beside her.
"You won't change, Mum."
"No, I won't change. Not as a person. But what I'm seen as will change. What about Polly? What kind of granny do I become
when Polly has this new granny?"
"It mightn't happen—"
"What mightn't?"
"I mightn't find her. I mightn't like her."
"Then why are you taking such a chance?"
"Oh, Mum," Nathalie said, leaning forward and holding Lynne's arms hard. "Because I have to know. Even if I don't like it, I have to know. You know, don't you? You know who your mother was?"
Lynne pulled herself free and stood up.
"At least David—" She stopped.
"At least David what?"
"Doesn't want to join in all this."
Nathalie stood too.
"Mum, he does."
"No, he doesn't want to. You are forcing him."
"I couldn't force him, Mum. I couldn't if I tried. He's scared, like me, but he's going to."
Lynne took a step away and began to fiddle with a flowering currant bush.
"Daniel was here yesterday. He helped Dad in the workshop. He's good with his hands."
"Mum," Nathalie said, " nothing is going to change between you and your children or you and your grandchildren."
"You don't know that," Lynne said.
Nathalie put her hands over her face.
"Please trust me!"
Lynne said nothing.
Nathalie took her hands away and said furiously, "Look, I didn't have to tell you or Steve or anyone. I could have just telephoned this search-service person in secret and gone to meet my mother—if
indeed she's still alive—and none of you would have been any the wiser. But I didn't. I didn't, did I? I've told you all everything, right from the beginning, and if that doesn't show love and trust and all the things
you imply I'm failing in, I don't know what does!"
Lynne put a hand out and adjusted a spray of leaves on a philadelphus. The moment she took her hand away, the philadelphus
adjusted itself back to its original position.
"I don't want to go back to the past," Lynne said.
Nathalie said nothing. Lynne laid hold of the philadelphus again.
"It's not that I don't understand what you want to do. I'd never try and stop you. You know I wouldn't. But it's just such
a risk, it just opens up so much that I thought was healed over, all those things I thought I'd come to terms with."
Nathalie closed her eyes. She and Lynne had had a long and anguishing conversation about infertility when she had discovered
that she was, at last, pregnant with Polly, and she had, at this moment, less than no desire to have it again.
She opened her eyes and said, in as neutral a voice as possible, "Will you tell Dad?"
Lynne let the philadelphus spring back.
"Oh no."
"What do you mean—that you won't or that he shouldn't be told?"
"Of course he should be told," Lynne said. "You should tell him yourself."
"I thought you'd like to—"
Lynne spun round. She was someone who could be relied upon never to lose her temper, but she had lost it now. Her face was
quite diminished by the concentration of her fury.
"Nathalie," she said, "Nathalie. I don't like any of this."
Titus, Steve noticed, had left his computer on. His screen-saver, which no doubt he had designed himself, was a series of
serenely flying pigs, some of them wearing spectacles. Steve stood and watched their stately floating progress across the
screen for some minutes and then he leaned forward and turned the computer off. On the desk around the keyboard lay a nonchalant
scattering of little objects—paper clips, rubber bands, a dice, a crumpled bus ticket, a liquorice toffee in a black-and-white-striped
wrapper—that caused Steve simultaneous irritation at its presence and envy that its presence was of neither annoyance nor
significance to Titus. He bent over the desk and scooped all the mess to the edge with the side of his hand. Titus's bin,
he noticed, was almost full and apparently with items of rubbish that had absolutely nothing to do with work. Steve took a
breath. There was a fine line between being punctilious and being paranoid,
"You won't change, Mum."
"No, I won't change. Not as a person. But what I'm seen as will change. What about Polly? What kind of granny do I become
when Polly has this new granny?"
"It mightn't happen—"
"What mightn't?"
"I mightn't find her. I mightn't like her."
"Then why are you taking such a chance?"
"Oh, Mum," Nathalie said, leaning forward and holding Lynne's arms hard. "Because I have to know. Even if I don't like it, I have to know. You know, don't you? You know who your mother was?"
Lynne pulled herself free and stood up.
"At least David—" She stopped.
"At least David what?"
"Doesn't want to join in all this."
Nathalie stood too.
"Mum, he does."
"No, he doesn't want to. You are forcing him."
"I couldn't force him, Mum. I couldn't if I tried. He's scared, like me, but he's going to."
Lynne took a step away and began to fiddle with a flowering currant bush.
"Daniel was here yesterday. He helped Dad in the workshop. He's good with his hands."
"Mum," Nathalie said, " nothing is going to change between you and your children or you and your grandchildren."
"You don't know that," Lynne said.
Nathalie put her hands over her face.
"Please trust me!"
Lynne said nothing.
Nathalie took her hands away and said furiously, "Look, I didn't have to tell you or Steve or anyone. I could have just telephoned this search-service person in secret and gone to meet my mother—if
indeed she's still alive—and none of you would have been any the wiser. But I didn't. I didn't, did I? I've told you all everything, right from the beginning, and if that doesn't show love and trust and all the things
you imply I'm failing in, I don't know what does!"
Lynne put a hand out and adjusted a spray of leaves on a philadelphus. The moment she took her hand away, the philadelphus
adjusted itself back to its original position.
"I don't want to go back to the past," Lynne said.
Nathalie said nothing. Lynne laid hold of the philadelphus again.
"It's not that I don't understand what you want to do. I'd never try and stop you. You know I wouldn't. But it's just such
a risk, it just opens up so much that I thought was healed over, all those things I thought I'd come to terms with."
Nathalie closed her eyes. She and Lynne had had a long and anguishing conversation about infertility when she had discovered
that she was, at last, pregnant with Polly, and she had, at this moment, less than no desire to have it again.
She opened her eyes and said, in as neutral a voice as possible, "Will you tell Dad?"
Lynne let the philadelphus spring back.
"Oh no."
"What do you mean—that you won't or that he shouldn't be told?"
"Of course he should be told," Lynne said. "You should tell him yourself."
"I thought you'd like to—"
Lynne spun round. She was someone who could be relied upon never to lose her temper, but she had lost it now. Her face was
quite diminished by the concentration of her fury.
"Nathalie," she said, "Nathalie. I don't like any of this."
Titus, Steve noticed, had left his computer on. His screen-saver, which no doubt he had designed himself, was a series of
serenely flying pigs, some of them wearing spectacles. Steve stood and watched their stately floating progress across the
screen for some minutes and then he leaned forward and turned the computer off. On the desk around the keyboard lay a nonchalant
scattering of little objects—paper clips, rubber bands, a dice, a crumpled bus ticket, a liquorice toffee in a black-and-white-striped
wrapper—that caused Steve simultaneous irritation at its presence and envy that its presence was of neither annoyance nor
significance to Titus. He bent over the desk and scooped all the mess to the edge with the side of his hand. Titus's bin,
he noticed, was almost full and apparently with items of rubbish that had absolutely nothing to do with work. Steve took a
breath. There was a fine line between being punctilious and being paranoid,
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