The Other Side of Sorrow Read Free Page B

childlessness as a sort of badge, a flag of independence and self-sufficiency. All that was ingrained by now and I was reluctant to surrender it.
    Cyn summoned up strength from somewhere and looked directly at me. Her eye makeup was smudged and she had a blurred, off-centre look that gave everything she said an extra weight. ‘I wouldn’t blame her for holding back. Who would want a broken down woman with no tits who chucks in the street for a mother?’
    â€˜Don’t, Cyn.’
    â€˜Damn you, Cliff Hardy. Don’t you pity me. Don’t you dare pity me. I’ve had a good life. I was a successful architect. There’re buildings in this bloody city that’ll last longer than you and everyone else alive. They prove I was good. I’ve got two wonderful children and a grandchild …’ She stopped and stared straight through me as if she was looking into another dimension where faces and walls and pillars didn’t matter. ‘I’ve got a grandchild on the way. It’ll be touch and go whether I’ll live to see it.’
    The waitress came to take our plates. I’d eaten most of my meal but Cyn’s was barely touched.
    â€˜Was there something wrong ma’am?’
    Cyn shook her head.
    â€˜Will there be anything else, sir?’
    â€˜No, thank you. Nothing else.’
    She cleared the table, leaving the dregs of our drinks, and beat a retreat. I knew what she was thinking—
a middle-age marriage break up, bad news.
She wasn’t to know that she was right in a way, except that the break-up had happened before she was born.
    â€˜I’m not poor,’ Cyn said. ‘I can pay you.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜I can pay for your services. That blazer’s seen better days, so has the shirt. You’re obviously not rolling in money.’
    That was the old Cyn. On the attack. Somehow, though, it seemed sad and I didn’t rise to the bait as I would have in the old days. I finished the wine. It tasted sour.
    â€˜What d’you want me to do?’
    â€˜I want you to keep a watch on me for a few days. What do you call it? A surveillance. And when she appears I want to meet her. I want to talk to her. I want to find out about her. Help her if she needs it, be happy if she doesn’t. I want to meet our child, Cliff. Before I die.’

3
    I said I’d do it. Cyn gave me the photo of Eve saying that ‘our daughter’ so much resembled her that I could use the photo in my enquiries. She described the woman in as much detail as she could. Short, dark hair, casual clothes, quick movements. Cyn had seen her three or four times, always in the vicinity of her unit in Crows Nest—at a bus stop, through a shop window, standing on the other side of the road. She thought she’d seen her in a van parked opposite her building but she couldn’t be sure.
    â€˜What kind of van?’
    â€˜Blue and other colours.’
    â€˜C’mon, Cyn.’
    â€˜I don’t know about vans. It wasn’t new. I’m tired, Cliff. I have to go home.’
    â€˜I’d drive you except that I didn’t bring my car into town.’
    â€˜It’s all right, I’ll get a cab. Anyway, we shouldn’t be seen together. You have to be as good as she is at keeping your distance.’ She dabbed at some perspiration that was breaking out on her upper lip and looked intently at me.
    â€˜What?’ I said.
    â€˜I was just wondering whether she’d see a resemblance between herself and you. You and Eve’re pretty much alike as I recall.’
    â€˜Come off it, Cyn. I’ve been knocked about too much to resemble anyone but myself. Besides, she won’t see me until I want her to.’
    â€˜I suppose that’s right. You must be good at what you do by now. How is Eve, anyway?’
    â€˜Fine. She just got made redundant from the CES. Golden handshake—more time for golf.’
    Cyn’s eyes were glazing