The Night Ferry

8

A large portrait above the fireplace shows a patrician man in legal robes with a horsehair wig that looks surprisingly like a shih tzu resting on his forearm. He gazes sternly down at a polished table that is surrounded by high-backed chairs.

Felix’s mother is dressed in a tweed jacket and black slacks, clutching her handbag as though someone might steal it. Beside her, another of her sons rattles his fingers on the table, already bored.

Barnaby is at the window, studying the small courtyard outside. I don’t notice Jarrod as he crosses the room. He touches my shoulder.

“Is it true? Am I an uncle?”

His hair is brushed back from his temples and beginning to thin.

“I’m not sure what you are, technically.”

“My father says there are twins.”

“They don’t belong to Cate. A girl was forced to have them.”

His eyes don’t understand. “Biologically they belong to Cate. That makes me an uncle.”

“Perhaps. I really don’t know.”

The solicitor enters the conference room and takes a seat. In his mid-fifties, dressed in a three-piece pinstriped suit, he introduces himself as William Grove and stretches his face into a tight smile. His whole demeanor is one of contained speed. Time is money. Every fifteen minutes is billable.

Chairs scrape backward. People are seated. Mr. Grove glances at his instructions.

“Ladies and gentlemen, a codicil was added to this will six weeks ago and it appears to be predicated on the likelihood that the Beaumonts would become parents.”

A frisson disturbs the atmosphere like a sudden change in the air pressure. The solicitor glances up, tugging at his shirt cuffs. “Am I to understand this marriage produced children?”

Silence.

Finally, Barnaby clears his throat. “It does seem likely.”

“What do you mean? Please explain.”

“We have reason to believe that Cate and Felix arranged a surrogacy. Twins were born eight days ago.”

The next minute is one of exclamation and disbelief. Felix’s mother makes a choking noise at the back of her throat. Barnaby is looking at his hands, rubbing his fingertips. Jarrod hasn’t taken his eyes off me.

Unsure of how to proceed Mr. Grove takes a moment to compose himself. He decides to continue. The estate consists of a heavily mortgaged family home in Willesden Green, North London, which was recently damaged in a fire. Insurance will cover the cost of rebuilding. Felix also had a life insurance policy provided by his employer.

“If there is no objection, I shall read from the wills, which are each ostensibly the same.” He takes a sip of water.

“This is the last will and testament of me, Cate Elizabeth Beaumont (née Elliot), made on the 14th day of September 2006. I hereby revoke all wills heretofore made by me and declare this to be my last will and testament. I appoint William Grove of Sadler, Grove and Buffett to be executor and trustee of this, my will. I give, devise and bequeath to my husband, Felix Beaumont (formerly known as Felix Buczkowski), the whole of my estate provided that he survives me by thirty days and, if not, then I give the whole of my estate to my child or children to be shared equally as tenants in common.

“I appoint Alisha Kaur Barba as guardian of my infant children and I direct her to love and care for them and to expend so much as is necessary from the estate of the children to raise, educate and advance their life.”

Barnaby is on his feet, his jaw flapping in protest. For a moment I think he might be having a heart attack.

“This is preposterous! I will not have my grandchildren raised by a bloody stranger.” He stabs a finger at me. “You knew about this!”

“No.”

“You knew all along.”

“I didn’t.”

Mr. Grove tries to calm him down. “I can assure you, sir, that everything has been properly signed and witnessed.”

“What sort of idiot do you take me for? This is bullshit! I won’t let anyone take my grandchildren away.”

The outburst has silenced the room. The only sounds are from the air-conditioning and distant water pipes filling and disgorging. For a moment I think Barnaby might actually strike me. Instead he kicks back his chair and storms out, followed by Jarrod. People turn to look at me. The back of my neck grows warm.

Mr. Grove has a letter for me. As I take it from him, I have to keep my hand steady. Why would Cate do this? Why choose me? Already the sense of responsibility is pressing against my lungs.

The envelope is creased in my fist as I leave the conference room and cross the lobby, pushing through heavy glass doors. I have no idea where I’m going. Is this it? One poxy letter is supposed to explain things? Will it make up for eight years of silence?

Another notion suddenly haunts my confusion. Maybe I’m being given a chance to redeem myself. To account for my neglect, my failures, the things left unsaid, all those sins of omission and commission. I am being asked to safeguard Cate’s most precious legacy and to do a better job than I managed with our friendship.

I stop in the doorway of an off-licence and slide my finger beneath the flap of the envelope.

Dear Ali,

It is a weird thing writing a letter that will only be opened and read upon one’s death. It’s hard to get too sad about it though. And if I am dead, it’s a bit late to fret about spilling that particular pint of white.My only real concern is you. You’re my one regret. I have wanted to be friends with you ever since we met at Oaklands and you fought Paul Donavon to defend my honor and lost your front tooth. You were the real thing, Ali, not one of the plastics.I know you’re sorry about what happened with my father. I know it was more his fault than yours. I forgave you a long time ago. I forgave him because, well, you know how it is with fathers. You weren’t the first of his infidelities, by the way, but I guess you worked that out.The reason I could never tell you this is because of a promise I made to my mother. It was the worst sort of promise. She found out about you and my father. He told her because he thought I would tell her.My mother made me promise never to see you again; never to talk to you; never to invite you to the house; never to mention your name.I know I should have ignored her. I should have called. Many times I almost did. I got as far as picking up the phone. Sometimes I even dialed your parents’ number but then I wondered what I’d say to you. We had left it too long. How would we ever get around the silence, which was like an elephant sitting in the room?I have never stopped thinking about you. I followed your career as best I could, picking up stories from other people. Poor old Felix has been bored silly listening to me talk about our exploits and adventures. He’s heard so much about you that he probably feels like he’s been married to both of us.Six weeks from now, God willing, I will become a mother after six years of trying. If something happens to me and to Felix—if we die in a flaming plane crash or should suicide bombers ever target Tesco at Willesden Green—we want you to be the guardian of our children.My mother is going to pass a cow when she learns this but I have kept my promise to her, which didn’t include any clause covering posthumous contact with you.There are no strings attached. I’m not going to write provisos or instructions. If you want the job it’s yours. I know you’ll love my children as much as I do. And I know you’ll teach them to look after each other. You’ll say the things I would have said to them and tell them about me and about Felix. The good stuff, naturally.I don’t know what else to tell you. I often think how different my life would have been—how much happier—if you’d been a part of it. One day.

Love, Cate

It is just after five o’clock. The streetlights are smudged with my tears. Faces drift past me. Heads turn away. Nobody asks after a crying woman anymore—not in London. I’m just another of the crazies to be avoided.

On the cab ride to West Acton I catch my reflection in the window. I will be thirty years old on Thursday—closer to sixty than I am to birth. I still look young yet exhausted and feverish, like a child who has stayed up too late at an adult party.

There is a FOR SALE sign outside “New Boy” Dave’s flat. He’s serious about this; he’s going to quit the force and start teaching kids how to sail.

I debate whether to go up. I walk to the front door, stare at the bell and walk back to the road. I don’t want to explain things. I just want to open a bottle of wine, order a pizza and curl up on the sofa with his legs beneath mine and his hands rubbing my toes, which are freezing.

I haven’t seen Dave since Amsterdam. He used to phone me every day, sometimes twice. When I called him after the funerals he sounded hesitant, almost nervous.

The elephant in the room. It can’t be talked about. It can’t be ignored. My patched-up pelvis is like that. People suddenly want to give me children. Is that ironic? I’m never sure with irony; the term is so misused.

I go back to the door. It takes a long while for anyone to answer. It’s a woman’s voice on the intercom. Apologetic. She was in the shower.

“Dave’s not here.”

“It’s my fault. I should have phoned.”

“He’s on his way home. Do you want to come in and wait?”

“No, that’s OK.”

Who is she? What’s she doing here?

“I’ll tell him you dropped by.”

“OK.”

A pause.

“You need to give me your name.”

“Of course. Sorry. Don’t worry about it. I’ll call him.”

I walk back to the road, telling myself I don’t care.

Shit! Shit! Shit!

The house is strangely quiet. The TV in the front room is turned down and lights are on upstairs. I slip along the side path and through the back door. Hari is in the kitchen.

“You have to stop her.”

“Who?”

“Samira. She’s leaving. She’s upstairs packing.”

“Why? What did you do to her?”

“Nothing.”

“Did you leave her alone?”

“For twenty minutes, I swear. That’s all. I had to drop off a mate’s car.”

Samira is in my bedroom. Her clothes are folded on the bed—a few simple skirts, blouses, a frayed jumper…Hassan’s biscuit tin sits on top of the pile.

“Where are you going?”

She seems to hold her breath. “I am leaving. You do not want me here.”

“What makes you say that? Did Hari do something? Did he say something he shouldn’t have said?”

She won’t look at me, but I see the bruise forming on her cheek, a rough circle beneath her right eye.

“Who did this?”

She whispers, “A man came.”

“What man?”

“The man who talked to you at the church.”

“Donavon?”

“No, the other man.”

She means Barnaby. He came here, spoiling for a fight.

“He was hitting the door—making so much noise. He said you lied to me and you lied to him.”

“I have never lied to you.”

“He said you wanted the babies for yourself and he would fight you and he would fight me.”

“Don’t listen to him.”

“He said I wasn’t welcome in this country. I should go back where I came from—among the terrorists.”

“No.”

I reach toward her. She pulls away.

“Did he hit you?”

“I tried to shut the door. He pushed it.” She touches her cheek.

“He had no right to say those things.”

“Is it true? Do you want the babies?”

“Cate wrote a will—a legal document. She nominated me as the guardian if she had children.”

“What does guardian mean? Do the twins belong to you now?”

“No. You gave birth to them. They might have Cate’s eyes and Felix’s nose, but they grew inside your body. And no matter what anyone says they belong to you.”

“What if I don’t want them?”

My mouth opens but I don’t answer. Something has lodged in my throat, a choking lump of desire and doubt. No matter what Cate wanted, they’re not my babies. My motives are pure.

I put my arm around Samira’s shoulders and pull her close to me. Her breath is warm against my neck and her first sob thuds like a spade hitting wet dirt. Something breaks inside her. She has found her tears.