Hours is it, I’ve been asleep? Maybe. No. Barely after six. Twelve to go. How shall I cross this? Will I be scared in the dark? Bang a loud knock. Up I sit. Bailiffs? Killers? Flashers? Oh fuck, oh fuck it. Knock again. Peer round the bedroom door. Yes? and gruffer, like I am of the world Who’s there? Eily, it’s Stephen, he says Any chance I can come in? And such a surprise I hardly know what to do. Just go and open. All tall there in his suit, shirt tails hanging out. Little dishevelled but lovely. Am I disturbing you? No, I say Come in.
My blood makes terrible noises as he follows me in. No furniture left so let’s go to my room. Where’s everyone else? Already moved, this is my last night here. I see isn’t that a bit creepy for you? A bit, and I lean back on the wall So Actually, he interrupts I couldn’t have a glass of water, could I? Sorry, the water’s off. Already? Fuck that’s rough then do you mind if I sit? No no, go ahead. He takes the end of the mattress and evening sun on his face. And he is different somehow although I can’t quite Well look, he says — looking himself like not knowing where to start. So he lights up before trying again — So look, I saw Marianne well you know that anyway I thought I’d come over because after all the drama it caused I thought you might want to know but I mean, if not, just say I do, I say Of course I want to know.
Okay — his fingers making churches that press to his lips — So I went to the restaurant for one, as agreed. I could already see her in the window from Bow Street, swirling a glass of wine. I wasn’t expecting that — I thought it’d be more of a strong coffee and sharp knives sort of thing. There she was though, looking much the same. Maybe a little older, though no signs of grey, touching by the temple for his own. But nervous as I was Eil, I could see she was worse, which helped me get over the doorstep. Anyway, she stood up when I came in. I wasn’t sure of the etiquette but she shook my hand, thanked me for coming, offered a seat and was — naturally — too well-bred to get straight to the point. So there was summoning a bottle of whatever she had and hoping I didn’t mind she’d chosen a red. Should we order first? Then during that carry-on, all the How’s your health? And Is Rafi well? and I hear you’re working on a script? In the end I just said Mari, what’s all this about? — and I was surprised I called her that but there you go. And what did she say Stephen? She said It’s about Grace, and would I please hear her out first? She was pretty hesitant to start with but then it all came out. The general gist being that, apparently, Grace has been running riot. Skipping school, difficult at home, disappearing off without saying where’s she’s going then arriving in late reeking of drink. She got suspended from school for smoking a joint and, soon as she came back, did it again. So it was in the balance for a while about being expelled. It’s sorted now but this was all news to me and, to be honest, I didn’t know what to say. Then Marianne said, you know, I don’t want her going down that road. I couldn’t bear to watch that happen to her too. I’m sure you’re concerned Marianne, I said But a couple of rebellious spliffs doesn’t make an addict, I had a lot of other contributing factors. She only said I know, but I could tell there was more and, sure enough That’s the other subject we need to talk about. She wouldn’t look at me then and I got this wave of dread. Mari, I said Has something happened to Grace? She just looked at her nails so I pressed Marianne, has someone hurt her? I mean Eily, you know what was on my mind. No, I said something to her, she said Something I shouldn’t have, about you, and I very much regret. About when I was using? I asked — I couldn’t think of anything else. He gets up and. I told her about your mother, she said. I knew she couldn’t know so I asked what she meant? She said I guessed there’d been violence from flippant comments you’d make but, later on, I discovered there was something else something sexual, is that right? I was pretty taken aback. Fucking horrified actually. I said How could you possibly know that? Even wasted I would never have told. So it is true? It is, I said But how do you know? When you were in Intensive Care, she said I went through your things and found a letter from your mother in an old notebook. She sounded eager to hear from you so I wrote asking her to contact me. A few days later, your stepfather did — that’s when he told me she was dead. I explained who I was and why I had gotten in touch. I was diplomatic about the details but he understood and seemed concerned so I invited him to visit — I thought seeing family might help — but he refused so adamantly I was shocked. I promised his mother I’d leave that boy be, he said And, truth be told the sight of me would probably do more harm than good. He wouldn’t expand but asked me to keep in touch. After that I had a few thoughts of my own. He, obviously, sounded quite rough on the phone and, presumably, there were valid reasons you weren’t in contact any more but he did seem sincere so once a week I called. He was always pleased to hear you were improving and I began to ask about the rift. He was evasive but gave me to understand that more than I’d previously realised had gone on. We kept it relatively formal though, until the nursing staff caught you picking your leg open. That’s when I finally broke down. Told him everything. What you’d done. That I was pregnant and couldn’t understand why you were doing this to me. There’s a lot in that boy’s past, he said And it’s not the kind of thing I like telling a girl like yourself but, perhaps, if it would help, he probably owed you that.
When my wife was dying I wanted to contact Stephen, he said They hadn’t seen each other for a few years by then. I thought he’d want to know and have a chance to put things right. He’d always been a gentle sort of lad and what son wouldn’t want to do that before his mother died? But when I brought it up, she was completely against it, wouldn’t have me even mention his name. I thought it was because he’d run off and she couldn’t forgive him, which seemed hard but then she was a strong-willed woman. So that’s how it stayed, right up until it was clear to everyone, including herself, that the end wasn’t far off. That’s when she started to talk about him. Just a little at first but, soon enough, all the time. And not rambling, it was clear she was in her own mind. They were things I’d never really heard her say. About his father leaving her high and dry. Her family expecting her to give the baby up because that was the way. But, when she first held him, she said she knew she never could. I met her a few months later, on a bus. She said she was a widow, that her husband had been killed in a car accident. If I’m honest, I didn’t believe her even then and over the years that story changed many times but she was so young and pretty I didn’t really mind, or about the boy.
She seemed to remember him most fondly as a little boy, running round the yard, picking dandelions for her. How he’d spend hours on his stomach playing with his car. Or when he couldn’t stop kicking his ball against the back door — I remembered that myself, three times I changed that glass. And once she’d started all these memories came flowing out. The holiday when she was pregnant with our first and Stephen was just above her knee. The two of them in the rock pools, eating ice creams. She said While I was watching him I realised I didn’t love his father any more and that he was a fool for not caring about his son. But I understood how lucky I was, she said And that Stephen would always be who I loved most. She repeated that story frequently, like it was her last good memory. A few months later our son arrived and she had a very bad collapse. She was never really well again. But we all found it hard to hear her remember Stephen because of how long it had been.