by Gwyn GB
This grief is different. This time a little piece of her has been hewn from the rest. It will never grow back, never be completely re-filled. Her grief throbs inside of her, a beacon to every sympathetic glance and whispered comment. All she wants is to melt into the corner, merge with the shadows and hide from the world.
Katherine leaves hospital the next morning, walking into the world a different woman from the one who left it yesterday afternoon. She hasn’t yet experienced the cramps she’s been told to expect, and physically she probably doesn’t look all that different to most people.
‘There’s no reason why you can’t try again as soon as you’re up to it,’ the smiling doctor tells her. She wants to shout back at him that she doesn’t want to ‘try again’, that she’d been happy with the one she’d had, but she knows it’s not his fault. It’s not anybody’s fault apparently, ‘Just one of those things,’ they keep telling her.
John has kept close to her throughout it all, holding her hand, his arm protectively around her as they leave the hospital.
‘I’m so sorry love,’ he keeps on saying, as though somehow he’s to blame.
Perhaps they both feel responsible, both feel as though they’ve failed. The doctor has warned her about the inevitable crash of her hormones, that she’s likely to be weepy; but he said this more to John than to Katherine, as though if she does cry he can explain it all away as some chemical reaction.
While she’d been in the operating theatre, John called her mother and his parents. When they return home all reminders of her pregnancy are gone. The magazines, the information sheets, the little book of names Margaret gave them, and even the pieces of paper on which she’d written, ‘Emily, Rebecca, Charlotte and Alice. William, Thomas, George and Oliver’. All that’s left is a space on the coffee table where they’d once sat. The house is also spotless. She recognises her mother and Margaret’s touch in the vase of flowers on the kitchen table, and the food in the fridge which hadn’t been there yesterday morning. Half of her is relieved that she doesn’t have to face all the reminders of where their lives had been just twenty-four hours earlier. The other half is upset at the fact their baby has already been erased in every way. Life can go on as though the pregnancy never happened.
As soon as they arrive in the yard Marie appears, taking her daughter into her arms and hugging her tightly.
‘I’m so sorry darling,’ she whispers into her ear. Katherine feels stiff in her mother’s embrace; she doesn’t want to accept her sympathy because it might soften the loosely latched flood gates of her emotion. She doesn’t want to cry again. She wants to put on a brave face. Lots of people have miscarriages right?
An hour or so later Sally calls to see if there’s anything they can do.
‘I’m really sorry sweetheart,’ she says to Katherine. ‘I know exactly how you feel. I had a miscarriage in between John and Stephen. Not quite sure exactly how far gone I’d been, we didn’t have scans in those days, but I can certainly remember when I lost it. The best thing is to keep busy love. I went to a dance the same night; I was determined to keep my mind off things. It’s not good to dwell.’ Dwell! Katherine thinks, dwell! She’s only just come out of the hospital and already she’s telling her not to dwell. But, she’s been through this, she coped, and so will Katherine.
That evening they go to bed early willing the unconscious state of sleep to overcome them. Lying in their bed, as they have done so many times before, it just doesn’t feel the same. It’s the same sheets they were given for their wedding. The same green blanket her mother passed on to them. The same red and white checked bedspread they’d bought together one rainy Saturday afternoon at de Gruchy’s sale, rushing home afterwards to christen it by making love; and then lying in each other’s arms listening to the rain on the window. They’re a long way from that afternoon. The world suddenly feels colder, less friendly. Their innocent hopes and dreams now tarnished by a cruel reality.
‘I never knew my mother had a miscarriage,’ John says into the darkness. ‘She’s never mentioned it before...’ and his voice trails off. Katherine can feel his pain, but she’s too enveloped in her own to be of any comfort to him. He doesn’t say anything more, just hugs her and strokes her hair for a while until he falls asleep. She’s left listening to the rhythmic sound of his breathing.
She expected her baby to fill her insides, to squash her heart with its life. Instead her heart beats unhampered in an empty shell, its pounding echoing around the space that feels so completely deserted. Why her? Why her baby? What is wrong with her body that it can’t swell and bloom in pregnancy like other women’s? They’ve been cheated. Defeated by something they will never know the identity of. Her ‘Product of conception’ will never be an individual in their own right; a person who will find their niche in society. That opportunity was offered and then snatched away. Her arms will stay empty.
23
March 4th 2008, Jersey
Little Sophie is the saviour of the car journey. Without her cheerful chatter the road to Fort Regent would be a depressing one for Margaret and Katherine, both still fuming after the previous night. What interaction there is between the adults revolves around the little girl, or their shared distaste for the situation at Haut de la Garenne. On their way they pass a television satellite truck, east bound.
‘There they go,’ says Margaret with disdain. ‘Do you know what? My friend Carol rang this morning. Said her sister had some newspaper bloke knock on her door, one of the nationals, offered her money if she had a story to tell. They were going round the whole estate.’ Margaret looks in her rear view mirror at Sophie who has stopped her chattering and is listening to her mother. ‘You alright sweetheart?’ she asks her. Sophie nods and resumes chattering with the two dolls on her lap. ‘That Telegraph article the other day, the one that called Jersey an “Island of secrets and terror”, questioned how many people here knew what was going on and didn’t do anything about it.’ Margaret clenches her jaw, checking the mirror again and choosing her words carefully. ‘It’s like they think we were all in on it.’
Katherine is relieved her sister’s wrath is, at least temporarily, diverted and to a subject they both agree on. ‘I know, but they reckon about a hundred and sixty people have come forward now claiming to be victims so maybe it is helping,’ she says quietly to Margaret.
‘I’m not sure,’ Margaret retorts, ‘some people think all the media coverage is actually going to make it harder to get convictions. You know, defence lawyers will claim there can’t be a fair trial.’ She sighs heavily, shaking her head. ‘So awful and they think they’re going to find more remains soon too; I hope they catch the...’ she mouths an expletive to Katherine.
‘Those who are still alive!’ Katherine adds, ‘Some of them have already escaped justice. And I do agree with you about the people who are crawling out of the woodwork, selling their stories and saying they knew it was going on and couldn’t do anything. I’d move heaven and earth to stop something like that.’ Margaret murmurs in agreement. Katherine continues, ‘I guess society was different then, I wonder what mum would have made of all this.’
Margaret doesn’t reply immediately and Sophie ends the discussion, breaking into the repressive atmosphere with a question, ‘Can I have a snack at the Fort?’
Fort Regent is both familiar and transformed. Outside the dome still dominates the St Helier skyline, but inside the fixtures and fittings are nothing like the place Katherine remembers. The old fortifications have been completely refurbished with a selection of sports facilities. Today, the sounds of children echo around its great domed hall. The smell of coffee permeates the air and flashing arcade games sit opposite the huge black 1800s siege cannons that were built to repel French invaders, not space invaders. Through the new entrance hall stream tracksuited adults, some carrying racquets and sports bags; or white suited Karate cadets wrapped-up with multi coloured belts. While Sophie and Margaret sign into the play arena, Kathy finds them a table.
The climbing frame, a multi-coloured labyrinth of tunnels and ladders, slides and ball ponds, rises up to the roof. Inside children swarm like ants, their squeals and screams the result of freedom from their parents, a world in which only they inhabit, unless there is a problem; and the only barrier is the breadth of their imagination.
With Sophie happily off playing, Margaret deposits her daughter’s shoes and coat at the table.
‘I’ll get us a coffee shall I?’ she half smiles at Katherine.
‘Yes please, a latte if they have one. Thanks.’
Katherine sits watching the busy to-ing and fro-ing of the children, every now and then returning to their mothers for drink or food, comfort or a loo break. The mothers sit at their nest of table and chairs surrounded by mounds of little jackets and fleece tops, half full bottles of drink, colourful beakers, toys, Barbie pink glittery shoes, and bags full of nappies and wipes. This is a whole different world. A world Katherine will never be part of.
Margaret returns and places a mug of coffee in front of her.
‘Thank you,’ she says as her sister settles into the seat beside her. For a moment they both sit staring at the climbing area, Margaret searching for her daughter’s face, Katherine sorting through the backlog of waiting sentences in her head.
‘You wanted to know why I’ve come back. Why now.’ she begins. Margaret doesn’t say anything, just turns to look at her. Katherine is still staring forwards, choosing her words carefully. ‘I think I probably should have come home some time ago, but I didn’t for lots of reasons. I guess what pulled me back was all the media coverage about Haut de la Garenne because I just didn’t recognise the Jersey I knew from our childhood with the way the island was being portrayed. I’m not wrong am I? It’s just I always felt we had a happy childhood, a good one… apart from Dad dying so young of course. I needed to come back and make sure those memories aren’t false.’
Margaret has been studying her sister as she talked, she shakes her head. ‘No they’re not false. No one I know recognises the island in the papers.’
‘I’m not saying that there wasn’t abuse,’ Katherine continues, ‘I believe those people, you can see it in their faces, but the image of Jersey like something from The Wicker Man, it just doesn’t fit.’ Margaret nods and Kathy looks at her. ‘I did blame myself for Anne’s death. You’re right about me being hung up about that. I truly believe it was my fault… Things I said and did in the weeks before…’ Margaret opens her mouth to interrupt, but Kathy isn’t finished. ‘You can say that I haven’t let go, maybe you’re right, maybe that’s because of the way I was excluded from what happened at the time. I wasn’t allowed to have my say or to listen to what was being said. I wasn’t even allowed to go to her funeral for God’s sake!’ She falls silent for a moment, her shoulders rounded, eyes downcast in thought.
Margaret takes her chance, ‘Katherine we were children. We weren’t told things. Mum thought it best to protect you. There’s no way Anne’s death was your fault.’
‘How do you know that?’ Katherine turns round to her, frowning ‘You don’t know what I did.’
‘Did? Honestly Katherine it was nothing you did...’
‘Mummy, Mummy I need a drink, I’m thirsty.’ Both women are startled by Sophie’s sudden appearance. The little girl bursts into their conversation.
‘Darling why don’t you go back and play for a few more minutes and I’ll get you a drink in a moment,’ Margaret cajoles, eager to carry on her conversation.
‘No. I’m thirsty, I really, really need a drink now.’ Margaret looks at the defiant five-year-old in front of her. She’s not budging. She sighs and throws a look to Katherine as if to say hold that thought.
‘I’ll get you one.’ Katherine suddenly offers, jumping up off her seat and scooping up her handbag.
‘Yay thanks Aunty Kath... Can I have a Panda pop… Please?’
‘You come and show me what it is you want,’ Katherine replies and the pair of them head off to the café, leaving Margaret to watch her sister disappear with her bouncing daughter in tow. Why has it taken so long for her to be able to watch this scene? She does regret some of the things she said last night, perhaps she’s been a bit harsh, over reacted, but it’s been a long time building. What really gets her is that Katherine thinks she’s the one with the cross to bear. Her completely irrational guilt over Anne’s death drives Margaret nuts. Everybody knows what happened and it has nothing to do with Katherine. She’s not the only one with regrets and a secret that eats at her soul.
24
1984/85, Jersey
After her miscarriage the weather seems to empathise with Katherine’s mood for it rains solidly for days. She hides from the world for a week, but eventually has to return to work - steeling herself for the reactions of her colleagues. No-one says anything at first, there is an awkwardness in the atmosphere. She knows they’ve been told, the odd sympathetic smile or glance, or an extra show of politeness gives it away.
Her boss calls her in. ‘Good to have you back Katherine,’ he says. ‘Sorry to hear your news, if you’ve any problems or you need more time off then just ask.’ He looks awkward, embarrassed. People just don’t seem to know what to say. Should they make a big thing of it, or try to cheer the afflicted person up? He goes for the latter, and smiling inanely adds, ‘Well at least you’ve plenty of time to keep trying.’ Then he half winks at her. The fact Katherine can see he’s really not comfortable with the conversation at all is his saving grace. She half smiles, politely, and tries to calm herself down, telling herself not to be so angry at him for what he’s just said. Before the day is out there will be plenty more awkward platitudes sent her way.
‘Why don’t people just keep quiet instead of making such stupid remarks?’ She angrily asks John later. ‘Do they really think they’re helping when they say, it was for the best, or, it’s nature’s way, there must have been something wrong. Does that make it any less disappointing, any less upsetting for us? And what now? Does it mean there might be something wrong with the next one too?’
‘You heard what the doctor said,’ John replies, stroking her cheek. ‘It’s very common, nothing unusual, and we will be able to try again soon. You’ll see, by next year we’ll be knee deep in nappies and baby milk, and this will all be behind us.’ Katherine says nothing. ‘I know you’re upset sweetheart,’ he continues, ‘we both are, but in a sense they are right, something was wrong and nature took over. We have to accept that.’
‘What though, what was wrong?’ She turns and looks at him beseechingly. ‘If we knew why it might make things easier.’ Katherine turns away again, she’s struggling to get the words out, the back of her throat is so tight from holding back the tears she feels as if she might choke. ‘And anyway, it doesn’t ever bring that baby back does it? That baby, the person they could have been, has gone forever.’
Katherine’s body quickly rediscovers its natural cycle and, around six weeks after their loss, baby-making resumes; and it is baby-making because instead of the relaxed love making they enjoyed before, their sex now has a defined purpose: to make a baby to replace the one they’ve lost. Timing becomes important, they’re not just doing it because they feel like it. They’re doing it because it’s a couple of days since they last had sex, and for the best chance of conception another session is required. Katherine becomes desperate to get pregnant again, to get back that feeling, resume what has been so cruelly taken from her. She’d spent so long looking in the mirror, checking-out her growing belly, admiring the very slight convexity of her stomach - which nobody else would have even noticed - that now when she looks in the mirror her tummy, which is flat and trim, simply looks empty. She wants it filled again.
Life goes on around them. On the fifth of October the island celebrates the 25th anniversary of the opening of Gerald Durrell’s Jersey Zoo with a visit from Princess Anne. Crowds of flag waving children greet her wherever she goes, but Katherine doesn’t feel like joining in or celebrating. I
nstead she goes to the Odeon cinema with John and hides in the dark shadows trying to force out some laughs at ‘Blame it on Rio’. Watching Michael Caine play a man who has an affair with his friend’s seventeen-year-old daughter.
Autumn turns to winter, and it’s a wet one. The yard is frequently filled with fast flowing channels of muddy water and the roads left slippery and dangerous from the mud pouring off the fields. Even the beaches develop slippery patches as the mud flows down the hills towards the sea, ending up layering the sand in brown or charcoal grey mucous smears. Katherine’s birthday comes and goes. She’s twenty-five now, although in the past year she feels she’s aged far more than just the sum of twelve months.
Margaret is not only loving her new job as a post woman, getting up early every morning and cycling her round, but she’s also declared her relationship with fellow postie Robert Phillips is serious. Katherine often wonders how two sisters can be so different. Margaret is a lark, relishing every new morning, always eager to get out of bed at first light. Katherine is, and always has been, an owl; lying-in as a teenager and staying up late. Where Margaret seems content with her island life, Katherine often found it suffocating, dreaming of escape from all that Margaret holds dear. John has anchored her, but it is the all-consuming desire to get pregnant which dominates Katherine’s thoughts. Each month in the week before her period she will interpret every twinge, every change in her body as the possible forerunner to pregnancy; but each month her hopes have turned to disappointment at the sight of crimson.
