The Lost Child (2 page)

She opens her eyes, for she can hear the rasping voice of a drunken ballad singer competing with that of a deep-throated pie vendor, both of whom congregate below in the echo chamber that is the narrow courtyard. The boy has squeezed himself against the wall, and the wood groans as the landlord now lumbers across the crooked floor. A simple scrap of carpet would have assisted with the chill, but it is too late. She watches the animated glow from the man’s swinging lantern as the light searches for her figure. (Have you heard from your gentleman?) The landlord’s slovenly wig has slipped sideways, and his forehead wears a circumspect frown. Her child crawls to her side and holds her arm. He looks defiantly at the man with ill-disguised scorn lighting up his young eyes, but his mother reassures him. (It’s alright.) Seven bitter winters have passed since her son shouldered his way into the world on these grimy, uneven boards. Her gentleman paid for the doctor, but she worried that her child’s father might now uncouple his affection as a result of the taint in his offspring’s breeding. The landlord moves his lamp to improve his view of her face, which is coated in sweat as thick as oil. This man once radiated understanding, but his disposition is now much altered. He asks her, How many weeks must I wait? She no longer possesses the strength to draw her tongue across the speckling of blood on her mouth; she no longer enjoys the ability to smile.

*   *   *

The first time she saw the ghost quietly leaving her body she shook with fear, but he quickly reentered her. The ghost appears and disappears stealthily, like a halo of breath on a looking glass. She knows that soon the ghost will leave her frail body, and this time she will utter a series of long, shallow gasps and fall silent, and then follow him and begin her final voyage. But not yet. A single candle gutters in the draught, but its shimmer illuminates the obscurity allowing her to watch over her sleeping child, and again she feels her consciousness slipping away and the worrisome present subsiding into a peaceful dream. She lowers her heavy lids and abandons vigilance.

During their first apprehensive dinner her gentleman had been careful to admit to her that as far as ardent passions were concerned he was something of a novice. But by their second meal together she could observe it in his aspect that he felt emboldened. A small fire was her gentleman’s gift of comfort to her, and they both studied the tiny flames as the serving boy added fresh logs and then raked up the loose waste from under the grate. After the boy closed in the door, her gentleman friend stood and crossed the room and drew the bolt. She could see that he was nervous, and some crumbs clung stubbornly to his chin, but he had forsaken drinking while he still remained in full custody of his sensibilities. She looked favourably upon him, convinced that integrity and kindness were lodged in his bosom. He removed his satin vest and lace ruffles with impeccable dexterity, which helped to soothe her own nervous condition. Then he came to her with the honest ardour of youth, and she made an earnest attempt to return his interest.

Although the considerate man took his time and let his fingers gently explore the soft curves of her body and whispered to her throughout, she was unable to prevent her mind from collapsing under the stress of memory. She found herself back on the ship with the captain stirring himself to quick, frenzied spasms, after which she was confined to her corner, where she prayed that he might now leave her alone. A civil frigidity entered the captain’s voice as he commanded her not to submit to sulkiness, and then one morning the exasperated man ushered her to the foot of a steep staircase and then to the upper level, where she experienced a change of air. He pressed a guinea into her palm and, the ship having docked in the night, he pointed to the great port that lay spread out before them and turned her loose to find an occupation and seek shelter. It was some while before she moved off from the docks, being unsure if she was at liberty to walk abroad, and after a few hours of edging her uncertain way along bustling streets, a forthright workingwoman, with a fine white cloud of hair, came to her aid and made it her objective to help this lost soul reclaim her grit and establish a new home in this clamorous town of ships and sailors.

It was later, after she had accommodated her gentleman’s devotion on a half-dozen separate occasions, that she discovered herself with child and, thereafter, her circumstances declined. (We’ve no work in this place for a woman with child.) She felt bereft of mettle in her increasingly tattered clothes, and shame began to regularly flicker across her face. (No, miss, we’ve no work for you.) No longer a bewitching presence, her reduced self aged a year with each dismissive glance, and she wept bitterly at the thought that she would most likely never reestablish herself in employment. Occasionally he still came to her with tender warmth and a charitable heart, and he appeared to look upon the child with genuine regard, but she could see it in his eyes that despite her attempt to maintain some grace to her natural movements, his zeal for her had been extinguished. Mother and child were now little more than a burdensome secret, and although her benefactor continued to press money upon her, it was manifest that he was growing progressively detached. And then meetings with the gentleman ceased, and other assignations commenced as the curse of destitution began to pollute her life. (No, please, no! No!) These scowling men revelled in improper conduct and were prepared to pay to have brisk knowledge, and once their joyless noises were at an end they dropped a coin on the way out as they stepped over the pile of tatters that was her child. Her poor son, who lay with his body curled tightly and his desperate hands clasped over his ears. (My child what have I done to you in this place? Will you ever forgive me?)

At dawn he appears before her and can see she is enduring a resurgence of distress. He looks across at her sleeping child but knows that there is little to be gained by waking the boy. The stench of decay torments the room, but it is illness and misfortune, not idleness, that has enabled this malodorous atmosphere to flourish. Her cheeks radiate heat like tiny twin furnaces, and blood leaks steadily from her nose. He sees the yellow tarnish to her defeated eyes and listens to her breathing in low, labored gasps. It is clear that the conflict will soon be at an end, so he will not reenter her delicate body. The woman is powerless to rise and meet the day, and it is time for her to pass safely over the threshold and be on her way. The woman opens her eyes and looks lovingly in the direction of her peaceful child. She taught the boy how to walk, and now she must walk away from him. She must go. A skeleton hung with rags. Another journey, another crossing.

II

FIRST LOVE

Towards the end of her second year at university, Monica Johnson listened as her father told her that he had given the matter a great deal of thought, but sadly he couldn’t be expected to tolerate her behaviour for a moment longer. He cleared his throat and wondered if he had soft-soaped things by using the word “sadly”; she was staring at him with those large, unblinking brown eyes of hers and waiting for him to continue. He had misjudged things, for he had anticipated tears, but instead of a torrent of emotion his twenty-year-old daughter continued to grimace and wait for him to explain himself. Being a schoolmaster in one of the most highly considered grammar schools in the north of England, he was, of course, used to making advanced concepts intelligible to young people. However, they both knew that this was a subject upon which there really was no need for him to expand any further. After all, standards were standards, and although it disappointed him to have to take such a stance, Monica knew full well that once he’d made his mind up that was it.

They sat together in her room at the top of a narrow nineteenth-century staircase in the back quad of one of Oxford’s smaller and less prestigious women’s colleges. Between them a fully laden tray sat atop a rickety wooden table, which rose little more than a foot above the threadbare rug. Two untouched pieces of Dundee cake decorated a white china plate, which was flanked on one side by a bright red teapot and on the other by two ill-matching cups stacked one on top of the other. She had thought long and hard about what to wear and had assumed that her father, who had fixed ideas about how women should present themselves, might even be expecting her to be decked out in her tutorial garb—a nice dark sensible skirt, black stockings, and a crisp white blouse. She had chosen instead to wear a sloppy grey pullover and tan slacks but further confused the issue by tying back her long, straight hair with an incongruously cheerful yellow ribbon. Although she knew full well that she wasn’t much to look at, this year men had begun to notice her and even if she couldn’t prove it scientifically, she was sure that the more she dressed like a
townie
, the more attention she received. But she certainly didn’t want scrutiny from this warped man, who had already bullied his wife into near-mute submission. By the time Monica was a teenager she was fairly sure what type of person she was dealing with, and it was she who had decided to generate a distance between them, which she closely monitored, carefully widening the gap with each passing year.

Having ushered him into her room and hung his overcoat and hat on the back of the door, she directed him to a chair that offered a view, out of the sloping attic window onto the somewhat hideous modern red tiles that crowned the college annexe. The four-hour drive from Wakefield had provided him with the opportunity to reflect and choose precisely the right words, and once he was seated he came straight to the point, which he knew would leave them ample time for debate or, if his daughter so wished, time for debate
and
refreshment. But as she continued to stare at him with that particularly rebellious sneer she seemed to have cultivated in her sixth-form years, he began now to question his tactics and wondered if he should have taken a cup of tea and a piece of cake before easing his way into the assignment.

She looked at him, fully aware of the fact that to open her mouth right now would only result in her coming out with angry and resentful words, so she bit down hard on her bottom lip. Monica wasn’t in the habit of revealing emotional vulnerability to this man, for she knew that the end result of such stupidity was having your wings ripped off. As she tasted the first sting of blood, she reminded herself of her promise to keep things nice and steady.

“So that’s it then? You’re washing your hands of me?” She swallowed hard but didn’t take her eyes from him. “Well?”

He raised a warning finger. “Now then, there’s no need to take that tone with me.” And then he realized how he must appear, with his finger dangling foolishly in midair, and so he quickly swivelled his wrist and opened his palm. “I could pussyfoot around, but to whose benefit would that be?”

“So that’s it then?”

He looked at the pot and imagined that the tea must now be cold. Why did Monica always have to be so bloody wilful? No matter what he did she seemed set against him. She’d been stubborn as a girl, but nothing out of the ordinary—as far as he could tell—until she started budding. That’s when his daughter went from diffident to downright disobedient. One day she was prepared to answer his admittedly tedious questions about what classes she liked best at school or if she’d be interested in coming with him to a musical concert at the Town Hall (the answer was always no), and then the next day it was as though all communication between the two of them had totally broken down. He knew that she liked Wordsworth, so he broached the idea of a walking holiday in the Lake District, just the two of them, but Monica rolled her eyes and said, “No thanks.” And then after she’d been accepted at university, when he made it clear that he’d love to motor down and explore the place with her, she just laughed and carried on watching a programme on the newly purchased television set.

“Well,” she said, breaking off a piece of Dundee cake with her fingers. “Is that all you’ve got to say to me?”

He wanted to smack the girl, but it was too late for this. As usual, her attitude was entirely regrettable, but he knew enough about young people to understand that he had to continue to exude assertiveness and control, and so he climbed to his feet.

“So it would appear, Monica. So it would appear. I’ve no desire to fight with you.” He paused, and for a moment their eyes locked. “Listen, I’d best be off before the traffic starts building. And Monica, I’m sorry.”

His daughter heard his bumbling apology, but she said nothing and simply unhooked his overcoat, then his hat, and handed them to him. He looked at his child, but for him to say anything further would involve stepping too far outside of himself, and so he simply offered her a weak smile. Then he caught a glimpse of himself in the small mirror on the wall to the side of the door and realized that this afternoon’s effort had put five years on him. As she picked up a small bunch of keys, Monica broke off another portion of cake.

“I’ll show you the way out of the college.”

They crossed the quiet, shadowy quadrangle and then traipsed their way through a narrow archway and out into the sunlit brightness of the front quad, where two clusters of students shared the lawn, playing separate games of croquet in neighbourly proximity to each other. As they walked together, he felt a momentary surge of panic, knowing that this final act of his performance would be improvised. They stepped through the huge wooden door and out onto the street, and then he stopped and gently held Monica’s arm through a handful of grey jumper.

“You will keep in touch, won’t you?” His daughter looked at him but said nothing.

He let go of Monica’s arm and fished in his jacket pocket for his car keys.

“I’m parked just down this road and around the corner. No need for you to trouble yourself. I can find my own way.” Why, he asked himself, couldn’t he add “love”? I can find my own way, love. But he knew that it wouldn’t do to confuse her. Once he turned the corner and passed out of sight, he took a handkerchief from his pocket and discreetly blew his nose and then dabbed at his eyes. Mission accomplished.