The Night Ferry

I try to laugh. “But look at you—you’re pregnant.”

“Yes.”

“When are you due?”

“In four weeks.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

The questions and answers are too abrupt and matter-of-fact. Conversation has never been this hard—not with Cate. She looks nervously over my shoulder, as if worried we might be overheard.

“Didn’t you marry—?”

“Felix Beaumont. He’s over there.”

I follow her eyes to a tall, heavy-set figure in casual trousers and a loose white shirt. Felix didn’t go to Oaklands and his real name is Buczkowski, not “Beaumont.” His father was a Polish shopkeeper who ran an electronics shop on Tottenham Court Road.

Now he’s deep in conversation with Annabelle Trunzo, whose dress is a scrap of material held up by her chest. If she exhales it’s going to be bunched around her ankles.

“You know what I used to hate most about nights like this?” says Cate. “Having someone who looks immaculate telling me how she spent all day ferrying children to ballet or football or cricket. And then she asks the obvious question: ‘Do you have any kids?’ And I say, ‘Nope, no children.’ And she jokes, ‘Hey, why don’t you have one of mine?’ God that pisses me off.”

“Well, it won’t happen anymore.”

“No.”

She takes a glass of wine from a passing tray. Again she glances around, looking distracted.

“Why did we fall out? It must have been my fault.”

“I’m sure you remember,” I say.

“It doesn’t matter anymore. By the way, I want you to be a godparent.”

“I’m not even a Christian.”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter.”

Cate is avoiding whatever she really wants to talk about.

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

She hesitates. “I’ve gone too far this time, Ali. I’ve risked everything.”

Taking her arm, I steer her toward a quiet corner. People are starting to dance. The music is too loud. Cate puts her mouth close to my ear. “You have to help me. Promise me you’ll help me…”

“Of course.”

She holds back a sob, seeming to bite down upon it. “They want to take my baby. They can’t. You have to stop them—”

A hand touches her shoulder and she jumps, startled.

“Hello, gorgeous pregnant lady, who have we here?”

Cate backs away a step. “No one. It’s just an old friend.” Something shifts inside her. She wants to escape.

Felix Beaumont has perfect teeth. My mother has a thing about dental work. It is the first thing she notices about people.

“I remember you,” he says. “You were behind me.”

“At school?”

“No, at the bar.”

He laughs and adopts an expression of amused curiosity.

Cate has backed farther away. My eyes find hers. The faintest shake of her head tells me to let her go. I feel a rush of tenderness toward her. She motions with her empty glass. “I’m just going to get a refill.”

“Go easy on that stuff, sweetheart. You’re not alone.” He brushes her bump.

“Last one.”

Felix watches her leave with a mixture of sadness and longing. Finally, he turns back to me.

“So is it Miss or Mrs.?”

“Pardon?”

“Are you married?”

I hear myself say “Ms.” which makes me sound like a lesbian. I change it to “Miss” and then blurt, “I’m single,” which appears desperate.

“That explains it.”

“What?”

“Those with children have photographs. Those without have nicer clothes and fewer lines.”

Is that supposed to be a compliment?

The skin around his eyes crinkles into a smile. He moves like a bear, rocking from foot to foot.

“So what do you do, Alisha?”

I hold out my hand. “My name is Alisha Barba.”

He looks astonished. “Well, well, well, you really exist. Cate has talked about you a lot but I thought you might be one of those imaginary childhood friends.”

“She’s talked about me?”

“Absolutely. What do you do, Alisha?”

“I sit at home all day in my slippers watching daytime soaps and old movies on Channel 4.”

He doesn’t understand.

“I’m on medical leave from the Metropolitan Police.”

“What happened?”

“I broke my back. Someone dropped me across a wall.”

He flinches. My gaze drifts past him.

“She’s coming back,” he says, reading my mind. “She never leaves me talking to a pretty woman for too long.”

“You must be thrilled—about the baby.”

The smooth hollow beneath his Adam’s apple rolls like a wave as he swallows. “It’s our miracle baby. We’ve been trying for so long.”

Someone has started a conga line on the dance floor, which snakes between the tables. Gopal Dhir grabs at my waist, pivoting my hips from side to side. Someone else pulls Felix into another part of the line and we’re moving apart.

Gopal yells into my ear. “Well, well, Alisha Barba. Are you still running?”

“Only for fun.”

“I always fancied you but you were far too quick for me.” He yells to someone over his shoulder. “Hey, Rao! Look who it is—Alisha Barba. Didn’t I always say she was cute?”

Rao has no hope of hearing him over the music, but nods vigorously and kicks out his heels.

I drag myself away.

“Why are you leaving?”

“I refuse to do the conga without a person from Trinidad being present.”

Disappointed, he lets me go and rocks his head from side to side. Someone else tries to grab me but I spring away.

The crowd around the bar has thinned out. I can’t see Cate. People are sitting on the steps outside and spilling into the quadrangle. Across the playground I can see the famous oak tree, almost silver in the lights. Someone has put chicken wire around the trunk to stop children climbing. One of the Banglas fell off and broke his arm during my last year—a kid called Paakhi, which is Bengali for bird. What’s in a name?

The new science block squats on the far side of the quadrangle. Deserted. Crossing the playground, I push open a door and enter a long corridor with classrooms to the left. Taking a few steps, I look inside. Chrome taps and curved spouts pick up faint light from the windows.

As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I see someone moving. A woman with her dress pushed up over her waist is arched over a bench with a man between her legs.