The tombstone had remained a mystery to Hortensia. And now she realised that Gary’s artwork was in fact some kind of letter. Had he known as he chinked away at the stone that he was writing in Braille? If so, he hadn’t let on; in fact he’d given nothing away about the nature of his relationship with Peter. Hortensia now wondered whether they’d been friends. It felt sad to not know, it made Peter even more of a stranger.
‘Milk?’
‘Thank you.’
Toby sat by Esme’s feet. Hortensia did not like dogs, but calling Toby a dog seemed inadequate. Or perhaps she had never understood the word, the creature it described.
‘Are you not accustomed to dogs?’ Esme asked, again surprising Hortensia with her observations.
‘Well, I have a neighbour who has a … what do they call those? Always yapping.’
Esme smiled. ‘Chihuahua?’
Hortensia set the tea down. ‘No, a sausage dog, they call it.’
‘Dachshund. Nice.’
‘Can I ask you some questions?’
‘Please.’
‘I’m embarrassed. You should be the one with the questions. About Peter, your father. If you have any, I would do my best to answer.’
‘What did you want to ask?’
‘Were you born this way?’
‘You mean blind?’
‘Sorry. Yes, I meant blind.’
‘Yes, I was. Makes it easier, I think. I’ve never known any different.’
‘And your … your mother.’
‘Did you know her, Mrs James?’
‘Hortensia.’
‘Thank you, Hortensia.’
‘No, I didn’t know her. I never met her.’
‘I understand this might be hard, but … she was a wonderful person, Hortensia. I miss her so much.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know she’d passed away. I mean she – they … I noticed that they no longer interacted, but I had no way of knowing what had happened.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know, either. I’m sorry if you thought I could provide you with answers.’
‘Not at all. I’ve had no answers all my life – why would that suddenly be important?’
Esme finished her tea.
‘She never mentioned Peter?’
‘She married when I was a few months old. It was many years before she told me who my real father was.’
‘And? What did she say?’
Esme shrugged. ‘That she had been young and careless.’
‘She used that word? Careless.’
‘Yes. She said she had written to Peter, not when she was pregnant, but much later; perhaps when I was ten or so. She wrote to the only address she had for him, in Nigeria. She wrote three times. She told him my name and she sent him our whereabouts, our address, and so on. By then she had divorced my father. My mother said she wrote to Peter and told him that she still loved him and that if there was any chance of being together, he should come and find us. She never heard back.’
‘I—’
‘We didn’t suffer, Hortensia. There is no need to apologise.’
‘He found you in the end, though.’
‘Hmm.’
‘In a way. He was much, much too late, but I suppose this was his way of finally writing back.’
It became a thing that Hortensia and Marion met daily at the bench underneath the Silver. It was cool beneath the tree. A car rolled past, she heard only the purr of the engine.
No one comes to see us, Hortensia thought. ‘How’s Agnes?’ she asked.
‘Sick.’
‘I mean, you said you’d go visit her again.’
‘Yes, I called Niknaks. She sounded diplomatic, but my guess is Agnes doesn’t want to see me.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘I tried to say sorry.’
Hortensia snorted.
‘What? I told her I was sorry.’
‘Okay, Marion.’
‘You should have seen her eyes, though, when she … “I was angry with you,” she said. And her eyes, Hortensia.’
‘She’s sick, and her life – the majority of which she spent cleaning after you and your children, polishing your home – feels finished. I understand it. She blames you.’
‘No! It’s worse than that – she doesn’t blame me. She doesn’t have to blame me … She’s just … watching.’
Hortensia looked thoughtful.
‘She’s going to die.’
‘We all do eventually, Marion.’
‘I’m worried she’ll die and come to haunt me, you know?’
‘Ah, I see. Trust you to find a way to be the star of someone else’s death-scene. She’s the one dying, but you’re who we ought to be concerned for.’
‘You know what I mean, though.’
‘Well, yes, that is a possibility. She might die and she might come and haunt you. It’ll serve you right.’
‘Thank you.’
‘What? Were you not despicable? Someone will write a book about it. The Haunting of Marion.’
‘Stop.’
‘But I’m serious, Marion. And we all know Agnes would make a terrific Haunter.’
Marion shook her head. ‘She’d have been a good teacher, wouldn’t she? She would have, wouldn’t she?’
‘Maybe. Please, stop shaking your head.’
‘I’m in so much trouble. She knows all my peeves. Dripping taps. Tablecloths spread, but not ironed. Oh,’ Marion gripped Hortensia’s forearm, ‘she could strangle me with the laundry – that was always our biggest quarrel.’
‘You’re ridiculous. I give up.’
‘Let’s change the subject. How’s the girl?’
‘Who, Esme?’ Well adjusted was the term that came to mind. ‘She’s okay. I guess I expected her to be angry or something. Instead she’s … lovely. Oh, guess what?’
‘What?’
‘She teaches piano. No small wonder her hearing is superhuman. She kept catching me out.’
‘How?’