The Truth Commissioner (42 page)

Stanfield feels nervous AS he enters the apartment block. He glances back to see Beckett driving off but then shrugs off his sudden squirm of apprehension. What happened was outside all possibilities of his control and certainly not in the anticipated script. Of course they could destroy him with the photographs but he knows that this would be an act of spite and that they are unlikely to waste what power they think they hold over him out of personal animosity, well certainly not Walters – he's less sure about William. No, they will come back again with other requests and to do that they need to hold their trump card in reserve rather than play it wastefully. And of course he will tell all parties that he did everything inside his power to propagate whatever version of the truth to which they chose to adhere. He was powerless in the face of the outburst, as shocked as anyone – not by the claim but by the fact that it found a voice from the same side. The only thing nobody yet knows is that he has an escape exit of his own and although he hasn't yet posted his letters he will do so in the morning and then at the first opportunity he'll be gone and off the public stage and out of public life for an appropriate period, then when he decides the time is right to make a return he'll limit himself to backwater stuff. Anything will do to keep the wolves from the door. Perhaps even a little lecturing might do the job and he's started to think that he should rationalise his assets in a couple of years, sell his increasingly valuable London home and buy a property abroad. Somewhere in the sun, somewhere it will warm the marrow of his bones and slow his decline into old age. Perhaps it's the heat of the sun he needs to stir the flame of his being, to keep him alive in his body and his mind.

He tells himself that if he were to stay any longer in this midden of a country there would be only a slow death as he dwindled and withered away, starved of all the things he needs to sustain himself. So there's a new resolution in his step as he enters the apartment, as always switching on the secondary lighting that softens the sense of emptiness, and invites human voices to speak to him by playing his music. It's a favourite – Tippett's ‘Rose Lake' – and he pours himself a glass of red wine and goes to the seat overlooking the river as the music begins to swell into life. And everything seems better because he knows that there won't be many more nights spent here and that to gather up his possessions and be ready to leave could be done in less than an hour. He won't be leaving empty-handed because as well as the handsome salary he's already accrued he's gathered enough experience to write his book if he so chooses. And in the ledger's credit column is also the fact that he's seen Emma and if he hasn't absolved himself of her blame for what happened to Martine, he did get to see her and a channel of communication, however fragile and faltering, was established.

He sits by the window and watches the amber lamps on the other side of the road shed their yellow light on the dullness of
the evening. On the edge of Europe, sometimes he thinks this place gets the dregs of light, the left-over luminosity from
brighter worlds. Blue skies are what he needs now, some warmth on the skin. He sips the wine and lets the music wash over
him so when the phone rings it's an irritation that he thinks of ignoring but then reluctantly he gets up and answers it,
the glass still in his hand. But he doesn't recognise the voice and then he understands it's Alan the son-in-law he's never
spoken to who's talking about Emma and he grips the glass more tightly in the fear that this call is going to spill some terrible
news about his daughter. He's not listening to what he's about to be told and asking the question, ‘Is she all right?'

‘She's fine. She's fine and the baby is fine.'

‘The baby?'

‘She had it this morning at eleven o'clock. A boy. He came a bit earlier than expected but he's fine. Everything went well.'

‘And how's Emma?'

‘Tired but fine.'

There's a pause and they don't know what to say to each other so he tells the son-in-law he's never met that it's great news
and he's delighted and then there's another awkward silence and to break it he asks what hospital she's in. He knows now they're
both thinking the same thing so he takes a deep breath and asks.

‘I think that would be all right,' he's told.

‘Thanks,' and then for the first time he uses his name and says, ‘Alan, I really appreciate that.'

‘That's OK.'

Then the call's over and he sets the glass of wine down beside the phone and thinks for a moment, trying to work out if the
caller was just too embarrassed to say no or if she might really want him there, and he doesn't know any of the answers but
it's one last risk he's willing to take. He calls Beckett and apologises profusely for the inconvenience then hears his own
voice laden with pride tell him, tell Beckett with whom he's never had more than a second's emotional engagement, that he's
just heard his daughter's had her baby and would there be any chance …? Beckett congratulates him in a typically non-committal
way and says he'll pick him up in twenty minutes. In the background he can hear children's voices and he apologises again.

After he puts the phone down and although he knows he can't be after a single glass of wine, he feels a little giddy as a
confusion of thoughts loosens and swirls round his head. He's a grandfather but he immediately jettisons the word with its
connotations of grey-haired, rocking-chair senility and instead thinks of the child and suddenly he realises he doesn't know
his name or what his birth weight was. But they're both all right and that's all that matters so he hurries to the bathroom
and freshens his appearance, changes into new clothes. In less than twenty minutes Beckett has arrived as he rushes to the
door then realises that the music's still playing but he leaves it on and as he's going out he remembers the title. Flowers!
He needs flowers but can't think where they might be got at this time and after thanking Beckett he tells him what he wants
so they stop at a large garage on the way to the hospital. His heart sinks when he sees the garish choice available, where
everything's some artificial, lurid colour and every tone separates them from the slightest affinity to what flowers should
be. He looks at Beckett and shrugs his shoulders then in desperation picks ten bunches and with his driver's help carries
them inside and disregarding the queue forming behind him points out the couple of flowers he wants from each and gets the
assistant to make a new bouquet of these, discarding all the rest. It's less than he would have wanted but it's the best he
can do under the circumstances and as they drive off he tries to improve the arrangement.

The hospital doesn't please him either. If only it had been possible he would gladly have arranged somewhere private that
doesn't look as if it's in need of redecorating and that presents a more aesthetically pleasing environment in which to bring
a child into the world. He walks along the cream-coloured corridors with their scuffed floors and plastic swing doors and
rubs his coat where the stems have dripped water. But despite it all there's a feeling of pride in his steps that helps control
his growing nervousness. But what if her husband's apparent affability is to be replaced at worst by his daughter's refusal
to see him or even at best her studied indifference? He has little time to ponder the different possibilities because he quickly
reaches the wing where he knows his daughter is and he looks with concern at the flowers again as he starts to tell himself
that they look tawdry. But Emma never liked ostentation or what she considered the show of wealth so ironically perhaps he
has made the right choice. He asks a nurse where he can find his daughter and she smiles at him as she tells him and then
compliments the flowers, saying she'll bring a vase in a little while. He walks past the first two wards where visitors lounge
round beds and thinks that for some reason he had assumed she would have a room to herself then sighs as he realises it's
to be the same homespun style as their last meeting. There's a smell that reminds him of cabbage or custard and he loosens
his collar a little by inserting a finger between it and his neck. His confidence has started to drain away and then it crumbles
totally as he thinks that it should be Martine coming to visit, that it's her mother she wants now not him. He hesitates,
considers turning and walking away and dumping the flowers in the nearest bin, but then there's a young man standing in front
of him and immediately they both know who they are.

‘Alan?'

‘Yes. Emma's father?'

‘Henry Stanfield. Very pleased to meet you.' He offers his hand and it's taken without hesitation. He's slightly younger than
he imagined, perhaps a few years younger than Emma, and he's quietly handsome in a boyish way. To Stanfield's relief there's
little evidence of his preconceived prejudices about what a secondary-school geography teacher might look like. ‘It was good of you to call me – I appreciate it very much.' He gracefully shrugs off the thanks with a smile and slight shake of the head. ‘And how are they both?'

‘They're both fine, both doing well,' he says, gesturing an invitation with his extended arm.

He wants to tell him it's not quite so simple but instead he hesitates again and as a distraction he lowers his eyes to the
flowers that he suddenly realises have no scent, and whose dreamy, vacuous faces leer up at him.

‘Nice flowers. I'll go and get a vase.'

‘The best I could do at this time of night. No need – the nurse is bringing one.' He feels a pulse of panic and he knows he
wants the presence of this son-in-law he's never met but who as far as he can ascertain seems to bear no obvious resentment
towards him.

‘Well go ahead, Emma's in the first bed just round the corner.'

Then he hears himself say something incredibly clumsy and pompous – ‘Do you think she's ready to receive me?' He sounds like
some suitor in a Jane Austen novel about to plight his troth to one of Mrs Bennet's daughters. But he needs to know of this
young man whether he should actually take those next few steps – no one will know more surely than him.

‘I think she's ready,' he says and then as if encouraging a child to take its first independent step he nods his head.

‘Thanks, Alan. You're coming, too?'

‘In a moment. I just want to see the sister about something. I'll be back in a few minutes. You go on.'

So there's no avoiding it any longer and he straightens his back and, holding the flowers in front of him like a shield, steps
into the ward where he sees his daughter sitting up in the bed cradling her son. She's so preoccupied with the baby that she
doesn't see him and he can't bring himself to speak because he thinks that if he's to speak the moment will fragment and be
lost to him for ever. So instead he stands and watches as her loosened hair curtains the side of her face and she lightly
strokes the corner of the baby's mouth with the tip of her finger. Part of him tells himself that he should go now, just step
quietly out of her line of vision and be gone, because a thousand times better to walk away and hold this moment forever in
his memory than intrude and risk it being tainted with his presence. He takes a single step backwards but she looks up and
sees him and he isn't sure but it's possible she understands and he stands frozen to the spot until she smiles at him. It's
the slightest, quickest of smiles but it's just enough to invite him forward and he sets the flowers on the bed without comment
and goes closer so he can see the child she's holding.

‘He's beautiful,' he says and his voice is whispery and uncertain.

‘Yes,' she says as if what he's said is a simple statement of fact and not a compliment and she keeps her eyes fixed on the
baby's face as if searching it for something undiscovered on which to focus her admiration.

‘And you're all right, Emma?'

‘I'm fine, just a bit sore and tired.'

In that moment he would give everything he owns in the world just to be able to stretch out his hand and touch her cheek or
bend over her and kiss her lightly on the top of her head. He looks at her hand and wants to feel it inside his but he holds
himself still and tries to steady the beat of his heart with controlled talk.

‘And have you decided on a name yet?' he asks as he looks at her in her simple nightdress and thinks she seems to him like
the child she once was, his child lodged in his memory just as her child will lodge in hers.

‘We're not sure – we were expecting a girl for some reason. But we're thinking of something simple like Tom.'

‘Thomas?'

‘No, just Tom.'

‘Very good,' he says but in that second he knows that it's unlikely that she'll allow him to give the child material things
so there'll be no school fees or allowances accepted, no extravagant presents at Christmas. Whether she will permit him to
give him something else remains uncertain and he has no right to expect, ‘I met Alan – he's very nice.'

‘So you approve?'

‘I approve of anything you want for yourself.'

She turns her eyes back to the baby as he wonders if he's said too much.

‘Thanks for the flowers.'

‘They're not the best. Wasn't much choice, I'm afraid.'

‘They're fine. The nurse will put them in water later.' Then lifting her gaze from the child she asks, ‘How did today go?'

‘I think it went well – if that's the right word. It looks as if Maria and her family will get Connor back. Very soon, very
soon.' What can he say? And how can he tell her that he has a letter for her in his pocket?

‘That's good, that's really good. Thanks for your help.'