Max calls to the dogs. Pretends he hasn’t heard. Walks up ahead planting his stick on the verge where the grasses are coming up new. The season’s turning. Usually it gives him pleasure, but not this time. He’s engulfed in shame – lying to his father about the baby because it was easier. If he tells him, that makes it true, and all the other things that went with it a lie. Max can’t bear that. And he’s been wanting a drink so badly that it eclipsed all other wants; and this ugly thing with Sheryl. His phone vibrates in his pocket.
Come and do that to me again dirty boy. Tonight. S.
*
‘Did ye move the flock over alright?’ Ann says to him as he takes off his Barbour in the kitchen. He is ruddy with the walking, his hair all blown about.
‘Yes,’ says Joe and he slumps down in a chair. ‘Right warm it is.’
‘I know. Tropical. You must be pooped. Bacon sandwich?’
‘Oh yes, that’s what I need.’
She begins rummaging in the pantry, which is usually frigid with its wire-meshed window to the outdoors. She finds the bacon on the sill, folded in a brown paper bag, some tomatoes in there too. She hears his voice in the room behind her, saying, ‘Max looks bloody awful. Hasn’t even started on the fences I asked him to do, would you believe it?’
‘Really?’ she says, and she keeps herself hidden in the pantry for a moment, trying to keep her voice light even with all the lying she’s been doing this past fortnight, since Max had told her about the baby. He’d called the evening it happened. ‘Primrose lost the baby,’ he’d said and it reminded her of when he was little and he’d come running into the kitchen saying ‘Barty broke my truck.’
‘Oh love,’ she’d said, but softly and with her hand cupping the receiver. Her eyes were on the door to the lounge where the sound of the television news was drifting out. Joe was in there. They hadn’t discussed it explicitly, she and Max, but there grew a tacit understanding that it was best not to burden Joe with the loss of the baby. They each had their reasons, telling themselves it was for his good, though she sensed the truth of it was that telling Joe was the thing that made it real. As if telling him would somehow force up their own bad feelings, especially when it came to Primrose.
‘Maybe he’s tired,’ she says now, backing out all blustery and breezy, saying into the clear room: ‘No one likes February, do they? Boring old month.’
She sets the pan on the stove and the bacon in it, which starts sizzling quick enough, while Joe says, ‘What’s wrong with that boy, Ann? What’s happened to him?’ and she’s jiggling the bacon but she can hear how bewildered he is by it. ‘I can smell the drink on ’im. His face is all messed up with it. Why would he be drinking now, when there’s so much to look forward to, with the baby? I’ll tell you something, I’m not handing my farm to some good-for-nothing who’s not responsible.’
She stops jiggling. ‘Don’t be hard on him, Joe,’ she says.
‘Well, it’s not good enough, Ann. I’ve said I’ll give him everything and this is how he answers it – with drinking and not doing the work.’
‘There’s more to it than that,’ and she turns the heat off on the stove. She can’t keep going with this. ‘There’s something I haven’t told you,’ she says. She is standing over him, clutching a tea towel in tight fists. She smooths his hair down.
‘Joe, love,’ she says. ‘Primrose lost the baby.’
She looks at him and he closes his eyes.
‘Ah no,’ he says quietly. ‘No.’
‘Yes, love,’ she says, sitting down beside him. ‘A while ago now. I didn’t like to tell you because . . .’ Joe is not saying anything. But he has opened his eyes. She continues, ‘Well, I didn’t want you carrying more bad news, worrying more. I think that’s why he’s been drinking. You know Max. He’s not one to talk about it.’
‘Ah no,’ says Joe and it’s soft, like the saddest exhaling. ‘No, no, no.’
She takes his hand on the table and they look at each other.
‘Poor Max,’ says Joe. ‘Poor Primrose.’
She nods. Rubs his hand. Then he makes to get up but she grips his hand. She knew this would come – him wanting to fix it all for Max. Take it all over and make it good for him again.
‘No you don’t,’ she says.
‘I’ve got to go to him, Annie. Talk to him. He’s gone up the fell on the quad bike all by himself. I didn’t know . . .’
‘He’s a grown man, Joe. And look at you, you’re exhausted. You’ve been working hard, Joe. Not now.’
Joe doesn’t resist her too much. ‘When did it happen?’ he says.
‘End o’ January,’ she says.
‘Two weeks ago? A full two bloody weeks? All this time and nobody thought to tell me? Like I’m some idiot child – not you, not Max.’
‘I didn’t mean . . .’ she starts.
‘Anything else you’re not telling me, Ann?’ he says. ‘Any other little secrets you’re keeping?’
‘Oh don’t start,’ she says. And she gets up to go back to the pan of bacon.
‘Well it begs the question,’ he is saying, loud now. ‘If you kept something as big as that to yourself all this time, what else is there?’
‘I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you upsetting yourself. I was trying to protect you.’
‘Like I’m some senile old fart! You had no business deciding for me, Ann. That was my bairn, as much as yours.’
‘It wasn’t either of ours,’ she says. She hasn’t relit the stove, doesn’t want the sizzling over the top of all this noise. ‘It were Max and Primrose’s. It’s their loss to get over, not ours, and we should give them the space to do it.’
‘Oh aye, that’s you all over – let them go hang,’ Joe says.
‘That’s not fair.’
‘You never want to help them. Didn’t even want to give Max the farm.’
‘What is there to give, Joe? A bunch of debts, some ewes that are worth next to nowt? A clapped-out tractor we can’t afford to replace? What’s this great gift you’re giving him, Joe?’
‘He wants it. He wants to stand among men, have a place in the world. I can give ’im that at least.’
‘If that’s what you want, Joe,’ she says. ‘If that’s what would make you happy. But it gives me no pleasure to see Max hang on your every word and do everything to please you. It’s like he’s got no backbone.’
Joe sits quietly at the table, one elbow resting on it. She turns away and lights the gas under the frying pan and the bacon starts sizzling. The maple smell and the warming sound seem to relieve them both.
‘Is Primrose alright?’ Joe says.
‘I’ve not seen her,’ says Ann, and she keeps her face on the pan, not wanting him to examine her on it.
‘What? All this time and you’ve not seen her? Why’ve ye not taken care of her? You know she’s not got her own mother to rely on.’
She flares round fast and sudden. ‘She doesn’t want me, alright? I’ve tried and she doesn’t want me.’
*
Primrose walks into the hallway and lifts her cagoule off the finial at the bottom of the stairs – the first time she’s got dressed in a long time – then she stops and grips the banister, feeling her head swim. She is all tender and weak, but she pushes herself on. She puts the cagoule on, remembering, as she does it, all the bicycle rides across the moor with her little squatter, the friend in her belly, and the feeling she’d had of not being alone. And she remembers the way just the idea of the baby changed everything about the bicycle rides into Lipton because in her imagination she was a kangaroo with a bean in her pouch. And now she is empty of it and the bicycle ride is returned to what it was. Unspecial. She feels the elastic on the wrists of her coat scratching and even this reminds her of the body that failed.
She pushes hard across the moor and the wind pushes back in an argument with her. The ache in her belly is powerful, like a stitch, as if bits inside are knitting together, but she pushes on, pedals hard. Punishing her
body or showing it who’s boss. Or showing it her hatred for the way it failed her. She’s no sympathy for it now.
But she needs some help, she knows that, after all that time in the house. She doesn’t want her mother – there were seven at home and her mother had made no secret of being pleased to be shot of Primrose. And she doesn’t want Ann, with her critical face on, putting up with her out of the goodness of her heart but all the while blaming her for it, and why did she need that when she blamed herself anyway?
By the time she arrives at Lauren’s door, the ache has become a sharp, stabbing pain. She props her bicycle and leans one hand high on the brick wall while she stoops to recover.
She rings the bell and the sing-songy chime is muffled within. She has her head bent low with the pain as she feels a warm gust from the door opening and the smell of polish. She hears Lauren gasp, ‘Dear sweet girl, whatever’s wrong with you? Come on love, get yourself inside,’ and she is ushered into the maternal warmth of Lauren’s house.
‘I’m sorry,’ Primrose says, out of breath with the cycling and with the pain, ‘I didn’t know where else to go.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ says Lauren. ‘Are you in pain? You look like you’re in pain.’
Primrose is at once glad she has come. Lauren has a hand on her back and she is brisk and it seems to Primrose as if she might be alright. She bursts into tears.
‘I lost the baby,’ she says, between gulps, ‘and now it hurts.’
‘Come here,’ says Lauren and she takes Primrose in her arms, though she is tiny and Primrose towers over her. Primrose rests her head awkwardly on Lauren’s shoulder, against a hard string of pearls, and there’s so much perfume there that it makes Primrose want to cough.
‘You poor dear,’ says Lauren. ‘Rotten,’ she says then, rubbing her back. ‘Rotten, rotten, rotten.’ And this makes Primrose cry some more. But it feels like a good sort of crying. ‘Come on lovey, you need some sugary tea and a biscuit. Have you been seen by a doctor? We need to sort you out.’
In the kitchen, at a bar stool and with her cagoule off and a biscuit in hand, Primrose exhales and the pain subsides a little.
‘So you haven’t been to the doctors?’
‘No,’ she says.
‘So you’ve not been checked over? It were two weeks ago, Primrose!’ Lauren is mock-angry but it’s full of affection and like she’s going to take over, which is what Primrose wants. ‘You might have an infection. Might need a D&C.’ Lauren is looking down through half-moon glasses at an address book open on the worktop. ‘I’ll try my doctor but I’ll happen I should get you over to Malton General sharpish.’ She takes off her glasses and looks at Primrose. ‘Is there still bleeding?’
‘Yes, and it smells funny.’
‘Right, well, you need checking,’ Lauren says, brisk and kind, with her glasses back on like a schoolmistress. ‘And you need rest. Why is Max not taking care of ye?’
‘He seems to be mostly taking care of his bar bill. He’s at the Fox all the time. Rolls in at 2 a.m. reeking. We’ve barely said a word to each other since it happened. I think he hates me, Lauren. For losing it.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ says Lauren, uncertainly. ‘Men don’t deal with their feelings so well. Why have you not had it out with him?’
‘Dunno,’ says Primrose. ‘I’ve not felt up to it.’
‘Too upset yourself?’ Lauren says, and Primrose nods.
‘Did ye not want to go home to your mam when it happened?’
‘She’d not have me.’
Lauren was right. She did need a D&C. And she’d sat alongside Primrose on those plastic chairs that are welded together. Waited for her. Carried her home in her warm car. Now they are back in Lauren’s spangly kitchen. It is dusk outside.
‘Well, you’re stopping with me for now,’ Lauren is saying, still with her coat on and putting the kettle on to boil again. ‘Doctor says you’re to rest and rest and rest. And then we’ll get you that prescription in the morning, for the extra antibiotics. D’ye want me to ring Max now?’
It’s the third time she’s asked.
‘No, you’re alright. I’ll ring him meself later,’ Primrose says.
‘Right,’ says Lauren. ‘I’ll take you up to Sylvie’s old room. Bed’s made up. And I’ll get you a guest towel.’ She looks at her watch. ‘Oh god, I’ve got the parochial committee meeting in half an hour. Will you be alright here by yourself? Eric’s in Scarborough today, so he’ll not be in until dinner. You can rest in bed, which is what you need. Are you’ll sure you’ll be alright? I can call the vicar – cancel.’
‘I’ll be alright,’ says Primrose. ‘I’ve got my Household Electrics book. It’s in my bicycle pannier.’
*
Ann sits on a bench at the far end of the churchyard. The warmth is still swirling in the air like some sub-Saharan current, even in the gathering dusk. A watery blue light washes over the grasses and bare trees. The cemetery is all greys and blues and silvery sages. She can smell the last of the mahonia on the air, heady and sweet. She’s amazed to be sitting on a bench at dusk and not to be stinging with the cold.
She stares ahead at the church where she sees the door open and members of some committee or other emerge. She can see Lauren’s smart cream coat with the funnel collar, the one that brings out the shine in her pearl studs. Expensive, from Browns in York. Lauren was always beautifully turned out. She is milling in the group as they stop to chat in the church porch, thirty-odd yards away. Then Lauren’s face turns towards her and Ann returns her gaze. And then, after that moment of staring at each other across the churchyard, Lauren returns to the group, shakes the hand of the vicar, then drifts away with the others down the path. Ann hears distant car doors slam and engines rumble into life.
So that’s that then, she thinks. She’s not speaking to me. It’s only confirmation of what she knows already. Lauren is bruised by the talk, because of that stupid tiff in the chemist, which set Karen Marshall off (it didn’t take much). It’s not even that anyone believed any of the gossip, about her and Eric. But Ann knows Lauren, knows her better than anyone. She’s a proud woman, proud and elegant. She likes things just so. She’ll not want to talk about it, not want to dignify it with comment. But she’s stopped offering Ann lifts to things. Barely returns her calls – just the stiff pleasantries, all from the surface.
She can see the trail of it now. Karen would’ve put her head together with Fat Mo Dorkin, the two of them chewing on it like some bit of gristle on a lamb chop. Karen would’ve exaggerated – ‘A right ding-dong it was. Ann Hartle and Eric Blakely, more ’an friends!’ And Mo’s eyes would have shined bright with a tale so tall (and her so short), across the counter of the newsagents to Maureen Pettiford. And so it goes on and on. It was the very worst thing about living in a small place – the way every little thing got blown up, all your dirty washing aired for all to see.
She stays there in the lost dark. It’s like everything’s falling apart – all the bad things about her on view. Shaming it is. Her whole family on its uppers, and being talked about with grimacing mouths, false with pity. She and Joe – it’s as if they’re surrounded with failure, a couple born to incompetence, life’s D-team. She has a capacity for this: lining themselves up alongside others so they came off worse, her own particular form of self-harm. End of their lives and nothing to show for it. Even her lump of a daughter-in-law refuses to see her. She’s called and called but Primrose keeps putting her off. ‘I just need to rest,’ she keeps saying. ‘I’ll stop at home. Work’ve been fine about it.’
She is hurt by it, Prim not wanting to see her, as if all the things she’d told herself about her strange daughter-in-law, and all the doubt being on Ann’s side but her being tolerant of Primrose, that pudding of a girl, well it wasn’t the full picture. The feelings were mutual. In her hour of need, and even in the absence of her own mother, Primrose didn’t want her.
She’d not talked about the baby with Max – that wasn’t his scene, talk
ing. Drowning himself in the drink instead and never mind who sees. And Bartholomew, he was his usual wall of silence. But worst of all was this – that the woman she most wanted to talk to about all of it – her best friend, had shaken her off like a bad lot.
*
‘Uterine infection?’ Karen Marshall whispers, over-mouthing the words with her head to one side and Primrose’s prescription in one hand. She wrinkles her nose, as if she’s actually holding Primrose’s sanitary towel and sniffing it. Primrose has the urge to smack Karen in the face, but it’s the day after the D&C and she’s feeling weak. She clutches onto the counter and Karen says, ‘There’s a chair in the corner if you’d like to have a sit down. That was my idea – customer care.’
Karen hands the prescription up to the chemist in a booth above her head.
Primrose only just makes it to the plastic chair and is relieved to sit, though it’s too close to the towers of nappies and baby wipes.
‘Poor you,’ says Karen. ‘Max alright is he?’
Primrose nods, feeling too heavy for the chair.
‘He’s been down the Fox, drowning his sorrows, ha’n’t he? That’s what men are like I suppose.’ Karen has come out in front of the counter and is unpacking a box of Yardley talcum powder: purple and green bottles with gold lettering.
The door of the chemist opens and Primrose peers above the shelves and sees Claire coming in. She walks around the end of the nappy aisle to where Primrose is sitting.
‘Hello you,’ Claire says. She stands beside her, stroking her shoulder and saying ‘Feeling alright? You don’t look too good,’ but in a gentle way, without Primrose having to explain anything. She’s always liked Claire. In fact, now she thinks on it, Claire is the one person who seems to talk to Primrose and not over her head, or with some double meaning that’s intended for someone else in the room.
‘I’m just waiting for my prescription,’ Primrose says. She hasn’t the energy to look upwards. Feels like she’s eighty years old, sitting there. She can feel Claire above her, one hand on her shoulder, ever so kind.
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