The Last Words of Madeleine Anderson

by Helen Kitson

  His new wife had two teenage children, broad-shouldered boys whose interests inclined towards anything sporty. I suppose, if pressed, I would say I was grateful my father hadn’t married someone young enough to bear his children. How I would have dealt with that I can’t imagine. As it was, the only additions to their family came in the form of cats and dogs, the wellbeing of which my father reported in minute detail.

  ‘He’s living the good life now,’ my mother would say with a wistful sigh. ‘In all those years we were married, he never took me abroad. Now he swans all over the place with that woman of his.’

  “That woman” – a deliberately reductive phrase, for my mother knew my stepmother’s name as well as I did; had even commented on it, wondering if she were Jewish. And of course I never thought of her as my “stepmother”, a meaningless word in the circumstances.

  ‘But we’re all right, aren’t we?’ Mother would add brightly. ‘We’ve nothing to complain about.’

  As the years passed, though, she found things to complain about. Every time I brought home a new boyfriend, I could see her mentally writing out the wedding invitations and choosing a hat. My marriage – to just about anyone – would have gone some way to making up for the disappointment of being the mother of a writer who wouldn’t write. The closer I got to thirty, the more nervy she became.

  ‘It’s not a joke,’ she snapped when I told her I was in no hurry. ‘By the time you get to your age, most of the suitable men are already taken.’

  She assumed I wanted children. I wasted a great deal of energy trying to persuade her not all women yearned to be mothers. I also thought it was a bit rich, this insistence that I find a husband before all the men ran out, since I was her only child and hadn’t come along until she was thirty-five, by which time she’d been married for ten years. Perhaps she worried I might share whatever complications had compromised her own fertility.

  ‘It’s the modern way, I suppose,’ she said, ‘but I don’t understand it. If you had a proper career, of course, that would be different. I don’t think you know what you want.’

  What I wanted was probably less relevant than what I needed, which was a kick up the backside. Money still trickled in from sales of my book, I didn’t have to worry about a mortgage or bills, I could get steady work of an undemanding nature, therefore I took the path of least resistance and coasted through life, perpetually in neutral. Looked at objectively, it was a pretty disgraceful way to live. I could hardly blame my mother for losing patience with me.

  My career as a writer wasn’t completely in abeyance. I managed to win a few minor prizes in competitions with my short stories, a form that suited me better than the long haul of the novel. Each cheque gave me a frayed rope to cling to, something to convince me I had some talent of my own. But what might Madeleine have produced had she lived? Had she deprived the world of a stunning body of work? Or would The Song of the Air have been her only novel? An emotionally fragile girl, could she have coped with fame? These useless questions gnawed at me, made me feel as guilty as if I’d killed her myself.

  All right, I’d stolen her book, but it had done nothing except blight my life. Or so I thought in my darkest moments, immediately acknowledging this as a gutless shifting of responsibility. Most of the mistakes I’d made hadn’t been so hideous that I couldn’t set them right, but to own up to having claimed authorship for a book I hadn’t written – that I couldn’t do. And if I couldn’t do that, nothing else I did seemed to make much sense. A reputation, a life, built on a lie.

  And writers are a snarly, spiteful bunch – witness the brickbats hurled at authors found to have puffed their own novels in on-line reviews, and the vindictiveness of writers who’ve had their novels shredded by critics. A splinter of ice is one thing, a pen sharpened to a murderous point quite another. Owning up to what I’d done was not an option. The bile that would have flown in my direction didn’t bear thinking about. And who, really, could have blamed them? I would have been presented as a kind of vampire. There would have been no room for nuance, for the mundane aspects of the story, and anything I said in my defence would have carried the craven stink of someone making excuses for shoddy behaviour.

  The older I got, the harder it became to shake myself free from the past. My contact with my father lessened, and by the time I was thirty-two it was rare for him to visit more than once a year. Miriam had health issues (he was vague on the details) that necessitated him being at home as much as possible, and if he wasn’t as overt as my mother in querying my lack of direction, he was clearly puzzled by my disinclination to write more novels or find a satisfying job.

  And then, when I was thirty-four, my mother fell ill. Since she was only sixty-nine, I wasn’t at first greatly concerned. Nor did the doctors seem able to pinpoint precisely what was wrong. With each week that passed, she became more and more frail. She had no appetite, her weight dropping rapidly from a healthy ten stone to just under seven. She fought tooth and nail against being admitted into hospital (“Once they get you in those places you never come out again, not once you get to my age”). I didn’t want to force her, but neither could I stand to see her slumped in the armchair from which she could barely force herself to move, her head lolling, an untouched cup of tea on the table beside her.

  She put on a brave face when she was finally admitted, flirting with a paramedic, casting aspersions on the three other ladies on her ward.

  ‘They look a right barrel of laughs, I must say,’ she whispered to me as I arranged her belongings in the locker beside her bed. ‘If they snore I shall discharge myself, I don’t care what the doctors say.’

  She grumbled about the pressure socks the nurses insisted she wear, about the heat, about the nurses’ uniforms, and about anything else she could think of. I bought her a newspaper to read and she grumbled about that, too.

  ‘No wonder the NHS is in such a mess,’ she said. ‘They dump you in here when they don’t know what else to do with you, but you’re lucky if you see a doctor for more than a couple of minutes a day. You wonder what they do with their time, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m sure they know what they’re doing.’

  ‘I shall be so bored in here.’

  Bored and fretful she was, her complaints endless. I visited as often as I could – as often as I could bear. I would be irritable with her, then screwed up with guilt when I left. After each visit I had as little appetite as she did, my supper often consisting of a bag of crisps and a glass of vodka. Did either of us suspect she’d been right to fear that she would never leave hospital? We always spoke of the future; of how long it was likely to be before they released her, of what we’d do when she got home. I believed she would come home; planned little treats for her, resolved to be a more considerate daughter and companion.

  Her death came without warning. People said she was lucky – better the swift demise than lingering helplessness – but I couldn’t see it like that. Swept away by my own guilt, I felt sure I should have respected her wish to stay out of hospital. Being there might have prolonged her life, but she’d been unhappy. I should have tried harder – we could have afforded to hire a nurse to come in, I could have become her carer.

  ‘You did what you thought was best,’ my father told me. He’d come over for the funeral, awkwardly moving around the house he’d once shared with us.

  ‘I did what was easiest,’ I said.

  ‘Most people do. Don’t fall into the trap of wallowing in your own torment.’ He wandered into the kitchen. ‘Where do you keep the teabags these days?’ he called.

  ‘Top cupboard next to the sink. And I do try not to dwell on it, but I can’t help feeling I let her down – that I didn’t do enough.’

  ‘No one knows what “enough” is, that’s the problem. As much as I love Miriam, I sometimes lack patience with her and it’s partly out of fear, because I want her to be entirely healthy and can’t bear the thought that one day I might lose her.’

  I walked into the kitche
n so that I could speak to him above the noise of the boiling kettle. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise things were that bad.’

  ‘Oh, well, she’ll probably outlive me in the end, but your mother dying does bring all those negative feelings to the surface.’

  ‘I never thought.’

  He handed a mug of tea to me. ‘Will you stay on here or sell it and buy something smaller?’

  ‘Oh God, I never thought.’

  ‘It’s yours to do with as you wish. I shan’t insist on having my share of the proceeds.’

  I winced.

  ‘Yes, I know, but there’s no point being sentimental about it. This house was always going to be yours eventually.’

  We had an evening to kill before the funeral the next day, after which my father would fly back to France. I didn’t want him to feel obliged to talk to me, about the past or anything else, but when I switched on the TV, every programme was too near the bone: divorce, death, arguments, more death.

  ‘Have you still got the Mahjong?’ Dad asked.

  I had, and we managed a couple of games before we both decided, just after ten, that enough was enough and we might as well call it a day. He slept in the spare room and I hoped he got more sleep than I did. But it was nice to know he was there in the house I would always think of as my mother’s, never mine.

  The funeral itself was a mercifully brief affair, religious in that cold, buttoned-up English way. The coffin slid behind the crematorium curtains to the strains of Elgar’s ‘Nimrod’. My father’s hand gripped mine, but I didn’t dare look at him. Very different, of course, from Madeleine’s funeral in a packed-to-the-gills church. The Andersons didn’t turn up for my mother’s funeral and I wasn’t sure if I was annoyed or relieved. It didn’t really matter.

  I’d let it be known that anyone who wanted could come back to the house afterwards for tea and sandwiches, that awful British version of the Irish wake, and a couple of neighbours popped in briefly to drink a hurried cup of tea in an atmosphere of flabby embarrassment, my father providing the conversation that I simply couldn’t muster.

  ‘A lot of sandwiches left over,’ he commented, when the last person had scurried away with an audible sigh of relief.

  ‘I’ll have some of them for my tea. Take the ham ones to eat on the plane if you want.’

  He shook his head. ‘Too depressing.’

  ‘Yes, I know. You can almost imagine there’s a whiff of embalming fluid about them.’

  He squeezed my arm. ‘Grit your teeth, Gabby. The first few days are bound to be the worst. And let me know what you want to do about the house and we’ll try to get it sorted as painlessly as possible.’

  He was a nice man, my father. If his kindness presented itself in a rather disinterested way, that probably suited me better than excessive emotion. His parting words: ‘Call me if you need me. I mean it.’ And I would have, but he was right. After a few days of teeth-gritting and fielding well-meaning comments of the “How are you getting on?” variety I began to relax a little; could even admit to myself without too much of a pang that it was a relief not to have to pay any more visits to that over-bright, over-heated hospital ward.

  My mother had died at a relatively young age, but her death didn’t leave me with the same gaping hole of despair Madeleine’s had. I was answerable only to myself from now on, responsible for no one else’s happiness. Perhaps I revelled just a little too much in the freedom that brought, but there were also many days when I gazed blankly at the walls, bewildered by a sudden sharp access of grief, an impotent desire to return to some innocent state of grace – to childhood, where my parents always had the power to make everything right again.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I had been too easily persuaded by Simon into writing my confession, and for the basest of reasons. If I could be completely honest with him, make him understand me, wouldn’t he forgive me? But that wasn’t entirely true, either. It was his love I wanted to earn; to convince him that I was worthy of him. To confess was to render myself vulnerable; to strip myself bare for him.

  In any case, once Simon had moved on, I could burn what I had written.

  ‘Tell me you’re feeling better for getting it off your chest.’ Sprawled on the sofa, glass of red wine in his hand.

  I poured myself some wine. ‘I dislike reliving the past. What point does it serve?’

  ‘Maybe none.’ He lifted a leg, rested his foot on the edge of the table, toes curling to keep his grip. ‘You could say no.’

  Did women ever say no to him? There are men like that, of course, with a charm that’s invisible to most people, but capable of reducing the susceptible ones to abject slavery, abject misery. Was Lord Alfred Douglas such a man? Oscar Wilde helpless, his wit and talent useless in protecting him against his beloved Bosie. Is it beauty, simply, that is sufficient to blind the besotted victim to the fatal flaws in the loved one’s character?

  ‘I’m not a blackmailer,’ Simon added softly. ‘I don’t want you to hate me. I never wanted that.’

  ‘But I’m not the person you thought I was. You feel cheated.’

  His mouth broke into a grin that was entirely without affection. ‘You’ve no idea how I feel about you.’ Then, as an afterthought, though his tone was stiff, ‘I forgot to say, that bloke rang while you were out. Russell. He said he’d phone again later.’

  ‘Did he say anything else?’ Whom had he believed Simon to be?

  ‘Not much. Maybe I should have said I was your toy-boy and that you couldn’t come to the phone because I’d tied you to the bed.’

  ‘I’m glad you didn’t.’

  ‘Why? You don’t care what he thinks.’

  ‘True, but what’s the point of winding him up?’

  ‘Because he’s a dick and because it might get him to stop ringing. I think you want him to keep ringing, don’t you? That way you know he still cares about you.’

  ‘Not at all,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t believe you.’

  ‘That’s up to you.’

  ‘If he stopped ringing it’d be like he was dumping you all over again, wouldn’t it? Just like Madeleine did. Maybe that’s why you’ve let me stay so long, because you know everyone leaves you in the end.’

  When Russell phoned again, it was to inform me that he and Michelle were getting divorced.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. It seemed he wasn’t in the mood to rant and I could almost pity him.

  ‘I really wanted it to work out,’ he said. ‘I’m guessing you’re still not keen on the idea of us meeting up?’

  ‘No. I’m sorry your marriage has broken down, but we could never be friends – you must see that, surely?’

  ‘Remember Paris?’

  ‘Yes, I remember Paris.’

  ‘I’ll never forget it now. The city of lovers, what a joke!’

  ‘Stop projecting your guilt on to me. It doesn’t wash any more.’

  A long, long pause. ‘God, you’ve become hard,’ he muttered.

  ‘Better than being a pushover. What does it matter to you what I’ve become, anyway?’

  Simon mouthed at me to put the phone down.

  ‘Russell, seriously, don’t phone again. If you do, I’ll get my number changed.’

  ‘I just want our relationship to have meant something, otherwise splitting up with Michelle seems so stupid, so pointless.’

  ‘If it ever meant something it no longer does, not to me. Goodbye, Russell.’

  I’d failed to find the phrase that would deal the devastating blow, the unequivocal striking-through of any connection between us.

  ‘I’ll buy you a caller display unit,’ Simon said, ‘then you’ll know when he’s calling and you won’t have to answer. They’re only a few quid.’

  ‘That simple,’ I murmured.

  ‘Why waste time and energy speaking to him unless you get a kick out of it?’

  Did I? Did I actually want to drag my ex-lover around with me? Maybe I enjoyed sparring with him, with a vindi
ctiveness that sprang from the fact that he had no emotional hold over me.

  ‘Are you going to carry on letting him dick you around or are you going to tell him where to go?’

  ‘Simon—’

  ‘Does he mean more to you than I do?’

  ‘It’s hardly the same thing.’

  ‘You need to choose. Him or me.’

  ‘He’s nothing to me.’ And I’m nothing to you…

  ‘Prove it, then. Wouldn’t you do it, for me?’

  His beautiful, beautiful eyes. Yes, Simon, I’d do anything for you.

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  A surly shrug. ‘None of my business. But you’ll let him worm his way back into your life, I know you will. You’re not strong enough to resist, and he’s even weaker than you are.’

  ‘Why do you have to be so nasty?’

  ‘It’s for your own good. That’s what my stepmother always used to say when she was being a bitch. Is Russell so important that you can’t give him up?’

  ‘I’ve given him up.’

  ‘He wants you back, but only so that he can fuck you over again. Don’t argue, I know it’s true.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to argue.’

  ‘Promise, then. Promise me you won’t speak to him ever again.’

  In an odd way this seemed more significant than the confession I was writing. Paper could be burned, but I believed promises mattered; that one didn’t go back on them no matter what.

  ‘Promise,’ he repeated, taking my hands in his. The touch of his skin was enough to make me agree to anything he asked. He was being unreasonable, taking far too much on himself. My thoughts, my actions. He was taking me over, body and soul, and I was too weak, too besotted, to resist.

  ‘I won’t speak to him again, I promise.’

  ‘Good. Once you’ve written out everything that happened, and written Russell out of your life, you’ll feel better. Everything will be okay then, I swear it.’ He bent to kiss my cheek, his fingers in my hair, tugging just enough to hurt. ‘Trust me.’