Keeping Secrets (11 page)

‘I cannot stand to be shut up indoors. It is very bad for you, for the skin, for everything. If you want to use the garden, Hilda, you must come down and tell me.'

Hilda yawned, drifting back to sleep.

When she woke up again, the room was much lighter, and now she could hear Anya's footsteps outside on the terrace below, and her dry cough. And now she had to get up and pee. She went to the bathroom, then made tea and toast, settling herself back against the propped-up pillows, thinking: in four months'time I shall have had breakfast alone for the last time. She sipped her tea from her china cup, in imagination placing a small white crib by the bed, a downy head and tiny fists visible above a snowy coverlet.

The morning brightened, and clouds blew across the sky. Hilda got up and ran a bath. Lying in it she decided to drive over to Waterlow Park before going to see Alice and the girls. Walking alone was different from walking at a child's pace, stopping and looking at everything; I'd better make the most of it, she thought, and trickled water from the sponge on to the mound of her stomach, wondering if it were a fist or foot which bumped beneath.

In Waterlow Park the trees were in bud, a sharp fresh green, and seagulls wheeled above the lake. There weren't many people about yet: dogs raced across the grass, couples walked hand in hand or sat on benches, reading the papers. Ahead of Hilda, a toddler staggered along the path towards the water, clutching a paper bag; he ran jerkily, at top speed, calling out: ‘Ducks, Ducks!' and his father followed, walking fast.

‘Careful, Hal.'

That's a good name, thought Hilda. I wish Stephen would talk about names. Rachel? Ruth? Rebecca? I think Rachel.

The path sloped sharply to the lakeside, fenced off from the water with loops of iron. Muscovy ducks, their beaks grotesquely encrusted with purple-pink flesh, trod on the slippery mud among the mallards, darting and gobbling as Hal and his father threw down the crusts.

‘That's it, good boy. Look at that greedy one there.'

‘More bread.' Hal turned to his father.

‘All gone. Sorry.' The man shook out the bag and the last crumbs scattered. Hal began to wail.

‘Never mind. Let's go and see the parrot.' He took the child's mittened hand and led him down towards the aviary, where cockatiels and ring-collared doves squawked and murmured behind rusty netting. As they passed Hilda the man's eyes briefly met hers, taking in at once her pregnant body and the fact that she had been watching them. And, perhaps, since she was alone, that she was having this baby alone. He bent down to pick up Hal, still protesting, and gave her a flicker of a smile.

Hilda looked away and walked past them, taking the damp path round the lake, taking an imaginary hand in hers.

Before she left, she went into Launderdale House, where there was a craft fair with stalls of pottery, hand-painted cards and silver earrings. She wandered up and down among the stalls, trying on a pair of loop earrings and wondering if Stephen would like them. I wish he were here, she thought, oh God, I wish he were here. She riffled through the hand-painted cards, and came across a few pen-and-ink prints, a series of family scenes from a garden – an old man in a panama hat asleep on a wooden seat; the back view of a woman weeding, kneeling on a mat; a man with thinning hair, not unlike Tony, hosing a flowerbed. They're rather nice, she thought, and stopped when she came to one of a small child in dungarees, disappearing through an arch in the hedge right at the bottom of the garden.

She bought a set and took them outside to one of the benches, to look through them again: at the little girl, independent and secure, – walking away through the arch in the hedge, like Hettie, intent on her own pursuits, needing no one.

On impulse, Hilda felt in her shoulder bag for the fountain pen her father had given her, and turned over the card. She hesitated, then wrote simply: To the future. She sealed it in the envelope, addressed it to Stephen and stuck on a stamp from her wallet. Then she got up and walked out of the garden, dropping the card into the letterbox on Highgate Hill.

Annie tripped on the low wall at the edge of the sandpit, and fell head first to the ground, grazing her knee. She picked herself up and ran, screaming.

‘Mum-my! Mum-my!'

‘Oh dear, let's have a look.' Alice took her on her lap. ‘That
was
a bang.'

‘Stupid wall.
Stupid
wall.'

‘Never mind, be careful next time.' Alice inspected the smeared blood. ‘It needs a bit of a clean-up, keep still while I look in my bag.'

‘It hurts!'

Alice rummaged with one hand, and found a tissue. She spat, and rubbed.

‘Ow, ow!'

‘Be brave, Annie, come on. I'll see if I've got a plaster.'

‘I want to go home.'

‘Ssh. We can't go yet, we're waiting for Hilda.' She produced a plaster from her purse.

‘There. Do you want to pull the paper off?'

Annie pulled, and the plaster stuck to her finger; she shook it furiously. ‘Get it off, get it
off
!'

‘For heaven's sake …' Alice took a deep breath, looking round for Hettie. She wasn't on the swings, she wasn't on the slide. ‘Hettie? Hettie!' She stood up, searching the playground for a dull pink hat. It was almost midday, and getting crowded; Hilda should have been here half an hour ago.

‘Hettie!'

‘There's Hilda,' Annie said suddenly. She had pulled the plaster off by herself and was standing on the bench.

‘Where?'

‘By the gate.'

Alice looked, and saw her sister push open the wooden gate, looking round, searching for her through the mothers and shrieking children.

‘Hilda! Over here!' Alice called, and saw Hilda frowning, shading her glasses from the sharp sunlight. And where was Hettie?

There was Hettie. Alice saw her square, sturdy shape, weaving through darting children and pushchairs; she was walking steadily towards her aunt; she reached her, and tapped her on the arm. Hilda looked down, saw her, and smiled. She bent and kissed her, and then Hettie took her hand, and began to lead her through the crowd.

Seeing them draw near, Annie jumped down from the bench and ran towards them, wanting to be a part of it. ‘Hello, hello!'

‘Hello, Annie. Hello, Alice.' Holding Hettie's hand, Hilda, whom Alice had not seen for a while, looked relaxed and at home. And somehow different.

‘I've hurt my knee,' Annie said loudly.

‘Oh, dear, poor you, so you have.' Hilda bent and kissed her; Annie threw her arms extravagantly around her neck.

Watching them, Alice, even now, even after all this time, felt discomfited. The new Alice, the person she had become in the past six or seven years, thought: I'm glad Hilda and the children get on so well. The old Alice, who when she was small had longed for her clever, disdainful elder sister to love her, was on guard, uneasy, murmuring warily: she still looks as though she's running the show; those are
my
children.

The new Alice took charge, smiled, and said warmly, ‘Hello, Hilda,' and kissed her on the cheek. And realised, with a sudden lurch of shock, that she was pregnant.

‘You didn't tell me,' she said, gesturing foolishly, taken aback.

And Hilda smiled, and said in her light cool voice: ‘No,' as if: why should I?

Annie, recovered, wanted Hilda to make a castle in the sandpit. In the end, they stayed in the playground for another half hour; by then the fitful morning sunshine had disappeared, and it began to rain before they reached the house. Hettie put up her umbrella and held it over Annie, who wanted to hold it too.

‘Oh, come on,' said Alice, not wanting Hilda to see Annie behaving badly. ‘We're almost there, don't let's have any dramas.'

‘I know,' said Hettie, ‘you give me the keys and I'll go ahead and open the door.'

‘And Annie can have the umbrella? All right then.' Alice felt in her pocket. ‘Here you are, the one with the red ring, okay?'

‘I know which one it is.' Hettie reached up and took the bunch, and ran down the street through the rain.

Annie began to wail. ‘
I
want the keys!'

‘You've got the umbrella,' said Hilda calmly.

Annie gets on her nerves, thought Alice, I hope we're not in for a difficult lunch. Ahead of them, Hettie was climbing the steps; she fumbled with the key in the lock, and opened the door, turning to wave at them, hurrying along the wet pavement. When they reached the house she was standing inside, graciously holding the door open.

‘
Do
come in.'

‘Oh, how very kind,' said Hilda, bowing, sweeping through; behind her Annie, trying to close the umbrella, trapped her finger, and began to scream. Alice released the finger, picked her up and carried her into the hall. She found her some Smarties, took everyone's coats and went into the kitchen, where she checked the joint and potatoes, put the water on for the peas and then stood looking out of the window to the garden, where the rain, from inside, looked gentle as a blessing. In the sitting room Annie had found something else to cry about. I wish I was out there in my boots by myself, Alice thought. I wish everyone would go away and leave me.

Behind her, Hilda was saying: ‘Can I do anything?'

‘You could lay the table,' said Alice, not turning, ‘if you don't mind.'

‘Of course not.' There was a pause, in which Hilda waited for Alice to turn, and remind her where things were. ‘You all right?'

‘Fine.'

It rained steadily for almost an hour, steaming the warm kitchen windows. The children drew pictures on them, waiting for pudding. Hettie watched Hilda lean across to write their names in the steam, and said suddenly: ‘Have you got a baby in your tummy?'

‘Yes,' said Hilda, and sat down again.

‘I didn't know that,' said Hettie, sounding pleased. ‘When's it going to come out?'

‘At the end of the summer.'

‘Will I be six then? I'm six in July.'

‘Yes, you will. What a big girl – what do you want for your birthday?'

Hettie considered, and drew breath for a list. ‘Well …'

Annie said: ‘Can I watch it come out?'

Alice said: ‘Here we are,' and brought lemon meringue pie to the table.

Hettie said: ‘Oooh, lovely,' and Annie said again: ‘Can I?'

‘No,' said Hilda. ‘Sorry.'

‘We'll see,' said Alice, watching Annie get ready for a fight. ‘Now, then, who wants some of this? Hilda?'

‘Please. But do the girls first, I'm fine.'

‘Who's the daddy?' Hettie asked, watching Alice spoon fluffy meringue into her bowl.

‘Someone called Stephen,' said Hilda.

‘Who's Stephen?'

‘A friend. Alice, if that's for me, that's plenty.'

‘A friend? I thought you said he was the daddy.'

‘He is. What do you want for your birthday?'

‘I'd like a baby. I wish we could have one.' She turned to Alice who was helping Annie go round the edges.

‘Very hot, just take a little.'

‘Mummy?' Hettie asked. ‘Can we have another baby? Please?'

‘We'll see,' said Alice, giving herself some pie and sitting down. ‘All right? Everyone okay? After lunch, Annie, you can go up and have a nice nap.'

‘I don't want a nap.'

The rain stopped at last, and the sky cleared to a watery paleness. Upstairs, Annie, protesting, had been put to bed, and lay asleep, flushed face pressed into a pillow patterned with clowns, grubby rabbit dropped to the floor from open fist. Downstairs, Hettie was in a cushioned corner of the sitting room, surrounded by bears, paper and crayons.

‘Now you sit there, and you there, and you there … I'm going to give you each a piece of paper, and I want you to do a drawing before tea. Here you are, here you are, here you are … if you want any help, ask me. What's the matter, little bear, there's no need to fuss.'

Alice and Hilda sat on the sofa with their coffee cups, watching her.

‘She's wonderful,' said Hilda.

‘She's just like you,' said Alice. She had lit the fire, and the room was warm and comfortable. Beside her, Hilda had kicked off her shoes and stretched her legs, in navy tights like Hettie's, towards the hearth.

‘I wasn't like that,' she said.

‘Yes, you were.' Alice looked at her. Hilda's neat dark hair shone, and her clean pale skin looked luminous, untouched. Behind her round glasses her eyes were clear and calm. She still looks intimidating, Alice thought, she still has that air of everything being right in her world, but now it's more than that. ‘You were always very together, and capable,' she said.

Hilda pulled a face. ‘That doesn't sound very interesting. Hettie's so warm, she's a kind child.'

There was a pause, in which an unspoken exchange hung in the air:

Yes, and you weren't kind, Hilda. Not to me.

You got on my nerves. Following me about.

I suppose everything was fine until I came along.

Yes, it probably was.

Then Hilda yawned, and leaned back against the cushions. ‘That was such a good lunch. Why can't I cook like that?'

Alice shrugged. ‘I used to be hopeless.'

‘But not any more,' said Hilda. ‘You've made a lovely home, it's always so nice here.' She paused. ‘Alice? You are pleased about the baby?'

‘Yes,' said Alice, looking at the carpet. ‘Of course.'

‘Sure?'

‘I've just said so.' She raised her head. ‘Anyway, what does it matter whether I'm pleased or not?'

Hilda frowned. ‘Of course it matters.'

‘Why?'

‘Alice …'

‘What matters,' said Alice, ‘is that
you're
pleased. I take it you are.'

‘Naturally. I wouldn't be having one otherwise.'