The Other Daughter

by Caroline Bishop

  ‘What are my other options?’ She held her head high as she said it, watching his smile drop and his eyes narrow. He handed her a piece of paper, telling her to read it and think very carefully. It’s not an option, he said. It’s a medical procedure only carried out if two doctors agree to it. It’s not like having a tooth out. He glared at her over his spectacles and she bristled at being made to feel like a child in front of the headmaster.

  When she left the surgery, she walked along the Thames at Blackfriars instead of going straight back to the office. She bought a takeaway Tetley from the corner cafe and leaned over the railings, staring at the grey, turgid water. The air was damp cold and she clutched the warm polystyrene cup with both hands. Something caught her eye and she turned her head to the right to see a squirrel running up the trunk of a tree. It stopped for a second, looked straight at her and then darted into the higher branches. Two children walking past with their mother saw it too. They stopped and pointed, the younger child delighted to spot the tiny creature. The woman smiled at Sylvia. ‘You’ll catch your death standing there,’ she said.

  When Sylvia was about that child’s age – four, five? – her mother must have been twenty-nine or so. A mum for eight years already. No career, only two years as a secretary before she had married. She spent her days making house. Days dominated by washing cycles and groceries and rubbish collection dates and endless dusting. Sylvia always thought her mother was relatively happy. She certainly never complained – unless you made a mess of her tidy home, of course. But, growing up in the sixties, all Sylvia saw when she looked at her mother’s life was a trap she didn’t want to fall into herself.

  These days, with Sylvia and her siblings grown and gone, her mum spent most of her time making clothes. Sewing dresses and shorts for the grandkids, crocheting hats and scarves for friends. They were beautiful, detailed, intricately patterned with carefully chosen colours. She was talented. Sylvia had once found a sketchbook filled with drawings, tucked under the guestroom bed. Women in elegant dresses, maxi skirts, tailored coats. Some pages had fabric swatches glued beside them, and she’d realised with a jolt that these were her mother’s own designs. She’d taken the book downstairs and waved it triumphantly at her.

  ‘These are brilliant, Mum – why haven’t you ever shown me?’

  Her mother had snatched the book away. ‘Give me that! It’s nothing. Just a hobby. Not for anyone’s eyes.’

  In that moment, Sylvia saw it. Just the tiniest hint of something she realised was regret. Regret over an aspiration she’d never had the opportunity, or confidence, to fulfil.

  * * *

  She spent the afternoon at Brent Cross interviewing shoppers for their opinions about the glossy new commercial centre. ‘Are American-style malls the next big thing? Is this the new way to shop?’ fashion editor Marnie had said when she’d packed Sylvia off to write a ‘lively’ piece for tomorrow’s paper. Frankly, Sylvia didn’t care an ounce, but she dutifully spent the morning talking to women picking out lingerie in John Lewis and mothers gossiping over coffee while their kids played on the giant wooden caterpillar designed to entertain the under sevens.

  Yes, was the enthusiastic conclusion she wrote up afterwards.

  Hold on to your purse strings! With everything under one roof, Brent Cross is a revolutionary new shopping experience that is likely to transform the way we buy – and how long we spend doing it. With restaurants and cafes, children’s entertainment and a vast range of shops, this American-style mall is designed to entice us in and keep us there for as long as it can, much to the likely dismay of husbands all over London.

  She bored herself, but Marnie seemed pleased.

  Jim was waiting for her after work with a bunch of drooping tulips wrapped in cellophane. She laughed. ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘I’ve missed you.’ He swept her into an embrace and she hugged him back, the flowers squashed between them.

  They walked along the river to Embankment and entered the musty confines of Gordon’s Wine Bar. He went to order drinks and she sat down, smiled at a group of six around the table next to her, greeting cards opened and displayed on the wooden table top. She caught the writing on one: ‘Congratulations on your engagement’. The girl showed off her ring, curled into her fiancé, beamed up at him.

  The first time she came to this bar was within weeks of moving to London. Jim had arranged an internship at a political magazine, and she was applying for every junior reporter job and graduate trainee scheme going, hoping to get one before her money ran out and she’d be forced to temp, a prospect that scared her more than staying jobless, not least because the words of her French literature tutor rang loud in her ears: Never tell anyone you can touch-type or you’ll be forever pigeonholed as a secretary. What little money they did have went towards rent on their respective flatshares two stops apart down the Northern Line: she with Maggie in Clapham, Jim with his uni friend David down the road in Balham, a set-up forged mainly to placate Jim’s mother, for whom living in sin was simply an unacceptable state of affairs for her only son. This pokey old bar had seemed to epitomise everything they loved about being in London, so they’d cobbled together enough money for one glass each and had come here to toast their new lives.

  Back then – what, only a year and a half or so? – everything had seemed new, fresh, exciting, hopeful. Their futures were a clean slate, waiting to be imprinted with success and money and respect and experience.

  She still felt like that last week, she realised now. Just last week.

  ‘So, this weekend.’ Jim put a wine bucket on the table, an uncorked bottle nestled in the ice. ‘We’ll drive to Haversham Manor first, then it’s a quick scoot up the M40 to Beckton Abbey. I wondered if we could go via Bellhampton too. I know we don’t have an appointment, but it’s on the way so we could have a quick peek in the grounds, just to see. I know you thought it would be too grand, but I wouldn’t mind a look. You only get married once, after all.’

  Sylvia nodded. Should she tell him now? Just blurt it out?

  ‘And then we’re booked in for a cuppa at Mum and Dad’s after all that, around 5ish, okay?’

  She could just say the words. But then it would be out there and she’d have no control over it anymore. Right now, nothing had to change. She and Jim were getting married next year. They’d have several years before they even tried to have a family and she’d continue to build up her career until a suitable point when she felt comfortable taking time out. Then perhaps she’d go freelance while the children were young, but she’d have enough contacts by then, and a good enough reputation, that she could do that without fear of losing what she’d built. That was the plan. That’s what was meant to happen.

  ‘Did you hear what I said?’

  ‘Yes, sorry.’ She felt like screaming. Everything was so easy for him, while she’d always felt like a general preparing a battle plan.

  ‘You are looking forward to it, aren’t you?’

  She smiled at him. That open, happy, carefree face. She wanted to reach out and smooth his hair, watch his eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiled back. Would it have Jim’s blond hair, his height? Or perhaps her darker skin that tanned easily in the sun, her brown eyes? She flicked the thought away. ‘I am,’ she said. ‘Very much.’

  JUNE 2016 Montreux, Switzerland

  JESS

  Julia isn’t around on Saturday when Michel asks if I want to join him and the kids on a hike. I was planning to spend some time trying to track down Daniel Buchs; however, it seems silly to pass up the opportunity to explore the area with a local. But it’s more than that, I have to admit. As I take my place in the passenger seat of his car, the kids in the back, I feel a little thrill to be stepping into Julia’s shoes.

  An hour into our walk, and halfway up what feels like a colossus of a mountain, I remember that the last time I walked up any significant hill was on a school trip to Snowdonia when I was twelve. And I wasn’t very good at it then.

  I’m
slick with sweat. It soaks the back of my T-shirt, runs between my breasts, drips suncream into my eyes. Luckily, only the cows are witnessing my sorry state. Léa is far ahead, more or less skipping up the slope, Michel and Luca not long behind her.

  I place one foot in front of the other, trying to keep as regular a rhythm as my straining lungs will allow. Big brown eyes look up as I pick my way over loose stones and dried cowpats. I hear the swish of their tails and the discordant, irregular chime of the bells around their necks, smell the rich pong of the countryside. The grass is speckled with wildflowers whose names I don’t know, and I think of Maggie and her garden. She’d know. I pull out my phone and crouch down to take a picture of a bright pink flower to text to her, glad of the excuse for a momentary pause.

  ‘Ça va, Jess?’ Michel says when I finally reach the top where the three of them are sprawled on the grass near a giant metal cross. I nod, hands on hips, gulping greedy breaths until my pulse starts to slow.

  ‘Wow,’ I say when I can speak again. ‘It’s stunning up here.’ The lake puddles below us, shadows sliding over its vast surface. I instantly don’t care about the pain and the sweat. It’s completely worth it.

  ‘Yes, it’s nice here,’ Michel says, and my mouth drops open at his understatement.

  ‘Nice? It’s incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  He laughs. ‘There are a lot of good views in Switzerland. It’s not even that high up here.’

  Not that high? I look at the three of them. They’ve barely broken a sweat and I realise with dismay that what’s been a Herculean task for me is simply a stroll in the park for them. ‘Well,’ I say, ‘this isn’t half bad for my first-ever hike.’

  He looks at me, eyebrows raised. ‘You have never hiked before?’

  I feel my cheeks burn, but then it doesn’t matter, they’re red anyway. ‘Er, no, not really. Not for a long time anyway.’ I look down at the top-of-the-range leather hiking boots I bought especially for the trip, a little present to myself after my last payday at St Mary’s. Maggie came with me to choose them and clapped her hands when she saw me. You’re all set now. Ready for Switzerland. I’d sighed at myself in the shop mirror. All the gear, no idea.

  ‘Mon Dieu, what do the British do at the weekend?’ Michel says, and as I stand there looking at the sun searing the lake, I really can’t fathom. What on earth did I do back home, before everything changed? Met friends for coffee on Lordship Lane. Marked Year 11 literature mocks. Sat in the park with a book and ready-mixed gin and tonic out of a can. Watched box sets with Patrick. Planned to hit the gym but never actually went.

  ‘Hiking is what we do here. It’s a national sport,’ he adds and I nod.

  It’s another life, here. A life I could have had.

  We picnic on bread, dried meat and cheese, and then pack up and walk on, downhill this time, in the direction of a wood cabin Michel tells me is some kind of restaurant. He’s promised me a cup of tea and a slice of cake as a reward for my unprecedented exertions. Léa and Luca scamper on ahead, but Michel hangs back with me.

  ‘Thanks for inviting me,’ I say. ‘This is wonderful.’

  ‘You’re welcome. It’s nice to see Switzerland through a foreigner’s eyes.’

  His English is American-accented. ‘You speak such good English. Did you study in the States?’

  He smiles. ‘Merci. Yes, I did a business postgraduate degree there. Columbia. A long time ago now.’

  ‘Was Julia out there with you?’

  ‘No. She stayed here. She’d just got a great job and it didn’t make sense for her to come so we were long distance for a while.’

  I nod. I wonder where he met Julia and how long they’ve been together. I wonder what they love about each other, which of Julia’s little habits Michel finds beguiling and which frustrate the hell out of him. I want to know everything about them; I want to know the steps they took to get here, to become this perfect family. Perhaps there’s a secret I’ve not been privy to. Maybe if I knew, I could make it happen for me.

  ‘And you? Where did you study?’

  ‘Bristol. English degree. Very unoriginal.’

  ‘You always wanted to be an English teacher?’

  ‘Not really. I didn’t know what else to do and I loved books, so…’ I realise how rubbish that sounds, but to his credit, he doesn’t say so.

  ‘Well, you’re good at it.’ He looks at me and my eyes clearly show surprise. ‘Léa’s raving about you. The other day she took me through every animal name you taught her. It was a long list.’ He laughs and I smile back, a thrill warming my insides at his praise.

  ‘Well, duck-billed platypus is an essential piece of everyday vocabulary,’ I say. I look ahead to where I can just see Léa and Luca. Luca’s running ahead, as fast as his little legs can take him. Léa’s bending down to look at something. I feel a surge of happiness to be here with them, included in this scene. Like I’m a member of their family rather than an employee.

  But that’s not what you are, I remind myself. I’m paid to be here with Michel, Léa and Luca; I’m not a friend or a relative. I’m not his wife, their mother, though I wonder if that’s what it looks like to the people we pass and I try to suppress the guilty pleasure that provokes. How lucky Julia is to have all this and how ridiculous she’s choosing to spend her day in the office instead. I know all too well that you only appreciate what you have when you don’t have it anymore. Maybe Julia will realise that too, someday.

  ‘What a shame Julia had to miss out on this,’ I say.

  ‘She won’t mind. She’s been here many times before. She has this big project going on right now, so we’re not seeing her very much on Saturdays.’ He looks ahead to the kids and I can’t glean anything from his expression.

  ‘When will that be over?’

  ‘Soon. In the fall it’s the world championships. It’s all building up to that. Then she should be able to take a holiday.’

  ‘That’s good. She seems pretty dedicated to it right now.’

  Michel smiles. ‘Yes, she is.’

  I’m willing him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. Part of me wants him to criticise her, to agree with my unspoken judgement that she should be here with her family, not in the office, but I can sense he’s far too loyal for that.

  ‘Well, it’s good she has you supporting h—’ I’m cut off by a scream and then Léa’s rushing towards us yelling something in French. I don’t understand what she’s saying, but I know it’s something serious when Michel takes off at a sprint, leaving me to run after him, cursing my lack of fitness once again. When I catch up and see Luca, my stomach flips over because it doesn’t look like he’s moving. But then I hear him cry and relief courses through me. ‘What happened?’ I say.

  Michel is cradling his son’s head and I can see a gash on his forehead. Blood runs down his face and the sight shocks me far more than the grazed knees and elbows I got used to seeing in the school playground at St Mary’s.

  ‘Il est tombé,’ Léa says, big shuddering sobs shaking her slight frame.

  ‘He tripped and hit his head on a rock,’ Michel explains. ‘Jess, hand me the first-aid kit.’ He gestures to his backpack, which he’s flung on the ground. ‘Front pocket.’

  I unzip the bag and take out a small case with a cross on it and squat down next to Michel. ‘What can I do?’

  ‘There’s a roll of sticking plaster in there, and some antiseptic cream.’

  I fish them out and hand them over along with a wad of tissues that Michel presses onto the wound, making Luca scream. I stroke his hair and try to calm him as Michel cuts a strip of plaster.

  ‘I think he’ll be fine, but we’ll take him to the hospital, just to be sure.’ He turns to Léa and says something to her in a soothing voice, but it doesn’t stop her sobs. I kneel down next to her and she folds herself into my hug, her tears dampening my neck. ‘It’s okay. He’s going to be fine.’ I rub her back and feel her shudders subside. I draw back and wipe the tears from
her cheeks, wanting to lift the distress from her pretty face.

  ‘Bon. On y va. Let’s go.’ Michel picks up Luca.

  I pack up his backpack and put it on myself, before taking Léa by the hand. The four of us go back the way we came, the quickest route to the car park, Luca in Michel’s arms and Léa clinging to my hand. I give hers a squeeze and she looks up at me with a small smile that warms every cell in my body.

  It’s only when we pull into the car park at the hospital that I realise. My head spins as I take in what the sign says. The community hospital in Lausanne. Of course it would be here. My jaw starts to throb and I realise I’m clenching my teeth. I swallow, take a breath.

  It’s newer, quieter and smarter than any hospital I’ve known in the UK and the emergency room sees us so quickly that I think we must have accidentally queue-jumped. A young doctor examines Luca and decides he needs a few stitches. She addresses me and Michel equally, assuming we’re both his parents, and something in me is pleased Michel seems to feel no need to set her straight.

  But I’m fidgety; I can’t concentrate.

  I wonder if the person I spoke to on the phone is here somewhere, in an administration building perhaps, getting on with his day, drinking coffee, laughing with colleagues. His words come back to me.

  Full investigation. Every effort has been made. Please accept our sympathy for these tragic circumstances.

  I don’t want the apology that was never offered. I don’t care about sorry. What I do need is to know who – and why.

  No paperwork. Nothing we can do.

  I feel sick just thinking about it.

  I want to take a look around, wander through the corridors. I want to know if I’ll feel it, if I’ll somehow know in which room my mother brought me into the world. But I can’t think of an excuse to do it. And I can’t explain it to Michel without the whole thing spilling out. So I sit next to him and Léa as the doctor stitches Luca’s forehead and I wonder how on earth I arrived back here, nearly forty years later.