by Louise Voss
‘Thing is, you were partly right. About me needing to get a life, anyway.’
‘I’m sorry, Em. I was so stupid to say that thing about you not being my real sister. Of course you are – the words came out wrong, that was all. I really hate it when we fight.’
She reached out a bubbly hand for my dry one, and her skin felt soft and almost slimy, like wet soap. Very different to the man on the train. I took a deep breath and inhaled the fragrant damp air in the bathroom, relishing the sweetness of the scent after the man’s stale stink, still fresh in my nostrils after almost a week.
‘Me too.’
‘So do you forgive me?’
‘Yeah. Just don’t tell everyone about my private life again. And don’t bloody tell everyone about Betsey, either, it makes me sound like such a freak. I was only a kid at the time.’
‘I know. Sorry. I was a bit pissed. I won’t do it again, I promise.’
I stood up, clearing a porthole in the steam on the mirror, partly to check my make-up, and partly so I didn’t have to look at Stella when I told her of my decision to trace my birthmother.
But no words came; just my breath, misting up the mirror again, obscuring my face. I would tell Stella soon, of course; I had to. Just not yet, that was all. I so desperately wanted her to be supportive, and happy for me; but I was so afraid that she might not be, that it might be too great a threat.
Stella sat up in the bath, sending a splash and a slow wash of bubbles sliding over the side of the tub and on to the wooden floor. The skin on her chest and arms was seared red from where she’d been lying in the hot water, the water level of the bath delineated on her body by the sudden contrast of white above it.
‘Love you, Em.’
‘I love you, too.’
Absently, I wiped the rag-rug bathmat over the spillage on the floor. I’d bathed Stella as a kid so often, that it would almost have felt natural to lift her out by her armpits and towel her off myself. It was a job that I always chose, over the dishes or tidying my bedroom, when Mum gave me a choice of household chore. Stella used to create such complete fantasy worlds for herself when she was in the bath: re-enacting the whole of the Wizard of Oz , or The Little Mermaid. I still half-expected to find naked waterlogged Barbies in the bath after Stella drained it, what was left of their lustrous blonde locks matted and greasy from overenthusiastic soapings.
‘I’d better go, or I’ll be late. I’ll see you this evening, then. Have a good day at college.’
‘Thanks. Bye, Em.’ She sank back under the bubbles again, sighing with the relief of redemption.
I would tell her soon, I decided. Just not yet.
Chapter 12
Percy, our elderly neighbour from the flat below, was at the communal front door, shakily picking two full milk bottles off the step as I squeezed past.
‘Ello, Susan love, 'ow are you? 'Aven't seen you since the Boer War!’
‘Hello Mr. Weston, it's Emma, remember? I'm fine, thank you.’
‘Funny that, me daughter's called Susan, too.’
Not funny at all, quite logical really, I thought. It occurred to me that a rainstorm would intensify the awful smell which emanated from his health-hazard of a flat. I generally tried to avoid thinking about what might be the cause of it, but it was hard, particularly as he often left his front door open. Once, when Percy was out in the back garden, I’d dared Stella to go and peek in. Stella had held her breath and stuck her head round into the kitchen, where, she’d reported back, there were piles and piles of dinner plates stacked up on every available surface, literally hundreds of them.
‘Ee’s gorn,’ said Percy, who was clad in just an untucked dirty white shirt, voluminous trousers, and worn felt bedroom slippers.
‘Who has?’
‘In a bit of an ‘urry, wern ee?’
‘Who?’
‘That man wiv the big shoulders. Your sister’s young man.’
‘Mr. Weston, Stella doesn’t have a young man, not at the moment. And you shouldn’t be out in this weather without a coat,’ I said, looking at his bare bluey purple hands. ‘You’ll freeze.’
He shrugged. ‘Ain’t no-one to talk to in there,’ he said, and my heart went out to him. I was in danger of being late for the baby massage, but I managed to endure five minutes of listening to Percy tell me the same story over and over again; a gruesome anecdote about the operation on his varicose veins, how they had been pulled out his calf like a drawstring out of an anorak, until I thought that I was going to die of hypothermia and boredom. By the third time of telling, I was jigging from foot to foot, and my compassion for Percy’s loneliness had evaporated into a stew of frustration. Eventually I had to interrupt,
‘I’m sorry, Mr. Weston, I’ve got to go to work now. Take care of yourself, all right? Bang on the ceiling later if you need any shopping, won’t you?’ I refrained from adding, and turn your TV down to a sensible level, and wrenched myself away down the path.
As I turned into the street I noticed the irritating tinkling of wind chimes from the garden two doors down, and wondered if the noise was filtering through the bathroom window and getting on Stella's nerves as she lay in her leisurely bath. It must be great to be a student. Partying every night, rolling up to lectures once a day, if that. My own college course had only been nine months, and far too intensive for that kind of behaviour.
The weather didn't look too bad, just blustery and chilly, winter morning storm-dark, the wind whipping up dead leaves into mini tornadoes but no actual rain. Head down, I hurried on, concentrating on the gum-blackened spots on the pavement; the dark morning making everything even more depressing.
Stella and I had loved this area when we first moved here eight years ago; the puny but fiercely-protected trees growing at intervals out of the concrete, the people in the little parade of shops who soon knew our names, the clusters of children – Indian, Jamaican, Vietnamese - who played on their bikes and skateboards on the pavements every day after school. It was much more of a community than the haughty detached villas where we had our previous family home. That wasn’t to say that we preferred it, though. It was just different; a complete change when we most needed one.
The two old ladies from the charity shop for the blind on the corner were battening down the hatches for the storm, carrying armfuls of other people's unwanted possessions back into the shop from where they’d only just finished displaying them on the pavement: leaking soft toys, stained lampshades, broken candlesticks. I couldn't believe that getting wet would make the stuff look less appealing that it already did.
I was never quite sure if those two were sisters or not, but they both had doughy faces with nicotine stained grey hair, and wore shapeless polyester trousers and nylon blouses, which looked distinctly as if they were gleaned from the racks in the shop. I envied them their companionship. The sight of them always made me wonder if Stella and I would still be living together as old maids when we were that age. Perhaps we were just stuck together for life, too rooted in habit and tragedy to ever break apart.
‘In for a storm,’ said the taller of the old ladies, clutching a bald canary-yellow baby's blanket and a worn out saucepan to her chest.
‘Yup,’ I replied. ‘Better get going before the rain starts.’
A bolt of lightning flashed over the rooftop of the Bush Theatre as I waited to cross at the lights, and the back of my neck prickled with gooseflesh as thunder clapped cymbals over my head. I put up my collar and hurried on as the first fat raindrops plopped down around me; praying that the man wouldn’t be there, waiting for me, inside the tube station.
I made it to Covent Garden, thankfully unaccosted, and to the health centre with two minutes to spare before the start of my class. There was just enough time to get changed and dry my wet hair underneath the hand dryer in the Ladies.
I carried my coat and bag over to Joanne in the health visitor’s office. Joanne was sitting behind her desk, talking on the telephone, saying: ‘Mmm, mmm, mmm, yes, I
know, but I think the problem here is less the poo’s consistency than the fact that Archie’s doing it on the floor…’ She made a face at me, and I managed to smile back. Can I leave my stuff here? I mouthed, pointing at the space behind Joanne’s desk, and Joanne nodded and continued her conversation.
‘Mmm. Well, I’m afraid you’re going to have to let him know that this isn’t acceptable behaviour….’
The waiting room of the health centre now resembled the end of the Mothercare January sales; with every type of pushchair, double and single buggies, three-wheeled all-terrain models, hoods up, hoods down, clear plastic raincovers attached or flapping loose at the sides, tartan, polka-dotted and tiger-printed; all parked in a disorganised jumble, through which I had to fight my way to reach the room where I was holding my class. Judging from the number of pushchairs, I had a pretty full house. I took another deep breath and opened the door.
The seventeen mothers inside, already seated in an uneven circle on the carpet, did not even notice my arrival at first. They were all too deeply engrossed in their conversations about cracked nipples, episiotomies, and sex-starved husbands; and, once again, I felt a sudden flash of being the outsider, the only one who hadn’t earned the milky badge of endurance that they wore with such pride on their shoulders.
I managed to insinuate myself into a small space between a big hearty Sloane who was busily laying out a Burberry changing mat, and an anxious-looking older mother with circles of milk staining the front of her t-shirt, whose baby had a soft brush of jet black hair standing vertical on his otherwise bald head. Yikes, that’s an ugly one, I thought uncharitably.
I cleared my throat. ‘OK, shall we make a start, then? My name is Emma, and I will be teaching you an invaluable skill; how to give your baby a wonderful, self-affirming start to a healthy life. Babies, just like ourselves, respond extremely well to touch – I’m sure you’re all aware of how much a good cuddle can help a fractious baby; you do it instinctively. Massage is just an extension of this, with many extra benefits for your baby’s health.’
The mothers stopped talking, and the breastfeeding ones unsuckered their babies’ greedy mouths from their breasts. There was a momentary glimpse of a selection of engorged nipples, followed by a hasty pulling-down of blouses and t-shirts , and they all lay out their children on mats or towels in front of them, with their heads towards the centre of the circle.
‘If you can just undress your babies, please.’
I watched as they lovingly manoeuvred tiny arms out of equally tiny jackets; some hand-crocheted, some designer, but mostly Baby Gap; stripped minute cotton vests over floppy heads, and peeled blobs of towelling sock off little purple feet. None of the babies were as cute as Stella had been.
Every time I conducted one of these baby massage classes, I was reminded of the secretive creases of Stella's new body. I could still smell the whiff of unwashed skin from underneath her chin, where the crease was so deep that drops of old milk would sometimes collect and fester, unnoticed by all, until its presence was announced by a baby-sourness, like an infant version of body odour.
In the other classes, where the babies were a few months older and the mothers more confident in their massage strokes and undressing techniques, I saw the progression of Stella’s own growth. How, when she learned to sit up and look around, she finally grew a neck, allowing the air to circulate much better in her chin area, and the creases got more accessible. How her tiny wavering peeled-prawn fingers matured into strong and scratchy grabbing hands; and she developed a huge and proud pot belly, like a miniature Buddha. When she lay back in the bath to have her wisps of hair washed, this tummy had stuck out above the bubbles, a small puddle of bath water collected in the dip of her belly-button. If she leaned forward for a toy boat or a duck, her chest compacted into a little baby-fat cleavage. Stella’s cheeks got bigger and bigger and shinier and shinier, and she learned how to do a nasty fake simper, with a wrinkle of her nose and a gracious incline of her head. Her real smile was so much nicer - she had an unforgettable dolphin mouth, with lips which drew apart and up exactly like velvet stage curtains swishing open at the start of the opera.
Stella had always been beautiful, and she'd always known it. All the babies in my classes seem like pale imitations.
I wondered why I felt so maternal towards Stella. Had it always been that way? I remembered her birth again, and the way I’d had such a feeling of pride that anyone would think I’d given birth to her myself… had I not been ten years old, of course. She was a big, squashy, smiling living Tiny Tears, and I treated her as such. Although perhaps the maternal feelings had only been established once she became my actual responsibility. Once I became all she had left.
As I talked, I watched the mothers and thought about what made a mother a mother; whether nature or nurture, birth or death, love or responsibility. There was nothing these women wouldn’t do for their babies. They were gagging to learn how to massage them, cure their wind, soothe their cries – not just to make their own lives easier, but predominantly with the simple intention of making their babies happy, so they’d grow up stable and confident and loving.
My own birthmother had never done this. She’d never gone to the department store and agonised over which model of pram to buy, fingering Aircell blankets and testing the equilibrium of bunny mobiles with the tap of a finger – not for me, anyhow. Even if there had been such things as baby massage courses in 1970, my birthmother would not have signed me up. All she had done was to push me out of her and then move on, without me.
I circulated photocopied sheets around to the group, with diagrams of the different strokes and feathery fingertip movements. As I guided the women through the basics, watching them lovingly rub almond oil into their babies’ tiny chests, I wished someone with great big gentle hands would come and smooth away the fist of misery in my own chest. I wondered what Gavin was doing, if his dark nervous hands were stroking someone else’s body now, hesitantly, uncertainly, but thrilling with the touch of new flesh.
The babies’ faces seemed to be glowing in the reflective light of their mothers’ love; and I reaffirmed the decision which I’d been wavering about since meeting the man on the train.
I really was going to try and trace my birthmother this time, not just half-heartedly as I had before. Last time I’d given up at the first hurdle; partly because Stella needed me, and partly because I felt it somehow unseemly to go out and find a new set of parents to replace those I’d lost. Every time since then that I’d considered the prospect anew, Stella had manifested her continued need of me: boy trouble; funds needed for orthodontia; that dreadful time when she was set up, and accused of stealing from her Saturday job at Sainsbury's. There had always been some crisis which chased any thoughts of my birthmother out of my mind.
Up until now. The previous night’s row in itself had demonstrated several further things: Stella did not need me anymore. She could fight her own battles; she was nineteen, an adult. No longer a helpless baby kicking on a changing mat; a spoilt toddler; or a woebegone ten year old orphan in a droopy black taffeta dress. I’d done what Mum and Dad would have wanted. Stella had never been taken into care, or abandoned by the system, like that man on the train. I personally had seen her through first periods and O levels and ill-advised party outfits.
Surely I too had every right to look for a bit of mothering, now that I had the chance.
Chapter 13
‘When you were at school, did the fact that you were adopted make you feel you were different from your classmates; and if so, was this in a positive or a negative way?’
Most of the time, it didn’t make me feel different. I had a mum and dad, same as everyone else.
Actually, for a long time it was Betsey who made me feel as if I was set apart from the others. I believed – probably mistakenly - that people were more impressed by the fact that I had an orang-utan as a playmate, than the fact that I was adopted. Until one particular school trip to the zoo. After what hap
pened on that trip, I really began to wonder whether I was special at all.
I could still see the pink slips of paper which Mrs. Meades handed out to the class one afternoon, in that five minutes of pre-bell subdued hysteria; the pink slips which heralded the most eagerly anticipated event of my entire primary school career. As my slip skidded across the lid of my desk, carrying with it the faintest scent of Mrs.Meades’s Sea Jade perfume, I remembered catching sight of the words, and a thrill of excitement had rushed so fast up to my chest that it felt as if my school tie would roll up of its own accord.
“Form 3Y will be going by coach to the orang-utan enclosure of London Zoo on October 23rd. To coincide with our forthcoming project on primates, Dr. Barbara Victor will be giving a talk on her work with orang-utans. Your child will need a waterproof and a packed lunch. Cost £2. Please sign and return the slip below to confirm your permission.”
After school I catapulted myself and my satchel through the front door, waving the form and yelling, ‘Mum, Mum, you didn’t tell me it was definitely happening!’
Mum was studying at the kitchen table, surrounded by piles of books and notepads, her huge glasses teetering on the very tip of her nose and several blotches of fountain pen ink decorating her fingers. She was still wearing her flowery vinyl apron, which her pregnant belly had pushed out so far that it almost touched the edge of the table in front of her. A delicious smell of baking scones drifted indolently around the room.
‘Well, I didn’t want to tell you until all the details were worked out. Besides, it wasn’t up to me to let you know. I won’t be there as your mother, I’ll be there as Dr. Victor.’
‘I know, I know, but isn’t it brilliant? I can’t wait for them all to meet Betsey. Do you think she’ll do that thing where she pretends to clean my glasses? I hope she doesn’t wee on my foot again, though, that would be so embarrassing. Will you come on the coach with us?’ I flung myself at her, wrapping my arms around her middle, the vinyl apron forming a cool slippery barrier between us. Laughing, Mum lifted the apron up and stuck my head underneath it so that my face rested on the familiar warmth of her taut stomach instead.
