‘I didn’t accuse you. I asked you. Maybe I need reassurance. After all, it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility, is it? Look at last time.’
She saw his cheek twitch. They never referred to his fling with Joanna. He hated the reminder. He walked over to her and took her hand. ‘I’m not having an affair.’ He held her eyes with his, his pupils large, swamping the blue. ‘Everything I want, everything I need, is here under this roof. I learnt my lesson, Kay.’
‘I had to ask.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘I’ve been going up the wall. I’m sorry.’
He shook his head and pulled her to him. Held her by the nape of the neck. Kissed her. She let him. Catching hold of the relief that his denial brought and trying to quieten the whispering doubts that still clung to her.
Caroline
She marked each birthday. A little ritual that no one knew about. That in itself hadn’t been easy with a business to run and a young family, but she had no qualms about inventing a trip to town, a meeting with a potential supplier or even, one year, a hospital appointment to account for her absence. She would find a quiet place, somewhere tranquil, usually where there was water and stones and trees. The first years after her marriage it had been the gorge where the Avon flowed and when they moved again she had found this place on one of her walks. Farsands Cove. Tiny, virtually inaccessible apart from a steep scramble down red-mud cliffs and through a stand of conifers. But once reached it had been her sanctuary.
She found herself a spot among the rocks. The tide was well out and the fresh wind had dried the beach. She sat down, rubbed her palms in the sand, picked up handfuls and let it trickle from her knuckles.
The ritual was simple. She would recall her time at St Ann’s. She would try to remember as much as she could: the imposing building with its towers and gargoyles, doing the laundry, the perishing-cold bedroom she shared, the garden and the hours she spent bundled up on a bench. The other girls: Megan, who had been so lively and generous; Joan, who had been older but still in the same terrible situation. Did they ever think back? Remember her? She recalled the corner of the garden where she sat. The shawl she had brought. What else? Grandma dying and not being there for the funeral. Megan knitting. Porridge for breakfast. Her labour. The details still more clear to her than those of the boys’. And then it had changed.
The baby had become the centre of her life. Changing and feeding her. Holding her. Falling in love with her.
‘A very good family,’ Sister Monica had said. Caroline had nodded. Thinking, And I am not. Not good. Not family. What am I then? Nothing.
The worst part to remember was the night she had tried to rescue Theresa. She couldn’t just give her up like all the others: it was wrong to let her go. She loved her so. Caroline would talk to her and she would listen, really listen, her tiny face running through all these different expressions. She was so beautiful. A shock of dark hair, eyes like pools in the night. She loved the smell of her, she would sit breathing in the scent from her skin, feeling the weight of her in her arms. My lovely, lovely girl.
They hadn’t told Caroline what day the baby would be taken but her cot was next to the door in the nursery now. She would be next. Caroline had lain awake that night, her eyes hard and dry, her heart heavy and an awful pain in her stomach. It was wrong. She wouldn’t let them do it. She had slipped out of bed and opened the wardrobe. Wincing when it creaked. But no one woke. She pulled on a dress and coat, found her shoes and the bag she had ready with her few possessions.
She tiptoed across the hall to the nursery, where Sister Vincent and one of the girls were meant to be watching over the babies. She couldn’t see Sister Vincent but Deirdre was curled up on the truckle bed, out for the count. It was cool and Caroline was shivering but she could feel sweat sliding down the sides of her chest. Her heart was thumping in her throat. She went into the nursery and bent over the cot. She felt the familiar rush of affection, a dizzy sort of joy at seeing her little girl again. Quietly she pulled aside the blankets and lifted up the child, holding her against her left shoulder. She pulled the shawl from the bed and wrapped it around the baby’s back. She walked out and down the passage to the front door, thinking at the same time that it would be a long time till the first bus. The first bus to anywhere.
The door was locked and she couldn’t see the key. Her hands were shaking, she looked on the little table in the hall but there was nothing there. She could go out the back, then.
She turned and the snap of lights flooded the hallway, making her jump. Sister Vincent came towards her, her face hard. ‘Caroline.’
She felt her eyes flood with tears, her cheeks slither, the shaking spread to her ribs and her thighs. ‘Sister, I can’t! I can’t, I won’t!’ She buried her face in the baby’s neck. Soft skin, silky hair. The smell of milk and powder. She cupped her hand over the small skull, felt the pulse beating through the fontanels, used her thumb to stroke the small nub of Theresa’s left ear. ‘Please?’ she begged. ‘She’s my baby.’ She turned but her way was blocked again.
Then there were more footsteps and lights and orders whispered and they took her into Sister Monica’s office and she was shaking her head and begging them and they pulled the child from her arms.
She didn't see her again.
There was little to remember after that. A blur of pain and misery so she could barely swallow or talk. A stone inside her.
She thought about her baby every day. And once a year she came here to remember and to weep and to pray that one day the child would seek her out and she could begin to make amends. She would be fifteen years old today, practically grown up. Did she ever think of Caroline? Did she know she even existed?
She watched the sea suck and sigh through her salty eyes, blew her nose on one of the handkerchiefs she had brought. She prayed to the earth and the high, pewter sky and the wind to bring her daughter back. Then she walked the cove, searching for a small stone, a pebble or a shell. She would know the right one when she held it. This time she found a small, smooth, oval-shaped pebble, dark-grey with lines of white terraced through it. She held it and it fitted her palm. She would take it home and put it in her special box along with the fourteen others she had. Her only mementos.
Kay
‘Kay, Kay Farrell?’
A young woman stood on the doorstep: she was very slim, pretty, with long blonde hair and a lime-green crocheted dress. ‘I’m Julie.’
Kay frowned. She didn’t know the girl, was sure they’d never met. ‘I don’t think…’ she began.
‘I work with Adam.’
‘Adam’s not here,’ Kay said stupidly. Monday to Friday, eight thirty to six, even later if business was booming.
‘I know,’ the girl said. ‘Could I come in a minute?’ She seemed tense, her eyes looked a little startled and she blinked a lot.
Kay hesitated but it would have been impolite to refuse. Why was she here? Was Adam hurt?
The washing machine was making a din in the kitchen so Kay took her into the dining room. The girl sat down. Kay offered her a drink.
‘No, thanks. Adam hasn’t said anything about me?’ Half question, half statement.
Kay shook her head.
Julie sighed and closed her eyes momentarily.
‘I’m pregnant,’ she said, looking down at her hands in her lap. ‘I’m having Adam’s baby.’
For an awful moment Kay wanted to laugh, felt a cackle sitting in her chest. Pregnant? Preposterous. You can’t be. He can’t… He swore to me. She didn’t speak but swung her eyes away from the girl out to the garden, to where the climbing frame stood.
Julie continued. ‘He said he’d tell you but I think it was just another lie. I know he can’t divorce you, the religion and that, but that doesn’t mean he has to keep living with you.’