Keeping Secrets (38 page)

She was in bed for two days, nursed and later fed by Anya, who came slowly up the stairs with trays of broth – Hilda couldn't remember the last time she'd heard the word – and steamed fish. The cats followed, winding themselves round her legs as she set down the tray. ‘Shoo! You can have yours later.' While all this was going on Sam rolled over on his playmat, shrieking with laughter if a cat came near, or dropping toys from his bouncing chair, another thing almost outgrown. He was enormous.

On New Year's Eve Anya brought up a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice, and they raised their glasses to each other while he slept. On New Year's Day Hilda got up, and sat in her rocking chair with a cup of hot chocolate, while Anya stripped her bed and remade it with fresh clean sheets. Sam, breakfasted on milk from her and Weetabix from Anya, lay kicking on his mat beneath a mobile of felt scraps and bottle tops, his Christmas present from Hettie. Alice and Tony had given him a bar with dangling handles and rattles, which hung across his cot, and a pile of soft cubes with bells inside; Hettie and Annie had made him cards, smothered in glitter. Everyone had been kind and welcoming, putting the baby in his chair beneath the tree so that he could enjoy the lights, giving Hilda books and pretty things from the Body Shop. But Alice did not press her to stay, and – thinking about the visit as she drove Sam home on Boxing Day evening, Hilda was aware that there had been something of a silence between Alice and Tony, which at the time she had put down to Tony's tiredness but which in retrospect perhaps was more than that.

The other, more apparent silence, was over the whole reason for her being with them at all: Stephen's name was simply never mentioned. She presumed that this was because they did not want to pry, or upset her, treating her and Sam as a little unit in themselves without pointing up the obvious absence. A part of her was glad to go along with this – if she behaved, as they did, as though nothing were out of the ordinary, she would begin to feel ordinary. Another part found it disturbing and miserable, because she did not feel ordinary, she felt bereft – not just because she and Sam were alone but because, since the week before Christmas, she had heard nothing from Stephen at all.

Now, at the start of a new decade, she sat sipping her hot, chocolate and looking down into the empty square. Everyone seemed to have gone away – or perhaps they, too, like much of country, had been struck down by'flu. Perhaps Stephen had it, and that was why he hadn't phoned. In the past three days he had become somehow sealed away: after the first wild hope that he might have come down to see her, she had felt too ill to dwell on the pain of missing him. And now, weakly convalescent, it was as though he had somehow, like the old year, been left behind on the other side of a door, leaving her empty and numb. She wished she could be taken away, to get properly better in new surroundings, with fresh air and a log fire. I wish, she realised, that I was in my father's house again and, thinking this, was no longer numb but swept by a total sense of loss: of her lover, her father, and a grandfather for Sam, who lay placidly sucking the corner of a soft brick covered in pictures of Peter Rabbit.

‘There.' Anya came out of the bedroom with a heap of linen. ‘I shall put this in the washing machine.'

‘Thank you.' Hilda sat watching her bustle into the little kitchen, hearing the kettle switched on and then the first slow whooshing of the washing machine, filling up. In a minute she would get up and have a bath: the prospect felt like a monumental effort. I haven't been like this since the birth, she thought, and soon I've got to go back to work. How shall I ever do that, I wonder? And the old, childless Hilda, energetic, collected, self-contained, seemed also like another person left behind, lost, un-recapturable.

‘So.' Anya was back in the room again, carrying a cup of coffee. She sat herself down at the desk and regarded Hilda kindly. ‘How are you feeling?'

‘Not brilliant.'

‘It takes it out of you, this'flu. I hope my Liba does not catch it – she looks strong, but she is even worse than you at looking after herself.' Hilda smiled wanly. ‘You want to go back to bed? It's all ready for you.'

‘I know, you're very good. I was thinking perhaps I'd have a bath first.'

‘Not too hot – you could faint, coming out of a hot bath after all this. It can make your head swim.'

Hilda laughed, in spite of herself. ‘Whatever would I do without you?'

‘I don't know,' said Anya. She looked down at Sam, chewing happily on his brick with toothless gums. ‘Is that nice? We must think about your lunch in a little while.'

Hilda put her mug on the desk and got up slowly. ‘Tomorrow I'll be back in charge,' she said. ‘You won't have to worry about him any more. But I can't thank you enough for everything.'

Anya said: ‘Hilda?'

‘Yes?'

‘You are going back to work soon.'

‘Yes.'

‘You have found someone to look after Sam?'

‘I –' Hilda leaned weakly on the back of the chair. ‘I think so, yes. I interviewed several people before Christmas.'

‘I see.' There was a pause. ‘Nice people?'

‘They seemed all right – I'm seeing one of them again. Anya, I'm sorry, can we talk about this later? I'm still feeling a bit pathetic. Do you mind?'

‘No, no, of course not, you go and have your bath. I'll keep an eye on Sam. Yes?'

‘Thanks.' She went slowly to the bathroom, hearing an inquiring little sound from one of the cats, coming up through the open door, and Sam's giggle as he caught sight of it. She turned on the taps and poured in Body Shop bubbles, brushing her teeth while the water ran. In the mirror, a thin white face looked back at her.

In the bath she ran through the women she had visited before Christmas, answering notices in the newsagent's window, printed in uncertain capitals.
Registered reliabel childminder availabel with refs.
She had telephoned several, taking Sam up in the graffiti-sprayed lifts of the local estate, along windswept concrete corridors, and down endless streets off the High Street; she was ushered into small hot sitting rooms strewn with toys, where toddlers turned from the television to look at Sam indifferently. Most of the women looked overtired; three of them smoked, and these Hilda ruled out completely. She could not imagine leaving Sam with any of them for longer than half an hour. She knew, from the college noticeboards, that there were good childminders to be had but she could find only one, a sweet-looking woman in her fifties, who looked after her own daughter's children and two others, but whose list was full. Hilda found one more, who lived in a road on the way to college, which was an advantage, and who had only one other child in her care: it was she whom she must ring again.

There was always the créche at college, the obvious choice, but somehow she could not bring herself to leave a baby there. When Sam was older he'd probably enjoy it, toddling about with other children, with a little slide like the one Hettie and Annie used to have, and a guinea pig in a hutch. But to leave a baby there all day … she had heard babies crying there, often, left in their chairs without being cuddled while older ones fell, or fought, or needed changing – she didn't want Sam to be left like that. I suppose I'm fussy and over-protective, she thought; and, getting out of the bath, she began, as Anya had predicted, to feel lightheaded and unwell. She sat on the edge, wrapped in her towel with her head between her knees until the giddiness passed, and crept back to bed in clean pyjamas.

‘All right?' Anya stood in the doorway, holding Sam.

‘Mmm.'

‘I'll bring you some lunch, a little chicken. That'll give you strength. I'm taking Sam down now, all right?'

‘Okay. Thanks.'

When they had gone, she lay on her side looking out of the window. It was a grey, fiat-looking day, with neither wind nor sunshine to usher in the new year. Still, lying on clean sheets on plumped-up pillows, she began to feel a bit better. She thought about Anya's kindness, her unspoken question, and found herself thinking: after all, it would have its advantages. Sam knows her, he feels safe with her now, and the cats make him happy. And anyway, it's not for ever. She could not imagine Sam growing up in this house, but as a baby, with the garden there when it got warmer … So long as she lets me pay her, she thought, hearing the now familiar sound of Anya's footsteps, the cutlery chinking on the tray. I don't want to be indebted, that I couldn't stand.

‘Here we are.' Anya was in the room, panting; steam rose comfortingly from the tray and the chicken smelt delicious. In her good grey skirt and the grey cardigan Liba had given her for Christmas, she looked capable and correct, ready to take charge of anyone. ‘Can you sit up?'

‘Yes, yes. Thank you, Anya, you're wonderful.' She took the tray, seeing Anya's smile, warm and uncomplicated. After all, wasn't a baby meant to cheer everyone up? ‘I was wondering,' she said, ‘How
you
would feel about looking after Sam.'

Thanks to Anya, that first, real crisis was over. And what would I have done if she had not been there? Hilda wondered, feeling stronger, tidying up a bit, opening windows, getting out books and folders of notes she had not looked at since last July. I suppose I should have phoned Alice, or Jane, but they would have had to leave their own children, or bring them too. How do women manage on their own with babies when they're ill? And as in those intense, cloistered days in hospital, she felt as though she had lived before in total ignorance, with only herself to worry about.

In the past few days she had begun to receive mail from the college: timetables, budgets, policy documents, news of further cuts, rumours of a strike. Sitting at her desk, reading through all this while Sam slept, she felt at first completely at sea, as if the papers related to a life and a person who had nothing to do with her, and she was tense, too, waiting for Sam, who slept less and less in the day, to wake up. But gradually, as there was no sound from the bedroom, she began to concentrate, even to get interested and look forward to going back. She had made her arrangements with Anya, who was going to have Sam every day. It was not, Hilda realized, what she had originally envisioned: Sam going off each day to a bright, well-ordered home full of paints and playdough, run by someone young and imaginative, where one or two other, older children played around and with him, but it seemed the best she could do for him at the moment, and Anya was carefully overjoyed.

‘We shall enjoy ourselves, shan't we, Sam? And in the holidays you will have your Mummy back again.'

‘You make it sound as if I'm leaving him for weeks on end,' said Hilda. ‘I'll be back soon after five, I'm not doing any evening classes, so I'll be able to breastfeed him then, as well as in the mornings.'

‘Of course,' said Anya placatingly. Hilda knew she was thinking: But soon he will be on solids completely, with no need for all this breastfeeding. And there is always a bottle. She bit back her own reply – that after five months she had grown almost as dependent on it as he was, that she felt it was the least she could do for him, really, going back to work when he was so small. Well, relatively small. He grew and grew.

In all these preparations and discussions, Hilda occasionally allowed herself to envision the other alternative: she and Stephen in their own home together; Stephen, as well as she, coming home at the end of the day to their baby; Stephen sharing nights, and weekends, and walks in the park – not on a flying visit but always. When she succumbed to all this, usually late at night, she wondered if that, really, was what she had always hoped for. She supposed that it was, deep down. She'd thought she was going to be able to handle it all so well; she certainly couldn't handle this silence, this not knowing. Why didn't he get in touch? She looked at the telephone, waiting on the desk like an enemy, refusing to ring. Or, if she picked it up and dialled his number, an accomplice. No. She wasn't going to start all that again. It made her feel like someone sick, unhinged. And perhaps I shall end up unhinged, she thought one night, pacing again, unable to sleep. All the sense of distance that she had felt while she was ill had gone. Although, in the daytime, she was competent, managing, getting through, in the evening, with Sam asleep, she was beginning to feel desperate.

Hilda went back to work on an overcast morning in the second week of January, trying not to hurry Sam over his morning feed, looking at her watch. No more walks to the college any more, at least not in the winter – she wanted to be able to drive home quickly at the end of the day.

She dressed rapidly, eating a piece of toast on the run, carrying her books and stuff out to the car and racing back upstairs again for Sam. She brought him downstairs to where Anya stood waiting in the hall.

‘So,' She held out her arms. ‘Good morning, Sam, and how are you today?'

‘He's fed and changed,' said Hilda briskly, handing him over. ‘Well –' She stood for a moment, hovering, looking at her baby in Anya's cardiganned arms; he was turning to look at her but not in any alarm.

‘He will be fine,' said Anya. ‘Enjoy yourself.'

‘Yes. Yes, all right then. Bye, Sam.' She moved across, and bent to kiss his round warm head. Tears pricked her eyes. She wanted to say to him: ‘I love you, I love you, you're my very own.' Instead, she touched his round cheek and said quickly: ‘See you soon,' and turned and ran down the steps to the car.

‘Hilda?'

‘Stephen! Oh, thank God, I've been so worried.' She carried the phone over to the rocking chair. At her feet Sam, just out of the bath and in his night things, began to fret. ‘Hang on a minute.' She bent down and picked him up with one arm, putting him on her lap. ‘There we are. Say hello to Stephen.'

Sam grabbed at the receiver, then the flex. ‘No darling, careful. Sorry, Stephen, just let me sort this out … Sam!' She took the receiver from him and he began to cry. ‘Look, have this.' She reached to the desk for his musical rabbit, but Sam was bored with his musical rabbit, he wanted the telephone. ‘Stop it! Stephen? Sorry …' She put Sam down on the floor again and he cried harder than ever. Well, it was just too bad. She stood with her back to him, her finger in one ear, the other pressed to the receiver. ‘Can you hear me? Are you all right? I've had'flu, have you?'