Nest of Sorrows

by Ruth Hamilton

  Melanie. Oh, Melanie! Over at the stables with her friends, all those up-market brats with silly un-Bolton, high-pitched voices and hard hats. Hearts to match the hats too, no doubt. Melanie. Doing all the nice girly things that Kate herself had never got to do.

  She pursed her lips tightly. Kate Saunders. You really are the lowest of the low. Do you resent your own daughter?

  ‘Kate?’ Imperious now. ‘I need to talk to you.’ Managing director tone, bring your notebook and sit pretty, sit on my knee, what lovely limbs you have, my dear. Oh shit! ‘You’re not pretty,’ she mouthed at the mirror. ‘You’re quite ordinary, really. Without the paint, there’d be nothing much to write home about.’ Reddish hair, freckled skin, unremarkable green eyes.

  ‘Kate! Do you hear me?’

  ‘I hear,’ she spat silently. ‘I always bloody hear.’

  She walked into the living room, a large and beautiful area that ran the full depth of the house. He was seated in a chair by the fireplace, briefcase placed correctly on the bureau, a dry martini poured and standing to adequate attention on an occasional table, his ankles crossed in what was supposed to be a friendly and conversational fashion.

  ‘One for you, dear?’ he asked predictably.

  ‘No. No thanks.’

  ‘Given up?’

  She ground her teeth noiselessly. No, I’m thinking of taking it up full time actually, darling. Aloud, ‘Yes. Probably.’ She must be good. If ever she needed wits about her, then this was the time!

  ‘So.’ He sipped his drink slowly. ‘I saw Phil Carter today.’

  This promised to be rivetingly interesting. ‘Did you now?’

  ‘Yes.’ The glass was twisting round in his fingers, a sure sign of inner agitation. ‘Bit confusing for both of us, actually.’

  ‘Why? Has one of you had plastic surgery?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I just wondered why you should be so confused – we’ve known Maureen and Phil Carter for years.’

  He coughed in that irritating way, the way he had developed of signalling that something of importance was about to be pronounced. ‘You were the cause of our confusion, Kate.’

  ‘Oh.’ A warning bell sounded clearly in her head.

  ‘He was on business last week, up in Scotland?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice seemed to come from far away.

  ‘And you stayed with Maureen because she’s been nervous about all the burglaries on Higher Lane?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Bump, bump, lurch. Her heart was all over the place. Not now! Surely she’d covered her tracks.

  ‘That’s not right and you know it! Phil’s sister arrived unexpectedly, she’s still staying with them. And you were never at the Carters’, not at all! I felt such a damn fool about the whole thing, had to make an elaborate excuse about dates and names being mixed. What the hell are you up to?’

  She paused for a frantic think. She wasn’t going to be good, was she? It would be impossible to be good now. ‘I was . . . having a break.’

  ‘Having a break? Having a bloody break? From what?’

  Her temper teetered on the brink of being lost. She must hang on, she had to. ‘From school, from the house, you, Melanie . . .’ She managed, just, not to mention his mother on this occasion.

  ‘I see.’ His foot tapped silently against the carpet. ‘With whom?’

  She ran her eyes over him. So bloody smarmy, he was, so correct. So . . . so . . . yes, there was that familiar adjective again, predictable. And dull and uninteresting and all the things she’d married him for not being. How blind she had been! Though he hadn’t changed, oh, no, he was still the same. The difference was in herself, she had mislaid the rose-tinted glasses somewhere along the road.

  Everything he did annoyed her, every last damned thing. The way he spooned his soup away from himself, the sniffs of disapproval when she dipped in her spoon and simply scooped up the liquid. The way he touched the end of his nose after shifting into fifth gear in that bloody precious Rover – the item she privately called his penis extension. He got on her nerves, ruined her nerves, reduced her to wreckage at times. It was as if he were shouting to the world, ‘Look at me, I’m a big boy now with five gears’. Dora Saunders had a lot to answer for.

  Kate turned her head and stared into the grate. He might have five gears, but his wife had never had an orgasm. Not from him, never from him. This was 1968! She was thirty-four and entitled to some pleasure.

  ‘Where were you?’ So controlled, that voice. He might have been chiding a secretary, or even the office lad.

  There was no point in trying any longer, because there was no place where she might hide. The truth had to come out. Where had she been? Yes, she would tell him where she had been. ‘I . . . I was in a Rodney Street clinic.’ She knew her shoulders were sagging.

  ‘Rodney Street? Liverpool? Whatever for?’

  ‘I don’t need to tell you,’ she said quietly. ‘Matters medical are private, even my doctor can’t talk about why I was there. In fact, he especially can’t say anything. I needed treatment. Isn’t that enough for you to know? And I paid for it myself.’

  He began to tap rhythmically on the chair arm, his fingers beating out a fast and furious pattern that he knew she would not tolerate for long. ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘I shall have no rest until you do. Are you ill?’

  She laughed mirthlessly. ‘Of course I’m ill. You’re always telling me I’m ill. Aren’t I crazy? Isn’t this mad lady second in command in one of the biggest schools in Bolton? Aren’t you and your mother the ones who diagnosed me as manic? I am sick, sick of . . . of you!’

  ‘Don’t start that again. It’s all my fault or my mother’s fault, though God knows we have set out to make your life as easy as possible. If you are ill, then I have a right to know about it.’

  ‘You don’t own me!’ she yelled. Her patience, never her strongest point, suddenly snapped. ‘I was having an abortion,’ she screamed now. ‘A termination, a good clear-out with a vacuum cleaner attachment. Is that plain enough for you or shall I draw a picture?’

  His glass bounced on the fireside rug. For the first time within memory, be made no immediate move towards the kitchen for cleaning materials. ‘Why?’ The jaw, hanging low and loose, looked weaker than ever. ‘What the hell for? And why wasn’t I . . . ? I mean, I didn’t even know you were . . . Was there something wrong with it?’ The tone was accusatory now. Anything wrong with ‘it’ would have been her fault; from his loins, there could have been nothing short of perfection.

  She breathed deeply. ‘As far as I knew, there was nothing wrong. Nothing specific, anyway. It was a bit early to tell, though, I was only weeks pregnant when I went to the clinic.’

  He glanced down at the pool of fluid that was slowly soaking into the long-piled rug. ‘I’ll . . . I’ll get a cloth,’ he muttered quietly, though she could tell by the set of his spine as he left the room that he was angry. Not to say furious. Fury might be a bit strong for Geoff, but perhaps this time he might at last show some real feeling about something other than himself.

  He mopped up the mess. ‘Does Maureen know? Was she in on the secret?’

  ‘Yes. We were hoping . . .’

  ‘That I’d never find out. Of course, it’s fine for your best friend to know our business. I, of course, am the last to come out of the dark. If it hadn’t been for Phil’s sister . . .’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked as he straightened from his task. ‘Just tell me why.’

  Kate pondered for a second. ‘I’m . . . not ready for a baby, not right for one.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ He placed the cloth on his neatly folded copy of the Guardian. ‘It goes without saying that you would never consider consulting me. Have you not thought that I might have wanted the child?’

  ‘No. You don’t seem terribly interested in children.’ He didn’t seem terribly interested in much, come to that. Himself, his mother, bridge, golf, Melanie when she came up to scratch. But his
interest in people was minimal.

  His thick lower lip quivered slightly. ‘That’s a fine attitude, I must say! You flush my son down the toilet and it doesn’t even dawn on you that . . .’

  ‘Might have been a daughter!’ she snapped. ‘Another Melanie for your mother to ruin.’

  ‘Leave Mother out of this!’ His cheeks, always florid, were purplish now. ‘At least she’s normal. You’re not. Do you hear me? You’re not normal, Kate. No maternal instinct, no need for anyone, no feelings for what you have done to this family.’

  ‘What I’ve done?’ she yelled. ‘And what have you done? You’ve ignored me, you’ve had women all over the place, you’ve allowed your mother to rule in my kitchen. It’s a good job Mel has a bit of sense, otherwise she’d be as bad as you are.’

  ‘Stop it! Stop this now!’

  ‘No! It’s my body. I’m the one who gets the swollen ankles and morning sickness. I’m the one who blows up like a wretched barrage balloon!’ Kate stood feet apart, hands on hips, her eyes bravely meeting his at last. Why should she apologize to a man who had worn her away over the years, someone who had dripped like water on to a rock that had finally cracked? ‘Would you have carried it for nine months, then worked for several terrible hours to push the little darling into an unfit world? Would you? Or how about a spell of two a.m. feeds? That would soon put a stop to your caperings in Amsterdam and Brussels.’

  He took a step back, obviously unprepared for the force of her anger. ‘What am I supposed to say? That I’m sorry for not thinking? Look, you should have mentioned it, informed me at least. Bloody high-handed. This is not a decision for you to take alone.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? Because you’re my wife! You should . . .’

  ‘You should, you should,’ she mimicked viciously. ‘How many times do I have to tell you that you don’t own me? No-one owns me. And stop saying what I should have done. The doctor decided that I was unfit.’

  ‘Ah. An unfit mother.’ There was a hint of triumph in his narrowed eyes.

  ‘Yes.’ She paused fractionally. ‘But not unfit because I can’t cope mentally. You’re the one who wants me to believe that. It gives you a feeling of superiority, doesn’t it? But I’m sorry to disappoint you, Geoff. I was declared unfit because I am diabetic.’

  This silenced him, but only momentarily. ‘Diabetic?’ he roared. ‘Bloody diabetic? How the hell long have you been a diabetic?’

  She took a slow, deep breath. ‘I was diagnosed last year.’ Her tone was quiet, almost mournful. ‘I became tired and extremely thirsty and . . . well . . . there we have it. There is no way I would have had an abortion for a frivolous reason. It would have to be for physical problems. Although in one sense, I . . .’ She shrugged inpatiently. ‘If you don’t believe me, you’ll find my equipment in the top of my wardrobe and most of the insulin in Maureen Carter’s fridge behind the butter. I inject myself at her house each morning before she drives me to school. That’s why I visit Maureen every day, including weekends and holidays. Until your mother began to live here off and on, I used to hide it in my own fridge.’ But there was no hiding anything from Eagle Eye, was there?

  ‘Well!’ He swivelled abruptly on his heel and stared through the large rear window. ‘And you never told me. You never tell me anything. But this? Something as important as this? You never told me,’ he repeated lamely.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’ He stared at her over his shoulder. ‘Why ever not?’

  Kate took a deep and shuddering breath. ‘I’m already a freak. You and your mother have made that plain enough in the past. So I forbade the doctor to tell you unless I became comatose or seriously ill. The termination was judged to be necessary, believe me.’ Her shoulders were suddenly straighter. ‘Though I might have wanted it anyway.’

  He took a step in her direction. ‘You would have wanted the baby?’

  ‘No. The abortion. I know it’s wrong, and I probably couldn’t have gone through with it. But for once, I was grateful for my inadequate pancreas.’ Endlessly slow seconds ticked away. ‘I’m not happy, Geoff. I don’t seem to want anything any more. No more children, nothing to fasten me . . .’ Just in time, she bit off ‘to you’. ‘Sometimes, I’ve even thought of taking myself off somewhere, leaving the insulin behind, just . . . oh . . . I don’t know . . .’

  ‘Suicide?’ There was shock and what sounded like real concern in his tone.

  ‘Not quite. Just to see what would happen, let nature take its course, as they say.’ She checked herself. She had seldom confided in him, never since those first few happier years. Confiding in him was confiding in Dora, who had a communication system that might have put the daily press to shame.

  ‘Kate! You must not think like that. It’s stupid and dangerous.’

  ‘This is what’s stupid and dangerous.’ She swept an arm across the room. ‘We shouldn’t be together. You’re not happy either. My misery is ruining everybody’s life here.’

  He ran to her and clutched at her hands. ‘Stop this now! I’ve told you before that I will not listen to such talk. Things will get better. Mother’s going to move into the flat soon, and she’ll take over the lighter housework. I’ll get a woman in for the heavy stuff. And there is no need for you to teach. Why, with a serious illness like diabetes, do you insist on continuing to do that taxing job? Why?’

  She pulled away from him. ‘That’s it, treat me like a freak again. Good old Kate, she can’t help it, have you heard she’s diabetic? And poor Geoff, what a brick, having to live with such a sick and difficult woman. No! I won’t have it! And bring your mother here by all means, but don’t expect me to put up with her!’

  ‘The flat’s separate.’

  ‘Separate? Her house is separate now – five miles separate – but she still haunts me. What about my poor mother, eh? Don’t you think she’d like a flat on the edge of the countryside? But the difference between my mother and yours is greed. My mam is not a greedy woman, she expects little and gets nothing. Your old girl grabs and I cannot stand the woman!’

  ‘Stop this! Stop! You’re becoming hysterical again. Mother needs us. Her heart isn’t good and she needs a reason to . . .’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with her heart. Her heart is about as healthy as a brand new pneumatic drill. I will not have her fussing around me. You know how morbid she gets about illness, how fascinated she is by everybody’s symptoms. You mustn’t tell her about my insulin.’

  ‘All right, calm down. Now. When did you last see Dr Coakley?’

  ‘I’ve given him up along with the gin, he was becoming just another bad habit.’

  He swallowed. ‘That’s a damned good man, highly recommended for managers with stress . . .’

  ‘I’m not having a shrink, Geoff. He digs about in my head with a pick and shovel, trying to find out what I had for breakfast on a certain Monday in 1942, asking me stupid questions about my difficult relationship with my father. And not content with that, he wanted to plug me into the mains like a bloody kettle! I was fine till you sent me to him. Just because I don’t dance to your tune, a tune invented by your wretched mother, I’m mad. You don’t give a damn about me, Geoff Saunders. Only my performance. What am I? One of Pavlov’s dogs?’

  ‘Where are your Valium?’ He was suddenly pale with fear.

  ‘Down the toilet with your son!’ Her voice cracked, so she deliberately took some deep breaths. ‘Listen to me. This one last time, listen.’ She walked away and sat down on a chair by the front window. ‘We talked. During what I decided was to be my final appointment with him, we really talked. He knew I wouldn’t take the electro-convulsive therapy, wasn’t really sure anyway of how it might affect my diabetes, so he had to resort to treating me like a human being. Not a woman, a person this time. At the end of our talk, he was quite surprised. Perhaps he’s actually read some books at last, maybe he realized that you’ve wasted your money all along. “Mrs Saunders,” he said, “I have watched you now for thir
ty-five minutes. Your blink rate is correct and you make bloody good sense. You are certainly not psychotic,” he said. It’s taken him twelve years to find that out! Then he decided that I wasn’t even terribly neurotic. Don’t you see? He told me to go home and look at my life, analyse it, treat myself, much as I treat my physical illness. And I’ve done just that – I can handle my own therapy. There’s nothing wrong with me. It’s . . . it’s . . .’

  ‘Me? Is it me? I’m too old for you, is that it?’

  ‘No! Please don’t think that, Geoff! I won’t have you thinking that! It’s us. It’s you and me together. Like some chemicals, we simply don’t mix.’

  He sank on to the sofa. ‘I see. Then what are we going to do about it?’

  ‘“We” don’t do anything. I work it out. I’m the one with the problem. You haven’t changed, love. You’re still the man I married. It’s me – I’m changing all the time, don’t know what I want, don’t know where the hell I’m going. But that’s not insanity. It’s female maturation and I can’t help it.’

  ‘So . . . so none of it’s my fault?’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t absolve you completely. You haven’t exactly improved my lot, nor has your mother. Always putting me down, forever undermining my confidence. Of course she does it because she has to be top dog at any price, needs all the attention she can get. She’s stupid. But you, well, I’d say you’re afraid of me.’

  ‘What?’ He laughed mirthlessly. ‘Afraid of you?’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded cautiously. After years of deliberately sitting on all of this, of holding it tight to herself, the whole thing had taken on the massive proportions of a long-dormant volcano. She must not go too far; she must not let things get right out of hand. A worm should turn quietly, not to the accompaniment of thunder and lightning! ‘I don’t do your bidding,’ she said softly. ‘I’m not a servant like your mother was and I don’t fit in with your Victorian concept of womanhood. It’s probably not all your fault, it’s more likely to be hers. Your mother has been to women’s liberation what the iceberg was to the Titanic. I cannot be like her. And you have been wrong in trying to mould me.’ She folded her arms and leaned back in an attitude of great calm. ‘You’re afraid because I’m a professional woman with a degree of ability. That is a challenge to your supreme masculinity.’