‘No.’ Leila blinked, hard. ‘Please don’t do that. I told you, he never knew. It was going to be a sur—’ Her voice failed her, and she pressed her palm to her nose. ‘A surprise. Sorry.’
Maggie handed her a wad of tissues from a box on her desk. She picked up the phone and asked her receptionist to bring in two mugs of tea. Then she bent tactfully over her computer, pretending to type up notes.
‘Is it my fault?’ asked Leila tearfully. ‘Because I went out singing, and dancing, and . . . ?’
‘No.’ Maggie held up a hand. ‘
No
. Definitely not your fault. There was nothing you could have done differently. This pregnancy was never going to be viable.’
‘I don’t understand,’ whispered Leila. After a few seconds’ thought, she looked up at Maggie. ‘I have poor . . .’ She gulped. ‘Sounds awful. Like a hen. Poor egg quality, apparently. I suppose that might fit with what’s happened?’
‘Yes, poor ovarian function and miscarriage can be related. But the thing is, Leila,
most
pregnancies actually end in miscarriage. Maybe as many as seventy percent. It’s so early that people never realise. They just get their period, maybe slightly late, maybe bang on time, and they’re none the wiser. You see? These very early tests . . . they don’t always do us any favours.’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Leila dabbed her eyes with the tissues. ‘It was a miracle while it lasted.’
There was a gentle knock on the door, and Maggie went to collect the tea.
‘I s’pose I can drink alcohol now,’ sniffed Leila, with a twisted smile.
‘Only got this stuff, sorry.’
‘Thanks.’ Leila took the mug and held it between her hands.
‘I can refer you back to—’
‘No. No, thank you, Maggie. No more referrals. No more treatment. I’ve been through all that. I’ve tried everything conventional medicine can offer, had natural treatments coming out of my ears. Even acupuncture. And my chances are . . . well. You know.’
Maggie finished the sentence. ‘Worse, the older you get. Yes. Will you tell David this has happened?’
Leila thought for some time. ‘I will. Once I’ve pulled myself together. After all, it’s the closest he’s ever come to fatherhood. Perhaps the closest he will ever come.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘I lost his baby.’ Leila stood up and wandered to the window. ‘How very careless of me, to
lose
a baby. Have I checked in lost property?’
Maggie smiled sadly but said nothing.
‘My poor mother,’ said Leila, still looking out through the window. ‘I don’t think I’ll tell her I’ve mislaid her grandchild. You know, in my family’s culture women are often known by the name of their first-born child. Mama-David, say.’
‘So the mother is defined by the child, in a way.’
‘In a way. Family is fundamental. Mum seems to struggle with our childlessness almost as much as we do. I try not to moan to her about it.’
‘I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you did.’
‘I don’t want to make it worse for her.’ Leila rested her head against the glass. ‘You know, Maggie, if one good thing comes of this, it’ll be that we finally let go of the dream. It’s not going to happen. I’m not going to conceive and carry a baby to full term. I’ve got the message, loud and clear. It’s adoption or nothing. Probably nothing, by now.’
Maggie twiddled a pen around her fingers. ‘Have you heard anything?’
‘From the adoption people?’ Leila turned away from the window. ‘No. It took two years to jump through all their hoops. That was two years ago, and there’s been hardly a whisper since then, except that when we moved here we had to navigate
more
hoops.’
Maggie leaned closer. ‘After a miscarriage—even a very early one like this—sometimes people need time to grieve. You might need to work through that, put adopting on the back burner for a while.’
Leila laughed shakily and sat down. ‘You sound like the bloody social workers. That’s how they talked about IVF.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I’m fine, really. I’ll grieve for this baby—the baby that never quite was—but at least we hadn’t started celebrating, at least we weren’t out buying cots and car seats. And, Maggie, time is exactly what we
don’t
have. It’s been four years since we first enquired. I’m thirty-six. I’ll be on a Zimmer frame soon.
Now
, more than ever, I’m ready. Just need a bloody miracle.’
‘Is there an upper age limit?’
‘Not officially. But there’s no shortage of contenders for babies. If there’s a choice, the younger couple will be picked for sure.’
‘I don’t see why they should. You’re not old by modern standards.’
Leila shook her head. ‘They ask the birth parents what they’d like for their children, then try to take it into account. They all want younger adopters. Understandably. David and I are probably as old as their own parents!’
‘That isn’t saying very much. I’ve got a twelve-year-old patient at the moment, due any time.’
‘
Twelve
!’ Leila’s brow wrinkled in disbelief. ‘That’s the same age as Freya, David’s niece. But . . . twelve? She’s had no childhood! Isn’t she scared?’
‘Difficult to tell. She doesn’t say very much.’
‘Well.’ Leila blinked and took a long breath. ‘That puts my problems into perspective. Perhaps I should adopt your patient instead. Then I get two kids at once.’
The telephone rang. Leila looked at her watch. ‘That must be surgery. I’d better get out of here.’ She stood up, whisking her velvet scarf into a complicated knot. ‘Thanks so much for . . . you know.’
‘Drink tomorrow night?’ said Maggie. ‘I’ll give you the results of the tests.’
‘Okay. But we both know what the results will be,’ said Leila. ‘And—let’s be realistic—we both know something else. That was my last chance.’
Maggie didn’t even try to argue.
Leila made a dash past the receptionist with her curious, sympathetic eyes. She passed the main entrance to Kirkaldie’s, which was just about to close, and wandered dazedly along the rush-hour street, letting the crowds wash around her, feeling utterly detached from them. She wasn’t one of these people. She wasn’t a part of their world.
Others couldn’t comprehend the loss that is childlessness. Sometimes it made her whole existence seem pointless, yet people brushed it off as though it were a minor mishap. ‘It obviously isn’t meant to be,’ they said, or ‘There’s more to life than children.’ Aunts, doctors, perfect strangers on trains, all overflowing with apple-pie wisdom.
New Street Station. On autopilot now, she bought a takeaway coffee and checked the platform number. It wasn’t until she’d shown her pass to the kind, moustached man at the barrier that she began to cry. And then, for some reason, she couldn’t stop.
The Tanzania road had seen much better days. By now I knew every pothole.
South of Mombasa, I’d taken the Likoni Ferry and then set off through the rust-coloured landscape, houses and corrugated-iron stalls strung out along both sides of the road. And people walking. There were always people walking in Kenya.
I found the track exactly where I’d been told it would be—opposite a school. Turning onto it, I crawled at a snail’s pace through banana plantation and scrub. It wasn’t possible to go any faster, even in the solid little jeep I’d hired from some Ugandan Indians. The track made the main road look like the M1, and I endured at least twenty bone-shaking minutes of skidding and sliding and steering around holes that could have swallowed a bus. My back was sticking to the seat, and floating swirls of dust coagulated the sweat as it ran down me. I tried closing the windows, but the stuff seemed to seep in through every crack and the temperature rocketed; so I opened them again and wound a towel over my mouth and nose. And all the way, I wondered what the hell I was doing there.
I’d already wasted the best part of a fortnight looking for Mrs Harrison. I carried with me a hefty envelope from Perry, but I’d given up hope of delivering it to the bloody woman because she obviously didn’t exist.
You couldn’t say I hadn’t tried
.
Day after day, I’d invaded the public buildings of Mombasa, reciting her name at bemused officials. I’d tried the post office, the police station and the hospital. I’d sidled up to street hawkers, taxi drivers and shopkeepers. I even asked a priest in the cathedral. They were all very polite. They all thought long and hard before shrugging.
So I’d climbed dutifully into the jeep and driven for miles along scarred and crumbling roads, hassling bar staff and hotel managers up and down the coast, feeling like a total jerk. I’d drawn a complete blank, and the whole thing had started to seem bloody silly, frankly. Perhaps it was all a complicated hoax.
Finally, that very morning, I’d rammed the envelope into the bottom of my bag and emailed Perry to tell him I was throwing in the towel. Sad for Matt, of course, but I told myself that he’d get over it. I’d wasted more than enough time. I was moving on.
I decided I’d have a go at Mount Kenya. The challenge would keep all that nasty reality at bay for another week or so. I was intrigued by this troubled, vibrant region; the place had cast its spell, and now that I was free of Perry’s quest I thought I might get to know it better. With this thought, I’d checked out of the Durham Hotel. Then, deciding to have one last decent cup of coffee before I left, I settled myself happily on the hotel’s wide verandah—wicker chairs, ceiling fans and bougainvillea. I leafed through my guidebook while a flock of tiny birds had a barney amongst the electric-blue flowers of a nearby tree.
Even though I’d given up, when the manager—Yusuf—brought my coffee himself, I collared him and asked the question, one last time. It was out of habit, really. I’d already tried the waiters.
When I mentioned the name, he frowned. ‘Deborah Harrison,’ he whispered. He broke the name up into six syllables and said each with great care. It made me feel sleepy. Eventually, inevitably, he shook his head. ‘Sorry.’
Par for the course. Still, I handed him the photograph. He examined it for a full thirty seconds, holding it in one hand and, with the other, tracing a line around Deborah’s silhouette. Behind us, the squabbling birds broke into a new round of hostilities.
Without looking up, and without any apparent surprise, he murmured, ‘Yes, I know this woman.’
It came out so casually that for a moment I thought I’d misheard. ‘You
know
her?’
‘Well . . .’ He inclined his head, thinking. ‘The name is different.’
‘Are you sure it’s her?’
He handed back the photograph. ‘There’s a man who comes in here sometimes. Rod Jennings. He owns a campground out at Kulala Beach, off the Tanzania road. Beautiful place. One of the last they haven’t ruined.’
‘And you think this Jennings bloke might be able to shed some light?’ I held up the picture, squinting doubtfully at the freckled, glowing face.
Yusuf shrugged. He looked very unhappy, suddenly, as if he wished he’d kept his mouth shut. His brow was creased with anxious wrinkles.
‘The woman in that photograph’—he jerked his chin towards it—‘looks exactly like Susie.’
‘Susie . . . ?’
‘Susie. His wife.’
The further I bumped down that hellish track, the wilder my goose chase seemed. I was tempted to turn back.
The dashboard had turned orange under a film of dust, and so had I. Then, between the trees, I spotted an indigo streak spilling along the horizon. The Indian Ocean. I cheered out loud.
The track opened out into a sandy clearing, littered with tents, mosquito nets and washing strung haphazardly among the trees. There were rickety picnic tables, a concrete shower block and watery, dancing light. Skirting the clearing, I parked next to a rusting white pick-up truck and sat for a few minutes, enjoying the sudden peace. My ears were ringing.
The occupants of the tents weren’t much in evidence, except for a couple of scrubby-looking white guys, wearing sarongs and doing their washing on a slab of concrete underneath a tap. The water was gushing up over their clothes and spraying them while a crowd of monkeys cheered from the branches. On a low, wooden building nearby I could make out a cardboard sign:
Office.
I was halfway out of the jeep when the office door opened and someone stepped into the bleached light. It was a white man of about my age, perhaps a bit older, wearing faded shorts and carrying a broad-brimmed hat. He was no tourist: he belonged here. It was unmistakeable. He had a sort of presence too, a poise that you don’t see very often. He held himself with easy self-assurance. A young German shepherd padded quietly alongside him.
I leaned awkwardly against the jeep as he loped across, putting on his hat and glancing unhurriedly at me. He had bone-white hair, and the type of hide you could make into a shoe, the kind you get from living your whole life in the sun. I guessed he might be an inch or two taller than me. Thinner too, but I remember thinking that I’d want to have him on my side in a dark alley.
‘Hi,’ I croaked, with an ingratiating simper. ‘Jake Kelly.’
‘Rod Jennings.’ He shook my hand, and I was tongue-tied. Faced with the guy, I hesitated to ask the question. I mean, how would it sound?
Hi, I’m after a woman who’s somebody else’s wife and they tell me
yours looks just like her
. He was going to think I was a bloody blithering idiot. I’d be lucky if he didn’t thump me.
In the end, he helped me out. ‘You’re after a room?’ He spoke calmly, rather distantly. He sounded like a newsreader for the BBC World Service.
‘Er, no.’ I tried not to shift from foot to foot. ‘Some friends asked me, while I was in Kenya, to try and find someone.’
He stood very still, watching me, an odd little smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.
I ploughed on, feeling sillier than ever. ‘Um, a woman called Deborah Harrison. A journalist. Her husband last heard from her in Mombasa.’
He didn’t react, so I pulled the crumpled photo out of my wallet. ‘This picture’s a bit out of date, apparently. Her husband’s in his fifties.
Actually
—’ I cackled desperately—‘the manager at the Durham Hotel said it looked a bit like your, um, wife.’
One of Rod’s eyebrows lifted, just a fraction. ‘Who, Yusuf ?’ He took the picture out of my hands, regarded it sardonically, and then shrugged. ‘Similar hair colour, I suppose. But no. Wrong woman, Jake. Susie’s not technically my wife, but she’s been with me, on and off, longer than I care to remember.’ He handed the photo back, and a peaceful smile crossed his face, as though he
did
care to remember.