This Is My Child. Lucy Gordon

of his skin. He was in the prime of life, assured, at ease, a master in his own sphere. But none of that was of any use to the little boy who had to watch him through a television screen.

      When the program was over she persuaded him to lie down. “Tomorrow we’ll talk about what we’re going to do during your school holidays. Will your father be taking you away on vacation?”

      He shrugged. “Don’t know.”

      “What about your mother?” Melanie asked cautiously.

      He looked back at her from unblinking eyes. “My mother’s dead,” he said simply.

      Melanie expelled her breath slowly, realizing that she’d wandered into a mine field. Who had told the child that Zena was dead, and why hadn’t Giles warned her? “Well…” she began to say.

      “My mother’s dead,” David repeated. “If she wasn’t dead I’d be living with her.”

      “I see. Yes, of course. Do you—have a photograph of her anywhere?”

      “No,” David said. “She’s dead. She’s dead.”

      Again there was that unnerving stare. Melanie had an impression that inside himself the little boy was clinging onto a sheer cliff face with his fingertips. “Good night,” she said softly, and left him.

      She went to her own room and did some thinking. And when her thinking was completed she settled down to wait for Giles Haverill’s return, because no matter how late he was, she needed to talk to him urgently.

      To pass the time, she switched on the television and found herself watching a late news program. It ran a brief clip of Giles’s speech, followed by some general information about his earlier career.

      “Haverill & Son has always been a family firm,” declared the presenter, “but under Giles Haverill it became one of the major operators in the sphere of—”

      Melanie hardly heard. She was studying Giles as he’d been a few years ago, his face already set in stern lines, his eyes fixed ahead as though nothing mattered but his goal. Sometimes he was accompanied by a woman Melanie recognized as Zena, but mostly he was shown heading meetings and traveling by airplane, concentrating on the screen of a portable computer.

      “…a ruthless operator, as more than one of his rivals could testify—pride in the firm he inherited, and his determination to double it in size and influence—”

      “And to raise his son to do the same,” Melanie murmured. “Poor little mite.”

      She looked angrily at the face on the screen, the face of a conqueror, an acquisitor, a man so proud of his heritage that he’d trained a child from birth to fit into it.

      “And I handed you over to him,” she whispered angrily. “God forgive me!”

      As the hours ticked away she began to doze off. To keep herself awake, she went out into the hall and settled on the stairs. She was awakened about two in the morning by the sound of the front door opening and closing. “Miss Haynes?” Giles called, peering into the gloom of the hall. “What are you doing on the stairs?”

      Melanie yawned and got stiffly to her feet. “I wanted to be sure not to miss you, Mr. Haverill. There are things we have to discuss.”

      “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

      “No, it can’t. I need to get some things straightened out before I see David again.”

      “Look,” he said tiredly, “I’ll pay for it, whatever he’s done.”

      “He hasn’t done anything. Can we talk somewhere more private than the hall?”

      “All right, in here.” He pushed open the door to the living room. “Now what is it?”

      “You told me David’s mother had gone away. Is that true?”

      “Of course it’s—” He stared at her narrowly. “Has David told you she’s dead?”

      “Yes.”

      He groaned. “I thought he’d got over that. It was a stage he went through soon after she left.”

      “Does he know she’s alive?”

      “Of course he knows. He’s been to stay with her.”

      “So she does still have some interest in him?”

      “Very little. She invited him only at my insistence, and it wasn’t a success. But that’s no excuse for him lying about her.”

      “He’s not lying,” she said, outraged. “He’s fantasizing.”

      “Is there a difference?”

      She looked at him for a long, thoughtful moment. “Have you ever had an operation, Mr. Haverill?” she asked at last.

      “What on earth—? Yes, I had my appendix out years ago.”

      “Did they give you an anesthetic?”

      “Of course.”

      “And why? Because the pain would have been too much to bear without help. Well, that’s David’s situation, too. Can’t you imagine the pain of simply being abandoned by the one person in the world who’s supposed to put him above everything?”

      “He has a father-”

      “Fathers aren’t the same. It’s his mother who’s supposed to be there for him, listen to him, cuddle him, defend him—” She stopped abruptly as a sudden rush of emotion threatened to choke her.

      “What’s the matter?” Giles asked.

      “Nothing.” She turned away from him, hurriedly brushing her eyes.