‘Goddam!’ He screws up the letter and throws it against the wall. He checks his watch and sees that only a few minutes have passed. What time will it be in San Fran? Mid-morning. Easter holidays – there’s a chance Martha will be at the apartment. He dials nine for an outside line.
The ringtone in California sounds distant, but after three or four she picks up.
‘Martha?’
‘Ben! How’s it going?’
How he loves her. He pictures her, there in the apartment. Her smile. He tells her about the convent, about Christopher, about the letter.
‘She can’t dismiss me like that,’ he says. ‘I’m her son, for Chrissakes – what does she think I am, made of clay? It’s goddam heartless. It’s cruel. I didn’t ask to be born. And I certainly didn’t ask to be left in some goddam convent.’
‘Benjamin Bradbury, calm down,’ Martha says. ‘Take a deep breath.’
He does as he’s told.
‘And another,’ she says. ‘It’s not me you’re angry at, OK?’
‘I know,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry. But she owes me a meeting. She damn well owes me.’
‘Ben. Hon. She doesn’t know you is all. If she knew you, she wouldn’t have written that letter. If she knew you, she’d trust your intentions. Maybe you need to write her one more time, give her more information, reassure her a little, huh?’
‘You think?’
‘Yeah. Besides, it’s not like you to give up so soon. That’s not the Ben I know.’
This time when he breathes the air reaches his lungs, swelling his chest. She’s right. The thing he’s learnt, the thing he knows above all else, is that with enough determination and persistence, you will get whatever it is you want. You decide what it is, you focus on it and you go get it. It is that simple.
‘I love you,’ he says.
‘I love you right back.’
After the call, he gets up, retrieves the letter from the floor and straightens it out. Wishes he’d stayed calm – his temper catches him out sometimes; Martha hates it. Calm, Benjamin Bradbury, calm down. His full name is their code for when his anger is getting the better of him. Some things are not easy, life is not easy – doesn’t mean you have to lose it, make the people around you uncomfortable. Doesn’t mean you have to quit. You have to keep on, dead straight; don’t let anything stand in your way. Aim – fire.
Moments later he has begun another letter, stronger this time. More persuasion is all he needs. An ultimatum. What mother can resist her own son? And if that doesn’t work, he’ll simply show up and not leave until she sees him.
He finishes the letter, leaves it in his room and goes down to eat in the hotel restaurant. He will post it in the morning. The timing has to be right. It’s better if she has time to think it over, regret her words. Who knows, she might even show up at the hotel before the end of the evening.
* * *
‘That you, Chris, love?’ Phyllis called as he closed the front door behind him.
‘It’s me.’ It was him, he thought. Martin Curtiss. Christopher.
She was at the sink, washing up, while on the hob a saucepan, its lid half-on, shuddered and steamed.
‘Hi, you,’ she said.
‘Hi.’ He kissed her cheek, went to inspect the contents of the other pan, where broccoli sat in cold water, ready prepared. The smell of bacon rose from under the grill. This turned out to be bacon chops – one for him, one for her.
‘Dinner smells good,’ he said and kissed her again. ‘Thought I’d better kiss that cheek too in case it might be jealous of the other.’
She giggled. ‘You are daft sometimes.’
And this was all he had ever wanted, he thought. For his mother to call to him as he came home, for her to be there doing something as ordinary and mundane as washing up while potatoes boiled in a pan. For her to say hello if he said hello, for her to giggle if he made the smallest joke. This was life. She was life. If he could have this, her, he had normality. He had everything.
He set the table then returned to her as if drawn by an invisible cord. He laid his head between her shoulder blades, wrapped his arms around her waist.
‘Hi again,’ he said.
She closed her wet hand over his. ‘Dinner’s two minutes. Open a bottle, will you?’
She brought the dinner and sat opposite him once again.
He touched his glass to hers.
She drank, as did he. He watched her over the rim of the glass. She was beautiful really. No one you would turn after on the street; her beauty came from being close to her, close enough to really see her.
‘You look beautiful,’ he said.
She sat back in her chair, her eyes wide. She had a mouthful of food and could not speak. Instead she waved her hand in front of her face, flustered by the compliment.
‘What did I tell you?’ she said once she’d swallowed. ‘You are daft sometimes.’
He could not eat. The sight of her and all she meant had stopped his appetite.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, and to his mortification he felt his eyes prickle.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘It’s delicious, but I suppose I’m not hungry.’
‘What did you have for lunch?’
‘That’s the thing. I didn’t eat lunch either.’ He laid his knife and fork on his plate. Suddenly the thought of food or wine made him feel sick. ‘I’m so sorry, but I feel very out of sorts. I think I’m going to have to go to bed.’
* * *
He did not sleep. How could he? How could anyone? When he did drift off, he saw Benjamin Bradbury, his assassin’s grin. Benjamin Bradbury, in his pale cotton slacks, pushing his way into Christopher’s home. Benjamin Bradbury, his hand flat against Christopher’s chest: I am Martin – get out of my way. Christopher watched himself, as if from a distance, disintegrate into black dust. The dust hovered a moment before dropping to the floor…
‘I am Martin.’
He was sitting up, drenched in sweat, breathing heavily. Who had said that? He looked around the room. There was no one. The voice had been his own. A moment later, Phyllis appeared at his door, her shoulders square and white beneath the thin straps of her cotton nightdress.
‘Are you all right, love?’ she said. ‘You were shouting.’
‘Sorry. Bad dream, that’s all.’
‘Shall I bring you some water?’
‘No, it’s OK. I’m OK.’
From the door, she blew him a kiss. ‘Sleep well, my love.’
He lay back, but his mind would not be still. What business had this smooth American, with his easy grin and firm handshake, what business had he to turn up like that out of nowhere and ruin people’s lives – ruin his, Christopher’s, life? The mistake was evidently at the convent. Nuns were women of God, not professional administrators. The people at the council had systems in place, procedures, bodies set up to deal with precisely this sort of thing. Samantha Jackson was the kind of woman who knew what she was doing. She had short grey hair, no-nonsense hair, efficient hair. She wore a suit.