‘Shut up, Craig, before I brain you,’ came David’s voice, and Christopher wished they would leave him and Phyllis alone, to have this moment together.
Phyllis squeezed his head once more before pushing him back gently and kissing him on the forehead.
‘My darling, darling boy,’ she said, thumbing away his tears. ‘It’s all too much, isn’t it? Of course it is.’ She pressed her forehead to his. ‘My precious lad. You’ve no idea how happy you’ve made me.’
And Christopher did make people happy – I believe that even now. He made me happy. We made each other happy. But sometimes, when we lay our hopes for happiness in another person, we become blind. To others, to ourselves. That kind of happiness cannot last. It did not. It could not.
Chapter Fourteen
Ben picks up his hire car from Heathrow Airport. A red Ford Fiesta, an upgrade he got by charming the woman on the desk. It is a trip, driving on the left-hand side of the road, but he gets used to it quickly enough. He is still tired from the flight but determined to push on. He only has a week, after all.
When he’s made it clear of Heathrow, he pulls into a service station so he can check the map. He’s bought an Ordnance Survey book of Great Britain from a shop in the airport called John Menzies and flips it open now on his lap. He takes notes – the road names, the junctions he will need.
The drive goes smoothly enough. Outside Birmingham he stops and buys a cup of coffee and a bacon sandwich, which he eats in the car. The sandwich is damp, the bread flaccid and the coffee bitter. Still, this isn’t a gourmet tour he’s on. Nor is it business. He should probably stop soon, maybe find a motel, if they even have those here – his flight was so early – 6 a.m. And here it’s only 2 p.m., which feels weird because that’s still 6 a.m., as if time has stood still. He figures if he pushes himself he can reach Railton by 5 p.m. English time. By then for him it’ll be 9 a.m. He should still be OK – won’t be the first time he’s put in crazy hours. Besides, once he’s found the place, he can book a hotel somewhere near. He wonders if they’ll see him today. He hopes so. He is very persuasive, so Martha says, and anyway, how hard can it be to persuade a nun?
He pats his chest and feels the documents in his pocket. His birth certificate, his passport. They’re enough, he hopes. They’d better be.
Chapter Fifteen
Thursday 9th March
Dear Christopher,
Happy birthday! I hope this card arrives in time! We loved having you here. Me especially, but David and the boys too. The boys are asking after you, asking if you’ll come again the weekend after this one. They want you to play football with them – they go to the town hall grounds, which aren’t too far away. So will you come? I’ll be in on Thursday night and David’s out at football training (all football mad in this house), so if you give me a ring, we can arrange it. If not, the following weekend or whenever you’re free.
He held the card to his chest. He had promised Adam he would go out that weekend but knew already, had known as soon as he’d read her invitation, that he would head back to her, to Phyllis, instead.
The following Friday morning, he took the train once more to Warrington.
‘I’ve invited my parents for dinner tomorrow,’ Phyllis said as soon as they were in the car. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
He remembered their pictures above the gas fire, and later how he and Phyllis had flicked slowly through the family album together. He had been right: his grandparents were young – fifty-six, only six years older than Jack and Margaret. In the photos, they wore jeans. Christopher had never seen either of his parents wear jeans.
‘Do you have a photo of my father?’ He had found the words to ask her.
She had shaken her head, no. ‘I’m so sorry. I have nothing. But he was tall, like you, with lovely green eyes. And he was kind, like you, I think. He had a kind way about him.’
He could not meet Mikael, could not study him for a likeness. It was not the end of the world, he thought. In fact, he said, it was better that way.
‘In that case…’ Phyllis was saying now as she pulled onto the roundabout. Christopher wondered what she’d said before that – he had been miles away. ‘I can tell you I’ve invited our Miriam, her Brian and their teenage kids, Sophie and Ian. Oh, and David’s mum – his dad passed away last year. She’s lovely, is Helen – you’ll like her.’
A wave of nerves passed through him but he hid it.
‘I’m sure I’ll like all of them,’ he said. ‘I only hope they like me.’
‘Of course they’ll like you. They’ll love you. What’s not to love? You’re my son, aren’t you? Listen, we’ve never been allowed to speak about you all this time, so any opinion they have of you will be from now on, fresh-slate type thing. Even with our Miriam I’ve only talked about you a handful of times. It’s funny – we’ve always called you Martin. It’s the only name we had obviously. But don’t worry, I’ve told them to call you Christopher. I’ve told them you’re not Martin any more.’
* * *
At the house, Phyllis told him more about his father: how he had spoken with a Polish accent – she imitated him – how he had taken her to the Scala in the old town and to the Cavern once in his friend’s car, and how she, no more than a girl, had been impressed by this.
‘I’m sorry I can’t tell you more,’ she said, holding his hand as she always did. ‘Only that the last time I saw him, he took my cigarette lighter and he never gave it back.’
‘I know plenty,’ he said. ‘He was kind. He was tall. He was a Polish sailor. Maybe I’ll meet him one day.’
‘Well, if you do, tell him I said can I have my lighter back.’
Theirs was a conversation begun late, yes, but without end. He made no move to withdraw his hand from hers until, at 4 p.m., the boys arrived from school – all limbs, satchels and coats. Christopher sat quietly in the corner of the kitchen while Phyllis fussed them, gave them jam butties and glasses of milk. After saying cursory hellos to him, his presence apparently nothing special, they disappeared off with their football. Phyllis followed them to the front door and called after them, ‘Zip your coats up, boys. You’ll catch your deaths. And be careful crossing the big road.’
And like that, once again he and Phyllis were alone and he felt the thrill of it in his body. She opened the bottle of Lambrusco he had bought from Morrisons on the way down to Leeds station. ‘You shouldn’t bring stuff like a guest,’ she said, pouring the wine. ‘You’re family now.’
‘It’s nothing.’
He had walked everywhere all week – from the halls into the faculty and back again – and put each bus fare towards the bottle.
She smiled and held up her glass. ‘Here’s to you, kid.’
‘No. To you.’