“No. What difference does that make?”
“But surely she can’t be happy about it.”
“Why not? Just because she isn’t married?”
“There’s that. And the fact that she’s only nineteen. I can’t believe she was happy about it.”
“What difference does it make whether she’s married? She wanted it, she planned it and everything.”
“Is that what she told you?”
“But, Mother, I know her, she’s a friend of mine. I know she wanted it.”
The women on the bench got to their feet. One of them called to the little girl. She came off the swing and went running towards the women.
“And what about the father?” I asked.
“He was happy about it too. I remember when they first found out. We all went out to celebrate.”
“But people always pretend to be delighted. It’s like that film we saw on the television last night.”
“What film?”
“I expect you weren’t watching it. You were reading your magazine.”
“Oh that. It looked awful.”
“It certainly was. But that’s what I mean. I’m sure nobody ever receives the news of a baby like these people do in these films.”
“Honestly, Mother, I don’t know how you can sit and watch rubbish like that. You hardly used to watch television at all. I remember you used to keep telling me off because I watched it so much.”
I laughed. “You see how our roles are reversing, Niki. I’m sure you’re very good for me. You must stop me wasting my time away like that.”
As we made our way back from the tea shop, the sky had clouded over ominously and the drizzle had become heavier. We had walked a little way past the small railway station when a voice called from behind us: “Mrs Sheringham! Mrs Sheringham!”
I turned and saw a small woman in an overcoat hurrying up the road.
“I thought it was you,” she said, catching up with us. “And how have you been keeping?” She gave me a cheerful smile.
“Hello, Mrs Waters,” I said. “How nice to see you again.”
“Seems to have turned all miserable again, hasn’t it? Why, hello, Keiko” — she touched Niki’s sleeve — “I didn’t realize it was you.”
“No,” I said hurriedly, “this is Niki.”
“Niki, of course. Good gracious, you’ve completely grown up, dear. That’s why I got you muddled. You’ve completely grown up.”
“Hello, Mrs Waters,” Niki said, recovering.
Mrs Waters lives not far from me. These days I see her only very occasionally, but several years ago she had given piano lessons to both my daughters. She had taught Keiko for a number of years, and then Niki for a year or so when she was still a child. It had not taken me long to see Mrs Waters was a very limited pianist and her attitude to music in general had often irritated me; for instance, she would refer to works by Chopin and Tchaikovsky alike as “charming melodies”. But she was such an affectionate woman I never had the heart to replace her.
“And what are you doing with yourself these days, dear?” she asked Niki.
“Me? Oh, I live in London.”
“Oh yes? And what are you doing there? Studying?”
“I’m not doing anything really. I just live there.”
“Oh, I see. But you’re happy there, are you? That’s the main thing, isn’t it.”
“Yes, I’m happy enough.”
“Well, that’s the main thing, isn’t it. And what about Keiko?” Mrs Waters turned to me. “How is Keiko getting on now?”
“Keiko? Oh, she went to live in Manchester.”
“Oh yes? That’s a nice city on the whole. That’s what I’ve heard anyway. And does she like it up there?”
“I haven’t heard from her recently.”
“Oh well. No news is good news, I expect. And does Keiko still play the piano?”
“I expect she does. I haven’t heard from her recently.”
My lack of enthusiasm seemed finally to penetrate, and she dropped the subject with an awkward laugh. Such persistence on her part has characterized our encounters over the years since Keiko’s leaving home. Neither my evident reluctance to discuss Keiko nor the fact that until that afternoon I had been unable to tell her so much as my daughter’s whereabouts had succeeded in making any lasting impression upon her. In all probability, Mrs Waters will continue to ask cheerfully after my daughter whenever we happen to meet.
By the time we got home, the rain was falling steadily.
“I suppose I embarrassed you, didn’t I?” Niki said to me. We were sitting once again in our armchairs, looking out into the garden.
“Why do you suppose that?” I said.
“I should have told her I was thinking of going to university or something like that.”
“I don’t mind in the least what you say about yourself. I’m not ashamed of you.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“But I did think you were rather off-hand with her. You never did like that woman much, did you?”
“Mrs Waters? Well, I used to hate those lessons she gave me. They were sheer boredom. I used to just go off in a dream, then now and again there’d be this little voice telling me to put my finger here or here or here. Was that your idea, getting me to have lessons?”
“It was mainly mine. You see, I had great plans for you once.”
Niki laughed. “I’m sorry to be such a failure. But it’s your own fault. I haven’t got any musical sense at all. There’s this girl in our house who plays the guitar, and she was trying to show me some chords, but I couldn’t be bothered to even learn those. I think Mrs Waters put me off music for life.”
“You may come back to it some time and you’ll appreciate having had lessons.”
“But I’ve forgotten everything I ever learnt.”
“I doubt if you would have forgotten everything. Nothing you learn at that age is totally lost.”
“A waste of time, anyway,” Niki muttered. She sat looking out of the windows for some time. Then she turned to me and said: “I suppose it must be quite difficult to tell people. About Keiko, I mean.”
“It seemed easiest to say what I did,” I replied. “She rather took me by surprise.”
“Yes, I suppose so.” Niki went on looking out of the window with an empty expression. “Keiko didn’t come to Dad’s funeral, did she?” she said, eventually.
“You know perfectly well she didn’t so why ask?”
“I was just saying, that’s all.”
“You mean you didn’t come to her funeral because she didn’t come to your father’s? Don’t be so childish, Niki.”
“I’m not being childish. I’m just saying that’s the way it was. She was never a part of our lives — not mine or Dad’s anyway. I never expected her to be at Dad’s funeral.”
I did not reply and we sat silently in our armchairs. Then Niki said:
“It was odd just now, with Mrs Waters. It was almost like you enjoyed it.”
“Enjoyed what?”
“Pretending Keiko was alive.”
“I don’t enjoy deceiving people.” Perhaps I snapped a little, for Niki looked startled.
“No, I suppose not,” she said, lamely.
It rained throughout that night, and the next day — the fourth day of Niki’s stay — it was still raining steadily.
“Do you mind if I change rooms tonight?” Niki said. “I could use the spare bedroom.” We were in the kitchen, washing the dishes after breakfast.
“The spare bedroom?” I laughed a little. “They’re all spare bedrooms now. No, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t sleep in the spare room. Have you taken a dislike to your old room?”
“I feel a bit odd sleeping there.”
“How unkind, Niki. I hoped you’d still feel it was your room.”