Much later, after they’ve had their evening meal and Marjorie has gone into the living room to watch television, Eleanor refills the plastic medication organiser and clicks down the lids. The only trouble with this system is that it relies on the user knowing what day it is. She only realised a week ago that her mum had been forgetting to take her pills, and since then she’s been putting them in her hand three times a day and watching her swallow them. She sighs, wondering if it’s really feasible for her to go back to Scalby.
Marjorie isn’t in the living room, though the TV is still on, showing yet another old episode of Friends. ‘Mum?’ She opens the dining-room door and there is her mother, on her hands and knees in front of the sideboard once more. The three drawers are open and their contents spread out on the carpet around her. Eleanor catches sight of old utility bills and shopping lists among the photos, cards, envelopes and scraps torn from notebooks.
‘Mum, what are you doing?’
Marjorie doesn’t look up but shakes her head. ‘I’m trying to find . . .’ She opens one of the cupboard doors and begins pulling things out. ‘There’s something I need to show you.’
Eleanor kneels down beside her. ‘Mum,’ she says gently, ‘we went through everything in here this morning.’
Marjorie sits back on her heels, a wad of papers in her hand. She flicks through them, then tosses them back on the pile and picks up another handful.
‘Mum, are you sure it isn’t something you’ve already told me about?’
Marjorie picks up more papers and sifts through those, too, then she looks at Eleanor, her expression suddenly puzzled. ‘Do you know, I can’t . . .’ She looks down at the papers in her hand. ‘It’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. Or there’s a letter to give you. Something I wanted you to read, I think.’ She flicks her head in irritation. ‘Shit. I can’t remember. Why can’t I bloody remember?’
Eleanor does a double-take. Her mum never swears, not even mildly. She catches a glimpse of one of her postcards among the papers. She still can’t get over the fact that her mum and Peggy drove up to Bakewell that time. She wanted to talk to you.
‘Mum,’ she hands her the postcard. ‘Could it be . . . ? I’m just wondering if what you wanted to tell me, was it anything to do with, you know, when I was living in the camper? Or when I was little? When Peter died?’
Her mum’s expression is blank, as though she has no idea what Eleanor is talking about. But then her eyes focus and she says, ‘Better to not remember, that’s what they said. And now I can’t remember.’
‘No, Mum, it was me they were talking about when they said that. Your memory’s bad because you have Alzheimer’s disease.’
‘Mr Greenfield; he said we’d all get over it sooner. He came highly recommended, you know.’
The psychotherapist; she remembers him. Remembers sitting on a wooden chair in the huge, high-ceilinged ‘consulting room’ in his expensive-smelling house in Sevenoaks. We take the bad memories and we put them in a dustbin, then we put the lid on tight so they can’t get out. Do you see, Ellie?
She remembers her four-year-old self being indignant at his familiarity in calling her ‘Ellie’; she remembers the deep red colour of the new Start-rite sandals she was wearing, and staring down at them to avoid the shame she felt crawling around in her stomach when Mr Greenfield looked at her.
But even though she now knows more or less what happened that day, she still can’t remember it properly, not like she should be able to. All she has are vague details from her mother, who’s never been clear about it herself, and odd scraps of memory. Being in the garden, the heat of the sun on her head and shoulders, her mum’s stricken face; You stupid, stupid child.
‘He was a modern thinker, you see; we followed his advice to the letter, your dad and me; to the letter. Your father said there was no point in going to all that trouble to see one of the top chaps and then not follow his advice.’
‘Mum,’ Eleanor says as softly as she can, the way she would talk to a frightened animal to avoid startling it. She doesn’t want to jolt her out of this train of thought. ‘I know you did what you thought was best, and I’m not angry about it any more, but maybe we could talk about . . .’
But her mum has turned her attention back to the papers. She grabs something from the top of the pile, rapidly runs her eye over it then tosses it aside, then does the same again, her movements increasingly frantic. She can’t possibly be taking in what she’s seeing.
‘Mum, you just mentioned Mr Greenfield, and how he—’
‘Shush. There’s something I need to find . . . need to tell you . . .’
It’s too late; the moment has gone. Disappointment comes crashing down so hard she has to make a conscious effort not to snap. ‘Yes, but what, Mum? You keep saying this, but what is it you need to tell me?’
Marjorie doesn’t look up from her task. ‘I’ll know it when I see it. I’m sure I will.’
Eleanor: summer 1982, south-east London
Eleanor had been going out with Ray Bedford for three months, and while she wasn’t madly in love with him, she liked the fact that he was keen on her and wasn’t the least bit embarrassed about holding her hand in public or even kissing her in front of his mates. But he was a year older, and already at university. Although he was still living at home, he was used to coming and going more or less as he pleased, so she felt stupid and childish having to tell him she had to be home at ten thirty.
‘No,’ her mother said. ‘Half past eleven is much too late, certainly on a school night.’ Eleanor was drying the dishes as her mother washed. She banged the casserole lid she’d just dried down on the table. ‘I’m nearly eighteen,’ she said. ‘And after that I can do what I want.’
‘Not while you’re living in this house, young lady.’ Her mum wiped her hands on a tea towel. ‘And mind you don’t smash that dish – it’s Pyrex.’
‘I don’t even want to live in this house,’ Eleanor yelled, throwing the tea towel onto the table. ‘I hate it here. It’s dark and messy and cold.’
‘Messy?’ Her mum put her hands on her hips and nodded towards the mound of school bag, jacket and shoes which Eleanor had dumped on the kitchen floor when she’d come in a couple of hours ago. ‘I wonder why that would be?’
‘I didn’t mean that, I meant . . . Oh, never mind.’ She grabbed the jacket and put it on, then picked up the shoes and bag. ‘I’ll put these on the stairs and take them down when I get back. I’m going up to Peggy’s.’ She opened the door.
‘No, you’re not, not tonight.’
Eleanor did a double-take. ‘Why not?’ She asked, genuinely wondering if Peggy was working late and she’d just forgotten.
‘No,’ her mum said, ‘you can stay in with me for once.’
‘But . . . It’s Sapphire and Steel tonight.’
‘We do have our own television, you know.’ Her mother’s voice had an edge to it now. ‘I’m getting a bit fed up with this. You spend more time upstairs than you do down here.’
‘What’s wrong with spending time upstairs?’
‘Nothing, if it’s in moderation.’ Her mum started busying herself around the kitchen, putting things back in cupboards and straightening things on the worktop. ‘But you’re up there far too often. They must be sick of the sight of you.’
‘Peggy likes me going up to see her. She said so.’ She had to resist a childish urge to add, So there.
‘Well, I’m sure Ken would rather you weren’t there quite so often when he comes home from work, especially as he has to work away so much.’
She was about to argue when it flashed through her mind that Ken had asked her once or twice whether she had any revision to do. Maybe she did overstay her welcome sometimes. ‘But I told Peggy I’d be up at seven. She’ll wonder where I am.’
‘I’ll ring up and tell her.’ Her mum filled the kettle and switched it on. ‘You can stay here tonight for a change. It won’t kill you. And you won’t be able to go running to Peg
gy every five minutes once you start university, so you might as well get used to it now.’
‘But that’s not until October. Why should I have to stay here every bloody night? It’s not fair.’
Her mum stopped what she was doing and turned towards her. ‘Eleanor, that’s enough! You are not going upstairs this evening and that is final.’
She wished she’d never got into this stupid row now, because not being allowed to go up to Peggy’s was worse than not being allowed to stay out with Ray for another hour on Thursday. She searched her brain for something hurtful to say, and then, before she’d really considered it, she heard herself shout, ‘I wish it was you who’d died instead of Dad!’ Her mother flinched as if she’d been struck, and Eleanor braced herself for the retaliation. But instead, it was as though her mother suddenly deflated, as though someone had taken all the air out of her. She sank down onto a kitchen chair, leant forward with her elbows on the table and put her head in her hands. ‘So do I,’ she murmured without looking up. ‘I’ve wished it more times than you could credit.’
Eleanor was frozen; she hadn’t meant to say something so cruel, but now that she had, why wasn’t her mother screaming at her? The effect of her words was unexpected, and now she didn’t know what to do or say. Suddenly her mother looked paler, smaller, more fragile. The more she tried to think of something to say, the more her throat seemed to tighten. She felt as if she couldn’t move. Her mum looked up at her. ‘Your dad was a good man, Eleanor. He wasn’t perfect, which is why we separated, but no one’s perfect, are they? Certainly not me, and maybe not even you.’
‘Mum, I know I’m not perfect.’ She had to swallow then, because she was afraid she might cry. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I said.’
Her mum nodded. ‘We all say things we shouldn’t say; and sometimes we don’t say things we should say. And then . . . sometimes it’s too late to put things right.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, but her mum was looking down at the table.
Finally regaining her ability to move, she crept quietly from the room and made her way downstairs.
That night, as she lay in bed, it played over and over in her head: I’ve wished it more times than you could credit. She couldn’t ever remember having been quite so frightened by something her mum said. She stayed awake for a long time, wondering whether her behaviour was really so dreadful that her mother wanted to die.
*
The next day, her mum wasn’t home when she got in from school, and she knew Peggy was on early shifts this week, so she went straight upstairs to tell her all about the argument.
‘It’s not to do with you, Ellie,’ Peggy said, ‘I promise.’ She put two mugs of coffee on the table. ‘It’s made with hot milk, for a treat.’ She sat down opposite. ‘You see, your mum still gets depressed sometimes. She probably always will do, and that can make her say things that, well, things she hasn’t properly thought about.’
‘But does that mean she really wishes she was dead?’
‘No, I’m sure she doesn’t. She told me you’d had a row, and that she’d been a bit upset about you coming up here so much.’ Peggy sighed. ‘The thing is, Ellie, she’s still your mum, and naturally she wants you around. She sometimes feels bad about having had to send you to me so often when you were little.’
‘But that’s what’s so unfair. She sent me to you every day when she didn’t want to look after me, but now she’s trying to tell me I’m not allowed to see you. And I’m practically a grown woman.’
There was a beat before Peggy replied, and Eleanor felt a ripple of foolishness for saying that.
‘I’m sure she’s not saying you’re not allowed, pet. And it wasn’t that she didn’t want to look after you; she was very poorly, you know. Hardly surprising, I suppose.’ Peggy’s eyes fluttered as though she was embarrassed, or she’d been caught out.
‘What? What was hardly surprising?’
‘Oh, nothing. Just that . . . she had a lot on her plate, that’s all.’ She took a couple of sips of her coffee. ‘Your mum went through a lot.’
‘Yes, but what?’
Peggy sighed. ‘It’s not for me to say, sweetheart.’
‘But—’
‘Your mum didn’t want . . . Well, she’s one of those people who doesn’t like to dwell on unhappy things; it’s her way of coping. Bad things happen to everyone at some point, and we all cope in different ways. Your mum, she prefers to try and forget.’
‘I wish you’d tell me what it was.’
Peggy looked uncomfortable. ‘I shouldn’t even tell you this, because as I say, it’s not my place to talk about your mum’s . . . about private things. But one thing I do know is that she felt guilty about your dad. She blamed herself for not making it up with him before he passed away. She still loved him, you know.’
She remembered the night her dad died. She’d been sitting at this very table, eating fish fingers and spaghetti hoops with Peggy and the twins. Her parents were living apart at that point and her dad was staying at Granny Crawford’s, but she’d assumed he’d be back any day. She heard Peggy’s front door open and her mum running up the stairs, then the kitchen door burst open and her mum was there with her car keys in her hand, breathless and looking scared. ‘Can you hang onto her for tonight, Peg? I’ve got to go to the hospital; Ted’s been rushed in, apparently. His mum thinks it might be his heart. She’s probably overreacting but you know how much he’s been drinking lately, and the smoking . . .’
‘Don’t worry about anything, Marje. We’ll look after Ellie, won’t we, boys? She can stay the night if necessary.’
The boys groaned, but only in a jokey way.
‘Off you go,’ Peggy said. ‘Ring me if you can. And don’t worry about Ellie.’
‘Thanks, Peg.’ Her mum turned, and with barely a glance at Eleanor, disappeared back down the stairs and out into the night.
Eleanor had been so happy to stay at Peggy’s that the following morning she’d completely forgotten why she was there until she went into the kitchen. She’d smelt the cigarette smoke from upstairs, but in the kitchen it was so thick it made her cough. Her mum and Peggy were sitting on opposite sides of the table, their packs of cigarettes and lighters resting next to them and an overflowing ashtray in the middle. They both looked up when she came in. Her mum’s face was blotchy and red and her eyes were puffy. Peggy looked as if she’d been crying, too.
‘Eleanor,’ her mum said in an odd, squeaky voice. ‘I am afraid I have some very bad news.’
Even now, when she thought back to that night, she remembered the icy-cold feeling that had quickly filled her stomach and the way her knees had gone all watery so that she couldn’t stand up.
Shivering a little at the memory, she took another mouthful of her coffee and sighed. ‘I wish I hadn’t said what I said.’
Peggy reached for her hand. ‘You didn’t mean it, sweetheart. And your mum knows that.’ She gave her hand a squeeze.
‘I wish I remembered more about my dad. I know he used to call me Ellie-belly, and he used to bring me home a packet of Opal Fruits on Friday nights. I can’t remember what he looked like, though. There aren’t any photos around.’
‘I think she put them away. She’ll have one somewhere – you should ask her.’
Eleanor, summer 1982
She was supposed to be going to the pictures with Ray tonight, but she wanted to look for a photo of her dad while her mum was at work so she phoned him and cancelled. She could have just asked her mum. It was a perfectly reasonable request, after all. But she didn’t want to risk another argument after that row they’d had the other night about her staying out late. She made up a Vesta chow mein for her dinner and ate it while she watched Top of the Pops. She wasn’t that keen on Bananarama, but watching them made her wonder whether to dye her hair so it was proper blonde instead of her boring mousy colour.
After she’d eaten, she opened the sideboard and took out the small suitcase she knew was f
ull of photos. It was slightly bigger than the one she’d had when she was little, the one she’d once packed in preparation for running away from home. She was probably six or seven at the time, and she remembered carefully packing her Sindy doll, a clean vest and knickers, a brand-new brushed nylon nightie that Peggy had bought her for Christmas, a lemon curd sandwich and her purse containing the money from her piggy bank – six shillings and fourpence. She’d even walked out of the house, but Peggy had been looking through her kitchen window at the time and spotted her trotting down Aldworth Grove, the road that ran between their one and the next. Peggy had persuaded her to come back home and give it another week before deciding whether she wanted to leave for ever. She’d agreed only after Peggy promised not to tell.
As she opened the case, the familiar old photograph smell wafted up from inside. Some were still in their Kodak envelopes with the negatives, and there were some in cardboard frames, but most were loose. A few were in colour, but a lot of them were black and white, taken before her dad died. As she leafed through the many pictures of her mother as a young woman, and her mum with herself as a toddler, she remembered her father explaining that there were hardly any of him because he was usually the one behind the camera. There was one of her and her mother sitting on a blanket in Greenwich Park, the Observatory high on the hill in the background behind them. There were a couple of shots of elephants and chimpanzees – a day at the Safari Park, she vaguely remembered. She was sure her mum and dad’s wedding photos were in this suitcase last time she looked, but they weren’t here now. She lifted out a pile and set it aside. At the bottom there were snaps of Granny Crawford, and Eleanor and her mum at the seaside, but all of these were taken when she was tiny. In fact, it seemed that the only later pictures of herself were the school portraits in cardboard frames, where she was smiling, gap-toothed, hair in bunches, trying to do as the photographer instructed. There must be others somewhere, surely? And where were the wedding photos?
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