Keeping Secrets (34 page)

‘Sorry.'

She shook her head, unable to speak, very cold. What on earth had possessed her to suggest they came here? The slow-moving clouds were thicker now, the sky overcast; she felt a few light drops of rain and lifted the hood of the pushchair. Sam was still fast asleep, but they couldn't stay outside.

‘How about the birdhouse?' suggested Stephen. ‘It's just over there.'

‘All right.' They hurried towards it, hearing the whistles and shrieks grow louder; rain spattered the path. ‘Quick!' They wheeled the pushchair inside, and shook themselves. ‘God, that's better.'

It was very warm in here, the only other visitors an art student, sketching on a canvas stool on the far side, and a mother and daughter who had clearly been round already, and now stood looking out at the rain. They were both tall and dark, the girl eight or nine, pale-faced: perhaps she was convalescing from something, having time off school. She turned and said something to her mother, companionably, as if they were good friends, and her mother put an arm round her shoulders and smiled. Watching them, Hilda thought, that's just how I'd imagined it: Hettie and me, sufficient unto ourselves, content. Instead – well, perhaps Sam and I will be like that one day, I wouldn't change him for anyone. Even so …

‘What are you thinking?' Beside her, Stephen put his hand on hers. ‘Let's go and sit down.'

They pushed Sam over to a wooden seat and she parked him at the side, out of the way.

‘Well?' Stephen put his arm around her. ‘I'm sorry,' he said again. ‘Were you thinking what a brute I am?'

She shook her head. ‘No. Just – I didn't think it would be easy, but …'

‘Go on.'

‘I thought I'd be able to manage it all so well – I
am
managing – but … You don't think about things like Christmas, do you? I know he won't notice much, but the thought of being in London without you, and you with your family …' She broke off.

Stephen said nothing. Outside, through the open door, they could see the rain, falling fast now; here, the air felt almost tropical. Parrots and cockatoos in single cages gnawed their grey toes or blinked sleepily; most of the cages were much more elaborate, and bright little birds flitted and swooped amongst glossy plants. From somewhere came the sound of running water.

‘Well,' said Stephen at last, ‘what are we going to do?' He stroked her hair with a warm hand; Hilda leaned against his shoulder.

‘How are things at home?' she asked cautiously. ‘I mean – has anything happened?' For a moment she was about to tell him that she had tried to telephone, then she stopped, knowing it would – disconcert or anger him.

‘Nothing's happened,' he said. ‘At least not in the way you mean. Jon has a girlfriend, a little Dutch girl … Never mind, you don't want to hear about that. Otherwise, what can I say? I'm finding it hard, too, I suppose. Keeping secrets there, trying to keep James happy down here. Sometimes I think I'll have to give up the London end, let him find someone else – if the bloody mortgage rate goes up again there's not going to be enough work anyway.' He gave an irritable sigh. ‘For now we're in the midst of two long-term projects – it never seems the right moment to discuss it.'

Hilda looked at him. ‘Are Sam and I just one more problem at the London end?'

‘No. No, of course not.'

‘We hardly got a mention in all that spiel, though did we? We're just a secret you have to keep in the midst of a hectic career. Another bloody long-term project.'

‘Don't be silly, you know I didn't mean it like that. I just mean the whole thing's difficult. More than I'd thought, too.'

Hilda said slowly: ‘Perhaps it would be better to have it all out in the open, so we all know where we stand. It can't be very nice for your wife, either.' She thought of the voice at the other end of the phone, hoarse and afraid. How much had she guessed?

‘You can't be serious.' Stephen looked at her. ‘I told you at the beginning, you can't say I ever gave you false hope. I told you I'd never leave.'

‘For her sake or yours?' Hilda heard herself sound harsh. We are going to quarrel dreadfully, she thought, and at once: So? I'm sick of being nice and understanding.

‘For Jonathan's sake,' said Stephen. ‘I told you.'

‘He was a little boy, then. He's almost grown up now, isn't he? You just said he'd got a girlfriend.'

‘He's still at school! He's taking his A levels next year – I don't want to mess all that up for him, do I?'

‘He might cope better than you think. He might have guessed anyway, when he saw us in the summer …'

‘He didn't.'

‘How do you know?'

‘Oh, for God's sake!'

A little sound came from the pushchair, and the blanket slipped to the ground. Hilda turned, on edge, waiting for the crying to begin. Instead, in the warm, balmy air, Sam looked at her calmly.

‘Hello,' she said enquiringly. ‘All right?'

His round face broke into a dazzling smile: she felt her heart turn over.

‘Baby … Stephen, look. Isn't he beautiful?'

Stephen leaned across, and Sam's expression changed to one of puzzled curiosity, but he did not turn away. ‘Wotcher,' said Stephen, wiggling his fingers. He looked at him wryly. ‘You timed that nicely, I must say.' Sam kicked enthusiastically, and smiled again.

‘Come on.' Hilda unstrapped him, picking up the blanket; she lifted him on to her lap, and kissed the top of his head. ‘Had a nice sleep? We're in the zoo, how about that?'

Sam's hands waved about; he looked at Stephen, and gave another gummy smile. Then, at a sudden squawk from a nearby parrot, he burst out laughing.

‘Oh, Sam!' Hilda was laughing too. ‘Was that funny?'

The squawk came again, even more piercing, and they all laughed; from the doorway Hilda heard the mother say to her little girl: ‘What a lovely baby.' Had they overheard the quarrel? Never mind, what did it matter? She got up, saying, ‘Let's go and see this bird.'

They found the cage and she held Sam up to look: inside, the parrot cocked his head at them and sidled along his perch.

‘Afternoon,' said Stephen.

Sam looked at the cage and looked away, not making the connection between this and the squawk. ‘Go on,' said Hilda, ‘do it again.' But the parrot wouldn't. He opened his beak and showed them his funny grey tongue, he lifted one foot and scratched the back of his neck, he cocked his head repeatedly, and ran up and down. Squawk he wouldn't, and eventually they gave up and left him.

‘After all,' said Stephen, ‘he got us here, didn't he?' He turned to Sam, giving him a finger to hold. ‘Have a perch.' Sam gripped the finger, looking round. ‘Shall I take him?'

‘Oh, yes,' Hilda passed him over, and flexed her arms. ‘He's really getting quite heavy. The stairs at home are a killer, especially when I've got shopping and stuff.' For a moment she thought of broaching the fact that she would, one day, have to move; then she stopped herself. They had only just recovered themselves – let it be.

They wandered round the cages, listening to the trills and twitters, stopping to admit parakeets and cockateels, the flash of a tropical wing against dark green leaves. Hilda found herself remembering a walk in the park on the way to Alice's, one Sunday, seeing a father and his little boy make their way towards the rusting aviary, hearing the doves coo. She'd been four months pregnant then, just over the worst weeks, full of certainty and hope. I didn't have a clue, she thought now, how could I have done? But her anger and frustration had evaporated – in the laughter, in the heavy warmth of the air; she felt languid and sleepy in here, as if in a soothing bath; she looked at Stephen and Sam, and held out her hand.

‘Stephen?'

‘Yes?' He turned to look at her, and took the hand, drawing her close again.

‘Kiss me.'

With Sam between them they embraced, mouths meeting in a sudden flare of longing, lips parting, tongues seeking. The calls and murmurs of the birds around them fell away; they drew slowly apart, and stood looking at each other.

‘I'd almost forgotten,' Hilda said shakily, and her body felt as if it were about to melt with the rediscovery. ‘I really had.'

‘Shall we go?' Stephen reached out and traced the outline of her lips. ‘Shall we?'

‘You mean – you're coming back with me?'

‘I think so, don't you?'

‘Yes. Yes!' She was filled with happiness. ‘I didn't think you'd be able to.'

‘Come on.'

In his arms Sam began to wriggle. ‘Well,' said Stephen, looking quizzically down at him. ‘And what did you think of that, then? What an exhibition.'

They went back for the pushchair, and wheeled him out to the door. The rain had eased off, and the mother and daughter had gone. They ran down the path, the wheels splashing up a fine spray, and reached the entrance panting.

‘Like a balloon, Sam?' Stephen looked up at the silvery bunch, and the young man smiled.

‘'Course he would.'

They bought one with Mickey Mouse on it, and tied the string to the pushchair. Outside, Hilda said: ‘What about your car?'

‘It's at James's house – I came by taxi.'

‘So we can go home together? What about tomorrow?'

He waved tomorrow away. ‘I'll manage.'

They set off down the road towards the car park, the balloon bobbing cheerfully in the fading light.

Hours later, in the middle of the night, their arms still around each other, naked bodies warm, Hilda said softly: ‘Do you think –
do
you think you might tell her?'

‘Ssh.'

‘But … how can we go on like this?'

‘I'll think about it. Go to sleep.'

She yawned. ‘What about Christmas?'

‘What can I do? I'll come down afterwards as soon as I can.'

‘Promise?'

‘Promise.'

They fell asleep, curled around each other, woken in the small hours by Sam, who was hungry again.

Dusk fell rapidly; it was dark by a quarter to four. When Miriam drove through the town on her way home she passed windows bordered by fairy lights, lampposts hung with snowy bells and stars. A tall Christmas tree stood on the patch of green by the war memorial, lit up each afternoon by coloured bulbs: on the 20th, as every year, carols would be sung there, with a collection for the Cheshire Homes. Miriam, as Miriam Knowles from the shop, always gave a generous donation; when Jonathan was little she used to bring him to join in the carols, and he still came sometimes, with friends from school – you got to sing all the good tunes without having to go to church. Perhaps this year he would be bringing Marietta: it seemed unlikely. Or perhaps the Sadlers, who never missed, would bring her along to keep an eye on the children. That seemed unlikelier still.

Marietta and the Sadlers, predictably, were not suited: Miriam gathered, from phone calls, that Marietta was much, much worse than the French girl. ‘I mean,' said Daphne, torn between bewilderment and outrage, ‘she simply won't lift a
finger
unless I tell her. And she doesn't
speak.
Stephen said her English was quite good.'

‘I know,' said Miriam. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘I mean, I'd get rid of her, but we have to have
someone
over Christmas. Anyway, I've given her most afternoons off, and I only want her baby-sitting when I simply can't get anyone local. But she can jolly well look after the children in the mornings – I'm going to get something out of her. I suppose she's spending the rest of the time with your Jonathan.'

‘Yes,' said Miriam, ‘I'm afraid she is.'

She was growing used, now term had ended, to coming home to find Jonathan and Marietta sitting at the kitchen table, the remains of lunch and beginnings of tea strewn all over it, the air full of cigarette smoke and Marietta's bitten fingers drumming in time to Radio One.

She felt like an intruder, getting her tea, taking it into the sitting room to be out of the way. There were days when she came back to find them already in there, leaving the kitchen full of unwashed plates and saucepans, watching children's television or an afternoon movie, the floor strewn with cups and ashtrays. There were other days when the house was dark, but she knew they were upstairs, the music pounding behind the door of Jonathan's bedroom. She stayed downstairs, clearing away the mess, having tea with the paper. The papers were full of Eastern Europe: Miriam, whose interest in world affairs was intermittent, found herself reading avidly, wondering once if perhaps it was because she could all too readily identify with the victims of oppression, thirsting for liberation. Almost in the same moment she got up and began to get the supper, waiting for Stephen to come home.

On the days when he was out in the studio, Jonathan and Marietta were never upstairs, and the kitchen was fractionally less of a tip. She wondered if Stephen realised quite how much Jonathan had changed in the past few weeks, and wondered, all the time, what on earth it was he saw in Marietta. Stephen seemed to find her less objectionable than she did, probably because when he appeared she noticeably perked up, offering cigarettes, accepting drinks. Perhaps he was enjoying having someone new about the place; she herself, so used to having Jonathan to talk to, at least some of the week, felt the beginnings of a deep depression, compounded by the fact that with him so constantly around she could not drink. At this time of year she often stayed late in the shop to finish orders; she took to doing so more frequently, drinking in the little back sewing room. She knew it was dangerous, with the drive home through the dark and the police hovering in parked cars. But with Jon and Marietta treating the house like a hotel, and without the usual steady level of alcohol to calm her down, she began to feel increasingly on edge, living on her nerves, liable, most unusually, to snap.