The winter countryside flashes by, lank and dripping. I try to imagine Hannah coming face to face with her sister, after so many years of Mum whispering bile into her ear. And I picture Sarah, terrified and hopeful in equal measure. Desperate to say the right thing. To win Hannah back.
No wonder she hasn’t told anyone who the father is. It’d be like throwing a hand grenade in among this recovering family.
Three fifty-one p.m. ‘Please let Hannah not have a nanny,’ I mutter, as I reach the outskirts of Bisley. ‘Let Hannah or her husband answer the door.’
I’m driving too fast, and to my surprise, I don’t care. The last few months of stoicism, of Doing the Right Thing, have now been stripped back to the lunacy, the blind masochism they always were. I have known for less than fifteen minutes that Sarah’s been carrying my child and already I have completely forgotten everything I’d been telling myself to keep myself away from her. All that matters is seeing her.
A baby. Sarah has been carrying my baby.
I recognize Hannah’s husband as soon as he opens the door, from the night when I smashed my fist on the pub table. ‘Smelly!’ he yells, as a black Labrador crashes past him and into me, a mangy comfort blanket in its mouth. The dog jumps up on me, its tail helicoptering with joy.
‘Smelly!’ he shouts. ‘Stop it!’
He grabs the dog’s collar and does his best to hold it off.
‘Smelly?’ I say. It’s the closest I’ve been to laughing in several hours.
‘We made the mistake of letting the children name him.’ The man smiles apologetically. ‘Can I help?’
Smelly lunges at me again and I stroke him with one hand while trying to explain the impossible to a complete stranger.
‘Sorry, yes. My name’s Eddie Wallace. I’ve known Hannah for years. She—’
‘Oh right,’ the man says. ‘Yes, I know who you are. You’re the older brother of Hannah’s childhood friend—’ He breaks off awkwardly, although whether it’s because he’s forgotten Alex’s name or doesn’t want to bring up my dead sister, I can’t tell.
‘Alex,’ I supply, because I haven’t time for awkward pauses .
He nods. Deeper in the house, there is a loud thump and the sound of children screaming. He looks nervously over his shoulder, but is reassured when one of them starts yelling something about preparing to die by the sword.
He turns back to me and I feel quite insane with desperation. I need information, now.
Smelly sniffs my crotch.
‘So, this might sound strange, but . . . I believe that Hannah’s sister might have just had a baby, or is just about to have one. I mean, I suppose she could even be having it right now . . .’
The man smiles. ‘Indeed! Hannah’s at the hospital with her now. Poor Sarah’s been in labour two days. Are you a friend of hers?’ Then he pauses as he tries to square the fact that I’m Eddie Wallace with the idea that I might be a friend of Sarah’s. Confusion becomes alarm as he realizes he might have told me something I’m not entitled to know.
For a moment I can’t speak, so I just stand there, stroking Smelly. The dog smiles at me, and despite myself, I smile at the dog. Then I level with Hannah’s husband. I don’t have time to make up some excuse he’ll never buy. ‘Not a friend, exactly . . . more, the father of her child.’
Silence.
The man merely stares at me. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘I had no idea, until about thirty minutes ago . . .’ The man frowns. It is inconceivable to him that I could be the father of Sarah’s baby. I swallow. ‘It’s a long story, but I wouldn’t have come to your door if I wasn’t certain it’s mine.’
Silence.
‘Look, I’m just a decent bloke who’s found out he’s a father, or nearly a father, and I’m not going to force myself on Sarah or anything, but I . . .’ I trail off, because, to my horror, my voice is beginning to crack. ‘I just want to be there for her. If I can.’
‘Right,’ the man says eventually.
Smelly sits by my feet, staring up at me. I can tell I’m a disappointment.
‘Without meaning to pile undue pressure on you, I’m going out of my mind, wanting to just get there, and help if I can, or send her my love, or . . . I don’t know. So I wondered if you could tell me if she’s giving birth in Stroud or in Gloucester. Or somewhere else.’
The man folds his arms. ‘I’m going to have to run this past Hannah,’ he says at last. ‘I hope you understand.’
Of course I understand. I want, also, to punch him.
I take a deep breath and nod. ‘I get it. Although if it helps, Hannah’s phone’s switched off. I tried it earlier.’
The man nods. ‘Yes, that’s most likely.’ But he persists with calling her anyway, moving off down the corridor so I won’t be able to hear him when he says, ‘You won’t believe this . . .’
A few moments later he’s back. ‘No answer,’ he says. He jigs the phone up and down in his hand, uncertain as to what to do. He gets it, as a father – I can see he wants to help me. But this is no ordinary situation.
I begin to panic. He might not tell me.
‘I could just turn up at Stroud, or Gloucester, I suppose . . . But would you be willing to tell me how the labour’s going, at least?’ I ask. I’ll take anything, at this stage. Any crumb he’s willing to throw from the table. Smelly sighs, leaning his big square head on my thigh.
He pauses. ‘All I know is that it’s been going on two days. And that they’ve taken her out of the midwife unit and transferred her to the consultant-led bit.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘When it happened to us with Elsa, it meant things weren’t going brilliantly,’ he admits. ‘But it could be anything – she probably just got tired and wanted some decent pain relief. I wouldn’t worry too much.’
‘Please tell me where Sarah is.’ My voice is too loud, but I think I probably just sound desperate rather than threatening or mad. ‘Please. I’m a normal guy. Not a psychopath. I just want to be there.’
He sighs, defeated. ‘OK . . . OK. They’re at Gloucester Royal. I think the maternity complex is called the Women’s Centre. But be warned, they won’t let you through the door unless Sarah tells them to. I’ll text Hannah and let her know. I shouldn’t do this, really, but . . . well, if I were in your shoes and all that.’
I slump, my hand reaching instinctively for Smelly’s shiny black head. It’s a reassuring block, warm and – yes – probably smelly. ‘Thank you,’ I say quietly. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘Dad?’ A child’s voice from above. Behind the man, I see a head appearing, upside down, from upstairs. Auburn hair trails down towards us. ‘Who’s that man?’
‘Good luck,’ he says, ignoring his daughter. Sarah’s niece, Elsa, whom she thought she’d never meet. He leans forward and shakes my hand. ‘I’m Hamish.’
‘Eddie,’ I say, even though I’ve probably already told him. ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am.’
And then I’m off.
Chapter Forty-Seven
The drive is one of the longest half hours of my life. By the time I hit the A417, I’m frantic.
Alex would have loved a niece or nephew , I think, as I wait on a roundabout. (And: How can this light still be red? ) She would especially have loved a niece or nephew related to Hannah.
And me? Of course I want a child. I’ve known for years, I think, but it’s not something that ever felt possible – at least not until I met Sarah. Then it stopped feeling like a remote fantasy and started feeling like an obvious desire.
I love her , I think, as I accelerate ferociously out of the roundabout. She made everything seem possible.
Sarah Harrington has been carrying my child, all these months. Along with her grief, and her sadness, and the loss of her grandfather. She’s moved to the other side of the world, back to a place to which she thought she’d never return, and has somehow patched up the scar that was riven down the centre of her family. All on her own. Knowing I didn’t want even a friendship with her.