Sheer Abandon (65 page)

“Yes, I see. I have heard that. So when did you go home?”

“After a couple of days—well, four, actually. When…when I seemed to be all right. I went to a YMCA hostel in Hayes; I had just enough money, and I slept a lot and looked after myself as best I could.”

“Didn’t you get milk?” asked Clio very gently.

“Yes, I did.” Tears welled up again. “I wasn’t expecting that. It was awful. That did make me cry. I kept looking at it, I didn’t know what it was at first, and thinking, This was meant for her. It was horrible. And quite painful. I bought some pad things at Boots and stuffed them in my bra. After a few days it dried up.”

“And your parents didn’t suspect anything?”

“Why should they? I’d put on some weight, of course, but plenty of people do when they’re travelling. I’d bought lots of kaftan things, and those fisherman’s trousers, so I wore them. I was all right. I was very tired, but that was to be expected.”

“And what about letters, didn’t they want some kind of address all that time?”

“Yes, and I gave them the poste restante in Bangkok. Told them I was doing some more travelling in Thailand. I told them I ran out of money, so I couldn’t go to America. And I’d done enough to satisfy them. Singapore, Australia, Thailand—it sounds a lot to people who’ve never left England. Quite enough to fill a year.

“Anyway, I knew I’d done the right thing. And every day I felt safer. I got a sort of high just from doing it, getting away with it. And I knew she was all right, because I read the papers.”

“Did you keep the papers?”

She hesitated. “No, I didn’t. I know that sounds awful, but it was all part of her not being anything to do with me. I couldn’t let myself think about her, because then I’d acknowledge her.”

“Yes, I see,” said Clio carefully. “And how did you cope? Didn’t you feel unhappy at all?”

“Well, in a way, yes. But I just buried it and buried it. And got on with my life. Worked terribly hard, did well. It helped. And developed into the control freak you see before you. But all alone, in private, I’d remember her quite suddenly, remember what she looked like, remember holding her, specially on her birthday—that’s always hard—but even that somehow wasn’t real. It was like something that had happened to someone else, not me. But over the years, if anything upset me, it would—sometimes, not always—come back to her. I would start crying and go back to that time. I did cry a lot at the beginning. I felt very…strange. Very confused. Funnily enough, she never got any older than about one. Not in my head. She stayed tiny, I never grew her up.”

“Didn’t you long to tell someone?”

“No, I was terrified of telling someone. I was terrified of getting that close to anyone. I had very few friends, always. Men were a bit safer. It wasn’t the sort of thing you’d tell a man.”

“I suppose. Oh, Martha. What a story.”

“It is quite, isn’t it? And then all these extraordinary coincidences that have brought us together. That was such a terrible day—I was out running and there she was in the paper: Abandoned Baby Bianca. I did go a bit…strange then.”

“And now?”

“Now I don’t know,” she said. “I really don’t know what now. I mean, it’s the end of my life as I know it.”

“Martha, no it isn’t!”

“Yes, it is. Look at me, a highly paid lawyer. It’s a criminal offence, you know. Abandoning a baby. You can get ten years in jail for it. And worse than that, I’m a prospective parliamentary candidate. For Binsmow, for God’s sake. Where my father’s the vicar. You have to sign something saying there’s nothing in your past that would cause your party any difficulty or embarrassment, you know.”

“Yes,” Clio said quietly, “I can see you’re right. Martha, the father—did he ever have any idea?”

“No,” she said quickly, “absolutely none. I couldn’t possibly have told him. Not possibly.”

“Because?”

“I don’t want to go on with this,” she said. “Sorry.”

“All right. But what about Kate, Martha? She’s going to have to be told.”

“I know. I know. How on earth is that going to be done? Who’s going to tell her?”

“Well, I thought you should,” said Clio, very gently. “You’re the only person who can make her understand.”

Martha stared at her. “I really don’t think I can do that.”

Chapter 35

         “Poor you. Poor, poor you.”

Ed’s voice was very gentle. Taking courage from it, Martha forced herself to look at his face. It was tender, concerned, there was no judgement, no shock, even; it was as if she had told him someone dear to her had died. She supposed, in a way, that was right: the cool, efficient, hypersuccessful Martha had died, and in her place was someone flawed and very frightened, someone who had done something so shocking and shameful that she had kept it hidden for sixteen years.

“You’re going to have to tell me what to do, Ed,” she said. “For the first time I have no idea. No idea at all.”

“I’ll try,” he said. “I’ll try very hard. I’d like to meet your friends, talk to them.”

“Of course. They’re being so good to me. I really don’t deserve it, I was vile to them.”

“I tell you what’s the first thing you should do,” he said. “You should stop crucifying yourself. You haven’t committed a crime.”

“Ed, that’s exactly what I’ve done. I told you. A crime with a ten-year prison sentence.”

“Yes, OK, I hear what you say. But it isn’t really a crime, not morally. You knew she was all right, you saw her safely taken away, you knew she was being cared for by people who knew what they were doing. After that, you got on with your life. Calling it a crime is just a technicality.”

“Ed! I think you’re a bit prejudiced. How do you think the press are going to present this?”

“Fuck the press.”

“No, you can’t say that. They’re going to call me a harridan, a monster, a ruthless bitch. That’s what people will take in. What kind of woman abandons her child and never goes near it again? Someone kind and caring? I don’t think so.”

“I think you should go and see her,” he said.

“Kate? I can’t, Ed. Maybe when she knows, maybe when she’s got used to the idea, but—”

“No, not her. The woman. Janet whatever-her-name-is. Find out what she might do next, if your friend doesn’t run the story. He must be a great guy,” he added. “Most hacks’d have it out on the street by now.”

“He is. He’s a sweetheart. I always liked him.”

“A sweetheart, eh? Not sure I like that.”

“Oh, Ed. No one’s as much of a sweetheart as you.”

She looked at him and smiled tenderly; he was clearly shocked. He was only twenty-three, with very little experience of life. How could he be expected to cope with all this? Then she thought of herself at twenty-three, a first in law under her belt, working as a trainee solicitor in one of London’s finest firms, all after coming through almost unbelievable trauma: they were obviously two of a kind, she and Ed.

“I love you,” she said simply. “I really, really love you…”

“Good God,” said Gideon, “the poor child. That is a terrible story, Jocasta.”

“I know. Isn’t it? Doing what she did, all alone…” She shuddered. “I’d rather have died. Well, I probably would have died of terror.”

“No you wouldn’t,” he said. “You’d have done it because you had to. You’re a lot braver than you think you are, you know. Now then, let’s think what’s best to be done for Martha. I have to say, it’s a very nasty situation. Very nasty indeed.”

“I know. I keep thinking of all the people she ought to tell. Before they hear anyway, in tabloid speak.”

“Young Nicholas wouldn’t do tabloid speak.”

“No, of course not. But the others’ll pick it up and run with it. I can see it now. ‘The ruthless career woman who abandoned her baby’ or ‘Baby Bianca’s Heartless Mother.’ I mean, it doesn’t help that Kate’s so bloody famous. It’s a gift as a story, you must admit.”

“Oh, I admit it. Pollock will murder Nick if he finds out. Now, this is only idle curiosity, but has anyone asked Martha if the father knows?”

“No. I don’t suppose she has the faintest idea where he is.”

“Or even who?”

“Oh, I think she’d know who, Gideon. Martha isn’t a sleeper around.”

“You didn’t think she’d abandon a child until today, did you? You of all people, Jocasta, know how unpredictable people are.”

“I know. But I bet she knows. I’d put quite a lot of money on it.”

“None of mine, please. Now, I have a fancy she should go and confront Mrs. Frean. If she can find the courage.”

Jocasta’s mobile went; she looked at it.

“Hi, Martha, how are you doing? What? That’s interesting. Gideon said the same. Hold on a minute.” She looked at Gideon. “Ed, Martha’s boyfriend, says the same thing.”

“Then he must be a very bright fellow. A man after my own heart. I wonder if he’d go with her?”

“I’m sure he would. Martha, would Ed go with you?”

“He says he will.”

“OK,” said Jocasta. “Go for it.”

“Martha dear, hello. How lovely to hear from you. I meant to call you last night, you were marvellous. Absolutely marvellous. Congratulations.”

Martha was not as surprised by this as she might have been. She was beginning to get Janet’s measure.

“Thank you, Janet. I wondered if…if I could come and see you.”

“When did you have in mind? I’m very busy today and then, of course, it’s the weekend. Monday maybe?”

“But it’s awfully urgent.”

“Really? Well, it’ll have to wait, I’m afraid. I’m so sorry.”

“But Janet, I—that is—don’t you know what it’s about?”

“I have no idea. But I really can’t see you this weekend. There’s no question of it. I won’t even be here. I’m sorry.”

Martha looked at Ed. “Now what do we do?”

Janet put down the phone and went in search of her husband; he was sitting out in the garden, reading the
Daily Telegraph
and drinking a large mug of coffee.

“Bob, I did tell you, didn’t I, that I had to be out of town on Saturday night?”

“I don’t know. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, we haven’t got anything on. Party business, I presume?”

“Of course. Charm offensive has to continue but—you can cope with the children, can you? It’s Kirsty’s weekend off.”

“I usually do,” he said dryly.

Martha had broken one of her own unbreakable laws and called in sick. She actually spoke to Paul Quenell, who was so excited by her performance on
Question Time
that she felt he would have given her the whole week off, had she asked.

“Of course, Martha. You must be exhausted. Splendid they mentioned Wesley by name. Well done. You’re a clever girl. Enjoy the weekend, see you on Monday.”

Martha put the phone down, wondering if she would ever see him again. Once, she supposed, when she resigned.

She felt oddly calm. It was ten in the morning; Ed was asleep, having called in sick himself. She had a shower, then wandered round her flat tidying it, flicking through magazines, organising her laundry, and staring out of the window. Mostly, she stared out of the window. And thought about Kate and what on earth she could say to her and how.

Clio had also called in sick; she had slept for a few hours, but at ten o’clock she was in the kitchen, hoping to find Jocasta. Gideon was there, in a towelling robe; he smiled at her.

“Hello, my darling girl. Excuse my rather informal attire; I’ve been having my swim. You should try my mechanical pool, it’s very clever. Tedious, but clever. How are you? Tired, I expect.”

“Not too bad,” said Clio. “Is Jocasta about?”

“I’m here.” Jocasta came into the kitchen; she looked rather pale.

“Jocasta, I’ve been thinking,” said Clio. “If Martha agrees, I think you should tell Kate. First off, that is. I mean, she doesn’t know Martha; it’d be the most awful shock. And she’s so fond of you. You won’t mind how she reacts, whereas Martha might. Kate’s probably going to be very stroppy, very hurt.”

“I rather agree with that,” said Gideon. “Jocasta, what do you think?”

“I think so too, I’m afraid. The only other thing would be for me to tell her mother and for her to tell Kate.”

“It would come better from you,” said Clio. “Apart from anything else, you know Martha. But probably her mother should be there. And her father. I don’t think they’ll help, but they’d be outraged if you told her first.”

“God,” said Jocasta, “I don’t like this!”

Nick was walking through Central Lobby when he saw Janet.

“Look,” she said, “our conversation last night—you haven’t run the story today, I see.”

“No, I needed to do some more research on it.”

“Well, don’t leave it too long. I’d hate to see it wasted and I’m sure the
Sun
would love it.”

“I’m sure they would. Obviously there’s a degree of urgency. But I must talk to Martha—and Chris Pollock is the final arbiter.”

“Yes. Well, keep in touch.”

“Kate darling, this is Jocasta. Look, I wondered—what are you doing today?”

“Nothing, really. Going shopping with Bernie. Seeing Nat later. Why?”

“I…thought I might come and see you.”

“Cool. But you don’t want to come to Ealing. It’s not exactly hopping. Why don’t I come into town, see you?”

“The thing is, Kate, I’d quite like your mum and dad to be there.”

“What? Oh, I get it. It’s about my contract, yeah? Is Fergus coming?”

“Oh, I think so,” said Jocasta. “Yes. Look, I…we’ll be over in about an hour. Is that OK?”

“Dad won’t be here.”

“Is your mum there now?”

“Yeah. Do you want to speak to her?”

“Yes, please.”

“Fine. See you later.”

Never had that irritating phrase had so much menace in it.

Helen felt physically sick. After all these years, the worst was going to happen: Kate’s mother was going to become reality, no longer a distant, shadowy figure who could be warded off, talked away, but a person, a dreadfully dangerous person, who could come and claim her daughter. Not literally, of course, but emotionally. The mystery that had hurt Kate so badly for so many years was about to be solved. She would know what her mother looked like, sounded like, she could talk to her, ask her questions, find out why she had done what she had done. This woman would walk in and take her rightful place in Kate’s life and she and Jim would be relegated to theirs—second best, understudies, caretakers.

How could she bear it, if Kate wanted to live with her? If Kate fell in love with her, declared her everything she had ever wanted? Helen had often thought that the most dreadful grief possible would be the death of a child; this seemed to her to have echoes of that.

Jocasta had given her no details, only said she knew who Kate’s mother was, and that she wanted Helen and Jim to be there when she told her. She was such a nice girl, Jocasta, Helen thought: how badly they had misjudged her.

Jim was on his way home, had said he would be there within the hour; Jocasta said she would wait until he was there before arriving herself.

“Otherwise Kate will start pestering me. I won’t be far away, just ring me on my mobile.”

“You’re not…not bringing, you know,
her
with you?” Helen had said, her voice shaky, and no, Jocasta had said, there would be plenty of time for that, when they had got used to the idea and were ready to meet her, “Although I don’t think Kate will want to wait for long.”

Helen was sure she wouldn’t…

“Why are they taking so long?” said Martha. She was white-faced, her eyes haunted. “What are they doing?”

“Martha,” said Ed, “try not to be so ridiculous. I’d say Jocasta has only been there half an hour and it’s not a conversation she can have quickly. Two more hours and I’d say you could start to worry. Right now, I think we should go for a walk.”

“A walk!”

“Yes, a walk. You know, one leg after the other, move along the street, that sort of thing. You can take your mobile, you won’t miss anything. Come on. Let’s go.”