The Frances Garrood Collection

by Frances Garrood

  I left the office unsure of how I should be feeling. Of course I was relieved that Mum was OK, but not especially pleased at the news, and I certainly wasn’t looking forward to seeing the new arrival. Was there something wrong with me?

  My friends did nothing to help my flagging self-esteem.

  ‘Oh, how wonderful!’ cooed Helena. ‘You are lucky! A sister, too.’

  ‘I already told you. I didn’t want a sister.’

  ‘You’ll change your mind when you see her. I’m sure you will.’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on it.’

  ‘Oh, Cass. You’re such a misery sometimes.’

  ‘On the contrary. I’m usually perfectly cheerful. I just don’t happen to want a baby sister. Or any kind of baby, come to that.’

  ‘A new little baby,’ said Fern dreamily. ‘Oh, Cass! You’ll love it. I know you will. How can you not love a new little baby?’

  What was wrong with everyone? I wondered crossly. Why did babies render perfectly sensible human beings all gooey and sentimental? After all, babies were only underdeveloped people, and hadn’t we all started out like that? I tried to imagine Miss Armitage as a baby, or Call Me Bill. Had Call Me Bill’s entrance into the world been greeted with glad cries of ‘It’s a boy!’? Had people once cooed and gurgled over Miss Armitage? It was hard to imagine. The whole baby thing defeated me. I could see that babies were necessary — that we all had to start somewhere — but why did everyone have to make such a fuss?

  When I spoke to her on the telephone the following week, Mum was euphoric.

  ‘You should see her, Cass. She’s beautiful. She’s got lots of hair and big blue eyes, and such tiny little fingers and toes.’ It would appear that Mum had gone as daft as everyone else.

  ‘You’re not still calling her Octavia, are you?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course I am! She’s always been Octavia. Why should I change my mind now? You’ll come round to it, Cass. She just is an Octavia. Octavia Beatrice, after Mother. I thought of calling her Octavia Cassandra after you, but it was a bit of a mouthful. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ I said, relieved that at least I wouldn’t have to share my name.

  A few days later, I received in the post a grainy black and white photograph of Mum in her nightdress holding in her arms something tiny and swaddled. It could have been a doll, or even a small animal for all the resemblance it bore to a human being, and I hid the photograph away. If I showed it to my friends, it would be one more thing for them to swoon over, and by now I was thoroughly sick of the whole subject of babies.

  End of term came, and Call Me Bill, who in the last year had become quite a member of the family (even to the extent of converting a dusty storeroom into a bedroom for himself), fetched me home in his car.

  Mum greeted me in the hallway, holding a swaddled bundle.

  ‘Meet your sister, Cass!’

  Obediently, I inspected the bundle. And fell instantly in love.

  Of course, I had seen babies before, from a distance, and they really did seem to me to look much the same. I tended to feel that once you’d seen one, you’d more or less seen them all. I acknowledged that their parents could no doubt tell them apart, but was pretty sure that no one else could.

  But this baby was different.

  ‘Goodness!’ I said, taken aback.

  ‘Yes. Isn’t she?’ Mum laughed. ‘Do you want to hold her?’

  I put down my bags and very carefully took the bundle in my arms. The baby stared up into my face with unblinking blue eyes from beneath a shock of dark hair, her tiny mouth pursed as though considering what to make of me, one walnut-sized fist showing above the blanket.

  ‘Iss beautiful baby, no?’ Greta was standing beaming beside Mum, as though the baby had been the result of some joint effort involving herself.

  ‘Yes. Oh, yes.’ I laid a finger against the baby’s cheek, and it was like touching a petal. ‘I didn’t know babies could be — like this.’

  Poor little Octavia Beatrice. Such a big name for such a tiny person. She was to affect our lives in a way none of us could have imagined.

  Seventeen

  ‘Cass?’ She grips my hand.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m frightened.’

  ‘Of course you are.’ Who wouldn’t be?

  ‘It’ll be all right, won’t it? After all —’ a small smile — ‘lots of people have done it before. Lots of people have died.’

  ‘Yes. Of course they have.’

  ‘Shakespeare, Queen Victoria, Charlie Chaplin. They’ve all done it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She moves restlessly.

  ‘Do you believe in Heaven, Cass?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mum. I’d like to. I do feel that something of all of us lives on.’

  For how could anyone as full of life as Mum cease to exist; simply stop, as though someone had turned off the ignition? Somehow, the idea of no afterlife seems even more implausible than the comforting picture of clouds and angels in the illustrated children’s bible I was given as a child. I have often thought that if death were not so commonplace — if we weren’t all in the same boat, heading towards that same unavoidable destination — it would simply be too outrageous to be believable.

  ‘I’ve had a good life, really.’ She sighs. ‘I’ve been lucky.’

  Oh Mum! How can you say that, after all you’ve been through? But then my mother has never been a complainer. She has known depression and disappointment, loneliness and tragedy, but while I have often seen her weeping, and sometimes desperate, I don’t think I have ever heard her complain. At her best, she has been capable of the kind of happiness which is totally infectious, lighting up those around her and dispelling ill-temper in even the most curmudgeonly of companions.

  Mum was certainly happy in the months following Octavia’s birth. She appeared to achieve a degree of serenity I had never seen before, and the household seemed to settle down as though with a sigh of contentment, not untempered with relief.

  The weather that summer was fine, and although we didn’t go away (there had rarely been enough money for summer holidays, and Lucas and I had long ceased to expect them), as always we managed to enjoy ourselves. Lucas’s new life largely excluded me, not least because my lack of interest in the opposite sex was equalled only by his preoccupation with it, but I was happy simply to be at home. I spent my time walking with The Dog, crying over Thomas Hardy (my latest discovery), and catching up with Myra and some of my other friends.

  And then there was Octavia. Her neat round head, her peachy skin, the watchfulness of her navy-blue eyes, the feathery crescents of her lashes when she was asleep — they all combined to fascinate and enchant me, and in my enslaved state I was happy to do for her anything Mum asked. Helena and Fern would have been proud of me, for I changed her nappies, bathed her and took her out for walks, and it was I who was rewarded with her first wobbly smile.

  Only one thing about Octavia bothered me. Ridiculous as it might seem, I found myself scrutinizing her for any sign, any clue, which might identify her father, for as things were, I felt as though I only knew half of her; it was almost as though that other half — the unknown half — would remain forever a stranger. There had been a time when I had done the same with my own reflected image, ruling out the features which were Mum’s and building up a (probably totally inaccurate) picture of my father from the bits of me which didn’t match hers.

  Octavia was certainly very like Mum, with the same creamy complexion, and hair which was already showing hints of auburn, but she was a very long baby (Mum was fairly short), and I suspected that her father had probably been tall. A tall stranger with a beard and problems. It certainly wasn’t much to go on, and as time went by, I abandoned my researches. I didn’t know what Mum planned to tell Octavia, for she certainly seemed to remember more about this baby’s conception than she had about mine or Lucas’s, but that bridge needn’t be crossed for some time yet, so I put the thought to
the back of my mind.

  Mum’s attitude to Octavia was doting but scatty, and I noticed in her the same haphazard attitude to mothering which Lucas and I had experienced when we were younger. She obviously adored the baby, but was quite happy to leave her care to the rest of us if it suited her. Octavia didn’t seem to have any kind of routine, and appeared not to expect any. Mum fed her when she cried, got her up if she wanted to play with her or show her off, and put her back in her crib when she had better things to do. One minute she would be all over the baby, taking her out to visit friends, playing her lullabies on a cracked record (singing along with the inevitable ironing board accompaniment), even taking her to the clinic to be weighed and crowing proudly over her progress. The next, she would be off out (‘Cass, look after Octavia would you, there’s a dear’), and might not return until late.

  It gave me some insight into the way Lucas and I must have been treated as infants, for while I knew that our upbringing had had little structure, I had no idea this had gone as far back as our babyhood. It went some way to explain our indifference to order or routine, and — at least when we were younger — our unquestioning acceptance of the unexpected.

  Although I enjoyed looking after Octavia, there were times when I couldn’t help feeling taken for granted. But this rarely lasted long, for just as I was beginning to wonder whether Mum was pleased to have me home for my own sake, or more because I provided a free babysitting service, she would bake my favourite cake, or take me out to buy me a new dress she could ill afford, and I would feel valued again. I know this wasn’t a deliberate ruse to keep me sweet — Mum was incapable of being that devious — but I did feel as though everything was done more on a whim than with any proper planning. She had a childlike knack of living for the moment, and while this could be infuriating if it required childcare at the drop of a hat, it could also be enormous fun if it involved a trip out or an unexpected treat.

  Sometimes I worried about how she would manage when I went back to school. Greta was fine, but she tended to fuss, and while she too adored Octavia, she wasn’t what I would call a natural where babies were concerned. Twice she let Octavia roll off the bed onto the floor, and on one occasion she nearly drowned her in the bath. I also caught her apparently trying to feed the baby chocolate.

  ‘Greta! What are you doing?’ I caught Greta’s hand.

  ‘Chocolate. She like, no?’ Greta looked hurt.

  ‘No! I mean, she might like the taste, but she’s much too young.’

  ‘She lick,’ Greta countered.

  ‘Of course she licked it. She licks everything. That doesn’t mean it’s good for her.’

  ‘I try.’ Greta’s eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Of course you tried.’ I put my arms round Greta’s shoulders. ‘You’re very kind. You’re good to all of us. It’s just that — well, perhaps we ought to ask Mum before we give the baby anything new.’

  ‘OK. I ask.’ Reluctantly, Greta put away her chocolate.

  But as I might have known, Mum was no use at all.

  ‘Chocolate? Of course she can have a little lick of chocolate from time to time. What harm can it do?’

  I had no idea what harm chocolate could do to a young baby; all I knew was that it didn’t seem appropriate. But in the event it didn’t seem to affect Octavia in the least.

  The summer holidays came to an end all too soon, and almost before I knew it, it was time to return to school. Lucas, who had recently passed his driving test, offered to take me in the borrowed van, and while the prospect didn’t exactly thrill me, the thought of a journey with Mum plus baby and quite possibly The Dog was even worse, so I accepted the offer.

  Although I was much more settled than I had been a year ago, and was looking forward to the new school year, I was apprehensive about leaving home and I knew I would miss Octavia dreadfully.

  ‘You will take care of things, Lucas, won’t you?’ I said.

  ‘Take care of things? What do you mean?’ Lucas was driving much too close to the car in front, but I knew better than to interfere.

  ‘Well, you know. Keep an eye on Mum, make sure the baby’s OK, see that Greta doesn’t start feeding her apple strudel. That sort of thing.’

  Lucas grinned.

  ‘We’ve managed a whole year without you, Cass. I’m sure we’ll cope.’

  ‘But Octavia —’

  ‘Octavia will be fine.’ Lucas pulled out to overtake, and I closed my eyes. It seemed to me that much of my time travelling to and from school was spent with my eyes shut. ‘After all,’ he added, as we regained our side of the road, ‘you and I survived, didn’t we?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  But I wasn’t convinced. There was something fragile, something almost impermanent about Octavia, and I feared for her. She was so serene, so undemanding, so obliging; she was almost too good to be true. If it didn’t sound so corny I would have described her as truly angelic; almost not of this world.

  Eighteen

  Mum’s letters that term were some of the happiest I had received from her. Granted, they were still written on odd scraps of paper — the backs of envelopes, shopping lists, the electricity bill (a red one, needless to say) — but they were busy with news and plans.

  She had a newjob at the dry cleaner’s (‘Only part-time, but such fun, Cass.’ Only Mum could manage to have fun in a dry cleaner’s), the autumn colours were the best she had seen for years, The Dog had learnt to ‘die for the Queen’ (he was probably just exhausted), and she had found a new Lodger (‘Such a good-looking young man, Cass.’ Oh dear). As for Octavia, she was full of smiles and Mum swore she could feel a tooth coming through. As Lucas had predicted, life at home was evidently proceeding quite happily without me.

  I came home for half-term and was mortified to find that Octavia appeared to have forgotten who I was while Greta was now firmly in place as mother substitute during Mum’s frequent absences. In spite of her initial misgivings, Octavia seemed happy to have me look after her, but Greta had become proprietorial and bossy (possibly in retaliation for the chocolate incident), and I had to mind my step if I wasn’t to encroach on this new and treasured territory. Lucas’s attention was equally divided between the latest girlfriend (a leggy blonde) and consideration of his future (A levels loomed); and Call Me Bill was preoccupied with his new hobby, compiling a slim volume of his own verse. None of us had been aware that Call Me Bill was a closet poet, and when he had coyly submitted some of his poems to our scrutiny, I think we all very much wished that that was where he’d stayed.

  I remember reading a poem entitled ‘Avalanche’, which included such memorable lines as:

  A froth and a fever of snow in Geneva,

  A tumble of skis on the high Pyrenees

  ‘It’s very — original,’ I said, as I handed the closely written sheet of paper back to him.

  ‘Yes. Isn’t it?’ he said happily, replacing his precious creation in its folder. ‘I’m so glad you like it, Cass. Especially as you’re the artistic one. It means a lot to me.’

  I wasn’t aware that I had actually said I liked the poem or that I was particularly artistic, but I seemed to have satisfied Call Me Bill, and I was pleased about that. I also felt humbled by his appreciation, and ashamed that Lucas and I had privately giggled over lines where sense had often been sacrificed for the sake of flowery alliteration. After all, who was I (currently struggling to understand the great T.S. Eliot) to judge Call Me Bill’s poems?

  The new Lodger was indeed good-looking — even beautiful — and it was Lucas who pointed out that he was almost certainly gay.

  ‘Do you think so?’ Mum said, when he mentioned it to her.

  ‘Of course he is, Mum. Can’t you see? The way he dresses, the way he walks. Apart from anything else, he’s too — too domestic to be anything else.’

  ‘Oh, what a waste,’ sighed Mum. ‘And I’ve asked him to stay for Christmas, too.’

  For my own part, I thought he was the nicest Lodger we’d
had in a long time. He had all the characteristics I liked about men without posing any kind of threat. He was fun, intelligent, and wonderful with Octavia, and I felt happier knowing he was around to keep an extra eye on things.

  The rest of the term flew by, and almost before I knew it I was home again for Christmas. Octavia had grown, and was if anything even more beautiful, with the beginnings of a head of bright auburn curls, those huge blue eyes and little pink bud of a mouth. The halls were decked, Mum was in festive mood, and there were enough jolly people around (including the gay Lodger) for Mum to feel content. There was even a dusting of snow.

  But I had my own preoccupations. This was a big year for me as well as for Lucas, for I had O levels in the summer and mock exams as soon as I returned to school, as well as possible A level subjects to consider. I spent much of the holiday in my room revising, swathed in cardigans and coats (my room had only a small electric heater), eating extra strong mints and drinking coffee.

  ‘Do come and join us,’ Mum would say, appearing at my door at regular intervals. ‘We see so little of you, and it’s Christmas.’

  She failed to see that my achievements, of which she was so proud, came at a price; I had to work. She seemed to think that my ability was such that all I had to do was simply turn up for examinations and spill the contents of my remarkable brain onto a piece of paper. But then by her own admission, Mum had never passed an exam in her life, and had scant understanding of what was involved.

  During that spring term, I had little time to think about home. Mum’s brief letters continued to arrive with their snippets of (still cheery) news, but I was absorbed by my work and thoughts of my future.

  I did well in my mock exams, and there was talk of aiming for a place at Oxford or Cambridge if my O-level results came up to expectations. I was terribly excited. I had visited Cambridge once, and had been bowled over by the beauty of the older colleges, with their rosy brick and their ancient walkways, their lawns and their quaint old-fashioned courts. I could think of no greater privilege than to be a part of such a place; to form my own small link in that centuries-long chain of tradition and learning. For the first time in my life, I was imagining a life away from the confines of home or school; a life of my choosing; a grown-up life; a life which was my own.