The Stranger on the Train (16 page)

And the walk back north again, across the bridge in the dusk; the lights just coming on in the old houses and pubs along the river making her homesick for some seaside fishing village she'd never known.

• • •

Sometimes the endless days really got to her. There was only so much walking you could do on your own. She rang Joanne a few times to meet up, but there always seemed to be some excuse. Joanne was in the middle of a vital marketing campaign, or she had to buy new shoes for a sales awards dinner, or Barry had been working himself half to death and needed her by his side.

“I'll come to
you
,” Emma suggested. “I'll bring Ritchie on the bus. You can show us what you've done with your new flat.”

“That would be great,” Joanne said. “But the thing is, Barry's here. He's working from home at the moment.”

“So? We won't disturb him.”

“But Ritchie seems to cry a lot. And if he kicks off and Barry gets distracted . . .”

“Joanne.” Emma couldn't be listening to this. “Barry's a bloody computer technician. Not a heart surgeon. The world won't collapse if he leaves out a decimal point.”

As soon as she'd said that, she realized how dismissive it sounded. But she was hurt by how little interest Joanne seemed to have in her these days, and how rarely she'd bothered to contact Emma since Ritchie had arrived.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “You know I didn't mean—”

“You never did think much of Barry, did you?” Joanne spoke in a cold voice. “As I say, Emma, today really doesn't suit us. I'll be in touch.”

• • •

Emma was sorry she'd made the dig about Barry. She hadn't thought it was that bad, but Joanne was clearly offended and had taken the chance to toss Emma yet another rejection. It hurt, the way she just seemed to have thrown their friendship aside. You did hear about friendships breaking up when one of the women had a baby, but Emma had always assumed that was the new mother's fault, losing all interest in everything apart from her child. She was more than prepared to continue to make the effort with Joanne, but Joanne had a new, glamorous life now, with her expensive suits and her promotion, and she didn't seem to want to know. Maybe it was down to Barry's influence. It was true that Barry and Emma had never seen eye to eye. And Barry probably thought even less of Emma now that she was a single parent, dumped by Oliver. But that didn't mean Joanne had to completely take his side.

But then, that was Joanne all over. She'd done it before: dropping all her friends the minute a man came along. Emma and Karen hadn't seen her for months one time in Bristol when she'd started seeing a medical student called Andrew. Then Andrew had ended the relationship, and Joanne was back again as if nothing had happened, insisting Emma and Karen come out with her on Friday nights to Corn Street or to a rave in the Carling Academy.

Emma had been really looking forward to catching up with Joanne. To seeing her flat and having a good old natter, maybe even a glass or two of wine. Joanne had said the flat was amazing since they'd got the interior designer in. Barry's building was right on the river, with floor-to-ceiling glass walls. People said how prestigious those flats were—though, to be honest, Emma had never seen the attraction. True, the people in them could see right out over the river, but then, so could all the people outside see in. She'd passed there one evening a few months ago on her way towards Wandsworth Bridge, and seen a man on the second floor with the lights on, stark naked, examining something in his armpit. But it would have been great to hear all of Joanne's gossip: what people were up to these days, where everyone went for drinks, who was going out with who. Whether anyone had heard from Oliver, or knew where he was. Emma was lonely. It seemed a long time since she'd had a proper chat with someone her own age.

The other thing she really wanted was for Ritchie to have someone to play with. He was getting big and curious now, his face and bald head like a moon or beach ball, always poking his nose into everything and staring at people, especially other babies and children. Everywhere they went, they passed women with pushchairs. Babies all over the place. Emma had never noticed until she'd had Ritchie how many babies there were in London. It struck her how happy the other mothers all seemed. They beamed as they trundled along, burbling instructions to their offspring: “Look at the
tree
, darling!” Emma wondered if she should be talking to Ritchie like that. But she couldn't make her voice sound as sunny and natural as theirs. “Look at the tree”—it just sounded stupid and flat when she said it.

One afternoon, she tried taking Ritchie to Ravenscourt Park. They fed biscuits to a gray squirrel who inched right up to them and snatched the pieces from in front of their feet. He sat there holding a biscuit between his paws, nibbling at it with his squirrel front teeth. Ritchie, panting with enthusiasm, nearly turned himself upside down in Emma's arms to grab at him until finally the squirrel dropped the biscuit, whipped around and streaked off to the trees. Emma put Ritchie back in his pushchair and wheeled him over to the playground, where the other mothers and children were. But Ritchie was too small yet for the brightly colored swings and bars. He wriggled and cried, looking around for the squirrel. Emma knew he was tired. He was rubbing at his eyes. She left him in the buggy and sat in the chill March air, pushing the buggy backwards and forwards to settle him. The other children ran and climbed and screamed. Finally Ritchie, snug in his red snowsuit, fell asleep as she rocked him.

On the way home, it started to rain. Great, freezing sheets, blowing straight at them from the side. Emma ducked into a café for shelter. The café was warm, with wobbly red tables, and salads displayed in tubs behind the glass counter. Ritchie, awake again and in better form, took some juice from his bottle, and sat on happily in his pushchair, chewing at a spoon. Emma drank dark brown tea from a polystyrene cup and flicked through a copy of the
London Lite
that another customer had left behind.

A small boy marched up to Ritchie and poked him in the chest with his finger.

“Hello, baby,” he shouted.

Ritchie opened his mouth. The spoon he'd been chewing fell into his lap. Fascinated, he stared up at the boy. The boy poked him again.

“Hello,” he shouted. “Hello.”

A woman in a cream and gold headscarf came rushing from a nearby table.

“Jamal,” she scolded. “Don't do that. You might hurt the baby.”

“He's all right,” Emma said, taking in Ritchie's round, thrilled face. “He didn't mean any harm.”

Ritchie kicked his feet with excitement.

The woman put her arm around the little boy.

“Say hello to the baby in a nice way,” she said.

Jamal looked at Emma and put his finger in his mouth. He pressed his face into his mother's knee.

“Oh, so now you are shy?” The woman patted the child's head. She smiled at Emma. Her eyes were large and dark, beautifully made-up, with mascara and brown smoky liner. Emma tried to smile back, but it was weird: her smile felt stretched and strange. As if her mouth was out of practice.

“They are so full of energy, these boys,” the woman said. “You will see with your little one when he begins to walk. He will drive his daddy demented. Just like Jamal here.”

The woman was so confident and friendly. Emma wanted to seem interesting back, but all she could think about was what she must look like in her parka jacket and man's woolly jumper, which had seemed like such a good idea for the park in this weather. The other woman was so chic and feminine, in her fitted jeans and short pink jacket.

The woman said to Jamal: “Shall we have another try at saying hello to the baby?”

Ritchie kicked again and made an excited screeching noise: “Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha.” Jamal shook his head into his mother's legs. The woman looked at Emma and laughed. She seemed to be waiting for Emma to respond in some way. Emma tried as hard as she could, but she just couldn't think of anything to say. She stared into her cup of tea.

After a few minutes, the woman looked towards the glass door of the café. She said to her little boy: “Well, Jamal. The rain seems to have stopped now. It looks as if we can go.”

They went back to their table to gather their things.

“Good-bye,” the woman said as they passed Emma's table on the way out.

“Good-bye,” Emma said.

The café door closed. Ritchie stared at it. He had stopped screeching and kicking his legs. His moon face was round with disappointment. For a second Emma had an urge to run out and call Jamal and his mother back. The table where they'd been a moment ago seemed very empty.

• • •

“If you don't know many people in the area,” the health visitor suggested, “why don't you see if there's a mother-and-baby group you can join? You'll find the details in your local library.”

The idea of a mother-and-baby group didn't appeal all that much to Emma. She was unnerved by the way she'd reacted to the woman in the café, and didn't fancy repeating the experience in front of a lot of strangers. She must be going a bit odd. She'd never had any problem meeting people before. But Ritchie had been so thrilled when he'd thought that boy Jamal was going to play with him. He would adore being in a room full of children. For his sake, she would give it a try.

Waiting with Ritchie in his pushchair for the lift, she heard an exclamation behind her: “Oh, what a beautiful baby.”

Emma turned. A woman with dark eyes and rosy cheeks was staring at Ritchie, her hands clasped. She was wearing jeans and a pink flowery T-shirt. Emma had seen the woman a couple of times, coming in and out of the flat next door.

“What age?” the woman asked, still gazing at Ritchie.

“Eight months,” Emma told her.

The woman opened her eyes wide.

“Only! But so big. I thought he was older. He is the same size as my daughter, but she is one year.”

“I don't think I've seen your daughter,” Emma said politely.

“Oh, no.” The woman shook her head. “You wouldn't see her. She is back home with my family in the Philippines.”

“Oh . . . um . . . ?” Emma didn't know what to say.

“I am working in London,” the woman explained. “I am a nurse in the hospital. Chelsea and Westminster. But it's better for my daughter to be at home. She can be with my mother while my husband and I are working.” She sounded wistful. “I have not seen her for four months. Only photographs.”

“That must be difficult.” Emma was shocked. She'd thought
she
was badly off. How desperate must this woman be, to come here and leave her daughter thousands of miles away to be brought up by someone else?

“It is hard,” the woman agreed. “But this is the best way for our family. My mother loves having her, and with the money, my daughter will have a good life in the future.”

Shyly, she addressed Ritchie: “What is your name?”

“Ritchie,” Emma answered for him.

“Well, Ritchie, I am Rosina Alcarez. I live right next door to you. Maybe you could call to visit me sometime? You can remind me of my daughter.”

Rosina Alcarez smiled at them both as she left the lift. Emma smiled back. Rosina seemed nice, and about her age. And how sad for her not to have her daughter with her. Maybe she
would
take Ritchie over to see her.

All the same, for some reason, she felt very flat as she wheeled the buggy away.

On her way to the library, she found herself waiting at a crossing with two other women, one a girl in her twenties, with her long hair in a plait, the other an older lady in a pleated skirt and puffy jacket. Between the women, in a pram, snoozed a tiny, wrinkly baby, wrapped like a birthday present in a blanket with little pink hearts on it.

“Let me take Lucy for a while,” the older woman urged the younger. “Give you a chance to get some of your shopping done in peace.”

“Do you mind, Mum?” The girl's face lit up.

“Of course not.” The older woman stroked the baby's cheek in a longing way. “The two of us will go for a little potter. We'll have a lovely time.”

Emma couldn't take her eyes off the three of them. Would her own mother have been like that if she had lived? Then the girl lifted a hand to push back her hair and Emma saw something flash on her finger. A wedding ring. So the girl had a husband as well. Someone who would be thinking about her during the day and who'd rush home in the evening to see her and their baby. He'd bounce the child on his knee while the girl told him about their day. Her mother would wag her finger at him and say:
You look after my two darlings, now, do you hear?
And he would say:
Oh, I will, don't worry, because I love them as much as you do.

In the library, Emma stood for a while reading the notice board, checking to see if there was anything for her and Ritchie. Sheets of paper, anchored by thumbtacks, fluttered in the breeze from the door. Book clubs. Art tours to Florence. A geology trip to Scotland. Finally, near the bottom of the board, Emma spotted what she was looking for. A ­mother-and-­­toddler music morning. Right here in the library. That sounded good. Then she read further. Oh. The child had to be over one year to join.

Emma sighed. It was probably for the best. She hadn't been at all sure about the notion of sitting in a drafty hall, listening to a lot of women blither on about their families and how they'd all gone to Kew Gardens together at the weekend. Maybe having met Rosina Alcarez was enough for one day. She'd leave it at that for now, and get something to read and go home.

She pushed the buggy past the notice board and went to the shelves. She picked out a couple of novels, easy ones she'd read before, and a squashy waterproof book for Ritchie, who liked turning the pages in the bath. She was bringing the books over to the counter when she spotted a woman talking to a group of people under the window. She stopped.