The Frances Garrood Collection

by Frances Garrood

  As for the baby’s father, I think that consciously or unconsciously, Mum quite simply preferred her children not to have fathers. Although I’m sure that she never set out to be a single parent (in fact, she herself had said that she hadn’t intended to be a parent at all, and I’m sure that was true), I believe she wanted us to herself; and I think she would have found it very hard had she had to share us with anyone else. Besides, she herself had never had a father — or not one she could remember — and I really think she considered fathers to be largely unnecessary.

  It was a miserable grey January day with a leaden sky and a hint of snow to come, and I was feeling depressed. The long spring term stretched ahead of me, promising more frostbitten days on the hockey pitch, more inadequate meals and more work. There seemed to be little to look forward to.

  The daylight was failing fast, and the windscreen wipers squeaked as they battled with the first few flakes of snow. As we progressed, the headlights illuminated curtains of dancing snowflakes, and we skidded on the slippery surface. Once again, I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth. Experience had taught me that Mum drove better when uninterrupted (although that wasn’t saying much) and although I wasn’t looking forward to my return to school, it was preferable to ending up in a ditch miles from anywhere.

  ‘I do love you, you know, Cass,’ Mum said suddenly, leaning forward and squinting through the windscreen.

  ‘I know. I love you too.’

  ‘That’s all right, then.’ Mum patted my knee. ‘We’ll get by, all of us. We always do, don’t we?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘That’s my girl.’ I could feel rather than see her smiling in the dark beside me. ‘And I really will try to write more this term.’

  ‘Not all about babies?’

  ‘Certainly not all about babies.’

  ‘And send tuck?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Sensible tuck?’

  ‘Very sensible tuck.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  I found myself smiling too, for it was impossible to stay grumpy for long when Mum was in this kind of mood.

  Thirteen

  I fitted back into school and its routine as though I’d never been away, and although the cold and the hunger were sometimes hard to put up with, and the homesickness still tended to surface from time to time, I was surprised at how glad I was to be among my classmates again.

  Possibly because of my reputation for noisy nightmares, I had been moved across the dormitory to a bed under a window, with the added bonus of a window ledge which could be used for displaying photographs and other personal possessions and which gave Blind Bear a nice view of the garden while I was having lessons. Whether the change of bed had any effect, or whether my head was so full of other things that it hadn’t room for bad dreams I shall never know, but the nightmares appeared to have stopped, and unimpeded by lack of sleep I was able to apply myself to my studies with new enthusiasm.

  ‘You are lucky,’ sighed poor Helena, as she struggled with geometry and the idiosyncrasies of irregular French verbs. ‘Mum and Dad were really upset with my results last term. You seem to do it without even trying. I bet your mum was proud of you.’

  ‘I think Mum’s always proud of us,’ I said. ‘She seemed quite pleased, but she’s not too bothered about exam results.’

  ‘I thought everyone’s parents were bothered about exam results,’ Helena said. ‘I’d love to meet your mum. She sounds amazing.’

  ‘Oh, she is,’ I assured her. ‘She certainly is.’

  But I wasn’t too sure about a meeting between Helena and my mother, and I certainly wasn’t sure about having my friend to stay (Helena was clearly angling for an invitation). How would Helena fit into our household, with its eccentric set-up and its modest mod cons? And — more to the point — how would she react to my mother’s interesting condition? I hadn’t yet told my friends about Mum’s pregnancy because I wasn’t at all sure how I was going to go about it, and I had a feeling that Helena at least might well be shocked. While I, with my unfortunate experiences, preferred to forget about sex altogether, my friends were at an age where the subject was endlessly fascinating; an age when much speculation went on (usually in whispers after lights-out) as to what it was like and whether one’s parents ‘still did it’. The received opinion was that most of them were probably too old; so irrefutable evidence that my own unmarried mother not only still did it but was currently proudly manifesting its consequences was bound both to fascinate and to shock.

  In the end, Mum inadvertently managed to break the news for me by sending me another postcard, this time a reproduction of a portrait of a tiny Italian princess, which managed to fall into the wrong hands at breakfast.

  ‘I like to think your new brother or sister will look something like this,’ she had written on the back. ‘She looks like an Octavia, don’t you think?’

  By the time the postcard reached me, it had been all round the dining hall, and everyone knew about the baby. At the time, I even wondered whether Mum had done it on purpose, but then she wasn’t to know that the card would be given to another girl by mistake, and besides, she would have taken it for granted that my friends already knew. Mum was never very good at secrets, and assumed that everyone else was the same.

  ‘Gosh, Cass! Is your mum really having a baby?’ Someone asked, obviously impressed.

  ‘I thought she wasn’t married,’ added Helena helpfully.

  ‘She isn’t,’ I said, tight-lipped and fuming.

  ‘Well, how did she —?’

  ‘How do you think?’ I retorted rudely. ‘I thought you all knew so much about this sort of thing.’

  ‘I only asked!’ Helena looked hurt.

  ‘Then don’t,’ I snapped. ‘I’m off to finish some prep.’

  My classmates gave me a wide berth until lunchtime, when a very plump, very plain (albeit double-barrelled) girl with the unlikely name of Fern could no longer contain her curiosity.

  ‘Tell us, Cass. You must be excited! I’ve always wanted a baby brother or sister.’ (Fern was an only child, and my uncharitable view was that her parents, having seen what their particular recipe produced, had long since decided not to repeat the experiment.)

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said, choosing my words carefully and trying not to be unkind (people were often unkind to Fern). ‘Perhaps it’s different if your parents are married.’

  ‘Ooh!’ Fern’s hand flew to her mouth, and her eyes widened. ‘I forgot. I’m sorry!’

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ I said coolly (I’d had time to calm down). ‘But to answer your question, no. I’m not looking forward to it.’

  ‘Why ever not? Don’t you just love babies?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ If the truth be told I’d hardly ever met a baby, but current circumstances had not disposed me to feel kindly towards them.

  ‘You’ll be able to help with it.’ Fern ploughed on, undeterred. ‘Changing its nappies and feeding it and —’

  ‘I shall do no such thing,’ I interrupted. ‘I want to have as little to do with it as possible.’

  ‘You didn’t really mean what you said, did you?’ Helena asked later. ‘I mean, about the baby. You must be — well — a bit interested in it. I’d love to have someone in my family who was younger than me,’ she added with feeling.

  ‘We’re fine as we are,’ I said. ‘We don’t need any more people in our house, and certainly not a baby. And I like being the youngest.’

  ‘You might have a sister. Wouldn’t you like a sister?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ For I had thought about this, and had decided that if the baby should be a boy (an eventuality which didn’t seem to have occurred to Mum), then I would at least retain the distinction of being her only daughter.

  ‘When’s the baby going to arrive?’ Helena persevered.

  ‘I don’t know.’ And it was true. Amid all the excitement and the trauma, I had completely forgotten to ask
this rather crucial question. ‘How long do babies take?’

  ‘I don’t know. About a year, I think.’

  ‘That’s all right, then. Anything can happen in a year.’ Thinking about it now, it seems strange that having been so thoroughly equipped with information regarding all the clinical details of the sexual act, no one had seen fit to tell us something as fundamental as the length of human gestation. But in my case at that stage ignorance was bliss, for having no idea of the imminence of the new arrival I was granted a brief reprieve from any immediate anxiety.

  For the moment, despite frequent jolly reminders in Mum’s letters, I tried to put the question of the baby to the back of my mind. For the first time since I started at St Andrew’s, I was grateful that I had this separate world; a world of my own, which didn’t include babies or Lodgers; a world where life was on the whole predictable and where other people — real grown-ups — made all the major decisions.

  My fifteenth birthday took place towards the end of February, and was celebrated with a small but pleasing collection of presents from my friends and crowned by a surprise visit from Mum.

  ‘Isn’t this lovely?’ she cried, when I was summoned to Miss Armitage’s study to greet my unexpected guest. ‘Miss Armitage was so kind to let me come.’ (Birthday visits were not generally permitted.) ‘Call Me Bill brought me. He’s waiting in the car. As it’s Saturday, we’re allowed a whole hour together.’

  ‘How did you manage it?’ I asked, when we were alone together.

  ‘I told her what a difficult time you’d been having. She was so understanding.’

  ‘What difficult time?’

  ‘Oh, you know.’ Mum said. ‘This and that. Now, why don’t you open your presents?’

  As usual, Mum’s enthusiasm was so infectious and our time together so short that I decided to leave the subject of the difficult time for the moment and enjoy her visit. I took her up to the dormitory (‘Oh, isn’t it quaint!’ cried Mum) and she laid several parcels out on my bed. There was a new wristwatch from her, a strange little china figurine from Greta, and a box of fudge from Lucas. Call Me Bill’s present, she explained, was chauffeuring her here. I couldn’t expect a present as well (I didn’t). Best of all, there were four packets of chocolate biscuits and a huge sponge cake dripping icing and jam.

  ‘Oh, Mum! This is great!’ I put on the watch and admired the cake. ‘Thanks so much.’

  ‘And now, perhaps I can meet some of your friends.’

  ‘I think they’re all doing things. They’re — busy.’

  ‘Not all of them, surely, Cass. I’ve been so looking forward to seeing them.’

  ‘Well ...’

  ‘Are you ashamed of me?’ She laughed. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘No. Of course not.’

  ‘Well then.’ She patted my hand. ‘Introduce me to Helena, at least. I’ve heard so much about her.’

  We found Helena sitting alone in our classroom, battling with the extra maths prep she had been given.

  ‘Cass! Thank goodness! You can help me with this.’

  ‘Helena, this is my mother.’

  ‘Oh! I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you.’ Helena stood up and shook hands with Mum. ‘You’ve come for Cass’s birthday. How nice.’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it?’ Mum gave Helena one of the radiant smiles she used to melt (and, I suspect, break) hearts. ‘Oh, poor you,’ she went on, seeing the screwed-up pieces of paper littering the floor and the pink and flustered face of Helena. ‘I hated maths. Such a ridiculous subject, I always thought.’

  ‘Me too,’ Helena sighed. ‘And Cass is so clever at it.’

  ‘Isn’t she? I don’t know where she gets it from,’ Mum said, inadvertently drawing attention yet again to my fatherless state.

  Helena, seeing the connection, blushed. My mother, who had no insight into her own lack of tact, did not.

  ‘Oh, algebra.’ Mum peered over Helena’s shoulder. ‘All that business of x and y. I never could make head nor tail of it. Why don’t you leave that and come and have a piece of Cass’s birthday cake?’

  ‘That would be lovely —’ Helena began.

  ‘I thought we’d leave it until after supper,’ I said quickly, for Mum had already outstayed her hour, and I feared repercussions.

  ‘Midnight feasts in the dorm!’ Mum clapped her hands girlishly. ‘What fun!’

  ‘No, Mum. Not midnight feasts in the dorm. Something to share with my friends after measly beans on toast. Come on. We’d better leave Helena in peace.’

  ‘Then perhaps we’ll meet again, Helena. You must come and stay with us some time. I know Cass would love to have you, wouldn’t you Cass?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, but without much conviction. I liked keeping my school and home lives separate, and suspected that any mingling of the two could lead to complications.

  ‘Oh, I’d just love to,’ Helena said. ‘That’s so kind of you.’

  ‘We must fix something up, then.’ Mum beamed at her, then looked at her watch. ‘Goodness! I ought to be going. Come and see me off, Cass, and you can say hello to Call Me Bill. Goodbye, Helena. Hope to see you again soon.’

  Later that evening in our dormitory, we divided up my birthday cake with a ruler (all we could find) and served it on sheets of paper torn from an exercise book. Like all Mum’s cakes, it was messy but delicious.

  ‘I think your mum’s wonderful,’ Helena sighed. ‘I always get birthday cakes from the cake shop; all hard and dry and tasting of cardboard. Not a bit like this,’ she added, wiping jam off her chin.

  I had always rather fancied a posh shop-bought cake, with icing-sugar frills round the edges and my name in pink lettering, but maybe Helena was right. At least Mum went to trouble with her cake-making, even if the end results would never win her any prizes.

  Altogether, it had been a most satisfactory day, and as I licked the last sticky crumbs from my fingers, I reflected that life was on the whole pretty good. I was doing well in my studies, I had just enough friends for the maintenance of self-respect without the risk of being crowded, and I had it on fairly good authority that there wouldn’t be any baby for some time yet. Maybe Mum had been right about boarding school after all. It could be that it was just what I had needed.

  Fourteen

  ‘Cass.’ Mum’s awake now, her blue eyes lucid, her face still free from pain.

  ‘Yes, Mum. I’m here.’ I pull my chair closer.

  ‘About my funeral.’

  ‘Yes.’ Oh, please don’t talk about your funeral. Not now. Not yet. I’m not ready for your funeral.

  ‘About flowers.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I don’t want no-flowers-by-request.’

  ‘You mean, you’d like to have flowers?’

  ‘Oh yes. Lots of flowers. I’d like everyone to send flowers.’

  ‘I’ll — I’ll make sure they do, Mum.’

  ‘That’s all right, then.’ A little sigh, eyes closed, resting. ‘You can take the flowers home, you know.’

  ‘What, all of them?’

  ‘Yes. I want everyone to take some flowers home. Mustn’t waste them.’

  ‘That’s a nice idea, Mum.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ She smiles. Looks almost happy. My mother loves planning things. ‘And, hymns.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘None of that lead kindly light stuff.’

  ‘Not if you don’t want it.’

  ‘I don’t.’ She shifts restlessly. ‘Nice jolly ones. Jerusalem. And that nice Welsh one.’

  ‘Guide Me, Oh Thou Great Redeemer?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘We’ll have that one, then.’

  ‘Cass?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Where’s Lucas?’

  ‘He came last night. He’ll be here later.’

  ‘Perhaps he’ll read something at the funeral.’

  ‘I’m sure he will.’

  ‘Do you think there’ll be enough money for horses?’


  ‘Horses?’

  ‘To pull the coffin. I always fancied being pulled along by a team of shiny black horses.’

  There isn’t the money — there’s never been any money — but what does it matter?

  ‘Of course. If you want horses, you shall have horses.’

  Another smile.

  ‘They’ll all notice me then, won’t they?’

  ‘They certainly will.’

  Oh, Mum! Shiny black horses and lots of flowers. We can certainly manage the flowers, and perhaps we can run to one shiny black horse. I’ll do my best. There must be someone who would lend us their shiny black horse.

  My grandmother died suddenly that half-term. She too had wanted black horses to pull her funeral carriage. As she had explained to anyone who would listen, a team of black horses was only fitting. It wasn’t every day that Napoleon was buried, and things had to be done properly. She had given her instructions in halting French, a feat which greatly impressed Mum.

  ‘Her brain’s shot to pieces, Cass, and yet she remembers that Napoleon would have spoken in French. I had to get one of the nurses to translate for me.’

  Notwithstanding her damaged brain, my grandmother had managed to plan her funeral in minutest detail, although of course her grandiose ideas were out of the question. For there could be no cathedral service of thanksgiving, no grand procession, no reception for foreign dignitaries in her honour. The daughter of a Norfolk labourer, but with her position in life briefly elevated during her short marriage to my respectably middle-class grandfather, she would be buried alongside the other also-rans of the humble parish where she had spent most of her life.

  When Mum received the news of her mother’s death, she was distraught.

  ‘Poor Mother. Poor poor Mother,’ she wept. ‘I should have done more. I should have kept her here. We’d have managed somehow.’