The Secret Keeper (51 page)

It was supposed to be the start of a light conversation, but Vivien’s whole body had seemed to freeze, and Jimmy had known right away that he’d made an error—if not exactly how—and that it was too late to take it back.

‘No.’ The word when it came was as sharp as a stone in his heel. She cleared her throat. ‘I can’t have children.’

Jimmy had wished right about then for a deep tunnel through the centre of the earth into which he could fall and fall and fall. He muttered a ‘Sorry,’ which elicited a slight nod from Vivien, and then she finished wrapping up the sail and left the attic, letting the door shut reproachfully behind her.

He’d felt like an insensitive buffoon. It wasn’t that he’d forgotten why he was really there—what she was, what she was doing hadn’t changed—it was only that, well, Jimmy didn’t like being the one to cause a person hurt the way he had. Remembering how she’d stiffened when he said it made him wince, so he brought it to mind over and over, punishing himself for being such a louse. That night when he was out photographing the latest bomb damage, pointing his camera at the newest souls to join the ranks of the homeless and bereaved, half of his brain kept turning over ways he could possibly make it up to her.

He arrived at the hospital early the next day and waited for her across the street, smoking nervously. He’d have sat on the front steps only he had a feeling she’d turn and walk the other way if she saw him there.

When she came hurrying down the street, he got rid of his cigarette and went to meet her. He handed her a photograph.

‘What’s this?’ she said.

‘Nothing, really,’ he said, watching as she turned it over in her hands. ‘I took it for you—last night. It reminded me of your story, you know, the creek with the lights at the very bottom, and the people—the family on the other side of the veil.’

She looked at the picture.

He’d taken it as dawn was breaking; sunlight had made shards of glass in the ruins glitter and sparkle, and beyond the rising smoke you could make out the shadowy forms of the family who’d just emerged from the Andersen shelter that had saved their lives; Jimmy hadn’t slept after he took it, he’d headed straight over to the newspaper to develop the print for Vivien.

She didn’t say anything, and the look on her face made Jim-my think she might be going to cry.

‘I feel terrible,’ he said.

Vivien glanced at him.

‘What I said yesterday. I upset you. I’m sorry.’

‘You weren’t to know.’ She put the photograph carefully in her bag.

‘Still—’

‘You weren’t to know.’ And then she almost smiled, at least he thought she did, it was hard to tell because she turned quickly towards the door and hurried inside.

The rehearsal that day was one of the last before the big performance. The children barrelled into the room and filled it with light and noise, and then the lunch bell rang and they disappeared as quickly as they’d come; a part of Jimmy had been tempted to go with them, to avoid the awkwardness of being alone with Vivien, but he’d have hated himself for his weakness if he had, so he stayed to help dismantle the ship.

He felt her watching him while he was stacking chairs, but he didn’t look over; he didn’t know what he’d see in her face and he didn’t want to feel worse than he already did. Her voice, when she spoke, sounded different: ‘Why were you in the can-teen that night, Jimmy Metcalfe?’

At that, Jimmy did glance sideways; she’d turned her attention to the backdrop she was painting with palm trees and sand for the play. There was a strange formality in her use of his full name, and for some reason it sent a not unpleasant shudder down his spine. He couldn’t tell her about Dolly, he knew that, but Jimmy wasn’t a liar. He said, ‘I was meeting someone.’

She looked over at him and the faintest of smiles animated her lips. Jimmy never did know when to stop talking. ‘We were sup-posed to meet somewhere else,’ he said, ‘only I went to the canteen instead.’ ‘Why?’

‘Why?’

‘Why didn’t you stick to your original plan?’

‘I don’t know. It just felt like the right thing to do.’

Vivien was still studying him, her face giving no hint as to her thoughts, and then she turned back to the frond she was working on. ‘I’m glad,’ she said, an edge to her otherwise clear voice. ‘I’m really glad you did.’

Things changed that day. It wasn’t what she said, though that was nice enough, it was an inexplicable feeling that had come over Jimmy when she looked at him, a sense of connection be-tween them that came flooding back when he thought about the exchange afterwards. Neither had said more than ten words and none of the ten had been particularly meaningful, yet the whole thing had meant something. Jimmy knew that at the time, and he knew it later when Dolly asked for her usual report of the day’s progress and he recounted every detail but didn’t mention that part. It would have made Doll glad, he knew, she’d have seen it as evidence that he was getting closer to winning Vivien’s trust, but Jimmy said nothing. The conversation with Vivien was his; it felt like a breakthrough of some kind and not in the way Dolly would have wanted. He didn’t want to share it; he didn’t want it spoiled.

Next day Jimmy turned up at the hospital with more of a spring in his step. But when he opened the door and delivered the gift of a glorious ripe orange to Myra (whose birthday it was), she told him Vivien wasn’t there. ‘She’s not well. She telephoned this morning and said she wasn’t able to get out of bed. She wondered if you’d take over the rehearsal.’

‘I can do that,’ said Jimmy, wondering, suddenly, whether Vivien’s absence had anything to do with what had happened between them; whether perhaps she’d regretted letting down her guard. He frowned at the floor and then looked up at Myra from beneath his hair. ‘Sick, did you say?’

‘She didn’t sound well at all, poor lamb. No need to look so glum, though—she’ll mend. She always does.’ Myra held up the orange. ‘I’ll save her half, shall I? Give it to her at the next rehearsal.’

Only Vivien wasn’t there at the next rehearsal either.

‘Still in bed,’ Myra told Jimmy when he came through the door later in the week. ‘Best thing for it, too.’

‘Is it serious?’

‘I shouldn’t think so. She does seem to have bad luck, poor dear, but she’ll be back on her feet soon enough—she never can stand being away from the children too long.’

‘This has happened before?’

Myra smiled, but the gesture was restrained by something else, an element of realisation, and almost of kindly concern. ‘Everybody’s poorly sometimes, Mr Metcalfe. Mrs Jenkins has her share of setbacks, but don’t we all?’ She hesitated, and when she spoke again her voice was soft but firm. ‘Listen, Jim-my dear, I can see you care for her, and that’s very kind of you. Heaven knows she’s an angel, all she does for the children here. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about though and that her husband will be taking good care of her.’ She smiled in a motherly way. ‘Put her out of your mind now, won’t you?’

Jimmy said that he would and then started up the stairs, but Myra’s advice gave him pause. Vivien was unwell, surely to think of her would seem natural—why then was Myra so intent on Jimmy putting her out of his mind? The way Myra said ‘her husband’ had been pointed, too. It was the sort of thing she might have said to someone like Dr Tomalin, a fellow who had designs on another man’s wife …

He didn’t have a copy of the play, but Jimmy gave the rehearsal his best shot. The kids went easy on him, running through their parts, arguing rarely, and all was going well. He was even be-ginning to feel a little pleased with himself, until they finished packing down the set, and gathered on the floor by his upturned crate to beg a story of him. Jimmy told them he didn’t know any, and when they refused to believe him, he made a failed attempt to retell one of Vivien’s, before remembering—just in time to avoid a revolt—the Nightingale Star. They listened, wide-eyed, and Jimmy realised, as he hadn’t before, how much he had in common with the patients of Dr Tomalin’s hospital.

With all the activity, he forgot about Myra’s comments, and it wasn’t until he’d said goodbye to the kids and was heading back downstairs that Jimmy started to muse on how best to reassure her she was imagining things, or whether it was even necessary. He fronted up to her desk when he reached the foyer, but before he could say a word, reassuring or otherwise, Myra said, ‘There you are, Jimmy. Dr Tomalin wants to say hello,’ with just the sort of reverence she might have used if the king himself had decided to drop by for the afternoon and expressed an interest in meeting him. She reached to brush a piece of lint from his collar.

Jimmy waited, aware of a rising bitterness in his throat, an old familiar feeling he used to get as a boy when he imagined confronting the man who’d stolen his mum away from them. The minutes felt interminable until finally the door behind the desk opened and a dignified gentleman emerged. Jimmy’s antagonism dissolved, leaving him mightily confused. The other man had white hair, neatly cropped, and glasses so thick the lenses were bottle-ends; he was eighty years old if he was a day.

‘So. You’re Jimmy Metcalfe,’ the old doctor said, light blue eyes rheumy as he reached to shake Jimmy’s hand. ‘I trust you’re getting on all right?’

‘Yes, thank you, sir. Very well.’ Jimmy was fumbling, trying to grasp the meaning of everything. The man’s age didn’t preclude him from a love affair with Vivien Jenkins, not entirely, but still …

‘On something of a tight leash, I’d imagine,’ the doctor continued, ‘between Myra here and Mrs Jenkins. Granddaughter of an old friend of mine, you know, young Vivien.’

‘I didn’t know.’

‘No? Well. Now you do.’

Jimmy nodded and attempted a smile.

‘Anyway. Tremendous work you’re doing, helping out the children. Very kind. Much obliged.’ And with that he nodded stiffly and retreated to his office, a slight limp in his left leg.

‘He likes you,’ Myra said, eyes wide as the door closed.

Jimmy’s thoughts were circling as he tried to sort his certain-ties from his suspicions. ‘Really?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘How could you tell?’

‘He acknowledged your existence. He doesn’t have time for many adults. Prefers children, always has.’

‘You’ve known him a long time?’

‘I’ve worked for him these past thirty years.’ She puffed out proudly, straightening her cross so it sat flat in the V of her blouse. ‘I tell you,’ she said, eyeing Jimmy over the top of her half-spectacles, ‘he doesn’t tolerate many adults in his hospital. You’re the only one I’ve ever seen him make an effort with.’

‘Except Vivien, of course.’ Jimmy was digging. Myra, surely, would be able to set the record straight. ‘Mrs Jenkins, I should say.’

‘Oh yes,’ Myra twirled her hand, ‘of course. But then he’s known her since she was a child herself—it’s hardly the same thing. He’s like a grandfather to her. In fact, I’d wager you’ve her to thank for him taking the time of day just now. Must’ve put in a good word for you.’ Myra caught herself then. ‘Anyway, he likes you. That’s lovely. Now—don’t you have photographs to take for my newspaper tomorrow morning?’ Jimmy signalled a mock salute that made her smile and then he started on his way.

His head was spinning as he walked back home.

Dolly had been wrong—no matter how certain she’d been, she’d got it wrong. There was no affair between Dr Tomalin and Vivien—the old man was ‘like a grandfather’ to her. And she—Jimmy shook his head, horrified at the things he’d thought, the way he’d judged her—she was no adulteress, she was just a woman, a good woman, at that, who’d given up her time to bring a bit of happiness to a group of orphans who’d lost everything.

It was strange, perhaps, when everything he’d believed so strongly had been proved a lie, but Jimmy felt oddly light. He couldn’t wait to tell Doll; there was no need now to go through with the plan; Vivien was guilty of nothing.

‘Except being nasty to me,’ Dolly replied, when he said as much to her. ‘But I suppose that counts for nothing now you’re such good friends.’

‘Stop it, Doll,’ Jimmy said. ‘It’s not like that at all. Look—’. He reached to take her hands across the table, adopting the sort of light gentle voice that suggested the whole thing had been a bit of a lark but it was time now to call it quits. ‘I know she treated you unkindly, and I think the worse of her for that. But this plan—it’s not going to work. She’s not guilty—she’d read the letter and laugh if you sent it. She’d probably show it to her husband and he’d have a good laugh too.’

‘No she won’t.’ Dolly pulled her hands back and crossed her arms. She was stubborn, or perhaps she was merely desperate, it could be hard to spot the difference sometimes. ‘No woman wants her husband to think she’s having an affair with another man. She’ll still give us the money.’