Owning Jacob, Page 3

  Eventually, even Sarah couldn't deny that there was a problem. She had taken Jacob to have his hearing tested, and Ben got the impression that she hoped he actually was deaf, that the problem was a straightforward physical one. He didn't believe it himself. Jacob didn't seem to understand anything that was said to him or recognise his name, but there were some sounds he unmistakably reacted to. He would look towards the door of whatever room he was in when the doorbell sounded, and once when Sarah was out Ben had experimented by standing behind him and opening a packet of sweets. The little boy had twisted around immediately, a look of anticipation replacing his usual remote expression.

  He had been nearly four when he had been diagnosed as autistic. Not long after that Ben went to Antigua on a shoot.

  The second night one of the models had come on to him after a group of them went to a bar together. She had a fa bull ous body, a golden tan, and he knew no word of it would ever get back to Sarah. He had seen the promise of suntanned and easy sex smiling in front of him and thought back over the strain of the previous few months. Taking Jacob to see specialists. Waiting for test results. Vainly trying to comfort Sarah as she cried, for the first time since he'd known her, when they were told. Did he really want to tie himself down to a woman with an autistic child that wasn't even his? The answer hadn't really surprised him.

  He made his excuses to the girl and spent the night alone in his hotel room. The day he arrived back in London he'd asked Sarah to marry him.

  Now he stood by Jacob's bed and looked down at her son, searching for some resemblance that would put the question of parentage beyond doubt. There was nothing. The boy's hair was a ruddy brown, not Sarah's paler colour. His eyes were a pale, tawny brown, and his features had none of the fineness of her bone structure. Ben had always taken for granted that the boy took after his father.

  Perhaps he does.

  He left the bedroom and went downstairs. The house was quiet. He took an old tobacco tin from the bag that held his camera equipment, collected a beer from the fridge and went into the lounge to roll himself a joint. Sarah never liked him smoking them at home, but Jacob was in bed, and if ever there was a time when he needed one this was it. He lit up and drew on it, holding his breath. When he finally let it go it was explosively, as if he could expel everything else along with the used smoke.

  Taking another drag from the joint, he crossed to the bookshelf and reached up for the strongbox. He carried it back to the settee and spread out the newspaper cuttings on the cushion next to him, where Jacob had been sitting earlier. He picked out the one that had a photograph of the baby's parents. It was impossible to make out what John Kale looked like but at least, if Jacob didn't take after Sarah, he didn't resemble the newspaper picture of Jeanette Kale either. Ben tossed the cutting on to the rest. He had already gone through them countless times without learning anything else. A newborn baby had gone missing, and it happened to coincide with Jacob's birth. So what? Hundreds of babies would have been born on the same day. It didn't mean anything.

  So why had she saved the cuttings? That was where all his reasoning, all his reassurances, fell apart. He could tell himself that it was ridiculous to be disturbed by a few pieces of old newsprint, that the dates were only a fluke. Reading about it on the same day she gave birth herself was probably what had prompted Sarah to save the reports in the first place. Then she'd put them to one side and typically forgotten to throw them away.

  Simple.

  Except it didn't work. Sarah might have kept an entire newspaper, or even several, but he'd never known her cut out individual stories. That sort of neatness wasn't part of her character. He couldn't even begin to think why they'd been in a locked box with the birth certificate.

  Or rather he could.

  Confusion gouged at the rawness of his grief. He pushed his hand through his hair. Even that brought a pang—she had liked it long, liked running her fingers through it.

  'Jesus, Sarah,' he said. The need to talk to her, to see and hear her again, was so vast it terrified him. He couldn't believe he never would. It was as though someone had cut holes in the world where she should have been. He felt his throat begin to constrict and took a last steadying pull at the dying joint, welcoming the hotness of the smoke. He held his breath, but when he let it go it came out in a sob, and suddenly he was crying.

  When it passed he felt drained but more himself. Sarah had been his wife and he had loved her. Jacob was her son, and that was all there was to it. He despised himself for doubting her. He stubbed out the roach and blew his nose.

  The cuttings were still spread out on the settee, but now they had lost their potency. They were just scraps of paper. He felt slightly foolish for overreacting. And ashamed.

  He gathered them together, intending to throw them away.

  The phone rang as he was screwing them up. He sniffed and cleared his throat, banishing the last of the tears before answering. 'Hello?'

  'Hello, Ben. It's Geoffrey.' Ben felt a twinge of conscience at the sound of his father-in-law's voice. 'Sorry, Geoffrey, I was supposed to call, wasn't I?' It had been the last thing he'd said to Sarah's parents after the funeral the day before.

  'Not to worry. You've got enough on your plate at the moment without worrying about us. I just thought I'd ring and see how you were getting on.'

  'Oh…okay.' He changed the subject. 'You got back to Leicester all right?'

  'No trouble at all .'

  'You could have stayed here overnight, you know.' He knew Geoffrey didn't like driving.

  'I know we could, lad, but Alice wanted to get home. You know how she is.'

  Ben did. She had never forgiven Sarah for moving to London twice, the first time to find work, the second after they had taken her back home when Jacob was born. 'How's she coping?'

  'Not bad.' His tone said otherwise. 'She's in bed now. You've got to take these things a day at a time, haven't you?'

  An awkwardness came between them. Ben sensed the older man's reluctance to end the conversation, even though there was nothing for either of them to say that hadn't already been said. He knew how keenly his father-in-law felt Sarah's death. Talking to her husband was a way of holding on to her, a cold comfort but all he had, and better than the lonely house with the mourning wife asleep upstairs.

  It was as much to prolong the contact between them as to appease any final doubts that Ben said, 'I've been thinking about when Sarah had Jacob. Only seems like two minutes ago. I can't believe it's six years. Was it a quick birth?' he asked, already knowing the answer.

  'Two hours, that's all. We always said he was in a rush. Poor Alice was hopping mad. We'd only just been down to London a day or two before, and if she'd known the baby was going to be born six weeks early you couldn't have dragged her away in chains. Myself, I was just glad Jessica had been there.'

  'There was no sign that Jacob was going to be premature, then?'

  'None at all. No, that was why it was such a surprise. Sarah'd had cramps a few days before—that was why Alice insisted on going down to see her. But they'd stopped by the time we got there. Alice dragged her off to the doctor's, but he said everything seemed fine.' A note of consternation entered his voice. 'There isn't a problem, is there? With Jacob, I mean?'

  Ben felt the last trace of doubt slough away. 'No, he's fine. I was…well, I was just curious.'

  Her father abruptly sounded tired and old. Whatever brief comfort he'd drawn from the reminiscence had gone. 'I often wondered if Jacob being early had anything to do with…you know. The autism.'

  'I don't think so.' There were different ideas about what caused autism, but so far as Ben knew premature birth wasn't one of them.

  'No, I expect you're right.' Geoffrey made an effort to sound cheerful. 'Wasn't as if he was a poor tiny thing, or anything.'

  Later, Ben wished that he'd stopped the conversation there, with the question of Jacob's birth resolved in his mind. But he didn't.

  'Wasn't he?' he said, no longer real
ly listening.

  Sarah's father chuckled. 'We always kidded that someone had got their dates wrong. He weighed over six pounds. If you didn't know better you'd have thought he was a full term baby.'

  Chapter Three

  Jessica lived on the fourth floor of a block of squat council flats in Peckham. The lift was working, but when Ben saw the vomit drying on the floor and spattering the wall he took the steps instead. He was out of breath before he had reached the third level. He reminded himself that he ought to get back into playing football fairly soon. Or doing something. It was too easy to let it slide, and before he knew it he'd be forty and a fat bastard. There were still eight years to go, but already he'd found it only took a few weeks for the rot to set in, and it was becoming more of an effort to shake it off again.

  Trying to pretend he wasn't winded, he hauled himself up to the fourth floor. The walkways ran along the front of the flats, open except for a chest-high concrete wall. He ad never been there before. He and Jessica had never made any pretence of liking each other. He'd generally gone out whenever she called around to see Sarah, and on the few occasions when they couldn't avoid one another they barely managed a minimal degree of civility for her sake.

  The antipathy between them had been immediate and instinctive, on Ben's part largely because he could tell that she disliked him, on Jessica's for reasons she kept to herself.

  But he thought he could guess. She resented him. Before he had come along and spoiled things, Sarah and Jacob had been part of her extended family. Sometimes he felt she thought they had hem her family. Jessica had treated the small one-bedroom flat that Sarah had moved into after Jacob was born as a second home.

  She would drop in unannounced for meals, stay overnight, and answer the phone as if she lived there. Once, when he and Sarah had been seeing each other for only a few months, Jessica had let herself in and found him there alone, preparing dinner.

  She had stopped dead. 'What are you doing here?'

  He'd given her a grin because he knew that would infuriate her. 'Cooking. What about you?'

  She'd ignored his question. 'Where's Sarah?'

  'Jacob's got a cough. She's taken him to the doctor's.

  She had stood in the doorway of the lounge, on the other side of the work surface that separated it from the tiny kitchenette. He saw her take in the makings of a dinner for two spread out next to the open bottle of wine. 'She didn't tell me.'

  'It wasn't something she'd planned in advance.' Seeing her there, plain and heavy in her midwife's uniform, he'd relented. 'Do you want a glass of wine? She shouldn't be long.'

  Her eyes flashed to him again. Her mouth tightened. 'No.' Without another word, she had turned and left.

  'Poor old Jessica,' he had joked to Sarah one evening. 'I think she's jealous of me.'

  'Of course she isn't. She's just shy with people, that's all.'

  'With men, you mean. If the woman was any further in the closet she'd be in Narnia.'

  Sarah pushed him. 'Don't be rotten. And you're thinking of wardrobe.'

  'Okay, she's a wardrobe lesbian.' She laughed, but he could see she was uneasy. 'Come on, you know she is,' he said, teasing but exasperated too. 'Admit it, it's no big deal.'

  'Why go on about it, then?'

  'I'm not going on about it. I just can't see why you won't admit it.' It genuinely puzzled him. They both had gay and lesbian friends, so Sarah's defensiveness about Jessica's sexuality seemed odd. 'You two don't have any dark secrets, do you?' His smile dropped as Sarah turned on him.

  'No, of course we haven't' Don't be stupid!' She had flushed angrily, her freckles standing out more than ever.

  'It was a joke,' he said, surprised.

  'I know, but you shouldn't laugh at her.'

  'I wasn't laughing. Well, not much.' The red was fading from her cheeks, but she still seemed unhappy. 'There wasn't anything between you, was there? I mean, it's none of my business,' he added, hurriedly. 'I just wouldn't want to upset you without knowing why.'

  'She's a friend, that's all. I suppose I just feel a bit protective towards her.'

  Ben couldn't think why. Jessica was more than capable of looking after herself. But after that he tried to keep his opinions of her to himself.

  Even so, when they'd moved to the house in Camden he had made it clear that he didn't want Jessica to have a key.

  He needn't have bothered, because she'd hardly been there. There was too much of him in it. Sarah had only spoken to her once or twice in the past few months, and without really thinking about it Ben had been quietly pleased that the two of them were finally drifting apart. Friends or not, Sarah always seemed subdued when Jessica was around.

  And now, he thought, reaching the right door number, they had both lost her.

  He paused to catch his breath before knocking. When he realised the bumping of his heart wasn't just exertion he clenched his fist and rapped on the door. There was no answer.

  A small spyhole was set in the centre of the door, and he had the sudden feeling that Jessica was watching him through it. He knocked again, harder. This time, after only a short wait, the door was opened.

  Jessica regarded him without expression. Sometimes, when she was with Sarah and didn't know he was looking, she would smile and for a transient moment achieve an animation that was close to prettiness. That was rare, though, and she wasn't smiling now. She wore her starched midwife's uniform like armour. Her hair was parted in the centre and drawn severely back by a black plastic clip, while her moon face was free of make-up. Ben was faintly shocked to notice that her skin was clear and young-looking. He wondered if the absence of make-up was a denial of vanity, or because of it.

  'I'm going to work in ten minutes,' she said without preamble, and stood back to let him in.

  He went through the short hallway and into the lounge.

  It was uncluttered and almost clinically clean. There was a neat three-piece suite, only one chair, which looked used, and a laminated cabinet that contained a hi-fi unit and a few books. Other than that the room was bare. There wasn't a single plant.

  He didn't sit down, and when Jessica followed him in she made no attempt to offer him a seat. She stood in front of the unlit gas fire, arms folded.

  'Well? You said you wanted to talk to me.'

  They had barely acknowledged each other at the funeral, and she had been openly unwelcoming when he had phoned. He'd had to insist that it was important, but now he was there he didn't know where to start. 'It's about Sarah.'

  She looked at him, waiting.

  'Look, I know we've never hit it off, but you were Sarah's best friend,' he went on. 'You knew her before I did.'

  Jessica gave no sign of unbending. She stared at him, as hard and ungiving as stone. Ben couldn't imagine how someone so cold and unsympathetic could be a midwife, and not for the first time wondered about her motives for choosing it as her career. But this wasn't the time to think about that.

  'I wanted to ask about when the two of you shared a flat when she was pregnant. Sarah told me some things, but not in any detail.'

  'And?'

  'It's a part of her life I don't know very much about.'

  Jessica was almost smiling, although there was nothing pretty about it. 'So now you want to take that from me as well?'

  Ben hadn't expected her animosity to be so naked. 'I don't want to take anything from you. I never did.'

  Her expression said she didn't believe him. He felt more uncomfortable than ever. 'This is a bad time. Perhaps we ought to leave it for a while.'

  'There isn't a good time as far as you're concerned,' she said, and there was no mistaking the hate now. 'I said I'd see you because of Sarah. But after this I don't want to set eyes on you again. Ask what you came for and then go.'

  'All right. The real reason I came was to ask you about Jacob.' He was watching for some reaction, but couldn't see any.

  'What about him?'

  'You delivered him. I just want to know what happened.'


  'What do you mean, "what happened"? She went into labour and I attended. That's it.'

  'Why didn't she go to hospital?'

  Jessica's mouth was a thin line. 'Didn't she tell you any of this herself?'

  'Yes, but I wanted to ask you.'

  She glared at him, then gave a terse shrug. 'It was the middle of the night. There wasn't time. She started suddenly, and by the time we realised what was happening the baby was on its way.' She lifted her chin fractionally, staring him down. 'Besides, there was no need for her to go to hospital. I was there.'

  'You were only a student, though. What if there'd been any problems?'

  'Then I'd have sent for help. But there weren't.'

  'Didn't you send for a doctor?'

  'I told you, there was no point. We called for one the next morning—he came and made sure they were both okay, and then went. I knew more about childbirth than any GP would have. Or her mother, though you wouldn't have thought it to hear her.' She gave an angry shake of her head. 'She insisted her little daughter had to go back home with them. As if I couldn't have given her everything she needed.'

  She was no longer looking at him, lost in the anger of six years ago, and Ben felt sorry for her. And sorry he had come. He felt more and more that he was wasting his time. There was only one thing left he had to ask.

  'Sarah's father told me Jacob was a big baby. Over six pounds.'

  'Six pounds three ounces.' The figure was thrown at him. He accepted its accuracy.

  'He said he didn't look premature at all.'

  'So?'

  'Isn't that unusual?'

  Jessica's look was full of contempt. 'Not particularly. He might not even have been very much premature anyway. Sarah's periods weren't regular, so it was difficult to know how far into her term she was. And some babies are bigger than others, you know. Like anything else.' There was derision in her voice. 'Is there anything else you want to ask?'