Natalie went up to the Abbey grounds to see Peter the groundsman. He swept; she walked along beside him. She had collected her DHSS draft and had managed to give Sonia the slip somewhere in Glastonbury. Ben and Alice now walked home from school by themselves; Ben put up with the embarrassment of being seen with his sister with the merest shrug, as if this was the least of his troubles. Sometimes Natalie could hear him through the bathroom wall crying in his sleep, but by day he was brisk, competent and distant, and seemed to make no distinction between Sonia and his mother, which might have been an elaborate act of revenge or might not, how could Natalie tell? Certainly he blamed Natalie for so carelessly losing his father. As for Alice, it was hard to tell what went on in her head. She sucked her thumb, and played with Teresa as if she were the same age and not four years older, and pulled Edwina’s hair when she thought no one was looking. The clear-eyed, protected look had gone. Alice no longer prattled, but whined. Perhaps she was just growing older; perhaps she was deeply traumatized? Who would ever know, who could ever tell?
‘You ought to tell them about Harry,’ said Sonia.
‘But I have nothing to say,’ said Natalie.
And indeed, what was there to say? ‘Your father really loves you.’ Absurd. ‘He really loves me.’ Nonsense. ‘He’s coming back soon.’ Unlikely. ‘He’s gone mad, had a brainstorm.’ Lies. He’d left her and the children in the shit and buggered off and what was the point of talking about it. Least said, soonest mended.
She’d written to Harry’s father in Geneva, finding the address by chance on the back of a Christmas card envelope while she was packing up Dunbarton, and there had even been a reply. No, he hadn’t heard from Harry, nor did he expect to. He was sorry to hear what had happened but the state of his health and his finances would not allow him to get involved. Piss off, Natalie, in other words. She hated Harry and hated to see him in her children. She grieved for them and was cold to them at the same time. Just as Sonia saw Stephen looking out of the eyes of Teresa, Bess and Edwina, Natalie saw Harry in Alice and Ben. Once you have children by a man, that’s it. You are never free of him, unless you can free yourself of your children too. Chances are you can’t. Chances are they’ll turn up at your funeral and throw a rose or so into your grave.
Sonia gets on all right without her children. If they want to strike up a relationship with her when they’re teenagers and can wipe their own noses that’s fine by Sonia. Their stepmother, Sandy, is okay. Sonia used to know her well. Steady, Catholic, moral, plain, doesn’t say much but tidies up a treat. Will suit Stephen down to the ground. Sandy will never be found in delicto flagrante, or in flagranto delicte, or whatever, when Stephen goes to open the back of the family car. Sandy will never crack sour jokes and upset people. Sandy will stop Edwina painting her toenails and backcombing her hair at the age of five. Five, yes. Was four, is five. Sandy will have given Edwina a birthday party. Stepmothers are always in the business of doing better than the mother. Sandy will have put up with the racket and boredom and mess of the party without a murmur. And cleared it up, quick, so Stephen could stand in front of his hearth and have a quiet glass of sherry before dinner. Let Sandy do it. Good luck to her. She’ll need it. It’s Sonia the kids will want later. Sonia will never lose them now. Those you want for ever, give away. Like boomerangs, they’ll return.
Sonia hopes Sandy made the cake herself, that’s all. That it wasn’t a shop one; not for Edwina, who’s so special.
Here come Sonia’s pills. She needs them! Goodnight.