Downstairs, Cathy rang for the housekeeper and ordered a pot of coffee. They sat down in the drawing-room and drank it, black, sweet.
‘What made you become a journalist?’ Cathy asked conversationally, with a stilted little smile.
Sophie gave her a wry look but recognized the sense of trying to put everything on a calmer footing, so she told her about her years at university, in Prague, how she had worked part-time, translating for Vladimir, to help pay her way through college, and then she talked about her brief attempt at school-teaching, her problems with her students, her boredom and the difficulty of living on a low salary in Prague.
‘You have to save up to buy clothes or shoes, or anything expensive, like electrical equipment – your salary just about pays rent, and for food and the usual household bills. We’re beginning to be more prosperous, especially people who work in tourism, in the hotels, or restaurants. Things get better all the time. But it is still a pretty tough life for most people.’
‘Very different from mine,’ Cathy thought aloud.
‘Yes, you owe Gowrie that,’ Sophie gently said. ‘He was right, he did give you a wonderful life, and I’m sure he cared for you. He couldn’t keep up that sort of lie for so many years.’
‘God knows! I don’t. I can’t think straight at the moment, I no longer know what I . . . I don’t know anything, even who I am.’ Cathy’s emotion welled up to the surface again. The tears weren’t far away.
Sophie put down her coffee-cup and moved to sit beside her chair, on the floor.
‘You’re you, that’s all – you’re the person inside your head, not a name . . . not Cathy Gowrie, or Anya Narodni – just YOU. You’re the person you’ve always known you were, the person your life happened to! This is just another part of your life, don’t you see? I realize you feel confused, even lost – but in a day or two everything will settle down again.’
‘And then what? Who will I be then?’ Cathy angrily demanded, looking down at her. ‘Cathy or Anya? American or Czech? Paul’s wife or . . .’ She broke off again, sobbing. ‘Can’t you see? I don’t know what’s going to happen next and I’m scared!’
Sophie quickly knelt up and put her arm round her. ‘I’m sorry, Cathy, I’m so sorry. I wish I could undo what I’ve done. I didn’t mean to hurt you, that was the last thing I wanted to do. When I heard you were alive the only thing I could think of was finding you – I didn’t stop to think what I would do to your life. Don’t hate me, please don’t hate me.’
Cathy put her head down on Sophie’s shoulder. They sat there quietly for several minutes, then Cathy moved away, got out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes, blew her nose.
‘Tell me more about your . . . our . . . mother,’ she said, getting up and going to the window to curl up in a windowseat.
Sophie gave a little exclamation. ‘Of course, yes, but first . . . could I please . . . would you let me use your phone? To ring Mamma? After what Steve said about Vladimir telling her someone had tried to kill me, I must talk to her, reassure her, or she’ll make herself ill worrying.’
Cathy nodded. ‘Of course, use the phone there now, if you like.’
Sophie got up eagerly. ‘Will you talk to her? Anya? Will you, please?’
Cathy looked horrified, shaking her head. ‘I don’t know her, what could I say? I can’t talk to her, I really couldn’t.’
Sophie turned pleading eyes on her. ‘She’s dying, Anya, and she desperately needs to hear your voice.’
‘I can’t!’ Cathy refused fiercely, and didn’t move as Sophie sighed and went over to the phone. The sad, reproachful eyes made her uneasy, yet she resented Sophie’s insistence. It was so easy to make judgements from outside but when it was happening to you it wasn’t a simple matter.
This strange woman was dying and Cathy was expected to feel deeply about that, to be sad, grief-stricken, to feel all the emotions a bereaved daughter should feel. But how could she? She hadn’t even known this woman existed. She had never seen her, she didn’t know anything about her. She still wasn’t certain she believed that Johanna was her real mother. Oh, she accepted all the evidence now, but knowing with your mind was one thing – feeling it in your heart was something very different, and her heart was not ready to believe.
She heard Sophie’s soft, husky voice talking into the phone in her own language. Cathy didn’t understand Czech, couldn’t follow a word of what Sophie said until she lapsed into English, which Cathy realized was done for her own benefit.
‘And guess who is with me? Anya.’ She laughed, looking at Cathy. ‘Yes, really, Mamma – I’ve found her, talked to her, I told her everything. Yes, she’s here, hold on . . .’
Sophie turned and held out the phone, her eyes begged. ‘Please,’ she whispered.
Cathy sat stiffly, unable to move.
‘She’s dying, Cathy,’ Sophie whispered, covering the mouthpiece of the phone so that her mother shouldn’t hear. ‘This may be the only chance she has of hearing your voice, and you don’t have to say anything much, just hello and ask how she is – that will be enough for her, to hear your voice.’
Cathy swallowed, unable to make up her mind, then she slowly got up and unsteadily walked over to take the phone.
Sophie gave her a quick, warm hug. ‘Thank you.’
Cathy held the phone to her mouth. ‘Hello?’ she said in a voice that wavered.
There was a silence at the other end and then a woman’s voice breathed. ‘Anya . . . my Anya . . .’
13