Two Fridays in April (29 page)

She’ll go alone, then. She’ll take a taxi to the hotel – no way can she walk across town in these shoes, even with Gaby’s remedies. She’ll have to trust that this Dave is on the level.

I can’t pay you
, she’d told him, and he’d assured her that he wasn’t looking for money.
It’s like a hobby of mine
, he wrote.
I
get a kick out of tracking people down, makes me feel like a real private detective. It drives my wife mad
–
I’m like a dog with a bone sometimes
–
but I tell her there are worse things I could be doing!

She hadn’t looked for his help, not specifically his. She’d just asked for information.
I’m trying to trace my birth father
, she’d posted a month earlier on Boards.ie.
All I know about him is his first name and his nationality. Anyone got any ideas?

It had come to her out of the blue a few months ago, sitting in the back room of the bike shop one afternoon. She hadn’t thought about him in years, literally years. She’d always known Dad wasn’t her real dad; she knew she was already born when he and Mum had met. She knew this because Mum had told her, lots of times.

He came along like a handsome prince
, Mum would say. Usually at bedtime, when the subject of handsome princes was generally on the agenda.
He met us when you were just a baby, and we fell in love, like Cinderella and
her
prince, and then he asked me to marry him, and I said yes, and he became your dad. Not your real dad, but your new dad – and we all lived happily ever after
.

And where
is
my real dad?
Una would ask – but the question was more automatic than anything, because when Mum shook her head and said,
Gone away
, which she always did, Una accepted it without asking any more. Her new dad was so good at being a dad, she didn’t feel the need to investigate further. And then Mum died, and Dad became even more important in Una’s life, and any thoughts of another father were forgotten.

Until one day when she was at school – she must have been nine or ten at the time – Ursula Conroy told the class that she was getting a new dad, and Una said,
My dad is a new dad too
, but
they all thought she was joking, because Dad had been around for as long as they’d known her.

So where’s your real dad?
Ursula asked, just like Una used to ask – and she had to admit that she didn’t know.

What’s his name?
they asked, and again she shrugged. She could see they didn’t believe her – even the teacher was looking at her doubtfully.
It’s true
, she insisted, but her lack of evidence didn’t do a lot for her credibility. So when she got home from school she asked Dad, the first time she’d brought up her other dad with him.

And he told her.

He was French
, he said.
Your mum met him in England when he went there on holidays. His name was Victor
.

And what happened to him?

Nothing
.

She was puzzled.
So where is he now? Why did he stop being my dad?

And Dad explained as best he could that Victor and Mum were just holiday friends, and Victor had gone back to France before Mum knew she was going to have a baby, and she couldn’t tell him because she didn’t know where he lived or even his last name.

That’s why Mum came to Ireland
, Dad said.
Her mum and dad were a bit cross because she was having a baby before she got married, so she thought it was best if she went away. But I’m glad she came here because I’d never have met her, or you, if she’d stayed in England
.

Una had felt her way around this new information.
You mean
, she said eventually,
my real dad never knew I was even born? He never knew he was my dad?

That’s right, love
.

She thought some more.
So he’s never going to find out
.

No, probably not
.

It disconcerted her for a while, but then she pushed it aside and forgot about it. Later, of course, she understood the whole thing better, when she found out where babies came from, and learned what a holiday romance was. She thought it sad that there was a man called Victor out there somewhere, probably in France, who never knew he’d fathered her, but there was nothing she could do about it. Impossible to track down a man who’d spent a couple of weeks in England years ago, when all she knew was his first name. Anyway, she’d done all right in the dad stakes, hadn’t she, in the end?

But then Dad died, and Daphne was left with Una to look after. Una, who had come as part of the package when Daphne married Dad. Just like she’d been part of the package when Dad and Mum had got married, except that Mum had been her real mum, which made it different. When Mum died, Dad was left with her real daughter. When Dad died, Daphne wasn’t left with
his
real daughter, just his stepdaughter. Una was Daphne’s dead husband’s stepdaughter.

Pretty tenuous connection, when you thought about it.

And slowly, the idea of looking up her real father began to occupy space in her head, began to seem like something she should try to do. Imagine, just imagine, if she found him. He’d probably be shocked at first to discover he had a daughter, but once he got used to the idea he might decide he really wanted her. He might think it was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to him. She might have a French family of half-brothers and sisters who would be delighted to discover her.

It was a long shot, she knew that. She also hadn’t a clue how to go about it – but it was worth a try, wasn’t it? Surely now with all the DNA information available there might be a way to find him. It would let Daphne off the hook completely: she would never have to bother with Una again, and Una would make sure she knew there were no hard feelings.

Lots of people responded to her Internet enquiry, but Dave was the only one who didn’t tell her she hadn’t a hope. He seemed friendly – and now it sounds like he might have found something.

She’ll take a chance, and trust that he’s genuine.

When she leaves the hotel bathroom it’s to find that they’re all finally being summoned in for the meal. It’s almost half past four, and it’s raining. They take their seats at the impeccably decorated round tables – Una has been put at one with three couples, all relatives of Brian’s, and an elderly woman with her coat still on.

After a bit of small talk Una is largely ignored as the others chat among themselves, which suits her fine. She kicks off her shoes under the table and eats every bit of the prawn cocktail in the wine glass that’s placed in front of her, even the bit of parsley that everyone else leaves on the saucer. She can’t remember the last time she was this hungry.

‘Red or white?’ a waitress asks, showing her both wine bottles, assuming she’s old enough – but Una shakes her head and fills a glass with water instead. Bad enough coming home late on her birthday, but coming home smelling of drink would
be asking for trouble. Daphne mightn’t give out much, but Mo would have plenty to say.

Anyway, there’s the encounter with Dave before she gets home: she wouldn’t want to meet him smelling of drink either, wouldn’t give him a very good impression of her. She’ll wait till after eight to leave the hotel, instead of the quarter past seven departure she was planning; that should get her to the Charles in good time.

Outside the full-length windows the rain continues to fall steadily. From where she sits she can just see Theo, seated at the top table between Brian’s mother and a man she doesn’t know. She thinks of the two kites he put into the boot of his father’s car: no way could they fly them now.

Mightn’t have been so bad if she’d had the right clothes on. Might have been fun, actually. Maybe she’ll ask him to borrow them again another time – they could take them to the park or something.

That’s assuming he’ll be back to normal next time they meet.

She’s in the middle of the beef she chose over salmon – bit tough, she should have gone for the fish – when she hears a text message coming through on her phone. She slides it from her bag under the table, squints down at the words.

Happy birthday. See you soon, love Mo
.

She’d completely forgotten her birthday.
See you soon
: she feels a flick of guilt. A quarter past five, her phone says. Daphne will be leaving work soon, going home to put the chicken into the oven, chop up vegetables, peel potatoes.

Una will have to text her, tell the next lie of the day. She’ll wait another while, no point in doing it too soon. She puts her
phone on silent and slips it back in the bag as she turns to one of Brian’s cousins who’s asking her something about her hair.

By seven the rain has petered out. The speeches have been made, the last of the baked Alaska cleared away, the wedding cake cut and doled out in fat fingers that sit unwanted and uneaten on plates. Cups and glasses and crumpled napkins dot the white tablecloths that are stained now with sauce splashes, smudges of cream and overlapping red wine circles.

Guests migrate between the tables, new groupings are formed and re-formed. Some have vanished, presumably to the hotel bar. A four-piece band is assembling at the end of the room; tables are being moved aside by the hotel staff to create a space for dancing.

Una sits on, picking raisins from her piece of cake as she watches the rest of the room.
Come to the bar with us
, Florrie had said, passing with a group by Una’s table, but she assured them she was fine where she was, not wanting to be a nuisance.

She spots Kevin, still seated at the top table, in conversation with the priest. Judy is nowhere to be seen – gone to the bar too, maybe. Charlotte and Gaby have relocated to another table; Gaby sits on the knee of a man in a dark suit, her arm thrown around his neck, letting out an occasional whoop of laughter, one time mock-slapping him across the face.

Theo – where is he? She casts about, sees no sign of him. She takes up her bag and slips her shoes back on, and makes her way to the Ladies in the corridor outside. When she emerges there he is, a little way down the corridor, leaning against the wall, head bent towards his phone as he types.

She stands watching him, waiting for him to look up, wanting to see what his face does when he sees her.

At length he finishes, stows his phone in his trouser pocket, glances up.

‘Hey,’ he says, one side of his mouth turning up in a smile.

She smiles back, relieved, and walks towards him. ‘I was wondering where you’d got to.’ Sometime during the meal he must have got over whatever was bugging him.

‘Having a good day?’ he asks.

‘I am.’

Although the day has been an odd one, not without its anxieties. And this morning, when she was unwrapping her present from Daphne, seems a million light years away.

‘Today is my birthday,’ she says then, the words coming out of nowhere, taking her by surprise. At exactly the same time, he says, ‘Sorry—’

They break off. ‘What?’ he asks, frowning.

She makes no response, kicking herself. What on earth made her blurt it out like that? No way was she planning to tell him, or any of them.

‘Did you say it’s your
birthday
?’

‘I wasn’t going to mention it, it just …’

‘Why not? Why didn’t you want to tell us?’

‘I didn’t want a fuss. I suppose it … didn’t seem important. And it’s Charlotte’s day.’

A beat passes. She waits, looking at the wall behind him.

‘He died on your
birthday
?’ he asks softly.

She nods, turns it into a headshake. Blinks hard. ‘It’s OK, I’m OK.’

‘Una,’ he says, and something in his voice when he says her name makes the blood rise to her face. She can feel its heat in her cheeks.

‘Look,’ he says quickly, glancing to left and right, but nobody who passes is paying them the least bit of attention – ‘I’m really sorry I was … a bit off with you earlier. The kites, it was a stupid idea.’ He shakes his head. ‘I just, I thought—’ He makes a face, sticks his hands into his pockets, studies the patterned carpet beneath their feet. ‘I don’t know what I thought. Anyway, I’m sorry.’