Mother and Child

by Annie Murray

  ‘Government is no good,’ Sunita says.

  ‘What – the Indian government?’ Pat asks.

  ‘Government, state government – all!’ She makes a sweeping gesture, her face puckering in disgust. ‘All corruption and taking bribes. And these big American companies – no one is anything to them except big profits. All they can see is dollar sign.’

  ‘Aren’t they all supposed to be terribly religious?’ Hayley says.

  ‘Huh!’ Sunita shifts in her seat, looking disgruntled. ‘Religion of money.’

  ‘You know,’ Kim says, ‘my kids were really impressed with you doing the run. They said we should all do it next time.’

  ‘All three of you?’ I say.

  Kim nods. ‘They’ll be fine – they’re pretty fit already.’

  ‘Good. Let’s do it,’ Sunita says. ‘I miss it. I need to get going.’

  Pat and I look at each other gladly. ‘OK.’ We both grin. ‘Let’s do it. D’you want to start meeting regularly again?’

  ‘You’re all mad,’ Sheila decrees once more. But I realize that she’s still feeling a bit left out.

  ‘You know,’ I say to her, ‘you really don’t have to do this thing fast. You could basically walk round if you got going near the beginning. Some people look really unfit – and there’s others in all sorts of costumes. I don’t know how they don’t pass out.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be daft.’ Sheila waves a hand at us, but I sense she is being drawn in.

  ‘Yes,’ Pat says. ‘Go on, Sheila. Everyone at their own pace. It’s why we’re doing it that matters.’

  ‘You could come out to the park and practise with us,’ Kim says. ‘Us lot’ll have to do it later in the day if the kids are at school. Come on – be brave. Lion’s Breath!’

  Sheila picks up the plate of flapjacks and passes it round.

  ‘I might just think about it,’ she says. ‘Though I must be off my head.’

  Forty-Three

  Ian and I have been moving carefully round each other all week. Both of us avoid any difficult subjects. He’s been quiet, as if he’s dwelling on certain things, but not in an angry way. And I’m not angry with him either. I threw something into the ring at the wrong time, when he’s already not quite right in himself. Neither of us is – and it was probably a mad idea anyway.

  So we pretty much get back to what normal seems to be these days. He works a lot, I keep house, go to yoga, see Pat and the others.

  ‘I went into Sainsbury’s today to ask about jobs,’ I say to Ian on Thursday night, as we’re having tea.

  ‘Sainsbury’s?’ He gives me a puzzled look. ‘You do know you don’t have to work, don’t you? Not if you don’t want. I’m earning enough.’

  He’s still really old-fashioned like that, Ian is. Some men really resent having to earn all the money but I think Ian quite likes it. It makes him feel he’s doing what a bloke is supposed to do.

  ‘No, I know. But I feel I want to get out and do something. Going back to teaching would be too much – I know I just couldn’t hack it at the moment. But it’d be something, wouldn’t it. Maybe towards a holiday or something?’

  We both know I’m talking nonsense really. We’d saved up quite a bit in our ‘holiday of a lifetime’ fund to take Paul, and my trip to India certainly didn’t use all of it.

  ‘We could go away in the spring. Somewhere like Italy – look for your roots!’

  Ian laughs. ‘Yeah. Maybe.’

  Things feel easier. He’s pleased I’m home and I’m pleased too. Why rock the boat?

  ‘Carl all right?’ I ask, giving him the last portion of chicken.

  ‘Yeah.’ He polishes off what’s on his plate. ‘Got to hand it to him. He’s an opinionated so-and-so but he does a good job.’

  I look at him, full on, and ask carefully, ‘You OK, Ian? You know – with the counsellor and everything?’

  ‘Yeah. I think so.’ He seems embarrassed, but somehow a bit looser in himself. ‘Takes a while, I s’pose.’

  ‘Is he good, d’you think?’

  ‘Well, I’ve nothing to compare him with but he seems it, yeah. Can’t complain.’

  I lean over and take his hand. ‘D’you want to talk about any of it? I mean . . . I’ve been thinking a lot about you – you know, about losing your dad, and Paul. It’s a lot to cope with.’

  His face takes on a sad, vulnerable look and he squeezes my hand. Looking down at the table, he says, ‘Yeah, I’m starting to realize that. I’m just not . . .’ He shrugs and looks up at me, seeming embarrassed. I know this is well out of Ian’s comfort zone. ‘I’m just pretty rubbish at talking about things.’

  ‘Well, if you want to?’ I keep my eyes fixed on his, not wanting to close things down if he needs to talk. I feel very tender towards him because I know how difficult he finds things like this.

  ‘Yeah.’ He releases my hand then. ‘I will. I mean, when I can. It’s good to go into things. I’m beginning to realize that now.’

  I stack the plates, thinking that while he’s seeing a counsellor, while there’s some backup for him, I’d better tell him.

  I wait until the weekend, plan a nice Saturday night in. It’s a dark, overcast sort of day and I stay in while Ian is still working and put a pot of meat sauce on to simmer for hours, the smells of wine and oregano filtering through the house. Later I make a cheese sauce and assemble lasagne, his favourite. I toss a salad, open a bottle of Chianti and lay the table nicely, with a rose in a glass. And having done my best to be mamma at home, I prepare myself to talk to him and tell him, as gently and lovingly as I can, about the father he hardly knew.

  He comes in at five and sniffs the air.

  ‘Something smells tasty!’

  There’s a kind of energy about him as he comes through the door today. Usually after work he is tired and not conversational until he has eaten, and not always then. But today he seems lively, sort of nervous. I feel nervous myself, but I can’t see why he would.

  ‘Did you have a Mars bar on the way home or something?’ I tease, going to kiss him.

  ‘Ah – found out!’ He grins. He really seems . . . What? Happy? Excited about something. It’s hard to tell. ‘Yeah, I did. But I can still eat.’

  ‘It’s not ready yet anyway,’ I say, heading back to the kitchen. ‘It’s in the oven – half an hour at least. D’you want a cup of tea to take up?’

  ‘Hey – this is fantastic!’ he says, coming down later after getting showered and changed.

  I’ve put a cloth on the table and lit a candle. The red peppers and tomatoes gleam on a bed of lettuce and rocket.

  ‘What’s brought this on?’

  ‘Can’t I cook a nice meal for my beloved, hard-working husband?’ I say, teasing. Opening the oven, I see the lasagne has just reached golden, bubbling, cheese-topped perfection. Ian groans with pleasure when I bring it to the table.

  ‘Well, I’m not complaining.’

  ‘Pour us some wine, will you?’ I say, fetching the dressing for the salad.

  And so we sit and eat. It’s not often I hand it to myself with cooking, but this lasagne is flipping delicious.

  ‘Oh, my,’ Ian says, taking a mouthful and closing his eyes. ‘I see God.’

  I watch him tenderly. I have no intention of dumping the tragic facts he needs to know into the middle of the meal. I want to be able to sit next to him, while he is feeling loved, and tell him gently.

  But after a few mouthfuls he puts his fork down.

  ‘This is fantastic. Thanks, love.’ He looks down, and again I can see he is nervous. ‘And I’m sorry.’

  ‘What for?’ I’m really not sure what this is about.

  ‘I just – I want to say something to you. I’ve been thinking about it all week . . .’

  God, I think, what now?

  ‘I’m sorry – for what I said the other night. For being so negative. I was . . . Well, I behaved like a bit of a dick and I didn’t mean to.’

  ‘You mean about us volunteering
? Oh, it’s OK.’ I pick up my glass and take a warm, red sip. ‘Not one of my more realistic ideas, I know. Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘No, but I know it matters to you. All you’ve been doing, training and that. Going down to London – and I never even managed to get there . . .’

  ‘That was your mom, though.’

  ‘Yeah, it was. I really was going to come . . . I mean, when you first said it, I just thought – well, it seemed something just right off the screen for me. Do people even do that sort of thing? And me – I’m doing my thing, the business and all that. And it’s going well, but sometimes I think, that’s all I’ve ever done and when you’re running your own place it’s like you can’t do anything else. It feels like it’ll just go on that way for ever, ’cause you’re in charge of it. And sometimes, if I’m truthful, that makes me feel bloody depressed.’

  He pauses to take a sip of wine. ‘Umm – lovely.’

  ‘So what’re you saying?’ This is all a bit confusing.

  Ian sits for a minute, thinking, looking down at his plate as if he doesn’t want to say anything he’ll regret.

  ‘I think I’m saying . . .’ He hesitates as if he’s scared to commit to what he’s going to say. Then he looks up at me. ‘What you said made me think. The way I’ve been feeling lately – I can’t just go on like this. It’s not as if we need a lot of money, is it? Not now it’s just . . .’ Just the two of us. He doesn’t need to go on. He looks up at me. ‘We don’t even have a mortgage any more.’

  He drains his glass and reaches for the bottle.

  ‘It’s not that I hate work. I like it, in a way. But lately – I dunno. It’s like, I look at my life, look at the years ahead and think, Is this it? Is this all I’m ever going to do from now until the grave? And if I’m honest it doesn’t seem like much. I feel as if I need to get out and I don’t know where to begin, really.’

  ‘But what would you like to do?’ I ask cautiously. I’m really trying not to impose anything on him. He’s been a good worker, a good dad, never asked for much. He needs room to blossom like anyone else.

  ‘I dunno. I s’pose I’ve never given it much thought. I’ve never been adventurous like you. It’s just – what you were talking about . . .’ He looks bashful now, not sure how to say it. ‘Well, it’s something important, isn’t it?’

  I frown. ‘What about the business though?’

  Ian hesitates. ‘Well, the one over Moseley’s doing all right. And I reckon Carl could do everything that needs doing down here – for a bit. It’s not as if it’s for ever, is it?’

  And suddenly we are talking, animated, excited. It’s as if a door has sprung open, offering possibilities that I wouldn’t ever have expected from Ian. So much so that I can hardly believe it.

  And I start to try and tell him more of what it has meant to me. I tell him how I feel about what happened in Bhopal, the anger and horror. The way big companies can lie and damage and get away with it again and again.

  Ian listens closely. ‘But do they really need us to come?’ he says after a while.

  ‘Us?’ I find myself laughing. ‘No, of course not. Not us specifically, anyway. But they do like people to come, to see them and understand what happened. After all the crap they’ve had poured over them for thirty-plus years it must be nice to think that anyone cares. But I know it helped me. We can help a bit – we won’t make any real difference to anything, but maybe we can all help each other.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He gives a tired nod. After a moment he looks up and says, ‘Maybe. That’d be nice.’

  Later, we move through to the living room with a cup of coffee. It feels as if things are warm and close after talking for so long across the table. So why not now? I put both our mugs down on the table and sit beside him on the sofa.

  ‘Look, love.’ I turn myself sideways so I can face him. ‘There’s never going to be a good time to do this, but there’s something I need to tell you. That your mom wanted me to tell you – when I could.’

  When he looks back at me with those dark eyes, he does not seem all that surprised. As if there has been something he was waiting for.

  And gently, simply, I tell him what happened, about the horrific accident, the red-hot length of steel that changed his father into a damaged, traumatized man.

  ‘I know it’s a terrible thing – that your dad should take his own life and leave you behind like that,’ I finish. ‘But your mom said he would never, ever have done that if his brain had not been injured. He wasn’t the man she knew. What happened took her Tom away from her – and from you – even before he decided to end it.’

  Ian sits for a while, digesting this, resting his elbows on his thighs, hands clasped. After a time, he heaves a big, emotional sigh and sits up, rubbing his head with both hands as if this will help the information sink in.

  ‘I always knew there was something,’ he says finally. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t have guessed that, but there was something about the way she talked about him – or didn’t talk – about his death for all that time. It was like a kind of blank and I don’t even know how I picked up that he was supposed to have had a heart attack. I don’t think she ever actually said that. It was just somehow the way it was.’

  He slumps, puts his hand over his face and breaks down for a moment. And then the wave passes and he straightens up again.

  ‘Poor Mom. God.’

  ‘She was pregnant with Cynthia.’

  ‘And she never said – all this time.’ More tears run down his face.

  ‘She was ashamed, I think. Different times.’

  ‘Did anyone do anything?’ He looks at me. ‘Did they put it right? Was there – I mean, did she get any help or anything?’

  ‘No. I don’t think it occurred to her to ask. It was just like, that’s how it was in those days, I think. Maybe if she’d been more confident, or had some help . . . I don’t know. That place he was working for got away with murder – that was what killed him really.’

  Ian rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. ‘It’ll be a while before I can take all this in.’

  ‘Sorry.’ I put my arms round him. ‘Another thing.’

  ‘Yeah. But all the same – I’m glad I know.’

  He rests his head on my shoulder and we sit, rocking gently back and forth.

  Forty-Four

  IF I CAN DO IT, ANYONE CAN!

  January 2016

  A month of arrangements: emails to make sure that our coming to volunteer at Sambhavna is welcome. They seem keen to have Ian’s technical know-how. For me there will be work with the children, and perhaps in the garden. I am happy to help in any way I can. And there are tickets to sort out, visas, jabs for Ian.

  The others have started running again minus Hayley, who is immersed in her classes at the uni. Sunita is now fully in charge. And for the time being, I am running with them. It seems a good idea to be as fit as possible to go to India.

  ‘Does this mean you’ll miss the London 10K?’ Sunita says, slightly huffily, one morning as we jog along.

  ‘I don’t know. It depends how long we stay,’ I tell her.

  ‘July? That’s months away. You’ll be back before then. You won’t be able to stand it there – it will be hot as hell.’

  This may be true, but I just don’t know. We don’t have a return date at present.

  As well as organizing us, Sunita has now set up another women’s running club in the Hollywood–Wythall area. Its logo, ‘If I Can Do It, Anyone Can!’ is embroidered across the brow of her yellow baseball cap. She is organizing ladies into groups of abilities, making rotas. She has had club T-shirts designed – also bright yellow, for visibility, she says. Now and then I come across small clusters of them staggering along the pavements, their expressions varying from valiantly cheerful to desperate.

  ‘All we women need to make the best use of our bodies!’ she instructs them. She’s obviously having the time of her life.

  ‘If not this year,’ I tell her, ‘definitely next,
OK?’

  Amid the excitement, the feeling that Ian and I are really doing something together at last, inside I feel agonizingly torn. We are going away for some months, probably – and leaving Paul. My feelings, my heart, are stuck to that sweet, silent rectangle of ground in the cemetery. Ten days was one thing, with Ian still here – but this time we don’t even know when we are coming back.

  I know both of us feel it. It’s as if something in me is being stretched away but without being released, as if I am being pulled back constantly. I feel guilty and anything but free.

  ‘I know it’s silly in a way,’ I confide in Pat. She’s round at ours, both of us drinking coffee at the table.

  ‘It’s not silly,’ she says gently. ‘It’s just how it is. All that time I didn’t know where they had buried Becky, it was as if . . . I don’t know. As if I just couldn’t settle. It was a bit like having a part of yourself lost and floating about somewhere and I’d let her down by not taking care of her.’

  Her eyes fill and, undramatically, she wipes them.

  ‘Look, I can go,’ she says, looking across at me. ‘I’ll look after him for you. Becky’s in there too – she was buried with someone else who died that week. We have a little stone for her now. I’ll go as often as I can, OK?’

  ‘Oh, Pat.’ Now I’m the one filling up. ‘That would be so good, knowing you’re doing that. There’s no one else I can ask really. My mom and dad – well, they wouldn’t. And they live quite a way away. And would you mind looking in on my mother-in-law now and again?’

  ‘Course I will,’ she says. ‘I might even persuade Fred to come and see his mom as well.’

  ‘Has he recovered from you being away?’ I ask, grinning.

  ‘He’s fine,’ she says, in her calm way which suggests that however daft Fred can be he’s her man and he’ll always sort himself out in the end. ‘He’s hell bent on buying a campervan and taking off to France – maybe even Spain.’ She smiles. ‘So what’s not to like?’

  And so we part, for the time being, with our new friends. They’ve come to mean a lot to me over the months, these women, and I feel a tug of sorrow at going. But we’ll be back. And I’m sure I’ll be running around the paths of Hollywood again, with our Hollywood-Bollywood songs and Sunita bossing us all about.