The Things We Never Said (16 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The familiar green and cream sign of the Blackheath Tea Hut comes into view. There are three lorries parked on the grass alongside the hut, plus a couple of vans, a taxi, a horsebox and a police car. Some of the drivers stand around warming their hands on polystyrene cups, others sit in their vehicles. This place is always busy, day and night, whatever the weather. Jonathan pulls over and gets out of the car. By the look of the purple clouds skulking above the treetops, it’s going to snow properly soon. There’s been nothing but rain and sleet for days, but the air is different now, it’s drying out, sharpening. He buys tea and a bacon roll and sits back in the car. He should go home. He pictures himself sitting in the living room, watching telly with a tray on his lap, and he can hardly bear the thought. The house is just a symbol of his failure: he’s in it all day instead of being out there earning a living, and Fiona
isn’t
in it. He chews and swallows mechanically, barely tasting the food. This time yesterday, he was Jonathan Robson, son of Daphne and Gerald. A few weeks ago, although life hadn’t been perfect, he’d been a full-time teacher of English, with a wife who loved him and wanted to be with him.

His phone rings and he grabs it, certain it’ll be her.

‘Mr Robson? Don Hutchinson here. Sorry to trouble you again, but I was wondering if you’d spoken to your mum yet?’

Jonathan sighs. ‘I’ve just come from there.’

‘So you’ll be aware, then . . . ?’

He lets the silence spool out.

‘I mean, you’ve had a chat, you and your mum?’

Oh, what the hell; it’s not Hutchinson’s fault. ‘Yes, she told me. I’m adopted. So it’s not my father – the man I thought was my father. So what now?’ There’s a pause, and then he hears the sound of crunching. Hutchinson and his bloody Polos.

‘That’s why I’m calling. I’m sorry to hassle you, but I need to ask whether you’re planning to trace your real parents—’

‘They’re not my real parents.’

‘Sorry – bad choice of words; your biological parents.’

Jonathan sighs again. ‘I’ve no idea at the moment. I don’t know my biological father’s name, so there’s no chance of tracing him without finding my mother first – that’s if she even knows who he is.’

‘I’m aware that it’s a tough time for you, but I’m afraid I still have a job to do. Given the familial link with your DNA, it’s essential that I talk to your mother – your birth mother, I mean. You have a legal right to see your adoption file, so . . .’

‘Look, to be honest, I’m still trying to get my head round the whole thing.’

There’s another pause before Hutchinson speaks again, his voice softer, a hint of sympathy. ‘Just keep me posted, eh? I’ll be in touch.’

Jonathan finishes his tea, throws the empty cup onto the passenger seat and pulls out onto the A2, but instead of driving across the heath towards home, he soon finds himself driving up the long road that leads to the school. The kids must have been out for a while, because they’re already piling into the sweet shop and crowding around the bus stops. He carries on up the hill, but then has to swerve so sharply to avoid a speeding red and white Mini that he almost hits a parked car – it’s so close he actually braces himself for the impact. That’s the last thing he needs. He was lucky last time – the woman who owned the Volvo was more than reasonable about the whole thing, but he can just imagine PC Clark’s smug grin if it happened a second time.

At the top, he pulls over and turns off the engine. God knows how fast that Mini must have been going – and right near a school, too. Boy racers; probably not much older than some of the kids in school. He finds himself watching the kids as they pass, searching the faces for Ryan’s arrogant stare. Most of them have already gone, so it’s just the stragglers now. What is he doing here anyway? He’s just about to start the engine again when he spots Chloé Nichols, sauntering down the middle of the road with her mates, bag slung over her shoulder, not a care in the world by the looks of her; planning her weekend, most likely. If she hadn’t backed up Ryan’s story, the whole thing would be over by now. He almost certainly wouldn’t have been arrested; and if he hadn’t been arrested, they’d never have taken his DNA, and if they hadn’t . . . Christ, had she any idea what she’d started? And all because she had the hots for Ryan bloody Jenkins. What if he went over and spoke to her?
You’re a bright kid, Chloé, why lie for Ryan?
Chloé shrieks with laughter at something her friend is saying, then she tosses her hair and hitches her bag up on her shoulder. Does she have
any
idea? He gets out of the car and lets the door fall shut without locking it, then he begins to walk across the tarmac towards Chloé and her friends. There are a few teachers walking down the hill, some of whom he knows. Well, so what? It’s a free country.

Chloé looks up as he approaches; her eyes meet his.

He doesn’t look away, but he can’t quite read Chloé’s expression. The next second there’s a red blur to his left, a screech of brakes, and then Chloé is flying through the air like the Christmas angels in the shopping centre. She seems to sit briefly on the wing of the Mini before rolling over the bonnet and landing in the road with a thud. Time holds its breath as Jonathan takes a step forward; in a split-second he takes in several things: the red Mini is full of passengers; Chloé’s leg is twisted under her; there’s blood on her cheek and her blonde hair is streaked with mud. He moves nearer and then becomes aware of another blur to his left. A second high-speed car is ploughing straight towards them. Chloé’s friends scream. He bounds forward, grabs her by the ankle of her boot and pulls, yanks her hard so that her head bobs on the ground as her hair trails through a puddle. It flashes into his mind that you’re not supposed to move someone who’s been hit by a car; what if there’s a spinal injury? What if she’s in a wheelchair for the rest of her life and it’s his fault? Even as he thinks these thoughts, he’s aware of the strange trick that time is playing on him. How can he be thinking all these things in this micro-millisecond? He’s read about this phenomenon somewhere; it’s to do with the brain speeding up the thought processes when under stress; there’s a name for it. The wheel of the second car comes so close to Chloé’s head that he half-expects to see tyre tracks on her hair. Unlike the first car, this one doesn’t brake or even slow, but accelerates away, leaving only the reverberating echo of its jumbo-sized exhaust.

*

By the time Chloé is taken off to hospital and the police have taken statements, it’s completely dark and beginning to snow again. Jonathan sits in his car. They all saw him pull Chloé out of the path of the second car. He’s a minor hero. Joyriders, the police said, the same two cars that had been reported earlier in the day, racing each other on Shooters Hill. One of them had mounted the pavement and run over an elderly Labrador. ‘Heartless bastards never even stopped,’ the copper said, shaking his head. Jonathan didn’t point out that they hadn’t stopped after hitting Chloé either.

He takes out his phone to call Fiona, but she probably wouldn’t answer so he puts it away again, starts the engine and heads home, though the thought of walking into the empty house makes him feel almost achingly bleak. As he drives across Blackheath, huge white discs of snow begin to fall, lightly at first, then heavier, and soon it seems like a billion flakes are falling around the car. On the far side of the heath he can see All Saints’ Church, impressively lit from below so its tall spire glows golden against the darkened sky; a white crust is beginning to settle Christmas-card-like on its many sloping roofs. Further on, orange light spills out of the pub onto the snow-dusted wooden tables on the forecourt. He imagines pushing open the doors and hearing the hubbub of conversation, the clink of glasses and the familiar smell of beer and old wood. The idea is attractive. But at some point, he’d have to come out of the warmth and back into the real world. There would be more snow on the ground by then, more of the landscape obscured; but everything would be the same underneath.

After finding no one in at Malcolm and Cassie’s, he considers going over to Lucy and Matt’s, but it doesn’t seem appropriate somehow. So he drives aimlessly for over an hour, not really noticing his route, just allowing himself to be soothed by the falling snow, the passing headlamps of the other cars, the rhythm of the windscreen wipers. Eventually, he finds himself in Brockley, where he’d lived with Sian. Apart from a few new shops and cafés, the area is unchanged. He slows as he approaches the old wine bar, then hits the indicator, pulls over and gets out of the car. Maybe someone he knows from the old days would be there, someone to talk to. He peers into the dimly lit interior, but instead of the cheery crowd he’d anticipated, there are just a few early evening drinkers standing at the bar, still in suits, laptops and briefcases resting on the high stools next to them. The tables are empty apart from a tired-looking man of about thirty who sits alone, staring out of the window. A copy of
The Times
lies unopened in front of him and he’s about two-thirds of the way through a bottle of red. No one in the place seems to be talking; no one is smiling. Jonathan gets back into the car and pulls away.

A couple of years after they’d spilt up, he’d bumped into Sian in Greenwich. What had she told him about the flat they’d rented overlooking Hilly Fields? She’d definitely stayed on there after he left. Had she bought the place? Yes, he’s sure she’d mentioned a mortgage, a boyfriend who wanted to settle. She’s probably moved away by now. He turns into the crescent and drives halfway up. There it is; and there’s a light on in the living room.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Maggie names the twins Elizabeth and Jonathan. When she feels their tiny fingers curl around her own, when she smells their vanilla-scented skin and wonders at their navy-blue eyes and miniature shell-pink toenails, she marvels at such perfection; such exquisite innocence.

After watching some of the proper mothers, Maggie decides to try feeding the twins herself. Elizabeth’s reluctance causes some concern, and she needs to be ‘topped up’ with powdered milk, but with a little help from Sister, a routine is established. Despite the initial hostility caused by her lack of wedding ring, Maggie forms a tentative friendship with the woman in the next bed. Pearl is older than the other mothers, with a round, doughy face which is not flattered by the severe cut of her greying hair; her arms are pudgy and her sturdy legs are spidered with purple thread veins. This is her fifth child – the first girl – so she knows what she’s doing. She shows Maggie three different ways to fold a nappy, and also how to swaddle the twins,
so’s they feel all snug and safe like as when they was inside you
. When her husband, a thin, balding man clearly older than Pearl, comes in on the dot of seven every evening, Pearl smiles girlishly and her face becomes young and glowing and as pretty as her namesake. Maggie watches them, holding hands the whole time, their faces so close they’re almost touching. Their tenderness almost makes her weep.

When Pearl goes home, she comes over to say goodbye and to wish Maggie luck. She’s holding a large bag. ‘I got Bert to bring in a few of ’ boys’ old things,’ she says. ‘There’s rompers and nightdresses and leggings and the like. Mostly blue, I’m afraid, but they might save thi a bob or two, just until thi gets on tha feet.’

Maggie takes the bag of clothes and looks inside. There’s much more than Pearl mentioned; she can see vests, matinee jackets, bonnets, bootees, all in the most delicate blue or the snowiest white. ‘Oh, Pearl,’ she says. ‘These are beautiful. But don’t you want some of the white things for little Anne?’

Pearl laughs and shakes her head. ‘Not on tha nelly. After four lads on’t trot, I’ve made me mind up; our Anne’s wearing nowt but pink frocks and frilly bonnets until she’s twenty-one at least.’

A few days before Maggie and the twins are discharged, Vanda brings in two little matching outfits that she has knitted herself – leggings, matinee jackets, hats and bootees, both in the softest, palest lemon wool.

‘They’re beautiful.’ Maggie looks in wonder at the tiny bootees. ‘I didn’t know you could knit.’

‘I used to knit all the time as a kid, scarves and shawls mostly, then baby clothes as I got older – I loved doing matinee jackets. Always thought I’d have lots of children, see? Listen, I’ve been thinking. Why don’t you stay on with me for a while? I’d have to put the rent up a bit if it was going to be long-term, but I could babysit during the day so you could get a few hours’ work, and – well, we could just see how we go.’

*

Vanda collects Maggie and the twins from the hospital in a taxi. She’s made a few preparations, she says. There is a large, old-fashioned pram waiting in the back room, donated by the lady next door who’s had it in her attic for nigh on twenty years, ‘but ’ lass is welcome to it,’ she’d told Vanda. ‘It’s hard enough with one babby, never mind two.’ Upstairs in Maggie’s room, two deep drawers have been turned into makeshift cribs. Vanda has made little mattresses by stitching together layers of an old eiderdown and there are proper white cot sheets, knitted blankets and quilted white coverlets, one trimmed with pink ribbon, one with blue. The pillowcases are embroidered with bluebirds and sprays of flowers, and tucked under each coverlet is a tiny teddy bear, knitted in honey-coloured wool. Maggie’s throat tightens. She feels strangely raw now she’s out of hospital, as though some of her outer layers are missing. She trails her hand along the edge of one of the drawers. ‘They’re like little nests,’ she says, feeling her voice break.

That night, the babies are unsettled. As soon as one goes to sleep, the other starts crying. The house is cold, especially compared to the sheltered warmth of the hospital ward, and Maggie shivers as she paces the floor, first with Jonathan, then Elizabeth. For the first time, a sliver of doubt creeps in; she hopes to God she’s done the right thing.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Sian has gained weight. He remembers her as having a rather boyish figure – straight up and down and flat-chested. She’s short, like Fiona, but she was always incredibly strong and athletic – she’d have beaten him in an arm-wrestle any day. Now she looks softer and more rounded. ‘You look well,’ he says as she pours red wine into chunky blue goblets. The flat looks different.
Of course it’s different after nearly twelve years, idiot!
There’s a proper Victorian fireplace with a real fire flickering in the grate; an oversized rectangular mirror hangs above the fireplace.

She grins. ‘Hmm – is that a euphemism for fat?’ She’s wearing a long purple skirt with a baggy red jumper and a purple headband to keep her curly dark hair off her face; she always did love purple.

He shakes his head. ‘No, not at all. It suits you—’

‘Don’t worry, Jon,’ she laughs, and he catches a glimpse of a gold tooth. That’s new. ‘You won’t offend me. It was giving up that job at Martino’s that did it. All the time I worked in a kitchen, I hardly ate a thing. The minute I left, it was like I’d suddenly remembered you can eat food as well as cook it.’

He smiles. They’d met at Martino’s. Sian had been a chef for a couple of years, but it was Jonathan’s first night in a kitchen, and it had been terrifying. No one bothered to introduce him, he was just shown into the basement and told to make himself useful. The windowless room was sweltering, steamy and chaotic. The massive stainless-steel sink was already heaped with giant-sized mixing bowls, pots and colanders. A battered radio in the corner played inane pop music, although he hadn’t even noticed it at first because of all the shouting and crashing of pans. The owner came thundering down the stairs. ‘Where the fuck are table four’s starters?’ he barked at Sian, who was standing in the centre of the room by the industrial cooker, a blue striped apron tied over her chef’s whites, tea towel slung over her shoulder. ‘And table six is leaving if their mains aren’t there in three minutes flat.’

‘Give me a break, Martino,’ she shouted back without looking up. She was shaking a pan with one hand and turning fish on the griddle with the other. ‘I’m going as fast as I can.’

Minutes later, Martino came down the stairs again, this time carrying two plates, which he banged down on the stainless-steel worktop. ‘Table nine wanted theirs well done and there’s still blood running out of this.’ Again Sian answered without missing a beat. ‘Tell the peasants to go to a steak house if they want a well-done fillet. This is a restaurant, not a fucking crematorium.’

Jonathan had walked over to her then and there. ‘Do you – would you fancy coming for a drink with me?’

She turned to look at him. Her eyes were startlingly mismatched, one a conker brown, the other hazel. She flicked her gaze down his body then up again. ‘You’re a bit previous, aren’t you? What’s your name?’

‘Jonathan. Jonathan Robson.’ He squirmed at the eagerness in his voice.

She’d weighed him up for a moment. ‘Go on then, Jonathan Robson; I’ll have a drink with you.’

He feels himself colour as he remembers what had happened after that drink, and he has to shake his head to rid himself of the pornographic images that are now romping across his memory.

‘I put on even more weight when I got married,’ Sian was saying. ‘Everyone said it was “contentment”, but it was more down to misery.’

‘I’m sorry it didn’t work out.’

She shrugs. ‘Some you win; some you lose. So.’ She tucks her legs underneath her as she curls onto the sofa beside him. ‘Come on then; tell me all about it.’

He’d forgotten how hypnotic those eyes were; when she turned them on you, you were compelled to bare your soul. First he tells her about Chloé, how he’d dragged her clear of the car, and how he’d been worried about her spine until the paramedics reassured him.

‘Bloody hell.’ Sian uncurls herself and sits up straight, her face a study in concern. ‘You’re probably still in shock; do you want a brandy?’

He smiles; the famous medicinal brandy again. ‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘No thanks.’ He nods towards the wine. ‘This seems to be doing the trick.’ Then he tells her about the baby, and how worried he is about being a crap father.

‘But I thought you didn’t want kids?’ she says, and for a moment, a silence opens up between them as each remembers the last unhappy days of their time together. ‘Anyway, sorry.’ She turns away to refill her glass. ‘You were saying.’

Then he tells her the rest: how he’d lost his rag with Ryan, the arrest, the DNA and Hutchinson, and finally his mother’s revelation this morning
– this morning? Surely not only this morning?
‘So basically, the only clues I have as to the genes I’m passing on is the fact that my father’s still wanted by the police and my mother’s name was Margaret Harrison – and she dumped me when I was a toddler.’

‘Wow.’ Sian lets out a slow, whistling breath. ‘That’s quite a story.’

He takes a long swallow of the spicy wine, then twirls his glass around as he looks into its depths. ‘This afternoon,’ he says after a minute, ‘when I saw Chloé Nichols coming out of school, I felt – for a moment, anyway – I felt physically violent, like I wanted to hit her.’ He carries on twirling his glass, and then he looks up. ‘What if . . . I mean, what if I can’t control it? What if it’s an inherited trait or something?’

‘I think you’re reading too much into it. Everyone feels like that occasionally. And not only that, but you’re under a lot of pressure and you’ve had some almighty shocks.’ She takes a sip of her drink. ‘What are you going to do? I mean about your birth parents?’

Threads from an unknown past are tangling together into a knot deep in his guts; he wants to reach down inside himself, tear it out and throw it into the fire. But it’s started to take hold and grow, like an oily black cancer. He empties his glass and allows Sian to refill it. ‘I don’t know.’ He sighs again. ‘I really don’t know.’

When he was little, he’d been convinced there was a monster in his wardrobe. ‘Oh, for the love of Mike,’ his father had said, stalking across the room so the windows rattled. ‘There are no such things as monsters.’ Jonathan, curled tightly under the covers, heard the squeak and bang as his father wrenched open the wardrobe doors and flung them wide. ‘See?’ Gerald’s voice boomed. ‘Nothing but clothes. Now stop being such a sissy and go to sleep.’

But Jonathan never did know for sure, because he’d averted his eyes at the last minute in case the dark, shapeless thing he saw there was too terrible to behold.

‘Hey, let’s dial out for a pizza,’ Sian says, getting to her feet. ‘No one can deal with that sort of trauma on an empty stomach.’ She stops and turns to him. ‘Or will Fiona have something ready for you?’

‘Actually, Fiona’s . . . she’s staying with her mum for a few days.’ He tries to laugh. ‘You know, so the grandma-to-be can fuss around her a bit.’ He avoids her gaze so she won’t see the truth. What was that he’d read about lying and body language? You look to the left if you’re recalling something, and to the right if you’re making it up. Sian pauses only briefly before picking up the phone. ‘That’s all right then,’ she says. ‘Veggie or full-on carnivore?’

After they’ve eaten, he puts his head back against the sofa and closes his eyes. He can hear the fire spitting and crackling in the hearth, and he can smell Sian’s perfume, a familiar, woody scent – sandalwood. She always used to put sandalwood oil in her bath; so that hasn’t changed. But Sian has; she’s softer, less prickly than he remembers. She moves closer and leans back. Her hair touches his cheek and then he feels the warm weight of her head on his shoulder. He takes a breath. ‘I should make a move.’

‘In this weather?’ she says. ‘Don’t talk bollocks.’

Now that’s more like the old Sian. He opens his eyes. She’s sitting forward now, looking at him, the glow of firelight on her cheek and a golden flame dancing in each of her eyes. She lays her hand on his thigh. ‘It’s been so nice,’ she murmurs. ‘Why not stay? I mean,’ she moves closer, ‘with me?’

More images tumble through his brain. He wonders if she still sleeps naked, even in the winter; if she still checks under the bed for spiders every night; if she still occasionally cries in her sleep.

‘Sian, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come.’ He starts to get to his feet. ‘It was thoughtless of me, coming here, dumping all this on you. I – I’m not saying I wouldn’t like to stay, it’s just that . . .’ He knocks his glass over. ‘Shit, sorry. I’m an idiot. I hope you don’t think—’

‘Don’t worry. It was empty.’

‘No, I meant—’

‘Oh, put a sock in it, for fuck’s sake,’ she says, standing up. Her voice is clipped and hard now. She goes out of the room.

Why had he come here? He looks around. This was once his home, but he has no connection with it any more; nor with Sian.

When she returns, her voice has softened. ‘Here.’ She throws a bundled-up duvet onto the sofa. ‘You’ve had a bottle of wine; you shouldn’t drive. That thing pulls out into a bed.’

‘No, look, I’m sorry. I’ll get a cab—’

‘You’ll do no such thing. Get some kip and I promise I won’t creep in and take advantage of you.’

He smiles. ‘Thanks, Sian.’

*

Ten past three and he hasn’t slept a wink. The fire’s gone out now and the room is freezing. How can he face Sian in the morning? Yet again, he’s managed to think only about himself; turning up on her doorstep, accepting wine and food and virtually crying on her shoulder in the flickering firelight; what did he expect? He gets up, pulls on his jeans and sweatshirt and then scrabbles around the room for a pen and paper.

He puts the note on the coffee table, then folds up the sofa bed and duvet. Before he leaves, he goes back and adds a kiss after
Jon
, and as he clicks the front door shut behind him, he wonders whether he should have done that.

With the moonlight and the vast expanse of snow on the fields opposite the flat, it is almost like daylight outside. A line from a poem pops into his head:
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow gave the lustre of midday to objects below
. As he walks to the car, his footsteps squeak in the powdery snow. When he stops, there is no sound or movement, just him, incongruous, clumsily dark and uneven against a smooth white background. Not part of it, but alien; an interloper.