Chapter Eighteen
Diane squashed in, forcing herself as close as she could get to the barrier.
Other bodies jostled, other heads craned. She’d almost made it to the front of the mob by the time the one she awaited emerged beneath the brightly lit Arrivals sign, squinting with tiredness, short brown curls on end as she fought an airport trolley stacked with scratched suitcases and a brightly coloured backpack.
‘Bryony!’ The name burst from the depths of Diane’s lungs and a woman in front of her winced in irritation. Diane only shouted louder. ‘Bryony, here, darling!’ And she squirmed out of the press, thrusting aside elbows and shoulders, to sprint around the length of the barriers. In seconds she could crush her daughter to her for the first time for almost a year.
‘Mum!’ Bryony’s embrace was just as fierce. ‘I’m so glad to see you. Thanks for driving all the way down to the airport. We had turbulence — I was sick. And when they could finally serve icky dried-up meals I didn’t feel like eating, so now I’m empty.’ She rubbed her tummy under a yellow-and-green shirt that looked at least two sizes too big.
Diane turned towards the nearest coffee shop. ‘Let’s get you something. I could murder a cappuccino. Let me push the trolley, darling — you’ve enough luggage. Oops, sorry,’ as she cornered awkwardly and clipped somebody’s suitcase.
Eventually she was able to park the recalcitrant trolley and Bryony on the edge of a seating area while she queued along the shiny stainless steel counter for cappuccino and a scone for her and water and what looked like a yard of cheese-and-pickle baguette for Bryony.
Bryony was home! As she queued she darted looks at her daughter, almost excited enough to bubble and steam like the cappuccino machine.
‘Now,’ she said, back at the table, passing Bryony her baguette, plus a chocolate brownie that she’d picked up knowing how Bryony adored them. ‘Tell me about Brasilia and the orphanage where you worked and everything.’
‘God, Mum. It’ll take hours.’ But Bryony began, between bites of baguette, and the subject lasted her through her meal, into the car park, around the M25 and up the M11. The people, the wealth and the poverty, the institution at Lago Norte, the towers of Congress on the skyline, the vast expanse of City Park, the yellow-flowered trees and how it was rainy in summer but dry in winter. ‘It’s tropical downpours there, Mum. You want to see the rain. You could shower in it. Honestly, you could rinse your hair.’
For the first time, it occurred to Diane that, with all that money in Gareth’s account, they could’ve seen it — and Bryony. The hollow, pulsing ache of longing for her only child could’ve been assuaged if Gareth hadn’t hoarded all his riches to himself like Scrooge McDuck.
As they approached Peterborough, Bryony began to yawn, giant, eye-watering yawns.
‘You need to be in bed. Not long now.’ To be truthful, Diane wouldn’t have minded a nap herself. She’d hardly slept for the last two nights for thinking of Bryony. And James , a little voice added.
Bryony stretched. ‘After seeing Dad.’
Diane shifted her eyes briefly from the thundering lorries ahead. ‘You want to go now?’
‘Of course. He texted me the minute I landed. He says he’s counting the hours. What sort of shape is he in?’
Diane checked her mirror and moved over into the inside lane. ‘He’s improving all the time.’ And, honestly, ‘But prettyhorrible.’
* * *
A nursing sister intercepted Diane as she crossed the foyer. It was Kirsty, the lovely Irish nurse who was one of Gareth’s favourites because she could make him laugh. ‘He’s not quite so well today, Mrs Jenner. He’s got a water infection so we’ve turned some fans on him and the antibiotics will start to work very soon. But he’s hot and uncomfortable until they do.’ She turned her smile on Bryony. ‘If you’re Gareth’s daughter then I think there’s a welcome waiting for you. He can’t wait for you to turn up. In fact, he’s having such lurid dreams with the infection that twice he’s been convinced that you’ve been already.’
Bryony beamed. ‘Poor Dad. I can’t wait to see him, either.’
But when they reached Gareth’s door they discovered that they were not the only visitors. Harold looked to have arrived just before them and Gareth was glaring at him balefully across the white and ordered room, challenging, ‘So, where were you?’
Diane halted, recognising the sound of Gareth getting something off his chest. ‘This might not be a good time,’ she muttered, sliding her arm around Bryony.
Harold was wearing an astonished frown. ‘Am I late?’
Gareth reached for his iced water, eyes moving feverishly. ‘A few bloody decades. Where were you when Mum took up with Denny and had Melvin and Ivan, then Denny left us and we were shoved away in a damp, rat-infested dump because he turned out to be just another bastard who sent no fucking money for his own kids?’ His voice rose. ‘The benefit system wasn’t quite so generous, those days, you know. Where were you when I had to leave school, when Mum and me had two jobs each and there was no one much to look after the little ’uns and they ran around like hooligans? When I had to give up my apprenticeship because it didn’t bring in enough? Where were you?’ Fresh sweat ran down his forehead.
His gaze dropped to the small basket of fruit that his father clutched, done up with cellophane and a curly gold ribbon. ‘You can fuck off with that! I’m ill, I can’t eat. I just want to know where you were . ’
Harold looked bewildered. ‘Gareth you know how sorry I am but I can’t change history—’
‘I’ll tell you where you were, shall I? You were sitting on your posh arse in the back of your Rolls Royce, with your posh wife and your spoilt little daughter. And I’ll tell you what you weren’t doing, too, shall I? You weren’t finding out what happened to the girl you got pregnant or your child that she’d given birth to. You waited until I was forty-bloody-three and that girl was dead as a door knob before you got off your posh arse and did that.’ He wiped his face roughly with his good hand.
‘ You are criticising me for depriving my family of money?’ barked Harold, evidently spurred into giving as good as he got.
Gareth fell silent. The two men glared at each other like pitbulls.
Then Bryony pushed past Diane, bursting onto the scene, brown eyes round under aghast eyebrows, and broke into noisy sobs. ‘Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, Dad . Your face!’
Gareth turned away from Harold as Bryony dashed forward and bent awkwardly to hug what she could of him. ‘Dad, the reality didn’t sink in. Oh, Dad, you nearly died.’
Automatically, he put his left arm around her, exchanging an uncomfortable look with Diane, hovering in the background. ‘I didn’t realise it was time for you to be here. I keep having these dreams.’ His face softened, even as he grumbled, ‘You’re making me hot, sobbing down my neck.’ But he closed his eyes and patted her back.
‘Perhaps I’d better give you some time alone.’ White and shaken, Harold climbed to his feet.
Gareth lifted his eyes to his father. ‘You bloody stay where you are and meet your granddaughter. Bryony, this is Harold Myers, my father.’ Diane heard the pride in his voice.
Theatrically, Bryony sprang up, wiping her eyes. ‘Oh. My. God!’ And she flung herself around the bed and into Harold’s arms as if she’d known him all her life.
After a startled moment, Harold beamed. ‘Hello, young lady,’ he said, quietly.
Gareth looked up at Diane and she saw the pride of parenthood in his gaze. They still shared Bryony.