by Helen Walsh
‘Youth Exclusion Officer? Is that what they’re calling it now?’
At least Dad did the decent thing and swallowed his prejudice – and his pride – supporting me once he finally accepted it was all too late to halt my decision. He topped up my grant himself rather than allow me to take on an overdraft, and even I would have to admit he had an uncanny knack for second-guessing my homesick blues, mysteriously turning up in Nottingham ‘on business’, when he’d take me out for a good old feed and an inevitable row about music or politics. But mostly we argued about me, my choices.
‘I can make a difference, Dad. I can really do something.’
‘I know, darling. I think it’s wonderful.’
‘Don’t patronise me, Dad! Where d’you think I get these high and mighty notions from?’
‘Rachel,’ he’d laugh – but he was upset. ‘I’m not patronising you. I—’
He was. He was patronising me.
‘Dad. If you hate what I’m doing so much, just take a look at yourself.’
‘Love, for the last time . . .’
‘You and your reggae and your shebeens and your Liverpool 8.’
‘I love reggae. I love Liverpool 8.’
‘And you tried to force-feed it to me.’
‘I did not!’
‘Well, sorry. Whether you did or you didn’t, it worked. I got the bug. Okay? Congratulations. Street-life, low-life, counter culture. Call it what you want, it’s in me. And that’s down to you.’
‘But, honey, I celebrate that.’
‘And that’s why I’m doing what I’m doing, okay? Whether you like it or not.’
I can see myself jutting my chin out, just like Dad does, challenging him to disagree with me. I can see him studying me carefully, an idea dropping into place. I can see him cogitate, chew it over, think about saying it; change his mind. Then he comes out with it.
‘Rachel? Is it that time of the month? Your mother was a terrible slave to the—’
And I’m up, towering over him, a small globule of sticky toffee sauce on my chin.
‘How dare you! You condescending voyeur. At least I’m getting my hands dirty, Dad.’ I’d stare at him with real malice. ‘Don’t bother coming again!’
And I’d turn and storm out of the restaurant leaving him sat there, twitching, instinctively reaching for his phone to text his love and his ardent apologies to me before the door had even slammed shut. I’d leave him to suffer, but we’d be friends again by the time the week was out.
*
In the blink of an eyelid the streets are silent, the temperature dropping way, way down. The room is plunged into darkness and the entire building is silent except for a distant drift of music coming up from the flat below – some deep-bottomed aching reggae track. I can’t just lie here, like this. Sooner or later I will have to carry Joe upstairs and face the night. I will have to brush my teeth, put on my nightdress, hover on the landing before entering the bedroom, that jangling thread of inner dread pulling tighter. I shall take a deep breath and plunge into the darkness, sink into my bed, wait for whatever lies ahead. But not just yet.
I switch the television on, then mute it. Every bodily instinct is telling me to sleep but I can’t face going up there. Too many spectres are troubling me; there is a lurking dread within that refuses to declare itself. Maybe it’s James. Or Ruben. The mice. Dad’s imminent trip. It’s all of these things; it’s none of them.
I find myself standing at the window, seeking solace in the squares of light across the street. The idea that there are other mothers like me, standing at their window, willing the first fissures of dawn to crack the sky, offers hope if not strength. Yet the idea that there, too, sitting behind them or beneath them is a husband, a partner, a lover, someone, anyone to lean on, to turn to – that just slays me with sorrow.
*
There it goes again. Scuttle-scratch-scuttle. Back and forth, back and forth across the floorboards beneath my bed. I bolt upright and snap on the light, hoping the sudden staccato of my action will scare them away. I’m shaking all over. I try to breathe, slow and deep. Inch by inch I edge myself to the lip of the bed then carefully lower my head down over the side and peer underneath. Nothing.
I check the time. 1.17 a.m. I change Joe’s nappy while I’m up. He wakes in the process so I feed him. And then it’s after three in the morning. A shrill cacophony of birds already, singing one long, demented, off-pitch note. I wind Joe, and take satisfaction from three fat, wet burps. I lay him back down, and he seems content.
I close my eyes. Start to drift.
Scuttle-scratch-scuttle. It sends a shiver through the bones behind my ears. It’s playing games with me now. I’ll show the little bastard! I grab a big hardback and lean over the edge of the mattress and lie in wait. I can hear it; right below me, now. I wait until it sounds like it’s right next to my nostril and SLAM! I bring the book right down with all my might, sending the bedside light clattering to the floor from the recoil. Joe wakes up screaming passionately with fear as well as fury at being woken. And this time he’s not going back down.
I wrap Joe tightly into his buggy and, walking backwards, carefully negotiate the stairs – clunk, clunk, clunk. I let us out into the damp pre-morning and push him down Belvidere, some weird magnetic pull directing me towards the river. The air is wet and cold, the low moon a milky smear behind the cathedral; high above, stars still burn sharp and bright. The wind sharpens around us and chases us down towards the heavy black slap of the river. I leave the pram and get up on the railings, push my head right out into the river spray and let it lick my face and cool my hot breasts, and it feels good. I stay there, the wind whipping my ears till I’m deaf.
I don’t see her at first, but experience a slow and gradual awakening from my reverie to the sweet, childish refrain of a nursery rhyme or lullaby rising on the wind, then blowing away. I turn, and there’s a girl pushing Joe’s buggy round in circles. She’s younger, much younger than I am, and she never looks up. She keeps her smiling eyes on Joe, shushing him and pushing him in circles, close to the edge; right by the drop to the river below. Yet I feel no fear, no panic or possessive lurch. It seems fine that this girl is looking after my son. It feels right. I watch them a beat longer, then hop down from the railings, the landing sending a painful jolt through my numb calves. The girl has parked her own pram by the pathway. I make my way over and she steps away from Joe.
‘She was just like that,’ she laughs, nodding at her beautiful but unwieldy pram. There’s not a sound from her baby – not a murmur. ‘First few weeks I was going off my head,’ she says.
‘Thanks,’ I laugh, stooping to look at her daughter. She doesn’t stir. ‘You don’t want to swap, do you?’
She doesn’t smile back, just looks at me, and we know each other. The bond between us is strong and immediate, this enormous thing of motherhood: its living nightmare, its impossible dream. Now she smiles – a warm, reassuring, radiant smile that fills me up with cheer.
‘You’ll be fine, love. Really. It’ll all be fine.’
I feel vulnerable at one so young calling me ‘love’, radiating such certainty about this thing. If she’s finding all this so easy, then why can’t I? But I don’t want doubt or fear coming between us. I went through pregnancy scorning that cosy culture of mum-pals (after all, why would a bitch cease to be a bitch just because you’ve had a kid on the same ward?). Instinctively, I like this girl. I want her to be my friend. I take the final step, hold out my hand.
‘I’m Rachel,’ I say. ‘And this little devil is Joe.’ She eyes me and it’s weird. She’s looking at me . . . well, she’s looking at me with something akin to affection; or concern. Maybe it’s concern in her eyes. To say it’s love is absurd, but she just looks at me like that for what seems an age. I have to break the silence, and force another staccato laugh. ‘You’ll have to tell me your secret,’ I grin.
But instead of answering, she pads back to her pram, glances once over her should
er and says:
‘Finnegan.’
And then she’s away, putting all her might into heaving that shuddering great pram.
‘Bye, Mrs Finnegan,’ I murmur to myself. Another one I’ve scared away.
25
It’s the sound of traffic that wakes me, and then the harsh sunlight filtering through the slats. It feels like I’ve hardly slept. My skin grips my skull tight like a helmet, dots of light dancing about my eyes if I look up too quickly. I’m so used to the single prolonged white-noise whirr in my head that it barely registers. Zzzzzz. It’s the soundtrack to my days and nights.
Joe is lying dead still in his crib. I look out for the rise and fall of his lungs, impossible to make out beneath the baggy folds of his too-big babygro. I don’t want to wake him, but still the thought nags and nags. I go to the bathroom, dig out my little compact mirror and hold it an inch above his mouth. I wait. I hold my breath. A near-invisible wisp of steam mists the glass, disappears in an instant then mists up again, and I exhale, slowly. Joe is fine. But my mind – or whatever now powers whatever I am or have become – lets in a fragment of a notion. What if he had? . . . No! I will not think it out any further. I drive the idea deep back down. But what if . . . what if?
Then I could sleep.
Frightened, frightened by everything, I run downstairs and haul open the curtains.
Daylight floods the room and the threat retreats. I confront the day. Joe is asleep. He may not stay that way for more than a few minutes, but who knows? For now Joe is sleeping. And through my foggy delay in processing this, a little frisson of glee takes hold, a surge of realisation that I can, perhaps, indulge myself in some of the basic functions of life that for ever get postponed as I leap to the needs of my Bean; taking a bath, reading the paper, cooking myself a meal with fresh ingredients. All these things need strategising, now; none can be done on a whim, or at all with a babe in arms. If I should desire a cup of coffee, I have to put Joe down while I boil the kettle. His cot is upstairs, and he’ll cry when I lie him down – and I dare not risk simply laying him on the couch. What if he were to suffocate himself? I could strap him into his buggy, but that seems cruel – intimating to him that we’re off out on an adventure, when selfish Mummy merely wants him out of the way while she makes herself a cuppa. I could attempt to make the coffee with Joe tucked neatly under one arm – but the idea of boiling water coming anywhere near him puts paid to that. Out of a narrow list of possibilities, the one that always makes most sense is to put it off until later. It’ll keep. And it will taste so much better then, too. The yearned-for cup of coffee seldom materialises. But I can have one now – oh yes! And, while I’m at it, I shall fry myself some eggs and, with the radio on and my knees tucked under my chin on the sofa, I’ll settle down to an egg butty, oozing molten butter and brown sauce. Heaven.
To my surprise and joy there are eggs in the fridge, and the date on them is fine. I pour some oil into a pan and while I’m waiting for it to heat through, I boot up my laptop. There’s a clutch of emails from Faye, telling me in increasingly curt terms that she’s tried phoning, she’s called round three times without finding me in, and if she doesn’t see Joseph while he’s newborn she will be gravely offended. It’s hard to know with Faye whether she’s teasing or not and, over the years, I’ve come to realise there’s often a little nugget of resentment lurking behind the wisecracks and twinkling eyes. At The Gordon, I always – or almost always – defer to her greater experience and find myself conceding when we have a dispute. This time her martyred tone has made me angry though, and just as I was about to immerse myself in some me-time, too. I find myself firing off a heated response, telling her I’ve barely had time to wash my hair let alone indulge in the luxury of entertaining visitors. Purged of my angst though, I delete the email and re-write it with a forceful gaiety, apologising to Faye for my scatterbrain and imploring her to come round after work today. I hit send and remember my eggs.
The oil is bubbling so furiously now that it blisters the eggs on impact. I slap the frazzled brown patties on to the waiting bread, slice the sandwich diagonally and bite right into it, yolk dripping out from both sides. I’m on a roll, now. I make another pot of coffee, loading stacked spoonfuls of Nicaraguan roast into the cafetière and standing back to inhale the first few blasts. I’m alive again. I’m functioning. Functional. I try to pay a few bills online but the procedure requires more patience, more mental exertion than my brain will allow. I abandon the operation and go back to my unread emails.
More junk mail from Praxal, the pharmaceutical company that’s been hounding me ever since I brought Joe home. They boast a panacea, seemingly, for every baby-related ill: nappy rash, colic, teething pains, Praxal has it all figured out. They’ve been spamming me madly, and I usually just hit delete as soon as I see their name but today’s tag line makes me sit up. Dozinite – Aids Peaceful Sleep for Mother and Child.
Mother and child? Why shouldn’t the fathers be driven insane with sleeplessness, too? I click to read more about Dozinite. It’s a paracetamol-based suspension for colds and temperatures, and a side effect is that it may cause drowsiness. Clever. I scroll down, read the small print. Not to be given to children under the age of six. The briefest hesitation, then I hit delete. As though on cue, Joe starts to cry. The hand of freedom is snatched away, but it was wonderful while it lasted. I feel better. Not good, but less bad. I’m fortified, for the time being.
I master the impulse to go to Joe, and decide to let him wait a bit. I try to breathe through the churning in my chest that’s become my default setting now, even when I hear a baby cry on TV. The more I dance to Joe’s tune, the more he seems to take advantage. That visiting lecturer had it right. What was her name? Caused a bit of a stir on the post-feminist scene then went off to marry a toy boy . . . anyway, her message was that the patriarchy begins in the womb; once the sex of the child is determined, lifelong hierarchies are set in place. Joe agrees with gusto.
He cranks up his pleas.
He is deliberately driving himself into a tantrum. I scream up from the bottom of the stairs. ‘What do you want? Hey? WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?’
Breathless, guilt-ridden, I slump back down on the sofa and hold a cushion across my midriff, determined to let Joe cry himself out. Then I rouse myself, switch the radio on and turn the volume up loud, some nasty drilling dance anthem, and I put on my gloves and blitz the surfaces that may have been contaminated with uncooked egg yolk. Even above the music his cries vibrate through the flat, heartbreaking, beseeching. I can’t stand it. I don’t know whether to just walk out, or go to him, or throw myself out of the window, and my head is thumping with conflict when suddenly he stops. I hold my breath. Nothing. I feel awful. I did that to my little boy. I ignored his cries. I tiptoe to the bottom of the stairs and listen, to be sure. Every now and then there’s a little gasp followed by a pitiful shuddering. But he’s quiet, now. He’s going back to sleep. What a wretch I am – doing that. I stand at the window staring blankly down at the street below, smitten with self-loathing. Well done, Rachel. You mastered the Patriarch. Joe is eight days old.
I go to him. I just want to sit with him – to be there, with him. In repose, he lets out a little sob. The dead-weight of shame slams through me. I start to sing to him, surprised by how easily it comes, and how pleasingly melodic my voice is; yet it’s underpinned by sadness, too. This whole tableau – the lonely mother, the unhappy child – is etched with sorrow. Gently, as softly as possible, I slide my fingers under Joe and lift him to my bosom. I’m shocked by the delicate curve of his spine beneath my hand. I hold him to my face and kiss his cheeks, his lips.
‘I do love you, Joe,’ I whisper. ‘I do.’ I begin humming a lullaby. The buzzer sounds from below but I ignore it and continue singing and soothing him. ‘Don’t worry, my little man. We’ll get there, you and me. We will, you know.’
The buzzer sounds again, angry, insistent. Whoever it is, they’re not giving up without a fight. I p
eer down from behind the curtains. Dad. He’s balancing a couple of boxes between his arms. Mousetraps. I’d forgotten all about that. I let him in.
I find myself staring at Dad as he crouches to set the traps. He’s still catching his breath from hauling these two boxes up the stairs. Dad’s not an old man by any means, but there’s no doubt he’s starting to show his age. There’s none of the sprightly agility I’ve grown so used to; he used to drive me mad with his nervous energy. Close up in front of me now, I can see the signs of wear and tear. Even his buttocks are beginning to slip. He cranes his head around. His scalp is studded with sweat beads.
‘These were the most humane ones I could find. They’re not as effective as the spring traps, but once you do nab the perishers, at least you’ll be able to release them back into the wild.’ He hauls himself back to his feet, gestures to the picture on the box – a cartoon mouse nibbling contentedly in the tubular house-like trap. ‘You put the cheese or whatever in there, see, the little mite goes to get it and hey presto, down comes the trap door.’
‘But hopefully not on its tail,’ I wink.
I’m trying to keep it in check, but there’s an anger rising in me – again. I should step over and hug my father; thank him for carrying out this little ritual for me. I could, at least, make the man a cup of tea. But he irritates me. He irks me so much, just by being here, by being himself. What do I want from him? What is it that so niggles me, whenever he blunders into my life? It’s not just his mawkish devotion to Jan or his insistence upon levering her name into every single topic we discuss. No, but I’m getting close to something now. Whenever Dad is here, I realise all over again that Mum is not. I must be staring at him. He looks awkward, but walks to me with his arms held out.
‘Now then, how’s my little grandson?’
‘I . . . careful, Dad. He’s only just nodded off.’
