Tales of the City 04 - Babycakes

part. He was hopelessly sentimental, for all his faults. He knew that the Bardills were dead … and he thought there might be a chance of … being a father to Simon again.”
“Again?” Michael frowned. “It doesn’t sound as if he ever was.”
Miss Treves fidgeted. “He also wanted money. That piece in the Mirror made it sound as if Simon was very rich.”
“So this guy comes waltzing back after … what? … twenty-eight years, and expects Simon to buy that? To give him money, just because he got Simon’s mother pregnant?”
The nanny looked away. Her lower lip had begun to tremble.
“Miss Treves …”
“He was in prison for most of that time. He robbed a hotel in Brighton. That’s why the revue broke up. That’s why I came back to London and found the Bardills and asked for the job as Simon’s nanny.”
Michael simply stared at her.
“He tried to reach Simon,” she continued. “He wrote letters from prison, but I intercepted them. He had no right to spoil their lives. To spoil Simon’s life. We were all so very happy, and he had no …”
“Wait a minute. How could he have known for certain?”
“Known what?”
“That he was Simon’s father.”
She looked at him balefully.
“I need the truth, Miss Treves.”
“Love … I’m telling you the truth.”
He reached out and took her child-size hand. “All of it?”
She heaved a world-weary sigh. “Mr. Bardill was sterile.”
He nodded to encourage her.
“The Bardills wanted a baby very badly. Very badly.” She brought her fingertips to her temple and made a circular motion, as if to expel a private demon. “I’m sorry, love. There’s some brandy on the shelf above the fridge. Would you mind awfully?”
“I’ll get it,” chirped Wilfred, bounding to his feet and dodging Bunny Benbow on his way to the kitchen.
“You must be my friend,” Miss Treves said to Michael.
“I am your friend.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “You did my nails, didn’t you?”
She mustered a wan smile for him as Wilfred returned with a tumbler of brandy. She downed it in two efficient gulps and gave the glass back to the kid. “Thank you, love.”
“My pleasure,” replied Wilfred, sinking to the floor again. He propped his chin on his fist and gazed at the two of them as if they were a television set about to flicker into action. “Don’t mind me.”
Michael turned to Miss Treves. “So …?”
“Yes. Well … Mr. Bardill was sterile, as I said … and it was a source of great anguish for both of them. When we met them at the Selmun, I knew there was …”
“The what?”
“The Selmun Palace Hotel. Where we were performing.”
“Oh.”
“It was a lovely old place, miles away from Valletta … up on a hill overlooking the sea. One of the Knights of Malta lived there long ago. The people who stayed there were all lovely people, and the Bardills were the loveliest of the lot. She was a famous actress, but she wasn’t a bit stuck-up. They bought bicycles in Valletta, which they rode all over the island, and she wore these lovely long scarves that trailed along in the breeze like …”
“Miss Treves.” The brandy had been a terrible idea. “Time is of the essence.”
She nodded. “I just want you to know that I didn’t think of them as strangers, the Bardills. I felt as if I’d known them all my life.”
“All right.”
“I knew that I could trust them.”
He nodded.
“At any rate … one night Mrs. Bardili took a long stroll with Bunny and told him about … Mr. Bardill’s condition. Bunny offered to make arrangements for them … to obtain a child.”
“To adopt one, you mean?”
“No,” she replied dimly. “To buy one.”
Wilfred drew in breath audibly. Michael shot a quick glance at him, then turned back to Miss Treves. “But you said he was … It was h is baby, you mean? He sold Simon to the Bardills because they wanted …?”
“Yes,” she answered, before he could finish.
“He sold his own baby?”
“Our own baby.”
He blinked at her.
“Simon is my son.”
A car swooshed through a puddle out in Colville Crescent. Wilfred’s eyes were porcelain saucers. Michael’s failure to respond immediately prompted Miss Treves to add defensively: “It can skip a generation, you know.”
“I’m sorry,” he gulped. “I didn’t mean to …”
“Don’t be a silly-billy. It’s not what one would expect, is it now?”
“No … I guess not.”
“Bunny and I weren’t married. We weren’t even lovers in the conventional sense. We