of her hair and hide them both behind it, but the small upright figure tucked beside his grandmother on the shabby settee gazed at her with quiet dignity. Even if the others hadn’t been here, she wouldn’t have dared. She wanted to say, ‘When did you grow up? I wasn’t looking. Bring back the baby who laughs when I sing to him.’ Instead she reached for his hand, oddly grateful to find he didn’t draw away. ‘Darling, no one knows where your father is.’
Even now, she noticed her mother wince, signalling her to shush in front of Charlie – these were private, family things not to be discussed before strangers in un-ironed shirts and none-too-clean trousers.
‘I thought Charlie was my dad.’
Juliet laughed at the absurdity of it. ‘Charlie? He’s far too young. He’s a boy himself.’
Looking from one to the other, she realised that she had somehow succeeded in hurting the feelings of both.
‘Why did you think Charlie was your dad?’
Leonard said nothing and scrutinised his knees.
‘Why, darling? I’m so sorry I laughed. It wasn’t kind of me.’
Leonard was quiet for a moment. He picked at a freckle of ice cream dried on his leg. ‘I know my father was a con artist. Like Charlie.’
Juliet willed herself not to look at Charlie to see how he liked his new profession. Leonard interpreted her silence as doubt.
‘I know my dad’s a con artist. Margaret Taylor told me so.’
Juliet swallowed the laughter fizzing in her throat. ‘But sweetheart, your father’s name isn’t Charlie. It’s George.’
‘No it isn’t. It’s a lie. I found his secret identity. I know. I know.’ Leonard curled his knees up to his chest, and started to sob.
Juliet pulled him into her arms. If only the others would go away. They were intruders here.
Leave us. It’s only we who matter.
She remembered when she was pregnant with him. For three months she hadn’t told anyone she was expecting again, not even George. He had so many secrets and this was hers. She had drifted through the weeks in a pleasant daze, insulated from everything. Nothing mattered; not even the usual troubles with George. The secret warmed her. Later, when George had vanished he left behind a hole, a round scorch mark across their lives. She tried to ignore it, put one day in front of the other and ignore the saucy smiles and whisper to herself
it doesn’t matter, as long as the children are all right.
And now Leonard had run away on a story, his heart broken because it wasn’t true.
Mrs Greene settled beside her, rubbing Leonard’s back as the sobs ebbed away. ‘The others are coming back. What do we tell them? We mustn’t set them talking.’
Juliet shut her eyes. She was the snag in her mother’s respectability.
‘Tell them anything you like.’
‘Tell them I’m giving Leonard painting lessons and he couldn’t wait until the next one.’
The two women looked at Charlie in surprise, having almost forgotten he was still there, part of all this.
‘Yes, all right. Tell them that,’ said Juliet.
Through the windows of the living room, she watched the mournful parade of black hats process up the garden path. The kitchen would fill with well-meaning neighbours and acquaintances, all relieved that tragedy had been averted, downgraded to another snippet of tittle-tattle about poor Juliet and those dear kiddies.
• • •
In the afternoon Juliet and Charlie sprawled in the October sun. The grass was long and unkempt, sprinkled with yellow leaves. At the bottom of the garden Frieda and Leonard picked apples from a lopsided and sickly tree, pausing every now and again to hurl windfalls at each other, which smashed wetly on arms and legs.
‘How did he find me?’ asked Charlie.
‘Your address label on the back of the picture.’
‘Quite an imagination.’
‘Yes.’
‘After all, I’m just a boy
myself
.
’
Laughing, Juliet covered her eyes with her hands. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. Anyway,
Even now, she noticed her mother wince, signalling her to shush in front of Charlie – these were private, family things not to be discussed before strangers in un-ironed shirts and none-too-clean trousers.
‘I thought Charlie was my dad.’
Juliet laughed at the absurdity of it. ‘Charlie? He’s far too young. He’s a boy himself.’
Looking from one to the other, she realised that she had somehow succeeded in hurting the feelings of both.
‘Why did you think Charlie was your dad?’
Leonard said nothing and scrutinised his knees.
‘Why, darling? I’m so sorry I laughed. It wasn’t kind of me.’
Leonard was quiet for a moment. He picked at a freckle of ice cream dried on his leg. ‘I know my father was a con artist. Like Charlie.’
Juliet willed herself not to look at Charlie to see how he liked his new profession. Leonard interpreted her silence as doubt.
‘I know my dad’s a con artist. Margaret Taylor told me so.’
Juliet swallowed the laughter fizzing in her throat. ‘But sweetheart, your father’s name isn’t Charlie. It’s George.’
‘No it isn’t. It’s a lie. I found his secret identity. I know. I know.’ Leonard curled his knees up to his chest, and started to sob.
Juliet pulled him into her arms. If only the others would go away. They were intruders here.
Leave us. It’s only we who matter.
She remembered when she was pregnant with him. For three months she hadn’t told anyone she was expecting again, not even George. He had so many secrets and this was hers. She had drifted through the weeks in a pleasant daze, insulated from everything. Nothing mattered; not even the usual troubles with George. The secret warmed her. Later, when George had vanished he left behind a hole, a round scorch mark across their lives. She tried to ignore it, put one day in front of the other and ignore the saucy smiles and whisper to herself
it doesn’t matter, as long as the children are all right.
And now Leonard had run away on a story, his heart broken because it wasn’t true.
Mrs Greene settled beside her, rubbing Leonard’s back as the sobs ebbed away. ‘The others are coming back. What do we tell them? We mustn’t set them talking.’
Juliet shut her eyes. She was the snag in her mother’s respectability.
‘Tell them anything you like.’
‘Tell them I’m giving Leonard painting lessons and he couldn’t wait until the next one.’
The two women looked at Charlie in surprise, having almost forgotten he was still there, part of all this.
‘Yes, all right. Tell them that,’ said Juliet.
Through the windows of the living room, she watched the mournful parade of black hats process up the garden path. The kitchen would fill with well-meaning neighbours and acquaintances, all relieved that tragedy had been averted, downgraded to another snippet of tittle-tattle about poor Juliet and those dear kiddies.
• • •
In the afternoon Juliet and Charlie sprawled in the October sun. The grass was long and unkempt, sprinkled with yellow leaves. At the bottom of the garden Frieda and Leonard picked apples from a lopsided and sickly tree, pausing every now and again to hurl windfalls at each other, which smashed wetly on arms and legs.
‘How did he find me?’ asked Charlie.
‘Your address label on the back of the picture.’
‘Quite an imagination.’
‘Yes.’
‘After all, I’m just a boy
myself
.
’
Laughing, Juliet covered her eyes with her hands. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. Anyway,
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