I stare at her. ‘Pregnant?Sarah’s pregnant?’
I feel a pain so sharp it’s as if she’s guided a blade between my ribs.
Mum doesn’t answer.
‘Mum!’
Just once, and with palpable disgust, she nods. ‘Pregnant,’ she confirms.
‘No,’ I say, although the word doesn’t quite make it to my mouth.
No. No, no, no.
Sarah can’t be having another man’s child. Mum slides out of focus and my head begins to explode with misery, a hundred different shades of it, spattering in all directions. But then the rollercoaster dips, yet again, and another sensation bursts in: hope. The speed at which I’m feeling all these things is dizzying. But the hope stays – two seconds, three, four, five . . . It doesn’t go away.It could be mine, I’m realizing.It could be mine.
‘She came back because her grandfather died,’ Mum says tightly. ‘That funeral procession we saw was probably for him.’
I register relief, somewhere, that it was her grandfather, but I’m far too shocked to feel guilty about such a thought. Sarah is pregnant, and it could be my child.
‘What else do you know, Mum? Please tell me.’
Mum picks up her still-full soup bowl and takes it to the kitchen. I follow her like a faithful dog. ‘Mum.’
‘It was Hannah who called her sister with the bad news,’ she says eventually. Her voice is barely audible. ‘Apparently the shock of hearing Hannah’s voice on the phone almost killed her. Walked out into a road, nearly got hit by a truck, stupid girl. But’ – she puts down her soup bowl and gazes around her spotless kitchen – ‘for better or worse, the truck swerved, so she stayed in one piece.’
Mum stops. She’s becoming agitated; her breathing is shallow and she can’t stand still. Neither can I. Sarah is here in England, and she’s pregnant. I follow her back to the lounge, where her breathing gets worse.
With a mechanical detachment I start talking her through one of Derek’s breathing exercises. I guide her into long, slow out breaths, and I wonder why she’s speaking up now, after having kept all this secret for so many months. It’s not in her interest to be telling me Sarah’s back, let alone pregnant. Mum hates the idea of me even thinking about Sarah Harrington.
It’s got something to do with Sarah’s parents, I think. It’s something to do with them leaving the cafe at a run. I stare desperately at Mum as she gets her breathing back under control.Tell me!I want to yell.Tell me everything!Instead I go with a mild, ‘And do you know anything else? About how she is? How things have been?’
‘I believe she has been in a very depressed state,’ Mum says, eventually. ‘Wouldn’t tell any of them who the father was.’
Hope starts to bud.
‘The funeral was the first time she had seen Hannah in nearly twenty years. Hannah told me she and her sister . . . they . . . agreed that there had been enough loss. They agreed to patch things up.’
Mum looks disgusted by the words coming out of her mouth, and I see now why she’s fallen out with Hannah. Years and years, Mum’s managed to keep Hannah on side: it must have felt like a terrible defection.
‘So Sarah’s been living in Frampton Mansell all this time? Six months?’
Mum nods, glancing over at me. ‘I take it you haven’t seen her, then.’ I think it’s probably fairly clear from my face that I have not.
‘Are you absolutely certain she’s pregnant, Mum?’ My words get caught in a dry part of my throat.
Mum look over at me, and her face clouds with disappointment. She can see what this means to me. ‘I’m certain.’
‘When is it due? The baby?’
‘I don’t know.’ Mum twists her hands. I can tell she’s lying.
Whatever it is that’s prompted her to tell me all this is waging a terrible war in her head. She starts the breathing exercise again.
‘You really have no idea when it’s due?’ I prompt. I can’t bear it. ‘Not even a vague clue? I’m going to find out anyway,’ I add. ‘So you might as well tell me.’
Mum closes her eyes. ‘On 27 February. Six days ago,’ she says eventually. ‘Which means that the child must have been conceived in June last year.’ She flinches as the words come out of her mouth.
Absolute silence.
