A Life Between Us

by Louise Walters

  Love from Tina xxx

  Fifteen

  December 2013

  The drive to Lane’s End House took twenty minutes or so, but to Tina, wanting to put off the laborious visit, it seemed as though the drive was taken in a matter of seconds. In the footwell she balanced a poinsettia between her feet. She had made a Christmas pudding for her uncle and aunt, and she clutched the bowl all the way, chatting sporadically to Keaton, who understood her dread, and rested his hand on her knee for much of the journey, removing it only to change gear and turn wipers on and off. A mild, unseasonal drizzle fell.

  As the car wound down the lonely lane that lead to Lane’s End House, Tina tried not to notice the mess of the garden, sparse and straggly, with only winter nesting in its wayward branches. Anne had tried to keep the garden after Tom’s death, and Uncle Edward had taken over for a year or two after he’d returned there to live, but he was not a natural gardener, preferring to spend his days reading, walking, thinking. His questionable enthusiasm had waned, and he’d fallen to performing only the more basic garden tasks. He’d turned the beds and borders over to grass to reduce the workload. Lucia had never gardened, for fear of getting her hands dirty.

  Keaton pulled the car to a smooth halt. How did he do that? Tina’s driving was erratic and spiky, unsatisfactory. She wondered how she’d managed to pass her test, but she had at her first attempt, a rare moment of triumph. She climbed from the car, pulling her coat around her, chilled. She must look on the bright side, she told herself. Uncle Edward was a dear, and she was about to spend some time with him.

  Keaton opened the gate for Tina and closed it carefully behind them. Together they reached the front door. Tina climbed the steps and knocked. The ancient knocker was as loud and portentous as ever. As a child, she had hated it. The noise and reverberation had seemed to permeate the entire house and everything in it.

  The door opened. Tina drew in a deep breath and perfected a smile.

  ‘Oh. It’s you,’ said Lucia.

  She was as thin as ever, wearing a mustard-colour, polo-neck jumper, a brown shapeless skirt, thick skin-tone tights, and a grim expression; none of which did anything for her. She was old before her time. Tina stepped into the tiled hallway. The steep and narrow staircase rose before her like the road to hell.

  ‘Rain again,’ Lucia commented to nobody in particular as she closed the door behind her guests. ‘Well, come on through. I’ve made tea.’ Tina and Keaton followed her into the dining room, in truth also the sitting room, the room where the fire burned, where the television blared, where Uncle Edward’s many books lined the walls. Tina half-fancied she saw the ancient ginger tom, Horace, licking his paws before the fire, but of course he was long dead. There was no cat at Lane’s End House. But the clippy mat she and Lucia had once made together was still there, threadbare in places and scarred by years of flying sparks. It was all so homely, but this was not her home, and it never had been. She had simply spent too much time here.

  ‘Hello, Uncle Edward!’ she cried. He sat in the chair closest to the fire, a blanket on his knee. There wasn’t any central heating at Lane’s End House. She stood next to her uncle’s chair, and kissed the top of his head. He liked that, she knew. He looked up at her and smiled weakly.

  ‘Well, niece,’ said Uncle Edward, ‘sit yourself down. Pull up that pouffe and warm your toes.’

  ‘Oh, I will, but let me just put the pudding in the kitchen.’

  ‘I’ll take it,’ said Lucia, and Keaton raised his eyebrows at Tina as he seated himself on the small, high-backed sofa. It was furthest from the fire, but Keaton rarely felt the cold. Lucia took the pudding, muttering a thank you. Tina was left holding the poinsettia. She put it on the dining table. She took her place on the old, dark-green leather pouffe by the fire, opposite her uncle. She smiled at him, and reached across and took one of his hands in hers.

  ‘How are you?’ she said. She wasn’t sure how loudly she should speak. She didn’t want to shout and be rude. He looked tired, and frail. She couldn’t remember him looking this frail last year. She hoped he wasn’t ill, but she couldn’t ask. You didn’t talk about illness at Lane’s End House.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with me, my girl,’ said Edward as he pulled a clean white handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose loudly. ‘Just a silly cold.’

  ‘There are a lot of colds doing the rounds at the moment,’ Tina said, nodding reassuringly. ‘Keaton’s secretary’s got one, hasn’t she, Keaton? She’s been off work for a few days.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Keaton. He looked into the fire. ‘She’s back now. Feeling a bit better. You know.’

  ‘When I was at the doctor’s yesterday the waiting room was full of people coughing and sneezing,’ said Tina, and immediately she wished she hadn’t spoken. Keaton looked at her. She’d have to think up an excuse for later. He was bound to ask. Damn. She’d meant to keep it to herself for now. She was serious about wanting a child, but she didn’t want to get Keaton’s hopes up too soon. Her doctor had been patient, understanding, thorough. She had explained the pitfalls, the things that could go wrong; she had talked about the possibility of pregnancy never occurring.

  ‘Aye,’ said Uncle Edward in that wearily philosophical manner of the elderly. He clearly hadn’t been listening, or just hadn’t heard.

  Lucia came back through from the kitchen with a tea tray, bearing the old brown teapot, milk jug, and the cups and saucers that Tina remembered from her girlhood, along with the heavy-handled, tarnished tea spoons. She shuddered, but told herself she was chilly, and she pulled her coat closer across her chest.

  ‘Sugar?’ said Lucia to Tina, and Tina nodded, mute, as the older woman took a sugar cube in the tiny tongs and dropped it into Tina’s cup. Tina dared herself to look at the wrinkled pinched skin on the thin face; the pale, veined hands that vaguely shook as their owner leaned across from her seat at the dining table and passed Tina her cup. Lucia then handed a cup to Keaton, and finally, via Tina, to Edward, who took it in his own shaking hands. Tina slowly stirred in her sugar lump. She didn’t like tea. But there was no coffee at Lane’s End House.

  ‘Biscuit?’ Lucia rattled the old rusty tin that had housed biscuits for as long as Tina could remember. Longer. Inside the tin were malted milks. Tina politely shook her head. Why were there no mince pies? Not even shop-bought? It wouldn’t hurt Lucia, would it, to make even a small effort?

  Keaton gamely took three biscuits and slurped at his tea. ‘So,’ he eventually said, ‘are you all ready for Christmas?’ Keaton winked at Tina. It was one of their private jokes, asking this inane question that everybody seemed to ask.

  ‘We don’t have much to get ready,’ said Uncle Edward. ‘I don’t suppose we’ll hear from Robert again this year.’

  Lucia shifted in her chair. It creaked. She took a sip of her tea. She snapped a malted milk in half – snap! – and the crumbs flew off in tiny random directions. She put one half back into the biscuit tin.

  ‘Are you still in touch with his daughter?’ said Uncle Edward. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Elizabeth?’ said Tina. ‘No, not really. Only on Facebook, you know, on the internet. But that doesn’t really count. I send her a card every Christmas.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about this internet stuff,’ said Uncle Edward. ‘They keep on about it on the telly. Elizabeth. Yes. That was her. I don’t suppose we’ll ever meet her, will we? What’s all this fuss about face… what do you call it?’

  ‘Facebook. But don’t worry about that,’ said Tina. Uncle Edward nodded. ‘But you’re right,’ she continued, ‘we probably won’t get to meet Elizabeth or her sister. Although it would be lovely if we did.’ Edward didn’t respond, his eyes closing, his head drooping towards his chest. Then he jerked himself awake again.

  ‘She must be in her twenties by now, that Elizabeth?’ he said.

 
‘You silly old fool,’ said Lucia. She shook her head and tutted, and sighed melodramatically.

  ‘Oh, Uncle Edward, she’s only a few months younger than me,’ said Tina. Edward looked at her blankly. ‘I’m forty-six!’

  ‘Are you? Really? Oh, bloody hell, I don’t know where the years get to…’ and Uncle Edward slipped into another quiet contemplation, staring into the fire, his still-bright eyes watery as though filling with tears. Perhaps they are, Tina thought, and she looked away. They all sipped their tea, apart from Edward. Keaton scrunched on his third malted milk. The fire hissed. All was stillness. It should have been so cosy.

  ‘We had a card from Clive and Sheila,’ Uncle Edward said, snapping back into life once again. ‘That one there on the mantelpiece. Don’t mind the dust.’

  ‘Dust?’ said Lucia. ‘There is no dust! We have a card from them every year.’ She sounded clipped and weary. She put down her tea cup, a small clash against the saucer.

  ‘Do you remember them, Tina?’ said Edward, ignoring his sister. He possibly hadn’t heard her.

  ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t,’ said Tina, and she saw her aunt’s face settle into a sneer. Tina could remember talk of Clive and Sheila Stubbins, many years ago. She recalled it as bitter talk, their names uttered in hushed voices, and Lucia more than disdainful. Tina had been at the same secondary school as their youngest daughter, Bella. They had not been friends, being three school years apart, but Bella Stubbins had been a mature, sensible girl and had once kindly helped Tina out with a private matter in the school toilets. Tina was tempted to say she could remember Bella, but she decided not to. It was clear that Lucia was uncomfortable when the names of Clive and Sheila Stubbins came up. It was sensible to say nothing. Hadn’t Meg once said that she’d heard that Sheila Stubbins had been Lucia’s particular friend when they were teenagers, but they had fallen out? Meg wasn’t sure why they had fallen out. But that was all Tina could remember, and quite likely none of it was important. Lucia, with an imperious sigh, rose from her chair. She looked out of the window.

  ‘That rain is set in. We won’t keep you here, Tina. Before you go could you give me a hand with something?’

  ‘Oh. Yes, yes, of course I will,’ said Tina. What could it be? Lucia rarely asked for help.

  Keaton took over the TV remote control and started to flick through the channels. Uncle Edward dozed, and snored, his head gently nodding up and down, the remains of his tea becoming cold and forgotten. Tina followed her aunt into the kitchen.

  ‘I want to get something down from on top of the dresser,’ said Lucia. ‘But my balance isn’t… well, I can’t manage. It’s the old blue teapot that your granny used to use. Her best.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Tina, her heart beginning to thump.

  ‘Do you remember it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tina.

  ‘If you could climb up the steps here…’ Lucia drew the old kitchen steps closer to the dresser.

  ‘I… I can,’ said Tina.

  ‘I know you don’t like heights much.’

  ‘No. I don’t like heights.’

  ‘But it’s not so very high, is it? Should I have asked Keaton?’

  ‘No. Oh no, I can do this.’

  Tina took one step on the ladder, then a second. She reached up, on her tiptoes, and could just see the dusty blue teapot. ‘I see it,’ she said. She couldn’t reach it.

  ‘Take another step,’ said Lucia.

  ‘I can’t… OK. One more…’ Just look up, reach out for that damned teapot and grab it, and go. Get out of here. You should not be here. What is this? What…?

  ‘Can’t you reach?’ said Lucia, her voice, it seemed to Tina, no longer the wavering speech of a woman in her sixties who needed help to get a dusty old forgotten teapot down from on top of the dresser, but a woman of thirty, scarily thin, bossy, and – in all that heat! – wearing flared brown slacks and a stripy yellow and brown knitted tunic with wide gaping sleeves and a thin knitted belt, and smelling of… what was it? Panache? And ordering her about, bossing her and Meg about. A woman in charge. Irritable, red-faced. ‘Should I ask Keaton?’ said Lucia.

  ‘No. I can do it.’ Tina breathed quickly and stretched out her trembling hand. She felt the cool touch of the porcelain and curled her fingers around the brittle handle. But it was too late. She caved in. Everything turned grey, then black, and only her aunt’s voice remained.

  ‘Reach up. You can reach.’ The voice reverberated around the kitchen, harsh and forlorn. Later, Tina thought she could remember hitting her head on something hard as she fell; she thought she heard the smashing of the teapot as it met the floor, as the steps wobbled and slid from under her, as the kitchen receded and the woman’s voice, her Aunty Lucia’s voice, young again, echoing through the swaying branches of the oak tree, through the pitter-patter of the longed-for rain on the parched leaves, ‘Tina, what have you done?’

  Sixteen

  April 1964

  The haberdashery shop in town was quiet. It was a pretty shop, Lucia had to concede, newly renovated. She had been there before with Mum, of course, many times, but not recently. The colours and patterns dazzled Lucia. The odours of fresh fabric, new carpet and cigarette combined to assault all her senses. Simone flitted from one bolt of material to another, exclaiming over the colours and patterns, rubbing fabric between her slim, elegant fingers, crumpling the material and bringing it to her nose, beckoning Lucia to come and look. Lucia was exhausted even before the shopping trip had properly begun. Simone had taken a day off from work and travelled by train up from London to meet Lucia. Simone said, when they met up, ‘I hope we shall get to know each other better.’

  Simone settled, after much decision-making, on a peach nylon. Lucia thought it nasty, both the colour and the feel, but said nothing. It was a surprising choice. Simone was usually très chic. Lucia watched the assistant cut the required amount of fabric and carefully fold it and wrap it in paper. Lucia felt hot, queasy. Her dress was a little tight across her chest and around her neck, the collar too high. She needed to sit down but knew she couldn’t ask. She was seventeen, not seventy. She yawned, rubbed her temples. Simone paid for the material.

  ‘Are you well?’ asked Simone as she picked up the parcel of fabric. ‘Would you like a cup of tea? We are not due at the dressmaker’s until midday.’

  ‘Oh, yes please,’ said Lucia. She tried to smile at Simone, who looked doubtful.

  They found a café and ordered tea, and fruit scones. Simone chatted about the wedding and this, that and everything, while Lucia tried to listen. She was going to be the only bridesmaid and at any other time in her life she would have been thrilled and excited. Simone talked about hairstyles. Lucia nibbled at her scone. It was acceptable, but a bit dry. The sultanas were too squishy. She avoided the butter.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Simone at last. ‘I’m talking too much about the wedding aren’t I? Eddie says, “Enough now. Let’s talk about something else!” I think I’m driving him mad…’

  Eddie? No. Edward was Edward, most definitely not Eddie. It sounded all wrong. This woman knew nothing about him! And she was going to be his wife in a few months. Oh, she was so tired. Another yawn. Perhaps Simone would imagine she was bored. She was, in fact, bored. But—

  ‘I’m expecting a baby,’ said Lucia, and burst into tears.

  Simone held Lucia’s hand until she stopped crying, which she did after a minute or two. She had said it now. She hadn’t meant to say it. But at least the hard part was over. Somebody else knew. There could be no going back. Simone urged her to finish her tea. The café was almost deserted, but Simone nudged her chair closer to Lucia’s so they could talk quietly.

  Since last week’s faint at the dining table, Lucia had felt bleached, all her colours bled out of her. She had been feeling sick, mostly in the afternoons, for weeks. She was constantly tired,
a hefty fatigue that couldn’t be fought. Nobody had cottoned on. Yet. It had taken her long enough – for weeks she had ignored the signs. She had denied her suspicions, but finally she’d had no choice but to succumb to disbelief and horror. She was well over three months now and had a tiny bump, her waist thickening day on day. She hadn’t been to see a doctor. She would need to do something, soon. It was hard to think straight. She couldn’t think at all, most of the time. It could not be. But it was. Yet it could not be. She’d been paralysed, all these weeks. She hadn’t known what to do or who to turn to. Until now, until Simone.

  ‘Who is the father?’ Simone asked. She was pale. Incredulous. But not unkind.

  Lucia thought for a moment. No. Some things were unsayable, even to silly French women who didn’t deserve the man they were going to marry.

  ‘His name is Clive and I… I thought we were going to get engaged. I thought he loved me.’

  ‘Ah. I see.’

  ‘But he’s married to somebody else now.’

  ‘Sheila, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. How do you know that?’

  ‘Eddie told me. I think Ambrose mentioned it to him. But let us not worry about that. We need to concern ourselves with you, yes?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘You want to have the baby?’

  ‘No! No, I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’ Simone truly was modern.

  ‘Why… I can’t.’

  ‘Think about it. It won’t be easy but there are ways. Homes for unmarried mothers? Your own mother will probably help you anyway. Anne is desperate for a grandchild, isn’t she?’

  ‘I’m not keeping the baby,’ said Lucia, pushing her half-nibbled scone away from her. ‘It has to go. There’s no… no question of me keeping it.’ She started to cry again, and Simone patted her shoulder.