by Beth Miller
I haven’t heard her nickname said out loud for years. The baby whirls around and I lean against the wall, clutching the receiver to my ear.
Miffy
1979
Bedspread
It was a terrible mess, and it was all Laura’s fault.
She’d just taken a massive swig of Coca-Cola when I told her about my cousin’s wedding music, and out it came, out of her mouth, a great frothy brown spray, splashing everywhere, all over her face, her hair and her school shirt. And a great spreading sticky stain, right in the middle of my cream bedspread.
She practically wet herself, she was laughing so much. I was too worried about Mum killing me to join in. I only managed a fake ‘Ha! Ha! Ha!’ Laura wriggled off the damp patch and sat on my pillows, away from the mess, school skirt bunched up to her knickers. Even with tears and Coke down her face, Laura was still beautiful. Her black hair was so long and silky. Her legs went on for ever. Her thigh on its own was nearly the same length as my whole leg.
‘Of all the music in the whole wide universe, all the brilliant songs, they decided on that,’ she said. ‘You’re standing in your white dress and your whole family’s there and everyone’s looking and then …’ And she sang the chorus of ‘If You Leave Me Now’ in a sarcastic voice, using my hairbrush for a microphone. Then she got hysterics again.
No way was I going to tell her that I’d cried at the wedding when the music started and Cousin Alisa appeared. She was so pretty in her veil, hair piled up inside a sparkly silver crown, wearing one of those gravity dresses with no straps. They stood under a lacy canopy and Simon tried to smash a glass with his shoe. It took him five goes and he was bright red in the face by the time it broke. Everyone yelled, ‘Mazel tov!’ with relief. Uncle Kenny said loudly, ‘That’s the last time he’ll get to put his foot down.’
It was much more romantic than Auntie Leila’s wedding three years ago, when I was nine. That was in a register office and was all over in five minutes. Mum was upset Auntie Leila didn’t get married in synagogue, wasn’t even in white: she wore a flowery purple maxi-dress with matching headscarf. Mum said her sister always did have to be different. Actually, Auntie Leila got divorced from Uncle Ray last year, so it was a very quick marriage and they were probably glad they didn’t have a big do after all.
Laura and I have talked a lot about whether we’ll wear white or ivory, how she’ll thread jasmine through her black hair, how I’ll have one of those pretty blue garter belts. Laura’s going to wear false eyelashes and a stick-on beauty spot. I’ll hopefully have contact lenses by then. And Laura will have a Beach Boys song for her music, of course, as it’s her best band. I’m still not sure what music to choose, as my favourite group is The Boomtown Rats, and none of their songs seem very suitable.
We’ve planned all the details of our weddings, but we never talk about the months and years that come after. When I get married – which won’t be for ages, not till I’m quite old, maybe twenty-three – when I get married, it’s going to be flowers all the way. Romance and presents and cuddles and laughing. For always.
I knew Mum was going to give me hell about Laura’s spilled Coke. It was bad enough last week when Danners splashed kosher wine on the tablecloth.
Laura was still giggling. She sat at my dressing table and tried on her new lipstick, which was called Electric Plum. I got some cleaning stuff from the bathroom but it didn’t help: the patch was lighter but still sticky and twice the size. In the end I turned the bedspread over and prayed Mum wouldn’t notice.
Laura said, ‘Just tell her your period started,’ but the stain didn’t look anything like blood.
Then we heard Laura’s mum, Mrs Morente, arrive to collect her, and we ran out onto the landing. She was down in the hall talking to Dad. They didn’t see us. Mrs Morente was wearing a flowery orange dress with thin straps, even though it was freezing outside! One strap was off her shoulder, a little way down her arm. Dad was laughing, in a different way from normal, and they didn’t hear us come down the stairs.
Laura
16 FEBRUARY 2003
I am prepared for a stranger, a bearded Orthodox Jew in long black coat and furry hat, the sort I saw so often, back when we lived in Edgware. But when Danny steps through Mama’s front door, a suitcase in each hand, he looks uncannily like the boy I loved nearly twenty-five years ago. He’s tall and skinny, just as I remember; clean-shaven, wearing ordinary clothes.
But from my hiding place at the top of the stairs, I see a reminder that he is definitely not the same: a red and gold embroidered skullcap nestling in his hair.
I haven’t seen him since I was fourteen, but there are plenty of photos around. Michael keeps Danny’s wedding picture in pride of place on top of the telly. Mama and I weren’t invited to the wedding, of course, and Danny asked Michael not to come either. He reckoned Andrea Cline, poor wounded soul, wouldn’t be able to cope. The photo shows Danny aged twenty-one, handsome in a dark suit, in contrast to his incredibly plain bride, who’s wearing a high-necked, whiter-than-white cover-it-all-up dress and stunned smile. Yeah, Hella, we couldn’t believe it, either. Mama and Michael were shocked at how religious Hella was, but I was taken aback by the way she looked. Now, finally, here she is, in the flesh. And what a lot of flesh. Short and square in a floor-length black tent, she’s more hobbit than woman. It’s clear that, if anything, the wedding photo is flattering, poor cow. She’s holding a baby, and is surrounded by numerous Hella-lookalike kids from toddler to teen, filling every inch of Mama’s hall. Michael seems to get a ‘new baby’ card from Danny every other year.
Something about Hella makes me want to laugh, and though I try to stifle it, a tiny squeak comes out. Danny looks up, and several things happen at once. First, I see that he is still gorgeous. Second, I have a brief flashback to our last awful meeting. And third, a crazy voice in my head says, You still love him. You’ve always loved him.
‘Laura!’
I put my hand on the banister for support. It’s probably just the pregnancy hormones, but the sight of him makes me feel quite off-balance. ‘Hello, Danny.’
‘Oh, helloooo,’ Hella moos up at me, and I instantly re-name her ‘Heifer’.
I walk down carefully, trilling, ‘So nice to see you,’ more high-pitched than I’d intended. Danny goes into the kitchen with Mama, asking her about Michael, so my welcoming party consists of Heifer and her thousand children. She kisses me on my cheek, then holds me at arm’s length, looks me up and down and says gruffly, ‘You’re looking blooming!’
‘Blooming huge, anyway,’ I respond, and she laughs uproariously as though I was the star turn at the Catskills. I’m unable to think of a plausible compliment for her, so turn my attention to the baby, a plucked chicken. ‘Oh, isn’t he cute!’
Heifer’s genes must be incredibly strong to so consistently over-ride Danny’s in the production of these hideous children. Our baby – Danny’s and mine – would have been far more beautiful than these weird creatures. They’re spookily obedient, but it still takes quite a while, under Heifer’s insistent guidance, for each of them to say hello and tell me their self-consciously biblical names: Chanah, Micah, Atalia, Asher and Ravid, plus baby Ishmael. Almost makes me appreciate the secularity of dear old Burl.
By the time I get to the kitchen, Danny’s already chatting with Evie about computer games as if they’ve known each other all their lives. He throws me a heart-stopping smile. Jesus! Despite the cuple on his head and the laughter lines round his eyes, I see so clearly the boy he once was that I feel breathless. I hope and pray he can see the girl I used to be, because she was quite something, and he was once very keen on her indeed. I move towards him, expecting a hug, a kiss maybe, but he somehow makes it very clear, without really doing anything, that we are not going to be embracing. I know his religion prohibits him touching random women, but I’m family, aren’t I? I sit down, feeling extremely conscious of my body: my stomach pressing against my clothes; my hair on my shoulders; the we
ight of my wedding ring.
Heifer plonks herself down next to me, and says, ‘Dan-Dan, have you got the wipes? Ishmael’s done a little sickie down my front.’
Poor old Dan-Dan. I’d love to know what he’s told Heifer about me. I imagine how their conversation might have gone, if they’d had to face each other on one of those confrontational daytime TV shows Ceri’s always watching in the back room at the shop.
Aggressively Moral Host: So, Hella, when did you first become aware that your husband had had sexual relations with the girl who later became his stepsister? When she was underage, might I add?
(Audience boos)
Heifer (red-eyed; no make-up): I only found out last week. And we’ve been married for seventeen years! He said – this is horrible – ‘Since Laura, I have never properly loved, have never had such excellent sex.’
AMH: You bastard, Daniel.
Danny: I’m so sorry.
AMH: How did hearing this make you feel, Hella?
Heifer (stands, throws chair): I want a divorce.
Mama puts biscuits on the table, and as I bite into one I realise our guests must have brought them.
‘Kosher.’ Heifer grins at me, and I have to eat the whole tasteless thing.
Mama takes the plucked-chicken baby from Heifer, cuddles it affectionately and says, ‘I hope Laura’s baby will be as sweet as little Ishy-wishy.’ My mother, the short-sighted traitor.
‘Well, Dan-Dan and I do have gorgeous kiddies, don’t we, darling?’ Heifer smirks, totally deluded. ‘Are you looking forward to having a sister or brother, Evie?’
Evie nods.
I say, ‘She’s putting on a brave face. She loves being our only princess.’
Evie says, ‘I don’t love it, actually.’
The grown-ups all laugh a little uncomfortably, and flail around for a subject change. I ask Danny about his work, Danny asks Mama about visiting hours, and Heifer asks me where my husband is. Evie wanders off to see what the other, bizarrely quiet, children are doing. Praying, probably. I offer to go and see Michael, hoping Danny will suggest accompanying me, but he doesn’t. Mama says she’ll join me once she and Hella have sorted out the sleeping arrangements. Even the words ‘sleeping arrangements’ give me a frisson when I glance at Danny. Must get a grip!
Michael’s in the James Paget, which Mama and I still refer to as the new hospital, even though it’s been here more than twenty years. It was still being built when we first moved here, so I had my termination in the old-fashioned Victorian hospital on the other side of town. The JP, by contrast, is all white paint and chrome, and the nurses look like Gap models in their little shirts and chinos.
Michael’s in a side ward of eight beds. He waves when I come in, a Thunderbirds puppet with tubes sprouting from both arms. He’s pleased to see me, though I expect he’d look this thrilled to see anyone. I kiss his papery cheek and he puts his hand on mine and squeezes it. Leaves it there longer than I expect.
‘How you feeling, Michael?’
‘Bit beaten about. Bit bruised.’
I sit on a metal chair. The woman in the bed opposite is chatting to a nurse at top volume: ‘Maybe it will be warmer tomorrow, Nurse. You could go to the beach!’ Once the nurse has moved up the ward the woman mutters, ‘Don’t know why they’re so cheerful. They should try being stuck in here for six weeks,’ and clamps huge headphones over her ears.
‘Talking of bruises,’ Michael says, ‘what’s this?’ He reaches up and very gently touches the mark on my forehead. Typical Michael – he notices everything. Mama didn’t mention it, but to be fair, she is in a bit of a state.
‘Oh, it’s nothing. Looks worse than it is. Just slipped over.’
‘Are you looking after yourself? Huw taking care of you?’
He looks at me intently, but I’m saved from having to answer by the arrival of a young black nurse – Amanda, according to her name-badge – who scolds Michael for yanking his drip about. She uses his first name, which he flirtingly grumbles about. She deftly reconnects the drip and winks at me. ‘He’s a stroppy bugger, ain’t he?’
Michael’s a charming man; he’s probably already becoming a hospital character. When the nurse has gone he says, ‘They’re all schwartzas, you know. Barely speak English, some of them.’ Under the grumpy face he looks exhausted and frail. It’s no small deal, is it, waiting for a triple-bypass, a ‘nil by mouth’ sign above your head?
I give him some letters Mama asked me to bring, and he flicks swiftly through them, scanning the handwriting. Whatever he’s looking for isn’t there, and he drops the envelopes onto the bed without opening them.
‘Danny and Hella arrived this morning, Michael, with a ridiculously large number of children.’
He laughs. ‘Danny’s brood! Go forth and multiply. Took it literally. Did you see Micah? Going to be bar-mitzvahed soon. Can’t believe it.’
‘Yes.’ I sort of saw him, anyway; one of the black-clad mass. ‘And they’ve got yet another new baby – don’t suppose you’ve seen him yet?’
‘Ishmael? Yes, met him when they were here. Few weeks ago.’
How cosy.
‘So. Was it all right, Laura? Seeing Danny again?’
‘It was fine. He seems very settled.’
‘So do you,’ Michael says, moving his hand back onto mine. In an abrupt change of tone, he says, ‘Want to thank you. For being such a good girl.’
Oh, shit. Is he revving up for a sentimental monologue about Life? I say briskly, ‘Well, I haven’t always been such a good girl.’
He nods. ‘Yes, you did have wild times. Before we moved here.’
I take a surprised breath. We’ve never talked about that time … never.
‘And I know,’ he says, looking down at the bed, ‘you were very angry with Olivia and me, for a while. For uprooting you. We should have taken your feelings more into account, Laura. Yours, Danny’s and Lissa’s. I’m really, truly, sorry.’
Why is he saying all this now, after all this time? And anyway, shouldn’t it be coming from Mama? Not that she ever would. She doesn’t really do sorrys.
I say hurriedly, ‘You know, don’t feel you have to talk, if it’s a strain. I don’t mind just sitting with you quietly.’
He ignores me. ‘Another little one on the way. Hope I live to see it.’
‘Of course you will! It’ll be here in four months.’
‘Tell you one baby I’ll never see, though,’ he says, and then, thank God, another nurse (‘Patty’) comes to take his pulse. She ought to take mine; it’s jumping about all over the place. Which baby does he mean? The one I aborted? One of my miscarriages? Or the one Miffy has never had?
Nurse Patty gives Michael some tablets. ‘Here we go, Michael. Swallow them down for me, chicken!’
‘It’s Mr Cline, Nurse. We don’t know each other well enough for first names and endearments.’
She pops a pill into his mouth and flutters a hand at me in amusement. ‘Oh, Mr Cline, you must drive your poor daughter mad.’
Michael says quietly, ‘I drive both my daughters mad.’
When she leaves, he closes his eyes. In less than a minute his breathing is steady. Exhausted, no doubt, by his unprecedented outpouring. I watch him as he sleeps. Only his blue-veined hands, lying limp on the bedcovers, their skin puckered and stained, make him seem old. His hair is thick. He’s still recognisable as the handsome man Mama fell in love with. Danny will probably look like him one day.
The machines he’s hooked up to thrum and buzz. A few beds down, something beeps every couple of seconds. Nurses at the top of the ward are laughing. I haven’t noticed the continual low noise till now, but once I have, it’s hard to block it out.
God, what will Mama do if he dies? She’s always been so sensitive, so vulnerable. The exact opposite of the feminist maxim, ‘A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.’ She needs a man like a fish needs water. As an adult looking back, I’m impressed she threw my father out. Even though he hit her, that
still took guts. Mind you, my father hadn’t been gone long before she brought home the first of my ‘uncles’. Steven, was it? Or Keith? They all blend together in my mind. I remember Anthony, though – another one like my father: quick off the mark with his fists. She was seeing Anthony when she fell in love with Michael.
One time when Miffy came over to play, I overheard Michael say to Mama, ‘You need someone to protect you.’ And to his credit, he did.
A nurse smiles at me as she walks past, and I see what she sees: the dutiful daughter. I imagine I’m in a TV documentary about visiting relatives in hospital.
Laura (voice-over, as on-screen Laura smoothes Michael’s sheets and wipes away a tear): My life feels very complicated right now.
CUT TO: Huw at work, with his arms round that tart from New Year’s Eve.
Huw: My wife’s insisting on having another baby.
CUT TO: Danny, staring at Heifer.
Danny (voice-over): I’m glad we have all these children; they mean I never have to talk to you. Laura is even more attractive than I remember. Oh, God, help me. Thou Shalt Not Commit Adultery, but …
I nearly jump out of my skin as the real-life Danny appears at the other side of the bed and says, ‘Oh, he’s asleep.’
Mama sits next to me. She’s wearing her grey fur coat, which always makes her look incredibly dramatic and glamorous.
Michael opens his eyes and smiles at me and Mama. Then he sees Danny.
‘You’re here!’
‘Hello, Dad. How you feeling?’
‘Can’t complain. Bit thirsty.’ He turns to Mama and says, ‘Sweetheart, could I have five minutes with Danny?’
Mama raises her eyebrows. ‘Alone, do you mean? But I only just got here.’
I stand up. ‘Come on, Mama, let’s get coffee.’
‘Five minutes, Michael, okay, but I want to spend time with you before they take you to theatre.’
The way she emphasises ‘theatre’ makes it seem exciting and life-threatening. Which it is, I suppose. Mama and I go to the canteen and sip horrible coffee. She is furious with me.
