Mira folded up the letter and slid it carefully into an envelope and wrote Rosie Bradley neatly on the front. To Mira, it was like a delicate relic that even the slightest smear or crinkle could destroy or sully. The weather had been dry over night, but she would find a plastic sandwich bag to wrap it in to prevent the damp from the garden getting to it, and a few sweeties for luck. It was likely Rosie would check the blue bucket straight after school.
For now, she left it in the centre of the bureau and she went upstairs to find her watch for work. The stairs seemed to leave her more breathless than usual. Writing about her son had taken everything out of her, but it had given her a thrill, as though the hope that they would be reunited one day was nearer somehow. As though sixteen years of his silence had not passed.
She heard the front door open.
‘What have you forgotten?’ she called down to Barry.
‘Just those bills with our address on! I need them to collect my rake from the post office!’
‘Okay, love,’ she called back casually, and then with a start, remembered where the bills were kept. She charged downstairs, sick to the stomach with fear. If he saw the letter on the bureau addressed to Rosie, Mira didn’t know how she would explain.
When she arrived at the bureau, she found that Barry was already holding the opened letter in his hand. His eyes behind his darkened lens suggested he had managed to read enough to know everything.
The shame of looking at him was like hot pokers thrust into her eye sockets.
Mira snatched the letter, turned on her heels and skittered out of the house to rapidly wheel the bucket and letter over to Rosie before Barry caught up with her. It was important she explained her behaviour to Rosie, or she risked losing her too. Barry was not going to get in the way of that.
* * *
Every second of her day at school was torture. She tried to keep herself upright.
She was irritable with the children, especially the ones who had forgotten their PE kit, and snappy with Patricia, who seemed to be blaming her for the fact that the children didn’t know the words to their Christmas songs, even though it wasn’t yet December.
At least the pettiness of her school day distracted her from the rift that had split open her home life. Every time she thought of it, she caught her breath. It was unfathomable that Barry now knew about her baby boy, whom she had managed to keep secret for all of their marriage. She couldn’t truly believe it had happened. So she soldiered on, the severed connection between body and mind allowing her to function on a low-level, emergency-only setting.
Barry wasn’t at home when she got back from work. Weary from the pretence of being normal, she plodded up the stairs, desperate to soak in her bath. Thankfully, Barry was bound to be late back from Boscarny House, where the lady of the house would not let him go until every thread of grass and every leaf was where it should be.
But just as her tired limbs were enveloped in the silky warmth of the bath, Barry came into the bathroom, carrying two glasses of red wine and a bowl of cheese puffs, her favourite, on a tray. Aside from everything that he had learnt about her today, he was thoughtful enough to bring her what she needed most: routine, comfort, and a little luxury to remind her that life would carry on. He was telling her that nothing had to change.
He didn’t say anything. He simply sat in the wicker chair. Next door, all was quiet.
They both sipped their wine in the tense, loaded silence. Part of her now wanted Rosie’s screams to fill the emptiness.
She said finally, ‘It was the right thing to do to give him up.’
Little ripples of water were spreading in circles from her heart.
‘Of course it was, love.’
‘I gave him a better life.’
‘You were fifteen years old,’ he murmured, shaking his head slowly back and forth.
‘He was the only man I ever slept with. Until you.’
‘Man?’
‘Boy,’ Mira corrected. She couldn’t tell him everything, not everything. There were some secrets that were worth taking to the grave.
‘Does he know?’
‘He didn’t want anything to do with it.’
‘That’s probably a blessing.’
‘He’ll have a proper father who loves him now.’
‘And a mother,’ Barry added.
Mira swallowed hard, but she could not bring herself to talk of another ‘proper’ mother. She was his mother.
‘I put my name on the register but he never got in contact, so that’s that.’
Barry reached for some crisps and stuffed a large handful into his mouth from his palm.
‘So he must be happy,’ Mira added.
‘And you’re happy too,’ Barry stated, as though he needed it to be so.
Mira hesitated. ‘Sometimes I look at a man’s features on the street or in cars or in the supermarket and wonder if it could be him.’
‘Your paths would never cross.’
‘How do you know?’
‘That stuff only happens in films.’
‘Life is stranger than the films sometimes.’
‘Anyhow, it wouldn’t matter either way.’
‘But what if I want to see him?’ she said quietly.
Barry crashed his glass down on the basin side. ‘That’s not your right!’
Her mouth fell open. Wide-eyed, she said calmly, ‘Careful, that’s our wedding crystal.’
‘He has his own life and you have yours and don’t you forget it,’ Barry said, pointing his finger aggressively.
Over twenty-five years of marriage and she had never seen him lose his temper. It was shocking, riling even. How dare he?
‘His life came from my body. He is my life.’
‘How can you say that?’ Barry yelled, standing up. ‘I’m your life!’
The bath water fell stony cold. There was something frightening in Barry’s eyes and she wanted to get out of the bath, get out of his confined space, but she did not want to be vulnerable and naked in front of him. She did not want him to sneer at her used-up belly, which had once held that baby boy.
‘Keep your voice down,’ Mira said, glancing over at the window, fearful that the Bradleys would hear. The irony of that.
‘This is my house, I can shout all I like!’ He was taut with anger, rooted to the spot with it. Mira imagined a wind blowing, turning him to stone. His finger pointed at her in accusation.
Mira held her nose and sank down into the bathwater, covering her head, holding her breath. She would stay there until he was gone. One, two, three, four, she counted. Thirty-three, thirty-four.
A deadened flow of Barry’s ranting reached her from the outside.
Then silence. She couldn’t hold her breath much longer, but she would. Sixty-one, sixty-two. If she died here, she didn’t care. It was pleasant to be away from it all. It was easier; though she wondered how she could anchor her head under when her instinct would be to gasp for air. She imagined Barry’s merciful fingers as a bracelet around her neck, pinning her to the bottom.
Then two arms shot down into the water and pulled her body out. She spluttered into Barry’s chest, her body soaking his jumper. ‘Mira, my Mira, oh my love, don’t do that, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ he sobbed.
‘Let’s never talk about it again,’ Mira said, cold flesh in his arms.
‘Never, never,’ he agreed, kissing her head.
Chapter Fifty
Dear Mrs E,
* * *
Thank you very much for your letter. I feel very sad for you. When my dwarf rabbit ran away from us I cried all night. He was black with a white ear. Mummy hated him. She probably killed him. She hates everything that I like best. I think she has finally got sick of me now. She even moved to London because she hurt my head. When Daddy took me to the doctor he wanted me to tell him all about when Mummy slapped me. It was really difficult. What I had said to Miss Miles was more like a story and it is hard to remember a story I made up from like ages and ages ago. It was like three weeks ago. I make up gazillions of stories every day in my head. Do you think it is hard to remember stuff too? Please could you help me to remember what I said to Miss Miles?
* * *