Ben looked beyond Christopher, into the hall. ‘Is there any way I could wait? It’s real important I see her.’
Christopher’s chest began to burn. He widened his stance so as to fill the doorway. This chap was small in build, smaller than Christopher, but he still took up plenty of space. There was something about him, polite as he was. His American-ness perhaps. The Americans were a pushy lot.
‘I’m afraid not,’ Christopher said. ‘Nothing personal, you understand. It’s just that I don’t know you and one can’t be too careful. Really, if you can write something down and post it through the door, that would be better.’
‘No need,’ Ben said, digging in the back pocket of his jeans and pulling out an envelope. ‘I figured this might happen. I’d sure appreciate it if you could pass this on as soon as possible.’ He handed it to Christopher. The envelope was pale blue; it looked like it was from a hotel writing set. ‘Do you mind me asking, are you related to Mrs Griffiths?’
‘Yes,’ Christopher said, tipping his head back a little. ‘I’m her son.’
Again Ben spread his big cream American teeth. ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘That’s awesome.’ He stared at Christopher for longer than was comfortable before adding: ‘Listen, Christopher, the note’s confidential, of course. I’ve left the number for my hotel. I’m staying at a place called the Crest. Room 152. It’s beyond the Beechwood—’
‘I know it.’
‘She can call me there.’
‘Marvellous.’ Christopher put one hand on the door now. ‘I’ll make sure she gets it.’ He made to close the door, but Benjamin threw out his hand – another handshake. What was he, a politician? Pretending not to see, Christopher closed the door and pressed his forehead against it, exhaling heavily before running through to the living room and watching the man walk away. His gait was relaxed, almost a roll, as if he walked for the sheer pleasure of it. He got into a red Ford Fiesta parked at the end of the drive, fired the engine more than was necessary and drove away.
Once he had gone, Christopher went into the kitchen and held the envelope over the steaming kettle. His hands shook. He eased open the flap and pulled out the letter. It was handwritten, as Christopher’s own letters to Phyllis had been three, maybe four years ago now.
Dear Ms Curtiss,
You don’t know me and there’s no delicate way to say this so I’m going to come right out with it. My name is Benjamin Bradbury but you knew me as Martin; it’s the name you gave me. I am your son. Enclosed is a photocopy of a photograph of me as a baby.
Christopher dug the photo out of the envelope. It showed a nun, standing in front of a bookshelf, holding a baby in her arms.
You may remember this picture being taken. I have had this photo my whole life. It was taken in the convent over in Railton, which is where I have been today. The lady in the picture is called Sister Lawrence. She is now the mother superior, and after a lot of persuasion, she allowed me to see their records.
I have not gone through the official channels – please forgive me for that. Only I didn’t have much time – I don’t have much time, as I am over on vacation from the US with the sole purpose of tracking down my birth parents. The sisters at the convent were very obliging.
I grew up in Virginia and am settled in San Francisco with my fiancée, Martha. I am a graphic designer by trade and before I get married and have kids of my own, I wanted to find out where I come from and to have seen my own mother at least once and maybe even have a cup of tea with you. I am not here to make trouble. I don’t need money; I don’t need anything at all. I just want to say hello and ask if we can correspond a little as I go forward in my life.
I don’t want to put pressure on you, but I have only a few days left of my stay here, and I would sure appreciate it if you could meet me even for a short time. It would mean a lot to me.
Your son,
Benjamin Bradbury
Christopher felt himself fold – collapse forward. There had been a mistake, that much was clear. It was he, Christopher, who had gone through the correct channels; he, therefore, who was right, who was Phyllis’s son. He could not be wrong – how could he be? He had found Phyllis four years ago! He had come to her and they had both known from the very beginning that she was his mother – that it was meant to be. Didn’t he close his eye in that way she did? And her nose was broad, like his, and her eyes brown, also like his, not green like the American’s. Didn’t they share the same sense of humour? Didn’t they… Whatever, they were close, had been since that first day. He had seen nothing of Phyllis in Ben, nothing at all.
And besides, it was too late. He and Phyllis had fallen into their routines – they were practically colleagues. She had helped him so much with his teacher training, helped him plan lessons, shown him how to criticise without discouraging. She was always there when he’d had a tough day, listening to him, advising him, galvanising him to go forward. Now that he too was at work, they would come home at a similar time and sit together at the kitchen table to mark their books and plan their lessons in companionable silence. A companionable silence that had taken years!
So no. No. This man – Ben – could not simply walk into this house and claim he belonged here instead. He could not. Ben wouldn’t help Phyllis prepare the dinner the way Christopher did. Ben wouldn’t be able to sit at this table and eat and trade the day’s tales, jokes, insults. This was not Ben’s family. This was not Ben’s mother. This was not Ben’s life.
No. No. Christopher would go to the hotel; he would call this Ben Bradbury, this cocky interloper, down to reception and tell him to sling his hook. Go and steal someone else’s life, he would tell him. Go through the correct channels and don’t come back here unless it’s to apologise for the distress you’ve caused.
The key banged into the lock. Phyllis. He knew her every sound, her sigh as she hung up her coat, the groan as she pulled off her shoes. He knew these things, and more, because he loved her more than his own life.
‘Hello?’ she called.
‘In here.’ Christopher put the letter and the envelope in his pocket.
‘Hello, love.’ She was at the kitchen door, clothes shop bags in both hands: Miss Selfridge, C&A, Dolcis. She bustled through, oblivious. ‘I got some shoes,’ she said, since that is the kind of thing people who have no idea how happy or how safe they are say to one another. ‘I got three tops and a skirt too – don’t tell David!’
‘Good,’ he croaked through the sharp sting at the back of his throat. ‘That’s good.’
‘Tea?’
‘Actually no, thanks. I’ve… I’ve got to pop upstairs a second.’
He left the kitchen before she could see his face and ran up the stairs. A second later she called up: ‘Christopher?’
On the dark landing, he halted. ‘Yes?’