Of course, I wondered about Jude, over the years, and sometimes fantasized about a reunion. I thought I’d see her when my grandfather died, but the conflict between her and her parents was too deep-rooted to be negotiated by then, I suppose. She didn’t come to his funeral—or Granny’s a year later. She probably hadn’t guessed that they’d left her some money, and I wondered if she’d felt guilty when she got the executor’s letter.
I kept putting the idea of getting in touch aside for later. I was busy, finding jobs and bedsits, shifting around and rootless for a few years. Then university and Paul. Life got in the way, I suppose. And I didn’t know what I’d say to her.
It was my fortieth birthday that made me want to get in touch. A landmark birthday, Paul said.
I sat for ages worrying about what to write—how to say hello after twenty-four years? In the end, I put Dear Jude, How are you? I have been thinking about you—about us—and I would like to see you again. I am married now and living in Pinner. I will understand if you decide not to, but if you would like to contact me, please write or phone. Love, Emma. I still sounded like a child.
I waited and waited for a response, hurt at first, then angry, and then I panicked that she was dead and I’d left it too late.
I rang our old number at Howard Street—for the first time since I was sixteen—to find out, shaking and hanging on to the phone. But when I finally got an answer, it was another woman’s voice.
“Who?” she said. “Oh, her. She’s long gone. Blimey, must be ten years since I moved in. Funny, there was a letter for her a couple of weeks ago.”
“I sent it,” I said. “She’s my mum . . . Do you know where she is now?”
“No, don’t know where she moved to. Sorry.” The woman sounded sad for me. “What shall I do with the letter?”
“Throw it away,” I said.
I rang her old office the next day—more strangers—but they told me that, according to their records, Jude was still alive and they agreed to forward my details to her.
She kept me dangling another three months—and I began to believe that I might never hear from her again. To be honest, I didn’t know how I felt about that. Some days, I was devastated—I felt abandoned all over again—and other days, I felt a sense of relief. I’d tried. But I could put it away now. Get on with my life.
Then her short note came through the letterbox. I remember smelling the paper as if I could catch a scent of her, and I rang her new number immediately to tell her how glad I was to hear from her.
I’m not sure what I was expecting, but Jude didn’t scream with excitement when she realized it was me. Not her style. Nor did she apologize for the rupture in our relationship, for throwing me out, for choosing Will over me.
“I needed to put myself first for a change,” she said. “I needed to find myself. After Will left me—those were difficult years, Emma. But I think you and I can put it all behind us now. We’re different people now.”
And I agreed.
“I think we should meet somewhere neutral,” she said. “Have a cup of tea somewhere. What do you think?”
Her terms, her territory, I suppose. She’s never been to our home. Jude calls it “Paul’s house” and says it’s too far for her to travel. “Pinner—it’s about to fall off the edge of London, Emma.”
The first time, she chose a café in Covent Garden and I took Paul with me, holding his hand tightly. Jude didn’t bother to hide her shock at the age gap between us, and there was an awkward silence while we pretended to study the menus and I waited with clenched stomach for the inevitable remark. But she held back. Nothing was said. And it had been all right in the end. No big emotional reunion but, then, no row, either.
“Well, that wasn’t too bad,” Paul had said as we walked away.
? ? ?
What did you buy? Anything nice?” Paul says now as he gets up to set the table, and for a moment I don’t know what he’s talking about.
“Oh, no, nothing, in the end,” I say when I realize. “I just had a look.” And I sit quietly for a moment. I haven’t been shopping.
? ? ?
I should have taken the Central Line west to get back to Pinner, but I didn’t. I went in the opposite direction. I remember thinking, I’m not going home. Well, I was in a way. I was going back to Howard Street.
The journey passed in a blur, stations coming into bright focus and then flashing back into the darkness, walking up and down concrete steps with the crowds to change to the Jubilee Line and then up into the daylight again at Greenwich. The 472 bus to Woolwich took a long time to come—It’s Sunday, I kept telling myself. I watched the digital display count down the minutes until I could board. Three mins. One min. Due.
But when I got there, it had all gone. The rubble of 63 Howard Street was behind a steel mesh fence and I could only stand and re-create it in my head. When I walked further on, I could see behind the builders’ huts to what was our garden, once. I could see the police tape, a loose end fluttering, and the dirt. But there was nothing else to see. And I walked away. A face at a window in one of the houses opposite watched me. I pushed my fists into my coat pockets and kept my head down.
THIRTEEN
Kate
MONDAY, MARCH 26, 2012
It was Monday—“Another day at the coal mine,” the Crime Man had announced to no one in particular as Kate arrived late. Not a good start to the week.
Terry had given her the what-time-do-you-call-this? eyebrow tilt, but she’d decided to ignore it and not offer an excuse. Instead, she went to sit at her “work station,” as the management now called their desks.
Kate looked around the newsroom to see who else was in and saw the political editor was already deep in conversation with Simon Pearson, the Editor. There was loud, laddish laughter as the political editor told an off-color story about one of the cabinet and his boss clapped him on the shoulder. He looked pleased with himself. Master of his universe, Kate noted.
All quiet, otherwise. The muted clatter of keys and the hunched shoulders of the online slaves would keep Terry happy—and off her back, she hoped. She logged onto her computer and scanned her inbox. She’d already looked at the messages on her phone, but she hoped that in the ten minutes since she’d last glanced at them, there’d have been some reaction to the baby story. A bit of information, maybe, to give her a leg up. But nothing.
She didn’t bother with her voicemail. People used to phone her with stories and tip-offs and they’d bounce ideas around and pass the time of day. Now it was all online. She didn’t need to physically speak to another person all day, sometimes.
Kate yawned. The Crime Man yawned back, companionably, from across the desk.
“By the way, Nina’s had a word with me about Terry’s latest crackdown on expenses,” he said quietly.
Nina, the news desk secretary, was the fount of all knowledge and was loved universally by the reporters. She’d been around “since Moses published his commandments,” she told everyone and knew how to get four-star hotel bookings for reporters past the managing editor, how to cover for “her” boys when there was trouble at home or at work—“I’m sure he’s on his way,” she’d purr down the phone to an angry wife or Terry. She could also get you into a war zone with a hire car and no visa without batting an eyelid.
“She says that Terry is ringing restaurants to make sure the staff ate there and that the total on the receipt matches their records. Death to the blanko is his goal this month. It won’t last.”
The war on reporters’ expenses re-erupted periodically, usually when the news desk budget went bust. The blanko—a blank receipt from a hotel or restaurant that could be filled in by the reporter, rather like a blank check—was the usual target.
Producing receipts used to be an art form in the old days—rumors abounded of children’s John Bull printing sets being used to make whole books of receipts. Coffee stains and insects were then added to give them foreign credentials.
“Oh dear,” Kate said.
They both stared at their screens.