Birdsong (55 page)

“Then one day she met a man who was not frightened at all. He was kind to her and funny and friendly. And when she really thought about it, she knew, deep down, that this was what she had always wanted. And they moved to the country and she had lots of children and they all lived happily ever after.”

Elizaneth swallowed. “And?”

Stuart turned around to face her. “I’m asking you to marry me. I know it’s unorthodox. This is only the third time we’ve met and I haven’t even bothered to seduce you. I’m such a sweet old-fashioned thing. You’re a very unusual woman. I think you’ll find, if you accept my offer, that I’m an equally unusual man.”

Elizabeth stood up. She took a cigarette and spluttered as she inhaled it. “It’s very … nice of you. I’m flattered by the thought, but I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong person. I have a boyfriend. I—”

“He’s married, isn’t he? Let me guess. You see him once a month for hasty sex and a tearful farewell. He says he’ll leave his wife, but we all know he won’t, don’t we? Is that what you want? Is that your future?”

Elizabeth’s voice took on a frozen edge. “You shouldn’t talk about people you don’t know.”

Stuart stood up and threw his arms open expansively. “Come on, we’re both adults, we both know the score. I’m sorry if I intruded on a private sorrow, but this is a very important matter. I have money. Did I mention that? Or is it the sex thing? Do you want a trial run?”

“I
beg
your pardon?”

“Well, at least give me credit for not having seduced you.”

“What on earth makes you think you could have?”

Stuart shrugged suggestively. “I’m sorry, Liz. I’ve gone too far. I’m going to leave you now. Let’s say I’ve planted a seed. You just do me the favour of watering it from time to time. Think about it.”

He took his coat from the hook in the hall and came back into the room. “Thank you for a marvellous evening,” he said. “And will you water it, that little seed?”

“I … won’t forget. I certainly won’t forget.”

“Good.” He smiled and kissed her on the forehead, then let himself out.

E
lizabeth was in a condition of shock for some days. The presumptuousness of what Stuart had said to her felt, in retrospect, like an unwanted physical intimacy; it was as though he had forced himself on her.

She went for long walks in Hyde Park and breathed deeply in the cold January air. She worked till late in the office. She bought, and read, two books about the war her grandfather had fought in. She made resolutions for the New Year. She would smoke less, she would visit Tom Brennan once a fortnight, if he wanted, or, if he didn’t, she would visit someone else of his generation. Somehow she would repay the debt; she would complete the circle.

For the first of her New Year visits to Tom Brennan she hoped she might find out some more about her grandfather. She understood enough about Brennan’s state of mind not to expect a long recollection, or even an anecdote, but she hoped for some reference at least.

She was wearing fewer clothes this time, knowing what the central heating was like in the dayroom. In view of his complaints about the food, she took Brennan a cake her mother had baked. She was struck as she packed it by how much it was like sending a parcel to a man in the trenches. She took half a bottle of whisky as well; at least that was something he wouldn’t have been sent from home. She also, feeling ashamed as she did so, put two mothballs in her handkerchief, so she could hold it to her face and breathe in camphor rather than the cloying smell of urine.

He was in the same place at the window. He put his hand in hers and they sat happily together. Elizabeth asked him what he had been doing in the past few weeks and what he had done in the years before that. His answers bore no relation to her questions. He talked about Mafeking night, he talked about his sister in the blackout and how she had fallen off a ladder. He told her he didn’t like the food they gave him.

Occasionally she could tell that a particular question had registered
with him, because his eyes showed alarm behind the thick lenses of his spectacles. He would mumble a few words, then either fall silent or resume with one of the stories he knew. Elizabeth began to suspect that she had already heard most of his repertoire.

This time she didn’t press him on the subject of her grandfather. She had made the first vital connection. If he had anything else to say it would come in time; in fact it was more likely to come out when he became familiar with her visits.

She left him with the cake and whisky and said she would be back in two weeks’ time. The matron, Mrs. Simpson, passed her in the doorway.

“I didn’t think we’d see you again,” she said. “Any joy?”

“Well … not joy exactly. I don’t know if he liked seeing me. But I liked seeing him again. I left him a little parcel. Is that allowed?”

“It depends what’s in it.”

Elizabeth had a feeling the whisky would be forbidden. She left before she would have to see it being confiscated.

———

At home that night she did some calculations. It was a task she had been putting off, because she feared the result. With the help of last year’s diary she was able to work out when her last period had been. It had definitely been in progress on the sixth of December, because she remembered being late for a lunch that was marked for that day because she had had to make a detour to find a chemist’s. It was now January 21st. The last time she had seen Robert was not recorded in her diary, but it had been the week before Christmas. She remembered the decorations in the shops. In fact he had come over on his holidays a day early, which was how he had managed to squeeze her in. She had had to go to work the following day, so it must have been a weekday. She narrowed it down to the 21st or the 22nd. Either day was halfway through the cycle, which, if she remembered rightly, was the dangerous time. She tried to remember what precautions she had taken. She had been on the pill for four years continuously and her doctor had advised her to stop taking it. They had then used a variety of means. Both of them were careful, Robert neurotically so in her opinion.

The next morning she bought a pregnancy testing kit from the chemist’s in Craven Road. It was a flat, rectangular piece of plastic with two windows. She took it to the bathroom, then, five minutes later, as instructed, looked at the windows. The blue line across each was firm and assertive. It was not just positive, it was bursting with life.

She passed a day in which her feelings oscillated between joy and despair. Twice she began to tell Irene her secret and twice discretion made her change the subject. She went out for lunch on her own and found her eyes brimming with tears as she ate. Already she felt an absurd passion for the invisible thing inside her.

In the evening she telephoned Robert. There was no reply, but she left a message on his recently acquired answering machine telling him to ring at once.

She ran a bath and slid beneath the water. She gazed at her lower belly and wondered what microscopic events were taking place there. She was frightened of the physical changes and worried about what people would say; but much more than anxiety she felt exhilaration. Her telephone rang and she sprang from the bath and went dripping through to answer it.

It was Bob.

“I’ve cracked it,” he said. “I’m sorry it’s taken me such a long time. It was perfectly straightforward, really, once I’d figured out how the old codger’s mind worked. Greek letters, French language, and a bit of private code. Elementary, my dear Watson. I can’t swear I’ve got every name right, of course. I’ve marked the odd query. But it all seems to add up.”

When she had overcome her disappointment that it was not Robert, Elizabeth said, “That’s marvellous, Bob. Thank you very much. When can I pick it up?”

“Come over at the weekend if you like. I put a couple of pages in the post this morning. I just did the last two in the book because they were the ones I’d worked on first. They should be with you in the morning if the Post Office isn’t on strike as well. You never know, do you?”

“No. Quite. Well, I’ll look forward to getting those tomorrow.”

“Yes,” said Bob. “They’re a bit gloomy, you know. Pour yourself a drink first.”

“You know me, Bob. And thanks again.”

Robert didn’t ring till after midnight, when Elizabeth was asleep. She told him straight away that she was going to have a baby. She was too sleepy to break the news gently, as she had intended. “I won’t tell anyone who the father is. These things can be kept secret,” she said.

Robert was shocked.

“You could sound a bit happier about it,” she said.

“Give me time,” he said. “I’m happy for you, and in time I’ll be happy for myself and the child. Just give me time to get used to it.”

“I will,” said Elizabeth. “I love you.”

———

The next day was a Saturday and in the morning there was a package from Bob.

Elizabeth put it aside till after breakfast, then opened it carefully with a knife. Bob had reused a brown envelope from an old catalogue or circular, sticking a white label with her name and address over his own.

Inside were two large sheets of thin, crackling white paper. Elizabeth was very excited. From the moment she saw the black ink of Bob’s careful script, she knew that she had found what she wanted.

Gray’s old voice barking down the line from Lanarkshire had been good; the glimpse of memory through the chaos of Brennan’s recollection had been thrilling. But finally she had what she wanted: the past was alive in the spidery letters in her slightly shaking hand.

She read:

S
tephen put away his pen and notebook. It was nighttime. There was moonlight on the hills above the village. He lit another cigarette and turned the pages of a magazine. There was a pile by the chair of others he had already skimmed. His eyes scanned each page but barely read.

He went outside into the yard behind the little house. Chickens scattered in front of his footsteps.

He went into the lane and began to walk. The road was only partially completed. He felt the puddles and the loose stones beneath his feet. He went as far as the main road and looked around him. The guns were soft and distant; they rumbled like a train going through an embankment.

He stood and breathed deeply. He could hear an owl’s call. He went slowly up and down the lane. The owl reminded him of childhood; it was a noise boys would make with their hands. His own seemed so long ago that it felt as though someone else had lived it for him.

Back in the billet he found Mountford sitting at the table, playing cards with a lieutenant called Tylecote. He declined their offer of a game, but sat in a daze and watched them move the greasy pictures over the wooden surface.