Keeping Secrets (33 page)

‘The last time Prague was in the news like this was in '68, and we did not have a television, of course. Perhaps for Liba we could have had one, but except for occasions like that I didn't want her wasting her time. She was such a good student.'

‘I can remember watching it,' said Hilda. ‘Just. In 1968 I was twelve, and Alice was ten. I can remember my father talking about it, and seeing the tanks on the news. I think he was very shaken, most socialists were.'

‘Socialists?' asked Anya. ‘He was a socialist, your father?' She shook her head, gesturing to the screen. ‘This is what is happening to socialism, thank God.'

‘Communism,' said Hilda. ‘There is a difference, isn't there?' From upstairs, through the open door of her flat, she could hear a cry: Sam must have woken. She got up quickly. ‘I'd better go.'

‘Bring him down if you like,' said Anya, turning.

‘I'll see. Thanks.'

‘Hilda?'

‘Yes?' She stopped at the door.

‘What are you doing for Christmas?'

‘I … I'm not sure yet. We might be going to my family, to Alice and Tony, I mean.' She hesitated, her hand on the brown door-knob, not wanting to commit herself.

‘Well, Liba and I will be here,' said Anya. ‘She may be bringing her friend. If you and Sam … you are welcome to join us.'

‘Thank you,' said Hilda, feeling her heart sink. ‘You're very kind.' From upstairs, the cries grew louder. ‘I'd better go,' she said again. ‘perhaps I could let you know …'

‘Of course. There is no hurry.'

Anya turned back to the television, and Hilda closed the door and ran up the stairs. Sam was screaming now. ‘All right, all right, I'm coming!' She hurried through to her bedroom. ‘Here I am.' He had outgrown the crib, no question. ‘We'll have to buy you a cot,' she said, carrying him into the sitting room, and sat in the rocking chair, pulling up her sweater. ‘Would you like a cot for Christmas?' She sat there hoping, as usual, that after a good feed this would be the night he slept through. So far, even though she had started him on baby rice and banana, he had woken at least twice every night since they got home.

She yawned, leaning back in the chair. Jane and Don were taking it in turns, now, to get up in the night to Daisy – Jane had told her that last week, when she came for lunch. She had put Daisy down on the playmat with Sam and walked round the flat, looking at the pictures, taking books from the shelves. ‘It's great,' she said. ‘I really like it.'

‘It's small,' said Hilda, coming out from the kitchen.

‘Are you going to move? When Sam's older, I mean?'

‘I don't know. I don't know anything.' She passed her a glass of juice.

‘Thanks.' Jane took the glass and wandered over to the window. ‘I've always wanted to live in an attic.' She looked at the photographs on the desk, of Hilda's parents, in a silver frame, and of Stephen, the old one, taken all those years ago outside the pub in Highgate. ‘That's Sam's father, isn't it?'

‘Yes.' Beside Hilda, on the mat, the babies were rolling over, clutching at toys.

Jane put the photograph down again. ‘He's very good-looking,' she said, as she had said when they talked about him before. ‘I hope he's looking after you.'

Hilda flushed. ‘He does what he can. I always knew I'd be doing most of it alone.'

‘But it's a lot, isn't it? I think you're very brave.'

She shrugged, waving it all aside. ‘There are plenty of us, aren't there? Women on their own with babies.'

‘Yes. It's still hard work, though, I should think.' Sam, holding a plastic rattle, banged Daisy in the face. ‘Baby!' She went over quickly, as Daisy began to scream. ‘It's all right, you're fine …'

They hadn't talked about Stephen again. Now, her eyes heavy, Hilda thought: I'd give anything, anything to have him here now, to offer to get up tonight, to let me sleep. How am I going to manage when I go back to work? I'll just have to manage, that's all. I must get a minder sorted out by Christmas.

Christmas was only weeks away: was there any chance at all that Stephen might be with her, even for part of it? They were meeting tomorrow, at the zoo, because it was near the site where he was working. In the old days, in spring and summertime, they used quite often to meet after work and wander through Regent's Park, hearing roars from the lionhouse, the shrieks of birds and monkeys. But Hilda had never, since she came to London, been inside the zoo, and the visit tomorrow was her idea – neutral territory, somewhere to explore as a future treat for Sam. And she was going to drive there, saving Stephen for once the journey across north London; it was time she got used to taking Sam out in the car.

She yawned again. They would talk about Christmas tomorrow.

‘Move! Move!'

In the back of the car, Sam was screaming. In front of Hilda, who was frantically drumming on the wheel, a long line of cars crawled down to the traffic lights, where there was a filter off to the right and a road-widening scheme; the road was blocked by diggers and drills, and heaps of broken tarmac, cordoned off with plastic orange ribbon. The cars ahead picked up speed, and for a moment or two Sam's yells diminished. Then the lights changed to red, and everything slowed and stopped; at once, he began again, but louder.

‘It's all right, it's all right,' said Hilda. She turned to pat the tense, furious little body, and he cried even harder, wanting to be picked up. ‘I can't, Sam, please stop it. Please!' Nothing would stop him. Behind her a car began to hoot, and she realised that the lights were green. ‘All right, all
right
!' she shouted to the driver behind, a man waving at her angrily, and turned and started off again. ‘There, Sam! We've moving, now stop it.' In this fashion, and for perhaps ten minutes, they crept along, her stomach churning. They shot through across the main road at last as the lights went to amber, and had a clear run down towards Camden, but once there, caught in the one-way system, with the roads clogged, it all began again. In the end, almost screaming herself, Hilda stopped on a double yellow line on the ring road round the park, and took Sam into, the front, where she fed him, listening to
Woman's Hour.

Graceful Regency terraces overlooked her; the sleek limousines of diplomats swept past. Shut in her little car, Hilda felt a mixture of relief – that Sam was quiet at last – and anxiety that she was going to be late. But it was more than that: her situation here said it all – she was out on a limb, alone with her baby while the rest of the world went by. Fanny and Alan and the twins lived near here. Why had she never taken Sam to see them? Because they were too much of a contrast with her own life, she supposed: too pleased with themselves, too rich. I'll feel better as soon as I've gone back to work, she thought, as Sam's face, calm and replete, fell away; even if I'm tired, I need it. She put him back carefully into his car seat, strapped him in and started up again, driving away to the car park.

Even before she reached it Sam was deeply asleep, his angry red face growing pale, little fists unclenched and still. Hilda got out of the car, unfolded the pushchair and gently lifted him into it, tucking a blanket round him. The afternoon was bright and cold, the grass in the park flattened by the wind, fitfully shadowed by large, slow-moving clouds. With the air fresh on her face she felt some of her tiredness ebb away and her spirits rise. ‘Come on, baby.' She wheeled the pushchair out of the car park and along the road.

A winter afternoon in term time: there were few people going through the entrance to the zoo, where a young man stood just inside, with a bunch of bright foil balloons. He shifted his feet in the cold, and Hilda looked past him, searching for Stephen. He wasn't there. They had arranged to meet near the ticket booth; she paid, and stood waiting for him, her back to a cage of monkeys, watching families come and go. She was almost half an hour late: surely Stephen wouldn't have given up and gone? She pushed Sam slowly back and forth, more to soothe herself; ten cold minutes, then fifteen went by; where was Stephen?

There he was, coming through the entrance with the collar of his loose tweed coat turned up, carrying a briefcase. He raised his hand and waved his fingers, unsmiling. Hilda stood waiting for him as he side-stepped the balloon seller and came up to her.

‘I'm late, sorry.' He kissed her briefly, with cold lips, and she touched his cheek.

‘All right?'

He shook his head. ‘Problems. Shall we go?'

She followed him to the ticket booth, and then they went down the path at the side, showing their tickets to an old boy in uniform. He smiled down at the sleeping baby: ‘He's going to miss it all. Never mind – you enjoy yourselves.'

Hilda smiled back, aware, as always with Stephen and Sam in public, of being seen as just one more ordinary family. They went on down the slope. ‘Oh, look!' she said, touching Stephen's arm, as a young elephant trundled past them, following his keeper on baggy legs; little tufts of dark hair sprouted on his head, his trunk swayed after the keeper's bucket. Beside them, another family stopped to watch. ‘Isn't he lovely? He looks just like Sam.'

‘Mmm. Come on.' Stephen turned away, walking quickly.

‘Where are we going?' She hurried after him, passing, the snake house.

‘I don't know, I just don't want to hang about, it's freezing.'

‘You haven't said hello to Sam yet.' She wheeled the pushchair up beside him.

‘He's asleep.'

Hilda bit her lip, and fell silent. They passed a signpost, pointing to penguins, seals and tigers, and found themselves facing a large cage of orangutans, clambering along branches, swinging on ropes and tyres. They stopped, and stood gazing at them, leaning on the barrier. The air was full of whoops and grunting: high up towards the back of a group of young males were half-heartedly chasing each other along the ropes, moving quickly from hand to hand, thrusting out long hairy feet, dropping down to scratch themselves or search for overlooked titbits on the floor of the cage. They looked at the visitors, and looked away, incurious. But an enormous female came slowly towards Hilda and Stephen, cradling a baby in one arm, and pressed herself up against the netting. She clung to the wire with long supple fingers, stretching herself upwards, revealing a slack belly and taut grey teats, and her great domed head moved slowly back and forth. Her face was open and freckled, her sharp brown eye looked out at them, and she drew back her lips, grimacing, baring yellow teeth. Hilda watched, fascinated. Tucked against his mother's vast hairy side, the baby peered out at her, warm and bright-eyed, and she felt a wave of tenderness, pure and uncomplicated, wanting to reach out and stroke him.

Beside her, Stephen said wryly: ‘They seem to be everywhere, don't they?' She turned to look at him and he smiled down at her, some of the coldness gone. ‘Like him?'

‘Yes,' she said, and touched his arm cautiously. ‘Have I dragged you here? Should you really be working?'

‘It doesn't matter.' They stood side by side watching the mother ape, who looked back at them intently, puckering her lips again. Hilda, her hand on the pushchair, felt herself on the verge of saying to her: And this is
our
baby – and then, abruptly, the animal turned away, bored, and sprang across the floor of the cage and up on to one of the branches.

‘Oh,' said Hilda, disappointed. ‘Just as we were getting to know each other.'

‘Never mind, it's too cold to stand about.' Stephen was buttoning his coat. ‘Let's move on.'

They walked past chimpanzees and leaping gibbons, little black monkeys and a colony of gorillas; after a while they stopped at the rhinos, huge and disconsolate, pawing at muddy ground.

‘Poor beasts,' said Stephen, looking at the concrete moat which surrounded them. ‘It can't be much fun.'

‘No.' Hilda leaned on the rail. ‘Still,' she said after a while, ‘we haven't come just to talk about the animals, have we? You still haven't said hello to Sam.'

‘Hilda …'

‘I know he's asleep. I know it's silly, and he probably won't remember you. You could make the gesture.'

‘I do, usually.'

‘Why not today? We haven't seen you for over two weeks. We had a dreadful time coming.'

Stephen said nothing. In front of them, the rhino hopefully lowered his head to the ground and raised it again, looked round with empty piggy eyes, then lumbered off round the enclosure.

Hilda said slowly: ‘I don't mean to nag. I suppose I'm worried we seem, as they say, to be drifting apart.' She turned to him, seeing his profile in the winter air looking pinched, older. ‘Are we?' she said.

‘I don't think so.'

‘I do.' She hesitated, then said recklessly: ‘What about Christmas?'

‘What about it?'

‘What are you doing?'

Stephen turned to look at her. ‘What should I be doing?' he asked heavily. ‘I mean – realistically. What did you have in mind?'

Hilda felt her eyes fill with tears. ‘Don't.'

‘I didn't start it.'

‘But we have to talk about it! Don't we? Is it so unreasonable?'

Stephen gave a long sigh. ‘No. I just don't know how to manage it.' He turned away again, looking at the rhino coming back, searching his empty patch of ground. ‘God, this is depressing, can't we go somewhere else? Come on. Come on!' He gestured impatiently and strode off, swinging his briefcase. Hilda stood for a moment, feeling cut adrift; then she turned the pushchair round and followed him. Ahead were the penguins, comical and endearing, but Stephen didn't stop; when, at last, he did so, and turned to look for her, it was at the end of the path, a damp expanse of grass ahead and the zoo shop beside them. Inside, she saw through a blur small children clutching model elephants and pandas; from somewhere on the far side came cries and whistles. Stephen stood waiting for her; he held out his hand.