A Traitor to Memory

“That's not what we have,” Lynley said. “What you've come up with here, the Humber, can lead us—”

“I said bugger the Humber, Lynley. We're back to square one as far as you're concerned. Bring in that computer. And when you're done, get on your knees and thank God I don't report you to your superiors.”



“It's time you came home with me, Jill.” Dora Foster finished drying the last of the dishes and folded the tea towel neatly over its rack by the sink. She straightened its edges with her usual attention to microscopic detail, and she turned back to Jill, who was resting at the kitchen table, her feet up and her fingers kneading the aching muscles of her lower back. Jill felt as if she were carrying a fifty-pound bag of flour in her stomach, and she wondered how on God's holy earth she was going to be able to get herself back into shape for her wedding just two months after the birth. “Our little Catherine's dropped into position,” her mother said. “It's a matter of days. Any day now, in fact.”

“Richard's not quite resigned to the plan,” Jill told her.

“You're in better hands with me than you'd be alone in a delivery room with a nurse popping by occasionally to see that you're still among the living.”

“Mum, I know that. But Richard's concerned.”

“I've delivered—”

“He knows.”

“Then—”

“It's not that he thinks you aren't competent. But it's different, he says, when it's your own flesh and blood involved. He says a doctor wouldn't operate on his own child. A doctor couldn't remain objective if something were to happen. Like an emergency. A crisis. You know.”

“In an emergency, we go to hospital. Ten minutes in the car.”

“I've told him that. He says anything could happen in ten minutes.”

“Nothing will happen. This entire pregnancy has gone like a dream.”

“Yes. But Richard—”

“Richard isn't your husband.” Dora Foster said it firmly. “He could have been, but he chose not to be. And that gives him no rights in this decision. Have you pointed that out to him?”

Jill sighed. “Mum …”

“Don't Mum me.”

“What difference does it make that we're not married just now? We 're getting married: the church, the priest, down the aisle on Dad's arm, the hotel reception, everything properly seen to. What more do you need?”

“It's not what I need,” Dora said. “It's what you deserve. And don't tell me again this was your idea, because I know that's nonsense. You've had your wedding planned since you were ten years old, from the flowers down to the cake decoration, and as I recall, nowhere in your plans did it ever state there'd be a baby in attendance.”

Jill didn't want to go into that. She said, “Times change, Mum.”

“But you do not. Oh, I know it's the fashion for women to find themselves a partner rather than a husband. A partner, like someone they've gone into the baby-making business with. And when they have their babies, they parade them round in public without the slightest degree of embarrassment. I know this happens all the time. I'm not blind. But you aren't an actress or rock singer, Jill. You've always known your own mind, and you've never been one to do something just because it's in vogue.”

Jill stirred on her chair. Her mother knew her better than anyone, and what she was saying was true. But what was also true was the fact that compromise was necessary to have a successful relationship, and beyond wanting a child, she wanted to have a marriage that was happy, which she certainly wasn't guaranteed if she forced Richard's hand. “Well, it's done,” she said. “And it's too late to change things. I'm not about to waddle down the aisle like this.”

“Which makes you a woman without ties,” her mother said. “So you can state how and where you want your baby delivered. And if Richard doesn't like it, you can point out to him that, as his preference was not to become your husband in the traditional fashion prior to the baby's birth, he can step out of the picture and stay out of the picture until after you're married. Now”—her mother joined her at the table, where a box of wedding invitations sat waiting to be addressed—“let's get your bag and take you home to Wiltshire. You can leave him a note. Or you can phone him. Shall I fetch the phone for you?”

“I'm not going to Wiltshire tonight,” Jill said. “I'll speak to Richard. I'll ask him again—”

“Ask him?” Her mother put her hand on Jill's hugely swollen ankle. “Ask him what? Ask him if you can please have your baby—”

“Catherine's his baby as well.”