They were distant, formal, measured. Occasionally Jennifer would read them and wonder that she could have been married to this man.
Every week she walked to the post office on Langley Street to find out whether there was anything in the PO box. Every week she returned home trying not to feel flattened by the postmistress’s “No.”
She moved into the rented flat, and when Esmé started school, she took an unpaid job at the local Citizens’ Advice Bureau, the only organization that seemed unworried by her lack of experience. She would learn on the job, the supervisor said. “And, believe me, you’ll learn rather quickly.” Less than a year later, she was offered a paid position in the same office. She advised people on practical matters, such as how to manage money, how to handle rent disputes—there were too many bad landlords—how to cope with family breakdown.
At first she had been exhausted by the never-ending litany of problems, the sheer wall of human misery that traipsed through the office, but gradually, as she grew more confident, she saw that she was not alone in making a mess of her life. She reassessed herself and found that she was grateful for where she was, where she had ended up, and felt a certain pride when someone returned to tell her that she had helped.
Two years later she and Esmé moved again, to the two-bedroom flat in St. John’s Wood, bought with money provided by Laurence and Jennifer’s inheritance from an aunt. As the weeks became months, and then years, she came to accept that Anthony O’Hare would not return. He would not answer her messages. She was overcome only once, when the newspapers reported some details of the massacre at Stanleyville’s Victoria Hotel. Then she had stopped reading newspapers altogether.
She had rung the Nation just once more. A secretary had answered, and when she gave her name, briefly hopeful that Anthony might, this time, happen to be there, she heard, “Is it that Stirling woman?”
And the answer: “Isn’t she the one he didn’t want to speak to?”
She had replaced the receiver.
It was seven years before she saw her husband again. Esmé was to start at boarding school, a sprawling, red-brick place in Hampshire, with the shambolic air of a well-loved country house. Jennifer had taken the afternoon off work to drive her, and they had traveled in her new Mini. She was wearing a wine-colored suit and had half expected Laurence to make an unpleasant comment about it—he never had liked her in that color. Please don’t do it in front of Esmé, she willed him. Please let’s keep this civil.
But the man sitting in the lobby was nothing like the Laurence she remembered. In fact, at first she didn’t recognize him. His skin was gray, his cheeks hollow; he seemed to have aged twenty years.
“Hello, Daddy.” Esmé hugged him.
He nodded to Jennifer, but did not stretch out a hand. “Jennifer,” he said.
“Laurence.” She was trying to cover her shock.
The meeting was brief. The headmistress, a young woman possessed of a quietly assessing gaze, made no reference to the fact that they lived at separate addresses. Perhaps more people did now, Jennifer thought. That week she had seen four women in the bureau who were seeking to leave their husbands.
“Well, we’ll do everything in our power to make sure Esmé’s time here is happy,” Mrs. Browning said. She had kind eyes, Jennifer thought. “It does help if the girls have chosen to come to boarding school, and I understand she already has friends here, so I’m sure she’ll settle in quickly.”
“She reads rather a lot of Enid Blyton,” Jennifer said. “I suspect she thinks it’s all midnight feasts.”
“Oh, we have a few of those. The tuck shop is open on Friday afternoons pretty much for that sole purpose. We tend to turn a blind eye, provided it doesn’t get too lively. We like the girls to feel there are some advantages to boarding.”
Jennifer relaxed. Laurence had chosen the school, and her fears seemed unfounded. The next few weeks would be hard, but she had grown used to Esmé’s periodic absences when she was staying with Laurence, and she had her work to occupy her.
The headmistress got to her feet and held out a hand. “Thank you. We’ll telephone, of course, if there are any problems.”
As the door closed behind them, Laurence began to cough, a harsh, hacking sound that made Jennifer’s jaw clench. She made to say something, but he lifted a hand as if to tell her not to. They made their way slowly down the stairs side by side, as if they were not estranged. She could have walked at twice the speed, but it seemed cruel to do so, given his labored breathing and evident discomfort. Finally, unable to bear it, she stopped a passing girl and asked if she would mind fetching a glass of water. Within minutes the girl returned, and Laurence sat down heavily on a mahogany chair in the paneled corridor to sip it.
Jennifer was now brave enough to let her eyes rest on him. “Is it . . . ?” she said.
“No.” He took a long, painful breath. “It’s the cigars, apparently. I’m well aware of the irony.”
She took the seat beside him.
“You should know I’ve ensured that you will both be taken care of.”
She glanced sideways at him, but he appeared to be thinking.
“We raised a good child,” he said eventually.
Out of the window, they could see Esmé chatting to two other girls on the lawn. As if at some unheard signal, the three ran across the grass, their skirts flying.
“I’m sorry,” she said, turning back to him. “For everything.”
He placed the glass at his side, and hauled himself out of the chair. He stood for a minute, with his back to her, focusing on the girls outside the window, then turned toward her and, without meeting her eye, gave a small nod.
She watched him walk stiffly out of the main door across the lawns to where his lady friend was waiting in the car, his daughter skipping beside him. She waved enthusiastically as the chauffeur-driven Daimler made its way back down the drive.
Two months later Laurence was dead.
Chapter 22
OCTOBER 2003
It has not stopped raining all evening, the dark gray clouds scudding across the city skyline until they’re swallowed by night. The relentless downpour confines people to their homes, blanketing the street so that all that is audible outside is the occasional swish of tires on a wet road, or the gurgle of swollen drains, or the brisk footsteps of someone trying to get home.
There are no messages on her answering machine, no winking envelopes suggesting a text message on her mobile. Her e-mails are confined to work, advertisements for generic Viagra, and one from her mother detailing the dog’s further recovery from its hip replacement. Ellie sits cross-legged on the sofa, sipping her third glass of red wine and rereading the photocopies of the letters she has returned. It is four hours since she left Jennifer Stirling’s apartment, but her mind is still humming. She sees the unknown Boot, reckless and heartbroken, in Congo at a time when white Europeans were being slain. “I read the reports of the murders, of a whole hotel of victims in Stanleyville,” Jennifer had said, “and I cried with fear.” She pictures her walking to the post office week after week on a vain quest for a letter that never arrives. A tear plops onto her sleeve, and she sniffs as she wipes it away.