Peacock Emporium

by Jojo Moyes

  She thought about the bottom drawer of the rather horrid pine chest that Suzanna had as her cot, the drying nappies draped around their room, the landlady’s repeated threats of eviction. Of Tony’s despair at his inability to find another job.

  It was better this way.

  ‘Douglas, you wouldn’t be a darling and order me some more ciggies, would you?’ she said, mustering a smile. ‘I seem to be out of change.’

  When the waiter had returned with them, he had left Douglas’s change on the table, and she had stared at it, conscious that she could keep them fed with that money for several days. Or pay for a bath. A really hot bath, with a few bubbles thrown in. She stared at the money, thinking of a time, not so long ago, when she would not have noticed it, when that small amount would have been irrelevant. Just like her coat, her shoes, a new hat would have been irrelevant: easy come, easily replaceable. She stared at it, and then at Douglas, realising that there was another answer to her problems, which she had not yet considered. He was a handsome man, after all. And it was obvious he still cared for her – even their short telephone conversation had told her that. Tony would survive without her. He would survive without anyone.

  ‘Why did you call?’

  ‘Aren’t I allowed to speak to you any more?’ she said gaily.

  She had looked – really looked – at him then, at the hurt and desperation on his face. At the love. Even after everything she had done. And she knew why she could never do the thing that would solve everything at a stroke.

  ‘Don’t “darling” me, Athene. I can’t do this. I really can’t. I need to know why you’re here.’

  He was angry now, his face colouring. She tried to focus on what he was saying, but she had become aware of a jangling vibration within her, tuned to some invisible maternal frequency. And she lost the thread of the conversation.

  ‘You know, it’s lovely to see you looking so well,’ she said bravely, wondering whether she should just get up and go. She could run now, snatch Suzanna from the horrid old pram and disappear. Nobody would have to know. They could go to Brighton, perhaps. Borrow the money and go abroad. To Italy. They loved babies in Italy. Her voice emerged from her mouth, as if it belonged to someone else, as her thoughts scrambled in her head: ‘You always did look marvellous in that suit.’

  She could hear Suzanna now, in the distance, making everything else irrelevant.

  ‘Athene!’ he protested.

  And then the fat girl was there, standing in front of her with her insolent face, taking in the lack of a wedding ring, the untouched meal in front of her. ‘I’m sorry, madam,’ she said, ‘but your baby’s crying. You’ll have to come and get her.’

  Afterwards, she found she could remember little of the next minutes. She vaguely remembered Douglas’s shocked face, the colour draining from it almost as she watched; she remembered being handed Suzanna and realising as she held her, for what she knew to be the last time, that she could no longer look at her face. Suzanna, perhaps with some terrible foreboding of her own, had been fretting, and Athene had been glad of the need to jiggle her – it disguised the compulsive trembling of her own hands.

  Then the bit that she wished she could forget, the bit that would haunt her waking moments, her dreams, that would leave her arms empty, a child-sized hole next to her heart.

  Almost unable to believe she was doing it, Athene Fairley-Hulme took the child she loved with a pure uncomplicated passion of which she had not believed herself capable, and thrust her small, soft weight, her blanket-wrapped limbs, at the man opposite.

  ‘Athene, I can’t believe you—’

  ‘Please, please, Douglas, dear. I can’t explain. Really.’ Her words were like lead in her mouth, her now-empty hands a poisonous betrayal.

  ‘You can’t just leave me with a baby—’

  ‘You’ll love her.’ He held her carefully, she noted, with a faint, piercing gratitude. She had known he would. Oh, God, forgive me for this, she said silently, and wondered, briefly, if she might faint.

  ‘Athene, I can’t just—’

  She felt the dim panic then, that he might refuse. There was no alternative. Tony had told her so, many times.

  She had made her bed.

  She placed her hand on his arm, trying to convey everything in one pleading look. ‘Douglas, darling, have I ever asked you for anything? Really?’

  He had gazed back at her then, his faltering confusion, the brief nakedness of his expression telling her she had him. That he would care for her. Love her, as he, in his own childhood, had been loved. It’s better this way, she told herself silently. It’s better this way. As if by saying it enough times she could make herself believe it. She forced herself to stand then, and began to walk, trying to stop herself falling over, trying to keep her head up. Trying to keep her mind blank so that she didn’t have to think about what was behind her, just focusing on making one foot move in front of the other, as the sounds of the restaurant receded into nothingness. She had wanted to leave her something, anything. A small sign that she had been loved. But they had nothing. Everything had been sold for the simple necessity of eating.

  Bye-bye, darling, she said silently, as the restaurant door loomed closer, her heels echoing on the tiled floor. I will come back for you, when things are better. Promise.

  It was better this way.

  ‘Don’t you even want to say goodbye?’ His voice came from behind her. And Athene, feeling the last of her resolve begin to crumble, fled.

  It was the strangest thing, the cloakroom girl said to the wine waiter afterwards. That snobby girl, the one with dark hair, had walked round the corner, sat down on the pavement and cried as if her heart would break. She had seen her when she went out for a breather. All crumpled up against the wall, howling like a dog, not even caring who saw her.

  ‘I’d cheer her up,’ said the wine waiter, with a lascivious wink, and the cloakroom girl shook her head with mock despair and turned back to her coats.

  When she returned Tony was lying on the bed. It was not surprising, although it was only late afternoon: there was nowhere to sit in the little room. They had asked for a chair, thinking they could squeeze one next to the window, but the landlady had said that as they were already two weeks behind on their rent, and one more in number than they had originally said, she was hardly going to start giving them extras, was she?

  Athene opened the door. He startled, as if he had been asleep, and pushed himself into an upright position, blinking as he scanned her face. The room smelt musty: they hadn’t had the money to take the sheets to the launderette for several weeks, and the window didn’t open enough to air it properly. She watched as he rubbed at his hair with his broad, even hands.

  ‘Well?’ he said.

  She couldn’t speak. She walked towards the bed, not bothering to move the newspaper from the crumpled candlewick bedspread, and lay down, her back to him, her shoes slipping from her bloodied heels.

  He placed his hand on her shoulder, squeezed it hesitantly. ‘You okay?’

  She said nothing. She stared at the wall opposite, at the green flock wallpaper that had started to peel from the skirting, at the bar heater they didn’t have the coins to feed, at the chest of drawers, the bottom one padded with Athene’s old jumpers, lined with her one silk blouse, the softest thing she could think of to lay next to Suzanna’s skin.

  ‘You did the right thing, you know,’ Tony murmured. ‘I know it’s hard, but you did the right thing.’

  She didn’t think she would ever be able to lift her head from the pillow again. She felt so tired, as if she had never previously understood what tiredness was.

  She was dimly aware of Tony kissing her ear. Her reticence had made him needy. ‘Sweetheart?’ She could not respond. ‘Sweetheart?’ he said again.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered. She could think of nothing else to say.

  ‘I’ve been looking at jobs,’ he said, as if trying to offer something good, trying to keep his side of the bargain
. ‘There’s a firm in Stanmore looking for salesmen. Commission and bonuses. I thought I’d give them a ring later. You never know, eh?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Things will get better, Thene. Really. I’ll make sure of it.’

  She would be almost back at Dere Hampton by now, if he had taken the train. Douglas would have struggled with that pram in the same way she had. She could picture him now, demanding that the guard helped him lift it in, wrestling with the hood, the oversized handle. Then, inside the carriage, leaning in to check that the baby was okay. Leaning in, dressed in his smart wool suit, gentle concern on his face. Please don’t let her cry too much without me, she thought, and a large, solitary tear trickled down her cheek towards the pillow.

  ‘She’ll be better off with him. You know that.’ Tony was stroking her cold, white arm, as if that might comfort her. She heard his voice in her ear, urgent, persuasive, yet distant. ‘We could never cope with two, not in here. We can barely afford to feed ourselves . . . Athene?’ he said, when the silence became too much for him.

  She lay on the crumpled classified ads, her face cool against the stale cotton pillow, still staring at the door. ‘No,’ she said.

  Athene lay on the bed for four days and nights, not leaving the little bedsit, weeping helplessly, refusing to eat or speak, her eyes unnervingly open, until on the fifth day, fearful for her health, if not her state of mind, Tony took matters into his own hands and called the doctor. The landlady, who enjoyed a bit of drama, stood on the upper landing as the doctor arrived, and proclaimed noisily that she had a respectable house, clean and proper. ‘There’s no disease in this place,’ she said. ‘Nothing unclean.’ She was peering round the door, hoping to get some indication of what was wrong with the girl.

  ‘I’m sure,’ said the doctor, eyeing the sticky hall carpet with distaste.

  ‘I’ve never had an unmarried before,’ she said, ‘and this’ll be the last. I can’t be doing with the inconvenience of it.’

  ‘She’s in here,’ Tony said.

  ‘I don’t want anything infectious in my establishment,’ the woman called excitedly. ‘I’ll want to be told if there’s anything infectious.’

  ‘Not unless a big gob is infectious,’ the young man muttered, and shut the door.

  The doctor eyed the little room with its damp walls and grimy windows, wrinkling his nose at the stale, tidemarked bucket of soaking laundry in the corner, wondering how many people in this district routinely lived in habitation more suited to animals. He listened to the young man’s hurried explanation, then addressed the woman on the bed.

  ‘Any pain anywhere?’ he said, peeling back the covers to knead the belly that was just beginning to swell. When she replied, he was a little surprised to hear her cut-glass accent after this bluff northerner’s. But that was the way things were going these days. The so-called classless society.

  ‘Any problems with your waterworks? Sore throat? Stomach ache?’

  The examination didn’t take long: there was plainly no physical problem. He diagnosed depression, unsurprising when you considered the circumstances in which she was living. ‘A lot of women get a bit hysterical during pregnancy,’ he said to the young man, as he closed his case. ‘Just try to keep her calm. Maybe take her for a walk in the park. Be good for her to get some fresh air. I’ll write you a prescription for some iron tablets. See if you can get some colour in her cheeks.’

  The young man saw him out, then stood at the door of the little room, his hands thrust uncomfortably into his pockets, patently out of his depth. ‘But what do I do?’ he kept saying. ‘She doesn’t seem to be listening to me.’

  The doctor followed the young man’s anxious gaze to the bed, where the girl had fallen asleep. He had a suspected TB at number forty-seven, a bedsore dressing, and Mrs Baker’s bunions left over from yesterday and, sympathetic as he was, he couldn’t waste any more time here. ‘Some women find motherhood a bit harder than others,’ he said, placed his hat firmly on his head and left.

  ‘But I was told my mother died in childbirth,’ Suzanna had said, when Vivi had told her what she knew of her mother’s last days. It had been another reason for her own reservations about being a mother.

  ‘She did, dear.’ Vivi had taken her hand, a gentle, maternal gesture. ‘Just not yours.’

  Twenty-Nine

  My daughter was born on the night of the power cuts, the day that the whole hospital, and half the city, was plunged into darkness. I like to think it was portentous now: that her arrival in this world was so important it had to be marked by something. Outside, the lights had disappeared, room by room, building by building, dissolving their way across town like bubbles in champagne, as we sped by in our car until the night sky met us at the hospital gates.

  I had laughed hysterically between the contractions, so that the thick-jawed midwife, who couldn’t understand what I was saying, thought there might be something wrong with me. I couldn’t explain. I was laughing because I had wanted to have her at home and he had said I couldn’t, that he couldn’t stand the risk of something happening. It was one of the few things we have ever disagreed about. So there we were, him apologising and me laughing and gasping in the entrance, as nurses shrieked and swore, and the walking wounded collided in the dark.

  I don’t know why I laughed so much. They said afterwards that they had never known someone laugh like that in labour, not without the benefit of Entonox. Perhaps I was hysterical. Perhaps the whole thing was just so unbelievable that I couldn’t accept it was happening. Perhaps I was even a little afraid, but I find that hard to believe. I am not afraid of much, these days.

  I didn’t laugh so much once it got really painful. Then I chewed on the mouthpiece for the gas and air, and shouted, outraged and betrayed that no one had warned me it could feel like this. I don’t remember the last part; it became a blur, of pain and sweat and hands and encouraging voices urging me in the dim light to bear down, to go on, telling me that I could do it.

  But I knew I could do it. In spite of the pain, the strange and shocking sensation that heralded the birth, I didn’t need their encouragement. I knew I could push that baby out. Even if there had been no one there but me. And as I stared down my naked torso in our final minutes as one, my hands white-knuckled as they gripped the sheets, she slid out with something of the same determination, the same confidence in her own abilities, her arms already raised as if in victory.

  He was there to meet her. I don’t know how, I don’t think I had seen him move. I had made him promise beforehand that he wouldn’t stand there, that he would not spoil his romantic view of me. He had laughed, and told me I was ridiculous. So he was there when she breathed her first in this world, and even in the dim light I could see tears glistening on his cheeks, as he cut the cord and lifted her, holding her up to the candlelight so that I could see her, believe in her too.

  And the midwife, who I think had planned to see to her, stood back while he held her, kissing her face tenderly, wiped the blood from her limbs, her dark hair, all the while crooning a love song I didn’t understand. He spoke her name, the name we had agreed: Veronica de Marenas. And, as if by magic, the lights began to go on again, illuminating the city, district by district, thrusting the quiet streets back into light. When they came on in our little room, harsh and bright, the midwife moved briskly to the switch and turned them off. There was a beauty in our darkness, a magic in our half-lit room, that even she could see.

  As that woman cleaned me up, both brusque and tender, I watched my husband and my daughter move around the little room, their faces lit by the candles, and finally began to cry. I don’t know why: exhaustion, perhaps, or the emotion of it all. Disbelief that I could produce this perfect, beautiful little girl from my own body, that I could be the unwitting creator of such joy.

  ‘Don’t cry, amor,’ Alejandro said, beside me, his own voice still choked with tears. He had moved to the side of the bed. Hesitating, he gazed at her, then leant over and handed he
r gently to me. Even as his eyes filled with love, his hands moved slowly, as if he was reluctant to let go. And as she looked up at us, blinking in that wise, unknowing way, he hugged me close to him, so that we were all enclosed in a single embrace. ‘There is nothing to cry for. She will be loved.’

  His words cut through everything then, left no dark corners, as they do still.

  She will be loved.

  About the author

  Jojo Moyes was born in 1969 and was brought up in London. A journalist and writer, she worked for the Independent newspaper until 2001. She lives in East Anglia with her husband and three children. She is the author of Sheltering Rain, Foreign Fruit, which won the RNA Novel of the Year award for 2003, The Peacock Emporium and The Ship of Brides, shortlisted for the 2005 RNA award.

  Table of Contents

  The Peacock Emporium

  Also by Jojo Moyes

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Part Two