Mum stops. She’s becoming agitated; her breathing is shallow and she can’t stand still. Neither can I. Sarah is here in England, and she’s pregnant. I follow her back to the lounge, where her breathing gets worse .
With a mechanical detachment I start talking her through one of Derek’s breathing exercises. I guide her into long, slow out breaths, and I wonder why she’s speaking up now, after having kept all this secret for so many months. It’s not in her interest to be telling me Sarah’s back, let alone pregnant. Mum hates the idea of me even thinking about Sarah Harrington.
It’s got something to do with Sarah’s parents, I think. It’s something to do with them leaving the cafe at a run. I stare desperately at Mum as she gets her breathing back under control. Tell me! I want to yell. Tell me everything! Instead I go with a mild, ‘And do you know anything else? About how she is? How things have been?’
‘I believe she has been in a very depressed state,’ Mum says, eventually. ‘Wouldn’t tell any of them who the father was.’
Hope starts to bud.
‘The funeral was the first time she had seen Hannah in nearly twenty years. Hannah told me she and her sister . . . they . . . agreed that there had been enough loss. They agreed to patch things up.’
Mum looks disgusted by the words coming out of her mouth, and I see now why she’s fallen out with Hannah. Years and years, Mum’s managed to keep Hannah on side: it must have felt like a terrible defection.
‘So Sarah’s been living in Frampton Mansell all this time? Six months?’
Mum nods, glancing over at me. ‘I take it you haven’t seen her, then.’ I think it’s probably fairly clear from my face that I have not.
‘Are you absolutely certain she’s pregnant, Mum?’ My words get caught in a dry part of my throat.
Mum look over at me, and her face clouds with disappointment. She can see what this means to me. ‘I’m certain. ’
‘When is it due? The baby?’
‘I don’t know.’ Mum twists her hands. I can tell she’s lying.
Whatever it is that’s prompted her to tell me all this is waging a terrible war in her head. She starts the breathing exercise again.
‘You really have no idea when it’s due?’ I prompt. I can’t bear it. ‘Not even a vague clue? I’m going to find out anyway,’ I add. ‘So you might as well tell me.’
Mum closes her eyes. ‘On 27 February. Six days ago,’ she says eventually. ‘Which means that the child must have been conceived in June last year.’ She flinches as the words come out of her mouth.
Absolute silence.
‘And nobody knows who the father is?’
‘Just some stranger, I’d imagine,’ Mum says primly, but she doesn’t mean it. She knows perfectly well what these dates signify.
I’m shaking as I crouch down in front of her, and my legs aren’t working, so I end up sliding sideways, onto my bum. I sit on the carpet in front of her like a child at story time. ‘Are you telling me this because you think it’s mine? Mum? Is that what you think?’
She opens her eyes and they film with tears. ‘I can’t let Sarah Harrington have my grandchild,’ she says, in a tiny voice. ‘Eddie, I can’t cope with that . . . But I . . .’ Her voice shakes. ‘But I can’t stop thinking the child might have been born, by now, and it could be . . .’
I watch her, even though I can’t see her anymore. Sarah. My baby. Everything sways like a cornfield.
I try to organize my thoughts. ‘Why do you think her parents left the cafe so quickly? Do you think something bad has happened?’ I have to lean heavily on my right arm to stay upright .
From somewhere in front of me, Mum’s voice says, ‘I don’t know. But I’ve been extremely worried about it ever since. That’s why I decided to tell you.’ She resumes her long exhales for the third time.
I put a shaking hand on her knee while she takes a few breaths. I have to find Sarah. ‘Mum . . .’ I say. ‘Help me.’
After an interminable pause, Mum takes a longer, deeper breath and nods over towards the phone, sitting on the side table. ‘The Harringtons’ number is probably still there. In the address book.’
I pull myself up and cross the room, knowing how huge this gesture is, knowing what it will have cost her. She’s still a good person, my mother. Still capable of love, no matter how bleak her life has become.
A great many years have passed since I last felt that way about her.
The number’s still there. Under ‘Nigel Harlyn’, an old accountant friend of Dad’s, and ‘Harris Plumbing of Cirencester’. Scribbled in by a busy mother from another lifetime: Patsy Harrington – Hannah from playgroup’s mum – 01285 . . .
I start to write the number into my phone, but my phone – of course – already knows it. Sarah gave me this number last June, when this baby must have been no more than a few cells.
‘Mum,’ I say carefully. ‘I have to go. OK? I have to go and find out what’s happened. If you need someone, you’ve got the emergency outreach number, and you’ve got Derek’s number, and you’ve Felix’s number. But you’ll be OK, Mum. You’ll be fine. I have to go. I have to—’ My voice thins out. I haul myself up, kiss my mother on the head and walk, on trembling legs, to the car.
And Mum says nothing. She knows it could be her grandchild, and that’s bigger than anything else. She can’t say it – would rather die than admit it – but she actually wants me to go and find out.
‘You’d better not be calling me because you’re bottling,’ Alan says, when he picks up the phone. ‘Seriously, Ed—’
‘Sarah’s had a baby,’ I tell him. ‘Or she’s about to have one. And I’m certain it’s mine. I’ve tried to call her parents, but there’s nobody home. I need Hannah’s mobile number. Do you have it?’
There’s a long pause.
‘What?’ Alan says. He’s eating something, as always. Alan works at an architect’s practice. His colleagues have never quite been able to believe the extent of the provisions he keeps on his desk ‘in case of trouble’. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wow,’ he says, after careful consideration.
‘I need Hannah’s number.’
‘Oh, mate, you know I can’t give out a client’s details.’ Alan recently drew up plans for a utility room at the back of Hannah’s house in Bisley. We agreed, when he told me about the job, not to discuss it, but the agreement is now suspended.
‘Gia and Hannah used to go for coffee after yoga,’ I say quickly. (About seven years ago.) ‘Gia would have her phone number. You’re just saving time by getting it from the computer that is right in front of your face, rather than calling your wife. Alan, seriously, give me the number.’
Alan starts whispering, as if that’s going to make him less conspicuous in a silent office. ‘Fine. But can you also text Gia asking for it, so if I was ever questioned about it, I could say, “No, he got the number through my wife.”’
I’m almost yelling. ‘Give me the fucking number, Alan! ’
He does.
‘I guess you won’t be going on that date, then,’ he sighs.
Hannah’s phone is switched off. She sounds tantalizingly like Sarah in her voicemail, only more brisk, more businesslike. Probably how Sarah sounds when she’s speaking at a conference, or on telly.
A child. My child. My head swims again. The sky is dirty white. My hands are still shaking.
I look at my watch: 3.45 p.m. It dawns on me that Hannah’s children must have finished school. And that, with any luck, she or her husband will just have picked them up. Feelings are pitching through me faster than I can identify them. I know only that I have to find her.
I start up the Land Rover and head for Bisley. I try not to think about Mum, home alone, wrestling with what must feel like a nightmare. But then I think, Three months, she’s known. Three bloody months!
She told me in the end, I remind myself, because I have to. Hating Sarah has prevented Mum from feeling the deepest pain – the most unbearable pain – for a very, very long time. It’s been her best medication. That nod towards the phone, that reluctant blessing, is a gesture I must not underestimate.