‘Are you OK, love?’
‘I’m fine.’ He did not move. Waited in the darkness to hear the pad of her feet retreat into the kitchen. Once he was sure she had gone, he went into his room and for the first time sat at the desk with the intention of writing something. From the pot in the corner he took out the fountain pen Margaret had given him. Margaret, whom he had abandoned. Jack too, Jack Junior, Louise, even David and the twins… all of them he had to a greater or lesser degree rejected, all for her, all for Phyllis. There was no one more important, not even himself. That was love. That was how a son loved his mother. If she weren’t his mother, he would have known. He would feel it. She had to be his mother. Without her, he had nothing. He was nothing. He was no one.
He wrote: Dear Benjamin, and stopped. If he contested this man’s claims, that would create an argument. Benjamin Bradbury would most likely return to the house and confront Phyllis. There would be a scene. He would press charges; the Americans were a litigious bunch. Liverpool Council would get involved, the whole lot. No. Far better to reject him. There was little one could argue against rejection. He bent to his task:
I am glad to have received your letter. I understand why you would want to come to the house, however I think it was perhaps better that I wasn’t there. My son Christopher gave me your note this evening so I am replying as soon as I can, as Christopher mentioned you are short of time.
I appreciate your wish to see me, but what you need to realise is that I have a complete family now. I have twelve-year-old twins, and my eldest, Christopher, whom you met, also lives with us. Whilst for me it would be wonderful to meet you and to welcome you into my home, you will appreciate that for the rest of my children, this would be extremely unsettling. We are a very close family.
I wish you every success in your career and in your marriage. I am delighted things have worked out for you, and believe me, finding love is the greatest ambition there is. Please understand that I have moved on from what was a very painful time for me but that this is no reflection on you. I didn’t want to give you up, but I had to. It was a long time ago and is something I wish to leave in the past. Please accept my apologies. I am sorry not to be able to give you what you came for. But at least you know where you were born and that I gave you up against my will. I wish I could rewrite the past, but I can’t. I hope you understand.
Wishing you all the love and luck in the world,
Your mother, Phyllis
He sealed the letter in an envelope and wrote Ben’s name on the front. He crept downstairs and lifted his coat from the hook. Silently he slid open the hall table drawer and took out his car keys.
‘Chris?’ Phyllis called from the kitchen. There was a smell of chocolate cake – she must be baking, he thought, for the Easter service. ‘Love?’
‘It’s OK, Mum,’ he called back to her. ‘I’ve just got to nip out for something.’
‘All right. Tea in an hour or so, once I’ve finished these fairy cakes, all right?’
‘Yes. Yes, OK.’
‘Oh, Chris?’
‘Yes?’
She had come to the kitchen door and was wiping her hands on a tea towel. ‘Did anyone come to the house today?’
‘Anyone? Like who?’
‘A chap. Only Mum said an American had called round, saying he was the son of a friend of mine from school. Said he was going to call and say hello apparently.’
Christopher felt for the latch, aware of his heart beating. ‘No one came,’ he said, shaking his head, turning away from her, opening the door.
‘All right,’ he heard her say. ‘Maybe he’ll come tomorrow.’
‘Yes.’ One foot on the step, he paused. ‘Maybe tomorrow. I’ll… I’ll see you in a bit, then.’
‘Rightio,’ she said. ‘See you in a bit.’
He closed the front door without a sound, as if stealth could protect him from his own roiling insides. He drove up the steep hill of Heath Road, turned left and continued past the playing fields, past the golf course and the larger detached houses, past the bus station, beneath the expressway and through Beechwood Estate. He turned right, drove a little further through yet more houses and parked, finally, at the Crest Hotel. An anonymous place, of brown brick and smoked glass, somewhere people hired for functions: weddings, christenings, funerals.
‘Could you please make sure Benjamin Bradbury gets this letter as soon as possible?’ he said to the girl at reception. ‘It’s extremely important he receives it tonight.’
‘Of course, sir,’ said the girl. ‘I’ll take it to his room now.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
On the way back to the hotel, Ben’s head is spinning like a washing machine. That guy, that tall geeky guy, is his half-brother. A half-brother around his own age. Christopher, like Christopher Robin, standing there in his cardigan and slippers like a university professor or something.
‘Man,’ Ben says to no one, hitting the steering wheel as he drives through the housing estate. ‘Man, oh, man.’
This Christopher guy would have to be younger, wouldn’t he? His mother wouldn’t have given away a second child, not for any reason Ben can see, so his half-brother must be younger, maybe a year or two, lucky enough to be born when Phyllis could look after him.
The whole thing is a trip. Ben can’t wait to tell Martha. And this is only the beginning. Wait till he meets Phyllis – that will blow what is left of his mind. What will she look like? She might be tall like Christopher, with black hair and tortoiseshell glasses. She might wear contact lenses. Maybe Christopher wears contacts too sometimes. Or maybe he works the whole bespectacled billionaire vibe on purpose for the girls, like Tony Curtis in Some Like it Hot. Christ, this is all such a rush. It’s all he can do to concentrate on the road.
In his hotel room, he lies down on the bed.
A sliding sound wakes him and for a moment he has no idea where he is. The light outside is whiter, colder. He checks the time and sees that it’s a little after six. He must have fallen asleep on the bed – the jet lag is killing him. Still dazed, he gets up and switches on the television. It’s a local programme: Look North. They’re the same the world over, these guys: slick hair and skin, super-straight clothes – the thought makes him smile. On the floor at the door to his room there is an envelope – the source of the noise. His lungs fill at the sight. It is from her, it must be. Who else does he know in this town?
He grabs the letter, sits on the bed, opens it. It is from her, Phyllis; she is glad to have received his letter. He reads on, his heart sinking lower with every word.
I wish I could rewrite the past, but I can’t. I hope you understand.