Trio - [47]

‘Oh, yes.’ She lifted Penny’s hand and kissed her palm. ‘Positive.’

Lilian

Pamela came home for a weekend every six weeks or so. In-between times Lilian ached with loneliness but was careful never to let on. She was determined not to cramp her daughter’s style. Pamela was crazy about her sailing; she worked hard and played hard. No sign of settling down though she was twenty-eight already.

The evenings were the worst. She was still working days at the sorting office and dreaded the thought of retiring in two years time when she reached sixty. She seemed to watch the television all the time, couldn’t be bothered with her sewing any more. Even cooking for one was a joyless task. Often as not she’d open a tin and have a bit of toast with it. She still saw Monica and the others for an evening out and she’d friends through Church, where she helped out with jumble sales and fairs. She tried to keep busy.

The phone rang late one night. It was November, the weather was foul – cold, with gusts of wind and rain battering at the house. She had gone around and put newspaper down to soak up the rain leaking in through the kitchen window and checked the curtains in the other rooms to try and keep the heat in.

When she heard the ringing she assumed it would be Pamela or Sally or Monica. But none of them generally rang so late. Her heart kicked in her chest. Bad news?

‘Hello?’

‘Is that Marion?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Marion. Is Marion there?’

The woman’s voice was slurred. The skin on Lilian’s back tightened. Marion. Pamela had been Marion. This couldn’t… A cold fear shot through her bones.

‘I think you’ve got the wrong number.’ She put the phone down quickly. And waited to see if it would ring again, chewing at her nails compulsively.

Her mind skittered round the prospect that she dreaded. But they couldn’t do that, could they? They weren’t allowed to. It was just a coincidence, that’s all. She was holding her throat, her knees felt weak. She went and sat down. They wouldn’t have this number, anyway, or this address. The phone was quiet. She finally went upstairs.

Lilian filled a hot-water bottle and put it at the foot of her bed. The sheets were clammy when she got in, there was a lot of damp in the bedroom in the winter. She warmed her feet then pulled the hot water bottle up and curled round it. But even when the chill had gone she still couldn’t sleep. Her back was tense and stiff, her stomach ached, stitched with fear.

She tried to imagine telling Pamela about the adoption but the prospect appalled her. It wasn’t a good time. She’d such a lot on at work. And Lilian was sure the revelation would upset Pamela, it would be hurtful, and she was happy now, settled. She couldn’t bear to spoil all that. If she did drag up the past what good would come of it? Pamela had had enough to cope with losing her father. Lilian was her mother, the only mother she needed. Plain and simple. That was that. But no matter how she argued to herself there was the grip of guilt dragging at her… she hadn’t done anything wrong. She was just protecting her daughter. When she finally slept it was fitfully. She dreamt of Monica giving her a parcel for Pamela with the wrong name on it and when Lilian opened it there was a baby inside. And then she realised with horror that she’d left the baby in the parcel and she was going to be caught and punished. The doctor came in and told her the baby hadn’t survived and she tried to run away but her legs wouldn’t move.

Pamela

Bradford had made Pamela’s career. Ten years later she had reached the highest echelons of senior management and been relocated to Head Office in Liverpool. Conditions were good. She earned enough to pay the mortgage and bills on the eighteenth-century stone cottage she had bought outside Chester and to finance her passion for travel. Money was not an issue. Lilian accompanied her on the nearer trips – a week in Venice, a cruise on the Norwegian fjords – but Pamela travelled further afield on her own.

She sat on the hotel balcony looking out over the fountains and the tropical gardens to the wild forest beyond. The Pavillion was an old colonial building dating from the times when Portuguese aristocrats holidayed here. The place was rich with marble, stupendous floor tiles, pillars and archways and gilt chandeliers. There was little wood, it rotted too quickly with the humidity.

It was her first trip to Brazil, though she had been to Mexico a few years before. It would be dark soon, and suddenly, no gradual dusk like at home, but that sudden dramatic plunge from blazing light to rich indigo night with a brazen sunset in-between. She sipped her lemonade and picked up the book she was reading. Once the sun had set she would shower and change. The anticipation of the evening to come made her smile. John, the Canadian guest, had wined and dined her for two nights. Third time lucky. Her experiences had taught her to take things at a moderate pace, at first anyway. She wanted a man who was prepared to get to know her a bit, to make intelligent conversation with a woman and enjoy her company as well as want to take her to bed. She didn’t always meet someone on her holidays and she still enjoyed the pleasure of new sights and sounds and food and music. Being somewhere totally foreign. But a liaison made the trip something special. Back home the whole area of relationships was like a minefield. She had enjoyed a few brief flings but nothing that had ever gelled. Her status got in the way all too often. She was good at her job, good at the finances and good with people. Management skills had come easily to her and she was being selected more and more often for sensitive negotiations.