Keeping Secrets (37 page)

And now?

Miriam finished her coffee; she put down the cup and said: ‘I'll make a decision. We have Christmas to get through, we have Jonathan to organise into university. If he doesn't fail every single paper.'

‘Don't. I know.'

‘And then,' she said unsteadily, pushing back her chair, ‘I never want to see you again as long as I live.'

London. A tree in every window, Romania on every television. Fallen bodies, mass graves, interrogation, death by firing squad. Rejoicing, jubilation.

Anya and her daughter were glued to the screen. Hilda, who under other circumstances, in earlier days, would have been just the same, had seen the baby, purplish and stiff, in one of the open graves, and now could no longer bear to watch.

And outside Anya's house she carefully lifted Sam from the car and carried him, a bag of presents on the other arm, up the steps to the front door, opened wide by Tony, smiling, holding out his arms, the children behind him shouting: ‘Happy Christmas!'

Norfolk. In the strange, unmarked, out-of-time days between Christmas and New Year, the shop shut until the January sale, Miriam walked the lanes in her boots and mackintosh, followed by Tess. The weather was ordinary, the sky a pale grey, the air fresh; from time to time wind from the coast blew across the open fields, but it was rarely too cold to go out. The lanes were still muddy from the autumn rain; in occasional gleams of sunshine, puddles shone. Miriam walked and walked.

Stephen was buried in the studio, sticking together pieces of paper, painstakingly redrawing what could not be saved. In a few days he was going down to London, to stay with James and Klara – after years of waiting for his return, Miriam had asked him to go, perhaps for a couple of weeks, perhaps longer. She assumed that during this time he would see Hilda, and come to some arrangement, but she did not know and told herself she did not care.

They had got through Christmas only by drawing a veil; by having people in, by going out, and by watching the Romanian revolution, beside which their own lives seemed, in any case, temporarily unimportant. But Miriam's dreams were full of gunfire, shouting, whirling snow. She dreamed that she was being led through the underground tunnels of Bucharest, blindfolded, hearing water trickle and the scampering of rats, the cry of a baby, quickly smothered. She was being taken to a secret place, but it wasn't clear whether she was to be saved or tried. Then the bandages were taken off her eyes, and she saw Stephen, in uniform – whose?

– saying coldly: ‘Take her away.' She woke up gasping, in an empty bed, hearing him moving about downstairs.

In the meantime, Jonathan, when he was at home, seemed able to manage the politeness, the knowledge of things unspoken: it was, after all, what he was used to. On the morning after his return from the Sadlers, Miriam had said simply:

‘We've had a crisis, but you mustn't worry about it. Dad and I will sort it out.'

He was sitting at the table, in his pyjamas, stroking Tess.

‘But are you okay?' he asked, not looking at her.

‘Yes. We've had a talk, we'll – we'll sort it out,' she said again, and put packets of cereal on the table.

‘Is Dad going to be here for Christmas?'

‘Of course.' She looked at him, but he did not meet her eyes. ‘Jon? Is that what you want?'

He shrugged. ‘I suppose so. Sort of. Where is he now?'

‘In the studio.'

‘Okay.' He reached for the Weetabix, and neither of them said any more. Later, they finished and posted the UCCA forms, without further discussion.

Miriam was aware, in the days that followed, of Stephen and Jonathan avoiding each other, treading carefully; a lot of the time Jonathan, in any case, went out; when he was there she took to filling in silences at meals by chattering pointlessly about customers, in the shop. From time to time they seized on this, and after a while it began to feel, if not normal, then endurable – a means, at least, of enduring.

And now – Jonathan was rarely in the house. From spending all his time there, cloistered with Marietta in his bedroom or cluttering up the kitchen, he took to leaving after breakfast and staying out, returning so late it was obvious he wanted them both to be in bed and out of the way. Stephen was sleeping in the little spare room at the back; Miriam, as always, lay awake until she heard the bike come up the lane. One night Jon rang to say he was staying at the Sadlers.

‘They don't seem to mind,' he said, and after that he stayed there quite often.

Miriam did not press him to be at home; in any case, term would be starting soon, and then he'd have to come back. Marietta was obviously staying on after Christmas – perhaps, after a dreadful start, she was settling down; perhaps she was, in her strange little way, cheering up large, red-faced John Sadler. And Daphne had always liked Jonathan. Miriam did not really care – so long as he was coping, in whatever way he had found, she could cope.

But she could not stay in the house. With Tess nosing along paths and ditches she went out day after day – through the woods across the lane, up the long track past the Innes'farm, along to where Jonathan and she had walked so often when they first came here, when he was little, down to the donkey field.

He was still there. He had grown old and stiff; he was greying, and had a sore on his back; one of his eyes was filmy. But he hobbled towards her and put his head on the rusting gate, and she pressed her face against his, stroking his nose. ‘Here, boy.' She gave him apples and carrots and listened to him crunching; gusts of wind blew the hay from his shelter in little drifts over the grass. The field was very muddy; he had spent years in here, walking up and down, standing under his leaking iron roof. ‘You never see a dead donkey,' someone had said to her once when she was a child, and she had believed them: surely he would be here for ever.

She walked on, sometimes hearing shots, and the clatter of pigeons some way distant above the trees. Pheasants stalking across the ploughed earth rose in terror to soar over the hedgerows; once, she saw a pair of partridge scuttling into the verge.

But the shooting season was over; it was only a few farmers who brought their guns out now, and although she had Tess's lead in her pocket in case of cars down the lanes there were hardly any cars, either. They had the whole countryside to themselves: she walked farther and farther, through the next quiet village and the next, past lonely old farms where smoke rose from the chimneys into the pale sky, past distant square-towered churches she had never visited. Once, seeing one a bare quarter mile away, the thought crossed her mind that she might go there and pray, but she could not bring herself to pray for Stephen and Hilda and there seemed no point in praying for herself. Perhaps for Jon, for the baby, even – but then, she was no saint, and anyway she had no faith. Not really. She walked on, watching a tractor crawl along the horizon, where field met sky and disappeared into a haze. The light began to fade, she whistled to Tess and turned back.

She was drinking much less, though she knew she could do so openly now; Jonathan wasn't there and Stephen, she felt certain, would not challenge her. But the walks were making her feel better and fitter; after a while she found, when she got back to the house, that she did not want to drink; she went to bed early, knowing that Stephen would not be coming in late, and slept deeply, without a tablet. The restless dreams of Romania began to fade; she could not remember, when she woke, dreaming anything at all. Soon after New Year she went down to the cellar and brought up the bottles of whisky and gin; she took them into the kitchen and stood at the sink, pouring it all away, flushing with the cold tap until all the smell of it was gone.

I am reborn, she thought, closing the door behind her as she set out with Tess, and she opened the garden gate and drew in the clean fresh air.

And yet – and yet. In all this feeling of renewal, a gradual sense of herself growing stronger, there remained an immense, aching sadness. Sometimes when she got back to the house, and found Stephen in from the studio, making tea, she longed, in spite of what she had said to him, to hold out her arms, to be held; to kiss and make up, to start again. If we can come through this, she thought, perhaps we can, at last, begin a proper marriage.

It wasn't possible. Their lives had been changed for ever by something unalterable, that was never going to disappear, and she said nothing. When Stephen asked her, she described her walks, but briefly, giving no hint of their beauty, or sense of revelation, and their conversations became much like the ones they had had for years, with everything unsaid.

Only Tess behaved differently from usual. She loved the long walks, she was leaner, and looked younger. But she did not like the house without Jonathan, Miriam could tell: when they came in she went round looking for him, and if he wasn't there she often fell asleep, muddy and exhausted, not in her basket by the Rayburn but on the front door mat, waiting for him to come home.

‘Hilda? Hilda!'

Above Sam's screams, and through her raging headache, Hilda, in bed, could hear Anya banging on the door.

‘I'm coming,' she groaned, and tried again to get out of bed and stand up. Across the room, in his cot, Sam was yelling with hunger. ‘Stop it,' she said feebly, ‘I'm ill.'

‘Hilda!'

She crawled down the steps to the door.

‘I was just going down again to get my key.' Anya looked at her and shook her head, taking in the situation. ‘Go back to bed, go on, you look terrible.'

Hilda clambered up the stairs again, shivering, pains shooting everywhere. ‘Help me …'

‘Tch, tch, tch. You silly girl, you should have called me sooner.' Anya put her capable arm beneath Hilda's. ‘Here, now you can do it.' She led her back to the bedroom, where she collapsed on to the rumpled sheets. ‘Ssh, Sam, Mummy has the'flu, we must look after her …' She helped Hilda properly into bed, smoothing the sheets, and went over to the cot that was too big to stand by the bed. ‘Now, now everything's all right.' She picked him up – ‘There we are, my goodness, what a heavy chap. Have you had your breakfast?' Sam went on screaming. ‘No? Here we are.' She passed Sam carefully over; Hilda undid her pyjamas, and lay feeding him with her eyes shut, scarcely hearing Anya leave the room and hurry downstairs. When she came back she was carrying a hot water bottle and a glass.

‘Here …' She tucked the bottle in at Hilda's feet, and held the glass to her lips. ‘Beecham's. Drink it.' Hilda sipped, her face burning. ‘Good girl. Now – Sam is on solids, also?'

‘Mmm. Kitchen cupboard.'

‘Very good. So – I will take him downstairs, with his lunch, and you will rest.'

‘I … thank you.'

‘I have left the door open, so you can call if you need anything, but I think you will probably sleep. Sam will be fine, won't you, Sam? He's finished?'

‘Almost.'

‘Good. Oh, look, someone else has come up to see how you are.'

‘Stephen? Where?' She turned her head.

‘No, no, not Stephen. Only Puss.' She patted the duvet, and with a little throaty sound the tabby cat leapt up on to the bed and began to knead out a place to settle, purring loudly. ‘There,' said Anya with satisfaction.

Hilda was too weak either to laugh or cry. She let Anya take Sam, and lay back on the pillows, closing her eyes again. At her feet, the tabby cat purred and purred; vaguely comforted, she drifted into a restless doze, which gradually became deep sleep.

She woke when the effects of the powder had worn off, less feverish but still aching, very weak. Getting out of bed to go to the lavatory felt impossible; after a quarter of an hour she managed it, feeling her way along walls, crumpling back to bed again, exhausted. She looked at the clock: twelve-forty-five. What about Sam? She lay listening, hearing from downstairs the sound of the lunchtime news, and beginning to feel bad again. She shifted her feet beneath the sleeping cat; disgruntled, he leapt off, and padded out of the room. Good. That might bring Anya up again.

Anya came, bringing Sam and a fresh glass of Beecham's.

‘How is the patient?'

‘A bit grim.' She sipped at the fizzing glass. ‘Thanks. How's Sam?'

‘He's been very good,' Anya said proudly. ‘He has had some of his cereal, and some apple purée which I made, haven't you?' Sam smiled round, stretching his arms towards Hilda.

‘Hello.' She gave a feeble wave. ‘I don't want him to catch it.'

‘No, no, of course not. You mustn't worry, I will manage. You just stay there and rest.'

‘You mustn't catch it either … you'd better keep away.'

Anya waved her hand. ‘I am a tough old bird. Also, I have had the injection. Anyway – if I catch it you can look after me, yes?'

Hilda nodded, unable to imagine looking after anyone. ‘Nappies.'

‘I have found them, while you were asleep. He has been changed. Now – I will put him down, and you can both sleep, and later I will come up and see how you are getting on. All right?'

‘You're very kind. I don't know what I'd do …'

‘I am glad to be able to help.' She was carrying Sam over to his cot. ‘Perhaps … I would take it downstairs, but I couldn't manage that … Perhaps if I take it through to the sitting room? Then we don't have to worry so much about infection.'

‘All right.' Hilda lay watching Anya tug the cot towards the door, panting, with Sam on one arm. ‘Put him in it,' she suggested.

‘Ah! Why didn't I think of that? In you go, Sam, we're going for a little ride.' She laid him down and Sam turned his head to watch Hilda, unruffled, as he was pulled jerkily away, his hanging toys rattling. ‘Off we go!'

Hilda turned over and closed her eyes. After a few minutes she jumped, feeling something at her feet: Anya, reaching in for the hot water bottle. She brought it back, refilled, wrapped in a cardigan. ‘So it does not burn you,' she whispered, and tiptoed out. Hilda tugged it up the bed and wrapped her arms round it. Her whole body ached, the fever kept at bay but her eyes throbbing. In the midst of this she was aware of a deeper, underlying feeling of total security: she could rest without anxiety – someone, at last, had taken over and was looking after her. She slept again, and did not wake until the evening, finding the curtains drawn and the bedside lamp on the floor, so that it would not hurt her eyes – just as she had arranged the room for Stephen, the very first night he stayed with her, all those years ago.