Page 90 of The Man Who Didn't Call
I look at my watch: 3.45 p.m. It dawns on me that Hannah’s children must have finished school. And that, with any luck, she or her husband will just have picked them up. Feelings are pitching through me faster than I can identify them. I know only that I have to find her.
I start up the Land Rover and head for Bisley. I try not to think about Mum, home alone, wrestling with what must feel like a nightmare. But then I think,Three months, she’s known. Three bloody months!
She told me in the end, I remind myself, because I have to. Hating Sarah has prevented Mum from feeling the deepest pain – the most unbearable pain – for a very, very long time. It’s been her best medication. That nod towards the phone, that reluctant blessing, is a gesture I must not underestimate.
The winter countryside flashes by, lank and dripping. I try to imagine Hannah coming face to face with her sister, after so many years of Mum whispering bile into her ear. And I picture Sarah, terrified and hopeful in equal measure. Desperate to say the right thing. To win Hannah back.
No wonder she hasn’t told anyone who the father is. It’d be like throwing a hand grenade in among this recovering family.
Three fifty-one p.m. ‘Please let Hannah not have a nanny,’I mutter, as I reach the outskirts of Bisley. ‘Let Hannah or her husband answer the door.’
I’m driving too fast, and to my surprise, I don’t care. The last few months of stoicism, of Doing the Right Thing, have now been stripped back to the lunacy, the blind masochism they always were. I have known for less than fifteen minutes that Sarah’s been carrying my child and already I have completely forgotten everything I’d been telling myself to keep myself away from her. All that matters is seeing her.
A baby. Sarah has been carrying my baby.
I recognize Hannah’s husband as soon as he opens the door, from the night when I smashed my fist on the pub table. ‘Smelly!’ he yells, as a black Labrador crashes past him and into me, a mangy comfort blanket in its mouth. The dog jumps up on me, its tail helicoptering with joy.
‘Smelly!’ he shouts. ‘Stop it!’
He grabs the dog’s collar and does his best to hold it off.
‘Smelly?’ I say. It’s the closest I’ve been to laughing in several hours.
‘We made the mistake of letting the children name him.’ The man smiles apologetically. ‘Can I help?’
Smelly lunges at me again and I stroke him with one hand while trying to explain the impossible to a complete stranger.
‘Sorry, yes. My name’s Eddie Wallace. I’ve known Hannah for years. She—’
‘Oh right,’ the man says. ‘Yes, I know who you are. You’re the older brother of Hannah’s childhood friend—’ He breaks off awkwardly, although whether it’s because he’s forgotten Alex’s name or doesn’t want to bring up my dead sister, I can’t tell.
‘Alex,’ I supply, because I haven’t time for awkward pauses.
He nods. Deeper in the house, there is a loud thump and the sound of children screaming. He looks nervously over his shoulder, but is reassured when one of them starts yelling something about preparing to die by the sword.
He turns back to me and I feel quite insane with desperation. I need information, now.
Smelly sniffs my crotch.
‘So, this might sound strange, but . . . I believe that Hannah’s sister might have just had a baby, or is just about to have one. I mean, I suppose she could even be having it right now . . .’
The man smiles. ‘Indeed! Hannah’s at the hospital with her now. Poor Sarah’s been in labour two days. Are you a friend of hers?’ Then he pauses as he tries to square the fact that I’m Eddie Wallace with the idea that I might be a friend of Sarah’s. Confusion becomes alarm as he realizes he might have told me something I’m not entitled to know.
For a moment I can’t speak, so I just stand there, stroking Smelly. The dog smiles at me, and despite myself, I smile at the dog. Then I level with Hannah’s husband. I don’t have time to make up some excuse he’ll never buy. ‘Not a friend, exactly . . . more, the father of her child.’
Silence.
The man merely stares at me. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘I had no idea, until about thirty minutes ago . . .’ The man frowns. It is inconceivable to him that I could be the father of Sarah’s baby. I swallow. ‘It’s a long story, but I wouldn’t have come to your door if I wasn’t certain it’s mine.’
Silence.
‘Look, I’m just a decent bloke who’s found out he’s a father, or nearly a father, and I’m not going to force myself on Sarah or anything, but I . . .’ I trail off, because, to myhorror, my voice is beginning to crack. ‘I just want to be there for her. If I can.’
‘Right,’ the man says eventually.
Smelly sits by my feet, staring up at me. I can tell I’m a disappointment.
