The Broken Bridge

  Clearly, though, it had been the biggest thing in Granddad’s life, at least. Ginny wasn’t so sure about her grandmother; there was something hooded, shadowed, about her manner as she nodded and echoed his words, as if for her there’d been a question at the heart of it all. But she joined in as he got out some photograph albums, with dozens upon dozens of pictures carefully dated and labeled: Arthur and Kitty at Blackpool, Dad as a little boy with a tricycle, Dad in school uniform, Granddad and Arthur playing golf, Dad and Janet…

  Robert was gazing at the pictures of his mother, his eyes fierce, as if he wanted to drag her back to life. To Ginny’s mind she looked willful: dark and pretty and strong-minded, with a tight set to her lips.

  “And as time went by,” Granddad was saying, “well, we all assumed it would just be the natural thing if the two of them, in the fullness of time, if they were to marry….”

  “We never pushed them into it,” said Grandma.

  “Oh, Lord, no. Absolutely not. It was always understood that they were free to do as they pleased, no pressure on them at all, free agents.”

  “I know Arthur and Kitty both wanted it, though,” she said. “They said so more than once.”

  “Well, so did we,” he said. “No point in denying it.”

  They were silent for a moment. Then Granddad opened another photograph album.

  “Here we are,” he said. “The wedding.”

  “Oh, it was such a happy day,” said Grandma. “Everything about it seemed to be blessed, somehow.”

  The formal clothes, a young Dad with his hair long, Janet queenly and proud, screwing up her eyes against the sun…

  “It’s the bride’s parents’ place to lay on the wedding, of course,” said Granddad, “but we’d gone shares in everything else, we couldn’t hold back now. We gave them a wonderful wedding, honeymoon in Tenerife. Then…just a short while afterward, it all seemed to go wrong.”

  “Did Janet…did your mum ever talk about those days?” said Grandma delicately to Robert.

  “No. Not a word. Honest, I’ve never heard any of this before. She was very…she kept herself to herself, I suppose. We never talked much about anything.”

  “How did it go wrong?” Ginny asked Granddad.

  “Well…we still don’t know all the details. Because he didn’t speak to us, you see. We knew something was going wrong. First thing we knew was Arthur…”

  “He came to us one day,” said Grandma. “Janet had gone home to him and Kitty with some terrible story Tony—your dad—had suddenly told her. Arthur was shaken. He was white, he was…We’d never seen him in a state like that.”

  Granddad nodded. “Naturally Janet wouldn’t, she couldn’t, well, she, she didn’t want anything to do with him anymore, didn’t want to see him again, it was all over.”

  “Broke our hearts,” she said.

  “Arthur had to come and speak to us on her behalf. Painful. Terrible time.”

  Ginny was lost. So, she saw, was Robert, who turned to her, frowning in puzzlement. She said, “But why? I don’t get it. Dad had gone to his wife, Robert’s mum, and he’d told her some terrible story and she wouldn’t speak to him anymore? What was this terrible story? It wasn’t the car crash, was it? The broken bridge?”

  That was a helpless guess. They looked blank, and Grandma shook her head.

  “Car crash?” said Granddad. “I’m sorry, my dear, I don’t know what you mean. No, it was the old story: it was the other woman. It was your mother. We had no idea; we were knocked sideways by it. Came right out of the blue.”

  “He wanted Janet to adopt…” Grandma began, but went no further.

  “Yes, when your mother left you there with the nuns,” Granddad said, “he wanted Janet to agree to—”

  “What? Left me? Left me with the nuns? What nuns?”

  “The nuns in the children’s home.”

  “But what d’you mean, left me there? I thought she died.”

  “Well…” They looked at each other, alarmed at Ginny’s tone.

  Then Granddad said, “If that’s what he told you, then I’m sure that’s…You see, we weren’t in any position to know; we had it all via Arthur. Tony wanted Janet to agree to adopt you, you see, make it look decent, you know, put a decent face on it, but she said no. Wouldn’t budge, wouldn’t buy it. Not at any price. So there they were. Breaking up over a thing like that. Not that Tony told us. It all came via Arthur. He—Arthur, I mean—he was very bitter, very cut up about it.”

  Breaking up over a thing like that, Ginny thought. So I’m a thing like that. Nice to know at last. A thing like that.

  “Of course, it was the end for the firm,” Granddad went on. “Put the skids under the partnership. Thirty years of friendship, lying in ruins…Arthur bought out my share of the firm, and shortly after that he sold the whole shoot, the whole boiling. Made a tidy sum. I don’t know, I’m not bitter exactly, but…We’d see them sometimes, Arthur and Kitty. They’d just pass by without a word. Not the slightest flicker. It was as if those thirty years had never happened. Just been a dream.”

  That seemed to be the end, as far as they were concerned. They sat looking down at the floor in the furniture-polished silence.

  “But…what happened then?” said Ginny. “I mean, what about me—what did Dad do? And these nuns—how long was I with them?”

  The old couple looked at each other. It was a complicated look: there was a sort of furtive anxiety in it, and guilt, and even a sly I-told-you-so triumph—but which feeling came from which partner, Ginny couldn’t have said.

  “We don’t rightly know,” said Granddad. “Tony, your dad, well, he just took off. Left his wife and—” He looked at Robert, and then away again; his eyes never rested on anyone for long. “Well, we thought, naturally, he’d gone off with his fancy woman. Your mother. Left you in the children’s home, done a runner. There was no sign, no word from him, nothing.”

  “But she was dead!” Ginny said again. “And he wouldn’t have just left me there! It’s not like him. I mean, I know him, after all. He’s not like that….”

  But I was fostered, she found herself thinking. He must have left me sometime. And why do they keep talking about Maman as if she was alive? They’re not telling the truth. I don’t believe them. They’re all liars in this family.

  “What about when Ginny stayed here?” asked Robert, coming to her aid.

  “Yes,” she said. “Did the nuns bring me here? Or what? I thought it was him, but I can’t remember.”

  Then a strange thing began to happen. Ginny sensed it, and she knew that Robert did too: a change in the atmosphere as instant and definite as if a spotlight had been switched on. She wouldn’t have been surprised if there’d been an audible click.

  The effect was that her grandmother had suddenly become the focus of the room, like a surprise witness in a murder trial. She hadn’t said a word or moved a muscle, but something invisible, some emotional charge—guilt, anger—had leapt to her like a spark crossing a gap and changed her personality. It was a different woman looking out of her eyes, and Ginny quailed.

  “That was cruel,” said Grandma in a new, louder voice.

  Ginny thought: What? What I said was cruel? Or something else? Her scalp crawled with a sort of sickening embarrassment.

  But Grandma was going on: “We were doing our best. It wasn’t much to offer. God knows, it was all we had, but apparently it wasn’t enough….”

  Ginny was aware of her grandfather sitting up in his chair, his face full of fear. Something bad was in the air.

  “But what about my mother?” she said shakily.

  The old woman sat up. Her eyes were bright with violence. “Yes,” she said, “I’ll tell you about her….”

  “Dorothy,” murmured Granddad.

  She turned on him, those eyes full of danger. “Yes, Ken? I was under the impression that Virginia had asked me a question.”

  He shrank back from the blaze of hatred, nodding, saying, “Yes dear, yes
…”

  “I’m allowed to speak, am I?”

  “Of course…yes…”

  Ginny thought: He’s used to this—he’s seen her go crazy before—he knew it was coming—and now she’s going to turn to me—

  She did, and Ginny felt a chill at the roots of her soul as those bright eyes found hers. Without knowing how it had happened, she was holding Robert’s hand among the sofa cushions, and they clung together like children as Grandma said:

  “So I can answer Virginia’s question? Well, I’m sorry, dear, but it’s got to be said, it’s wrong not to tell you, I can’t let you live with a stain on your past. It’s not a nice word, but I can’t help it: your mother is a whore. A black whore. You know what I—”

  “A what?” Ginny said. “And what d’you mean, is?” She thought she wasn’t hearing properly. This was impossible, surely.

  “Dorothy, please,” Granddad whispered.

  “Don’t you dare interrupt me!” she flared at him. “If you’d had the guts to deal with it at the time, everything would have been all right, but no, leave it to Dorothy, leave it all to Dorothy, that’s your motto. Yes, Virginia, God knows it’s not your fault, dear, but to think of my boy, my son, my only child, wallowing in colored filth when he had a decent home, a pretty wife, the best background a man could have…Well, he’d never have done it if she hadn’t tempted him. Stands to reason. She knew a good thing when she saw one, and she grabbed it with both hands. That’s her type. If the only way to climb out of the gutter was to steal another woman’s husband, then she wouldn’t let decency stand in the way….”

  The stream of venom continued to pour out, even when Ginny had stood up, even after she’d begun to speak, her shaking voice trying to drown her grandmother’s: “Thank you for the tea. It was very nice. I’m sorry I seem to be the wrong color. It must be my mother’s fault, like everything else. Spoiling your wonderful golden dream, yes, it must’ve been horrible for you, but never mind, that’s it, I’m going now. Good-bye.”

  Her grandmother’s voice trailed off.

  Granddad was trying to get up, but Ginny brushed past him and seized her rucksack from the hall floor. She was fumbling with the front door handle when she heard her grandmother behind her and turned in fury—but the old woman was holding her arms out, just an old woman again, her face blind with tears.

  “Virginia—darling—listen: You’ve always been my dear little grandchild—my first one. If I said anything wrong, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t want to offend you. I’m a stupid old woman—stupid. You’re my little granddaughter, I love you, I want you to be happy. Is he mistreating you? Is he looking after you? A man can’t do it on his own. She shouldn’t have left him, it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right. My darling, I only want what’s best for you….”

  And Ginny let herself be hugged and kissed, controlling her disgust at the wetness of tears on her cheek, the smell of stale face powder, the bony looseness of the old woman’s body against hers. She stood it for a few seconds and then twisted away. The whole thing was horrible.

  “Is she alive?” she demanded. “Is my mother alive?”

  “Oh, darling—forget all about her—”

  “She is, isn’t she? Or are you making it up?”

  “Darling, don’t say that—stay with us—we’ll look after you—she won’t want you now—”

  Ginny twisted aside and ran out the door and off down the road, trying not to be sick.

  —

  There was a bus coming; without waiting for Robert, she waved it to a halt, bought a ticket to the town center, sat down trembling.

  Black whore.

  Wallowing in colored filth.

  There’d been so many blows, from so many different directions, raining in so suddenly, that Ginny was dazed; and the hardest blow of all was the suggestion that her mother was alive. It was impossible, ridiculous. She dragged Modern Painters out of her rucksack and looked again at the advertisement: it merely said “Haitian Painting of the Past Twenty Years,” which didn’t help at all.

  Seeing a railway station, she jumped up impulsively and rang the bell to stop the bus. She felt a faint anxiety about Robert. She’d dragged him all this way; shouldn’t she go back and…

  No. He could find the bus station by himself, surely; for the moment, this was more urgent.

  At a phone booth in the station, she dialed the number of the art gallery. There was no answer for a long time, and she began to beat her fist softly against her head.

  “Hello. L’Ouverture Gallery.”

  It was a soft Scottish voice. Ginny, startled by an answer at last, nearly dropped the magazine.

  “Oh. Hello. I’m ringing about your exhibition—the paintings from Haiti—”

  “Yes. It’s opening tomorrow.”

  “Er…one of the painters, Anielle Baptiste…”

  “Yes?”

  “Could you tell me about her work, what you’ve got there? I mean, I’m a student, you see, and I’ve seen some of her work before, but only in reproduction. And I’m not here for long….”

  “Oh, right. Well, there’s a number of paintings from her election series; they haven’t been shown here before.”

  “Election series?”

  “She did some pictures based on the Haitian general election. And there’s a quite extraordinary painting called The Death of Colonel Paul. It’s well worth a visit for that one alone. And some landscapes.”

  “What election was that?”

  “The one they had recently, when it all ended in violence. Two years ago, three maybe. I ought to know—”

  “Sorry, when did you say? Two years ago?”

  A puzzled laugh. “Yes, that’s right. You said you’re not in Liverpool for long?”

  Ginny was breathless. “Not long, no.”

  “And you’re a student? Well, why don’t you come along tonight? We’re having a private view, but we’re not fussy; it’s not formal or anything. Come and join the party. The more the merrier. What’s your name?”

  “Oh, thanks…Ginny Howard. Who would I say told me to come?”

  “I’m the owner, Paul Chalmers. I won’t forget. You might meet the artist herself. She’s coming along later. See you at about seven, then.”

  Ginny blindly put the phone down. All the golden years had come to this, and there was no going back now.

  THE L’OUVERTURE GALLERY was situated in a street not far from the docks. Ginny had managed to buy a Liverpool street map at the railway station in Chester before the train left, and she spent the journey alternately poring over it and gazing unseeingly out the train window, smiling from time to time with something that felt absurdly like happiness. The walk from Lime Street Station to the street where the gallery was took twenty minutes. Of Liverpool itself she registered nothing.

  She got there at five to seven and made herself stop and look at things in order to calm down. The narrow street seemed to have had three lives, and it still bore traces of each of them: the first as a sternly prosperous area of offices for shipping firms and cotton merchants; the second as a seedy, downmarket collection of flyblown news dealers and dusty tailors’ shops; and now its third life was beginning, based on nebulous trendy things like design and lifestyle, with a very expensive clothes shop, an architectural practice, a wine bar, and the L’Ouverture Gallery.

  The gallery was a wide glass-fronted place with a display of sculptures in the window. There were paintings on the oatmeal-colored wall, but Ginny couldn’t see them clearly from across the street; and there was someone moving about inside.

  She crossed the street. Her heart was hammering so hard she thought they must be able to hear it in the wine bar. She looked at a poster on the gallery door advertising the exhibition, and then knocked on the glass. The man inside looked up and waved.

  He was in his thirties, plump, wearing the kind of clothes they sold in the expensive shop next door. And he was black, and the moment he spoke, she realized that his was the Scottish voice f
rom the telephone, and she felt surprise, and shame at the white part of her that could be surprised, and a simple curiosity as to whether she herself sounded Welsh.

  “You’re Ginny Howard,” he said.

  “And you’re Mr. Chalmers? Thanks; this is really nice of you. I can’t tell you—”

  “That’s okay. I was a student once. Come in. You could give me a hand, if you liked.”

  He was preparing a buffet, or rather peeling the plastic wrapping from one that had been prepared earlier: dishes of salad, plates of cold pizza, fried chicken, and various bits and pieces she supposed were Caribbean. He asked Ginny to take some wineglasses out of a cardboard box and set them on the table, and then to put some paper napkins in between the plates stacked at one end, and altogether it felt like being back at the Yacht Club. She realized guiltily that Angie Lime would have been expecting her, and she hadn’t let them know. She realized, less guiltily, that Dad would be wondering where she and Robert were….No, all that was too complicated to think about. Push it out of sight.

  Paul Chalmers was asking her a question. She gathered herself and said, “No, my father’s English, but my mother came from Haiti, which is why I’m interested in…And I saw some of Anielle Baptiste’s work illustrated in an article, I can’t remember, some American magazine, and I thought I really can’t miss this, I’ve got to see it. It’s really good of you to let me come….”

  “She’s the star of this exhibition, but we haven’t made an issue of it; there’s a lot of good work besides hers. We’ve hung her pictures in the large room, through there. Do you want to put your rucksack in the office? Through the door and on the left.”

  There was a narrow corridor with some unframed pictures in a wooden stand against the wall. It was carpeted in neat oatmeal like the rest of the gallery, and it all looked new and clean. She put her rucksack in the little office, and then, noticing that there was a lavatory next door, gave in to the feeling that had been plucking at her stomach and went in to be sick. She crouched there shivering as if she had the flu, wishing she’d never come, wishing Robert’s mother were still alive so that she would never have heard of him, never have disturbed this whole horrible tangle.