The Lost Child (11 page)

I look at him.

You? You had TB?

He laughs.

Isn't it funny? At first the doctors couldn't figure it out. They said I had a bit of tomato skin stuck to my insides, to my gut or something. Imagine that. But it turned out that yes, it was TB.

I'm sure some families are genetically prone, Bryony says.

Really? I say. I didn't know that. Does it run in families?

Oh, certainly, absolutely. I'm sure it does.

I gaze at Tony. A descendant of yours, who once contracted the disease that killed you.

But you're better now? I ask him hopefully. I mean you got better?

He leans across the table to me.

One word, he says: penicillin. None of those poor Yellolys would have died if they'd only had access to that.

I'll do that, I begin to say. But then I worry that she might prefer to do things her own way in her own kitchen. So I just take a couple of plates through and put them by the sink and then sit down again.

Fred flops down in his bed with another huge sigh and, while Bryony sorts out the pudding, Tony tells me that his grandfather John Samuel de Beauvoir Yelloly had to sell Cavendish Hall in the end.

Such a shame. They couldn't even rent out the land. Four hundred acres of Suffolk! I was educated on the proceeds. He was colour-blind, you know,John was. He was also a bit of an inventor.

Really? What kind of an inventor?

He invented some kind of a device to coil a land-chain, something that they still use. He was quite proud of it. And then another time he developed some kind of a thing that was, I don't know, halfway between a bat and a glider. Anyway he climbed up into a tree with it and he got his wife to pile all these mattresses under the tree - seriously, I'm not joking! and then he jumped. It didn't work, I don't think, but at least he wasn't hurt.

We eat our stewed apple with creme fralche. Bryony offers me a shortbread biscuit and Fred immediately gets up and comes over to watch me eat it.

Look at him. He's certainly decided you're a soft touch, Tony says, shaking his head with pleasure.

Finally, as Bryony boils the kettle for coffee and we're brushing the shortbread crumbs from our laps, he reaches out and pulls the big old falling-apart box towards him.

I don't even know what's in here, he says, pulling out envelopes and papers and spreading them out here and there. I quickly wipe the table with my napkin. He holds up some faded watercolour figures with jointed legs, painted on stiff paper. These, for instance, what are they?

I look at them. I inspect the rosy faces and harlequin-patterned clothes. They look as if they could have been painted by you. And I'm about to suggest that, but Tony's already busy finding something else.

And I really have no idea what any of this is, he says as he takes out a long, slim, yellowing envelope. For instance, look at this - what on earth is this old thing?

And he pulls something out of the envelope - a folded piece of yellowed paper with a blob of bright red sealing wax on it and out slides something brown and lacy, crocheted or knitted.

Knitted. Brown and lacy, hand-worked. Little gold tassels. Suddenly I can't speak.

I put my fingers out to pick it up. And in that instant everything slows down. The spring sunshine outside, Fred's slim neck, the creme fraiche carton on the table, knives and forks and crumbs - all of it recedes. I read the yellowed envelope Tony has just handed me:

Do you know what it is? asks Tony.

Sarah's purse, I tell him and my hands are shaking. This is her purse. The one I read about. This is it. I can't believe it. This is the actual purse.

I hand it to Tony.

This is the purse that Mary Yelloly's mother knitted for John, before they were married. It's in the book - you know, Florence Suckling's book?

Tony's laughing.

I just can't believe it, I tell him. I honestly didn't think it could still exist. And here it was all along -

In our loft! says Tony, sitting back and handing the purse to Bryony, who looks at it and solemnly hands it back to me.

This is it, I'm holding it in my hands. Your mother's little purse. It's tiny, fragile, a sausage of knitted brownish-maroon cotton, very fine and delicate, gold tassels on each end and two gold bands to hold it shut and, yes, in the centre, a tiny folded piece of paper. I 806. I read the wrapper aloud:

I look at Tony.

Is it OK? Do you mind if I take it out?

Good heavens, of course not. Go on, go ahead!

We all watch as I unfold the shred of paper - just a little Manila strip which has been folded over about four times. I'm half expecting it to be the Burns poems, but it's far too small for that. Instead there's just one inked line. I hold it to the light and try to read.
With kind .
. . something illegible . . .
and many thanks.

Kind regards?
says Bryony.

I don't know. It could be. Or it could be
wishes.

On the other side is written, so small it could almost be a mistake,
Dear Miss J.
or
S.
and then something else crossed out.

I fold the piece of paper back up, put it back in the purse, pull the gold band tight.

I look at Tony and feel myself breathe again.

I can't tell you how incredible this is, I tell him and he looks very pleased.

Well, there you are! he says, and straight away Fred looks up, in case he's talking about food.

Do you mean, I ask Tony, sorry but, you seriously mean you've never looked in this box?

He waves his hand.

Oh well. A bit. Not much. No, not really.

But - does Julia know about all of this? I ask, remembering that he said she was the family historian.

He smiles.

Oh, I don't think Julia would be all that interested. She's more into athletics, you know.

The thing is - I think it must all be in here, the Yelloly stuff I've read about, I tell them. I think she must have had this box.

Who?

Florence Suckling. This must be it, it must be the archive she used. The papers she referred to when she wrote her family history.

Well, it's just been sitting up there in our loft, Tony says again, still beaming. No use to anyone.

I think for a moment, suddenly embarrassed, trying to decide how exactly to frame the question. Should I ask how they feel about me coming back on another day to sit and look properly through the box? But it turns out I don't even have to ask.

And of course, Tony says without any prompting, if you want to, take it all away with you. I mean it. It's not doing anyone any good here. Please feel free.

I stare at him.

But - this is your entire family history.

He smiles and his eyes are warm.

Feel free. I mean it. I would love you to have it to look at.

I'll guard it with my life, I tell him, amazed by his generosity.

Well, as I say, I really don't know what's there, he says and he fetches a large, bright blue Tesco carrier bag, the type you buy to use again, and together we put the box in it. It won't go in the right way up, but we manage to fit it in sideways.

Will it be OK? I say.

It'll be fine, look, it's a strong bag. I just hope it's not too heavy for you to carry, that's all.

I don't tell him that if it had weighed eight tons I would have found a way of carrying it.

When my husband picks me up in the centre of town as we arranged and I tell him what I've got in the bag, he offers to put it straight in the boot.

No way.

He looks at me and starts to laugh.

Come on, a locked boot? It'll be quite safe.

I couldn't possibly relax with it in there.

So what're you suggesting? You're going to keep it with you all night?

I'll have to.

You're going to stand holding that great huge thing all through the gig?

This is two hundred years of Yelloly history that I've just been trusted with, I tell him. It's staying with me.

And so the box stuffed full of your family comes with me. It comes, held tight under my coat, down the windy street now spotting with rain. It comes into Cafe Rouge for a cup of tea. And an hour later it sits next to me in an All Bar One while I drink a warm gin and tonic. Finally it comes with me to the Town Hall, to the Spektor gig, where it accompanies me to the 100, the bar, and then sits at my feet while we stand listening to the music.

Regina Spektor has long black clothes and a crooked little smile. She sings about love and loss, pain and longing. It doesn't seem especially odd that the little purse that your mother knitted for your father in 1806 - the purse that outlived every single one of you, sole remaining witness to a lifetime of romance - is accidentally there to hear her do it.

SMASHED AND TORN

4

THE DAY MY son hits me, I'm all dressed up to go out. High heels and lipstick and perfume.

A director friend has a first night in the West End and it's a hot May evening, hot and light, and I've really been looking forward to this. We go out so rarely at the moment and I'm all ready to leave and I don't want to be late. So I'm watching the clock when I see him dragging his amp through the hall to take out on to the lawn.

Where are you going with that?

Outside. We're gonna practise, when you've gone.

Not outside, you can't.

Why not?

Come on, darling, not with an amp. It will be far too loud.

Oh for fuck's sake.

He tries to push past me, but I get there first and lock the door and put the key on the shelf.

It's not fair on other people, I tell him. That amp really is louder than you think. Practise outside without an amp by all means if you want to.

Without an amp? he almost shouts. You really don't have any fucking idea, do you?

His father comes in, car keys in hand.

What's going on?

She won't let me take the amp outside, for Christ's sake!

Please tell him it's not fair on the neighbours.

It's not fair on the neighbours, says his father. End of story.

Fuck's sake!

Oh come on, you know you can't make such a noise, not at this time of night.

It's not night. It's early fucking evening.

Still too late. Look, darling, there's the church out there and then all the flats. It's just not neighbourly to inflict that on people.

But I'm not fucking inflicting !

You are. You are if they have no choice.

I look at my watch.

Come on, I say, we've said no, and now we really have to go.

The key of the door is on the shelf where I put it. Our son walks over and grabs it.

Put that back right now, I tell him.

He holds it high above his head. He is over six foot tall.

How're you going to stop me?

I stare at him. I'm so tired of this.

You absolutely cannot practise outside tonight. We are forbidding you.

How exactly are you going to stop me, Mother dear?

Come on, darling, says his father, who is closing the door of the dishwasher so the dog can't lick the plates and putting down a fresh bowl of water for her. Give her the key. Why do you always have to be so aggressive about everything?

You call
me
aggressive?

I look at the clock. We are now cutting it fine. This isn't fair.

You're being extremely selfish, his father adds.

Give me the key! I shout and I take a quick step towards him. And I really am quite cross now. Give me back that key right now!

No.

If we don't leave right now, this second, that's it, we can't go, we're late.

Go. I'm not stopping you.

Please just give me the key!

No.

As usual he is intimidating me with his size. As usual I feel small and sad and staccato, powerless in my green satin high heels, a strand of hair sticking to my lipstick. I feel a surge of anger and I lunge at him and -

And what? What exactly is it that I do next?

In the muddled dark of my memory, it's this: I jump up and grab his sleeve with one hand, try to wrestle the keys out of his closed fist with the other. And yes, I am definitely shouting and almost certainly swearing, but do I hit him? No, I do not hit him. This is important because later he will insist that I did.

But did I hit him? Might I have hit him? Sometimes, later, late at night, months and months after this moment, I will still be wondering if I did.

if you keep on doing that, he says, I am going to have to hit you.

Keep on doing what?

His face and voice are very steady, very calm. And - why? those words don't stop me in my tracks as may be they should.

Don't you dare threaten your mother like that, says his father (who will reassure me later that I absolutely did not hit him).

He is standing very still now. He is still and I am the one shouting.

If you keep on doing that.

His face is pale.

I said stop it, Mum. I am going to have to hit you if you don't stop.

Outside it is hot and light. The birds are singing. Somewhere in another world, people are arriving at the theatre, queuing for the cloakroom, ordering interval drinks.

I am going to have to -

I don't remember the next moment as a single moment, more a series of neat segments. One segment is that I am definitely somehow on the floor, a crackling-fizzing sound in my ear. Another segment may be shock. Another may be pam.

No one has ever struck me before. Never in my life, I've never been struck. My bottom smacked, yes, when I was four or five, quite hard as I remember it, even once with the back of a hairbrush. But never struck, not knocked to the ground. There is even a touch of exhilaration in the newness of it.

I don't know what I say but I hear my own voice coming from somewhere inside me. Muffied. I put my finger to my ear, half expecting to see blood, but there's nothing. Just a fizzing silence. The boy's father is picking me up. I look at the clock.

Great, I say, that's it. We've missed it now.

And my legs give way again.

Do you think there's a chance we could get there for the second half? I ask the boy's father.

He looks at me strangely.

No, he says.

The consultant asks what happened and, when we tell him, he says nothing, but concern flicks across his face.

OK, let's have a look, he says.

He shines his light in and tells me my eardrum is perforated.

Not both ears? I say, confused, because I seemed to feel the blow in both.

He checks.

No, the other one's fine. When you receive a trauma in one ear, you can sometimes feel it in both. There's a little blood. No treatment required, but it will take about three months to heal completely and you must get it checked. And it's absolutely vital that you don't let it get wet during that time. No swimming.

What about washing my hair? I say, more worried about that.

Put a cotton-wool plug in it - cotton wool and Vaseline and be very careful. If you get water in it, you could get an infection and it won't heal.

We thank him.

Watching us as we get up to go, he hesitates.

You do know that this is assault? he says. You do know that? It's quite serious. You've been assaulted. Even though it was your son - what I mean is, you need to think about that.

We say something like yes, OK, we do. Something apologetic. I feel exactly as I did that early morning at home when the police came round. And we say goodbye.

It isn't until we get back out into the main waiting area, among the drunks and the people complaining and frowning and drinking water out of white plastic cups, that my whole body starts to shake.

Even though, the morning after Regina Spektor, at my desk at home in Elephant & Castle, I go to take it out of the Tesco bag. Even though I manage to lift the brown, battered, falling-apart lid and pull out the first envelope, the one containing your mother's knitted purse. Even though I do quite easily manage to put my hands in among the unknown bundles of papers underneath - noting in one tantalising glimpse a piece of greyed linen, the mysterious slant of a name with a lick of a Y written in ink, the purplish smudge that is the edge of a painting. Even though I get as far as doing all of this, something always happens. The doorbell rings. The phone goes. The dog starts. My nerve just dissolves.

In the end it's a whole eight days later, alone in Suffolk on a Saturday afternoon, that I finally put it on the clean kitchen table. There, as the day turns grey and geese honk loudly over the sea, I find whatever courage is required to touch the things that were once a part of your life.

I take out a small red leather-bound notebook with marbled end-papers and a broken, tarnished metal clasp. Untouched for many years, its dusty texture on the ends of my fingers. Many of the pages seem to have been tom out and put back in the wrong order. Some are printed:
The Churchman's Almanac for the year
of
our Lord
1851 -
being the third after leap year.
There's an engraving of Ely Cathedral. Written at the top in pencil:
Mrs
Y.
's Bible Jan 15th
1851.

The pages underneath, again tom out and stashed together, are covered in minute, sloping pencil writing. I pick one of them up and hold it to the light of the anglepoise that I've set up on the table. On I January 1829:

A raw cold day, the start of the year. A room at the end of a long corridor, the door slightly ajar. An arc of soft light. In it, a woman, your mother, her head bent over a desk. Skirts bunched in the chair. The toe of a slipper peeping from under her skirts. A strand of hair loose over her ear. The glass of the window peppered with rain.

Give me strength to perform my duty
. . .
support me under whatever trials.

These are her words, her prayers for you, her family, written about five years before the first of you began to die.

Then, on Sunday, I January 1831:

But then, on 21 January 1838:

I look up from the yellow light of the anglepoise, seeking familiar things. The sofa with its cotton throw. The carton of V8 juice, the coffee pot by the sink. The dog asleep on her cushion, paws bundled together. The black-and-white photograph of my children taken on a long-ago summer morning before school when they were small enough just to gaze at the camera without smiling.

There is nothing for the rest of I 838, the year of your death. No note, no prayer, no entreaty. A blank.

The next page is from 1839, 13 January:

Oh God, I thank Thee that Thou has given me this haven of rest after the waves and storms Thou has seen it necessary in Thy infinite wisdom to bring upon me and mine. Take me and my dear husband and children oh Lord under thy protection this year and for all the remainder of our lives. If Thou seest fit, oh Lord, to restore my dear invalid to health and keep her in her earthly views and if Thou seest good blessing all this family with health and prosper our endeavours, to obtain this blessing. Grant that the heavy affiiction we have been called upon to suffer may lead our hearts to Thee . . . and may we never again forget or lose sight of our entire dependence upon Thee I hope through the merits of Thy blessed son that my most dearly loved children Nicholas, Jane and Mary are with Thee!