Maria in the Moon

by Louise Beech

  I thought of all the names I’d given people. Derogatory ones. Affectionate ones. I thought of all the names I’d been. The one I’d had stolen. The one that had replaced it. And the one I’d chosen.

  I told Christopher I didn’t want to give him a name he didn’t like, that I’d been a real pain for doing that.

  ‘Call me Christopher then.’ He paused. ‘I never wanted to go on that other date, you know. I was kind of hoping you’d insist I didn’t go in a fit of jealous temper. I don’t mean that I arranged it for that – my sister really did set me up – but I kind of hoped you’d be bothered.’

  ‘I was jealous – I went to the kitchen and swore four times.’

  Christopher laughed and laughed. He shook his head and laughed some more. I told him he’d better stop laughing because he had fifteen minutes to get to Flood Crisis.

  ‘That’s what all the women say to get rid of me,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not saying I want you to go, just that I know you don’t take Flood Crisis lightly. You wouldn’t let them down, and I’d feel kind of responsible if I made you stay.’ I covered myself with the sheet and blushed.

  ‘Now she’s coy,’ he said. ‘I should go or I never will, what with you semi-naked like that.’ He sat up and reached for his shorts and trousers, examining his shin for injury.

  ‘Go like that,’ I said. ‘Do a Norman.’

  ‘I couldn’t compete with him.’

  ‘Yeah, you’d lose.’

  When he had dressed in clothes now wrinkled and buttoned wrong, he mock-hobbled to the door; I followed with the sheet around my body.

  ‘You look like a Greek goddess or something.’ He fingered the key that he’d already turned once. ‘Now you’ve remembered, will you continue at Flood Crisis?’

  ‘Look what it’s done for me. I think I might enjoy it more now, be better at it perhaps.’ I wondered what he was thinking.

  ‘You’re a natural on the phones, Katrina.’

  He opened the door. Coldness invaded our intimacy. Snow blew up through the gaps in the metal stairwell, like the world had been turned upside down. How easy it would have been to go with him. How much I wanted to.

  But I wanted to see my mother, go home and tell her. It occurred to me that I could tell Aunty Mary instead. She was my blood relation. She loved me more. Perhaps we’d snuggle under the duvet and watch Gone with the Wind, like we had when I was a child. Or maybe I could even talk to Graham, who might offer me a cigarette and tell me how proud he was that I’d survived it.

  No. I needed my mother’s response. I needed her to know, whatever that meant.

  ‘Will you be there on Wednesday?’ I asked him.

  ‘Would you like me to be?’ His insecurity touched me.

  I nodded – I couldn’t picture the place without him in it, making tea and suggesting games to play and responding to my digs. There when I hung up the phone; there when I couldn’t help callers; there when I could; there when I wasn’t sure.

  ‘I wonder how Norman got on with Chantelle last night.’ Christopher didn’t seem to want to leave either.

  ‘He’ll have a headache today,’ I said.

  ‘I wonder if she’ll go to her wedding with Norman on her mind.’ Christopher fiddled with his coat. His hair flared in the wind, reminding me of how I’d messed it only half an hour before. He said he’d see me on Wednesday, and it sounded like a question, and I understood that he was asking whether he would see me before then.

  ‘Wednesday,’ I answered and he nodded.

  I had so much to think about. Wednesday seemed a lifetime away. It was our day. Sunday was my mother’s day and I’d promised to go. And memory’s obligation tugged at me like a hungry child pulling at its mother’s coat.

  ‘If you need me, call me.’ He lifted his hand like he might touch my cheek but then didn’t. ‘Will you really tell your mum today?’ he asked.

  I almost corrected him, said she was my mother not my mum, but resisted. ‘I have to do what I have to do.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right.’

  He shrugged and studied me for a moment and then turned and began down the stairs, holding the rail.

  A fist squeezed my neck. I wanted to shout ‘Thank you!’ to delay him. Wanted to detain him with a witty remark. Wanted to kiss him again, but instead I closed the door and returned to the warmth. I remembered longing to leave my flood-wrecked home, but also wanting to stay because I loved it, couldn’t bear to abandon it. I was as torn now. I wanted him but knew I wasn’t fully repaired enough yet to be able to make it work.

  When he’d been gone a while – when I’d locked the door and leaned on it and said ‘anyway’ out loud, and curled up on the sofa and held to my face the sheets we’d shared – I cried for a full hour.

  23

  Footprints in the snow

  ‘Same old tree, year in, year out,’ I said. ‘Don’t you feel like cutting it into pieces and burning it with all the other ancient ornaments?’

  I touched the silver branch weighed down with crimson baubles and matching tinsel, with scratched wooden reindeer and plastic angels. Only its position changed: some years it resided by the hearth in the dining room and some years, like now, it got relegated to a corner in the hall.

  Graham closed the front door after letting me in, the eternal guest in my childhood home. ‘Your mother said she’ll get a new one next year.’

  He took my coat and hung it on the banister next to a fake holly garland that twined round the dark wood spindles. The mention of my mother brought the first tingle of an itch to my palm; I squeezed my hand into a fist.

  ‘She says that every year.’ My words were not as harsh as they might have been any other Sunday. Any other Sunday, before I arrived, picturing her bending down to retrieve something from the oven or patting her hair into shape, I would dread hurting her with my words. But once I’d walked through the door, I could not keep them in.

  ‘You OK?’ Graham looked at me. He was concerned but something else caused the frown, something more than worry at my dishevelled appearance. He assessed me and I wasn’t sure why.

  I shook my head, my throat tight. ‘Where’s Mother then?’

  ‘In the kitchen,’ he said, and I should have known. Where else would she be on a Sunday before we ate? What other thing would she be doing? Her predictability only amplified what I was about to do, what I was about to share, how I might upset her carefully organised routine, her peace.

  ‘You look white as a sheet, Catherine. What is it?’

  ‘Is Celine here?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’ He was defensive, touching his chest. I wasn’t sure what was going on but had too much to think about to question it now. ‘She’s coming later.’

  ‘Graham.’ I spoke quietly so my voice did not echo in the cavernous, wood-panelled hallway. ‘When I go in there could you give us some time? I have to talk to her about something, privately. If Celine arrives, can you tell her to give us space too?’

  ‘Of course.’ He nodded and rubbed his neck, as fidgety as a witness on the stand. ‘You’re OK though? Is it serious?’

  Was it serious? A question I’d never asked a crisis-line caller. Nothing is less serious than something that makes a person pick up the phone and call a stranger to share their darkest, most intimate, most shameful secrets. But Graham was only concerned; we ask all manner of mindless questions when we’re confronted by something we don’t understand. And now I was going into a room to share my darkest, most intimate, most shameful secret with a stranger.

  I touched his arm and said, ‘It’s pretty serious but I’m OK.’

  The bell sounded and since I was closest I opened the door. Celine stamped snow from her booted feet and held her face with her pink fur gloves. She eyed me sheepishly; such an expression on her brazen face was unfamiliar to me.

  ‘What’s with you?’ I watched her put her heavy wool coat over mine. She glanced at her dad and back at me. He shook his head, responding to a question I’d missed.<
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  ‘Nothing’s with me,’ she said, brilliantly pleasant.

  ‘Why don’t you two go and play your game in the other room.’ Back home I was the child again – irritable, sulky, ignored. ‘I’m not interested in it today.’

  ‘You should talk to her, Celine,’ said Graham. The hallway was still cold from the opened door but it was better than the heat that awaited me in the kitchen. ‘If you don’t, sweetie, I’m going to.’

  I shook my head at them. ‘Shit, I have more important things to—’

  In my bag the phone vibrated with the jazzy ringtone Fern had installed, a tune that I recognised, though I couldn’t remember the singer. I rummaged through tissues and bus tickets for it, irritated now by all the delays and obstacles that were stopping me going into the kitchen to begin reluctantly ruining my mother’s life. Not recognising the number, I flipped it open.

  ‘It’s Brian the plumber, love.’ He said it like I was expecting the call, but I’d barely thought of the house recently and realised that it was a week since I’d checked on the status of work. ‘Just letting you know my job’s done. Your heating system is in place; your new boiler is a real beauty, it’s one of th—’

  ‘Brian,’ I snapped, because he’d started the first-name-basis relationship. ‘It’s Sunday afternoon. Can we do this tomorrow?’

  He insisted I needed to know about the high pressure, which was apparently a common problem and didn’t mean my toilet wasn’t normal.

  ‘Brian, we’ll talk tomorrow. I’ll come to the house then.’ I held the phone away from my ear thinking I was going to swear but the word stayed in my throat.

  Graham looked at me with unease, patted my arm, and followed Celine into the lounge. She avoided my gaze and knocked a plastic angel to the floor as she passed the tree.

  ‘I’ll not be there, love, I’m done. The electrician’s going to call you Tuesday about starting his work. I just like to conclude a job properly and give you all the facts before I leave. You have long hair, don’t you?’

  I looked at my disorderly curls in the hall mirror, my expression perfect for the ‘before’ shot in a Botox advertisement.

  Why the hell was he asking about my hair?

  ‘Most clogged sinks are caused by long hair – pubes and men’s shavings generally go down OK, but long hair tangles in the pipes. So you should always brush or style your hair in the bedroom and n—’

  I hung up and threw the phone in my bag. The calm I’d felt after crying for an hour died. The resolve as I’d then walked two miles in brisk air was wavering. And the heat I’d felt at Christopher’s suggestion that there was no rush to speak to my mother now barely simmered in the chilly hallway. Nevertheless, I uncurled my fists and swallowed dread-flavoured saliva.

  And went into the kitchen.

  My mother looked small. Like the kitchen had eaten her. The smell of chicken roasting was both familiar and foreign; perhaps the bird was doused in lemon rather than stuffed with the customary herbs. Vegetables bubbled on the hob and an open tub of margarine stood next to the potato masher. Though ajar, the window had steamed up and obscured the trees, the sky – the world beyond the imminent revelation. My mother stood at the sink – the small heart of my claustrophobia, pink plastic gloves on and pearl earrings in place. I closed the door and she turned.

  ‘Have you been to see Aunty Mary?’ she demanded.

  ‘No, I needed to talk t—’

  ‘Catherine, why not? She’ll be very hurt.’ She wrung a cloth out into the sink. It stank of bleach. ‘You promised me yesterday that you’d go. I understood you had to do your voluntary stuff. I was very tolerant, but there’s no excuse today. She was sad when I spoke to her this morning.’

  ‘Mother,’ I said. She no longer looked small. ‘Listen, I have to talk to you. That’s why I didn’t go to the hospital first.’

  She started scrubbing at a yellow stain on the side of the fridge, one that had been there for as long as I could remember. A strand of immaculate hair fell out of the black Alice band; she pushed it behind her ear. I smelt the potted African violet on the windowsill: sweet, sickly. Next to it sat a picture of us all at Christmas: Graham, Celine, me, smiling in front of the tree.

  It occurred to me that it was the tree my mother bought the year Uncle Henry left, the silver one that had awaited decorations as I let Geraldine out of her cage and into the snow. I realised suddenly that Geraldine would have died. Unless rescued by neighbours, a rabbit wouldn’t survive a winter night. I had only freed her from my trauma; I had probably begun hers. If I told my mother about Uncle Henry, I would begin hers too.

  ‘I’m tired of looking at this mark,’ she said. ‘I need a new fridge really.’

  ‘Mother.’ I opened and closed my fists.

  ‘I’m getting a new tree first though – I’ve seen one in Argos. Green, like a real tree. Maybe I’ll buy white tinsel to mimic snow.’

  ‘Mother.’ When she ignored me still I said, ‘Mum,’ and she stopped scrubbing for a moment but didn’t turn to query my alien salutation. We both knew who my mum was. ‘I have to tell you something.’ I had no idea how I was going to do it, what words I could possibly find.

  ‘Is this about Celine?’ She put the cloth in the bin and pulled off the gloves with a wet slap.

  ‘No, it’s not about Celine.’

  ‘You called her Celine,’ she observed, suspicious now. ‘You finally quit with the Sharleen nonsense. I’m surprised, especially with … well … you know.’ I didn’t know. I hadn’t even realised my use of her real name. ‘I don’t condone it but I’m not going to slate her. She’s my step-daughter as much as you are. It wouldn’t be fair to Graham.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ I was sick of her name now.

  ‘Oh.’ She stared at me. ‘Graham didn’t…?’

  ‘I don’t give a shit about Celine. Just let me talk.’

  She tutted and started to say, ‘Catherine, do we have to have a shit on—’

  But I cut in with, ‘I’m sorry for swearing but you’re not listening to me. Sit down, please.’

  ‘I don’t want to sit; I’ve got to prepare the gravy.’ She dragged the metal tray from the cupboard, dropping spoons and ladles with a disharmonious clatter. The potatoes bubbled gently. ‘Tell me while I do this.’

  I watched her hunt for the gravy mix; I tried to find a word and only found his name.

  ‘What is it Catherine?’ she demanded, shaking granules into the tin. ‘Don’t be so mysterious.’

  I didn’t want to hurt her. ‘It’s about Uncle Henry.’

  ‘Uncle Henry?’ Crumbs of powder fell onto the counter like brown, soiled snow. ‘Uncle Henry? He’s been gone years. I wasn’t even sure you remembered him. Have you seen him? Around here?’

  She finally looked at me.

  ‘I haven’t seen him since I was a child … It’s about when he used to come to the house.’

  ‘That’s so long ago, Catherine. Why do we have to talk about him now? It’s nearly Christmas. Let’s not ruin it.’

  His name was possibly worse than fuck or shit but it had to be said; it had to ruin Sunday lunch.

  ‘Just listen to me, please.’

  She put the tub of gravy granules on the worktop and faced me. I moved nearer to her, holding the sink. She looked at my hand; it was red and scaly again, only white where I gripped the edge. Then she looked at my face, curious rather than concerned now.

  ‘Uncle Henry … I’ve been thinking … remembering … I remember.’

  ‘What do you mean, you remember?’ She shook her head like it might revoke the words. ‘What did you forget?’

  ‘I remember him,’ I said.

  ‘Is that it? He came here a lot after your dad died.’ She reached for the tea towel, expecting to resume her cooking.

  ‘I remember what he did,’ I said.

  Her hand froze mid-air inches from the towel. ‘What he did?’

  I nodded, studying the tiled floor. The one to
the left of my right foot had cracked in the shape of an H, his initial. He was the H-word; far worse than any C-word I could mention in the stifling kitchen.

  ‘What he did? What did he do?’

  The question was weightier than any I’d asked at a crisis line. If it fell it would break the tile to the right of my foot, matching the other and leaving a crack in the shape of a C. A caller on a crisis line could decline from answering, though. I wished at that moment to be merely a caller who could hang up, end the conversation and change her mind.

  But I was here; there was no going back now.

  ‘Mother, he…’ I inhaled and moved away from the sink’s support.

  Why had I begun this? What did I really hope to achieve? Was Christopher right to be concerned? Was I setting myself up for more pain in the rush to unburden some of the weight?

  ‘Uncle Henry did things to me. He put his hands on me. He put them … in me. He touched me. He put his … you know … he … He made me touch him. He … That’s what he did.’

  She blinked twice and her hand fluttered near her throat. Her pearl earrings trembled like tiny snowdrops and a range of expressions crossed her face: horror, confusion, disbelief, belief. The belief stayed – dark grey. Her half-moon mouth hung open, but nothing came out.

  ‘Remember my rabbit, Geraldine? He’d take me to see her and do it then. He said he’d kill her if I told anyone. Once he described how he would skin her and remove all that lovely fur with his knife. Said no one would believe me. That it was all in my head. And I thought it was. I thought we all made him up – you, me, Aunty Mary.’

  ‘No, it can’t be.’ She sank into a chair without looking at me.

  ‘It was … It is.’ I knew she believed me. Her denial was simply shock; her face said she believed me. ‘I remembered it last night. It came to me in a waking dream. It’s been coming for a while. I know why you all stopped calling me Catherine-Maria and I remember Nanny Eve’s Virgin Mary statue that I broke and the new tree, and I know now why I’ve always found it so difficult in this house.’

  ‘But we sent him away!’ She glared at me now, a red, slap-shaped blotch staining her cheek. ‘He can’t have done that to you: we sent him away!’