An Enormous Yes (13 page)

A
S THEY DAWDLED
to a halt outside the tube, Felix gave her a last, lingering kiss. ‘Why don’t I come with you – see you right to your door?’

‘No, I’ll be fine. It’s not that late.’ His bodily presence wasn’t necessary, since he’d be with her anyway throughout the journey home; his hands still on her breasts, his tongue still in her mouth, their lungs inhaling with one breath …

She descended in the lift, its five other occupants all wired up to iPods and seemingly unaware of any world beyond their earphones. Nonetheless, she ached to impart to each of them how totally transformed she felt, from greenhorn to adventuress. And, when the train rumbled into the station and she grabbed an empty seat, it was all she could do not to broadcast to the carriage that tonight had been a watershed, a vital rite of passage.

The man beside her was reading the
Standard
, but the grisly headlines – famine in Ethiopia, a fatal stabbing in Peckham – made no sense at all. The planet
she
inhabited contained only euphoric news. The tube itself seemed airborne, winging from station to station, with no bumps or rattles or delays, and when she changed to the Victoria Line her feet barely touched the ground, as if she were swifter, lighter, livelier than the other plodding passengers. She stood waiting for the next train, entranced by everything she saw: the witty posters and willing benches, the stretch of shining rails.

She skittered out at Pimlico and floated up the escalator. The homeless chap she often saw was hunched in his usual pitch, with his begging bowl and mangy dog, despite the fact it was almost eleven.

‘Spare some change.’

She showered a cascade of coins into his bowl, glad they were mainly pound coins and not measly fives and tens, and feeling so expansive tonight she was tempted to give him the entire contents of her purse.

The air was refreshingly cool as she sauntered along Lupus Street,
smiling at the passers-by, who seemed unaccountably surly on such an enchanted night. Once she had turned the corner into Amy’s road, she stopped a moment to gaze up at the sky, which was dark and overcast. Recalling the brilliant stars back home, she longed to strip them from the vast Northumbrian sky and send them in glittering shoals to cluster over her lover’s house.

Only when she had let herself in did she prang to earth with a hideous crash. Amy had already gone to bed, leaving no note or message – nothing in response to her own long and loving letter and, suddenly, her former wild elation seemed totally inappropriate. Indeed, if her daughter were to discover how she had spent the evening, she would assume it was a repeat of Silas – an act of irresponsible abandon – and become even more resentful. And it
was
a repeat, in some ways: the same bewitchment, the same besotted state, but at least with Silas she’d had the excuse of youth. Now, such excessive transports were surely a sign of arrested development.

Miserably, she crept up the attic stairs and stood a moment, surveying her granny-flat, which seemed bare and stark compared with Felix’s treasure-house. But her lover had no place here – although, even as she undressed, wayward memories of him unfastening her bra and easing down her jeans kept lasering through her body.

Having switched off the bedside light, she slipped between the cold, unfriendly sheets and lay staring at the luminous dial of the alarm clock. Never had it ticked so slowly; every minute from 11.30 to midnight seeming more like an hour. And even by half past one, she was still fidgety and
restless
.

Well, if sleep eluded her all night, that was a fitting punishment for the harm she had done in depriving her beloved daughter of a live-in, loving father.

Six penises, each erect and each pointing in her direction. With penises so rare in her life, it seemed extraordinary to see so many, at one and the same time. But, peering closer, she realized they were door-handles, one for each of a row of six black doors – doors that could only be opened if she grasped those stiff and slippery appendages. She glanced around for help or explanation, but she was utterly alone and, since she had no mobile phone or means of transport, there was no chance of either escape or communication.

Yet doors, she thought, might mean rooms beyond – maybe other people; even hopeful possibilities – so, gingerly, she crept towards the largest door
and reached out for its swollen penis-handle. But, just as her hand made contact, the entire row of doors collapsed and she opened her eyes to a finger of dawn-light, wavering through the curtains.

She sat up with a start, surprised to see familiar surroundings: the square-shaped attic window, the small abstract painting opposite the bed. Her first thought was of Felix and she gave a sudden hooting laugh,
imagining
his reaction to the dream: ‘That’s greed, Maria, pure and simple! Most women are content with one cock;
you
want half a dozen!’

But, as she reflected further, she was aware of the darker aspect of the dream: that sense of being cut off and out of contact was obviously related to the situation with Amy. In her daughter’s eyes, she was a mature and sober grandmother-in-waiting; not an artist’s mistress. And, because she couldn’t admit to the sex, she would be forced to live a lie; the secrecy a barrier between them. She was cut off from Amy anyway, in that her daughter had rejected her overtures. She had expected a few scribbled words, or a brief text on her mobile – at least something in response to the gift of the shawl. Maybe Amy had rung Hugo in Dubai and, because of his stress about the court case, he had overreacted and urged Amy to harden her heart.

She checked her watch: 6.20 – over an hour before her daughter left for work, which meant she could have a word with her and try to sort things out. Normally, she left the pair to themselves. They didn’t want her under their feet and she had learned long ago not to offer to make breakfast. Hugo grabbed a bacon sandwich on site, while Amy’s PA fetched her coffee and a croissant later in the morning. Coffee and a croissant seemed a far-
from-nourishing
breakfast for a woman twenty weeks pregnant but, again, she mustn’t interfere.

Croissants reminded her of Felix and a frisson of excitement displaced the worry and remorse, if only momentarily. As he’d said, she seemed to be two different people and the sudden shifts between the two were as
disconcerting
for her as much as for him. But her first duty at the moment was to get dressed and go downstairs, in a bid to end the hostilities.

She felt distinctly apprehensive as she stepped into the shower; running the water as hot as she could bear, to wash off the last traces of her second, sexual self. And she deliberately chose frumpy clothes, suited to a
grandmother
, and coiled her hair into a severe, unflattering bun.

Even so, it wasn’t easy to venture down the attic stairs and, halfway down, she dithered to a halt. Amy was always busy at this time: washing her hair, applying blusher and lip-gloss so as to look the part in the office, checking texts and emails before she had to leave.

She turned on her heel and began walking back the way she’d come. Best to wait until this evening and hope by then –

‘Mum!’

She wheeled round to see her daughter, fully dressed and made up, darting up the stairs in her worryingly high heels.

Amy sprang towards her and enfolded her in a hug. ‘I’m so
sorry
, Mum! I just don’t understand how I ever said those awful, hurtful things. I’m worried you won’t forgive me, or—’

‘But didn’t you get my note?’ Maria’s voice was muffled in the embrace.

Amy disengaged herself. ‘What note?’

‘I left it at reception, in your office, yesterday.’

‘Oh Lord! I had to go to Clerkenwell the minute I got back in. And from there I went on to—’ She broke off with a frown. ‘Actually, Rebecca did phone me – I remember now – and said something about a delivery, but I’d no idea it was from you.’

‘Yes, I left a present, too – something for the baby.’

‘Oh, Mum … And I thought you were still furious.’

‘And I thought
you
were!’

They hugged again, Maria’s reaction veering between tears and laughter.

‘Mum, have you got a second? There’s something I want to say.’

‘I’ve all the time in the world. It’s
you
who’s in the rush.’

‘No, I’m not – for once. I deliberately got up earlier than usual because I didn’t want to go to work without seeing you.’

Knowing how much Amy valued sleep, Maria felt genuinely touched. ‘Well, come on in and I’ll make you some tea. Or how about a boiled egg?’

‘Mum, let’s not go mad! You know I never eat this early. And no tea either, thanks. What I’m going to tell you is important, so I don’t want you fussing around with kettles and cups.’

Mystified, Maria ushered her into her mini-sitting-room and offered her the sole armchair, while she perched on the window ledge.

Crossing her long, elegant legs, Amy leaned back with a sigh. ‘I should have said this years ago – which only goes to show what a selfish git I am.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t follow.’

There was a sudden awkward pause, then Amy spoke in a rush. ‘I want to tell you – a bit late in life, I admit – how much I appreciate everything you did for me. All my life, you’ve put me first – praised me and supported me, made me feel good about myself. Whatever I said yesterday, you’re actually the best mother in the world. No, don’t contradict me. In fact, you’re not to say a word until I’ve finished. You may think I never twigged how hard things were for you; how you had to go out to work, to pay for
my clothes and shoes and hockey boots and all that sort of stuff. In fact, you were like my dad, as well as my mum – earning the money, but also making my school lunches and sewing party frocks.’

‘Yes, but your Grandma did as much as—’

‘Mum, don’t interrupt! I’m not talking about Grandma – I’m talking about you. Take holidays, for instance. You never went abroad, but you scraped the cash together to send
me
on foreign trips: school excursions to Paris and Brussels and even a fortnight’s skiing. And remember that big Youth Pilgrimage to Lourdes? You paid for me to go on that as well, yet you couldn’t afford to go yourself, like most of the other mums did.’

‘Who’d want to go to Lourdes?’ Maria interjected, with a grin.

‘
I
did! I was mad keen to see a place where amazing cures might happen, and where I could buy miraculous medals and bottles of Lourdes water and all that pious tat. Oh, I know it sounds unlikely, but when you’re only
thirteen
… But, look, we’re going off the point, Mum, so let me have my say, OK? When I was older, several of my school friends had parents who divorced and then shacked up with other partners, so there were all these messy relationships with step-parents they hated, or with stepkids they saw as intruders. You never put me through that. I had your total attention and devotion.’

‘But Grandma was the one who—’

‘Not another word about Grandma! I haven’t finished yet. D’you remember that time when Carole’s daughter, Becky, had a baby – the summer of 1991, I think it was – and Carole asked you to look after him, while she and Becky spent a week down south? I’d finished at Cambridge, so I was staying with you till I started my new job, and I’ve never forgotten how loving you were with that baby. “Tender” was the word that kept coming into my mind – the way you handled him and fed him, and how patient you were when he kept sicking up his milk – and I realized then that was how you must have been with
me
.’

Maria’s first instinct was to shout a vehement ‘
No
!’; to come clean about the fact that she had been anything but tender – at least for the first two years. But something stopped her – and it wasn’t only shame; more an
overwhelming
need for Amy to feel secure.

‘I was twenty-one at the time and not thinking of having kids myself for at least another five years, but I knew that when I did have them I wanted you to
be
there, and be thoroughly involved, so you could treat them with the same … yes, tenderness.’

Maria sat in silence. Why spoil a precious moment with superfluous words?

‘So I hope you’ll forgive my outburst yesterday. Put it down to stress. I didn’t tell you at the time, but the client I was seeing had really dropped me in it and—’

Maria got up from the window ledge and crouched by Amy’s chair. ‘Darling, the things you said were completely understandable. In your
situation
, anyone would feel the same. And you’re absolutely right in needing to know more about your father.
I
was at fault, for not having
acknowledged
that an age ago. But, as I told you in my note, I intend to do my best to track him down. In fact, I’ll make a start this morning and try all the things you suggested, so with any luck you should be able to meet him long before the baby’s born.’

‘Oh, that’s fantastic, Mum! But why don’t you let me help? I’m more computer-savvy than you, so it would probably take me a fraction of the time.’

Maria moved to the window and stood looking out at the morning light: uncertain still, and murky grey. ‘Amy, you need to understand that this is a very emotional business, for me as much as for you, so, if you don’t mind, I’d prefer …’

The sentence trailed away. How could she admit her two overwhelming fears: first, that Silas might have died, which would be shock enough for Amy and, second, if he
were
alive but Amy located him first, he might let slip something about the presumed abortion. No way must her poor daughter stumble on either of those disastrous facts with no warning, no support.

Whatever she herself discovered – hopeful, tragic, or worryingly
ambivalent
– she must digest it first, somehow come to terms with it, and only then relay it to Amy with the utmost tact and, yes, tenderness.

‘N
O, NEVER HEARD
of the fucker!’

Maria winced at the aggressive tone, well suited to the pugnacious fellow confronting her in the doorway. With the solid build of a boxer, and his red, veined face suggesting an addiction to the bottle, he seemed unlikely to cooperate. Nonetheless, she stood her ground. ‘Are you absolutely sure? He lived in this house for seven years, according to the records, and only moved out in 2009.’

‘How the hell d’you think I’d know, then? We didn’t come here till last December and the house was sodding empty.’

‘But it must have been owned by someone. Could you possibly tell me who you bought it from?’

‘Listen, madam—’ The man raised his arm in a threatening gesture, on a par with the contemptuous ‘madam’ ‘—I don’t want you, or anyone, poking their nose into my private affairs.’

Seeing he was about to close the door in her face, she pressed the full weight of her body against it; a resistance fuelled by desperation. ‘Look, the last thing I want is to pry. But I’m extremely anxious to track down this Silas Keegan. It’s a vital family matter, otherwise I wouldn’t dream of—’

He cut her off mid-sentence. ‘I couldn’t give a fuck! And if you don’t shift your arse, I’ll thump you.’

Maria turned tail and ran. It would hardly help the search if she landed up with a broken jaw. Amy was already fretful that a full month had gone by with, as yet, no clue as to Silas’s whereabouts, although she had impressed upon her daughter the hours spent on the computer, while hushing up the ever-mounting costs. She had been obliged to raid her savings to pay for the credits, search fees and numerous other charges. Google, Twitter, Facebook and MySpace all had offered leads but, once followed up, the Silas Keegans they had yielded were invariably too old, too
young, in improbable professions (an osteopath, a banker, a
ballroom-dancing
instructor), or lived in unlikely places.

And, certainly, this dreary Tolworth street seemed eminently wrong for a man who had always loathed the suburbs and insisted on being close to London’s cultural highlights. Yet a Silas Keegan of exactly seventy-six had apparently lived in this cramped and shabby house until a mere two years ago. No doubt, the trail would go cold again and if she did eventually track him down he would prove to be not
her
Silas but simply someone of the same name and age. However, she couldn’t afford to ignore even the slightest chance of finding him, so she unlatched the next-door gate – number twenty-five – hoping the aggressive man she had just encountered might have more helpful neighbours.

She walked up the weed-flanked path and rang the doorbell loud and long. Whatever else, her assertiveness had increased over the last few
frustrating
weeks, especially on the phone. Having cold-called scores of people, her tone had gradually changed from apologetically tentative to confidently forceful – not that a single one of the calls had led her to her quarry.

The door was finally opened by a small, oriental-looking man, who shrank back in obvious fear to see her standing on his doorstep. Before she had uttered a word, he began vigorously shaking his head, as if denying all complicity in some crime or misdemeanour.

She gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘I’m just trying to hunt down a friend, a Mr Silas Keegan.’

He shook his head still harder, letting out a few indecipherable words.

Enunciating each syllable distinctly, she asked if he spoke English, but her question only elicited another unintelligible babble. However, she had learned persistence as well as boldness, so she raised her voice and all but shouted, ‘Is there someone else I could talk to?’, hoping a wife or grown-up child might be alerted by the noise and put in an appearance. But it only seemed to frighten him still more, so, to prevent causing any further distress, she was forced to relent and retreat.

Perhaps number twenty-one would prove more fruitful – a lucky number, after all. At least the gate was less wobbly, the path less weed-infested. A woman opened the door, this time – and a woman who spoke English.

‘Oh, you must be the new health visitor. Do come in.’

Maria accepted the invitation and stepped firmly over the threshold, knowing she was less likely to be sent packing once she had a foot in the door. ‘My name’s Maria,’ she explained. ‘I’m afraid I’m not the health visitor, but I’m trying to trace a friend who—’

Her spiel was interrupted by a sudden wail from a baby; the noise issuing from a room upstairs and increasing in both volume and intensity.

‘Oh, God – he’s started again! I’m at my wits’ end, what with the other one playing up, as well, and….’

The sentence hung suspended as the woman dashed upstairs, leaving the front door ajar. Maria stood a moment undecided, wondering whether to offer help. No, best leave that to the health visitor, who was obviously expected soon. Having closed the door, she walked back down the path. Never had she imagined that her search for Silas might result in personal injury or involve damage to an unattended child.

She persevered, however, crossing the road to number twenty-two. By now, she was so keyed up, it was almost an anti-climax when her repeated shrills on the doorbell brought no response whatever. She had an unnerving feeling that the bruiser in the house opposite was poised behind his net curtains, watching her every move. Too bad. She was doing nothing illegal and refused to give up now.

At number twenty-four, a cheerful-looking woman actually gave her a smile of welcome and, once she had grasped the situation, invited her into the kitchen and even offered her a cup of tea.

‘No, please don’t bother, I’m fine. I just need some information.’

‘Well, I’ve lived here donkey’s years so I should be able to help. Take a pew. I’m Ruby, by the way.’

Glad to take the weight off her feet, Maria was also encouraged to hear that the woman was a long-time resident. Ruby looked about her own age, with wiry grey hair and attractive grey-green eyes.

‘I didn’t know Silas personally,’ she began, sitting opposite Maria at the battered kitchen table. ‘And he didn’t own the house. He just rented a room from the Johnsons. I shouldn’t really say this but they were
downright
standoffish, that couple – thought themselves a cut above the neighbours, which included me, of course – and didn’t want to mix with people they saw as social inferiors. As for their “gentleman lodger”, as they called him, he kept himself to himself. But then,’ she added in a
confidential
tone, ‘that’s typical of this whole street. No way could you call it friendly.’

Maria nodded sympathetically. If this were a Northumbrian village, everyone would know everyone else within a five-mile radius. She was determined to keep to the point, however, and not get side-tracked onto the subject of suburban unsociability. ‘But,’ she asked, ‘even if you didn’t know him, I presume you saw him sometimes?’

‘Well, yes, occasionally.’

‘Could you give me some idea of what he looked like? You see, I have to be sure this is the same Silas as the one I used to know.’

Ruby rocked back on her chair. ‘Well, he was very tall and thin – angular’s the word I’d use. And he had very dark eyes and thick, black eyebrows.’

Correct on both counts. Maria allowed herself a flicker of hope.

‘I noticed the eyebrows particularly, because they seemed odd on an old, balding chap.’

Although the thought of Silas being old and balding was utterly
abhorrent
, she ignored her personal feelings in an attempt to discover more. ‘What I’m trying to find out is where he might have moved to.’

‘Well, I remember
when
he went – it was the spring of 2009. You see, a month or two before that, Mrs Johnson actually deigned to speak to me – told me they didn’t like the area, so they’d decided to sell up and move much further out.’

‘And was Silas going with them?’

‘Oh, no! Apparently, they didn’t like him either.’ Ruby gave a
contemptuous
laugh. ‘But that’s no reflection on your friend,’ she added, hastily. ‘They’d have probably hated Christ Himself if He happened to be their lodger. And if He’d started turning water into wine, He’d have been out on His ear, damn quick! They were strict teetotallers, the pair of them.’

Maria smiled politely, before pressing on with her questions – despite the awkwardness she felt about subjecting this poor woman to such an
inquisition
. ‘Did they say what he planned on doing?’

‘Gosh! It was so long ago, it’s hard to remember much. But let me think. Yes, I seem to recall she said he’d found a flat.’

‘Can you remember where?’ A definite town or region would narrow the search considerably.

‘Lordy – now you’re asking! Lewisham, perhaps. Does Lewisham ring a bell?’

‘I’m afraid I’ve no idea. I lost touch with him ages ago, which is why I’m bothering you. But do forgive me. You’re being wonderfully patient and you’re probably very busy.’

‘Far from it. I’ve nothing to do and I’m only too glad of the company.’

As Ruby embarked on a protracted tale of her divorce, followed by her remarriage and then widowhood, Maria tried to balance sympathy with a keen desire to return to the subject in hand. She waited – at length – for a pause in Ruby’s detailed account of her late husband, Graham’s, funeral.

‘I’m deeply sorry about your loss. It must be terribly hard. But, look, going back to Silas, you said he might have moved to Lewisham.’

‘Did I?’

Maria suppressed a sigh.

‘Well, in that case, it must be right. I mean, why else would I have come up with Lewisham, when I don’t know a soul there myself?’

‘But obviously you don’t have an address.’

‘Good God, no! As I said, I hardly knew the fellow. Graham met him once – bumped into him at Waterloo and travelled on the same train back to Tolworth.’

‘And did they talk?’ Please God, she prayed, let Graham have discovered some useful fact or detail.

‘Not that he ever told me, but then my hubbie wasn’t the world’s greatest conversationalist! In fact, knowing Graham, he’d have probably said a brief hello, then buried his head in a book.’

As Ruby embroidered on her late husband’s reading habits, even listing his favourite authors, Maria gave a covert glance at her watch. When the woman paused for breath between James Patterson and Wilbur Smith, she quickly put a word in, saying she would have to make a move soon. Ruby, she realized, might be all too happy to reminisce about her husband for the remainder of the afternoon. but since the unfortunate departed man could shed no light on Silas, it was crucial to steer the conversation back to more productive channels. ‘Look, before I go, maybe you could put me in touch with the Johnsons, then I could get my friend’s address from them.’

‘Sorry – can’t help there, either. We never kept in contact. Frankly, I was glad to see the back of them.’

‘Well, just their first names would help.’ If she had to embark on another search, Johnson was a depressingly common surname.

‘I never knew the husband’s first name and even the wife’s escapes me. She’s more or less a blank now, to be honest. Hold on a minute, though, and I’ll try to get my brain in gear. In fact, if you could stick around, Maria, and we had more time together, I’m sure the name would come. And, even if it doesn’t, we could have that cup of tea I promised and a good old natter about life in general.’

Life in general was not her interest at the moment. Her focus was narrowed to Silas and Silas alone. ‘I’m really sorry but I’m rather pushed for time. So if you could have just one last think about Mrs Johnson’s name …’

Ruby screwed up her face with the effort of recall, but nothing appeared to be forthcoming. Maria leaned back in her chair, trying to hide her growing frustration, but as she glanced around the small, poky room, with its depressing view of assorted wheelie-bins, she couldn’t help but feel despondent. How could Silas have landed up in a downmarket suburban
semi, a mile or two from a station that had only a slow, infrequent train service to London? Tall, angular men with black eyebrows and dark eyes weren’t particularly rare, so the Silas who had lived here might be someone else entirely.

‘I’m sure it began with an A.’ Ruby started rehearsing names to herself. ‘Angela … Alice … Annabel … No, nothing as fancy as Annabel. Maybe just plain Anne. Yes, it could have been Anne, I suppose.’

Anne Johnson – there’d be millions.

‘I couldn’t swear to it, though. I may be muddling her up with an Anne I used to know from church.’

‘Well, look—’ Maria finally rose to her feet ‘—why don’t I leave you my phone number, then if you do suddenly remember something, maybe you’d be kind enough to ring me.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Ruby reached for Maria’s hand and clasped it firmly in her own, as if hoping to hang on to her for longer. ‘Or perhaps you could visit anyway. I’d love to see you again, so we could get to know each other. I’m nearly always here, and nearly always on my own, so any day would suit. I could show you all the photos of Graham and the funeral and
everything
. It’s a funny thing, you know, but the minute you showed up on my doorstep, I felt this sort of … bond with you. Don’t ask me to explain – it was just a mysterious feeling that you and me were
meant
to meet.’

Maria found herself at a loss for words. Her natural instinct was to respond to Ruby’s overtures, yet the last thing she needed was any new relationship. The search for Silas was all-consuming – so much so that she was even neglecting Felix, and hadn’t yet found time to go back north and check on the car and cottage. On the other hand, Ruby might recall some vital piece of information and thus it was imperative they stayed in touch.

Gently withdrawing her hand from the woman’s eager grip, she wrote her phone number on a piece of paper, torn from her ‘Silas’ notebook. Amy had insisted that she keep a strict record of all the sites she’d signed up to, all the steps she’d taken so far, all the leads she’d followed up, all the calls she’d made. And every evening, she shared her progress – or lack of it – with her increasingly impatient daughter, who kept offering to take over the search herself; insisting she would do it so much faster and more
thoroughly
. Unlikely. Amy had a full-time job, and this
was
a full-time job and, indeed, the demands would be still greater if she had to make space for exacting personal friendships on top of everything else.