I Couldn't Love You More

by Esther Freud

  ‘Emergency.’ It is a woman who has answered. ‘What service do you require?’

  ‘Kate!’ Matt has scrambled to his knees.

  ‘Fire, police or ambulance? Hello?’ a voice insists, but Matt is waving to me, mouthing, and I run back along the hall and there, under my work table, on a bed of paper leaves, is Freya.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I whisper into the receiver. ‘She’s been found.’

  We stand together and stare in at our sleeping child. A sob breaks out of me, and Matt holds me as I cry.

  That night we embark on a long, slow conversation. I kiss him and he bites my neck, and I hold him hard inside me. Once we have our rhythm, my eyes close, and I follow the sweet seam of our fucking, keeping to the thread of it, grateful to be here, with him, and not, as so often, outside my hollow body. Tonight, of all nights, I can’t risk being alone, and so with every effort I travel with him, moving, moaning, fixing our two selves together until we reach a peak.

  It’s the early hours of the morning when the doorbell rings. ‘What the hell . . . ?’ Matt pulls a pillow over his head, but when I reach for the clock I see it’s seven thirty.

  ‘Hello,’ I greet Beck, fingers combing out my hair. ‘Come in. I’ll just . . .’ I’m not fooling anyone. ‘I’m going to need ten minutes.’ I lead him into the kitchen and watch as his eyes flick round the room: the cookbooks, Freya’s first school photograph, a picture of Matt with his guitar. He lifts down my postcard of Lichtman’s The Secret. ‘Is this you?’ He stares at the girl’s stone curves.

  ‘Muuuum.’ It was only a matter of time, and pointing out the tea, the milk, the mugs, I leave him there and run upstairs.

  Together we stand in the bathroom and brush our teeth, and I tell Freya how we’re going to take the tree stencil and spray it on a wall. She can help hold the ladder. I don’t mention Beck, waiting downstairs, only introduce him, casually, when we find him making breakfast. ‘Would you like your egg sunny side up?’ He cracks a shell against the side of a pan, and too surprised to ask what that might mean, Freya sits at the table and picks up her fork. I sit beside her, and lift my own fork, laughing at the unfamiliarity of being served.

  ‘You and your mum,’ Beck says as he slides the food on to our plates, ‘you’re two peas in a pod.’ Freya looks at me, and I at her, and we examine each other’s faces. ‘Yes,’ I’m happy to agree, although it’s not entirely true. She has Matthew in the sweet round of her chin, and there are hints at mysterious others in the fierce blue of her stare.

  ‘Beck,’ I say as I glance at the clock, ‘I really am so sorry,’ and I remember agreeing to start early so he could get on with the rest of his day.

  ‘No worries.’ He has ignored the dusty box of teabags and brewed a pot of coffee. He pours me a cup.

  I leave our breakfast plates stacked in the sink and we load the boards into the van. The paper is still attached, and as we inch them through the house, Beck in the lead, Freya unhelpful in the middle, I catch the shadow of myself the night before, desperate.

  ‘One minute,’ I say, once we’re settled in the van, and I run back into the house. ‘Matt.’ I nudge the pillow.

  His voice comes muffled. ‘I’m going into work to put up the . . .’ It’s pointless to explain. ‘I’m taking Freya.’ That is the important part, and although he doesn’t stir I lean down and imprint it in his ear. ‘I’ve got her.’ It’s all he needs to know.

  Aoife

  AOIFE WALKED ALONG ST PATRICK STREET, HER HAIR NEWLY set, her handbag swinging. If she chose carefully she could wear the outfit again, in September for her own Silver Wedding, and she caught herself – making do, even after twenty-five years, for the sake of Mavis. Aoife pushed through the door of the department store, and stopped for a minute to savour the smell. Luxury. She breathed it in, and as she made her way to Ladies’ Fashion, an old rhyme of her mother’s floated up.

  I’ll buy my baby stockings

  I’ll buy my baby shoes

  I’ll buy my baby stockings

  And I’ll send her off to school

  She was the doll in Cash’s window . . .

  Not that her mother had ever ventured into such a fancy shop; a year might pass without her coming into Cork at all, and Aoife was lucky to have shoes, even if they were her brothers’, handed down.

  ‘Can I help you today?’ There was a girl beside her, with the new style for false lashes. ‘Thank you.’ Aoife fished a suit off the rail: neat jacket, narrow skirt, in bright bold check. ‘This might be just what I’m after.’ She took it into the changing room, appraising herself in the mirror as she slipped it on, allowing a smile as the zip slid snugly over her hip, the button fastened at her waist. And aren’t I still the same size as when I married? She gave a little shimmy – not like Mavis, who never went back after the first baby, and after the second . . . Aoife crossed herself. There was a sharp voice in her head today, may God forgive her, and she knew it was only luck, her skinniness; she’d got it from her father, never a pick on him, whatever he ate.

  ‘You look only gorgeous, and that’s the truth.’ The young assistant was admiring when she stepped out from behind the curtain, and Aoife forgave her spidery eyes. She did look fine, and wouldn’t Cash be proud, and wouldn’t Mavis be that little bit envious?

  She paid with a roll of notes, money from the milk, and walked out with the big boxy cardboard bag, its tissue paper rustling, but even by the time she was home her faith in the suit was gone. The bag sat in the corner of the room. She eyed it from the bed, but she couldn’t bring herself to unpack it. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me what I’ve gone and bought?’ But it wasn’t Cash she’d bought the suit for, it wasn’t even Mavis. It was Rosaleen, and Rosaleen wouldn’t be there. She wouldn’t be at the celebrations, she couldn’t be at the house, and even if Aoife scanned the streets of Ilford, she’d not find her. Her only chance was to slip away from the party, search for that flat in Chelsea, for which she never did have an address, or, if she could bring herself to do it, traipse through Soho. Hadn’t Angela said they’d had a drink on Greek Street at the Coach and Horses? She’d look up the number, wait for the landlord to answer as she’d answered herself, always a woman at the other end: Is my husband there? Sorry to ask. There’d be the sound of squalling babies, the swallow of pride, and she’d nod to your man, sitting at the bar, and when he’d shake his head, she’d recite the well-worn phrase: If he comes in, shall I tell him you were asking?

  ‘It’s not right.’ Aoife passed the suit over to the same girl who had admired it, and she searched the rails until she found another, beige with a black trim. ‘That looks very smart.’ This time there was no smile between them, and when the suit cost half as much and she left, her purse fat with the refunded money, she’d felt none the richer.

  That night she modelled it for Cash. ‘Very nice.’ He had his glasses on, a copy of the paper propped against his knees. ‘Indeed.’ He yawned and went back to his reading.

  IT WAS ALMOST FOUR YEARS since they’d visited London. There’d been no reason for it once they’d let go of the pub. The scale of the place amazed her, grand and substantial, and hadn’t the two of them flown in on a plane! They’d both been terrified, Cash squeezing her hand so tight he nearly crushed it, her stomach fluttery, grateful for the air hostess walking along the aisle with a basket of sweets.

  They travelled into the city by coach, and out again by train to Ilford, and every time they saw a foreigner, Cash nudged her: That’s why we got out. Aoife pressed his arm and looked away. No one wanted trouble. Not when they were celebrating twenty-five years. As they neared, Aoife took out her compact. She patted on a layer of powder and checked her teeth for lipstick, and then she leant over and straightened Cash’s tie. They made a handsome couple, they always had, even with Cash’s moustache stained yellow with tobacco, and his hair clinging on above the ears, but he was strong, and ruddy from outdoors, and his eyes when he chose to use them still flashed green.

  The whole fam
ily were at Mavis’s when they arrived. Bob and the two boys – John had a fiancée! And wasn’t Francis doing well. There was Joan and her gang, and Doris back from the United States with the GI husband she’d met during the war, and a daughter tall as a man.

  Mavis had a tea urn, she must have borrowed it, and three types of biscuits, none of them home-made. They squeezed out into the patch of garden, where they waited in the sunshine with their saucers. ‘And how is Angela?’ That’s the news that everyone wanted to know. ‘How is the baby?’ The look on their faces when Aoife told them she was expecting another.

  A grandmother! She was the first, and she stood in the huddle of her in-laws, holding her breath for the moment when she’d be questioned about Rosaleen. But no one said a word. Not until later, not till the cricket club reception when Doris came and sat beside her. She’d adopted an American twang and her attitude was forthright, and without a blush or stammer she asked if she and Cash hadn’t thought to hire a detective. ‘People don’t just disappear,’ she told her. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t been in touch with the police.’

  Aoife couldn’t think how to reply, so instead she picked herself up and walked around the edge of the room until she found the first spare man, who happened to be Bob. She took his hand and led him on to the dance floor, and she danced with him, her silent brother-in-law, until the music and the steps had cleared her head. She danced until the night was done, until the last drinks were drunk, and the slow couples hung around each other’s necks; she danced until Cash came for her. ‘We need to find her,’ she whispered into the damp collar of his shirt, ‘it’s been long enough,’ and he held her by the shoulders and looked into her face. ‘She’s made her bed’ – his eyes were hard, two bottle ends of gin – ‘now she must lie on it.’ He swayed her stiff body to the last refrains of the band.

  Rosaleen

  ‘THIS IS WHERE THE DEAD BABIES ARE BURIED. HERE, UNDER OUR feet.’ Carmel looked down at the dense green of the grass. They were standing in the garden of the chapel, its stone walls a shelter from the wind. ‘You see—’ She pointed, and there against the wall dark crosses hovered.

  Rosaleen shivered. ‘Do many of them die?’

  Carmel didn’t know.

  ‘And the mothers?’ They looked at each other in fear.

  To one side of the graveyard was a statue of Jesus. He stood on a small mound, his arm raised in benediction; his robe, his hair, his beard, carved in intricate detail. He’d been formed from some white stone – not marble, she was sure of it – and Rosaleen thought how on their last evening she’d bent to her own statue’s naked form and asked that it keep Felix company while she was away.

  ‘Girls!’ It was a nun, calling from the gate. ‘Have you no work to do?’

  ‘We’re only after paying our respects.’ Carmel dipped her head, but as they hurried back over the grass Rosaleen saw that there were names on the crosses. Mother Genevieve, Sister Eustrella. It was not reserved for babies at all.

  Rosaleen was on mopping duty. She took a bucket from the hall and carried it the length of the corridor. From here she worked backwards, dunking the mop head into water, swishing and swiping, smoothing it over the already spotless floor. It was this corridor along which Mikey had been carried. Irene had held him, his face pressed against her cheek. ‘Why don’t they slip the child away?’ Rosaleen had clutched at Carmel. ‘It would be easier on them both.’ And Carmel had hissed back that this was the tradition, there was no breaking with it, not for anyone, not even if you came up with the hundred pounds. ‘Dada,’ the baby had gurgled, and Rosaleen wondered where the father was. Did he ever stop to think what might have happened to Irene? Did he even know? ‘Dada.’ Mikey clapped his hands, and one girl gave an unearthly groan and covered her mouth.

  At the far end of the hallway was a door and, before it, Sister waiting. They’d watched as Irene moved along the corridor. Her steps were heavy, her neck mottled red. Every breath was held as she passed by. They all knew the door led to the outside. As she approached, the nun reached out her arms.

  ‘No!’ Irene tightened her grip, but Sister was practised. She swooped round in a flap of white, and all Rosaleen saw was the child’s frozen face, eyes, arms, empty, and Irene, fallen to the floor.

  Rosaleen wrung out her mop. It’s super being a single mum. She fought to remember the details of the story, but the article was tucked into an envelope, packed into her case, and her case was in the care of the nuns. Without the support of my father . . . That was it.

  Rosaleen continued mopping, and when she reached the front hall, there was Maisie, on her knees. She had a brush and a bar of Sunlight soap, and her hands were swollen from the suds. When each section was done she took a square of blanket, ripped along its length, and using the threadbare strip she rubbed a shine into the wood. This was her second time, impregnated – or so they said – by the same man on her release. ‘Hello.’ Rosaleen stood above her, but Maisie didn’t look up.

  That evening Rosaleen knelt beside her bed and, stretching an arm into the far corner, she eased out her coat. ‘Watch out, or they’ll have that off you.’ Carmel looked anxious.

  Rosaleen checked the pockets. There was her return ticket and her nana’s ring.

  ‘They left me nothing except my Bible.’ Carmel was working on another letter.

  ‘How do you even send the letters out?’ Rosaleen asked, and Carmel whispered that the farm girls took them when they pedalled into market with the eggs. They’d post anything in exchange for a breakfast.

  Rosaleen’s stomach cramped at the thought of the lost bread and margarine. ‘Do they let you at least drink a cup of tea?’

  ‘They do.’

  Rosaleen pushed the coat back out of sight. There must be someone she could write to, and she wondered, if she addressed a letter to the French pub – the York Minster as it was officially known – would the landlord pass it on?

  Dear Anastasia – Rosaleen knew she’d brand her half-witted for not sorting things out when there was time.

  If you could find a way of sending me a postal order for £100 I’d be most terrifically grateful. I know it’s an awfully large sum, but I will repay you even if it takes five years, which it won’t. Please, on no account, mention this to anyone. I’m sure you understand.

  The next morning, in the slither of time before Mass, she wrote it out, and adding the name of the convent – Sacred Heart, Bessborough. Blackrock, Cork – she signed it.

  Yours, in need, Rosaleen Kelly.

  It was hard lasting until lunch on a milky gulp of tea, and she’d reckoned without window-cleaning duty. She was working with Marie and a new girl, Fiametta – making their way around the back of the home, staring into a small sitting room where a cluster of nuns had discarded their shoes and were toasting their toes against the bars of an electric fire.

  ‘Will you look at that?’ They pressed their faces to the glass. There was a brown teapot, milk in a white jug. A sponge cake, a quarter of it sliced.

  ‘I can taste the jam.’

  ‘Raspberry,’ Fiametta sighed.

  ‘Strawberry. It’s my favourite.’ Marie’s breath clouded the pane.

  Rosaleen’s stomach squeezed and clenched. She gripped Marie’s shoulder, and with her help she clambered to the ground.

  ‘Is it the baby?’ Fiametta was alarmed.

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ Rosaleen insisted. ‘If there was a glass of water?’

  Fiametta risked a scolding by trudging round to the back hall and fetching her a cup from the boot-room sink. The water helped. It fooled her into fullness, and she struggled on till lunch.

  That night Rosaleen looked with new-found admiration at Carmel as she slipped off her pinafore for bed.

  ‘If the letter runs to two pages you have to give an egg,’ she told her. ‘But it’s worth it, to have my ma know I’m doing well.’ She sniffed and tugged sharp at the straggle ends of her hair. ‘What’ll I say when I get there?’

  ‘Get where?’<
br />
  ‘To London. It’s not long now and I’ll be heading over.’

  What could she tell them? ‘There’s a rose garden at Regent’s Park. The Royal Albert Hall is round. There are boats to take you up and down the Thames.’

  ‘Where will I live?’

  ‘Brixton. You can stay with my friend Michele. She lives by the market. The Granville Arcade – there’s nothing you can’t get there. Vegetables shipped from the West Indies. Bananas, mango, jackfruit, yams.’ Rosaleen was pushing through the crowds, racks of meat swinging, bright cloths unfolding from their rolls. ‘Underwear, sweets, toys. When the sun shines, the girls, they jive on the pavement . . . Michele will take you. Saturday. That’s when they play music.’

  Carmel had her thumb in her mouth.

  ‘There’s a coffee bar, that’s where we used to go. In Soho.’

  ‘A coffee bar!’

  ‘It’s an Italian place.’

  ‘They’ll want to be hiring their own, I suppose.’

  ‘You’d be better off in Kilburn, for a job.’

  ‘That’s it. Kilburn.’

  ‘There are hardware shops. Nothing you can’t get. Caffs on every corner, egg and chips. A bakery that sells iced buns.’ Rosaleen had to remind herself that for the next three years Carmel would be staying here.

  The following day Rosaleen was back out on the lawn, crawling forward over the grass, her breasts heavy as they rubbed against coarse cloth. Already she regretted the letter. Dear Anastasia: her face burned as she imagined the circle of Felix’s friends, the artist, who for all she knew may be in possession of a fortune, gloating over the request. Maybe there were others she could try. Dear . . . She frowned away the names of her parents, turned her face from Angela who’d stop at nothing to release her, Teresa who couldn’t afford rent. And then she remembered: even with the money, the nuns wouldn’t let you take your baby out.