Unbecoming (17 page)

Less than a week later, she gets a letter from Dad. She sits in the hallway staring at his handwriting on the envelope. It stuns her. This man, who has pledged never to talk to her again, has written. It's a good sign, surely? Perhaps he's intervened and spoken to Pat. But no. It's a formal little note. He hopes she's well. He's finding the weather very hot. He finds it hard to breathe sometimes and the doctor thinks he might have a touch of asthma. But aside from that, he wants her to know that Pat, Lionel and the baby have moved. Lionel applied for a promotion and has been successful and his new job has taken them many miles away. Jean from next door is kindly doing his suppers now, so he's managing all right. For now, he's unable to forward Pat's new address.

Unable?
Unable!

Mary lies on her bed and wishes an answer to come hurtling from the ceiling. The pain in her chest is overwhelming. She wants her own mother back to advise her, to rock her and hold her and tell her what to do – the right thing to do. Should she get the train up and make Dad tell her where the baby is now? Should she hire a lawyer?

She goes over the details. She kissed her daughter goodbye. It was six in the morning and daylight was just beginning. Pat had already fed and changed her and Caroline should've been asleep, but when Mary bent over the cot, her daughter was awake and smiling.

‘Not old enough to smile yet,' Pat said when Mary told her.

But Mary knew what she'd seen.

She also knew that she wouldn't see another smile from her daughter for a while. And yes, she'd signed an agreement, she didn't deny it. As Pat had so clearly explained – if you love someone, you must do what's best for them and put yourself second. And what was best for Caroline was two parents and a mother who knew what to do.

But Mary had never imagined she would be barred for so long.

The detective's office is seedy and Mary isn't sure he's any good. How do you tell? What's to stop him only pretending to look for Caroline, but taking Mary's money anyway?

He asks her to explain the circumstances under which she's left her baby. He asks to look at her copy of the agreement along with Pat's letters. He asks why she wants the child back so badly.

‘I'm her mother,' Mary says. ‘I should never have left her.'

‘You can't just take her back. You'll get yourself arrested.'

‘I'll think about the particulars when I know where she is.'

‘It's hard to bring up a kid on your own,' the detective says. ‘Let's say I find her, how will you manage?'

But Mary doesn't want to think about the practicalities. She wants her baby back. And she's offering to pay this man, isn't she? She doesn't want his questions, just his skill at finding missing children.

‘I don't require a lecture on parenting, thank you,' she says. ‘Now, do you want the job or do I need to go elsewhere?'

He smiles. ‘I see what your sister means about fire.'

He takes a deposit. He explains that he'll require expenses plus his weekly fee in advance each Friday. He promises to keep his costs as low as possible. ‘I'll stick lunch on someone else's budget,' he says. He requires a final payment when he hands over proof of the child's whereabouts. He imagines this won't take long since he assumes Pat still makes visits to their father.

Mary cuts down on spending. She moves into a smaller room and turns down the heating. She wears a hat to bed. Apart from the detective's fees, her major expense is stamps. She still writes letters to Pat every day, sending them via Dad. She has no idea if he ever forwards them. Or if he does, if Pat ever reads them. She tries to keep them chatty, newsy, friendly. She doesn't want Pat getting suspicious and moving house again.

Weeks pass, then one morning two envelopes come at once. The first contains notification that the detective has found Caroline. She's living in North Bisham, a small town not far from the coast. It's not a place Mary has ever been.
Bisham
, she mouths. She wonders if there's a railway station. The detective goes on to say that if Mary would like to come into the office he'll be glad to pass on the full address once he's received payment for the enclosed invoice.

The second envelope contains a brief note from Dad.
We had the christening last week and Pat asked me to forward the enclosed photograph of the baby surrounded by her pretty cards
.

Caroline's sitting on a lace coverlet with a cushion behind her. She isn't smiling, but is looking up at the camera with such intelligent curiosity that Mary clutches a hand to her heart. It's as if she has a window into her daughter's soul. She sees possibilities in that gaze – of a toddler, of a girl, even of a woman. Her hair looks golden (hadn't Mary's own hair been light until she was older?) and her arms are beautifully chubby. She wears a christening bracelet on her left wrist and behind her, on the mantelpiece, a row of cards is clearly visible. Mary counts them – seven! Dad will have sent one, of course, and maybe the neighbours. The rest must be from Lionel's family. Mary's never considered them before – his parents are dead, but perhaps there are aunts or cousins?

Mary sits on the edge of her bed and feels anger leak out of her.
Here is Pat's new lounge – the mantle with its clock and its cards, the hearth with Lionel's pipe and ashtray. There are some rather nice curtains at a sparkling window. Here is a coffee table with a neat stack of coasters. On the carpet by the fireside is a magazine rack, and isn't that the button jar sticking out of Pat's sewing basket? So much is familiar, and yet dotted about are items that suggest new routine – a basket of toys, a teddy slumped on a cushion, a cot blanket folded over the arm of a chair.

None of this is posed, none of it for effect. This is how they live, what they do – this is the detail, the ordinariness of their lives. It isn't something Mary can offer – cards, christenings, aunts, mantelpieces. It's very clear to her now.

That afternoon she goes to see the detective, tells him she no longer wants the address, but when he insists (she might change her mind and he's gone to a lot of trouble) she slips it into her purse. Her daughter looks just like her, he says. Had he actually seen her? Oh yes, he had to make sure she was the right kid.

She sits on a chair, weak at the knees. This man has seen her daughter with his own eyes. ‘Tell me,' she breathes. ‘How was she?'

‘She seemed very well.'

‘That's it?'

‘Pretty much.'

‘What was she doing?'

‘Lying in a pram being pushed about the place.' He shrugs. ‘What else do babies do?'

Mary asks what she'd been wearing and had there been toys in her pram? She asks if Caroline's hair is long enough for ribbons now, or had she been wearing a bonnet? Where had Pat been taking her, did he think? The shops? The park? To feed the ducks?

For a detective he isn't very observant. All he knows is what he's told her. The baby had been with Pat, he'd watched them leave the
house together and followed them only a few yards before tracking back to speak to neighbours and then off to the town hall to check official records. He hadn't realized Mary wanted him to make notes on clothes or hairstyles.

‘The neighbour said they seemed a nice family,' the detective says. ‘Decent and quiet.'

‘That's no surprise,' Mary says.

Why is nothing ever enough? Why does she crave the detail?

Perhaps he feels sorry for her, because he accepts only half his outstanding fee before shaking her hand and wishing her all the luck in the world. ‘Should be an actress with your looks,' he says. ‘I could fix up a meeting if you're interested.'

She tells him she'll think about it.

When she gets home, she sits down and writes Pat a letter.

It was as if the dark called to Katie, as if the very fact of the day fading caused some primal heat to rise. Like a fever. Or when she had that virus once and it got worse at night. Perhaps she should go to bed instead of going out. She wouldn’t though. Nothing was stopping this now.

She wore sweatpants, a T-shirt, her boots and a hoodie. ‘Just going for a walk,’ she said from the doorway, keeping her voice light.

Mary and Chris didn’t look up from the TV, but Mum frowned at her from the laptop, its shine reflected in her glasses. ‘I don’t want you going anywhere. You’ve caused enough trouble today.’

‘I just need some air.’

‘You don’t feel well?’

‘A bit woolly, that’s all. I know it’s late, but I just need a quick walk round the block.’

Mum considered this. She was probably thinking that if she actually grounded Katie she wouldn’t be able to ask her to look after Mary tomorrow.

‘Just a walk?’ Mum said.

Katie nodded. When had she started to lie so much? It was recently. When Mary arrived, was it? Did it matter? It was only a small lie.

‘Half an hour max,’ Mum said, ‘and take your phone.’

Half an hour? That wasn’t going to be long enough. Katie shook her head in disbelief as she sidled out to the hallway. Why did Mum have to be so strict about everything? Why could she never just relax?

Katie had been convinced the suitcase would change things. She’d let Chris do the honours, proudly telling Mum where they’d been and what they’d done. Katie had genuinely thought Mum would be elated, because here was concrete proof that Mary had loved Mum after all. One of the letters had almost made Katie cry.
‘I will think of you every single hour of every single day. Never doubt it
.’

But instead of being thrilled, Mum was furious – Chris was overexcited, Mary was exhausted and Katie was both a liar (for saying she’d stay local when she clearly had no intention) and a busybody (for stirring up the past). Nice. Thanks for that, Mum.

‘But Mary hired a detective,’ Chris kept saying. ‘Don’t you think that’s cool? She found out where you lived and everything.’

‘And then didn’t bother showing up.’ Mum put her hand up to mark the end of the discussion and marched off to the kitchen to open a bottle of wine, even though it wasn’t six o’clock yet. She relegated the suitcase to the broom cupboard.

Never mind. Never mind any of that now …

Katie ran down the stairs two at a time, and at the bottom eased the door open, slipped through the gap and let it close gently behind her. Empty grass. Empty wall. No one by the dustbins or under the fire escape. She took a breath, filled her lungs with the dark.

It had rained earlier and the air had a fresh-washed smell about it. The sky was grey now, edged with darkest blue. It looked like a healing bruise. She stood there for a moment and breathed. She
liked the way the trees moved in the wind, as if they were dancing. She liked the scent of wet earth and growing things.

She shoved her hair into her hoodie and zipped it up.

One, two …

She walked quickly, skirting the grass. She didn’t look back or up at the windows. She didn’t want to falter if Mum’s disapproving face was up there looking out.

The temperature changed as she jumped the low wall and jogged along the pavement. A coolness of space, of trees, of more air, of being away from enclosed buildings. She ran past the pub, past three lads sheltered in the doorway with pints clasped to their chests. She could feel them watching, but they didn’t say a word, didn’t tell her to slow down or speed up or come over or anything and so who knows what they were thinking, which meant maybe nothing, but which also meant she could give them anything to think. Like,
that running girl looks completely normal, wouldn’t you say? Yep, she doesn’t look like she’s on a special mission at all …

The main drag was quieter than daytime, barely any cars, never mind people. It was like she owned this town! Like being on holiday. No – like being older. Like maybe she’d left home and gone to university and tonight, after lectures, she’d come out for an adventure, with the trees dripping overhead and the beautiful empty street to run into.

It took almost ten minutes to get to the garage, which was longer than she’d imagined. But what the hell? She’d simply have to run home at top speed. Here was the library, and next to the library was a bus stop and over the road was the café

It looked shut. The outdoor lamps glowed red but the tables were bare and inside was dark, definitely empty or closing. This wasn’t what Katie had imagined. She wanted crowds of people
and a quick flustered moment with Simona to pass her the note before running home again.

As Katie stood catching her breath she had the feeling of being on the edge of something. She thought back to Mary on the train – the fire in her eyes as she’d sifted through the suitcase, plucking out photos, letters, even the adoption agreement from all those years ago. How courageous she’d been, how she’d fought for Mum despite everything.

Katie had read some letters out loud. She loved the crisp dryness of the paper, the antique look of the ink, the passion in the words, the knowledge that day after day Mary had spilled her heart before sealing the envelope, licking the stamp and walking to the post box.

No one made that much effort any more. Now, it was all texting and Snapchat and Facebook and instant messaging and so, when they got back to the flat (after the protracted bollocking from Mum) Katie had gone upstairs and written a letter – longhand on a sheet of paper from a stationery set she’d got for her birthday years ago. It was gilded with gold. It meant business.

The café door opened. Katie shielded her face and peered towards the oncoming traffic, trying very hard to look as if she was waiting for a bus. It was an older waitress – one Katie had never seen before. She looked up briefly, one hand on her hip as if she was exhausted. The neon sign behind her flashed
Latte, cappuccino, pasta, pizza
over and over into the dark. She stacked four chairs into a pile and dragged them beneath the window. She hauled a table across to join them and chained all the legs together, as if she was in a Western and was hobbling horses for the night. Katie imagined a camp fire, Simona strumming a guitar …

The waitress went back into the café. Maybe she was going to get Simona to help with the other tables. There were a lot of them.
Or maybe she was going to call the police. ‘
Yeah, there’s this strange girl across the road staring at me and to be honest I think she’s a psycho
…’

Oh, this was ridiculous! Where had Katie’s courage gone? She just had to cross the road and deliver the letter. She didn’t even have to speak!

Simona was standing behind the counter cleaning the coffee machine. She was wearing a T-shirt and jeans and her work apron. Katie didn’t knock on the window or make any sound – she simply stared at the bare arc of Simona’s shoulder, at the place at the nape of her neck where her hair was shaved. And maybe Simona had special powers, because only a few seconds passed before she turned from the machine and looked at Katie. Right at her and no one else was there. Now Katie was going to look like some kind of stalker and Simona would be revolted. She already looked annoyed, giving a kind of ‘what-the-hell-are you-doing-here?’ frown as she wiped her hands on her apron and came to the door. She didn’t smile when she opened it. She barely opened it in fact, just peered out. ‘We’re shut.’

Katie couldn’t speak. She’d been mad to come. What had she been thinking?

Simona said, ‘Did you hear me?’

‘I wrote you a letter.’ Katie’s voice was a cracked whisper and yet she imagined everyone on the street hearing. She imagined the other waitress listening in, her shoulders stiffening with disapproval somewhere inside the dark of the café.

Simona opened the door, stepped through and pulled it shut behind her. She leaned on the glass, her eyes suspicious. ‘What kind of letter?’

Katie fumbled at her pocket, pulled it out. It looked crumpled and ridiculous, not at all as she remembered it. ‘Here.’

Simona shook her head, as if she couldn’t believe this was happening. A flood of fear rushed Katie’s heart as she watched Simona rip the envelope and pull out the single sheet of paper. The letter said:

A slow smile lifted the edges of Simona’s mouth. ‘I’d say less of a moron and more someone with truly terrible taste in friends.’

‘Yeah. Except for Esme, they’re idiots – sorry.’

‘Esme’s the one you kissed?’

‘Yeah.’

‘She doesn’t sound much of a friend either, to be honest.’

‘It’s not her fault. It was a misunderstanding.’

Simona raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that right?’

Was that a question? Did it require an answer? Simona kept looking at Katie. The way she kept looking made Katie look away.

The pavement outside the café was littered with things that Katie only noticed now that she was trying hard not to look at
Simona – a sweet wrapper, three chips, a plastic fork, a ball of tissue scrumpled up under the pile of tables.

‘It’s all right,’ Simona said. ‘You don’t need to tell me. I should probably get back to work anyway.’

Katie felt suddenly hot in her layers of running stuff. She counted how many items of clothing she was wearing and it came to eight. She counted the number of tables in the stacked pile and it came to four. She was aware that Chris did this kind of counting – when he felt ashamed, uncomfortable.

‘I wish everything could go back to how it was,’ Katie said. Her voice sounded strange – high and uncertain. ‘I wish Esme would talk to me and her mates would stop staring. Every time I walk past them, it’s like being on stage in the worst possible way.’

She waited for Simona to say something, but she didn’t. She waited for her to open the door and escape back inside the café, but she didn’t do that either.

‘My parents split up last year,’ Katie said, ‘which is why we moved here and why I changed schools. My brother still goes to his old school. He has special needs and they send a bus for him. It’s funny, I never really envied him before, but I wake up most mornings wishing a bus would come for me.’

It was easy to talk to someone in the dark, someone who felt like they might know what you were talking about. Katie had a sudden desire to ask Simona if the rumours about her were true. And if they were, then how long had she known and what had been the signs, the very first signs? And did her parents know, and how did she tell them, and were they handling it or were they falling apart? She didn’t ask though. Of course not.

‘I’m sorry,’ Katie said. ‘You have to get back to work. I should go.’

‘You say sorry a lot.’ Simona’s sandalled foot slid forward and tapped Katie’s boot. ‘Why’s that?’

Katie’s chest constricted. It was suddenly hard to breathe. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Probably not a good habit to get into.’

 A sandal and a boot. Bang, bang.

‘I’m not saying
never
apologize,’ Simona said, ‘because the letter’s kind of sweet and I appreciate you bothering to come here and explain, but you should be careful you don’t end up saying sorry for who you are, if you know what I mean …’

Katie feigned fascination with the street, the trees beyond, the glitter of the tower blocks in the distance. Simona’s sandal was rapping on her boot and it felt like a test. She was completely aware of it. What did it mean? Was she supposed to do something, say something? Simona would probably deny all knowledge.
My foot knocking yours? You think that means anything? Are you crazy? That’s just a coincidence
.

There was silence again. Rounds of it, like a boxing match.

Simona said, ‘Do you fancy a coffee?’

‘I thought you were shut.’

‘I don’t mean here.’

Katie flicked her a look and Simona smiled that slow smile again. And it was like Katie’s eyes got snagged and she couldn’t look away.

‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘My mum’s really strict. I told her I was just going for a walk.’

‘So, tell her you’re just going for a coffee.’

Something’s going to happen,
Katie thought,
if I say yes
.

It was like an energy building, the two of them looking and all the seconds ticking between them.

Katie looked away first. ‘I have to get back. If I’m late home, it’ll really stress my mum out.’

‘I would’ve thought your mum was nicely distracted with your grandmother the way she is. I would’ve thought she wasn’t actually taking much notice of you at all. Maybe you just think she is?’ Tap, tap went Simona’s foot again. ‘Maybe you’re just looking for an excuse?’

Blood washed up from Katie’s chest to her neck to her face. She had to get out of there, had to get home. She’d been an idiot. Why had she written a letter asking if she could come to the café more often? She should have written one pledging never to return. ‘She relies on me. I couldn’t do it to her.’

‘Do what? Be yourself?’

‘Let her down.’

‘Well, that’s that then.’ Simona folded the letter and put it in her pocket. ‘I just thought you might like to talk.’

‘I can’t. Sorry.’

‘Apologizing again?’ Simona grinned as she opened the café door. ‘You really want to stop doing that.’ She went through the door and shut it behind her. She walked back to the counter, picked up a cloth and returned to cleaning the coffee machine.

Katie ran. She didn’t look back, not even a glance. She ran across the road. The lovely road. Away from the café. She ran along the pavement. Cars swept past. A group of people walked into the pub. A late-night corner shop was still open and its lights winked at her. She ran faster, putting distance between her and Simona. She ran until her lungs were screaming with the rush of sharp air. All the way home.