The Lost Child (24 page)

He’d bought a bottle of sweet wine from Asda with the express purpose of using it to help lubricate what he imagined might be a taxing conversation. It was a sunny afternoon, and they sat opposite each other on the garden chairs he’d brought with him from the old house, and they listened to the birds trilling and twittering in what he considered to be an annoying fashion. “To your good health,” he said. They clinked glasses, and he had to admit he’d never seen Mrs. Barrett looking so happy and contented. As a result, instead of admonishing her for her petty pilfering, or asking for the spare key back, he unexpectedly found himself telling her the story of how, not that long after he’d lost Ruth, he received the phone call from the secure hospital in London during which the woman told him that his daughter had taken an overdose of pills and he’d have to come down and identify the body. He asked the woman, “What, come down now? It’s after seven, and even if I leave right at this moment, I don’t think I can get down there before midnight.” The woman reassured him that there was no rush and tomorrow would be fine, but after he put down the phone, he sat in the gloom for nearly an hour, and then, worried that he was about to be overwhelmed by grief, he suddenly rose to his feet and grabbed his jacket. He went out to the car and drove down through the night to London, and once there he sat outside the hospital, with his driver’s seat reclined, until the gates opened at seven. It was a coloured nurse who greeted him at reception, and she ushered him into the hospital proper and steered him to a room where he had to make the identification.

The whole thing was depressingly straightforward. They simply pulled back a sheet, and he nodded and quickly turned his head. They’d closed Monica’s eyes, but they’d not done anything else for her, so her makeup was all streaked, and he could see that she was as thin as a rake. She looked emaciated. Bloody hell, Monica, it’s not right. The processing was swift; he signed two forms, and they told him that cremation was usual, unless he had other instructions, and they could send him the ashes if he so wished. After everything that had gone on, it just didn’t seem fitting to have her lying with Ruth. I’m sorry, Monica, but I can’t warrant it. And what was he going to do with ashes? What bloody use were ashes? They let him know that social services would be informing her son, and so at least he was spared that awkwardness, and then the nurse handed him a large envelope containing some letters and papers and said this was all Monica had. He wanted to ask about his wife’s gold watch, but he imagined that his daughter must have lost it or had it stolen from her possession, and so he said nothing, and that was it: his Monica was gone.

Mrs. Barrett leaned over and touched his arm. “Ronald, are you alright? Let me go in and make you a nice cup of strong coffee.” By the time he came back to himself, he realized that his neighbour was inside his bungalow by herself, and that’s when it occurred to him that he ought to get Monica’s envelope out of there and put it where it belonged. Really, he couldn’t risk his daughter’s effects going walkabout, for these days it was all he had left of her.

*   *   *

It was Mr. Gilpin who told Ben that a social worker would be coming around to see him in an hour or so. He’d scarcely stepped in the door from school, but Ben had a good idea of what was going on, and he’d been bracing himself for the visit. The week before, he had been to see David Bowie on his own, for at the last minute Mrs. Gilpin had banned Helen from going with him. When he came back from the concert, only Mr. Gilpin was up, sitting in a darkened living room, and the man looked as if he had been given the task of telling him something, but it was obvious that Mr. Gilpin couldn’t find it in himself to do so. When he got back from school and Mr. Gilpin told him that a social worker wanted to speak with him, he reckoned that this was it: this person would be telling him to pack his bags and get ready to move either to new foster parents or to a children’s home.

He heard Mr. Gilpin shout upstairs to him. When he came down, he could see that the young man had on big horn-rimmed glasses, behind which there was a sad look painted on his smooth, oval face. “Sit down, Ben.” Having spoken, Mr. Gilpin was quick to excuse himself, and he left them alone in the living room. As soon as he’d gone, the social worker cleared his throat and told him that there was no easy way to say this. “I’m sorry, Ben, but your mother’s passed away in London.” Ben looked at the man, but didn’t say anything. “Are you alright, Ben?” He had been sure that things couldn’t get any worse than they already were, with only Mr. Gilpin speaking to him. But right now Mr. Gilpin could stop talking to him if he wanted. He felt as if somebody had punched him hard, in the face, but it didn’t hurt. He couldn’t feel anything. The young man reached over and clumsily covered his hand. “I’m so sorry, Ben.” He wanted to pull his hand away, but it wasn’t this man’s fault. “I just want to let you know that your grandfather might be in touch. We’ve given him your details.”

*   *   *

After he finishes his pasta dish and pays up at the restaurant bar, he decides to stop off at one of the better bookshops and buy some notepaper and envelopes and then make his way back to the hotel. Once there he will write a short letter to his grandson, telling him that he would like him to have what is in the envelope, and letting him know that he is very sorry to have missed him. Having done so, he will then undertake the short walk back across town and deposit everything with the helpful college porter and leave it up to the lad as to whether or not he’s inclined to communicate. On returning to his hotel room, he discovers that an elderly cleaner is only now finishing off his room and emptying the wastepaper bins before readying herself to move on down the corridor, and so he stands stiffly to one side and waits. Once she closes in the door behind her, he takes off his jacket and hangs it on a wooden coat hanger in the wardrobe, and then he remembers Mrs. Barrett’s message but he doesn’t feel in the right humour to call. After all, he knows full well that she will simply be anxious to know if he is feeling alright, and then she will want to be reminded of not only the time but the day he is coming back so that she might have a nice meal ready for his return. As he slips off his shoes and lies back on the bed, he tries not to think unkind thoughts about his neighbour, for he now understands that the poor woman’s erratic behaviour is all down to her memory’s gradually failing her. These days Mrs. Barrett is living increasingly in the present, which, he imagines, might not be such an unacceptable place to dwell.

*   *   *

After she died, Ben threw out all of her letters and postcards to him. He also got rid of the newspaper clippings about finding Tommy, and the articles to do with the trial of Derek Evans. He’d kept everything in a grey rucksack that he stashed under his bed, but a week or so after the visit from the young social worker he took the whole lot down to the skips behind the supermarket and hurled the bag in. The only thing he saved was a small black-and-white photograph of him and Tommy that was taken on the day they arrived at Silverdale by either Peter or Rachel, he couldn’t remember which one. He put the snapshot in his pocket and then went to the newsagents to buy ten Benson and Hedges and a box of matches. He sat on a bench on the Green where everyone could see him, and he smoked one fag after another until he’d finished half the pack, but nobody said anything to him, and if he was honest, he didn’t even like the taste of the cigarettes. More than anything, he wanted to believe that she’d done the best she could, but he just couldn’t get his head around the fact that she’d given him away, which meant that there was probably something the matter with him. Why didn’t she try harder and put him first? Why didn’t she want him? When he got back to the foster home, he found Mr. Gilpin sitting in the kitchen by himself, and he could see by the look on the man’s face that he could smell the smoke, but Mr. Gilpin didn’t say anything. Instead he just asked Ben if he wanted to talk about his mother, and he reminded the foster child that he was happy to listen. Ben shook his head. After a painfully uncomfortable silence, it was Mr. Gilpin who eventually got up from his stool and left his own kitchen without saying anything further.

*   *   *

When he opens his eyes, he can see shadows in the room, and the noises emanating from the street have a different, more subdued tone. It is immediately apparent that he must have fallen asleep, and so he turns his head. Sitting on top of the coverlet on the spare bed, he sees the envelope containing his daughter’s writing, and he notices on the desk the unopened pack of notepaper, with matching envelopes. Yesterday’s drive must have knocked the wind out of him, and last night he hadn’t got much sleep as he tossed and turned and worried about how to handle the upcoming day. He now knows that he should act decisively, and so, having opted to forget about writing a short letter, he stands and begins quickly to smarten himself up. He scurries across town, careful to dodge the platoons of swerving bicycles, and when he reaches the college, he sees that it is a different porter. He is a younger man with slicked-back hair, and he might even be the son of the fellow with whom he spoke earlier, for they appear to share a family face. He asks if Benjamin Wilson is in his room as he wishes to leave something for him. This seems to amuse the junior porter, who begins to chuckle.

“Well, sir, if you want to go to his room, that’s one thing. However, if you want to leave something for him, then that’s another thing altogether, isn’t it?”

He understands that if he is going to leave the envelope, then he will have to ask this man for a sheet of paper and a pen so that he might at least let his grandson know that he has visited and give the lad some contact details.

“But the truth is, you won’t find him in his room. They’ve set up a tent outside of the college bar, and all the third-years are enjoying themselves, shall we say. You’re free to go through and give him your package yourself, if that’s what you’d prefer.”

There is a girl leaning against him, the same blond girl that he saw him with this morning. Her glass of Pimm’s is choked with bits of fruit, and it’s discernible that there is nothing under her flimsy sweater to restrain any part of her in the event of a sudden movement. The lad is holding court with a pint of beer in his hand, and he appears to be laughing at a joke that one of his friends has just told.

*   *   *

“Excuse me, Benjamin.”

He hears his name and turns and sees a well-dressed old man, in a navy blazer and what look like cricket trousers, standing before him. For a moment he wonders if he’s somebody from the university. Maybe he has made some brainless mistake on his papers, for the bloke has a large envelope in his hand, and he looks really serious.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but there’s no reason that you should know who I am. Do you have a minute?”

His friends are staring now, and Mandy has grabbed his arm as though determined that he shouldn’t go anywhere.

“A minute? Yeah, alright.”

“Thank you. I’m sorry to interrupt your evening.”

*   *   *

The lad said that he had no objection to a short walk, so Ronald Johnson decided to take the young man to the bar of his hotel as opposed to some noisy town centre pub. As they walked, he asked him how his exams had gone, and once again he apologized for the intrusion and for dragging him away, albeit temporarily, from his friends. They soon reached the hotel and edged their way across the bar and took possession of two black leather chairs in the far corner underneath a life-size oil portrait of a founder of the university. The busy facility appeared to be full of parents and their children celebrating the end of term, but the waiter was surprisingly quick, and he placed the gin and tonic and pint of lager on the table in front of them and then confirmed that the drinks were to be charged to a room. Ronald Johnson touches glasses with his grandson, before nudging the slice of lemon over the edge and into the fizzing concoction and then lifting the vessel to his mouth. “Cheers.” He looks at the boy over the rim, and can see that he does indeed have an aspect of his mother, particularly around the unblinking almond-shaped eyes. However, not wishing to be caught gazing, he resolves to come straight to the point and not waste any more time.

“I have some of your mother’s writing, and a few letters to you that she never sent.” He gestures towards the large envelope that he has placed on the table before them, but he can see the boy looking quizzically at him as though wanting to ask, How come you have this stuff? “They gave the material to me at the hospital in London.”

Memory blunders towards Ben as he suddenly feels undone by the very sound of this man’s voice. He has spent six long years attempting to empty his mind of his mother’s treatment of them both, and now here he is, in this hotel bar, suddenly remembering the dumb stories that Derek Evans encouraged her to write that he said he’d pass on to the arts editor of the
Post
. Tommy insisted he was alright, but Ben was always trying to tell his brother that Mam’s friend was a liar, and there was no way he could get any stories published or the autographs of any footballers or pop stars like he promised. He hated this man, and he knew that he sometimes stopped over, but he didn’t tell this to Tommy. Bloody hell, Mam must have been desperate for a friend if she lowered herself to that. In fact, thinking about it like this was the only way that he’d ever been able to square anything in his mind. I mean, really desperate.

“Excuse me, sir.”

They both look up and can see that the waiter is standing over them, but he is addressing the younger of his two guests. In his hands he holds a maroon-coloured tie, which he offers to Ben, who reluctantly takes it from the man.

“Dress code, I’m afraid. I hope you don’t mind wearing it while you’re with us here in the lounge.”

Ben fastens the tie around his neck and tucks it under the collar of his tee-shirt, and then he thinks of Mandy. He said he’d be only an hour, so he ought to be getting back soon. After all, if this man has driven all this way just to give him some of his mother’s belongings, then that’s fine, he’s done it now. If there’s something else, then he should say it and stop beating around the bush. He is already dreading having to explain the visit to Mandy and his friends, and he wants to get out of this place before the bloke suggests having more drinks. All this small talk about what his post-university plans might be is just a waste of everyone’s time, and they both know it.