by Jane Asher
After a few minutes’ walk I came across a perfect anonymous Asian convenience store and, after a little deliberation, chose a jar of baby rice as being the most suitable. I added a loaf of bread to keep up my strength, and was able to pay for them and stuff them into the proffered small plastic bag without having to meet the eyes of the indifferent man at the checkout. I carried my precious ammunition out of the store and into the back streets. I found a quiet spot and, after checking for any evidence of one of the ubiquitous, infernal cameras that are proliferating in the city, prised open the lid of the jar as carefully as I could, avoiding, as far as possible, bending it or marking the surface. I had my other pieces of equipment at the ready: I reached into my pocket for the broken pieces of razor blade and for the earring, which was dirty and a little fluffy from its journeying in my well-worn jacket over the last few days, but still clearly identifiable as Stacey’s. With my middle finger I carefully plunged my booty into the jar, the cheap earring glinting on the surface for a second before I pushed it deep to the bottom, the oily grime ingrained on my skin leaving a tiny dark ring where it penetrated the creamy white of the rice. The sharp shards of steel came next, the rice oozing out of the top of the jar as I again pushed my finger into it, leaving the pieces of blade hidden just beneath the surface. I replaced the lid, snapped it back in place and wiped the jar with the edge of my sleeve before putting it in my pocket.
Stacey
Well, that’s a relief! I never thought he’d go so quick and without a fuss. Just goes to show you never can tell. I almost felt sorry for the silly old bugger, in fact, but, as my mum says, I never asked him for nothing and he had his kicks out of me, didn’t he? Well, I know he paid for the op and that, but it ain’t much to him – he’s got loads of money. Sheila says anyone what lives in them houses where he and his wife do must have got plenty of cash. So I bet he’s gone back there to her now and realised what a daft thing he done in coming to me. Still, I give him a good time, didn’t I? It’s not like he didn’t get nothing out of the relationship, as it says in Cosmo. Anyway, I don’t need to worry about him no more – that’s over as far as I’m concerned, and as far as he’s concerned too, I expect. Well out of it, both of us.
Warren took it all right when I tell him. He looked a bit shocked, of course, ’cos, to be honest, I’m not sure just how much he remembers about that night. I mean – he was sober enough to get it up, so it’s not like he didn’t want to do it or nothing (I never could see how that girl in America got done for rape, like Denisha told me. That’s just plain stupid.) But it’s not like he was begging me to let him do it neither. I mean, it’s only fair that I should be the one to take care of it. I can’t wait in fact. And I told him he don’t need to worry – I’m having this baby whatever happens, but I don’t need him to look after it: me and my mum can manage all that. If he wants to see it then that’s fine – I’m not gonna stop him, am I? But he don’t have to feel obliged.
And I’m getting on great at work. I’m gonna stay right to the last minute of my pregnancy, then I’ll take my maternity leave and go back after, and my mum can look after the baby. It’s all gonna work out really well, I can just feel it. They say I’m OK when I go for my checks – they’re gonna make me go in extra on account of the op and that, and ’cos I’m still bigger than the ideal for a first, they say. But I know it’s gonna be fine – I’m still losing every time I weigh myself, and when you think there’s something growing at the same time inside and getting bigger while I’m getting smaller it’s kind of miraculous. Maybe I really do have an angel.
I’m on shelf-stacking again all this week. I feel right proud when customers ask me where they can find something and I take them over to the correct aisle and stuff – I never coulda done that in the old days. Not that they’d’ve let me loose in the store in any case – just kept me prisoner behind the checkout. That was all I was good for. I was in ever so early this morning doing the refilling and checking. Me and Sheila was having ever such a laugh and trying to get through it quick so we could go and have a bit of a break in the canteen and she could have a quick ciggie out the back. She let me do all the baby stuff, ’cos she knows I love doing that: it makes me so excited when I put all the lovely shiny packs of nappies out, and the little cotton buds and stuff.
Some fucking idiot had dumped an old jar of baby rice right at the front of the baby-food shelf – I could see it wasn’t right straight away, ’cos the pop-up seal had gone. I couldn’t be arsed to fill in a docket for it so I just chucked it (I’m not really a docket person, if truth be told). You find all sorts at the shop: people open packets and try stuff, or damage the goods on purpose to try and get them cheap. But we’re wise to them, you see. I get quite proud of keeping an eye out for that kinda stuff in fact.
Warren’s asked me out for a drink tonight so we can talk about the baby. Sometimes I think I’m dreaming; the way everything’s going. You shoulda seen the way he looked at me this morning when he thought I didn’t know he was watching me: it was amazing. Sort of pride mixed with – well, I dunno, what shall I call it? Lust, I suppose. Fucking amazing.
Charlie
Oh, God – what have I done? I’m a reasonable man, I’m not a monster. What came over me – how can I have done such a dreadful, dreadful thing? It’s been weeks now and I can’t think of anything else.
I went back to the shop within hours and the wretched thing had gone. For a few minutes I didn’t care who saw me – even the terrible Chipstead or – or she herself. I swear to God I just wanted to make it right: I walked in without looking about me and went straight up to the baby aisle – I was going to take it away again, I really was. I was, dear God – I was. But it had gone. I went over to the checkouts, hoping in some mad way that I might see it in a basket, or piled on a conveyor belt, but there were only two in use and I could quickly see it wasn’t there. I walked out again and rushed up and down the street in a frenzy – I knew people were looking at me and I must have made a strange figure, but I didn’t care. I just needed to do something, find someone to tell.
I did grab one woman with a pram and tried to ask her if she had just bought some baby rice, but the poor thing looked frightened half to death, so I moved quickly away, having satisfied myself that her pram held no evidence of any SavaMart shopping.
No wonder she was scared: it’s only when I see myself reflected in a shop window or in the back of a spoon at the shelter that I understand how peculiar-looking I’ve become. It astonishes me just how quickly I’ve reverted to something from an ancient, untamed past. I’m like a street reclaimed by nature: the paving stones shifting and tipping under the barrage of growth from below; the road, covered in moss and filthy debris, cracking and splitting to reveal the sprouting grasses beneath until it’s no longer passable. That’s me. My face is surrounded by a mass of wild, greying hair, unwashed and unbrushed, and the long stubble of my beard and moustache, never shaved now more frequently than every three or four days, is striped dark and white like a badger, springing from the grimy background of my filthy face. The expensive cut of my suit, shiny now with spilt food and dirt, only adds to the oddness of the effect: a well-dressed tramp.
But up to now at least the animal appearance was no reflection of the man within: in spite of everything that has taken place, in spite of the cruel way I’ve treated my family I have at least remained reasonably human in my actions. Now I can say that no longer: I may be a baby killer. I see blood pouring from tiny innocent lips, I see a mother sobbing over a limp little body. I know now I should have gone straight to the police and told them what I had done, but in my half-mad state I still wanted her to get the blame. I still do. But I never wanted anyone hurt. Now it’s too late. God help me – where can I go? Who can ever help me?
Now
Judy
Once I’d bought the disks I was reluctant to go home again, in spite of the cold. I toyed with the idea of taking the long route back to avoid any chance of seeing the hateful girl, but,
as so often, I was drawn, as if by a malevolent magnet, to risk spotting her by going the quick way past the shop. I’d seen her several times over the past months: first looking far less fat and surprisingly well-groomed – thanks to the obsessive attentions of MY husband, as I bitterly told myself over and over in the middle of the night – and then, slowly, growing again in size until her pregnancy was obvious. I had no way of knowing whether this child was Charlie’s of course, and the uncertainty helped to inflict on me another, peculiarly effective form of torture.
When she first started appearing at the shop with the pram, it was always the oily manager who greeted her and picked up and kissed the baby. And now she’s back at work, she arrives and leaves with him, while the wretched baby is presumably farmed out somewhere to be cared for by a minder. What their relationship is I can only guess at: I’d love to believe it’s his baby – he doesn’t look the type to take on another man’s leftovers – but I can’t tell. I’ve never seen Charlie there, much as I can’t help myself looking. I dread it and long for it – I so much want to know he’s OK, but I think if I saw them together I just wouldn’t be able to take it.
So I started on the direct route towards home and, as I neared the brightly lit window of the shop, steeled myself for a glimpse of her, if I should find the urge to glance through it irresistible. But she wasn’t there, and I felt the usual mix of relief and disappointment wash over me as I turned and walked on towards the post office.
Something was niggling at me as I continued along the street, and I knew there was a thought at the back of my mind that had to be resolved before I reached home, although I couldn’t pinpoint what it was. As I once more approached the huddled figures in the doorway next to the post office, I idly wondered whether they would recognise me as the woman who had given them the fifty pence only half an hour or so before, and whether they’d leave me alone or try again, seeing me as a soft touch.
Then it hit me. It was my wondering about recognition that had triggered it, and I stopped, startled and confused, as something unbelievable and frightening occurred to me. It was I who had done the recognising. And not now, but on my journey out. Without being aware of it, I had seen the separate parts and fitted the picture together, only to have it dismissed by my conscious mind as being – presumably – too preposterous to take seriously.
One of the desperate, huddled figures was Charlie.
Once I’d looked at him for the second time, directly and for several seconds, it was so obvious I couldn’t think how I could have made the journey all the way to Dixons and back without acknowledging it. What did I feel? It’s impossible to know: even as I was going through the rush of sensations and emotions a part of me was standing back and trying to judge my own reactions, but I couldn’t make any sense of them. All I know is that I didn’t hesitate to squat down beside him and take his hand. A hand so well known to me and at the same time so alien with its long, filthy fingernails and fine covering of dirt. He was looking at me but I wasn’t sure if he knew who I was: there was so much sadness and hopelessness in the eyes that it took my breath away and I found it hard to speak for a second or two.
‘Charlie?’ I said at last. ‘Charlie, it’s me. Judy.’
‘I know.’
It was startling to hear the firm clarity of his voice – it was the only obvious remnant of the old Charlie and it sounded unchanged: if I’d closed my eyes he could have been the man of just over a year ago.
‘Are you here to see her? Are you watching for her?’ God knows how I found the strength to ask him. I sounded as calm as if I were discussing a business meeting, or a visit to the dentist, not enquiring about the relationship of my husband with his lover.
The effect of the question was far from calm, however. To my horror, I saw his face crumple up and tears appear in the eyes that were still fixed on mine. ‘No, no!’ he said loudly, and moved his hand up my arm to grip my elbow. ‘Oh, God in heaven, no, Judy! It’s you. I sit here hoping to see you. And every so often I do – when I’m not moved on, that is. It’s all that keeps me going.’
I was as surprised by the threatened appearance of my own tears as I’d been horrified by his. I took a deep breath and stood up, pulling my arm away from his hand. Briskness was my defence against sentiment.
‘Is that true, Charlie? Or are you still hoping to catch a glimpse of your tart? How the hell did you get like this?’
To my amazement, one of the other anonymous bundles came to life and looked up at me. It was one of the younger ones, a boy whose uncared-for appearance always particularly upset me. ‘It is you,’ he said, and managed a small smile as he nudged Charlie hard in the ribs. ‘It’s Judy this and Judy that and why was I such a fool and on and on he goes. Take him away, for Christ’s sake – he’s boring us all to death.’
So I did. I’ve never thought of myself as especially moral or conscientious – certainly not more than the average person – but I have to admit I felt a huge sense of self-righteousness as I scrubbed, changed, warmed and fed the wretched creature that had been my husband. My personal Lazarus.
We’ve a long way to go. We don’t talk about it much, but it’s always there, as an uninvited, unwelcome guest in our home: a shadowy, threatening presence that never quite lets us forget it’s there. Charlie is coming back – slowly – but he’s coming back to a different world, one where his wife is more wary and cynical, and where trust is going to be a long time coming. And there’s a little haunted corner of him that I can’t reach: it’s not surprising that he is filled with guilt and remorse – and I can’t say I’m altogether sorry that he is – but I can feel that something happened over the past year that has left him with a terrible burden I can never quite penetrate. In many ways his behaviour is almost like the old Charlie, but there are certain things that betray him: I often wake in the night and find his bed empty (yes, we do share a room, if not the same bed) and when I try to question him he just shakes his head and says something about never being able to forgive himself, or that he’ll never know for sure. Words to that effect, in any case. About what, I can’t make him say, and I’m not at all sure I want to.
When we take one of our regular afternoon walks (it seems so much easier, somehow, to feel real when we’re outside the house) I’ve noticed how he watches young children with a look of terrible sadness. Ben and Sally are both away now, of course, but I swear I see more than simply nostalgia for our children in the way he glances into prams or gazes at toddlers strapped into their buggies. Almost as if they make him feel especially guilty. And that’s why I don’t want to know for sure what he did – if he was the father of that child, if he instinctively looks for it in every baby we see, then I don’t want to know that. The only way for us is forward – if we look back we shall fall and never rise again.
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Acknowledgements
I am extremely grateful to all those who spoke to me so openly of their feelings and experiences while I was researching this book – I know you would rather remain anonymous.
My thanks, too, to Rachel Hore, Julie Davies, Carole Blake, Lynne Drew, Jane Barringer and Marina Allen for all their help and support.
As ever, I must express my love and gratitude to my family for their enthusiasm and forbearance.
About the Author
Losing It
Jane Asher has written two previous novels, The Longing and The Question, both published to great acclaim. Celebrated British actress of stage and screen, she is also well known for her many other activities, especially her books and journalism and her successful cake-making business. She lives in London, with her husband and three children.
Praise
Acclaim for Jane Asher:
Losing It
‘The story is told through the voices of all the characters in this powerfully astute exploration of the apparent frailty of a happy
family unit… It doesn’t seem fair that someone as multi-talented as Jane Asher can write so well and convincingly on a range of issues and emotions but with this, her third novel, she has proved it to be so.’
Daily Mail
‘Asher has chosen, in Losing It, to make each character speak directly… We therefore meet them on their own terms, with their own vanities, faults and excuses. It is extremely well done.’
Country Life
‘[A] finely-observed portrait of a family under stress, narrated from all sides, provides a convincing backdrop for a tale of obsession and dysfunctional behaviour.’
Sunday Mirror
‘Jane may have become a paragon of domestic virtue who is beautiful to boot, but it is evident from her books that there is far more going on in her head than cakes and pastries.’
Hello
The Longing
‘Topical, emotion-charged… grips from the first page.’
VAL HENESSEY, Daily Mail
