Livvy thought about the text message and the phone call that she was yet to share with Dominic. ‘No, not since she turned up at the farm.’ The lie slipped from her tongue, and Livvy reassured herself it wasn’t really a lie, more a benign fib to protect the integrity of her promise to Dominic not to discuss his family with anyone else.
‘It’s just . . . Dad and I were thinking. Maybe you should meet her. It seems such a shame, none of you having any contact with Dominic’s family.’
Livvy shook her head. ‘Absolutely not.’
‘But she must feel dreadful. She’s just lost her husband, she’s estranged from her son, she has no contact with her only grandchild. Imagine if that was me or Dad.’
‘But you or Dad wouldn’t be in that position in the first place. There’s a good reason why Dominic doesn’t want to see her.’
‘Well, maybe if you explained things to us a bit more, we might understand.’ Her dad smiled encouragingly.
Livvy hesitated, thought about her promise to Dominic, weighed it up against her parents’ concern. ‘I can’t – it’s not fair on Dominic. But his dad was . . . quite abusive. And his mum did nothing to protect him. I can’t go into details, but you just have to trust me: he’s right not to want contact with her.’
Her mum glanced at her dad, then back at Livvy. ‘But now that his dad’s passed away, maybe it would be a good moment to reconcile with his mum? Obviously we don’t know exactly what happened, but if Dominic’s father was abusive to him, isn’t it possible that his mother was a victim too?’ There was something elliptical in her mum’s words, as though half her thoughts had been erased before she spoke, leaving only faint indentations on the page.
She just stood there, like a rod of iron, and wouldn’t tell me anything.
Livvy thought about the harrowing events Dominic had described, about his mother’s complicity and her failure to keep him safe. ‘That’s not the impression I’ve got. But anyway, it’s Dominic’s family, so it’s up to him whether or not he has contact with her. It’s not my decision to make.’
Her dad drank the last of his tea, patted Livvy’s leg. ‘Well, you have to do what you think is best. It just seems terribly sad, that’s all.’
On the floor next to Livvy, Leo picked up the metal fire engine, threw it across the floor, and she bent down, picked it up. ‘I think this one’s getting a bit restless. Shall we take him to the park?’
Gently pulling Leo’s arms through the sleeves of his coat, Livvy was aware of an ambient, unnameable anxiety flickering behind her ribs. Strapping Leo into his pushchair, she tried to ignore it, hoping that if she looked the other way for long enough it would somehow manage to fix itself.
ANNA
LONDON
It is dark outside by the time I hear the metallic slice of the key in the lock. I have not noticed the light fading, have been oblivious to the gradual dimming of the sky, night devouring day, leaving only shadows behind.
Stephen walks into the sitting room, snaps on the light, startles to find me sitting in an armchair, legs curled beneath me, palms tucked between my thighs.
‘God, you made me jump. Why are you sitting in the dark?’
‘You’re late.’ My voice is flat, as though it has been turned through a mangle, all the emotion wrung out of it.
‘No, I told you this morning there was a late addition to the programme – a seminar I wanted to attend. You haven’t been sitting there waiting, have you?’
I shake my head, ignore the concern in his voice. I cannot recall him telling me he was going to be delayed but so much has happened since, it is possible there has not been enough room in my head for it all.
Bending down to kiss me, Stephen’s stubble bristles against my cheek, and I feel myself recoil.
‘Is everything alright?’
I open my lips to speak, but all the moisture has evaporated and there is a small sticking sound as I unpeel my tongue from the roof of my mouth.
‘Anna? What’s wrong?’
He is crouching in front of me and I can feel the heat of his gaze on my skin, but I cannot lift my head to look at him. The enormity of what I have to ask him is like a tsunami rushing towards us and I cannot imagine that we will not both be drowned.
‘Anna? You’re scaring me. What’s happened?’
There is a moment’s hesitation, and I wonder if my imagination has been playing tricks on me, whether I am inventing stories in lieu of memory. Whether my earlier certainty was nothing more than a fantasy, conjuring into being what I wish to be true.
And then my bare toes make contact with the cardboard wallet tucked next to the cushion: the photographs I have been studying all afternoon. They flick through my mind as though on an old-fashioned overhead projector, one after the other, presenting themselves as all the evidence I need.
Slipping one hand into the slim gap next to the cushion, I retrieve the pack of photographs, pull them out, hand them to Stephen.
Colour leaches from Stephen’s face. ‘Where did you get these?’
I see it immediately in his eyes, hear it in his voice; the confirmation that there is a story to be told. Something he has not yet divulged and which he has no desire to tell me now.
‘Anna. Where did you get these?’ There is an edge to his voice: serrated, precise.
‘They were in a box. In the spare room.’ I pause, summoning the courage. ‘It’s my baby, isn’t it?’ Five short words and yet now they are out in the open, they take on a life of their own, and I know I can never fetch them back.
For a few seconds Stephen doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, as though my question has frozen time. And then he lifts himself from his knees, sits on the edge of the armchair next to mine, buries his head in his hands.
The suspension is stifling and I feel as if I am being suffocated by it, waiting to learn whatever the truth might be. Impatience tautens every muscle in my body and I reach out, grab hold of his sleeve. ‘Just tell me.’
Stephen looks up, tears pooling in his eyes. The room seems to be holding its breath and I do not know what I am hoping he’ll say.
‘I’m so sorry.’ He speaks softly and I wait for him to say more, anxiety wrapping itself around my throat, stealing my words. ‘We had a child. But he died.’
Time seems to bend and stretch. Stephen reaches out, takes hold of my hand, and I can see it on top of mine but I cannot feel it, am no longer aware of myself, as though my mind and body have been separated, and I am nothing more than a chaos of disordered thoughts. ‘When?’ I hear the sound of my voice but am not conscious of having articulated the question.
‘Two years ago.’
Two years ago. I try to make sense of the time frame but it is abstract, inscrutable. ‘What was his name?’ Words find their way through my lips but I do not know where they have come from, how they dare make their way into the world.
Stephen pauses, swallows, looks down to where his hands are clasping mine. ‘Henry. We called him Henry.’
There is a flicker of something, like the faint light from a distant star, and for a brief moment I am aware of something on the periphery of my memory: a baby in my arms, the light snuffle of breaths, a profound, all-consuming love.