Authors: Wendy Perriam
‘Is there anyone you could contact who knew him in the past and might have kept in touch right up till now?’
‘No, not a soul.’ Maria was increasingly aware how woefully negative all her replies must sound. But Silas’s associates had been eager moths circling the flame of his brilliance and had barely even noticed her own dim and wavering light. And once she had fled back to Northumberland, she had never seen or spoken to a single one of them again.
‘What about his relatives?’
‘I feel awful keep saying no, but to start with he’s an only child, and his parents would almost certainly be dead by now, and actually I never heard him mention a single member of his family.’ Again, she forbore to say that Silas regarded families as pressure-cookers of seething, bubbling
resentments
.
‘Well, however little we have to go on,’ Amy said, decisively, ‘I’m sure we’ll find him in the end. We need to start with the obvious sites – Google, Facebook, MySpace, Twitter – and, of course, try the online phone books and the mail-address directories. And if we draw a blank with those, we’ll use one of the specialist people-finding services. There’s a whole load out there, covering almost every country in the world. OK, they charge, but their fees are fairly reasonable and
I’ll
pay, in any case.’
‘It’s not a question of money. I—
Amy cut her off. ‘Remember my college friend, Henrietta? I’m still in touch with her and, last time we spoke, she told me she’d used a site called Tracesmart to find a long-lost uncle and, within seconds – literally seconds – she had his details, including his address and phone number.’
‘What, they give out people’s private addresses?’ Maria asked, in horror.
‘Absolutely. All those companies have access to vast databases: electoral rolls, public records, census records and God knows what else besides. A
few clicks of the mouse and by this time next week I could be sitting
opposite
my father.’
‘No!’ she said, appalled.
‘What do you mean, “no”? If
you
won’t do it, I most certainly will. In fact, I’ve been an absolute saint not doing so before. I promised you I wouldn’t and I’ve kept that promise all this time, despite the fact you don’t seem to have the slightest notion how difficult that was. Again and again, I was tempted simply to type in Silas’s name and conduct a private search, without telling you a word about it. But you’ve always played fair with me, so I felt honour-bound to do the same. Now, though, things are different, and I feel obliged to act, for the baby’s sake, as much as mine.’
‘No, no! Please don’t. Leave it to me, I beg you. Except,’ she added, wrestling with her conscience, ‘that means breaking
my
promise – the one I made to Silas.’ It had been more like a solemn vow – he had made her swear on the Bible, on her very life, never to contact him again. She had insulted him so deeply, he averred, he wanted to eradicate not just the baby but all memory of their affair.
‘I’ve told you, Mum, he had no right to—
‘Your sandwiches,
mesdames
.’ The waiter set down two large platters, garnished with tomato flowers and fronds of curly lettuce. ‘Enjoy!’
Enjoy
? No word could be less apt. ‘Look, he may well be dead by now. He was ten years older than me.’
‘Well, better for us to know. At least I’ll have something to tell Hugo. He’s involved as well, Mum, which you seem to keep forgetting.’
‘I don’t forget. I’m well aware how much this means to both of you. It’s just that if we track your father down, that may open up a can of worms and I’m frightened you’ll get hurt. Suppose he doesn’t want to see you even now?’
‘I can handle that.’
‘Or he may think you want revenge, or money.’
‘I’ll make it clear I don’t – that I’d simply like to get to know him.’
More gales of laughter rose from the adjoining table. How could
anybody
laugh, Maria wondered, as she tried a different tack. ‘There might be other people involved and you’ll get entangled in a whole web of messy relationships. Surely you don’t want that?’
‘I’m not a child, Mum. I can deal with any complications that may or may not arise. Anyway—’ She glanced at her watch ‘—we haven’t time to argue the toss. I want you to find Silas and, if the free sites get you nowhere, then I suggest you use Tracesmart, OK? Henrietta’s no fool and if she thinks highly of them, that’s good enough for me. But will you make a start this week, please?’
‘Amy, I … I
can’t
.’
‘You owe it to me, Mum. To be brutally honest, I’ve never understood how you could take the risk of bringing up a child without a father, when you knew from your own experience what a huge loss that is. It’s almost like you said, “
I
had no dad, so I’ll make sure my child doesn’t have one either.”’
‘That’s totally unfounded!’ Maria cradled the knife – sharp, cold, unkind. ‘
And
cruel.’
‘Well,
you’re
being cruel, refusing even to let me meet my father.’
‘Look here, Amy, you seem to think you’re the only one who suffered. Have you ever stopped to wonder what it was like for
me
, bringing back a fatherless child to that narrow-minded village and having somehow to explain it to Hanna’s ultra-pious Catholic circle? Things were very different then – far less liberal than nowadays. People used to talk behind my back – you know, about how I’d gone to the bad and what a shock it must be for my poor, long-suffering mother. And there was endless speculation about who the father was and why he’d left me in the lurch. One neighbour even said she hoped I felt thoroughly ashamed, because my own father was a war hero and I’d let him down in the most appalling way. And, if that wasn’t enough, I had to give up all my dreams of being an artist.’
‘So you’re blaming me for that?’
‘I’m not blaming anyone. It was just hard, that’s all. I was like a fish out of water, up there in the sticks, after my years at art school. And I never met another man – not with Hanna breathing down my neck. She seemed to think that if I got the slightest bit involved with any other male, the same thing would happen again and, since I was living in her house, it wasn’t exactly easy to invite a bloke back, or even stay out late.’
‘So that’s my fault, too, I suppose?’
‘No, of course it isn’t. I’m just trying to make you realize that
I
paid a high price, too. It’s not easy being a single parent and seeing everyone else in couples. You take all that for granted, Amy – Hugo and your marriage, and being loved and cherished, not to mention having money to do anything you like. I’d have given my eye-teeth to be in that position. OK, I was totally in the wrong. I’ve never tried to dodge the fact that it was
my
fault, a hundred per cent, but I did my bloody best trying to make it up to you. All through your childhood, and afterwards, I showered you with devotion.’
‘And now you regret it, I suppose – wish you’d buggered off and left me alone with Grandma?’
‘Amy, that’s unforgivable! How
could
you say such a thing?’
Amy sprang to her feet, rummaged in her purse and flung a handful of notes on the table. ‘Well, since you’re obviously so resentful, maybe it would have been better if you
had
.’ Then, bursting into tears, she swept towards the door.
‘M
ARIA, YOU
must
stop crying. Of course you’re upset – any mother would be – but it’s not the end of the world.’
‘It feels like it,’ Maria sobbed, sitting hunched over the kitchen table, the pale pinewood branded with dark stains from her tears. ‘I’ve never said those things to Amy before, so now she thinks I didn’t
want
her.’
‘Of course she doesn’t.’ Kate sat, helpless, beside her, the table strewn with soggy balls of Kleenex. She had offered lunch, and coffee; both had been refused. ‘I’ve seen you two together and it’s obvious how close you are. In any case, why would she have invited you to live with her if she didn’t love you to bits?’
‘Well, she won’t any more – not after today.’ Was there such a thing as love?, Maria wondered, desolately. Silas, she was increasingly sure, had loved only her submissiveness and the rare prize of her virginity. And when Amy trotted out her frequent ‘Love you, Mum!’s, was she hiding huge resentment?
‘Look, let’s try to work out a rescue plan. Why don’t you write her a note and leave it in her office, later on today? You can say you’re really sorry for the row and that you’ll agree to search for Silas.’
‘But I
can’t
– I’ve told you, Kate.’
‘I’m sure it won’t be anything like as bad as you imagine. Either he’ll be dead, which will be sad for Amy, of course, but at least that will let you off the hook. And if he’s still alive – let’s face it, an old man of nearly eighty is hardly going to be breathing fire. He’ll have mellowed hugely by now – may be married with kids and grandkids of his own and only too glad to welcome a few new relatives.’
Maria tried, in vain, to picture such a scenario. The Silas she had known was egotistic, self-absorbed and wary of true intimacy. On the other hand, she had to concede, if only from her own experience, that people could change, and change profoundly. The besotted, reckless, love-enslaved
mistress-of-a-would-be-poet of 1969 had morphed into the manic,
hate-filled
termagant of 1971, then changed again, radically, to the devoted mother and dutiful daughter of 1974, even her former steadfast religious faith restored.
‘And
I’ll
help, if you want. It’ll be far less nerve-wracking, if we do the thing together. And better for us to do it, anyway, than leave the search to Amy.’
‘Lord, yes! Silas doesn’t even know that she
exists
. I’ll have to break the news, hope it’s not too much of a shock, and somehow persuade him to agree not to breathe a word about wanting to get rid of her.’ Maria wiped her eyes on her sleeve, having worked through the whole packet of tissues Kate had kindly provided. ‘And even if that works – and it’s a big “if”, I assure you – Amy may still be disappointed when she meets him in the flesh. I mean, she’s so high-powered herself, she might not have much sympathy for a man who always got by on his wits.’
‘That was way back in the past, though. He might have settled, years ago, for a nice safe job in banking or insurance.’
‘That’s as unlikely as an elephant flying.’
‘So how did he actually live?’
‘Well, he had such charm and confidence, people were like putty in his hands. He’d eat their food and borrow their flats and even cajole them into coughing up handouts. And, believe it or not, they never seemed to object, because he was just so charismatic. He looked the part, as well. He’d pick up amazing vintage clothes at Portobello Market. It was really cheap in those days – not like now. And he’d gatecrash snazzy parties and fill up on drinks and canapés and stuff.’
‘Forget charismatic – he sounds a total shit!’
Maria braved a laugh. ‘Amy said the same.’
‘You should be spitting fire, not laughing – I mean, the way he used you when it suited him, then left you to take the consequences, seems quite disgusting to me.’
‘I used him just as much, though, especially at the start. You see, I met him just as I was finishing my foundation year at the Cass and about to move to another art school. At that point, I was terribly vulnerable – scared of the upheaval, and already daunted by the prospect of eventually losing the security of college altogether and trying to make it as an artist on my own. So Silas became my life-raft. He invited me to share his flat – a little place in Tufnell Park he’d borrowed from a mate – and he gave me a sense of purpose in life, very much tied to his own. He was so sure of himself – so sure of everything – and I needed that to make up for my own
wimpishness
.’
Whatever Kate or Amy might think, it was essential for her
self-respect
that she didn’t damn her lover totally, but retained something of the great romantic idyll.
‘Well, wherever he is and however he lives, we’ll have to go and dig him out. I can drive you, if you like, if he’s moved a long way away.’
‘But why the hell should you, Kate? I feel bad enough already, turning up on your doorstep in such a hysterical state and expecting you to drop
everything
for me.’
‘Don’t worry – I was only tidying Polly’s room, which she ought to do herself. And, anyway, I do actually believe that Amy’s right in wanting to find her father. But let’s not go into all the details till we have more idea of where he lives or whether he’s alive at all. What matters at the moment is to make some sort of peace with her. And, you know, whatever the rights and wrongs of any argument, I feel it’s the mother, not the child, who should be prepared to make the first move. I’ve learned that with my own
daughters
, and I’m sure it applies even more to grown-up kids. It doesn’t really matter who’s to blame. What’s essential is to try to patch things up. And Amy’s pregnant, don’t forget, so she may be a bit hormonal, and perhaps secretly worried about how she’s going to manage motherhood on top of everything else. And she’s probably missing Hugo, too.’
‘Yes, you’re right. I should have been more understanding, especially about the Hugo thing. It must be quite a strain for her, him being away and all the hassle in Dubai, added to his normal pressures. And she’s worried about Chloe, too.’
‘Who’s Chloe?’
‘Oh, one of her friends from way back. She’s expecting twins and much further on in her pregnancy than Amy, so she’s suffering with backache and leg-cramps and what-have-you, and stuck at home a lot of the time. Amy feels bad about not popping in more often, and also scared, I suspect, that she’ll develop all those symptoms herself. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I feel I should do what you suggested and write her a note of apology. And, if I did it right away, I could head straight back to her office with it, and maybe leave that lovely baby shawl as well – you know, as a peace offering.’
‘Perfect! And why not add a line saying the shawl is for Mother’s Day, because Amy’s the best present any mother could have?’
‘Oh, Kate, that’s brilliant!’
‘Hang on a sec – I’ll fetch some paper and a pen.’
While she was gone, Maria sneaked a quick glance in her
handbag-mirror
, recoiling at the sight of her swollen eyes and tear-stained face. She
looked an utter wreck and also felt distinctly awkward at having wept all over Kate and burdened her with the whole tangled story of her past. Never had she revealed such things to her friends back home, despite the fact she had much more in common with Carole, June and Jacqueline than she did with wealthy Kate. Not only had she known them years, but they, like her, were shabbyish and poorish, and more used to digging cars from
snowdrifts
, rounding up stray hens or nursing orphan lambs than attending opera galas or swilling champagne at the Carlton Club. Yet, for all their differences in lifestyle, it was Kate she felt a bond with – and that had led her to confide all the pangs and perils of her early, fated love affair.
She tissued off the streaks of smudged mascara, then leaned back in her chair and tried to cheer herself by soaking up the atmosphere of this bright, convivial kitchen, with its poppy-printed china and sunshine-coloured walls. Her eye was caught by Polly’s drawings, Blu-Tacked to the fridge: a three-humped camel, a stripy horse and a lopsided yellow castle. Her doll’s pram stood in one corner, while Clara’s skateboard was propped against the wall. She relished the thought of Amy’s kitchen bearing this same evidence of children in just a few years’ time.
‘Sorry I was so long,’ Kate called, sweeping back in with paper, pen and envelope, and also a glass of something amber. ‘I was trying to hunt down Paul’s brandy. Here,’ she urged, ‘drink this. It’s best vintage cognac –
guaranteed
to make anyone feel better!’
‘Oh, Kate, I shouldn’t, honestly.’
‘You’re always saying you shouldn’t, but why not, I’d like to know? Most people in my circle assume they have a natural right to every perk and privilege on offer, but
you’re
completely different, Maria, as if you feel you don’t deserve a thing. Have you never heard the slogan “because I’m worth it”?’
The very phrase seemed blasphemous. A strict Catholic upbringing did little to inculcate feelings of self-esteem. ‘Lord, I am not worthy,’ she had repeated at every Sunday Mass, and the nuns had taken a relish in pointing out that it was the sins of their small charges that had nailed Christ to the cross. She had always felt personally responsible for the Passion and the Crucifixion, despite the fact that her childhood sins were mostly
peccadillos
.
She took the glass uncertainly, but the warm kick of the brandy felt restorative and comforting as it trickled down her throat. Perhaps it was time she broke with all that early conditioning. Apart from anything else, it was totally out of kilter with contemporary society. During the student protests last year, she had particularly noted the stress on rights, not duties,
and the contrast with herself as a student, when powerlessness and
privation
seemed just a normal state. On the other hand, too much sense of entitlement could make one irresponsible and lawless, as she had seen three days ago, when the TUC anti-cuts march had erupted into mindless,
thuggish
violence. Torn, as usual, between two opposing viewpoints, she took refuge in her brandy. ‘Where’s
your
drink, Kate?’ she asked.
‘I don’t need one. My life’s been a bed of roses compared with yours. I was spoiled rotten from the start, indulged by two doting parents who saw me as a super-child – a future Einstein, Florence Nightingale and Margot Fonteyn all rolled into one! Whereas you had endless years of being dragooned and criticized by a strict religious mother.’
‘It was
nothing
like that, Kate! My mother saved my life. I was really ill for months and couldn’t do a thing, but she was there for me a hundred per cent. She had to give up her secretarial job and do boring work at home – addressing thousands of envelopes for soulless mail-order companies – but she never once complained. Then, after Amy was born, I more or less fell to pieces – mentally, this time – but she still continued to support me,
financially
and every way,
and
looked after the baby. She even took my side against the gossips. She’d look them straight in the eye and say, “The father isn’t with my daughter because he had to go abroad.”’ The words stumbled to a halt as she struggled with more guilt. That semi-truth she had relayed to Hanna and embroidered over the years was now set in stone back home; everybody speculating where the mysterious man had gone and why he’d disappeared.
‘You mean he doesn’t live in England anymore?’ Kate was obviously surprised.
‘I’m not sure,’ she mumbled, settling for a fudge. ‘But, look, returning to my mother, you probably don’t quite realize what a lifeline her religion was. In fact, I doubt she could have managed without it. The Church rallied round to help, you see, when she was widowed and pregnant with me, and then, when
I
came home in disgrace, they were incredibly supportive again.’
Kate gave a cynical grin. ‘Relieved you hadn’t had an abortion, I suppose?’
‘Well, yes, of course, but it went much further than that.’ Maria raised her voice above the stutter of a police helicopter circling overhead. ‘We were part of a real community, with the priest on hand to help, and a definite sense of belonging. That’s important for rootless people, Kate. OK, you may find it hard to imagine, coming from your large and stable family, who’ve all lived here for generations, with not an outcast or a foreigner amongst them.’
‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have spoken. It’s just that I worry about you, Maria. I mean, forgive me for asking, but how are you coping financially?’
‘Fine. I’m living rent-free, in luxury, and Amy pays all the bills, even my food bill and phone bill. And of course she’ll give me a proper salary once I’m working as a nanny. In fact, she keeps trying to insist that I take it right away – and backdated to the day I first arrived – but I wouldn’t dream of such a thing.’
‘Why not? She was the one who asked you to come so early, so I reckon it’s your due.’
‘It isn’t, Kate – you’re wrong. I’m not doing a thing at the moment – well, a bit of ironing, maybe, and cooking the occasional meal. You see, they already have a cleaner and, in any case, they’re out so much the house stays clean and tidy.’ She took another sip of brandy, enjoying the sensation as it tingled through her empty stomach. ‘Besides, I have my pension, don’t forget, and some savings stashed away – not a lot, I admit but—’
‘And what about your expenses back home – council tax and car
insurance
and train fares when you return for visits?’
‘I can manage, honestly. I’m used to things being a bit of a struggle.’
‘But you
shouldn’t
be – that’s my whole point. In fact, it makes me feel ashamed. Paul earns a good whack and my parents left me money and I’ve never wanted for anything. For instance, just last week, I blew two hundred pounds on a haircut and barely gave it a thought.’
Maria all but gasped: £200 had been more than enough to keep her and Hanna in food for a month. And they had always cut each other’s hair – well, until her mother’s dementia. Even here in London, she had discovered a local salon with a special rate for pensioners on Mondays: a trim for just a fiver.