They were two thirds down the bottle when the front door banged.
Phyllis pulled her hand from Christopher’s. Christopher’s chair scraped across the linoleum, but before he could stand or move further from her, David was at the kitchen door, looking from him to Phyllis and back again. Something flashed in his eyes, no more than a glance, before he grinned in his usual way.
‘Christopher brought wine,’ Phyllis said quickly. ‘I know you don’t like this one so I thought there was no harm opening it.’
‘I don’t know,’ said David, shaking his head and pulling a can of Carling from the fridge. ‘Boozing in the afternoon. I’ll have to watch you two.’
* * *
The next day, Saturday, while David took the twins to the swimming baths in Ellesmere Port, Christopher helped Phyllis prepare the buffet for the family. She giggled when he turned to her from the oven, floral oven gloves up his forearms, his glasses fogged up from the heat.
‘What?’ he said, which made her laugh more.
At last she stood back from the table, her brow furrowed. Together they took an inventory: mushroom vol-au-vents, prawn cocktail vol-au-vents, chicken vol-au-vents, a quiche Lorraine, an army of sausage rolls – that’s the collective noun for sausage rolls, said Phyllis – sandwiches of egg mayonnaise, ham and mustard, cheese and pickle; chicken drumsticks that Phyllis had cooked the previous afternoon, Quavers, Skips and crisps, Twiglets, cheese straws with cream cheese inside, skinned peanuts and raisins…
‘Do you think we’ve got enough?’ She turned to look at him, her eyes pleading.
‘I can’t remember what the tablecloth looks like,’ he said. ‘Yes, yes, there’s enough. More than enough.’
‘Are you sure?’ She rubbed her hands and bit her bottom lip. ‘There’s two Sara Lee cakes, so we should be all right, and I’ve got a tub of Wall’s Neapolitan in the freezer.’
‘Phyllis.’ He laid his hands on her little shoulders. It wasn’t the food she was nervous about. Of course, why hadn’t he seen that before? ‘Relax,’ he said, to himself as well as her. ‘It will be fine.’
‘Only it’s… that this is all so wonderful, what’s happened.’ Her eyes brimmed. ‘But it’s so wonderful it’s making me panic.’ She pressed her head to his chest and threw her arms around his waist. He found himself with no choice but to put his arms around her. She was warm against him, and he felt the pulse of her life beating against his belly. He closed his eyes, wanting to savour the feeling, but was conscious that David would be back at any moment. Taking hold of her hands and pushing her back gently he said, ‘I’ll go and have a wash, I think.’ He smelled his hands, as if to reinforce his point. ‘Yes. I smell of egg mayonnaise.’
He was upstairs, bent over the bathroom sink, when he heard the doorbell. He came down, expecting to see David and the boys, but when he went into the living room he was met instead by an older couple. His grandparents then. Here they were.
‘Christopher.’ Phyllis rushed to the door to meet him and took his hand. ‘This is Norman, my dad, and Pat, my mum.’
They smiled at him and said hello. The moment was so very strange, he told me. He was studying them so hard for a likeness to himself, for acceptance too, that when they smiled and said only hello, a sigh escaped him.
Phyllis squeezed then let go of his hand. ‘It’s OK,’ she whispered.
He stepped towards his grandparents.
‘Pleased to meet you.’ The words caught in his throat. He coughed into his fist before trying again. ‘Pleased to meet you. Sorry. Yes, I’m Christopher Harris, your… I’m – I was – Martin.’
‘Pleased to meet you, young sir,’ his grandfather interrupted, saving him. He was tall, Christopher noted with relief, and though his cuff of hair was grey now, in the photos it had been black.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ came his grandmother’s echo. Christopher scrutinised her face but found no evidence he could seize and make his. ‘You’re a fine lad. Isn’t he a fine lad, Norman?’
‘He is that.’
They shook hands. A silence followed. But of course these were the first few seconds of something so new, so unrecognisable, that it was all any of them could do, Christopher felt, not to scatter over the floor like so many spilled cocktail sticks.
The others arrived soon after: his aunt and uncle, his cousins, David’s mother, who would be his step-grandmother, he supposed. Christopher examined them all for clues, for features he could point to and say, Look! Sophie and Miriam both had dark hair; Miriam also had a broadish nose, broader than Phyllis’s. Norman did not have that nose but Pat did, perhaps, or similar, and smiley eyes that gave her a myopic, laughing expression. Ian was tall, almost as tall as Christopher. And then there was his real father to think about, who Phyllis had said was also tall. None of them shared Phyllis’s way of closing one eye a little whenever she joked or found something peculiar. This was something of her that Christopher alone shared. The thought warmed him, like an illicit secret.
‘Tuck in,’ Phyllis said – almost cried out. ‘Don’t stand on ceremony. We’re all family here.’
* * *
Was it all too much too soon? I find myself wondering that, here, now, thinking about everything he told me. For the rest of that term, Christopher spent every other weekend with Phyllis, and it strikes me now that he went from stranger to son quicker than acquaintance to friend, quicker than most people agree to a second date. But that’s the way it happened. Only fools rush in, but love makes fools of us all. And foolishly perhaps, Phyllis helped him with his train fares when she could, money he refused but which she pressed upon him, too insistent and generous for him to fight. She encouraged him to bring his washing, which he did. They spent Saturday mornings watching the twins play football; afternoons, Phyllis taught him to cook in the cosy back kitchen. On Sunday mornings, he went with the family to Mass at St Edward’s Church at the end of the road – was introduced to the priest, Father Jacob, as Phyllis’s son. After Mass, he helped Phyllis prepare the roast dinner while David took the twins to the swimming baths or to the park for a kick-about.
Happiness altered Christopher’s physical appearance. I saw it in the swell of his chest, the way he pulled his shoulders back and how his mouth became an almost permanent smile. During this time, Margaret wrote once a fortnight with news of family life back in Morecambe. Her letters always included his own address in the top-right hand corner, as if to remind him of where he lived. When are you coming home? she asked. Will you be here for Easter Sunday Mass?
But Phyllis had invited him to come with her, David and the twins to Anglesey for a week at Easter.
Dear Mum and Dad,