Miriam sat on the stairs ready to greet any late arrivals, making the most of the barely perceptible updraft. The party was well underway and she was contemplating abandoning her post and escaping to her room when the doorbell rang.
A man – dark hair, mid-twenties – stood on the step. ‘Edlin residence?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Taxi for Siskin.’
Crisp white shirt, silk tie. He looked nothing like the taxi drivers she was used to seeing and her misgiving must have been evident.
‘Well, not exactly a taxi,’ he said. ‘I’ve come to pick up my parents.’ He held out his hand. ‘Sam.’
‘Miriam,’ she said. ‘Have we met?’
‘Afraid not.’ He smiled, revealing white, regular teeth. A man not a boy. ‘If we had, I’d surely have remembered.’ He was looking at her with unmistakable admiration and she blushed, flummoxed by this stranger’s openness.
Her father chose that moment to emerge from the living room. ‘Sam, my boy. Come in and join the party. You’ll have to excuse me for a moment.’ He inclined his head towards the kitchen door. ‘I’m on ice duty. Mim, why don’t you find our guest something to drink?’
‘I’ve a better idea, Dad,’ she said, ‘why don’t I get the ice and you look after Mr Siskin?’
He laughed as if she’d suggested something preposterous. ‘You’d rather talk to a pretty girl, wouldn’t you, Sam?’
Without waiting for an answer, he pottered off, leaving her no option but to lead Sam Siskin through to the dining room and the remains of the buffet lunch.
‘D’you know my father well?’ she said.
‘We’ve met a few times. He called at the house last week, actually. Some business he and my dad were doing.’
‘Business?’ She frowned. ‘He’s never mentioned you.’
It was Sam’s turn to look uncomfortable. ‘I’ve been working in Amsterdam.’
Now she was supposed to ask what he’d been doing in Amsterdam, and why he’d returned, but she was damned if she’d participate in what was her father’s blatant attempt at matchmaking.
‘Twenty-five years,’ he said, pointing at the cake, pristine amongst plates of curling sandwiches and crumpled napkins. ‘That’s quite an achievement.’
‘Not really. Once you’ve made your bed, you must lie in it. That’s the Edlin motto.’ This explanation of her parents’ stoic and incomprehensible union hadn’t crossed her mind until now but it made depressing sense.
‘I’m not saying they don’t love each other,’ she said, relenting slightly. ‘What I’m saying is, even if they didn’t, they’d rather soldier on than admit it.’
He nodded, an indulgent smile playing across his face, and she wanted to throw the wretched cake at his head.
‘Help yourself to a drink,’ she said, ‘unless you’re in a rush to get away.’
Ignoring the dig, he poured a glass of lemonade. ‘Aren’t you having anything?’
‘I’ve got things to do,’ she said.
Every window in the house was open yet her bedroom, tucked beneath the eaves, was stifling. A mishmash of party food and the sweet sherry Aunt Bea had forced on her had coagulated in her stomach and she was feeling queasy. Taking a book from her pile of vacation reading, she flopped on the bed. But whichever way she turned, however many times she flipped the pillow, she couldn’t get cool or comfortable. Even Gatsby was unable to take her mind off the heat, the twinges in her stomach and her quarrel with Bing.
It had started when he’d got hold of Terry Garner’s picture postcard. ‘Who’s this from?’ he’d said, waving it in front of her. ‘Nobody. He’s in my year,’ she’d said. ‘So why’s he sending you “love and kisses”?’ ‘Don’t be silly. It’s a figure of speech. And who gave you permission to read my mail?’ Like a snowball rolling down a mountain, their bickering had gathered momentum, until finally it careered out of control. That was three days ago and they hadn’t spoken since. He’d better get his act together soon because next week he was off on some stupid family holiday.
The discomfort in her stomach intensified to a griping ache and, easing herself off the bed, she made for the bathroom. Perched on the edge of the bath, she rested her forehead on the cool porcelain of the hand basin. A shiver raised goosebumps on her arms and, dropping to her knees, she wrapped her arms around the lavatory bowl, bracing herself as she began to heave, each convulsion stronger than the last. She gagged a few times, sweat gathering at the nape of her neck. And then she was sick. But it wasn’t over yet and she stayed there until she’d gone through the loathsome business twice more. When there was nothing left to come, she got to her feet, sweat cold on her back.
‘Miriam?’ Her mother was at the door.
‘I’m on the loo.’
‘Well don’t be too long. Your father wants to cut the cake.’
But what do you want, Mum?
She flushed the lavatory, rinsed her mouth and gargled. She cleaned her teeth and sluiced her face with cold water. When she checked the mirror, her face was pale, her eyes dark-ringed. Brushing back her hair, she caught it in a rubber band, giving an extra tug to ensure it was as straight as it could be. Back in her room, she shucked off her damp, rumpled dress and slipped into shorts and a cotton shirt. She felt lightheaded and her throat burned but she felt much, much better. Laughter filtered in through the open fanlight; someone was playing the piano. ‘Some Enchanted Evening’, her mother’s favourite.
Poor Mum. Miriam had written to Danny begging him to come home for the party, saying how much it would mean to them – and her. He’d replied with a vague and selfish ‘things are up in the air here’. At least he hadn’t given a definite ‘no’. But, as the days rolled by, she’d lost hope. Once again it fell to her to carry the weight of his absence.
The cake had been relocated to the coffee table in the living room and her parents were standing guard alongside it, looking proud yet self-conscious.
‘Here she is,’ her father said.
Heads turned towards her and she blushed as someone she didn’t recognise took a photograph. She must have looked about twelve years old with her ponytail and shorts. Her father beckoned her to join them. From his off-centre smile she could tell that he was tipsy and when the three linked arms, they were almost a family again. Her parents joined hands and cut the cake, the knife blade fracturing the icing like the prow of an ice-breaker forging through the Arctic floe. A cheer went up and cries of ‘speech, speech’. Her father had spent several evenings at his desk preparing a speech but when the moment came, overcome with the occasion, all that came out were sentimental remarks and incoherent jokes.
Uncle Michael – who had been their best man – took over, feigning reluctance whilst pulling his speech from his trouser pocket and she grabbed the chance to slip out of the limelight. Her uncle soon found his stride, listing the (unrecognisable) qualities of Harold and Freda Edlin’s marriage, sidestepping the issue of Danny as if the happy couple had produced only one (perfect) child. He was exceedingly ‘merry’, as were the guests. Loosened ties, rolled shirtsleeves, smudged lipstick, loud laughter – against all odds, it was turning into a jolly affair. She was glad they were having a good time but she felt this celebration had nothing to do with her, and when no one was looking, she escaped into the garden. The shadows were lengthening but it was as hot as ever, the air still and heavy. She sat on a low wall, listening to distant church bells, watching a column of flying ants make its way in and out of a crack in the dusty brickwork.
Something made her look up. At the far end of the lawn, beyond the clump of red hot pokers, a dark-haired man was sitting on the grass, leaning against the trunk of the cherry tree. Raising her hand, she started towards him. ‘Danny?’
But when he stood up she saw it was Sam Siskin.
August hurtled into September, the days clouded by her impending separation from Bing. Every hour became overly precious, burdened with expectation. A misjudged word or a tactless comment resulted in tears or sullen silence. As if that weren’t enough, she had to endure the drip, drip, drip of parental disapproval until she could scarcely bear to be in the house with them.
She and Bing were coming out of the cinema when someone called her name. Sam Siskin was walking towards them, suited and carrying a briefcase. He stopped and she had no option but to introduce the two men. They shook hands and she thought that would be the end of it but Sam fell in with them, chatting as they walked. Had they’d enjoyed the film? When did term start? Would they like a lift? It was no trouble – his car was parked around the corner. Bing draped an arm around her shoulder and snapped a refusal, embarrassing her with his churlishness. But Sam smiled his good-natured smile and wished them good evening. As soon as he was out of sight, Bing gave her the third degree. Who exactly was this Sam? How many times had she met him? Why hadn’t she mentioned him? Did she think him good looking? Worrying away at it until the evening was ruined.
Her parents were more demanding than ever, doing everything they could to ensure she had no time to spend with Bing. And Bing wasn’t helping by going on and on about Sam Siskin. Hard though it was to admit, their attachment was becoming a source of pain as well as pleasure.
‘Let’s drop out,’ Bing said.
‘And do what?’
‘Be together. You and me. Let’s find a place where no one knows us. Where nothing can spoil it.’
She held him close. ‘As soon as I’ve finished college, I’ll find a job in London. We’ll rent a flat.’
‘But that’s two whole years away.’
‘It’s not as if we won’t see each other.’
‘It’s killing me,’ he said. ‘You’re slipping away. I can feel it.’
A few days later, Sam brought some documents for her father. She kept out of the way, spying from the landing window, watching the two men laughing and chatting in the garden. If only her father could be like that with Bing, she could be rid of the permanent knot in her stomach.
No doubt about it, Frankie Slattery was a flaky friend – out of touch for months and when she did show up, making promises she wouldn’t keep. But the thing about Frankie was that she never passed judgement or made assumptions. She had an offbeat take on things. For this reason, Miriam needed to talk to her. There were rumours she was living in Brighton with a man twice her age. Miriam called at the house, hoping one of the Slattery clan would know how to contact her, but the family had upped sticks without leaving a forwarding address.
Two days before Miriam was due back at college, Frankie showed up.
‘God, I need to talk to you,’ Miriam said when the screeching and hugging had subsided.
‘Who is it?’ her mother called from the kitchen.
‘It’s Frankie.’
Her mother had never known what to make of Frankie, clearly on pins whenever the girl was around in case she did something outrageous. (She wouldn’t approve of her current look – improbably blond hair, heavy duty makeup, satin jumpsuit.) But, knowing how ‘difficult’ Frankie’s home life was, she ‘made allowances’, treating her like an animal whose unpredictability was due to maltreatment.
‘Hi, Mrs Edlin,’ Frankie said. ‘What’s new?’
Her mother looked anxious as if she might give a wrong answer. ‘Nothing that I can think of, dear. What are you doing these days?’
Frankie gave a bowdlerised version of her circumstances and as soon as they could, the girls escaped and headed for the park.
‘What’s the problem?’ Frankie said. ‘Tell me you’re not still with Bing.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘God, you are, aren’t you?’
‘Please don’t be mean. We love each other. We’re soulmates.’
Frankie sighed. ‘If it’s all so perfect, why d’you need to talk to me?’
‘It’s really, really hard,’ she said. And it came tumbling out. The pressure of separation. The misunderstandings. The opposition from her parents, and recently their unashamed attempt at matchmaking.
‘Bing’s a sweet guy,’ Frankie said, ‘but there are masses of lovely men out there. How can you be sure he’s the one if he’s the only one you’ve had?’
‘You’re suggesting I put myself about a bit?’ Miriam said. ‘That’s worked for you, has it?’
‘I’m not looking for a soulmate, Mim. I don’t go in for that moon-and-June rubbish. It’s bollocks.’
Miriam could see why someone whose father had walked out would take this line. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I didn’t mean to snap. I’m feeling a bit raw, that’s all.’
She treated them to choc ices from the kiosk near the park gates and they made their way to the bench where they’d shared so many secrets.
‘Aren’t you going to tell me about this new man of yours?’ Miriam said.
‘I thought you’d never ask. His name’s Geoff Tarrant. He’s forty-eight. Divorced. Two grown up children.’
‘Children. Gosh. How did you meet him?’
‘He advertised for a receptionist and I applied. He’s an estate agent. You’d like him. He’s kind and gentle and, before you start criticising, he’s what I need right now.’ Frankie cleared her throat. ‘Mum’s in hospital. Cancer. She’s not going to make it.’
Miriam took her friend’s hand, cold from gripping the ice cream. ‘Oh, God. I’m so, so sorry. And here I am, wittering on.’
‘You weren’t to know. And life must go on, as they say.’
The park was hectic with children letting off steam on their way home from school. And there were mothers everywhere: mothers carrying things, mothers pushing prams, mothers waiting, mothers chivvying, mothers chatting. Mothers, alive and well.
After a while Frankie said, ‘You know we’ve never hit it off – Mum and me. Apparently I’m too much like my dad, whatever that means. But she’s still my mum. I kinda assumed we’d work things out one day, but she’s out of it most of the time. Doesn’t have a clue who I am. So we’re not going to get the chance.’
Not knowing what to say, she put her arm around Frankie’s shoulders. ‘Your brothers? Are they doing their bit?’
‘You’re joking. Mick’s in Borstal. Johnny’s in denial.’
‘Where are you staying? There’s room at ours if you’re stuck.’
‘I’m in a B&B, near the hospital. It’s fine. Honestly.’ She jumped up. ‘That’s enough of that. What d’you reckon to my outfit?’
‘It’s very… shiny.’
Frankie set her face in a scowl and slunk along the tarmac path, hand on hip. ‘It’s Biba. Geoff chose it.’ She grinned. ‘Don’t give me that po-faced look, Miriam Edlin.’
Frankie was perched on the bedroom window sill, whiling away the time until the start of hospital visiting. ‘There’s a man coming up your path.’
Miriam joined her and they peeped down into the front garden. ‘I told you my parents are trying to set me up. Well, that’s him. That’s Sam.’
‘You didn’t mention the fact he’s bloody gorgeous.’
‘Is he? I hadn’t noticed.’
There was a rat-tat on the knocker and before Miriam could stop her, Frankie was downstairs, introducing herself to Sam Siskin.
‘Hello, Miriam,’ he said when Frankie stopped flirting. ‘Is your dad home?’
‘Not yet. And it’s Mum’s whist afternoon.’
‘No problem. I’ll call back later.’
‘Actually, we’re about to have a coffee,’ Frankie said, turning to Miriam and raising her eyebrows.
‘I’d love a cup of tea, if that’s possible,’ Sam said and Miriam found herself making drinks while Frankie ramped up the charm, laughing too loudly, leaning too close to the ‘bloody gorgeous’ visitor.
When she could bear Frankie’s flirting no longer, she tapped her watch. ‘Isn’t it time you were heading for the hospital?’
‘Let me give you a lift,’ Sam said, draining his cup. Miriam was amazed that he’d been so easily reeled in.
‘That’s very sweet of you,’ Frankie said.
He turned to Miriam. ‘Why don’t you come? Your dad might be home by the time we get back.’
She couldn’t help but smile. ‘Okay.’
They’d dropped Frankie at the hospital and were making slow progress in the heavy traffic.
‘Don’t you drink coffee?’ she said.
‘I love coffee. But I’ve learned from experience that people are less likely to ruin tea. And d’you realise, that’s the first time you’ve asked me a personal question?’
‘Is that good or bad?’ she said.
‘It’s an observation.’
When they got back, her parents were in the kitchen, visibly bewildered to see her walk in with Sam Siskin. She hastened to explain and they expressed regret that Frankie’s mother was so ill. ‘I never knew her, of course,’ her mother said, the past tense laying Mrs Slattery firmly in the grave.
Sam appeared to be completely at ease in the kitchen – chatting, recounting anecdotes of his working day. When it was time for him to go, it seemed natural they all traipse out to see him off.
Later that evening, her father kissed her forehead. ‘You’re a good daughter.’
She couldn’t recall when he’d last told her that.
The long vacation came to an end. Once again, Bing’s term started before hers. This time their parting went to plan but their final evening together was fraught with tension. He kept on and on, making her promise she wouldn’t so much as look at another man and neither of them could face the extravagant meal which had cost Bing a week’s grant.
This year she was sharing a basement flat with two other girls. Trips to the launderette, meter money, scrappy meals, plumbing crises, tetchy neighbours – all conspired to gobble up time and money. Student life had lost its shine and ‘second year blues’ infected all three of them with chronic doubt. They questioned the competence of lecturers, the relevance of the course, the sanity of parents, the general world order.
Bing’s timetable meant his free time came in useless chunks – a day here, half a day there – never long enough to allow him to visit her and, yet again, it fell to her to make trips to London. To be honest, life felt rather joyless.
Frankie travelled back to visit her mother every couple of weeks. When she did, she called in on the Edlins, something which Miriam’s mother reported in her weekly letter. ‘That girl’s not as wild as she likes to make out,’ she wrote. ‘She’s very loyal to her poor mother.’ She wasn’t sure she liked the idea of her mother and Frankie buddying up.
Mrs Slattery clung to life longer than seemed possible. Frankie was with her when she finally slipped away. ‘As if she waited for her to get there,’ her mother said. The funeral was scheduled for a Wednesday morning and Miriam’s tutor gave her leave to miss lectures. Geoff, whom she’d assumed would come to support Frankie, was ‘away on a business trip’ and she ended up sitting next to Frankie, amidst the ragtag of Slatteries. The service was held in the bland crematorium chapel. Frankie was impassive throughout and Miriam wondered whether she was on medication. They were in and out in fifteen minutes. A woman had been in the world – and now she wasn’t. Was this pathetic effort the best they could do to mark the shocking reality? Miriam decided she would rather be devoured by a lion, or fall into a volcano than disappear behind a beige curtain like poor Brenda Slattery.
Afterwards they stood outside in a shifty gaggle, smoking and looking wary as if they couldn’t wait to be somewhere else. Miriam recognised Frankie’s brother Mick. The expressionless man standing close to him was, she guessed, a Borstal employee. The mourners were heading for the pub but she managed to snatch a few minutes with Frankie before leaving to catch her train back to Manchester.
‘Thanks for coming,’ Frankie said. ‘You didn’t have to.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘Your parents have been really kind.’ She hesitated. ‘Sam, too.’
‘Sam?’
She shrugged. ‘You did say you weren’t interested.’
‘I’m not.’
‘A word of warning from Auntie Frankie. Your parents don’t get to choose who you marry. Okay?’
They hugged, making the customary promises to keep in touch and as Frankie walked away she turned and shouted, ‘In case you’re interested, I don’t stand a snowball’s chance with Sam. It’s you he wants.’
Freda Edlin wrote to her son on the first day of every month, marking the calendar with a tiny ‘D’, as if to prove she’d done it. Danny replied if and when he felt like it, but he also wrote to Miriam at her college address. It was plain from the references to Ava and Pearl that these letters were meant for her eyes only. Not even Bing knew about them. She kept the letters hidden in her ring binders, amongst essays on Chaucer and the Romantic Poets. The truth was, Danny was testing her, pushing her loyalty to its limit, but this wasn’t a problem because secrecy had become a habit.
When she wrote to her brother she did her best to make her letters interesting. He didn’t want to read about her rows with Bing or their parents’ objections to their friendship. Instead she wrote about the ‘stimulating’ time she was having at college and the ‘fascinating people’ she encountered. She avoided mentioning her disappointment at his missing the party, or asking when he might next come home.
Sometimes it was hard to believe Daniel Edlin was a real person and not a version of the tooth fairy.
Partway through the spring term, Miriam was laid low with glandular fever which had gone undiagnosed for a few weeks, her exhaustion and sore throat attributed to overwork and late nights. In the end she went to Student Health where the doctor advised her to go home and take it easy for a few weeks. ‘I’ll pack tonight. Catch the first train tomorrow,’ she told her mother when she rang to tell them.
She mustn’t fall behind. She needed to pack her course notes. And books. But which ones? And where was that Keats essay? Come on. Washing her hair might perk her up. But someone had used all the hot water and, tearful, she crawled beneath the blankets.
She must have slept because she was aware of someone tapping her gently on the shoulder. ‘Taxi for Edlin.’
‘Mmmm? What?’ Squinting against the daylight she saw Sam Siskin standing next to her bed. ‘I don’t understand. Why are you here?’ She sat up. Her ears and her eyes ached and she was parched. ‘What’s the time?’
‘Nine-thirty.’ He pointed to the suitcase and rucksack near the door. ‘You get dressed and I’ll put your stuff in the car. Is this the lot?’
She didn’t have the will to argue. She gulped down a tumbler of water and struggled into her clothes, explaining to her flatmate that she was going home and had no idea when she would be well enough to return. Louise’s only concern was whether glandular fever was infectious.
A pillow and blanket lay on the back seat of Sam’s car. ‘Make yourself comfy. We’ll soon have you home.’
There were questions to ask but she couldn’t get the words together.
The family doctor reiterated what she’d been told – rest, fluids, time. He filled in a form confirming the diagnosis. ‘Send this to your tutor. We don’t want them thinking you’re swinging the lead, do we?’
Bing weighed on her mind. He didn’t know she was at home. She needed to speak to him in case he phoned the flat and got the wrong end of the stick. But she couldn’t face the hoohah that would ensue if she asked to make a long distance call to Paul Crosby – not when her head was stuffed with cotton wool.
Time became variable – rushing then standing still. It took an effort to cross the landing to the bathroom. Her body smelled stagnant no matter how hard she scrubbed it. When she brushed her hair, her scalp felt tender. She was exhausted yet couldn’t sleep. Her father solved this by buying her a snazzy little transistor radio – ‘An early birthday present for my favourite daughter’ – and she dozed through Desert Island Discs and Woman’s Hour, rarely making it to the end of the afternoon play.
She’d been too woozy on the drive home to establish why Sam had come to collect her. It seemed he’d been at the house when she’d phoned. Her mother had gone into a flat spin and he’d offered to set off early next morning to bring her home. It had been extremely kind – or extremely calculated – on his part but, either way, she was grateful to him. She couldn’t have coped with the train journey.
Whilst she was sleeping, one of her flatmates phoned to inquire how she was (‘Louise? Or Lisa?’ – her mother wasn’t sure) and she seized her chance to make a long distance call. ‘It’s Louise. And would it be okay if I phone her back? I think I forgot to unplug my table lamp.’ (Plugs left in sockets were on her parents’ list of deadliest sins.)
After all that, Bing wasn’t there and all she could do was leave a message with his housemate. ‘Can you tell Paul I’m at home, ill? It’s really, really important. You won’t forget, will you?’
When her father came in from work, he perched on the end of her bed, telling her about the new secretary who’d managed to lock the filing cabinet and lose the key, doing his best to raise a smile. Her mother brought her a mug of Ovaltine. ‘It’ll build you up.’ Miriam couldn’t stand the sickly stuff but she drank a little and disposed of the rest when she cleaned her teeth.
All evening she was on pins, imaging the worst case scenario – Bing comes back late, gets her message, panics and phones in the middle of the night – and she lay in bed, door ajar, pretending to read, all set to rush down if the phone should ring.
Not long after ten, she heard the plugs being pulled out and bolts being drawn on the front door. The stairs creaked as her parents came up to bed, whispering in case she was asleep. She imagined them a few feet away, undressing and climbing into bed, lying side by side in the darkness, fretting about her. They loved her, and she loved them, which made everything so much more complicated.
Her mother was at the hairdresser’s when Bing’s letter plopped on the mat. She tore it open, expecting words of comfort, instead finding a few terse sentences.
Miriam. I don’t understand. Why are you refusing to speak to me? If you are going to dump me I’d rather you come straight out and do it. I have important exams coming up and I can’t concentrate. Paul
It was as if she’d come in halfway through a conversation and she had to read it a few times before the penny dropped. Bing must have phoned and her father or mother – father most likely – had blocked him. Whatever they said had clearly wounded him. (‘Miriam’. ‘Paul’. So cold.) This misunderstanding needed to be resolved before it wreaked more damage. She tried ringing Bing again, her anxiety increasing with each unanswered jangle. How were they ever to sort this out? When she was able to get to the phone, he was at lectures. By the time he came home, her parents were guarding the telephone, watching her. Her mouth tasted foul and everything ached. All she wanted was to creep back into bed.
Aunt Bea arrived with a bar of Dairy Milk and a clutch of glossy magazines. Freda Edlin’s older sister was endowed with a double helping of the wit and confidence she lacked. The moment she walked through the door, the house came alive.
‘How’s my lovely niece?’ she said.
‘Cheesed off.’
‘What does the doctor advise?’
‘Bed rest. Peace and quiet. Blah, blah, blah.’
Aunt Bea grimaced. ‘Sounds deadly.’ She lifted Miriam’s chin with her finger and squinted at her face. ‘Mmmm. You could do with a pick-me-up.’
Raising her voice she called, ‘Freda? I’m taking this young woman out for a spin.’
‘Where are we going?’ Miriam said.
‘I thought we’d take afternoon tea somewhere smart. See how the other half lives.’
The Angel Hotel was in the centre of the city, near the cathedral. She’d passed by dozens of times but never dared set foot inside.
‘We’ll have our tea in the lounge,’ Aunt Bea said. ‘It’s cosier.’
She surveyed the scene. A log fire. Waitresses in brown dresses and cream pinafores. The aroma of coffee and cigarette smoke. The hum of conversation punctuated with fluting laughter. They drank black tea with slices of lemon from glasses in filigree holders. They chose cakes from a tiered stand – Miriam, a strawberry tartlet, Aunt Bea, a meringue. A man wearing a bow tie sat down at the piano and began playing something vaguely classical. It was worlds away from the Kardomah where she and her mother used to go after buying her school shoes or visiting the dentist.
‘This is heaven,’ she said, ‘but it must cost a fortune.’
Her aunt squeezed her arm. ‘A little tip. No matter how fancy the place, you can always afford afternoon tea.’
Miriam settled back in her chair and closed her eyes, swaddled in the murmur of conversation. ‘I’d like to stay here forever. Away from the hassle. Not having to think of the future.’
Her aunt patted her hand. ‘Poor Miriam. It’s been hard for you since Danny left. I still don’t understand what happened. He was the sweetest little boy. Loving. Polite. Biddable. Then he went off to university and he changed beyond all recognition. Your Uncle Michael and I wondered whether he’d been brainwashed. The Moonies, or whatever they call themselves.’
‘I do miss him terribly. Mum and Dad seem to forget his absence affects me too. I’ve suddenly become an only child. It wouldn’t be so bad if I had another brother or sister.’
Her aunt’s eyebrows dipped. ‘It’s not my place to tell you this…’
Miriam raised herself up in the chair. ‘Tell me what?’
‘Oh, dear. I’m really not sure…’
‘Aunt Bea.’
‘Well, I suppose you’re old enough. And it might help you understand why your mother’s… the way she is.’ Aunt Bea leaned closer. ‘Did you never wonder why there was five years between Danny and you?’
‘Not really. I assumed it panned out that way.’
Her aunt shook her head. ‘Your mother lost two babies before you.’ She paused. ‘She was quite far into both those pregnancies. It was harrowing.’
Her mother, lying amongst bloodied sheets.
‘The doctors advised them against trying again, but your mother took it into her head that one child didn’t make for a proper family. And you’re the proof of her determination.’
Her mother? Determined?
‘Dad didn’t bully her into it?’
‘Absolutely not. As a matter of fact, he did his level best to dissuade her. You might find this hard to believe but your mother can – or could – be very stubborn. She fell pregnant again first time of trying and she sailed through the pregnancy despite having Danny to look after. Then, by all accounts, an easy delivery. And you were such a beautiful baby. It was a miracle. “Everything’s too perfect, Bea,” she used to say. “Something’s bound to go wrong.” And it did. Danny left.’
‘But they knew he’d go sooner or later. That’s how it works. I’ll be off before long.’
Her aunt nodded. ‘Of course. But there are right ways and wrong ways of leaving, and anything that causes that much pain can’t be right.’
Aunt Bea edged still closer until Miriam felt her warm breath on her cheek. ‘When Danny changed from that sweet boy to a cruel, selfish stranger, your mother was distraught. And then when he upped and went to America, it drove her right to the edge. If she didn’t have you…’
And there, in the lounge of the Angel Hotel, Miriam Edlin let Paul Crosby slip away.