Chapter 18
BECKETT
Thursday morning, Beckett knew he shouldn’t be looking forward this much to browsing reams of fabric and sitting in a register office.
He tried to play it down – of course he’d relish three free hours while Gramps was being happily entertained.
He’d spent the last few days trying to chip away at the rubbish in the living room – fighting Gramps over every item, ranging from long-completed puzzle books to dusty cassette tapes and a bottle containing a finger of sherry (Gramps solved that argument by downing it).
He’d managed to book Sonali for one more shift before she started with a new service user, and spent hours on the increasingly dismal search for a care provider.
The truth was, he couldn’t think of a single thing that would seem preferable to a day with Mary.
What he was really looking forward to was watching her whole face grow animated as she teased him about something.
Hearing more about her life, and sharing more of his.
He couldn’t wait for Gramps to melt under her powers of persuasion yet again.
He’d missed seeing her with Bob, how her confidence was slowly increasing as she felt more at ease with being a mum.
He was again a few minutes early, having allowed plenty of leeway for how stubborn Gramps might be feeling that morning, but Mary was already waiting for them.
‘Shall we go and finally make this boy an official human being?’ Beckett said as she wound a knitted scarf around her neck.
He waited for the glint of enthusiasm, but her only response was a tight nod.
‘Rough night?’ he asked, more quietly.
Mary shrugged. ‘No worse than all the others.’
‘What can I do to help?’
She glanced around, as if unsure. ‘Um, can you sort Bob while I check I’ve got everything?’
He ducked into the living room, where Bob was sleeping in his Moses basket, struck yet again by how dreary the cottage was.
Even with the signs of new life – a stuffed toy and heap of tiny clothes on the sofa, baby-shower cards lining up on the bookcase, a bunch of flowers in the empty fireplace – it was still so lifeless. So un-Mary-like.
She’d run a fashion company. Surely that meant she valued things like art and beauty.
Beckett guessed that spending most of her time surrounded by cracked beige walls, tatty carpets and cheap, ugly furniture wouldn’t be great for her mindset. He made a quick mental note to maybe do something about that, and got on with helping her get through today.
* * *
‘Good morning,’ an older woman wearing a lilac trouser suit chirruped, her narrow face creasing up in an eager smile. ‘Ms Whittington?’
Mary nodded, offering a weak flick of her mouth in return. After she’d given a couple of monosyllabic replies to his questions on the drive over, and the briefest of hellos to Gramps, Beckett had taken the hint and kept quiet. She’d stayed in the car while he dropped Gramps at lunch club.
‘You’ve got an appointment to register this gorgeous little man!’ The registrar clasped her hands in delight, her tall frame swaying back and forth.
‘Yes.’
Bob currently appeared far from gorgeous.
Since arriving in the register office waiting room, he’d been fretting and fussing.
As Mary had increasingly struggled to remain calm, Beckett had picked him up, and Bob was now scrunching up his purple face as he whinged, batting himself in the eye with a dribbly fist, increasing his distress.
‘It’s lovely to meet you, and many congratulations on your son. I’m Delilah Bond, licensed to marry, but not kill.’ Delilah put her hands together and pointed them at the ceiling as if pretending they were a gun. ‘Shall we go on through?’
Mary looked at Beckett. ‘Are you okay with him for a bit?’
‘Oh, it’s fine for Daddy to bring him in.
We’re used to noisy babies in here, I can promise you that.
’ Delilah patted her silver pixie cut, expression thoughtful for a moment.
‘I did object to the parrot. Anyway, if you’re not married, then, Daddy, you’ll need to come in so we can pop you on the birth certificate.
If you do have the joy of being espoused, then your presence is not required.
Although, I can’t imagine why you’d choose to miss it! ’
Mary, who had been listening to this, her face frozen, lips in a thin line, suddenly pressed both hands against her face and let out a cross between a wail and a groan that made Beckett’s heart crack in two.
‘I’m sorry,’ she sobbed, hunching over in the chair. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Delilah looked aghast as Beckett quickly sat beside Mary and put his hand on her shoulder, causing Bob to start noisily protesting at no longer being jigged about.
‘I’m a friend,’ Beckett said, wishing he didn’t have to speak so loudly to be heard above both people crying. ‘Not the father, or husband.’
‘Oh!’ Delilah’s mouth dropped open as her eyes went round.
‘I’m so very sorry. The golden rule of births, marriages and deaths is never assume anything .
A man once came here trying to register a piglet.
Said she was more of a daughter to him than any of his biological children had been.
Um. Hang on, I have a thing.’ She pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of her breast-pocket, clearly reading from it as she carried on.
‘I cannot apologise enough for all and any offence or distress caused by my words, actions or facial expression. I deeply regret upsetting you and your loved ones during such an important, meaningful occasion. If you would like to make a formal complaint, please use the form provided.’
She stopped then, looking up, eyes darting in panic. ‘Please don’t use the form. If I get another one, they’ll fire me. This job is my life. It’s all I ever dreamed of doing. I just get a bit carried away sometimes.’
‘It’s fine,’ Beckett said, although Mary was clearly far from fine. He suspected she’d not heard a word Delilah had said. ‘Here.’
He stood up, handing Bob to the registrar, who confessed she wasn’t allowed to hold the babies any more, so Beckett had to promise not to tell anyone.
Then he did all he could think of to do, sitting beside Mary and wrapping his arms around her until she finally stopped shuddering and straightened up.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said again.
‘No!’ Delilah exclaimed, quickly handing a now settled baby back to Beckett. ‘ I’m sorry!’
‘I’m ready now, if I’ve not missed the appointment?’
Mary had stopped sobbing, but tears still trickled out of her eyes as she followed Delilah through a wooden door, head ducked, avoiding Beckett’s gaze.
When she emerged with the certificate a short while later, her face was pale, yet composed, and her determined smile clearly told him she wanted to move on.
Beckett was longing to ask what had happened with Bob’s father. Even if it was just so he could hunt him down and refresh his bowel-surgery skills using no anaesthetic.
Beckett wasn’t ignorant to the complicated circumstances around which women had babies alone.
However, he also knew a broken heart when he saw one.
It was obvious something major had gone on between Mary and whoever the loser was who’d left her alone, in that dump in the forest, to raise their child.
If he’d been in that position, with Mary, or anyone else, he’d have done everything he could to be there for them. Ruefully, Beckett realised that even though he was, at this point, no more than a bit player in Mary’s story, with no claim on her or her baby, he still would.
* * *
They had a quick stop in a café for lunch, then Beckett pushed the pram around a warehouse while Mary ruthlessly sifted through endless rolls and swatches of fabric, making lightning-quick decisions about what she wanted to buy, discarding the rest without a second thought.
She pretended to consult her costume assistant on a few options, but when Beckett offered his honest opinion, she almost always dismissed it outright.
‘Are you asking me with the intention of choosing the one I don’t like?’ he asked, when yet again after he’d pointed out his preference between two colours, she selected the other one.
She looked up, fingers still rubbing a sheet of gold lace, and for the first time that day her eyes sparkled. ‘What?’
‘Is my taste really that bad?’
Mary laughed, and instantly the whole world seemed brighter again. ‘My main inspiration for this carol concert is “bad taste”. No, I’m honestly not. When I’m asking you, it’s really thinking out loud. Hearing your answer helps confirm the decision I would have ended up with.’
‘So you might as well be asking Bob, really?’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Who do you think I consult about things when you’re not around? The only reason I’m asking you, not him, now is because I’m going to be bartering for a heavy discount in a few minutes, and I want that shop assistant to take me seriously.’
Once she’d chosen about a dozen different fabrics, and the retailer had chopped the required amounts of each, Beckett met a completely different Mary. The one, he supposed, who’d been a company director.
After hearing the total price, Mary halved it, took a few more pounds off and made that her counter-offer.
The man looked at her, eyebrows raised in surprise, before accepting the negotiation challenge with relish.
‘Look,’ Mary said, leaning on the counter with her forearms, eyes narrowed as if sharing a morsel of gossip with a close friend. ‘This is for a community carol service. A Christmas carol service.’
‘Unlike all the other, not-Christmassy ones?’ the man shot back.
Mary ignored him. ‘It’s being put on free of charge, to cheer the hearts of local people. Children. The elderly. Those struggling with loneliness or seasonal stress.’
‘Does that include the stress of trying to keep a business afloat, despite customers coming out with yet another sob story, demanding a discount that won’t even cover the cost price?’