The Skylark's Secret, стр. 25

‘Isn’t that grand! I knew they’d get on like a house on fire,’ Bridie clucks from the doorway. ‘Now then, the two of them can get acquainted while I make the tea.’ She bustles off into the kitchen, satisfied that her social get-together has begun so well.

Naturally, with Elspeth here I won’t be able to quiz Bridie about my parents’ history as I’d hoped to do. In fact, she’s cleverly managed to turn the tables on me. With the help of an ally who knows me so well from years before, this is the perfect opportunity for her to question me about my recent past.

Grudgingly, I have to hand it to her. Bridie Macdonald is no fool. But the way to prise a limpet off a rock is to catch it unawares, so perhaps one of these days I’ll get the truth out of her, when her guard is down. I just need to be patient and wait for the right moment.

Forcing myself to smile, I gather Daisy on to my lap and softly join in a round of ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’, conscious of the roughness of my singing. If Elspeth is surprised that this is all that’s left of the voice that once filled West End theatres, she is polite enough not to show it. Bridie, as she comes back with a tray of teacups and a jug of orange squash, is less tactful.

‘It’s lovely to hear the room filled with the weans’ giggles,’ she says, pouring juice into the baby beakers that we’ve brought with us. ‘And your singing again, too, Lexie. I remember when you sang the solo at the Christmas carol concert when you were just seven. Your mammy was so nervous for you that first time, I thought she’d burst. And by the time you’d finished there wisnae a dry eye in the hall. You were note perfect!’

I help Daisy lift the cup and drink, careful not to spill orange squash on the swirly carpet. ‘I’m afraid nowadays my singing brings tears to people’s eyes for the opposite reason,’ I say, trying to deflect the anguish I feel with humour.

‘What happened?’ asks Elspeth, matter-of-fact.

‘I overstrained my voice. Developed lesions on my vocal cords. I had an operation, but it didn’t work, left too much scar tissue. So that’s it, my singing career over.’

‘Will they recover in time?’

I shake my head silently, not trusting words.

‘That’s a shame,’ Elspeth says, the tone of her words softening a little. ‘A tough break.’

I turn towards Bridie, who’s fussing with the teapot, grateful for the distraction, which gives me a moment to blink the tears from my eyes. ‘Just milk, thanks, Bridie.’ Turning back to mop Daisy’s chin with a tissue, I say, ‘It’d all have changed in any case with this one on the way. There are plenty of singers queuing up to step on to the West End stage who aren’t either pregnant or tied down with a baby.’

Bridie settles herself on the sofa, and I get the impression that she’s preparing to launch into a series of questions that would make the Spanish Inquisition look like a cosy fireside chat.

Unexpectedly, though, Elspeth comes to the rescue, tactfully changing the subject and getting me off the hook. ‘You know, there’s a playgroup you could bring Daisy to if you’d like, just me and a couple of other young mums who get together at one another’s houses on a Friday morning. Tomorrow’s my turn to host, so you’d be welcome to come along.’

I shoot her a grateful glance. ‘I’d love that. And I know Daisy would too.’

Jack is busily posting puzzle pieces into the right-shaped holes in a plastic ball with the confidence of familiarity, while Daisy helpfully offers him pieces of Lego by way of her own contribution. He ignores her at first, intent on his work, but eventually gives her a shy smile and takes the proffered block, popping it through one of the holes. Daisy immediately offers him another one and he chuckles, realising that here is a good new game.

‘They’re getting on well, right enough,’ says Elspeth with a smile, and I feel the ice thawing between us a little more. Life may have taken us in different directions for a while, but perhaps those years apart can slide away and our babies bring us back together, rekindling the easy warmth of our own shared childhood.

Later, once the orange squash has been finished and both children have happily slobbered sugar-iced Playbox biscuits down their fronts, we gather up toys, cups and books and prepare to head homewards.

‘Thanks for the lovely tea, Bridie,’ I say, hugging her and meaning it. It’s been a surprisingly enjoyable afternoon after all, in spite of the fact that I’m no further forward in learning anything more of my own family history.

Elspeth and I strap our babies into their pushchairs and stroll a little way along the road together before we take our leave. The children are quiet, worn out with all that socialising, and we walk in silence for a few moments, each lost in our own thoughts. When we reach her gate, stopping to watch the sky as the setting sun begins to edge the clouds with red and gold, I turn to face her and say, ‘I’m sorry about the way we lost touch. When I bumped into you in the shop I wondered if you were angry with me because I left?’

She gazes out across the darkening waters of the loch for a moment, considering. Then she says, ‘No, Lexie, I wasn’t angry that you left. I was angry because you came back.’ She looks me squarely in the eye. ‘You were my hope, you see. The proof that there was a world out there, and it might not have been one I could ever have been part of, but you still linked me to it, even after we lost touch. I kept all your letters and cards. I’ve still got some of the