Martin shunts forward in his chair. ‘William, I choose to spend my time with men who’ve lost everything. They’re not exactly straightforward, but they’re far more interesting for it. They’re real.’
William notices Gloria at the bar chatting to the barman, who’s laughing at something she’s said.
‘OK.’ William looks back at Martin. ‘Consider us found.’
Gloria returns with a tray. ‘Everything all right?’ she says.
‘Thank you, Gloria.’ Martin lifts the drinks to the table, passing William’s to him. ‘Wouldn’t have had you down as a whisky drinker.’
‘What would you have had me down as?’
Martin considers. ‘I seem to remember you having a penchant for ginger beer, but then you were only ten.’ Martin and Gloria laugh, filling the pub and William’s heart.
‘Come on then, Martin.’ Gloria rubs her hands. ‘Spill the beans, tell me about my beloved when he was a choirboy.’
‘Well, Gloria’ – Martin drops his voice – ‘how long have you got?’
‘That man loves you.’ It’s after nine and they’re desperate for their sandwiches waiting on the mantelpiece. A cyclist rolls through a deep puddle next to them and water fans off the tyres. Gloria tuts and bends down to snap the wet nylon away from her leg.
‘I know.’ They turn into the short pathway to their bed and breakfast. He pushes the key and wiggles it in the lock to find the connection. ‘I love him too.’
‘Good.’ She pats him on the back as she follows him up the narrow stairs. ‘Because in this life, we need all the people who love us that we can get, don’t you think?’
‘I do,’ he says.
‘Promise me you’ll stay in touch. Visit him again? Maybe invite him to us?’
‘Promise.’
49
TWO YEARS LATER
William has been sitting in the corner of Ruth’s lounge for over an hour while Gloria talks to her friends. He doesn’t like this room; the glass cabinet with wedding and baby photos depresses him and the bland rubbish playing on the stereo is like nails down a blackboard. Ruth is Gloria’s closest nursing friend, and the last, except them, to start a family. Right now, he doesn’t like her very much either and he positively hates christening parties.
A few months ago, he came back early from work and found Gloria on the kitchen floor, a tight knot of grief, knees gripped to her chest. He caught the misery on her face in the brief second before she could get it under control, readjust herself for him. She tried to grab the balled letter next to her, but he dipped down and got to it first. It was from her sister.
‘I’ll get over it,’ she said, wiping her face with both palms. ‘Just seems a bit greedy. She’s already got three. Not sure I can get excited about a fourth.’
He sat on the floor and put his arm round her, kissed her warm head. She leaned into him, her body relaxing, and it amazed him how she could let him be her comfort, when it was him inflicting the hurt.
Gloria has no idea that every now and then he lets himself imagine a pregnancy; the heat of her joy, a baby arriving – always a girl – the soft flesh of small fingers closing round his. Neither does she know about the images that burst into his mind with all the vivid horror of his flashbacks. Images of terrible attacks on their baby’s fragile body. The unbearable anguish of embalming his own child. Because how could he ever let anyone else do it? All this he keeps to himself.
On his most recent visit to Cambridge, he hoped to talk about it with Martin, thinking that his presence has an almost magical quality. But once he arrived, he felt the folding in of himself and let Martin’s lively company be enough for both of them. He must have stayed with him more than ten times in the last two years. Sometimes with Gloria, sometimes on his own. It’s best when she comes, and Martin cooks an elaborate meal, with wine and loud music, and flowers on the table, but mostly he comes on his own, wanting to give her a break.
Gloria is walking towards him now, carrying the baby in its ludicrous satin gown, followed by Ruth, who smiles at him and says, ‘Want a cuddle, Uncle William?’
He shakes his head. ‘No, thank you.’
Ruth mock frowns, looks to Gloria.
‘Come on, William.’ Gloria smiles, but there’s warning in her voice. ‘He’s a poppet.’ She holds the baby towards him, determined.
It won’t take much, he thinks, just reach out, take the child, and that delicious smile will sweep her face.