by Zosia Wand
Milly tugs at my sleeve. ‘Mummy? Can I have I rose tea?’
Mum cuts in, ‘Don’t be silly. Children don’t drink fancy tea.’
Ann scrambles to her feet, nudging the table. Her handbag strap is tangled in the chair. ‘I should be going.’
Mum places a hand on her shoulder and literally pushes her back down. ‘I’ve ordered tea.’
I intervene, ‘Mum, leave the poor woman alone.’
Ann manages to disentangle her bag and wriggle free. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t stay. My husband.’ She gestures to the window. A black car has pulled up outside. ‘You have a lovely family.’ Glancing anxiously at me, she hurries to the door.
Mum gives a sharp tut. Whatever her plan was here, it’s been thwarted.
The waitress brings a large pot of tea. Milly has a glass of milk. She’s unimpressed. ‘I want rose tea. And a cup and saucer.’ I tell her to ask the waitress politely. Mum makes it clear she thinks I’m being overindulgent, but I ignore her. There’s something else going on here I need to get to the bottom of.
‘What are you up to?’
Mum gives a little shrug. ‘I wanted to introduce you to my friend.’
My mother doesn’t have friends. She appropriates acquaintances for as long as they’re useful and then drops them abruptly when they start to irritate. They tend to be nervous, gentle characters who are no match for her. She conducts her life solo and always has. ‘If you don’t rely on anyone they can’t let you down.’
‘Why was she so nervous?’
‘She wanted to meet Milly.’
‘She didn’t,’ says Milly, looking up from her book with a frown. ‘She didn’t know I was going to be here.’
‘I wanted to show off my granddaughter.’ Mum raises her shoulders. ‘So, shoot me.’
Milly turns back to her book. Another from the Ladybird collection. The image on the page is of a tall brick tower surrounded by forest. I lean across. ‘What story are you reading?’ She closes the book to show me the cover. I read the tricky word out loud for her, ‘Rapunzel.’
‘An ugly witch tooked her from her Mummy and shut her in a tower!’
Mum tuts loudly. ‘Took. There’s no such word as tooked.’
Milly looks at me and I give her a wink. I think tooked is great. She’ll grow out of these little verbal anomalies all too soon; I’d like to hang onto them for as long as possible.
Milly’s tea arrives and there’s a lot of fuss about the accoutrements and how to navigate them. Milly’s delighted. Mum watches us, rolling her eyes. Her presence is like a heavy weight bearing down on me. I have to get away from her. ‘I should give Naz a call and take Milly round to meet her boys.’ Naz will give me a bit of perspective. I can already hear her hooting with laughter over the Ludo game. ‘You should have cheated, Eve. Nicked one of her counters while she wasn’t looking!’ Why didn’t I think of that at the time? Why haven’t I called Naz? My best friend is within walking distance and I haven’t been round to see her or even let her know I’m here. There’s something about being back at Mum’s, back in that house, that saps my energy. I lose something of myself. I forget I have options.
Mum pulls a face. ‘Are you sure you want to take Milly round there?’
‘Why not?’
That irritating little wriggle of her shoulders, as if she doesn’t want to own what she’s about to say. I should stop her, but I can’t. ‘Won’t he frighten her?’
We look at one another across the table. There are so many things I’d like to say right now, but I don’t know where to start. Cam’s a child, not Frankenstein’s monster, but what’s the point? My mother’s attitude to disability is so outdated and inappropriate it doesn’t bear thinking about. There’s no point in getting into an argument about this again. I decide it’s best to say nothing at all.
‘I don’t know why you waste your time with that girl.’
I close my eyes. I’ve heard this so many times over the years. ‘She’s not a girl any more, Mum, she’s a forty-year-old woman.’
‘You’ll always be girls to me.’
*
Mum hurries past Sainsbury’s, insisting the shopping, that had been so urgent, can now wait until tomorrow. ‘I’ve got a shepherd’s pie in the freezer that I made last week. We can defrost that for tea.’ I notice she seems to be keeping up a pace, with no evidence of her knee injury.
In the kitchen, on a wire cooling rack, are two perfect sponge cakes side by side. ‘I thought you said it didn’t rise?’
‘I couldn’t persuade Ann to come back to the house.’
This was all a set-up. The phone call, the trip down here, the tea-room. My mother knows something about Tina Lord, but, whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it. She’s scratching around for gossip to cause trouble and I’m not going to let her do it.
We watch the rest of Bedknobs and Broomsticks. The three of us, but not all snuggled up on the sofa, because Mum prefers the straight-backed armchair. Milly wriggles up close to me. Three generations together, watching a family film, wasn’t this what I wanted?
*
When the film has finished, I run Milly a bath and tell her she can eat tea in her pyjamas. Once she’s settled amid the bubbles with my old rubber duck for entertainment, I head back downstairs to Mum. She’s preparing the vegetables for tea. I take a tea towel and dry the bits and pieces on the draining board, bracing myself.
‘How is Neil?’
‘He’s fine.’
‘He just seemed a little uptight.’
‘Really? I can’t think why.’
‘Now, Evangeline, there’s no need to be like that.’
I sigh. ‘You wind him up, Mum. You know you do.’
‘I’m just worried about you.’
‘Well, you don’t need to be.’
She looks at me, steeling herself. ‘Have you ever thought that might be the reason you can’t have a child together?’
‘We have a child!’ I throw the tea towel onto the work surface. ‘She’s sitting in the bath right now. Your granddaughter!’
‘You know what I mean.’
I thought she was behind me. I thought she understood. ‘We always planned to adopt, whether or not we had our own kids. You know this.’
‘I know that Neil always planned it, I’m not sure—’
‘Don’t!’
‘They do say that when a couple aren’t compatible—’
‘We are com—’
‘—and they’ve not managed to find any medical issue. I’m just saying, that with someone else you might—’
‘Enough.’
‘You deserve a baby.’
‘Stop!’
But she keeps going. ‘A five-year-old is a huge responsibility and she will always be someone else’s child. You wanted a baby, Evangeline. Ever since you were tiny, you assumed, like every girl does, that you would have a baby of your own. Why shouldn’t you have that? I want you to have that.’
Deep breaths. ‘Milly is everything I could wish for.’
‘But she’s not a baby.’
‘I said STOP!’ My mother shrinks back against the hob. ‘I don’t want you to bring this subject up again!’
She glances at the door nervously. ‘Sssshhh. You don’t want the child to hear you.’
‘MILLY! Her name is MILLY!’
*
Milly is sitting rigid in the bath with her legs crossed, frowning. When I ask her what’s the matter, she tells me, ‘I want to go home.’
Did she hear me shouting? Probably. This house is small and the doors were open. I kneel beside the bath, taking the flabby pink sponge and dribbling soapy water down her back.
‘Can we go home?’ It’s a reasonable question. We could leave. We could run away from all this, drive back tomorrow. ‘I want Daddy.’
I sigh. ‘Me too. But he’s driving down on Friday to be with us.’
‘Want to go home now!’ She bangs her heels against the bottom of the bath, splashing soapy waves up over the side. I know
the best thing for Milly right now would be to go back to Tarnside, there’s nothing I’d like more than to go home, but we’ve made a commitment to Neil’s family this weekend and we can’t let them down. Neil’s looking forward to that too. Mum has met Milly and spent time with her, it’s only fair that Betty and Mike have the same opportunity. Neil will be here late Friday night, after he’s finished for the day. It’s a long drive. It will be way past Milly’s bedtime by the time he arrives. We’d planned to stay here and go over to his parents on Saturday morning, but I think bedtime is a secondary issue now.
‘We’ll go with Daddy to Nana Bet and Grandpa Mike’s on Friday.’
‘What day is it today?’
‘Wednesday.’ Milly frowns. ‘But tomorrow I’ll call my friend Naz and we’ll spend the day with her and her two boys, how about that?’ She doesn’t look too sure. ‘I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I phone Daddy? My phone’s in my room.’
She pouts. ‘Not your room.’ At first I don’t understand. ‘Your room is the blue room with the big bed.’ She’s talking about mine and Neil’s bedroom in Tarnside.
‘Yes, you’re right. This was my room when I was a little girl, but it isn’t my room any more.’
‘I want to talk to Daddy!’
‘I’ll bring you the phone and you can talk to him from the bath, how’s that?’
*
I call Neil from the bedroom and vent down the phone, repeating every word Mum said, about our compatibility, about a baby, though I know it’ll only make things worse between them, but I need his reassurance, a counterbalance at least. I stop abruptly, spent. I don’t mention meeting Ann Lord. I don’t mention William. These are things to discuss face to face.
Neil sighs. ‘What do you want me to say, Eve?’
I don’t know. I sit listening to the silence filling the miles between us. ‘I wish I was there, with you.’
Eventually he says, ‘Yeah, me too,’ but the accusation in those words echoes across the miles that separate us. I shouldn’t be here. He told me not to come and he was right, I should have put Milly first. I thought I was doing what any reasonable daughter would do, my mum needed me, but Mum’s fine and Milly’s miserable and with hindsight I can see it was a bad call.
*
Milly tells Neil about Bedknobs and Broomsticks. I can hear his voice, affectionate, light, on the other end of the line, and feel a pang of jealousy.
Downstairs, Mum has burnt the top of the shepherd’s pie. She wasn’t expecting us to take so long. I struggle to scrape off the burnt bits for Milly, without looking like I’m making a point, but fail. Mum gives impatient sniffs and stabs at her food, making her feelings abundantly clear. Milly refuses to eat more than three mouthfuls. I shovel food into my mouth, barely pausing for breath and don’t stop until my plate’s empty, as if this will somehow compensate. Milly asks for cake. Mum makes a barbed comment about dessert only being available to children who have cleared their plate, so I cut myself a large slice, wrap it in kitchen paper and take Milly up to bed.
Mum calls after me, ‘Do you want to watch a film with me when you’re done?’
I pretend I haven’t heard.
I let Milly eat the cake sitting cross-legged on the matted pink rug in my bedroom. She delights in the subterfuge. I’m not sure what I’m teaching her right now, but it feels good. She brushes her teeth and gets into bed happily enough. Squeezed in alongside my mother’s sewing table in the narrow box room, she offers me a minty kiss before I turn out the light.
I can’t go back downstairs.
Here I am again, standing in my teenage bedroom, pink roses crowding in on me, my fists clenched at my sides. Powerless. Trapped. My husband is hundreds of miles away missing me and my mother will be waiting for an apology. Torn between the two of them. Who needs me most? What am I supposed to do? What have I achieved by coming here? They’re both angry, resentful, feeling let down, and Milly is unhappy.
I feel hot and bloated. I walk slowly into the bathroom and pull the latch across the door. Time expands like a balloon, and I’m trapped inside it, an adult and, simultaneously, that teenage girl again, and all those feelings are back and I’m struggling to breathe, leaning over the sink, my fingers down my throat and I’m heaving and it feels disgusting but satisfying to be taking control, to disgorge that shepherd’s pie, the heavy mashed potato and greasy mince, to rid myself of the stodge. And it’s bitter and burning, but it’s purging and cleansing and I am, momentarily, back in control. I throw back my head and gasp for air.
15
Naz screamed with delight when I called this morning.
‘You’re here? In Hitchin?’
‘I have to get out of this house, Naz. Can I come to you?’
‘Oh my God! Eve! I can’t believe it! Have you got Milly with you? This is so bloody brilliant! I was going to take the boys to the outdoor pool. It will take me for ever to get my shit together, but I can be there in about an hour, if I shout enough.’
We set off early, despite Mum’s best efforts to put me off. ‘The outdoor pool? Are you sure it’s open?’
‘May to October, Mum, every year.’
‘I thought it was derelict.’
‘No, Mum. I had a look when I passed it yesterday and it was buzzing with people.’
‘The sun was out then, it’s freezing today. You don’t want Milly catching a cold.’
And so it went on, until we were out of the house and closed the door behind us. I knew Naz would be at least another hour, but I couldn’t listen to any more.
*
Though it’s still cool when we arrive, I strip down to my costume. Milly needs no encouragement to do the same, it’s all I can do to get her armbands on before she throws herself in. After the chill of Coniston, it feels positively luxurious. I hold her around the waist and tip my head back, the water lapping gently around my ears, stroking my skull. It comes back to me then, last night’s dream. It’s a dream that haunted my teenage years. In it I’m swimming in the open sea. It’s windy, the water choppy, and I’m just about managing to keep my nose above the surface, my legs working hard beneath to tread water. I’m struggling, not with the conditions, but against an increasing pressure determined to push me under, and my legs ache from keeping me afloat. I’m straining my entire body upwards, against this weight. I woke, in the early hours of the morning, that familiar choking, straining to scream, that same low moan issuing from my mouth.
‘Are you crying?’ Milly wipes her finger along my cheekbone, her face a question.
I shake my head and smile back at her. ‘Just a splash from the pool.’
She frowns, watching me carefully, then drops a damp kiss on my lips, like a gift, and it’s all I can do not to sob. Forcing a grin, I hoist her high above my head and threaten to throw her back into the water. She screams with delight and begs me, ‘Do it! Do it!’ landing with an almighty splash, which results in a scolding from the lifeguard and fit of giggles from the pair of us.
*
Naz turns up forty minutes later, trailing towels and bulky bags, gripping Cam firmly by the hand, half dragging him along the poolside, looking back over her shoulder to holler at Max, who’s lingering behind, distracted by the shouts of a family playing ball. Naz’s twins have milk chocolate skin and Naz’s blue-black hair, but Max’s hair falls in sleek loose curls to the nape of his neck while Cam’s hair is frizzy and cropped short. Max is long and slender, Cam more solid and clumsy with an elastic dribble of saliva that bounces at the corner of his mouth. When he wipes it and then wipes his hand against my arm I struggle not to shudder. I try and persuade myself it’s because I have a thing about saliva, but I’m not sure that’s true. There’s something about a ten-year-old boy not being in control of his bodily functions that disturbs me. How does Naz deal with this? Shona was right when she went through the tick boxes, I would not have coped, and in recognising this I burn with shame.
Naz laughs and hands me a wet wipe. ‘Gross! Sorry. He does that.�
�� She gives Cam a playful slap. ‘Stop it!’ He honks, grins and dribbles some more. She scoops it up with a wipe, grimacing, but there’s something more to that gesture, a gentleness, a hint, and then I see it, as she leans her head towards him and peers right into his eyes, a moment between them, and I know that for all her harsh words, all the frustration and anger, she’d fight to the death for this boy. There’s something that continues to tether him to her as tightly as if that umbilical cord had never been cut, and Naz accepts this, whilst railing against the injustice of it. I lean across and place my palm against her shoulder blade, sliding it down her back. She stills, not turning, but the gesture’s been accepted and I don’t need to explain.
Beside us Cam honks and dribbles again. Milly picks up the wet wipe this time and cleans the spittle from his mouth, handing the wipe back to Naz when she’s finished, as if this is something she’s been doing for years. Cam is simply another new experience in the continuing adventure of her daily life and she’s taken him in her stride.
‘Mummy?’ That word. Her voice saying that, to me, will I ever get used to it? I hope not. I want it always to fill me up, warm and syrupy as it does now. ‘Can we go in the water again?’
‘Of course.’
She’s wearing her new swimming costume (navy blue, plain) which I was smart enough to pack while I was throwing things together. We couldn’t come to Hitchin and not go to the outdoor pool.
‘Your mummy met your daddy at this pool,’ Naz tells her, balancing precariously on one leg, resting a hand on Cam’s shoulder for support as she wriggles out of her pumps.
Milly frowns at me. ‘Tell me.’ It’s a command she issues regularly, wanting to know our history, making it part of hers.
‘I was seventeen.’ I look around the pool and point to a group of girls about that age, sitting in a circle, painting one another’s toenails. ‘Like those girls over there.’
‘We were never like those girls over there!’
Naz is right. The girls I’ve pointed to are the right age, but they’re far more polished and glamorous than Naz and I ever were.
Naz says, ‘We were cool.’
