One Day in May - Catherine Alliott [159]
And Hal would help us through all this, through the inevitable fall-out, I thought with a rush of relief as I raised my eyes, simultaneously shaking my head at a lad trying to sell me two bags of satsumas for a pound. The voice of reason would echo in those tall Notting Hill rooms without doubt.
Seffy was pleased and amused by our relationship, Hal and mine, which I’d shyly and tentatively intimated at. Well, no, completely broached actually, in an email to him at school, desperately wanting, in the spirit of full disclosure, for him to know everything, almost before it happened. After some initial enquiries about rugby trials, etc., I’d written: ‘Hal and I are becoming close after all that’s happened, which is lovely. I hope you’re pleased too?’
He’d rung me that evening, amused.
‘Are you asking for my blessing, Mum?’
‘No! I mean, well, I don’t know.’ I’d coloured. ‘I just… well, I didn’t want you to hear second-hand, that’s all. From Cassie, or someone. And of course it affects you too, so…’
‘I like the guy, Mum, you know I do. He’s been very good to me. I approve. Go to it, my child.’
I’d laughed, but actually, there was more truth in this than was comfortable. I had behaved like a child in many respects and Seffy had been so grown up, so mature. I straightened my shoulders. Not any more. I’d slip right back into the mothering role and Seffy could be a child again. And Hal… oh, what a father figure he’d be. My heart thumped and I felt my pulse quicken. He was so well read, so intelligent, so focused. Seffy’s real father’s brother: it was as close, I realized, as I could ever get to providing Seffy with a father, and he’d been staring me in the face all this time, all these years. The family unit I craved and knew Seffy did: knew, when he returned from friends’ houses, having sat around tables with parents and siblings, all noisy and convivial, and had come back thoughtful to just Mum. Well, now he had Hal and Cassie too. We could do all that, the four of us. We could be that family. Something resembling the Bisto advert in the fifties sprang to mind and I believe I even had a pinny on. It was never too late.
Unable to keep the smile from my face I narrowed my eyes to the sun, saluting it almost, feeling it on my cheeks as I rounded the corner, past a stall full of ancient clocks and watches. One, a long-case, or grandfather clock, with a glorious sunburst face caught my eye, but it was a face beyond that stopped me in my tracks. Behind an adjacent stall full of church candles and ecclesiastical memorabilia, statues of Madonna and child, old incense burners and antique altar cloths, leaning languidly on a trestle table as he chatted to another trader, throwing back his leonine head and laughing, was Ivan.
31
He was wearing a soft checked shirt I didn’t recognize, rolled up to the elbows over a white T-shirt and jeans, and had an enquiring light in his eyes as he listened intently to his friend. As the punch line was delivered he threw back his head again and hooted with laughter, right up to the heavens: that familiar, joyous, uninhibited bark of delight, booming out through the noise of the traders, the bustle. As his eyes came back, full of mirth, they caught mine, just before I’d managed hurriedly to put my sunglasses on. He stared, astonished.
‘Hattie.’
I hadn’t seen Ivan since I left him in that rumpled hotel bedroom in Fréjus. Hadn’t spoken to him, even though he’d left a message on my answer phone, and on my mobile. Hadn’t returned his text. I knew he wasn