Now We Are Forgiven, page 14
‘Silas? It’s Frankie.’
‘Hey, bud. How’s everything?’
His voice, as ever, is affable and bland.
‘Yeh,’ says Frankie curtly. He has no interest in being Silas’s bud. ‘Is Vronky there?’
‘She’s just nipped out to the garden for a moment. I can call her. How you getting on in the big smoke?’
Silas feels himself reluctant to enable conversation between Veronica and Frankie. There is a trace of intimacy that endures between the divorced couple that he finds unsettling. His fingernail clicks anxiously on the protruding tip of the metal measuring tape he grips in his left hand.
‘What’s going on with China?’ says Frankie.
‘It is what it is, you know.’
‘What the fuck does that mean?’
Frankie’s customarily brusque manner with him always makes Silas uneasy. He looks out into the garden searching for Veronica, but cannot see her. Out of his field of vision, she is smoking a Silk Cut behind the apple tree, letting the smoke dissipate beyond the corona of the rotating lawn sprinkler.
‘I’m just trying to locate Veronica. Can’t see her at the moment.’
‘China’s turned up on my doorstep. Says she’s been kicked out.’
‘She hasn’t been kicked out. She left of her own accord.’
‘She told me she had a big fight with you and Veronica.’
‘Not really licensed to discuss this stuff, bud,’ says Silas.
‘Why not?’
‘You know. It is what it is.’
He looks out in the garden once more, eager to divest himself of Veronica’s phone, which he holds between his fingertips as if it were dangerously hot. Veronica has appeared by the rosebush, beating the air with one hand while the other holds a trowel. She is wearing a pair of yellow shorts and a grubby ‘Wild Feminist’ T-shirt that she only uses for gardening.
‘I can see Veronica now.’
Silas waves to her energetically and stabs his finger at the phone, as if the intensity of the waving and pointing can increase the likelihood of being seen. It seems to work. Veronica looks up, sees Silas and raises her hand in acknowledgement. She starts walking towards the door, popping a piece of strong mint chewing gum in her mouth on the way, meanwhile pulling on a battered Barbour jacket and zipping it up in case the cigarette smoke has adhered itself to the T-shirt.
‘I’ll put you on to her. Stay well, Frankie.’
‘Yeh.’
A few seconds later Frankie can hear Silas muffling the phone and saying something inaudible to which Veronica makes no reply. She takes the phone, puts it to her ear and switches off the speaker function for privacy. Her voice is strung tight, pitched slightly higher than usual.
‘Frankie! China’s with you?’
‘Don’t sound so surprised. I’m her father after all.’
‘She didn’t tell us where she was going. I thought she’d come back.’
‘Doesn’t look like it.’
‘How do you feel about it?’
‘Don’t do the analyst thing on me.’
‘You must be pleased to see her.’
Veronica takes the gum out of her mouth and casts it in the wastepaper bin. She can still taste cigarette smoke.
‘A bit of notice would have been nice. Why didn’t you call me after she walked out on you?’
‘Like I said – I thought she was going to a friend.’
‘And you still didn’t think it was worth calling me, when our daughter has run away from home?’
‘I didn’t want to worry you.’
‘I’m certainly worried now. Her and Roxy have already had aggravation.’
Veronica feels oddly heartened by this. Although theoretically she would like Roxy and China to get along, for China’s sake, in reality she finds the idea of them developing a strong relationship uncomfortable.
‘Oh dear. Is she alright?’
‘Who? Roxy?’
‘No, not Roxy. My daughter.’
‘Our daughter.’
‘Our daughter. Of course. Sorry. How is she?’
Frankie surveys the living room. China’s mess is everywhere. It seems however often he clears it up, within five minutes of her presence, devastation ensues.
‘Untidy.’
Veronica gives a rich chuckle. Frankie savours the sound, the unabashed lustiness of her laughter.
‘Tell me about it. Our house is tidier now than it has been for years.’
‘She was untidy when she was five,’ says Frankie, smiling himself. ‘Remember when we came home and she had emptied all the bedroom drawers out?’
‘Oh God, yes? And I had, you know, a thingy in there… ’
‘A vibrator.’
Veronica laughs again.
‘A Rampant Rabbit,’ continues Frankie. ‘That’s right. What did you tell her it was? I’ve forgotten.’
‘A swizzle stick.’
Now they are both laughing. Silas is standing a few feet away measuring the window and looking perplexed. He stops and starts scratching the back of his ear with his fingernail.
‘Honestly though, Vronky. I’m really pleased she’s come to see me. But what went wrong? I hate to see her this unhappy. Why won’t she talk to me?’
‘She’s a teenager, Frankie. She doesn’t even talk to me.’
‘I want to be a good father to her.’
It’s a little late for that, thinks Veronica.
‘It’s a long conversation. I’m not in an entirely private space at the moment.’
‘Wim Hof earwigging you, is he?’
‘Who’s Wim Hof?’
‘A sort of cartoon action man. China watches his YouTube. Actually, he looks a bit like Silas, only twice the size. Immerses himself in freezing water to show how hard he is.’
Veronica starts laughing again. She looks across the room at Silas. The ear-scratching has become intense.
‘I’ll call you back in a while, tell you all about it. We can have a proper talk then. But I’m sure she’ll be fine. You won’t have to put up with it too long. She’s off to uni in September apart from anything else.’
‘She can stay here as long as she wants. But I have to admit, it’s tricky what with Roxy and all.’
Veronica suddenly has an image of Frankie and Roxy between the sheets together and takes her gaze away from Silas to look out in the garden, hoping it will distract her. The apple tree, she thinks, is dying. It leans to one side and the bark is brittle. Silas is noisily going through his toolbox in search of something or other. Veronica lowers her voice.
‘Can I say something, Frankie? It’s a bit tactless, though.’
‘That’s never stopped you before.’
‘To be honest, I still can’t quite imagine you and Roxy together.’
Frankie finishes his toast, swallowing the last mouthful. It feels rough and dry on the back of his throat and he swills some coffee to clear it.
‘You said that before – in Hyde Park. I can’t see why not. We’re cut from the same cloth after all,’ he says, wiping the back of his mouth with his pyjama sleeve.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Common as muck innit.’
Frankie can hear sounds of movement coming from upstairs in China’s room. He feels suddenly anxious about Roxy’s performance the previous night and wonders if China will have the front to upbraid him for the noises coming from their bedroom, which he is certain she would have heard unless she had earphones in or had fallen asleep. He’s not looking forward to having to explain.
‘I’m sure you’re much happier now you’ve got your posh boyfriend and all his books,’ he says, keeping one eye on China’s door.
‘Silas? All he reads is about great military battles and gruesome thrillers.’
‘I’ve been reading better stuff lately, you know. Some of the classics.’
‘We’re Going on a Bear Hunt?’
‘Crime and Punishment. Madame Ovary.
‘Bovary.’
‘It was a joke. I’m not that dumb, Veronica. Also, Death of a Salesman.’
‘You’re reading plays now?
‘It’s China’s.’
‘What do you think?’
‘Bit depressing, to be honest. Look, have you got any advice for me? How can I work this thing out with China?’
‘I wish I knew. Since she’s just walked out on me, I’m not sure I’ve got any easy answers. She’s volatile, what can I say?’
‘But what exactly happened?’
Veronica glances at Silas, still loitering on the other side of the room. He has finished rummaging in the toolbox and has surfaced with a pair of pliers, but he isn’t doing anything with them. Instead, he is staring out the window at the garden, as if in a reverie. Veronica is sure that he has been listening in.
‘I’ve got to rush. I’ve got a hot yoga session in twenty minutes.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s like yoga only in a 104-degree room. It flushes out toxins.’
‘Don’t talk to me about toxins. China’s terrified of those too. She drinks about a gallon of water a day to try and flush the bastards out.’
‘I’ll call you later. Okay?’
‘Sure, Vronky. Watch out for yourself. And watch out for those toxins. They’re a menace.’
‘It’s the things you can’t see that get you in the end, Frankie.’
Veronica cuts the call off. Silas snaps out of his pretend reverie. Still holding the pliers, he takes a couple of steps towards her.
‘What were you saying about me, Veronica?’
‘Nosy, nosy.’
‘I couldn’t help but hear some of the conversation. I don’t only read books on military battles. Or thrillers.’
‘Stalingrad?’
‘That’s one book about one battle. It’s a very respectable literary study.’
‘Still boys with guns, though. What’s the other one you’ve got on the go? Girl with the Dragon Tattoo?’
‘It’s very well written. But yes, I do like books that crack on with the plot. Is that a crime?’
‘And feature plenty of violence.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘I usually am.’
‘I am trying to be a better man, Veronica,’ says Silas, his mouth going weak. ‘I know us – we men – have got a lot to answer for.’
‘So go and sweep the kitchen floor, then,’ says Veronica.
Silas hesitates, then puts the pliers back in the toolbox and heads to the kitchen where he starts on the floor with the broom, pushing it in quick, angry thrusts, hunting down dirt, matter out of place, with venomous precision.
Chapter Six
February 2020: London
Nodge steers his black cab towards the adoption agency. Owen spreads himself across the back seat. The glass partition is open between them. It is a three-mile journey from Kensal Rise to Harlesden. Neither of them speak until Nodge pulls up in the street outside the ugly red-brick low rise that houses the adoption agency.
‘This is it, then,’ says Owen as Nodge lines up the vehicle against the kerb.
‘Nervous?’ says Nodge, his head screwed round to watch for the kerb.
Nodge cuts the engine and gathers his bits and pieces – a book by Alexei Sayle about growing up in the Communist Party, a half-consumed Dime bar, a pen and a thick notepad with ‘Adoption Info’ scrawled on the front.
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
‘Good.’
‘More like bricking it.’
Having straightened the cab to his satisfaction, Nodge switches off the engine, pulls himself out of the driver’s seat and opens the rear door for Owen. Owen is still dressed in his John Lewis uniform, dark blue suit, plain tie, white plastic badge on the lapel. Owen notices that he still has a lanyard round his neck, takes it off and puts it in his pocket. He has come directly from the branch at the Westfield store, from where he has taken the remainder of the afternoon off. He lowers his head and steps out tentatively onto the pavement as if there were hidden assailants waiting to strike.
‘Don’t worry, O. Everything will be alright,’ says Nodge, shutting the door and locking the cab.
‘You don’t know that.’
‘Obviously I don’t know that. I’m trying to be encouraging, aren’t I?’
They brush one another’s lips with a kiss. An old black man wearing a vicar’s dog collar with white hair sticking up like bedsprings is passing. He slows down and stares. Owen pulls gently away from Nodge.
‘Thanks, Nodge. You’re a sweetheart.’
‘I love you too, Owen. And if this doesn’t happen – well, we still have one another.’
‘And that’s a lot.’
‘It is. We are very lucky.‘
‘But I so want to be a father. It’s like an ache that just won’t leave my body.’
‘I’m scared too.’
‘You always seem so calm.’
‘Of course I’m scared. I want this just as much as you do.’
‘Do you? Do you really?’
They stand staring at one another for a second. Nodge wonders if Owen is trying to say something. He turns away and puts some change in the meter. He checks his watch. There is still five minutes before their appointment. They enter the building through double glass doors into a shabby hallway, then make their way up a flight of stairs to the adoption office on the first floor. It is situated on the other side of a plain grey door with inlaid smoked glass panels. Nodge presses the entry buzzer and the lock clicks open. Making their way inside, he is reassured by the familiar posters of joyful adults holding or playing with gleeful, healthy young children. Encouragingly, several are same-sex parents.
The atmosphere today feels unusually sepulchral to both Owen and Nodge. The room is chilly and the receptionist, whom neither of them have seen before, with stiff short hair and a blue-white cotton blouse lacking a single crease, gives a frosty stare when she looks up from her desk. Is she prejudiced about gay adoption? It is unlikely, given the job she has, but you never can tell. They have learned how people hide their hatred. Nodge notices a small silver cross on a necklace round her neck. This increases his suspicion.
They sit and wait, lowering themselves heavily onto hard chairs as if time is pressing down on them like a low-pressure storm front. Exactly on the stroke of two o’clock, according to the electric clock humming behind the receptionist’s desk, a buzzer sounds. The intercom crackles, although Nodge can’t quite understand what is being said. Apparently, however, they are being summoned, since the receptionist gestures indifferently towards the door to her right.
Nodge and Owen are surprised by the punctuality. Their appointments here, as a rule, run at least fifteen minutes late. They rise and cautiously approach the door. They have negotiated this portal many times before, each time with a growing sense of apprehension – not because they are scared of failure, but because they are getting closer and closer to success and the nearer they get, the more they fear disappointment.
Entering the office, they see Comfort Brakespeare, an imposing, bulky Ugandan woman with kind, constantly roaming black eyes, sitting behind her desk, fidgeting with a pencil. They have met her a half a dozen times before and like her very much. She is always cheerful, helpful and positive. Today she wears a large headscarf in brilliant emerald and glasses with fashionable thick black octagonal frames.
‘Hi, Comfort,’ says Nodge.
‘Hi, Comfort,’ says Owen.
She nods and smiles. Her eyes stop roaming and settle on the desk in front of her, on which there are several buff files with sheets of papers protruding. Her laptop is switched on – blue light reflects onto her slightly leathery skin. Her eyes flick between the screen and the paperwork periodically. Without looking up, Comfort gestures for Nodge and Owen to sit down. When she finally raises her head to meet their gaze, Nodge tries to read her expression, but finds nothing scrutable. They lower themselves onto the proffered chairs.
‘Hello, Owen. Hello, Jon. How are you both?’ Her rich, treacly accent is reassuring.
‘Nervous,’ says Nodge.
‘Of course,’ says Comfort. She fidgets with the papers on her desk. ‘Can I offer either of you a coffee? Or a glass of water?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Not for me.’
She clicks on her computer mouse a few times and purses her lips.
‘Is everything okay?’ blurts Nodge.
‘You mean regarding your application to adopt?’
No, regarding your new headscarf, you muppet, thinks Nodge savagely. It is only at this point that he realizes how on edge he is. However, his voice when he speaks remains polite.
‘Yes, of course.’
There is a slow, indrawn breath through the nostrils from Comfort.
‘I guess you want me to get to the matter of the decision as quickly as possible.’
Is she just doing all this neutrality/glumness for effect, wonders Nodge. Was it like the old game show, Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?, when Chris Tarrant looks depressed before he tells them they’d won half a million sovs?
‘Yes,’ say Nodge and Owen, more or less in unison.
‘The thing is, there’s been a complication,’ says Comfort finally, after a long pause. She opens one of the files on her desk and sifts through the papers inside.
‘A complication?’ says Nodge. ‘I thought we were more or less good to go. You said there were just one or two formalities left to complete.’
‘That’s right. And now the agency has completed those formalities.’
‘What were these formalities exactly?’
‘One of them was a final police check.’
‘Spit it out, then,’ says Owen. But instead of responding, Comfort looks directly at Nodge. She pushes a piece of paper over the desk to him.
‘Are you aware of this, Mr Drysdale?’
The sudden formality of the address frightens Nodge. Puzzled, he takes the paper and examines it. He feels his heart sicken slowly as he comprehends the words on the paper.
‘I suppose so,’ he says, voice parched.
‘What is it?’ says Owen, leaning forward. Nodge’s body goes slack as he passes the paper to Owen. Owen slowly reads, shaking his head more and more insistently as he does so. Nodge, who has been staring at the floor, turns cautiously towards him.
