Every Day Is Mother's Day

“I said I was going,” Elvie yelled back from the doorway. She clung to the door frame like a furious and compressed gorilla.

Colin slipped into the little room that Frank had indicated earlier. It was a junk room indeed, piled high with broken-sided old tea-chests and yellow newspapers. The phone with its stack of directories was on a rickety table in the far corner. Colin swore to himself as he picked his way over the rubbish. How bloody impractical and stupid, how exactly like O’Dwyer. All his respect evaporated, replaced by loathing and fear, as if he were compelled to walk a mountain road in the company of a lunatic. He nudged the directories aside to crouch over the telephone; no one must overhear. Under the topmost book was a copy of Playboy and a volume of Reader’s Digest. Colin stared at them. He did not know which he found the more shocking. After a moment he recovered himself, but as he began to dial Isabel’s number he was appalled to see that his fingers were trembling.

He tried to work out how many weeks it was since he had spoken to her. Suppose her father answered, and she refused to come to the phone? Or she answered herself, and put it down at the sound of his voice? His heart was thumping against his ribs. Is it so important, he asked himself, is it a matter of life and death? He didn’t know, his brain was befuddled, he couldn’t think straight. He must choose the words, the exact words that would tell her at once—

“Hello?”

“Isabel.”

“Colin? What is it?”

“Listen…”

“What do you want?”

“Something’s happened, ver—”

“Oh? Something’s happened, has it?” Her tone was full of impatience and mockery. “Has Sylvia miscarried? Is that it? So you think that now—well, you can’t. It’s not on, Colin. So if that’s it—go to hell.”

He gasped, and suddenly tears filled his eyes, pricking and demeaning. Where did she learn to talk to him like that? Why did she do it? Was it out of perplexity and confusion greater than his own, or out of some practised hardness inside her? He shuddered, taking a great breath.

“I know where your file is,” he said, as loudly and clearly as he dared.

“What?”

“Your file, your missing file.” As simply as he could, he told her what had happened.

“Wait,” she said, when he finished his account. “Colin, you’ve got me out of bed. I can’t think straight.”

“You’ll have to be quick. I’ll have to ring off in a minute.”

“But I went to the garage three times. They denied they’d ever seen it. Then they—but Colin, how could he write a novel? I don’t know what you mean.”

“He thinks it’s got the makings of a good story.”

“But it’s not a story, it’s just what people do. It’s just a record of what they do.”

“Grist to the mill, he says. Have you ever heard that stupid phrase? What is grist, anyway?”

“Colin, are you drunk?”

“No, not by a long chalk.”

“This isn’t some stupid joke, is it?”

“Of course it’s not a joke. It’s a dinner party. We’ve finished two courses and I’ve come to phone you. I’ve got to be quick.”

“Colin, there’s nothing I can do, is there? I mean, if I came and asked him for it…do you think—?”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea, because how would you have known, and that involves me—”

“Yes, I see, I do see that.”

“If Social Services asked him for it? If you told them?”

“Don’t be stupid, Colin, I’m trying to avoid them knowing, isn’t that the whole point? I don’t want this case discussed at Social Services. Can’t we persuade him?”

“I’ve told you, no.”

“This is awful, Colin, this confidential information lying about, it could cause the most awful blow-up.”

“I know that, I know, you don’t have to persuade me.”

“Do you know where it is?”

“Where it is? What do you mean?”

“In the house.”

“Well…yes. Roughly.”

“Then take it.”

“What?”

“Get it for me, Colin.”

“But Christ, how can I—”