't Stephen who saw her write long letters in the small hours and tear them up in the morning; it was Hilda, the old, cool, capable Hilda, bemusedly watching the new one, restless, ecstatic, desolate, distracted.

Meanwhile, Alice's baby was a year old, taking her first steps; one and a half, calling, ‘Mummy, Mummy, Mummy!' Alice took to inviting Hilda over more often: for tea in the holidays, sometimes introducing her to other mothers and toddlers who dropped in on their way to the playground.

Have you got any children, Hilda? No? How sensible.

Hilda found most of these women patronising and complacent; she made her excuses and left with a sigh of relief. In washed-out dungarees, Hettie stood at the top of the steps, holding Alice's hand.

‘Say goodbye,' said Alice.

‘Hettie waved. 'Bye.'

‘Bye, Hettie, see you soon.' Hilda waved, feeling slightly foolish, and walked down the street, sidestepping other mothers and pushchairs, hearing Alice lead her daughter back inside the house, and close the door. She walked across the wintry common and through the cold streets to Clissold Park and home: it was quite a long walk, enabling her to reclaim some sense of herself as a woman alone, unencumbered, purposeful. Nonetheless, there were times after such visits when her flat felt as empty as it did when Stephen had just left; she reached for the telephone, dialling friends, and made arrangements.

Early in 1985, with a salary rise and her mortgage payments affordable, Hilda bought a car, a neat little silver-grey Polo. This was more because it seemed sensible to do so while she could manage it than because it was really necessary in London, but she had close friends who were moving out to the country, and wanted to be able to visit them. After this, her visits to Alice, and to her friends, were made by car; from time to time Alice invited her over for Sunday lunch. They were seeing more of each other since Hettie was born than they had done for years: Hilda felt that Alice was keen to show herself as a new person now, settled and secure, and a part of her was glad to go along with this. Another part felt a certain dissatisfaction. She enjoyed being Hettie's aunt but that was because Hettie was Hettie, the kind of child to whom, fortunately, she felt able to respond. She did not enjoy the feeling of being on the fringe of Alice's life, cast in the role of onlooker, someone who had, apparently, days less fulfilled and less enjoyable. Alice never asked her what she did when she wasn't working; Hilda, without being asked, did not feel inclined to tell her. After all, what did it matter what Alice knew, or did not know? They had lived apart for so long, their lives not touching; it seemed both impossible and unnecessary to explain to her, if it was not evident, that Hilda, too, was a different person now.

So she went over to Highbury for Sunday lunch, and sat next to Tony, talking about his work, and her work, films seen and books enjoyed, having her glass refilled, while Alice sat next to Hettie, up in her high chair, pushing her bowl about, dropping bits of food.

‘Come on, Hettie, eat up.' Alice fed her little pieces of meat and potato; teddy bears held paws round the rim of the bowl. ‘One for this bear, and one for this bear … Aren't they sweet?'

Hilda mentally raised her eyes to the heavens. ‘Are you asking me?' she said, more sharply than she'd intended.

Alice flushed. ‘Not really, I was just burbling.' She spooned another morsel of potato into Hettie's mouth. ‘Mothers do,' she said.

Hilda turned back to Tony, who was carving second helpings. ‘I saw
Letter to Brezhnev
last week.'

‘Any good?' Tony slid slices of lamb on to her plate.

‘A bit overrated, I thought, quite honestly. Everyone's been raving about it, haven't they?'

‘Have they? It seems light years since I saw a film except on the box, and even then I usually fall asleep.' He turned to Alice. ‘More for you?'

She shook her head, her hair falling across her face. ‘No, thanks.'

‘You should let me babysit, Alice,' said Hilda. ‘I'd like to. You two could have an evening out, and Hettie and I could have fun, couldn't we, Hettie?'

Alice didn't answer. Hettie watched Hilda raise eyebrows at her over the top of her spectacles and gave a little laugh, dropping her spoon.

Alice picked it up again. ‘I'd better go and check on the pudding,' she said, and went out of the room as Tony called after her: ‘You okay, Alice? What are we having?'

‘Only apple crumble,' said Alice distantly from the corridor.

‘What do you mean, only?'

There was no answer. Hilda passed Tony the runner beans and he passed her the gravy; they ate in silence, hearing the oven door bang. In her high chair, Hettie began to squirm, pushing the teddy bear bowl away.

‘Come on,' said Hilda, ‘you've had enough, haven't you? Want to come out for a bit?' She leaned forward, unstrapping her. ‘Up we go.' Hettie, lifted into the air, put her arms round Hilda's neck. ‘Come on my lap? There we are.' She sat her down, and Hettie reached up for her glasses. ‘No, no,' said Hilda firmly, ‘those are not for babies.' She turned her round to face the table and gave her a fork. ‘Go on, you have that.' She leaned her chin on Hettie's silky dark head, one arm round her waist, one hand lifting Hettie's, small and round, clasping the fork. They beat a little tune on the table. ‘Tap, tap, tap, the crocodile went snap!' Hettie giggled. ‘Again? Tap, tap, tap …'

‘I don't know that one,' said Tony.

‘Nor do I. I just made it up, I must be burbling. Aunts do,' she added, kissing the top of Hettie's head. ‘Tap, tap, tap, the crocodile went …' She paused, enjoying Hettie's eager anticipation. ‘Snap!' Hettie burst out laughing.

And Alice, returning, stopped abruptly in the doorway and said: ‘Oh, Have you finished your lunch, Hettie?'

Hettie did not look at her; she was wriggling round to look up at Hilda. ‘'Gain.' She banged on the table with the fork and lifted it high. The edge of the prongs scraped along her cheek, and there was a sudden scream.

Alice ran into the room. ‘Baby, baby, it's all right, come here …' She lifted her from Hilda's arms. ‘How on earth did she get hold of that?'

‘I gave it to her,' said Hilda. ‘Sorry. I think she's okay, Alice, it's only a scratch.'

Alice ignored her, rocking Hettie close against her. ‘Come on, we'd better put something on it, come on, darling, let's go and sort you out …' She left the room again; they heard her climbing the stairs to the bathroom, and Hettie, who rarely cried, stopped crying now.

There was another silence.

‘Oh, dear,' said Hilda.

‘Don't worry about it.' Tony bent down and picked up the fork. ‘She's all right.'

‘Alice doesn't think so.'

He stood up, and began to clear the table. ‘She'll be okay in a minute.' He clearly meant Alice.

‘Shall I go up?'

‘No, let them calm down.' He had piled up the plates; Hilda rose, too, and picked up the vegetable dishes; they carried everything through to the little kitchen.

‘God,' she said. ‘It's difficult territory, motherhood. I feel as if I'm treading on a minefield sometimes.'

‘Perhaps Alice does too,' said Tony. He put down the plates on the draining board. ‘Come on, forget about it. Has she told you we're going to build an extension here? So we can eat in the kitchen?'

‘No,' said Hilda. ‘That'll be nice.' She leaned against the door frame and listened to him sketch out the plans, gesturing towards the garden; she felt that he was, really, not much more interested in kitchen extensions than she was, and almost said so, but also understood that he was deliberately introducing safety and neutrality. Perhaps he knows Alice and me better than we know ourselves, she thought, and then switched off completely, wondering what Stephen was doing now, picturing him, over Sunday lunch in Norfolk, as impatient with his family there as she felt now – longing, suddenly to get in her car and drive away, wanting only to be with him.

‘Oh, God,' she said heavily, aloud, and Tony said: ‘What? What are you thinking about?'

‘Oh … I don't know.' She waved at the air. ‘Sorry. I was miles away.'

‘Where?'

‘It doesn't matter. Nowhere I can tell you about.' She could hear Alice coming downstairs, talking to Hettie: ‘There we are, all better now.'

‘But not in a larger kitchen,' said Tony drily, and meeting his eyes, interested and perceptive, she laughed, and then looked away again.

‘Absolutely not, I'm afraid.'

‘Shall we have pudding?' said Alice, coming in. She passed Hettie over to Tony; he reached out and touched Alice's face, gently concerned. ‘All right? Hettie all right?'

‘We're fine,' said Alice, kissing him.

‘Well done.'

Watching them, observing their absorption in each other and the faint red mark on Hettie's cheek, shining with a film of antiseptic cream, Hilda almost said aloud: ‘For heaven's sake!' She bit her lip, thinking: How uncharitable I am – why shouldn't they be like this? And then, as Alice moved away, and bent to open the oven door, she shut her eyes, seeing Stephen reach out to kiss and touch her own cheek – and perhaps, suddenly and astonishingly, to take their own child into his arms. She heard herself give a groan.

‘Hilda! What is it?'

She opened her eyes again, seeing both sister and brother-in-law looking at her in consternation. She wanted to say: ‘I'm in love, I'm in love!
That's
what it is, isn't it written all over me?' She did not trust herself to speak, and years of holding herself back, of keeping cool, made her shake her head, take off her glasses and rub her eyes, saying, at last: ‘Sorry,' for the third time in ten minutes, and then: ‘I'm tired, that's all.'

She knew that neither of them was satisfied with this, but they let it go, and Tony took Hettie back to the lunch table, leaving Alice and Hilda a tactful-opportunity for sisterly conversation, which neither of them took up.