You (36 page)

‘I’m ill. I can’t –’

‘Then tell me.’

‘I –’

‘You can.’

‘Well there was –’

‘Yes?’

‘I don’t know how to – Celie,’ said Dora, swallowing clumsily.

‘Tell me,’ said Cecilia, looking straight at Dora. ‘Tell me, please.’

‘There was – were, was; which do you say? – a couple.’

‘Where?’

‘Here.’ Dora sat up. She sounded mildly drunk. Her hair was pushed into a new position from lying down. Deliberately, Cecilia filled her glass.

Dora was silent. ‘It was urgent.’ She spoke in a croak.

‘Why?’

‘Because we – I – didn’t want you to bond with the baby. If you had decided to give it up, I thought it was better for you that it was immediate, or it would break your heart.’

‘It did break my heart.’

‘I know.’

‘Do you have to stick your chin out? You look so obstinate. So hard –’

‘Oh Celie. I’m not; I’m not . . . Perhaps I am. Perhaps I am. Why did this happen?’ said Dora, mildly slurring.

‘So you took her immediately. But instead of an approved adoption . . .’

‘I just didn’t want to go through the formal channels and find some unknown couple,’ said Dora, breathing in broken gusts. ‘Random, unknown. And these two. They were there all along.’

‘There all along? Waiting for my baby?’ said Cecilia loudly.

‘Well they – they were involved with it. The woman was a midwife, you see, darling. A – a community midwife. She couldn’t – couldn’t conceive,’ she said, swallowing. Her hair was wilder. ‘I just couldn’t stand the idea of you having to go to hospital, and then some official coming along. I don’t think you could have stood it –’

‘It would have given me a chance to realise my mistake,’ said Cecilia. She felt the blood drain from her face.

‘But the parents could have been anyone. Vetted, but a risk. Anyone. Whereas I knew – them. It all seemed more – homely.’

‘
Who?
Who were they?’ said Cecilia rapidly.

‘I told you. They lived here.’

‘Here. Here in this house?’ She pulled a cup towards her suddenly, pushed it back.

‘Yes.’

‘What?’ Cecilia groaned. ‘What were their names?’

Dora hesitated. She took more wine. A large amount spilled on the table and spread. ‘Moll and Flite.’

‘Moll and Flite? What?’

‘Don’t you remember them?’

Cecilia paused. Her eyes searched the ceiling, as though scanning the past.

‘No,’ she said in a small voice.

‘He had a black beard. No – with no moustache. She . . . Well, she was brown-skinned, from the weather. Always outside. She was – big. Wore long skirts, layers of them. Do you remember?’

‘You gave my child to –’

Dora bowed her head. ‘Do you remember them?’

‘There were so
many
.’

‘And always passing through,’ said Dora, nodding.

‘I don’t remember,’ said Cecilia, breathing slowly to quell the nausea. ‘Moll and Flite?’ she said in a monotone.

‘Yes.’

‘What were their real names?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Don’t know?’

‘I never thought about it. Well,’ she said, swallowing, ‘I’ve never known.’

‘What was their surname?’

‘Jones,’ said Dora quietly.

‘Oh God. Didn’t she have a different name?’

‘They both went by Jones as far as I know. Women did in those days,’ said Dora faintly defensively. ‘Even . . . alternative ones; alternative livers. Oh you know what I mean.’

‘Moll and Flite?’ she said again in disbelief.

‘Yes. Flite was a gentle soul.’

‘They all were.
Gentle
. Filthy useless workshy morons. You gave my baby to one of those?’ Cecilia’s voice began to rise. She caught her breath unevenly.

‘They were a nice couple. They wanted a child very badly, and there you were – You, you, my poor love. You were so
young
. You shouldn’t have been pregnant at that age. You forget that.’

‘But why didn’t you tell me?’

‘How? You wouldn’t speak to me for years.’

‘You didn’t exactly try.’

‘We’re not the same as you. Your generation. I find it – hard to speak about things, Cecilia. Ask Diana. Beatrice was the same.’

‘
Why
didn’t you tell me before? You knew how desperate I was.’

‘Oh Celie.’ Dora paused, sighed.

Cecilia sent the bowl in front of her spinning across the table. It fell on to the floor, and failed to break.

‘You’re very difficult when you’re like this,’ said Dora.

‘What did this “Flite” do for a living?’ she said, turning back to her, a look of disgust stiffening her face.

‘He gardened. Gardener, really. She was a midwife –’

‘Was she
that
midwife?’

‘That midwife?’

‘Oh
you know who I mean
.’

‘Cecilia –’

‘That dirty-haired bitch who was around when I was having my baby. Christ, I think I remember her. Remember her smell or something. I don’t remember her face. Christ, Christ. You must have been out of your mind. So you let that woman
pull my baby out of me and take her
?’

Dora shook her head, nodded, her eyes glazed.

‘You are insane. Off your head!’

‘Celie . . .’

Cecilia looked at her. She laughed with a small hiss of air. ‘There’s little I can believe any more.’ She slapped her hand down. ‘Where are they now?’ she said abruptly.

‘I really honestly have no idea, darling,’ said Dora, sounding drunk. ‘No idea. No idea. I’m sorry. I looked for them over the years. I still ask the odd – person who comes by, who might have known them. A few people saw them occasionally –’

‘Where?’

‘At – fairs. Or just around. It seems they went to Wales and then abroad. I looked.’

‘You
gave
my baby to a couple of infertile old drifters renting this cottage and then let them –’

‘They were very, very gentle, loving. I had no doubts they would nurture a baby well, darling.’

‘And you didn’t keep in touch, didn’t have any address? Where did they go?’

‘They gave me an address, darling. But – but – I thought it was best. A clean break. I wrote to them there – Wales, Pembrokeshire – and they’d long gone. I knew you’d be angry,’ said Dora weakly.

‘Angry?’ said Cecilia, her mouth open. ‘I can –’ She shook her head. ‘I can barely – I can barely articulate – This is monstrous.’

Dora recoiled.

‘My child. Your granddaughter. You – I cannot believe this. Dora. What did you do to me – to her? Did you
hate
me? Was the child not good enough? Not good enough for you? She was, she was perfect. I remember. I remember that lovely face. Little cheeks, face. I saw her. Why did I agree to anything?
Why
did I agree?’

‘I knew I shouldn’t tell you. I
knew
I shouldn’t,’ said Dora, biting her lips and shaking her head hard. ‘I always knew – I can’t – can’t lose the girls.’

‘Good God. You expect – what now? How could you have done that in front of me, under my nose? Cooked it all up with them?’

‘I thought it was best for you.’

‘For you.’

‘For you.’

‘Well, you’re always going to deny everything,’ said Cecilia. She hit the top of the table. ‘I’m going to look for them. Give me everything you’ve got. Now. Now.’

‘I have
nothing
, Celie,’ said Dora weakly. ‘Really, darling. I – I looked.’

‘Well I will look. “Moll and Flite”. How fucking ridiculous. What were the names on their cheques?’

‘Oh darling, they always paid cash –’

‘– Cash,’ said Cecilia at the same time. ‘Of course they did. If you were lucky. Or they paid in quiche and childminding.
My
child.
My child
.’

Dora clamped her mouth shut. ‘I can’t tell you any more,’ she said. ‘I looked for them. For – you. I didn’t think it was the best thing for you, but – But I looked for them.’

‘Why?’

‘Because how could I not? Given your reaction.’

Cecilia said nothing.

‘Oh this is a terrible mess really,’ said Dora. She sounded slurred. ‘I knew – always. I knew I should keep it as it was.’

‘Where is she?’

‘There’s nothing more to say,’ said Dora, her hand wiping her eyes, her mouth.

‘I’m asking you once more,’ said Cecilia.

Dora was silent. Her chest rose and fell.

‘That’s it,’ said Cecilia, reaching for the door.

She went to the house and threw herself on the bed. The pillow smelled of Ari. ‘Why aren’t you
here
?’ she said, thumping it, and she picked up the phone. ‘Ari,’ she said, sobbing into Ari’s voicemail. ‘Oh why aren’t you
there
? I need you – Need to talk – Oh God. Call me.’

She put the phone down, glanced at her alarm clock, pressed her eyes to her pillow until she saw slow starbursts, owlish irises staring back at her in the darkness, and rang James Dahl’s mobile. After several rings, he answered.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ said Cecilia in muted tones, fighting tears. ‘It’s too late?’

‘No.’

‘I – I – I need you. I want to talk to you –’

‘Of course –’

‘Dora told me things about the baby. I need you.’

‘I’ll drive out.’

‘Oh no – Can you?’

‘I can’t really talk now,’ he said steadily. ‘I’ll see you in about – forty minutes.’

Cecilia paused, her chin dropping to her chest as she stood there. ‘Yes. Can you? Yes.’

‘Of course,’ he said.

‘Don’t knock, don’t knock, the kids are in bed,’ she said rapidly. ‘I’ll look out for you and come down.’

She paced the bedroom, tensing her fingers as she heard herself speaking clusters of words out loud, the floorboards straining with every movement until she feared her daughters might wake, and she attempted to quell her panic as anger bolted through her agitation, leaving her nauseated. With a jolt, she recalled her impulsive voicemail message to Ari. She couldn’t talk about it to him, she realised with fresh clarity. It had only ever been productive to mention the baby in the early years; his gruff sympathy turning into resistance over time. She scrabbled for another reason for her call, conscious of how her lies proliferated.

Moll. Flite. Wales. Midwife. Adoption
, she Googled frantically, making no progress. She searched blogs, tumbling into a barely literate netherworld featuring the ramblings of self-justifying dropouts, elaborate conspiracies, theories on festivals, raves, drugs, without success, and listened for James Dahl’s car as she tapped in further futile entries. She would walk in the river field with him, she decided, hidden from the girls’ bedrooms by a barn, but sufficiently close to check the house. She waited, emailing all her brothers to ask them if they remembered who had lived in Wind Tor Cottage, barely able to write the lodgers’ names and enclosing them in inverted commas.

She heard a car engine and ran to the window. The phone rang behind her.

She stopped. She hesitated, waiting for several more rings. She snatched it up to answer it, aware that Ari would continue to call and become concerned if he couldn’t reach her.

‘Hi,’ she said, her own sudden huskiness taking her aback.

‘What’s happened?’

‘Oh darling, sorry, I – I overreacted. I had a horrible row with Dora. I –’

The sound of the car was audible, the engine cutting, the door closing. Cecilia stiffened. She covered the phone with her hand and pressed it to her ear.

‘What was it about? Was that a car?’

‘Oh – usual stuff. Sorry. I was upset,’ said Cecilia, walking back to the window. She opened it. ‘Very upset. I – I got all flustered.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘I –’ she said. James stood outside the gate, a pale-tinted shadow. She tried to gesture to him through the darkness of the lane but he was looking in the direction of the front door. ‘Oh I – someone’s out there,’ said Cecilia, trailing off. She put her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Just a moment!’ she called softly out of the window.

‘Who is out there at this time of night?’ said Ari, amusement lifting his voice.

‘Oh God,’ said Cecilia, unable to think. ‘It’s – oh, it’s the neighbour.’ She cringed.

‘What’s he-she want?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Which neighbour?’

‘He’s . . . I think he’s the one with the lost dog.’ Her voice weakened. She blushed, alone.