‘Beth? What is it?’
She had stopped – or, rather, the world had stopped, freezing her with it, tongue, hands, hips. Freezing too, an image of her mother’s face at another door, another bedroom, twenty-three years before.
‘Darling?’ William levered himself into a sitting position. ‘Heavens, but you have got so thin.’ He ran a palm across her stomach and up over her ribcage, shaking his head. ‘I mean, I’d noticed you’d lost a bit obviously, but this … sweetheart, this is too much, surely.’
‘Like I said, I missed you, baby … It put me off my food. I’ve been pining.’ The room was back in focus, the blood in her veins pounding. Beth lifted her hips off the bed, pushing the stony flat of her stomach against his palm. ‘Don’t stop,’ she urged softly.
William obediently sank on top of her, tenderly clearing the wisps of hair off her face.
A couple of hours later they were in their favourite weekend brunch diner with Diane, tucking into plates of eggs and hash browns, knees brushing companionably under the small rustic table. Beth had gone for a side order of waffles and maple syrup, which she ate with finger-licking enthusiasm, shooting William looks of affection and reassurance, her cheeks popping with food. The power of the sex hung between them still, like an invisible cord, a secret.
Diane, perhaps sensing it, was subdued. With only a day to go until her departure, she had been showing visible signs of distraction anyway, agitating about her travel plans, plainly more focused on the place she was going to than the place she was in. Watching her across the table, fussing with her paper napkin, making uninspired efforts at conversation, William felt little inclination to cajole her into a state of happier inclusion. Four straight days of playing the gallantly attentive son-in-law – much of it through the fog of jet-lag – felt already like qualification for sainthood. In fact he was longing for her to be gone, so that he and Beth could talk properly – capitalize on this latest, much-needed closeness, make proper plans for the coming months, instead of chasing conversational hares that, with Diane, always seemed to arise from concerns about the weather and half-baked ideas connected to celebrity panel shows on the TV.
When they got home William announced, with apologies, that he needed to spend a couple of hours in his study. After a week away and with Monday morning looming, it was time, he knew, for one of his grand reckonings – columns showing incomings and outgoings, factoring in ever-decreasing estimates as to the bonus. Not the pleasurable exercise it had once been, he hoped it would at least produce a glimpse of the much-needed light at the end of the proverbial tunnel, as well as imbuing him with the vital sense of still being on top of things, good and bad. And he had promised to Skype the boys too, he explained from the sitting-room doorway, prompting a throat-clutch of cooing admiration from Diane who was settling herself in front of the television.
‘Such dear creatures,’ she cried. ‘I’ll never forget them at your wedding, so adorable in their tuxedos. Give them my love.’
‘And mine,’ echoed Beth, who was on the sofa, trying to shake some shape into the layers of newspaper she had retrieved from the bed upstairs.
‘Such a shame they’ve been giving you trouble,’ Diane added, ‘but then that’s kids for you. And you do such a good job, William – I’ve said so many times, haven’t I, Beth dear?’
Beth nodded, not raising her head from the paper.
William hurried off to his study, swallowing his irritation. Less than a day and the woman would be gone. Surrounded by papers a few minutes later, calculator in hand, he experienced a swoop of longing for his sons – one of those that came from nowhere, as vicious as a horse-kick. Setting aside the statements, he switched on the computer instead. It was an hour before the agreed time, but one of them might be online – Alfie, probably. William shook his head wistfully at the thought of his youngest’s growing addiction not just to games, these days, but to all the avenues of chatter available between social websites.
He had had a stab at a serious talk with Susan about it, suggesting she restrict Alfie’s screen-hours, or keep a closer eye on them at the very least – but it had been hard, with the fact of her illness now hovering over all their conversations, as invisible and unwelcome a guest as the tumour itself. To be harsh, to criticize anything, had felt cruel, impossible – even given the way Susan, to her credit, had been breezily dismissive of anything to do with her illness, pooh-poohing the ugly shopping list of treatments ahead of her and William’s complaints at not having been informed earlier.
But it had got Harry back on track, hadn’t it? she had pointed out slyly, on William’s final visit to the house, reinforcing the sorry fact that not even the horror of cancer had the power to offer either of them a path back towards any form of blameless affection. And she clearly relished the whole business of Harry still refusing to communicate with him, as if there had been a competition for their eldest’s affections and she had won it, with the dramatic trump card of her health. Perhaps to demonstrate this victory, she stood guard during the course of his farewell bear-hugs to Alfie and George (the usual golf-ball in his throat made worse by the dim, angry thump of Harry’s drums from the basement), not only folding and refolding her arms with impatience, but tapping her foot. Tapping her foot. As if his love – their love – was trivial enough to warrant rushing. As if it was a mere irritant, with no power to do good.
Finding no sign of life from any of his offspring online, William pushed back his chair and ventured out into the hall. He needed the bathroom and – given the presence of Diane – had decided to seek out the privacy of his own upstairs. As he made his way down the hall, he could hear bursts of canned laughter coming from the TV. Some dreadful sit-com, no doubt, he mused darkly, in which things like missing one’s kids and sick ex-wives and money worries could be simplified into matters of hilarity, knots to be untangled, always with certain, positive outcomes. At the top of the stairs he stopped, his train of thought disturbed by a noise, coming not from the direction of his and Beth’s room, or the spare that Beth had allocated to Diane, but behind him, in the recess of the landing that housed the smallest of their four bedrooms.
Frowning to himself, William turned on his heel to investigate, quickening his pace as the noise came again, definitely human, like choking or crying or … William stopped in the doorway of the bedroom, fearful suddenly of catching his mother-in-law in some depressing, private expression of personal aggravation. The door of the en-suite bathroom was slightly ajar. Gingerly, quietly, he crossed the carpet and pushed it a little wider with his fingertips. As he did so the toilet flushed and Beth turned, wiping her mouth with a square of tissue. She started so guiltily on seeing William that his thoughts flew at once from any first assumptions about food poisoning or genuine sickness to what – for him – seemed the only other possible conclusion; a joyful conclusion bolstered by a sudden dim, sleepy memory of hearing retching during one of his long morning lie-ins. That Beth continued to stare at him, wide-eyed, apparently lost for words, only made him more convinced. ‘Darling … why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Tell you?’ she echoed faintly. She looked dazed, her face bleached of colour.
‘That you are … surely …?’ He dropped his eyes to her stomach, which she was pressing with the palms of both hands. ‘Beth, my love, are you pregnant?’
‘Pregnant?’
There was a sound behind them, something between a growl and a laugh. ‘Oh, I don’t think so.’
‘Mom … no.’
‘Surely it’s best he knows.’
‘There is nothing to know.’
William looked between the two women, his head swivelling like an automaton. Beth was animated now, the colour back in her cheeks, her hands busy – dropping the piece of tissue into the toilet, running her hands under the tap, drying them on the hand towel, a smooth, expensive rectangle of embroidered white linen that Diane had given them as a wedding present, William remembered suddenly and uselessly, part of a set towards the fur
nishing of their new home.
‘Bethan, honey,’ Diane murmured, ‘I guessed this was happening … I guessed and it isn’t right.’
Beth spun round, leaving the hand towel to slither off the rail to the floor. ‘Don’t call me Bethan. And who are you, Mother, to talk about what is right?’
‘Would one of you please tell me what is going on here?’ William begged, his mind reeling, yet dimly aware, beneath the confusion, that in some other parallel life he might even have been faintly entertained by such circumstances – his sweet, eager-to-please wife having the courage to snarl reprimands at her irritating, pampered mother. And she was called Bethan, which was a surprise. How could he not have known her real name?
He was still pondering the oddness of this alone when Beth pushed past him and began trying to usher Diane out of the bedroom. ‘This entire conversation ends here. This is William’s and my home and you have no right … ’
Diane resisted, folding her bony arms tightly across her chest, gripping the edges of her crocheted shawl so hard her knuckles bulged as purple as grapes. William saw in the same instant a strength he had never guessed at, a strength that made him think of the heavy-drinking husband with whom this same old lady had spent her married years, of what that might have taught her. ‘But you are sick, Beth,’ Diane declared, jutting the sharp V of her jaw at her daughter. ‘You are sick and he should know that, at least.’ She jerked a thumb at William and then turned to address him directly. ‘She had it real bad in her teens … real bad. There were relapses later, but I thought it was done with. It’s bulimia,’ she added, when still William did not speak. ‘I’m so sorry she didn’t tell you. She should have.’
William continued to look, stupidly, from his mother-in-law to his wife, his heart – his loyalty – lurching towards Beth, who was standing in the doorway of the bedroom shaking her head. Suddenly he saw how big it looked – far too big for her neck. There were sinews and veins standing out on either side from the sheer effort of supporting it. Why hadn’t he seen those till now? What else hadn’t he seen? ‘But we’ve been trying for a baby …’ he blurted, halting not at the sudden knowledge that he was clinging to the most unlikely of explanations for his wife’s vomiting, but at the look those words prompted between mother and daughter – a look of such dark, complicit intensity that the sense of their past rushed at him again. They had a world, a history – thirty-six odd years – of which he knew nothing.
‘And there’s something else she should have told you.’
‘No, Mom, no … ’
‘About the bulimia?’ said William, hoarsely, glancing at Beth for confirmation. As he did so another, worse, realization crystallized in his mind. It was in the glare of Diane’s eyes, the sharpness of her voice. Beth couldn’t have a child. She was infertile.
‘Yes, about the bulimia,’ Beth said breathlessly. ‘Like I told you this morning … when I’m sad, when things get me down, I don’t eat so well as I should.’ She began to cry, streams of silent tears spilling over the edge of her eyes. She stepped in front of Diane, blocking her. ‘I tried to tell you, William.’
‘Tell me what? That you could never have a baby?’ He spoke very softly. Behind her Diane was tiptoeing away towards the stairs. William wanted to call her back. There was still something else, he was sure of it, something unsaid, unexplained. But Beth was weeping and William knew he had a duty to her, a duty that mattered more than the white-hot shock of being almost too angry to speak. ‘Not wanting kids was never a choice, was it?’ he managed. ‘Because you knew you couldn’t, is that right?’
Beth nodded, sliding herself between his arms.
William held her lightly, resting his chin on her head, looking at the open door. ‘You were never on the pill, were you?’
She jerked her head from side to side, keeping her nose pressed into his shirt.
‘Those yellow pills were something else entirely … something to do with keeping the weight off.’ William was gathering speed now, gathering pace, the anger pushing out of his mouth, between his gritted teeth. ‘All this time you’ve been letting me believe … letting me want … letting me hope …’
‘I didn’t know how to tell you, William, I’m so sorry …’ Her voice was thick with spittle.
William had his arms round her still, but his throat was hot and dry. He knew he should feel sorry for her. He did feel sorry for her. But a bigger, stronger thought was that she had lied to him. All that drama of throwing her supposed contraceptive pills in the bin – of pretending to take them, for Christ’s sake – not to mention all the whispered urgings about conceiving while they made love, what kind of sick charades had she been playing? ‘We’ll get you help,’ he growled, loosening his arms so that they circled but barely touched her.
‘I don’t need help,’ she said, in a small voice. ‘I know what to do. I’ve been here before.’
‘Good. Right. Well, at least we’re clear on something.’ He let go of her and ran his hands back through the sides of his hair, tipping his chin to the ceiling. A small beetle-like creature was making its way through the bobbles of paint, labouring slowly, doggedly, like some lone explorer traversing the wastes of the Arctic. ‘I can’t believe you kept all this from me, Beth. I just can’t believe it.’
She reached out for his hand, rubbing his fingers, her head bowed and sniffing like a little child.
He tugged the hand free, folding his arms. ‘Are you sure there isn’t anything else? Anything I should know?’
‘Nothing. There’s nothing.’ She looked up then, her eyes fierce.
‘Okay.’ William sighed. ‘I’ve got stuff to do downstairs. And I need a little time …’
‘Time?’
‘To take this on board.’
‘Okay. Of course. Just forgive me, William, please. If you don’t forgive me I’ll die … I truly will, I’ll die.’
William sighed. ‘Enough of the drama, Beth, please. You should talk to your mother. She was doing the right thing, trying to help – you should make your peace.’
A cry escaped her then – a high gargle from the back of her throat – but she checked it at once, pressing her hands against her mouth. ‘You’re right. I will. Of course I’ll talk to her. Right now. I love you so much, William – please try to see it that way. Not telling you I couldn’t have kids was because I was afraid you’d no longer love me.’
William paused at the top of the stairs, stroking the reddish chestnut wood of the banister. ‘But what is love without truth, Beth?’ The words were no more than a murmur, but she heard them and looked so forlorn in response, so like a lost waif of a little girl, her face swollen, with her big bony head and the bushy thickness to her hair, that William relented, beckoning her back into the circle of his arms. For a few moments they clung to each other on the edge of the top stair, their heads and hearts thrumming with their separate fears; two souls drowning – or perhaps keeping each other afloat, William told himself, pressing her fingers to his lips and holding them there as they descended the stairs.
That night, Beth felt Dido creep onto her belly, kneading the emptiness inside with the wide springy pads of her paws. But then suddenly Hal was there instead, and the baby too, the one that had finally taken root after months of rushed, dry pumping under the clamp of her uncle’s gripping hands, so tight that in the morning sometimes there would be a ring of small bruises – blue as flowers – round the tops of her arms.
For a few suffocating instants Beth was back in the thick of it, pinned under the weight of the hefty legs, the moist, pungent breath wheezing obscenities into her mouth and ears. Fighting for air, blinking tears, she glimpsed her mother’s face over his shoulder – just that one time – a mere slice, between the door and the jamb: one eye, half her nose, a section of cheek, roughly rouged. One glimpse, one eye … but that was all it took to bear witness. One eye, one time.
When Hal rolled off the baby was there again, the small ugly bulge of it, and Dido too, landing on Beth’s chest this
time, working the soft, soothing pressure of her paws across the ridges of her collarbone. But then something startled her and the cat leapt away. Gone for good this time, Beth knew.
And then the instruments arrived, probing, digging, removing, clumsily enough to leave infection as well as pain, an infection that ensured she would never need such an operation again. Clouds had silver linings, Hal had said, which was when Diane had thrown the bottles away and said they could manage alone.
17
The choir tour left on the first Friday in December, four days before the end of term. With no early class that day, Sophie offered to drive her family to school, Olivia for regular lessons and Andrew and Milly for embarkation on the coach, which was already parked outside the gates when they arrived, its chugging engine creating a sense of urgency, even though a good half-hour remained until the official time for its departure. Sophie double-parked while Andrew and Milly leapt out, tugging their bags from the boot. She then swung into the school car park to drop Olivia and find a space for the car before returning on foot to the roadside to give her husband and daughter a proper farewell.
By the time she got back out into the street, however, most of the choristers were aboard, including Milly, while Andrew was surrounded by parents and the staff accompanying him on the tour, busy consulting clipboards, shuffling papers and ticking names. Standing on the pavement, freezing – in spite of her coat – in the morning cold, the ritual of a proper farewell denied her, Sophie felt a sort of panic. Separation anxiety, she scolded herself, the phrase popping into her head from nowhere. Once they were gone she would be fine.
She wanted them gone, she reminded herself wryly, her mind flicking back to the irksome state of suspension that had been hanging over her household for the last couple of weeks. Andrew, obsessing about every detail, seemed to have entered some kind of parallel universe. Never before – not even during their earliest years, when his whole life had revolved around music (composing it, listening to it, singing it, trying to earn money from it) – had Sophie felt so much like a powerless spectator, with nothing to offer by way of reassurance, or assistance, even as a sounding board. And something about Milly had been snagging at her heart too – caught up in the maelstrom of extra rehearsals on top of all her other commitments, nurturing premature ideas about American music colleges, when most of her friends weren’t thinking beyond what to wear for the imminent flurry of sixteenth-birthday parties and revision for GCSE mocks the following term.
Before I Knew You Page 26
