Keeping Secrets (27 page)

But the question wouldn't go away. Alice picked up Annie from playgroup; they had lunch together in the kitchen, and afterwards planted a little patch of earth with bulbs just for her. They went to get Hettie from school, and stood at the gate with all the other mothers, with babies in prams. When Hettie came out, swinging her lunchbox and reading folder, often ignoring Annie completely, Alice wondered: wouldn't it do Annie good to have someone smaller? Wouldn't that build up her confidence? She watched her trailing after Hettie as they walked down their road, always following, usually left behind. Hettie doesn't need her, she thought, she's a natural only child. But Annie needs someone, she always has, just as I did. I knew I could never be Hilda, no matter how much I loved her.

At home, the girls watched children's television, sitting on their floor cushions with jam sandwiches and milk. Sometimes Alice watched with them; sometimes, if Tony was due home early, she cooked supper, switching on the lights in the kitchen earlier and earlier as the evenings drew in. From time to time Tony was away, speaking at conferences, a visiting lecturer in law schools all over the country. The rest of the time he was home late, looking weary. Alice could not bring herself to ask, again, about a baby.

Hilda sent copies of the photographs of Sam which Tony had taken the day they came out of hospital. Pinning them up on the board in the kitchen that evening, Alice's thoughts took a new direction, remembering the way she had seen Hilda, in hospital, weep on Tony's shoulder, how he had gone rushing out to the shops for her, carried her case, settled her into her home. No, she thought, standing back and looking at them all again, now I really am being absurd. Tony's like that with everyone. She reached out a finger and touched the picture of Sam, held in her own arms, out in the garden. Hettie had taken that. All I want, she thought, going out of the kitchen, switching off the lights, is one more chance to hold my own baby again. She could hear Tony upstairs in the study, turning pages, dropping files to the floor with a thud; she went into the sitting room, to phone Hilda at last, and thank her for the photographs.

‘There we are,' said Hilda. ‘In you go. How's that?'

Strapped into his new bouncing chair, Sam looked at her and smiled.

‘Like it? Is that fun?'

She pulled him a little closer to the chair by the window and sat down, jiggling him with her foot. Sam smiled again. ‘You do like it, don't you? Well, thank God for that. Whole vistas open up before us.' Hilda leaned back in her own chair and stopped jiggling; the corners of Sam's mouth turned down. ‘Hey, hey, none of that. You're supposed to be happy in it anyway, not because I'm performing tricks.' She leaned forward and twirled the coloured plastic figures on the bar in front of him. ‘There. Have a look at those for a bit. Please, Sam, don't start again now.' Sam's hands flailed at the spinning figures; little bits of plastic rattled inside. He flailed again, intrigued. ‘Right, you keep it up. Stephen will be here soon, you can show him.'

She leaned back again, and looked round the room, cleaned and tidied for Stephen's visit, the first for two weeks. The last of the afternoon sun lit her desk, the spines of books, pictures and photographs. She had bought a bunch of hothouse iris this morning, on her daily outing to the shops with Sam; they stood on her desk ina glass vase, and beyond them, through the window, Hilda could see the trees in the square, losing more leaves each day. It's like a piece of haiku, she thought, yawning: ‘Winter sun/lights the blue flowers/I am waiting for the sound of the door/my lover's footsteps on the stairs.' She shut her eyes, thinking: That's not right, haiku's much shorter than that. At her feet Sam banged at the little people; they rattled and spun. Outside, down in the square, she could hear women talking on their way to the shops, cars slowing down. Was that Stephen's? She yawned again, feeling herself begin to drift. Sam had woken three times in the night.

A long way away, the sound of a key in a lock, and footsteps. Then, closer, through a thick blanket of cotton wool, Stephen's voice.

‘Hello, Sam. Hello. How're you getting on? Mum asleep?'

She opened her eyes to see him squatting beside the bouncing chair, in his long, open raincoat, holding a bunch of flowers, his portfolio on the floor.

‘You look like an advertisement for the new man,' she murmured.

Stephen turned to look at her, and at the sight of his steady, smiling eyes, the laugh lines and greying hair she felt a delicious rush of happiness. Usually, after an absence, there were moments, sometimes a disconcerting hour, of unfamiliarity, even coldness, before she could settle into being with him again. Now, she held out her arms. Stephen moved over, the belt of his raincoat brushing the little people on the chair, and she leaned against him, smelling his sweater, the skin on – his neck, feeling his hands run through her hair.

‘How is my darling?'

‘Very well.' She drew away, wanting to look at him again. ‘You?'

‘Fine. Glad to be here.' Behind him, Sam rattled and bounced. ‘How's it going? How is he?'

‘He's wonderful,' said Hilda. ‘He's wearing me out, but he's wonderful, I feel fine about him now.' She hugged him, kissing his cheek. ‘It's so lovely to see you. Would you like some tea?'

‘Yes,' said Stephen, ‘but I'll get it. You stay there.'

‘Oh, what bliss.' She leaned back in the chair again, watching him move about the flat, hanging up his raincoat, putting his overnight bag in the bedroom, putting the kettle on. He came out of the kitchen with his flowers in another vase – more iris, deep, velvety blue. ‘Sorry,' he said, putting them on the mantelpiece, seeing hers.

‘Not sorry,' she said. ‘We like the same things, don't we?'

In his chair, Sam was growing restless, and she bent down and unstrapped him. ‘Had enough? Come on, you come on my lap for a bit.' It was growing dark, and she switched on the lamp on her desk. Returning with the tea tray, Stephen put it down and reached up to draw the curtains. ‘There,' he said, looking at them both, ‘now what could be nicer than this?'

‘Nothing,' said Hilda happily. ‘Do you want to hold him?'

‘In a minute. I'll pour you some tea first. Anyway, I think he's getting hungry, isn't he?'

‘He's always hungry,' she said, unbuttoning her shirt. She undid her bra and helped him on to her breast. ‘Look at him, what a guzzler. Sometimes I sit here all afternoon.'

‘You don't.'

‘I do, honestly.' She looked down at Sam, moving his head a little. ‘Go on, get comfortable, that's it.' She looked up again. ‘Why?' she asked, without thinking. ‘Isn't it usual? Didn't –' and stopped, quickly.

‘You must do what's right for you and your baby,' said Stephen easily. ‘Isn't that what the books say?' He passed her a blue mug, patterned with birds. ‘Can you manage that?'

‘Yes, that's fine,' she said, carefully taking it. ‘I have terrible visions of scalding tea, but so far –' She sipped, and the moment, in which the whole of their situation had suddenly entered the room – Stephen's past, Miriam as mother, Jonathan's babyhood – passed, and was not mentioned.

‘I've brought the camera,' said Stephen, putting his mug down. ‘Stay there, I'll go and get it.'

She watched him go into the bedroom again, thinking: but we'll have to keep all the photos here, he won't be able to have any of us at home, and I'll never be able to send him any.

He was back, unfastening the case. ‘Don't pose, just talk to me.' He moved round the room, snapping as she told him about broken nights, outings to the shops, the six-week check.

‘I want some of you,' she said, and again thought: but there won't be any of us together. Who's going to take a family snap?

‘How's Anya?' Stephen asked, squatting down in front of her.

‘Trying not to interfere,' said Hilda. ‘Actually, she comes up most days, or I go down sometimes – it keeps me sane. Perhaps I could ask her to take a picture of the three of us.'

‘Why not?' The camera flashed again, and Stephen switched it off. ‘Good. There should be some nice ones there.' He put it down on the desk. ‘Now, what would you like to do tonight?'

‘Do?' said Hilda blankly. ‘What do you mean?'

He laughed. ‘I thought we might ask Anya to babysit. So I could take you out for a meal – would you like that?'

‘God,' said Hilda, ‘I can't remember the last time I went out at night. It makes me feel quite peculiar.' She thought about leaving Sam with Anya, while she and Stephen set off for a restaurant, and at once pictured him waking, crying, refusing to go back to sleep, needing her. ‘I know this sounds very feeble, but I don't think I could. Leave him. I'm sorry.'

‘Not even for a couple of hours?'

‘Not even for a couple of minutes,' she said ruefully. ‘Not yet.' She felt her stomach begin to constrict, feeling nervous and defensive. Was she being silly and fussy? She couldn't help it – the thought of Sam with Anya, refusing to pick him up because it would spoil him, his little face in paroxysms of hunger and despair, made her feel ill. So did the thought of Stephen not understanding, wanting her to be the person she had been before Sam, in that other, long-ago, unrecapturable life.

‘Sorry,' she said, and moved Sam on to the other breast.

‘Well,' said Stephen, ‘we could always take him with us.'

They set out just after seven, Hilda bathed and changed and feeling a mixture of nervousness and excitement. They eased Sam's carrycot into the back of the car, and she sat beside him while Stephen drove them to Church Street. ‘How about the Fox?' he asked. ‘For old times'sake.'

‘It's not called that any more,' said Hilda, ‘and it isn't a wine bar, either, it's gone all posh and French.'

‘Sam won't mind.' They parked in a side street, and with the baby swinging between them, crossed the road and pushed open the restaurant door. At the sight of the candlelit tables, the air full of the smell of herbs and garlic and hot food, Hilda felt a rush of pleasure. I have been starved, she thought – of good food, of interest, of other people. The world is still here, and one day I shall come back to it. I've come back to it now! She followed Stephen and the waitress to a table at the back of the room, the waitress exclaiming over Sam's downy head on the carrycot pillow.

He slept the whole evening. Stephen and Hilda held hands across the table, and ate and talked, and Hilda felt herself unwind. Everything's all right, she thought contentedly. We love each other, we love Sam – it's going to be fine.

‘Is this your first time out?' the waitress asked, pouring their coffee.

She nodded. ‘It feels wonderful.'

‘Must do.' She looked from her to Stephen, clearly seeing him as Hilda's husband, the three of them as a happy little family, and realising this Hilda felt for the first time a flicker of disappointment, the anticipation of Stephen, tomorrow, going again.

‘Enjoy it now,' he said, watching her.

‘How do you always know what I'm thinking?'

‘I just do. It's written all over your face.'

She shook her head. ‘I thought I seemed calm and inscrutable.'

‘Not any more.'

They paid the bill and left, swinging Sam once more across the road and into the car. It was getting cold; Hilda bent over him, pulling the quilt and blanket up further.

‘What a good mother,' said Stephen, unlocking his door. They drove slowly home listening to music on the tape, as people spilled out of the pubs, and babyless cars roared past. Inside the house they passed Anya's closed doors and climbed the stairs, Stephen carrying Sam, Hilda yawning. In bed, with Stephen beside her, holding her, asking nothing of her, being, indeed, everything she could have wished for, she gave a long sigh of contentment.

‘Thank you. You're lovely. I love you.'

Stephen drew her closer. ‘I love you too. Hilda?'

‘Mmm?'

‘You wanted a girl. Does it matter now?'

‘No,' she said. ‘Nothing matters now.'

Beside them, changed and fed once more, Sam slept on. Hilda reached out and switched the light off, and she and Stephen fell asleep in each other's arms, as peacefully as if they did so every night, their baby by their bed, a whole life ahead of them, their future as sealed and assured as the future can ever be.

Next morning, when they had kissed goodbye, Hilda stood at the window, still in her nightdress, with Sam in her arms, as Stephen went down with his bag and portfolio. She watched him wave, and walk along the street to the car, parked several doors along in the only space left last night. She saw him stop dead beside it, and drop his things; craning her neck, she saw a silvery scattering of broken glass on the pavement and Stephen sticking his arm through the gaping hole in the nearside window. He came back, furious.

‘They've taken the radio. Bastards! Where's the Yellow Pages? I'm going to have to get someone fast, I'm supposed to be in Regent's Park by ten.'

Hilda found the directory, and watched him run down the columns of windscreen repairers. When he had found one nearby, and slammed down the phone to wait for their arrival, she watched him pace up and down, on edge. Real life, she thought, as Sam began to grizzle, unaccountably restless. Mornings were usually a good time. If she and Stephen were living together, there would be the chance, this evening, of getting over all this, of smoothing things down. As it was, she could only make him coffee and watch him fume, biting back: ‘But it's only a radio. And what will happen if you're a bit late for once?' When the repair van at last arrived, hooting down in the square, Stephen picked up his things again and brushed her cheek with his lips.

‘Sorry about all this. I'll phone you.'