She waved them off, closed the door behind them – her door, her sumptuous house – then returned to Michael, who was sobbing inconsolably. He must have thought she’d left him, departed with the Edwardses. ‘You’re all right now,’ she soothed. ‘Mummy’s here. She’ll never go away.’
She sat down at the table, removed the yogurt lid. She’d better finish feeding him, so that they could have some precious private time doing nothing but get close. She dipped the spoon in, held it to his mouth. He lunged at it in fury, trying to push her arm away, jerking back his head. She scooped yogurt off her blouse – and chin – then licked her finger, grimacing at the taste. No wonder he recoiled at such unappetizing sharpness. The yogurt was unsweetened – Joyce had said that she never gave him sugar in any form at all, and forbade all sweets and chocolate. Couldn’t the poor child have a flavoured yogurt, or creamy strawberry mousse?
She tried him with the banana instead, breaking off a chunk and slipping it into his hand. He stopped screaming for a second, while he examined it suspiciously, then flung it on the floor. She held out another larger piece, which he mangled in his fingers, then smeared across his face and clothes, even in his hair. He seemed to be defying her deliberately, spurning her maternal love, along with everything she offered him, or maybe subtly punishing her for having been away so long. Perhaps he needed comfort – the comfort of a bottle and a teat, which might console him like a dummy, especially if she held him in her arms. Joyce had left the bottle ready, so all she had to do was check the temperature, then transfer him from his high chair to her lap. But he had other ideas, started fighting her with fists and feet, so that his flailing legs got entangled in the chair-tray, and even when she lifted him clear, he was still shrieking almost hysterically. It was impossible to feed him when he kept swiping at the bottle, as if his one desire was to knock it from her hand. It banged against her lip and teeth – the sudden stinging pain reminding her of his pain. Perhaps he was just trying to convey to her in the only way he could that his teeth were hurting terribly and he was desperate for some help.
‘Forgive me, Michael darling. I’d forgotten you were teething. Let’s take you up to bed and give you your nice medicine, then maybe you’ll be able to get to sleep.’
She carried him upstairs, laid him on the changing-table, to remove his nappy, which was soiled and soggy-wet. But he kept twisting over on to his side, spreading browny-yellow gunge all over both of them. Finally, she peeled it off and dropped it in the nappy-bin; wrinkling her nose at the smell, but at least glad Joyce used disposable. Now she had to clean him up – clean herself as well. Joyce had told her not to bother giving him a bath, just to top and tail him. It sounded very simple, but in his present fractious state, anything she tried to do would be met with fierce resistance. She also realized with dismay that she’d left the Wet-Wipes out of reach, and he’d wriggle off the table if she so much as turned her back. She was a total bloody idiot when it came to handling babies – she should have collected all she needed first, before taking off his nappy. She picked him up, praying that he wouldn’t pee while she darted round the room, groping clumsily for clothes and towels, with him slung across her shoulder.
His piercing screams had reached a new and frightening pitch by the time she laid him down again and started dabbing at his bottom. She had trouble fastening his nappy, because the adhesive tabs kept sticking to his skin, instead of to each other. Putting on his clean white suit was still more difficult. His legs were threshing so violently, she couldn’t seem to guide them into the openings, let alone do up the fiddly poppers. She laid him in his cot, half-dressed, while she went to fetch his medicine, though he fought her even harder when she tried to force some in. She was crying now herself, her tears making damp-stains on the sheets. This was her own child, rejecting her, repulsing her, treating her as someone feared and hated.
By the time she’d tucked the blankets round him, she felt thoroughly exhausted, as if she’d battled through a long campaign in some cruel and bloody war. He’d stopped his bellowing, at last, but it didn’t feel like victory, only a temporary truce. She knew she ought to sit with him until he finally dropped off – read him a story or sing a nursery rhyme – but was too overwrought to try. He’d expressed no pleasure or relief in seeing her again, hadn’t called her Mama, hadn’t acknowledged her at all; simply shrieked for her to leave. Someone must have poisoned his mind, turned him totally against her.
She switched the light off, closed the door, hoping for five minutes’ peace. Downstairs in the sitting-room, she eyed the glass decanters on the sideboard. Joyce had told her to help herself to anything she wanted, and though she’d actually been referring to the bread and cheese and pâté left out in the kitchen, surely a thimbleful of sherry wouldn’t hurt? She hunted for a glass, silencing her conscience with Dr Edwards’ own words. When she’d confessed to him that she’d killed her baby through boozing irresponsibly, he’d contradicted her, saying there was no proven link between alcohol and birth defects, and pointing out (after her frenetic vow never to touch a drop again) that the odd drink couldn’t hurt, might even be relaxing. Well, she needed to relax after what she’d been through; needed calming medicine as much as baby Michael had. She poured herself an inch or two, drained it at one gulp, enjoying the warm glow as the liquor kissed her throat, then filled the glass up to the top. There was no sound from the nursery, so she could take a well-earned rest. She’d browse through Joyce’s glossy magazines – pick out a new spring wardrobe, or make the big decision about whether to winter in Antigua or Mauritius.
She unlaced her boots and kicked them off, removed her jacket, shook her hair free from its restraining clips and slides, then settled in the rocking chair, close to the log fire. There were Christmas cards on every ledge and surface, but they were no longer any threat. All those loving messages had been addressed to her and Michael. She was Mrs Michael Edwards now – the ‘perfect’ cosseted wife, who had Vogue and Harpers delivered every month, and a house cram-full of chocolates and champagne – offerings from those grateful loathsome patients. She reached out for the king-size box of Milk Tray, open on the coffee table, and was about to help herself, but Mrs Edwards’ pampered hand turned back to her own workaday one, as she realized that the box was hardly touched. There were just two empty spaces, both together on the right, so Joyce would probably notice if she found a few more gone. Maybe she’d even left the box out as a sort of test or trap, a way of checking on her new employee’s scruples. Safer to stick to paper food – luscious colour pictures of Christmas-party treats: choux-pastry swans swimming on a glistening lake of caviar; quince and brandy sorbet served in melon-halves.
Fifteen minutes later, she tossed Harpers on the floor. She had more important things to do than compare crayfish tails with lobster claws, or decide which caterers to choose for her next glitzy charity ball. She went to fetch her bag, then crept upstairs, turned the handle of the Edwardses’ bedroom door. She stood nervous on the threshold, sniffing Joyce’s smells – nail-varnish remover and a sickly flowery perfume which drowned carnation with sweet pea. Joyce’s things were everywhere, but there were no shirts or ties in evidence. Was Dr Edwards tidier than his wife, or did Joyce stifle him?
She marched over to the bed, lifted up the pillows to find a low-necked turquoise nightdress snuggled up to a pair of blue pyjamas. She wrested them from each other’s arms, slung the nightie to the far end of the room, right beneath the window, so that it would lose its clammy heat. Next, she delved into her bag and removed the stiff brown envelope which she’d brought from home deliberately. She laid it on the bed, then took down the Edwardses’ wedding photo from its pride of place on the chest of drawers. She released the tiny metal pins which secured the ornate frame, and inserted her own photograph behind the cardboard backing – one taken very recently with Frank’s new Olympus Trip. The photo showed her smiling, smiling in quiet triumph. It would wait here in the bedroom, invisible but potent, until such time as she destroyed
the one which hid it; claimed her rights as Dr Edwards’ bride.
She looked in on baby Michael, who was now peacefully asleep, then tiptoed down the stairs again. Somehow she must find a way to replace that photo in the wallet, too, so that she’d be with her husband – inseparable – whenever he went out.
She refilled her empty sherry glass, drifted to the kitchen with it and started clearing up the mess. She was about to return the yogurt to the fridge, but stood lost in thought, the fridge door half-ajar, its cold breath raising gooseflesh on her legs. Dr Edwards had held that yogurt carton; also held the teaspoon she’d just lobbed into the sink. Why destroy his fingerprints, wash them off with Squezy? She retrieved the spoon, then sat down on his chair. That, too, bore his traces; the last remnants of his body-heat seeping into her skin. No – she wasn’t sitting on a chair, but on Dr Edwards’ lap; nestling close against his chest, one tiny hand stretched up to touch his cheek. And he was feeding her with yogurt – sweetened yogurt, creamy yogurt, melting on her tongue – as he praised her and encouraged her for every eager mouthful. And now he’d put the spoon down and was dipping his broad fingers right into the carton, holding them against her lips, so she could suck the yogurt off. His fingers tasted strange – of mango mixed with Brie – but they were strong and stiff and comforting, and he had moved his face so close to hers, she could see each pore and bristle, smell his ardent breath. No one else existed in the world – just Daddy and his little girl – and he had nothing else to do in life but wait on her, delight her.
He had picked up the banana now, and was inserting it between her lips, pushing very gently, so she’d open her mouth, let him ease it in. ‘Chicky,’ he was murmuring, ‘Daddy’s pet, Daddy’s little darling’; adding secret love-words in a language all their own. The banana tasted ripe and sweet as it spurted down her throat; liquefying, overflowing, oozing from the corners of her mouth. He scooped the drips up, held his hand against her lips and let her lick it clean again, while he admired the soft pink lappings of her tongue.
She swallowed the last morsel, clutching at a strand of his hair and gripping it as tightly as she could. If she didn’t keep him captive here, he’d rush back to his hospital in Newcastle, or desert her for those patients on his list. She must tell him she was hungry, demand those other pappy foods which Joyce had said were suitable for babies – fromage frais, soft cheeses, lightly scrambled eggs. She shut her eyes, could taste the eggs already. He was giving her her breakfast, tempting her with fingers of crustless buttered toast, and still there at lunch, at tea: her guardian, her protector, her devoted doting father – ignoring the bleep which summoned him to casualty; refusing to pick the phone up when his frantic patients rang.
Not only was he feeding her, he had cooked for her as well – tender free-range chicken in a jar with her own name on. She went to fetch it from the fridge, heard a yowl from Nellie, who’d just strutted into the kitchen; could smell her dinner and was demanding to be fed.
‘No!’ said Tessa. ‘I’m the only child he’s got. There was never any Nellie, or Lucy and Elizabeth. He spent all that time and trouble cooking it for me.’
The cat continued pleading, rubbing up and down against her legs, tail erect, ears twitching. Tessa turned a deaf ear to the cries as she clambered back on Daddy’s lap, let him slip the spoon between her lips. The chicken wasn’t fresh, tasted slightly tainted, as if it had hung around too long, but she tried to concentrate instead on the skills of his deft hands, the comfort of his arm across her back. The cat was jealous, mewing really plaintively, about to spring up on her knee and muscle in on the petting and the stroking, share the dazzling warmth of Daddy’s body. Tessa pushed her off, but she refused to stop her pestering.
‘All right, Nellie, you can have some milk instead – but only on condition you leave the two of us in peace.’
She poured some into a saucer, then stood stock-still, the bottle in her hand. She should have a bottle, and Daddy ought to give it to her. That would really bond them, make him almost her mother. Michael’s bottle was lying on the table, where she’d left it. No, not Michael’s – Tessa’s – and prepared for her by Daddy. His arms were wrapped around her, holding her securely; her head in the crook of his elbow, her sparrow weight supported. She was no longer baby Michael’s age and eating solid foods, but a new-born infant only capable of suckling. He slid the teat into her mouth, smiling at her, worshipping. She sucked, but nothing happened; tried again, but only got the merest meanest drop. She clamped her lips more firmly, using all the force she had, but it was still no more than a droplet, a grudging trickle of unsweetened tepid milk. It was Joyce’s fault that there wasn’t any sugar in it – she was rationing and depriving her, as she rationed baby Michael. She understood his anger now, the wildness of his screams. You could suck and suck, and still be ravenous. She yelled with indignation as she tried to grab the bottle. Someone else was feeding her – not her skilful father, but some clueless bungling stand-in, who must have blocked the teat, and was reducing her to tears of helpless rage.
Or was it Michael crying? She could hear louder and more frenzied screams, confused with hers, but resounding from the nursery. She stumbled up the stairs, found him desolate, like her – starved of food, affection. She carried him into the sitting-room, sat down in the rocking chair, trying to turn its steady rhythm into the rocking of a mother’s arms, which would soothe her and console her, lull Michael back to sleep. But he was demanding food, not sleep; his gaping mouth howling out its emptiness – an emptiness she shared; a wild voracious hunger which seemed to stretch back nineteen years.
Angrily, abruptly, she seized a chocolate from the box, bit off half and gulped it down, holding out the other half to Michael. Instantly his yelling stopped as he transferred it to his mouth; at first wary of the taste, then chewing with a passion when he realized it was good. Despite the enthusiasm he brought to it, the chewing was hard work. He didn’t use his teeth, but chomped fiercely with his gums, pushing his ecstatic tongue up against the roof of his mouth, then licking chocolate off his lips; pink tongue-tip darting in and out.
‘That was vanilla fudge, Michael. Delicious, wasn’t it? How about another – caramello, this time?’
She found two caramellos, watched the baby copy her as she popped one in her mouth; his whole face alive with interest and excitement, his total concentration on the workings of his mouth. They were cruel, the Edwardses, prohibiting all sweet things, when he was obviously so fond of them. She could see them at their party, pigging themselves while they deprived their famished child; piling their plates with mince pies and meringues, then droning on about the unhealthiness of sugar.
Michael’s mouth was bulging; chocolate slobber seeping out, which he pushed back with his hands, or daubed across his face, his neck, and the cushions on the chair. His white suit and her frilly blouse were also smirched with brown, but she no longer even cared. Why shouldn’t they be messy, permitted to indulge themselves, and kick aside the rules for once? ‘Bed at seven,’ Joyce had said, and it was getting on for nine. Perhaps she’d keep him up all night, make the most of him; pay the Edwardses out for keeping him away from her, telling him gross lies.
He released his breath in a sigh of sheer contentment, as he sucked his coated fingers; his dark eyes fixed on hers, all but speaking to her as she rooted through the box again, checking the list of centres. She must be very careful not to give him any nutty ones, which might choke him or be difficult to swallow. She would eat the nougat, the brazil nut, almond cluster, and leave him the soft creams. She picked out a strawberry whirl, smiling as he snatched it from her hand. He could hardly wait to try it, his mouth still drooling caramel as he squidged it in his fingers, then lapped up the pink filling. She could see his father in him – sensuous Michael senior, with his virtuoso mouth.
‘I’m glad you like it, Michael. It was your father’s favourite, too. He ordered strawberries for our breakfast the very first day we met.’
‘Mama,’ h
e replied.
She kissed his mouth, his nose, his eyes, squeezed him even closer, laughing with relief. At last he had forgiven her, acknowledged her as mother: the one who fed and cherished him, gave him what he needed.
He could wolf every chocolate in the box if he’d keep on saying ‘Mama’. She was already ransacking the second layer, hunting for a special treat – something to reward him.
‘This is Turkish delight, Michael. It’s pink inside, like jelly – though I don’t suppose you’ve ever tasted jelly. They’re full of sugar, so Joyce would only make them for herself.’
The baby’s face was solemn as he savoured the new taste; the palms of both his sticky hands pressed right against his face, to prevent any scrap escaping. He had been waiting for this moment the whole nine months of his life, and his pleasure was her own. She replaced her nougat and brazil nut in the box; no longer needed to eat. It was enough for her to feed her child – feed Michael Edwards’ son. She offered him her favourite – a coffee hazel cream. The hazelnuts were chopped up very finely, so they shouldn’t be a problem, yet he seemed a little hesitant, ate it with less gusto than the rest, smearing half the filling down his suit. Perhaps he didn’t like the coffee flavour, which might be slightly bitter, more suited to an adult palate. She scrabbled in the box to find something sweet and bland, but he wouldn’t so much as look at it, turned his head away, even pushed her hand off.
‘Okay, we’ll have a rest, Michael. There isn’t any rush. I’m not feeling all that good myself. We’ve both been through a lot. Let’s lie down on the rug and just relax.’
Michael, Michael Page 29
