Nine

DAVID WAS LATE GETTING home.

Sara had known that he would be; she would have guessed it even if Charles Augre had not rung her to say that David was still working, far up in the grounds, beyond the fringe of the woodland.

She and Matt closed the shop at seven and waited for him.

After she had come back from the doctor, Sara had hesitated only a fraction before ringing the number that she had copied from the message for David. She had listened intently as Grace described her conversation with her brother; she had said no more than a dozen words of quiet commiseration before putting the phone down.

“I can’t believe it,” Matt had commented, when she put the phone down and stared at him. “How old is this daughter of his?”

“Ten.”

“And the mother is a girl David knew at Oxford?”

Sara had looked down thoughtfully at the cup of coffee he had brought her. Then looked up at him. “Anna was all he talked about that second year,” she said. “She came to Mum’s funeral, you know.”

“What, came down from Oxford?”

“Yes,” Sara said. “It was the first time I met her. As soon as they got off the bus, and I saw the way he looked at her…” She shook her head.

“And she was American.”

“Yes, she’d come over on one of those year-long exchanges.”

“And she went back at the end of the year?”

“No,” Sara said. “She left just after Easter. Just suddenly. Overnight.”

“You mean she left her course,” Matt asked, “and went home?”

“Yes.”

They stared at each other. “She was pregnant,” Matt said, voicing their thoughts. “And she never told him.”

Sara put her hand to her head. “All this time,” she murmured.

“Did he try to find her, go after her?”

“Yes,” she said. “He wrote to her. He rang her mother…”

They looked, at the same time, at Hannah, asleep in her Moses basket. “They never told him,” Sara whispered. “Why would they never tell him?”

Matt blew out a long breath of air, and shook his head. “I can’t see David wanting to know now,” he said.

Sara glanced at him. “Why not?”

Matt raised his eyebrows at her. “David?” he said. “This is your brother we’re talking about here. I’ve never seen David hold down a relationship for more than two weeks. He’s a great guy and all that, good laugh, clever bloke, but he’s not much on the commitment front, is he? How many women has he had in the last five years, since we got married? Eight? Nine?”

“Nobody serious,” Sara admitted. “Nobody for more than a month or two.”

“Exactly. And this is the man you think’s going to take on a daughter?”

“He never used to be like that,” she said. “Not so flippant. Not before Anna.”

“You’re saying this thing with Anna changed him?”

She looked at him, saw his disbelieving expression. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “He never said much. He’d get involved in his stuff, never take much notice of anyone…”

“And that’s how he was at home?”

“Pretty much. But that’s how boys are,” she countered. “Boys don’t talk. Look at Tom. He’ll thunder about on his bike for an hour, or build something. Girls don’t do that, even when they’re little. When Hannah is Tom’s age, she’ll be yattering away to her friends, and they’ll be sorting out each other’s hair, and even pretending their toys talk to each other. But boys? The closest a boy will come to getting his toys to communicate is pretending they’re slaughtering each other.”

Matt grinned. Then, just as suddenly, his face fell. “What are we going to do?” he asked.

Sara looked at him affectionately. Matt, who was an inch shorter than her, and always looked as if he’d dressed in the dark, was hardly film star material. In the past couple of years he’d put on weight, too. Probably the result of her cooking. But he was a good man. Solid and placid. And he adored his kids. He’d once told her that he never knew what life was really about until Tom arrived.

This thought suddenly galvanized her. “He’s got to go and see her.”

“Go over there?”

“Of course.”

Matt laughed out loud. “He’ll never do it.”

“He will,” Sara said. “After I’ve finished with him.”

Matt gave her a long look, shook his head, then picked up the coffee cups and took them to the sink. “Bloody good luck,” he said, over his shoulder.

After their supper, Sara went upstairs quickly, and took down the case from the top of the wardrobe. She slammed it down on the bed, went into David’s room, and came back with an armful of shirts, jeans, and underwear. With determination, she began packing.

Half an hour later she heard the outside door open and close. A murmured conversation between David and Matt; the raised voice of Tom. Then, David’s footstep on the stair.

She turned to face the door, hands on hips.

As soon as he reached the landing, he saw her. His eyes ranged from the opened suitcase to her face.

“I’m packing,” she said.

“So I see.”

“For you.”

His mouth set. Then he ran a hand over his hair.

“Don’t tell me you’re not going, because you are,” she told him.

He shook his head. “I’m hardly over the doorstep,” he complained.

“I rang Virgin,” she continued. “There’s a cancellation on their afternoon flight tomorrow. You’ll get to Boston just after five, their time.”

He was silent. He stood staring at the floor.

She walked over to him, throwing down the folded towel that she had been holding. She had taken the first one that had come to hand from the airing cupboard and had been putting it in the case. He glanced at it, at the blue and white fishes on the pattern. It was Tom’s swimming towel.

“You’re hurrying,” he remarked drily.

She looked into his face. “I’ll drive you up there tomorrow.”

“Sara,” he said, “I’m not going.”

She closed her eyes for a second.

“Look,” he said. “Don’t start shouting, and ordering me about. I’ve been thinking about it all afternoon.”

“And you’ve come to this conclusion.”

“Yes.”

“Just like that.”

“No,” he said. “Not just like that.”

“But you’ve decided that…”

He gently pushed her to one side, went into his room, and looked down at the case. He picked out first the towel, then a pair of jeans: slowly, laboriously.

“They haven’t wanted me for eleven years,” he said.

“Oh,” she responded tartly. “It’s a sulk, then, is it?”

He glanced up. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Stupid?” she echoed. “I’m being stupid? Grace Russell rings up and begs you to come and see Anna and a daughter you didn’t know you had,” she said. “My niece, by the way. And Hannah and Tom’s cousin.”

“I’m not going.”

She stepped toward him, after looking down the stairs. She closed the bedroom door behind her. “She rings you up, and begs you…”

“That’s just it,” he retorted, raising his voice. “Don’t you understand? Grace rang me up. Not Anna. Anna hasn’t changed her mind about anything. Grace rang me, because she doesn’t get on with this partner of Anna’s.”

Sara stared at him.

“Don’t you see?” he reiterated. “Grace doesn’t like this Garrett character. Can’t stand the sight of him. She said, ‘You don’t want to know him.’ You should have heard her tone of voice. She patently hates him. She just wants me to stand between him and Rachel.”

“That’s what’s called a wild guess,” Sara said. “An excuse you’ve seized upon these last couple of hours.”

“She doesn’t need me!” David objected. Color flooded his face. “Anna doesn’t need me. Grace probably just wants me to go out there so it weakens Garrett’s case. So if Anna dies she can say…”

He stopped abruptly. The color that had risen so quickly just as rapidly faded. “Listen,” he continued finally, “don’t you get it? If Anna died, there would be a court case, wouldn’t there? I’ve been thinking about it all afternoon. This Garrett person would look for custody, residence, whatever it is. Of Rachel. And if Grace doesn’t like Garrett…”

“But she’s Rachel’s grandmother,” Sara said. “She’d get custody.”

“Not necessarily,” David answered. “But if the biological father were there, she might.”

He sighed. He went to the bentwood chair by the window, and suddenly flopped down into it. The curtains were not yet drawn: the view was dusky and insubstantial. A car was threading its way along Higher Lane. He watched the headlights appearing and reappearing between the hedges until it was lost to sight.

“An art dealer,” he mused. “Ten to one, he’s filthy bloody rich.”

“What is that to do with anything?” Sara demanded.

“Because I won’t be used like a bloody pawn!” David exclaimed.

“You haven’t really thought at all,” Sara said.

He covered his eyes with both hands. “Don’t,” he muttered, from behind his hands. “Just stop.”

She strode to him, and pulled down his hands roughly. “We’re not talking about James Garrett’s partner’s daughter,” she snapped. “We’re not even talking about Grace Russell’s granddaughter. So what if they’re into some weird fight? So what if they want to tear each other’s hair out? What does it matter?”

“It matters,” he retorted.

“It doesn’t,” she cried. “Because we’re not talking about those things. Not at all! We’re talking about your daughter, David. Your daughter! That’s all that matters here!”

They stared at each other.

“Anna doesn’t want me there,” he said. He spoke very slowly. “Anna didn’t ring me. Anna didn’t ring me to say why she was leaving all those years ago, or where she was going. She didn’t ring me when Rachel was born, or when Rachel was ill, or when Rachel first went to school, or passed an exam.” He got to his feet. “And she was never going to ring me,” he added, painfully. “Not when Rachel graduated, or got married, or when Rachel had children of her own…”

Seeing the expression on his face, Sara’s eyes filled with tears.

He smiled faintly, then put his hand on her cheek. “I would only go if Anna wanted me to go,” he said softly. “But she doesn’t want that at all.”

They remained where they were for a few more seconds. Then, Sara drew back from him. She wiped one eye with the heel of her hand.

“David,” she said finally, “don’t you want to see Anna?”

He gazed at her.

“I know you do,” she said. “And…you ought to know, it’s not just an accident. I mean,” she added, frowning at herself, “it’s more serious than you thought.”

“What?” he said. “How do you know that?”

“I spoke to Grace this afternoon,” she said. “Listen—listen, don’t turn away,” she said, grabbing his arm. “She said Anna’s in a coma.”

“A coma?” he repeated.

“The doctor spoke to them. It was just after she’d rung you,” she told him.

“They can’t know that,” he said. “It’s too soon.”

“Are you going to risk it?” she asked.

“Sara, I can’t go!”

“Yes, you can,” she insisted. “What are you so afraid of?” She was almost shaking him now. He looked down at her hands on his shoulders. “Is it Garrett?” she said. “Is it Grace?”

“Of course not!”

“Then how can it be Anna?” she said. “How can Anna be angry with you? She’s ill! She’s unconscious! What, you think she’s going to sit up in bed and tear you off a strip for flying thousands of miles to see her?”

“It’s not what she wants!” he cried.

“It doesn’t matter what she wants!” Sara screamed back. “Listen to me! It’s not what Anna wants, because Anna probably won’t live to say what she wants anymore! It’s what you want!”

He took a breath, staring at her as if seeing her, horrified, for the first time.

“I’m sorry,” she said, breathing heavily. “I’m very sorry.” She pressed her fingers quickly to her mouth, as if she wished she could take the words back. “I understand what you’re saying. But…” She touched his arm briefly, then let her hand drop. “Anna’s wishes have been overtaken by her own mother,” she reminded him. “You can’t turn that back now, and make it what it was before. Grace took the decision to tell you and, whatever Anna wanted before, it’s different now. Now it isn’t Anna,” she said. “It’s you. You’ve got to do something about this.”

He was looking at her intently.

But he wasn’t seeing Sara.

He was seeing Anna, at nineteen, walking from Merton Field and through the Botanic Garden. He saw her, with her head down against a persistent March rain, coming to meet him, turning right at the gate as she always did, passing under the two-hundred-year-old black poplar with its massive branches and their vast and lazy curves.

And he thought of Anna that same weekend, that late March weekend when he first knew that something was wrong, going back to the Ashmolean after that conversation under the Magdalen Tower; and he had followed her there and watched her go through the door, and felt afraid, because he knew that something was wrong and he couldn’t fathom it. She had a different look in her eye. She had that hunched-up walk that he had thought about so often since, and always decided that it had been the bitter weather of that spring.

And now he knew that it hadn’t been the weather at all, but something else. A secret she was keeping.

He saw her often in his imagination. On the bridge or the water walks, or the Angel and Greyhound Meadows, or inside the Carfax Tower, on the steep stairwell where there was no room for another person to pass. They had kissed there, she on one step and he on the step below, and they had emerged at the top breathless and laughing. He had been suddenly struck by vertigo, and held on to the parapet, without knowing if it was the kiss or the height that had caused it. And, as they had come down, the quarter-jacks had struck. He had looked at his watch, and seen it was two-fifteen, and the hour stayed for months in his head, two-fifteen, two-fifteen, as if it were witching hour, white magic.

Anything could make him remember. It wasn’t hard.

There was a piece of sculpture in the Ashmolean; not stone, but wood. “The Virgin of the Immaculate Conception.” It was wood and polychrome. The label said that it came from a Jesuit mission in Pôrto Alegre, Brazil. Anna had loved that statue. It was a native carving of the Virgin, and Anna had loved how the hair, thick and dark and heavily stranded, like twists of fine rope, merged with the cloak. The sculpture was supposed to be an image of Christ’s mother, but she was Native Indian, so much more powerful than the insipidly pale European version. Anna would look at her face, her eyes, at the folded hands. “Beautiful,” she would murmur. “Beautiful.”

She pointed things out to him like that. The monochrome studies of Peter Paul Rubens, drawn for a church in Antwerp and never used. “The Sacrifice of Noah” with its upward-flowing movement.

“What has he sacrificed?” he had asked her, peering at the little frame.

“I don’t know,” she told him. “It doesn’t matter. Look at the rush in that drawing. Look at the horses in ‘The Conversion of St. Paul’ underneath it. Look at the way everything centers on him.”

He had tried to see. He wanted to see through her eyes.

He had never felt that way about a girl before. Sometimes he had thought he had never even been alive before. And all the years growing up in the cool shadow of his father, trying to get out from under that blankness, that frigidity, that threat of being like him, that sense of being removed from the rest of the world—all of that had abruptly vanished under Anna’s touch. When he was with her he was no longer worried that he would end up like his father. He was alive for the first time. The world was not behind some invisible sheet of glass, it was real and vibrant, and in his grasp. Anna was in his grasp, with her acute vision of color and movement, her connection with people, her quick intelligence. Anna was in his hands, literally. Anna’s warm body, her urgency to be loved. Her kisses and whispers, the sensation of her fingers on his neck, his back, pressing over his heart so that he would have willingly, willingly done anything she wanted.…

She gave him the world; and it was a world he felt, at last, was his to take, his to inherit. He was sublimely alive and part of humanity at last.

It was just three months after they had met. It was just before Christmas. It was by another painting she liked, the picture of the chestnut tree. “Don’t ever leave,” he had told her.

She had looked at him with utter seriousness, in response to the words that he had tried to make lighthearted. “I have to go back to the U.S. in July,” she told him.

“Yes, I know,” he’d said. “Oh! Here’s an idea. Maybe I’ll come with you.”

She had pushed back from him, and held him at arm’s length. “Come with me?” she’d asked. “But, David, you have your Finals next year.”

“I know that.”

“You’re surely not serious.”

He had shrugged. “Who knows?” he’d said. “I could meet your mother. Who wants to sit Finals when they could be meeting your mother?”

“Don’t joke about it,” she’d responded.

He had wrapped his arms around her in front of Bevan’s green-and-gray angular picture. Over her shoulder, he saw that there were animals in that painting. Pigs. There were pigs in the painting, grazing in the foreground.

The incongruity had struck him, how pigs couldn’t be less romantic, and how an artist could put pigs in a picture and still get away with it, make it seem idyllic still, and he’d drawn back, laughing, just as she was now laughing outright at his own absurdity.

“You’re crazy,” she said. “You know that?”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “But the world is that way. It’s full of surprises. Maybe you could stay here. That’s the other alternative.”

“But I have a course to finish in the U.S.,” she’d said.

There was, at last, a beat of complete seriousness between them. “So, what?” he’d asked. “You’ll go back, and that’s it?”

“No,” she’d said. “I don’t know. I haven’t worked it out.”

“Well, we should work it out.”

She’d crossed her arms, hugging herself.

“Too soon to talk about?” he’d asked, trying to read the expression in her eyes.

“Yes,” she’d said with a shrug. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Right,” he’d replied, linking his arm in hers and casting one look backward toward the Bevan. “No M words.”

“M words?” she’d asked.

They reached the door, and he glanced back at her. “Migration, master’s degrees, marriage.”

“Marriage?” she’d echoed.

He’d wagged an admonishing finger at her. To tell the truth, he had frightened himself in that moment. He took a small step backward, into his father’s shade. “I said not to mention M words,” he said.

She’d smiled. “Nothing beginning with M, right?”

“Right,” he’d replied. “Mertensia maritima. Menyanthaceae. Melilotus altissima. Myosotis scorpioides. Myosotis arvenisis. No stuff like that.”

“As if I would.” She’d grinned.

He had lifted her hand, and kissed the warm flesh of her wrist, where the pulse beat under his lips. “Anyway, Vergissmeinnicht sounds much nicer than Myosotis,” he’d told her. “Even though it’s the same plant.”

“And what plant is that?” she’d asked.

“David,” Sara murmured.

He came back to the present, to the bedroom under the eaves. To the sound of the children downstairs.

He looked down at the half-packed case.

“Forget-me-not,” he said to himself. He picked up the towel, folded it slowly, and replaced it in the suitcase. “Forget-me-not,” he repeated in a murmur. “Vergissmeinnicht.”