But if he went to the council, they would contact the convent, they would contact the Registrar, they would contact Phyllis. They would contact Benjamin Bradbury and bring him crashing into the picture. A meeting would have to take place, all parties involved. No, no. That could not be allowed to happen. He would have to take matters into his own hands. In the meantime, he would be vigilant. Whatever communication came from Ben, he must intercept it.
At dawn, sore-eyed and punch-drunk with exhaustion, he went downstairs to the kitchen. If Ben delivered that letter, he could not afford for Phyllis to pick it up.
He was still in the kitchen when at eight he heard the upstairs toilet flush, heard the water run, the squeak of Phyllis’s bedroom door. He listened for her footsteps on the stairs, watched the kitchen door, waited for her to fill it. She did, her dressing gown open to reveal her thin white nightdress. She stumbled past him, ruffled his hair.
‘Your tea’s cold.’ She yawned as she spoke. ‘I’ll make a pot, eh? How’re you feeling?’
‘Not well,’ he said.
‘Still? Oh dear.’
The tap ran, the kettle boiled, the toast popped out of the toaster. She slid a fresh mug of tea across the table to him. ‘That’s no good. I was going to go over to your grandma and grandad’s today, was going to ask if you wanted to come with me.’
‘You go,’ he said. ‘I think I might go back to bed.’
He sipped his tea, hovering on the kitchen chair nearest the door, waiting for the crash of letters on the hall mat. If Ben had written back, he had to grab the letter before she saw it but without jumping like a gun dog. He was vaguely aware of Phyllis eating her breakfast, leaving the kitchen, the rushing of the shower. The post did not come. Minutes, maybe half an hour later, Phyllis was at the kitchen door once more, her eyes emboldened with eyeshadow, her lips pinky red, her brown hair pushed into its customary ponytail.
‘I’m off then, love, all right?’ She hesitated, then came forward and kissed him on the head. At the touch of her lips, he closed his eyes. Her perfume was flowery, a happy spring smell. ‘Keep warm. I’ll see you later.’
Still with his eyes closed, he listened for the swish of her shoes on the nylon of her tights, the rush of her coat sleeves, the jingle of her keys, the bang of the front door. The hollow trot of her footsteps receding down the drive to the street, where she’d parked her Nissan. And then – not quite silence. The hum of the fridge, the click of the heating as the radiators cooled.
At half past nine, Christopher was still in the kitchen, still in his dressing gown, on the chair near the door, when from the hallway came the rustle of post and the clank of the letter box. He stood stiffly. His body had grown cold and set and he half-limped down the hall. There was nothing from Ben – only bills, circulars and the like – and the momentary relief made him sigh. He climbed the stairs and washed at the bathroom sink, put on his clothes and came back downstairs. Feigning illness had, he thought, made him feel ill. He put a teaspoon of Nescafé into a mug and flicked the kettle switch.
Another clank. He turned to see the pale blue envelope drop onto the mat, skirt along it for a moment with a soft shush. He hurried through the kitchen and back into the hall. Through the textured glass of the front door, the black figure of a man distorted into pools. The pools separated, dispersed, disappeared. Ben. Christopher made to open the door but thought better of it. He picked up the letter and held it in his hands. Outside, a car revved, pulled away, the rise and fall of the gears then silence. He tore open the letter.
16 April 1981
Dear Phyllis,
I appreciate your reticence about seeing me. It is one hundred per cent understandable. But trust me, I have no desire to intervene in any way with your family. I met your older son, Christopher – he seems like a nice guy and I’m sure he treats you well. I’m not asking to move in or anything, I just want to make a connection with you, you who gave birth to me all those years ago. Life is a gift; I don’t take it for granted. I have that at least to thank you for.
I never really connected with my adoptive parents, you see. They are good people and they have been more than generous with me, and any problems I have had I could easily have had with my own flesh and blood. I could have been a better son to them. I was spoilt and I have treated them unfairly. I intend to put this right.
I am asking you to reconsider. I have asked at the hotel if there are any pubs near where you live and they have suggested the bar here at the hotel. It’s quiet here. We could talk. Today is Thursday. You need time – I appreciate that. I will be there tomorrow evening (Friday) from 7 p.m. until they close. Think about it. I ask only that you have a drink with me. I have come all this way to see you. I have questions, but not too many, and I believe I have a right to know the answers. I don’t want to have to park outside your house and wait for you. Please don’t make me do that.
The Crest Hotel. Please come. Even for an hour. It would mean a lot.
Your son,
Benjamin (Martin)
In Christopher’s chest, an old fear, a knot tying itself around his heart. I don’t want to have to park outside your house… The line rang loud in his head and pulled the rope tight.
‘Bastard,’ he said, to no one. ‘Bastard!’
He screwed the letter into a ball and squeezed it in his hands. He threw it into the bin but minutes later took it out again. Phyllis might find it there. Not that she would look for it but she might see, she might wonder and that might make her reach, make her open it up and read. And then it would all be over. He put the crumpled paper in his coat pocket. Realising he had left the other letter in his room, he ran up the stairs, grabbed it from his desk and put it in the pocket too.
‘There,’ he said, though his heart battered. He went back to his room, sat at the desk and took out his writing pad. If the bastard was going to force his hand, he would bloody well force it right back.
Dear Ben,
I will meet you. I would prefer somewhere nearer to home as I can only spare an hour. I will tell my family I am going to the neighbour’s or something. Meet me on Friday at the Wilsons pub in the old town. Ask at the hotel, they can give you directions. Or get a taxi. I will be there at seven. Until tomorrow evening,
Phyllis
Christopher told me he dropped the letter at the hotel and continued straight on to Railton. He said he arrived at the convent at around midday. The old red-brick building was separated from the street by a five-foot wall, also of red brick. He parked in the lane opposite and made his way back down the lane, over the road. He found the iron gates, which he had expected to be locked, but when he pushed, they opened. The convent itself was 1800s, in the Gothic style, the windows and doors thin pointed arches, buttresses and cross-shaped cut-outs in the bricks. At the dark, arched wooden door, he rang the bell. A young nun answered.