Tangled Lives (17 page)

‘Here are the keys to Fort Knox,’ Annie joked nervously, when Daniel arrived at the house soon after Richard had left for work. She handed him the spare set after she showed him Ed’s room – Metallica still in situ, duvet fresh, windows open to get rid of the smell of stale alcohol. Daniel clutched the keys.

‘No one ever realises how hard it is for someone else to use their keys. If you hear stones at your window, you’ll know I’ve failed.’

‘You’ll have to be a good shot. We’re in the attic. But I take your point, and this one
can
be tricky. You have to jerk the front door outwards to undo the mortise lock. Come outside and give it a try.’

She saw him hesitate, his beautiful blue-grey eyes almost bewildered.

‘Annie … I want you to know how much I appreciate being allowed to stay here. It’s saved my life. My friend with the sofa also has a French girlfriend who parties all
night and snorts God knows what up her nose. It would have been hell, staying there for any length of time.’

For a moment she couldn’t reply, her throat tightening with emotion.

‘You’re very welcome,’ she said brightly, when all she really wanted to do was hug him to her, to tell him that he could stay forever in her home if he wanted to.

Daniel had been with them for five days now, but things were still tense at home. Annie couldn’t wait to talk to Marjory, whom she was meeting off the twelve o’clock train.

The painting her friend had chosen today was small, entitled
Portrait of a Lady
by a sixteenth-century Flemish artist, Catharina van Hemessen. The lady sitter, still unnamed, was dressed in a black gown with soft, raspberry velvet sleeves, a lace cap framing her face. The background was dark. There was an intimacy about the painting, a moment caught, as if the artist had known the subject well. The only bit Annie didn’t like was the ratty little dog the lady had tucked under her right arm.

‘She has a beautiful face.’

‘Sympathetic rather than classically beautiful, I’d say,’ Marjory replied.

‘You’d want to have known her, though, wouldn’t you?’

Her friend agreed. ‘It would have been hard for van Hemessen to be a painter. She would probably have been taught by her father, the painter Jan van Hemessen. But
she obviously has a talent. Most of her work is of this ilk: portraits, women, small canvasses. There’s a lovely self-portrait in Basel. Maria of Austria, also known as Maria of Hungary, became her patron, and she spent some time with her in Spain.’ Marjory paused. ‘Look at her hair. There’s not much of it, but it’s almost photographic in its realism. And those delicate strings at her neck, the detail on her organza chemise – is it organza? Or perhaps lawn … chiffon? I’m never quite sure what lawn looks like.’

For a while they talked about the painting in front of them. Marjory expanded on Catharina and her father, on other Flemish renaissance painters. The National Gallery was quiet on a Tuesday afternoon and Annie was absorbed in the lecture, happy to be distracted from her worries.

‘Shall we go outside for tea?’ Marjory asked, as they began walking through the galleries to the lift, her ebony cane gently tapping on the parquet floor. ‘It’s too beautiful for the cafe.’

Annie left her friend sitting on the edge of one of the fountains in Trafalgar Square, and went to buy some sandwiches and tea from Prêt a Manger, then they walked slowly across the Mall to St James’s Park and sat on the grass. It was a glorious June day, and Annie felt her spirits lightening as she breathed in the warm, scented air.

‘Of course, I’ll never get up again,’ Marjory joked, as she lowered herself gingerly to the dry grass with Annie’s help. Annie had favoured a bench, but the old lady had
insisted. It’s not a picnic if you sit on a bench, she’d declared.

‘Hmm, so Richard’s playing up,’ Marjory commented, when she’d listened to Annie’s account of the previous evening.

She’d told Richard she and Lucy were planning a supper with Daniel. Richard had said he’d be there. But, like the week before, he hadn’t come home, hadn’t called – rolled in at two in the morning.

‘Annie? Annie, are you awake?’

Annie had heard his whisper. But although rigid with irritation and thoroughly awake, she hadn’t responded.

‘I’m not drunk, if that’s what you think.’ He’d flopped into bed and attempted to snuggle up to her, laying a heavy arm across her body, the smell of alcohol rank on his breath. She’d pushed him off.

‘Why didn’t you ring me?’ she hissed at him in the darkness. ‘You said you’d be home and we waited for you. It was embarrassing in front of Daniel.’

‘I did ring …’

‘You didn’t.’

‘I’m sure I did,’ he’d protested.

‘I don’t know who you think you called, but it certainly wasn’t me.’

‘Whatever.’ He’d sounded almost surly; there was no hint of contrition in his voice. ‘I was just working.’

‘And you couldn’t tell me that?’

‘I’m sure Daniel didn’t mind.’

‘That’s hardly the point!’ The anger she’d felt had made her heart race uncomfortably. She’d tried to calm herself with a few deep breaths.

Richard had rolled over, turned his back on her. After a moment, his breathing slowed. Then she’d heard him mutter, ‘You wanted Daniel here so you could get to know him. Well, I’m not stopping you.’

She’d lain there, listening to his snoring, for what seemed like hours.

‘He’s never done this before – stayed out late, not phoned me, and so obviously been drinking,’ she told Marjory, plucking dispiritedly at the daisies. ‘Well, maybe about fifteen years ago, after a friend’s stag night. And now twice in as many weeks? It can’t be a coincidence.’

‘Maybe he really is just wanting to leave you and Daniel to get to know each other?’

‘I wish I thought that. And although the girls have been great, really supportive, Ed’s hardly spoken a civil word to me since I told him. He avoids most of my calls.’

Marjory cradled her takeaway carton of tea in her lap and was silent for a moment. Then she turned to Annie. ‘You really can’t blame them, dear. A few weeks ago it was all normal and cosy at home. Things were going well for you all. Then up springs a cuckoo and it all begins to fall apart.’

‘Daniel’s not a cuckoo!’

‘He is to Ed. And to a certain extent to Richard, too.’

‘You think I shouldn’t have let him stay?’

The old lady shrugged. ‘Hard to say … perhaps it was a bit soon.’

‘But Ed doesn’t live at home, and Richard never sees him! Daniel isn’t up when Richard leaves for work, and when he comes home, Daniel’s often out. And then the one time I ask him to be there …’

‘No, it’s not good.’

‘And it’s not
like
him, Marjory. He’s always been so solid, so there for me. Why is he behaving like this?’

‘You know why. He’s jealous.’

‘But I’m not having an affair with Daniel. He’s my son!’ She was exasperated. ‘He’s a grown man. Can’t he see how important this is for me?’

‘I’m sure he can. Things will be fine, I’m sure, once Daniel goes off to Edinburgh and Richard has time to reflect.’

There was a sudden squawking and two swans on the lake across the path rose from the water, their wings beating the air, their beaks snapping angrily at each other. Both women watched in silence for a moment, until the birds settled again as if nothing had happened.

Annie sighed. ‘He’s not much of a one for reflection, Richard. He’s an accountant.’

Marjory gave a laugh. ‘I’d never heard accountants were immune to self-awareness.’

‘No, well, it’s all about logic and sums with Richard. Daniel staying obviously doesn’t compute rationally and it upsets him.’

She began to gather the remnants of their sandwich packets together, angrily scrunching the paper cups into tight balls. Marjory watched her.

‘You and Richard have had such a good marriage, Annie. You’ve been happy – you fit together much better than most. He’s a good man. Don’t let this ruin things.’

‘
I’m
not ruining things. It’s Richard who refuses to consider Daniel part of the family.’

‘Listen …’ the old lady paused for a minute, obviously choosing her words carefully. ‘It’s quite possible that Richard – or the others for that matter – will
never
consider Daniel family. They might like him, they might be pleased to see him occasionally, but I told you, they haven’t the familiarity that makes family, and it’s too late for that now.’

‘I don’t believe that.’

Marjory shrugged. ‘I know, and I understand why. But if you don’t accept that this is at least a possibility – I’m not saying an inevitability – then there’s a danger you’ll fall out with Richard and Ed over Daniel. Can you afford to do that?’

Annie fought back the tears. She hated being distanced from either of them; she loved them both so much.

‘Do I have to give in to their small-mindedness then? When Lucy and Marsha have been so generous to Daniel?’

Marjory reached over and patted her hand. ‘It’s hard, dear, I realise that. I’m just saying find a way to connect with them again, if you can. This is your family.’

‘Alright … I’ll try, I suppose, but I gave in to other people’s demands before over Daniel, and I won’t do it again.’

‘You obviously feel very strongly about it, and you must do what you think is right. Just don’t expect too much from everyone else.’ Marjory gathered her bag and stretched out her hand. ‘Come on, hoick me up, my bones are beginning to crumble.’

‘Anyone home?’ Annie called up the stairs when she got back from the picnic with Marjory. Daniel’s head appeared round the banister.

‘Hi. Good day?’

She nodded up at him. ‘It’s lovely out there. Do you fancy tea on the terrace?’

‘Sounds extremely civilised. I’ll be right down.’

They settled in the wooden deckchairs outside with their tea, surveying the summer garden.

‘It’s so peaceful here,’ Daniel said, turning a grateful smile on his mother.

For a while they talked, discussing his plans for the play, his move, where he might live when he got back in September. There’s so much I want to say to him, she thought. So much that I want to hear. The days since his arrival had sped past, with precious few of the opportunities to talk with her son that she had envisaged.

‘I keep meaning to ask you. My – um – other father. I suppose that’s what you’d call him …’ Daniel spoke
into a silence. ‘Did he ever get back to you?’

‘I had a drink with him on Tuesday.’ Annie looked cautiously at him. ‘He asked me not to say anything yet, he wants to think it out … about seeing you. It was a bit of a shock.’

‘I can imagine that.’ Daniel gave a short laugh.

She ignored what sounded like a pejorative tone. ‘I’m sure he
will
see you. He didn’t seem against it as such, but he didn’t want to let you down.’

‘What’s he like?’ Daniel glanced across at her.

‘Not quite how I remembered him, actually … sort of nicer. I liked him. He’s tall like you. Good-looking, charming.’

Daniel gave an embarrassed grin. ‘I’m glad it wasn’t as bad as you thought. I imagined from your write-up he’d be a bit of a posh arse.’

‘Posh, but certainly not an arse.’

‘Would it have made any difference, do you think,’ Daniel went on, ‘if he’d known about me right from the start?’

‘I have no idea. I imagine a shot-gun marriage would have been arranged by my mother.’ She gave a bleak smile. ‘I honestly don’t know.’

‘It must have been really hard, not telling him. Weren’t you tempted, when the adoption was being set up?’ He must have seen her expression, because he added quickly, ‘I’m not blaming you, Annie. I’d just like to know what happened.’

Maybe it would have been better for him if I had married Charles, even if it hadn’t worked out, she thought. At least then he’d have known both his real parents.

‘I thought I might hear from him. Hoped like hell in fact. And if he’d called and wanted to see me, I would have told him, obviously. But I hated the thought of us being press-ganged into marriage when he clearly didn’t want to be with me.’

Now, telling the only person who really mattered about why she had done what she’d done, the excuses seemed so selfish, so empty of meaning. She swallowed hard, not trusting her voice.

‘The truth is, I didn’t want a baby then.’ The words fell cold and heavy into the summer air.

‘Me, you mean.’

She forced herself to meet her son’s eye. ‘Yes. I know what you’re saying, and I agree. It wasn’t just a baby, it was
you
I abandoned.’

She saw a frown flit across his face.

‘I’m so sorry, Daniel.’ She stopped. ‘Sorry is such an inadequate word to tell you how badly I feel, how ashamed I am. I could have kept you, I
could
have done it.’

‘You were young,’ he said, without much conviction, then threw his hands up in the air. ‘It’s stupid. Mum was wonderful … the most loving mother anyone could wish for. She was everything to me. I don’t know why this all matters so much to me.’

He got up and began to walk down the garden, his
hands stuffed in his jeans pockets. She got up too and followed him.

‘Of course it matters.’

The afternoon was so perfect: the air still, warm, fragrant with the scent of flowers and mown grass, only the sounds of small children splashing and shouting in a blow-up pool two gardens away. Daniel stopped near the shed at the bottom of the garden and turned to Annie.

‘I can’t possibly know what you went through. It’s easy to say now that you could have kept me, or that you should have told my father, and your children. You didn’t, and I have to accept that … have to respect your reasons.’ Daniel’s speech was resolute, as if he were determined to do the decent thing by his birth mother.

She stooped to pick up a large twig from the grass.

‘What does it feel like? Being adopted?’ She couldn’t help asking him something that had long tormented her.

He looked as if he were about to tell her, then thought better of it.

‘Look, I’ve been lucky, Annie. I was loved. And if Mum hadn’t told me I was adopted, would I have felt anything but completely normal? In a way it would have been easier if she hadn’t told me.’