Alice paused. Before I die. That was what she meant, wasn’t it? How come she couldn’t write it down? She smiled to herself. Seventy-six was a bit late to learn about being tactful. She was beginning to get tired now, and her fingers were sore from gripping the pen too hard, but the need to go on was stronger than the need to rest.
The young doctor I saw today couldn’t tell me how much time I’ve got left, of course, nobody can, but I have a strong sense myself that I haven’t long. She said I’ve been suffering from a series of tiny little strokes – I can’t remember exactly the name she used, some long, Latin-sounding words. I had already suspected as much myself; what she told me was no surprise. Things have been strange, lately – confused and shadowy at times. James knows there’s something up, but I’ve been able to fob him off – you know how he fusses at the best of times. I don’t want to be made to feel old and helpless before my time. Growing older has never really frightened me all that much, at least not in recent years. I was more afraid of it when I was your age – the thought of being stooped and faded used to terrify me. But I’ve grown more accepting lately, and have even managed to forget about age altogether. Recently, when I’ve looked in the mirror, I’ve been startled to see the old, lined face that looks back at me. Sometimes, I wonder if it’s really me. Inside, I feel much younger; I don’t feel as though I’ve changed at all and it’s been strange, looking out through my own eyes, not to recognize myself. It’s the thought of losing my grip on reality that really terrifies me, not the number of years on my next birthday.
I’m going to tell you something now that no one else knows: I’m beginning to lose my words. The names of ordinary things escape me. Not only that, I’m starting to do peculiar things, to find myself in odd places. A week ago, I woke up, sitting on the bathroom floor. I was still in my nightdress, sitting with my back to the bath, with my sewing basket on my lap. I have no idea how I got there. The time before that, I woke up in your old bedroom, picking at old photos in an album of your dad’s. There have been other times, too, but I’ve gradually got used to these midnight wanderings. I never seem to place myself in any danger, or do myself any harm, at least not yet. It’s as though some sort of self-protection is at work, shielding me from myself.
Since I came back from the hospital this afternoon, I have felt surrounded by your childhood. The past seems much more appealing to me, now that my hold on the future has been made that bit looser. I’ve been trying to think back, to go beyond the pictures that I saw. I’ve been trying to remember times that were significant between you and me. And there is one day that stands out, that keeps drawing me back to it, again and again. Do you remember anything about your fifth birthday? The day we gave you the little green trike? This evening, when I came in from the garden, I began to wonder if that was when you and I began the long process of falling out. Let me tell you the story of that trike, as I remember it. I know that two people often have very different memories of the same event. I wonder what yours might be.
James had got his first two-wheeler for the Christmas before his tenth birthday. It wasn’t a new bike, by any means. Your dad had bought it from Tom McManus down the road, sometime in November. Do you remember the McManus boys? I do! They got everything new, they were allowed to stay up until midnight, they got ten-shilling notes for pocket-money every week and didn’t have to eat cabbage for dinner! They didn’t even have to do homework . . . Do you remember? They were the bane of my life. Anyway, Tom Senior was getting rid of his own bike – he was one of the first men on our street to own a car.
For weeks, late at night when both you and James were in bed, and whenever your dad had a spare minute, he sanded and filled all the rust spots on the bicycle-frame, painted it black, bought new tubes, a new saddle, a bell. He even stripped and painted the carrier at the back. He was a great maker and mender, your dad. When he was finished, the bike looked brand new, and James was thrilled with it. But what I really remember is your face when we gave it to him. You were so little, still only four, but you wanted a bike just the same as his. You hardly left him alone all over Christmas. Even though it was freezing cold, you demanded ‘backers’ all around the garden until poor James was exhausted! And I watched you as you begged your dad for a bike just like James’s. The doll and pram that Santa had brought you were forgotten – we got no peace until your dad promised to buy you a bike when your birthday came.
You were much too small for a proper two-wheeler, of course, but you couldn’t have known that. Money was tight after Christmas: there was very little work and your dad was down to a flat wage. So we had to cut our cloth to suit our measure. About six weeks before your birthday, your dad trawled all the junk shops in town, looking for a three-wheeler with a decent frame that would be right for you. You didn’t let him forget his promise, by the way – I don’t know how many times since Christmas you’d reminded him of the bike you wanted for your birthday. And he really wanted you to have it: he wanted you to have something of your own, something not handed down from James. In the event, just before your birthday, two things happened – he was laid off, and he couldn’t find a good second-hand trike anywhere. All this happened shortly before he went to work for Boyd and Sons: after that, he never looked back. Your dad had never been unemployed before, and he was deeply ashamed. He was also furious at himself, that he hadn’t seen it coming. He kept saying how useless he was, how old he was. He was pushing forty, and he felt no one would ever employ him again. He became very upset over not being able to buy you a proper birthday present. So, he took the old trike that had belonged to James, which had been hanging on the roof of the shed for years, and started to do it up for you. Talk about a labour of love.
He locked himself away as soon as you both went off to school, and worked in the shed all morning, every morning. I’ll never forget the amount of effort that went into that little trike. He even went and spent money on a little wicker carrier-basket for the front, and new rubber grips for the handlebars. The mudguards got at least three coats of paint – and I can’t remember what else. All I know is that every ounce of shame and disappointment at being unemployed went into that little three-wheeler; you’d call it therapy today. I had to button my lip; we were trying to get by as best we could, and there he was, spending money we didn’t have, locked away day after day in the shed, refusing to go out and look for work. I’m telling you this to try to explain how that whole birthday was for me. None of this was your fault, Elizabeth – I’m not telling you these things to upset you, or make you feel guilty – it’s all much too long ago. But can you understand how all the different strands got tangled up later on, on the day, and how explosive they all were?
Your dad called me out to the shed the night before your birthday, and showed me the trike for the first time. It was gleaming – he’d even resilvered the spokes. To be honest, I hardly recognized it. But you did. The minute you saw it on the following morning, your mouth turned down and you ran to the shed, yanking the door open. You pointed to exactly where it had been hanging, and I remember just what you said: ‘That’s the old bike! I don’t want a old bike! I want a new bike like James!’
I can still see your dad’s face. He looked like he had been slapped. You were only a little girl, I know, but I can’t describe to you, even now, how that made me feel. Your dad just turned away; he said nothing, as usual. I grabbed you by the hand, not caring whether I hurt you. In fact, I think I wanted to hurt you. I squeezed your hand much too hard, and you howled. I dragged you upstairs and flung you into your bedroom. I remember smacking you, hard. I was so angry I don’t even remember if I spoke. When I went back downstairs, I gave out yards about you to your dad. He just stood there, filling his pipe, not speaking. Eventually, he told me to calm myself, you were only a child. I was so furious, I took off my apron, flung it on the kitchen floor and marched out the front door, slamming it behind me. I think that that was the first real row your father and I had had since James and you were born.
Much later that day, after my walk had cooled me off, I came home again. Everything was very quiet – the calm after the storm. I looked out of the kitchen window and saw you sitting on your dad’s knee, on the old cast-iron seat just beyond the shed door. I saw you snuggling into his chest, and he patted the top of your head with one hand, while he held his pipe in his mouth with the other. I couldn’t make out if either of you was speaking. What I did make out, though, was a little hard place in my heart, something that hurt like a stone in my shoe. It hadn’t been there before your birthday, but it was there now. Sometimes, I think it never really went away.
Alice stopped writing. This was more like reliving than remembering. She could still feel the powerful shadow of the anger that had filled her that day, more than forty years before. Even her hands had begun to shake. It was time to stop. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, after all. Why stir up all this old stuff? Would it not be better to leave well enough alone? Except that things with Elizabeth were not well enough – better than before, perhaps, but still mainly surface. Surely there was nothing wrong with honest anger, honest emotion? She would go on, tomorrow. Now she was exhausted. She’d had enough for one day. She could feel herself on the edge of understanding something that was almost too painful to remember. How could a grown woman have felt that jealous of a little girl? And who had she really been angry at, that day? Had she, to her shame, chosen her little daughter as the easy target for the rage that should have been directed elsewhere?
I’m going to stop now, but I’ll write more very soon. Do you remember anything at all about that day? I think your picture will be a very different one from mine. I’d like you to try to remember whatever you can. I think it’s important – sometimes I’ve felt very guilty for always being the one to punish you. And you were only a little girl, after all. Now, all these years later, I need you to know how I felt, why I behaved as I did.
In some way I’ll probably never understand now, seeing the way your dad forgave you made me feel even worse. Was I always an angry mother? I can’t remember; nor can I remember being loving as often as I should have been. Maybe you can; maybe your memories are kinder to me. I hope you’ll get the chance to tell me. I’d like you to take your time with this letter, and with the others which I hope will soon follow. Please don’t rush; I need to feel that you’ll take the time to think about what I’ve written, in the same way that I’ve thought about you, before, during and after the writing.
All my love for now,
Mam.
Alice looked at her signature for a moment. It didn’t look right. If her daughter was Elizabeth, then she was Alice; this had to be between two grown women, a groping towards an equal, adult relationship, or it meant nothing. She crossed out the word ‘Mam’ and wrote ‘Alice’ carefully underneath. Then she stretched her fingers one by one. She had to pull and knead all the fingers of her right hand. They were almost completely cramped; she thought they looked ugly, white and loose-fleshed, like turkey claws. Pins and needles were beginning in one foot and she suddenly realized that she felt cold. Nevertheless, she was filled with a strange sense of elation. The genie was definitely out of the bottle now. She felt its presence all around her, swirling like dust as other memories crowded and prodded. They were so vivid that she was almost frightened by their sharp edges. Tomorrow, she’d take a sensible look at all of this. Perhaps it was time she telephoned Elizabeth, to talk to her, tell her about the hospital. But Elizabeth would probably feel she should come home at once, and then James would be upset that he had been shut out, passed over; she could already see the hurt in the magnified blue eyes that his mother had called out to her prodigal child, rather than to the good and faithful son who had remained behind. Alice sighed; adult children were more difficult, if anything, than toddlers. All these feelings to be taken into account. She suddenly remembered one more thing, one more thought from the garden. She didn’t know why it was important, but it was nudging at her, niggling; she had to write it down quickly:
P.S. I will also be writing to James, that is my intention. Somehow, I feel that you will find these letters before he does. If so, I don’t want you to tell your brother. He will come looking for me when he’s ready. You and I have much more catching up to do. I will also be asking him to keep my secret, just in case he finds his letters before you find yours. Please do as I ask; it feels important that it should be this way.
Alice felt her mind grow suddenly cloudy. She always grew muddled when she was overtired. Muddled, but wakeful: what seemed like a contradiction had kept her edgy recently, unsleeping well into the small hours. She hoped she was going to sleep tonight. But no matter what, she wasn’t taking any sleeping tablet, not now, not for as long as she could help it. She was filled with the sensation of needing every moment. If she slept, fine; if not, she would read, or think, or try to remember. For good or ill, she wanted the memories to come.
And tomorrow, she had something new to get up for.
*
Beth had sat very quietly on the little chair as she read through the letter, her eyes hungry for every one of her mother’s words. Now she placed the closely written pages on the bed beside her and reached out for the old freckled hand. She pressed it closely between her own, reassured again by its solid warmth.
The date on the letter had shocked her deeply. Almost three months ago! Her mother had known for nearly three months what was happening to her, and she had said nothing, nothing at all. Beth didn’t know whether to feel angry or hurt by this show of resolute independence. Such a conflict of feelings was not a new sensation for her: gaps such as this one had been all too common between them, down through the years. She wondered for one jealous moment whether James had known. Surely not: he would have found some way to tell her. And now, ironically, if she were to do as her mother asked her, she had no way of finding out. Clasping the old hand in hers, she realized that now, more than ever, it was useless to wish that things had been different.
‘I’m here, Mam – Alice; I’m here. I’ve read your first letter; I’ll do what you want, I promise.’
There was no response. Her mother’s breathing seemed to have stilled somewhat. The earlier shallowness was gone and she seemed to Beth to be deeply, blackly, asleep.
She began to speak to her, softly.
‘You knew all of this since July and you never said? Don’t you know that I’d have come home running? Maybe we’d have been able to catch up then, face to face. Maybe I could have helped.’
Beth was deeply moved by her mother’s letter, too deeply even for tears. The written words had filled her head and heart with a tangle of emotion and memory. She felt as though all her senses had been heightened, that she was seeing and feeling with a sharpness of perception she had never known before. Her eyes began to fill as she imagined her mother’s frail figure sitting on the bathroom floor, the sewing basket from childhood nestling in the flannel hammock between her knees. She had always been an excellent dressmaker. Too good, Beth had often fumed. She had never wanted to be the focus of her mother’s needle, once she’d left childhood smocking and summer dresses behind. As a teenager, she would fill up with a furious guilt as she stood, unmoving, on the kitchen chair during interminable fittings. She’d known even then that she should feel grateful. Her mother’s selfless work, her skill, even, had demanded Beth’s appreciation and admiration. But the home-made skirts and dresses were never good enough: they were always too long, just reaching the knee, a frumpy two or three inches longer than those of her friends. Each fitting became a silent battleground, as Beth raged inside at her mother’s refusal to concede. Alice, her face grim, her mouth set closely around half a dozen pins, would pull sharply at the hem-line. Beth would fidget constantly, trying to trick her mother into pinning a shorter length. The response was always the same: Alice would smack her daughter’s knees with the back of her left hand, a sharp, silent admonition to stand up straight. Beth stroked that same hand now, turning the wedding ring that had often made
her kneecap sting.
At fourteen, to be the same as everyone else was all Beth had wanted. And above everything, that meant wearing shop clothes, not home-made ones. She’d longed to take the bus into town on a Saturday afternoon with her friends, to try on the latest in mini-skirts in She Gear. She’d wanted desperately to be part of that knowledgeable, almost arrogant trawling through the new arrivals in Levi’s and Wranglers, sorting with practised ease through the rails and rails of denim in O’Connor’s. Dressing like everyone else was how you got to feel like one of the crowd. But the very thought of good money being spent on minis and blue jeans had made her mother’s lips tighten. ‘Shoddy’ was a favourite word of hers to describe any piece of clothing not built to endure. Her eye for crooked hem-lines, stray threads and unravelling seams, was hawk-like. Edge-stitched hems, durable wool gabardine, bound buttonholes – these were the hallmarks of quality garments. Jeans were working-men’s clothes and mini-skirts were ‘common’. There was no meeting halfway on this issue: clothes were the great divide, the yawning Grand Canyon of her teenage years with her mother. And Beth remembered now how she had knowingly, deliberately hurt her by turning up her nose at all that was made on the gleaming old black and gold Singer sewing-machine, hauled up onto the kitchen table night after night.
But all that was much later. Her mother’s letter told of different times, times when such conscious head-on collisions between them were still years into the future. Of course Beth remembered the green trike: she couldn’t remember everything her mother spoke of in her letter, but the words had stirred something on the outskirts of her memory. If she could find the details of that day deep inside her now, would the memory of it still be her own, or would it be changed now, transformed into something else by her mother’s words? Memory was a funny thing. Beth hadn’t even known until now that the day of the green trike had been her birthday. She did remember that she had behaved badly, but much stronger was the memory of the aftermath: sitting on her dad’s knee while his caramel-smelling tobacco smoke shrouded both of them as they sat together, close, at the bottom of the garden.
Walled Garden Page 5
