She pushed open the gate to the walled backyard, and dragged herself up the steps to the kitchen door. She grasped the handle, twisted it, and pushed. The door opened. It made its peculiar noise: a grind, a lowly scrape that announced the arrival of visitors almost as surely as the front door knocker, or the clang of the front gate.
Tina entered the kitchen, where the smells of breakfast lingered.
‘Uncle Edward?’ she called. She opened the door to the dining room. The fire was alight, but almost out. She stood in the doorway and took in the long familiar smells of furniture polish, old books, old fruit. Window cleaner. She saw a thin film of dust on the television and bookshelves.
Tina heard a scream, a terrible strangled cry. She froze, her plans compounded. She felt a jolt run through her body and her mind, a sharp thunderclap of reality. In that moment, everything changed. She knew herself again. For the first time in years, she saw herself. What on earth was she—?!
She made for the stairs, scrambling up them two at a time. The commotion came from Lucia’s bedroom; grappling noises, strange grunts, Lucia’s gasps of, ‘No! Please! Stop! Forgive me!’
It felt odd and frightening and treacherous to tell the nurse at the desk that he was the father, even though it was true. He felt himself blush as he said the loaded words. They sounded almost holy. He was an imposter. Nevertheless, the nurse directed him to Sharanne’s bed.
Sharanne was pale on her pillows, her eyes closed. She stirred and attempted a weak smile, and Keaton responded in kind. He didn’t know what to say, so for a few moments they said nothing; Keaton found himself a chair and sat on it, positioning himself alongside the bed. He then got up to frisk the curtains shut.
She told him she couldn’t keep anything down. Not even water. It had been a terrible couple of weeks, in and out of hospital, the sickness becoming worse and worse, day by day, but now she was having injections to stop the nausea. The injections hurt, like being stung by a wasp twice a day. In the arse of all places, so she had pretty much said goodbye to any dignity she might have had left. But anything was better than constantly being sick. She still felt sick though. She had lost a stone, which was ironic, wasn’t it? She could only wear joggers and t-shirts; comfy stuff, nothing tight. Sometimes it was all she could do to crawl out of bed to use the toilet in the mornings. Smells were torture. All smells. She couldn’t use deodorant, shower gel, soap. She couldn’t wash up: for some reason washing-up liquid was abominable. She couldn’t brush her teeth. She knew she smelled. The nurses were constantly encouraging her to try a shower. They said it would make her feel human again. Keaton said nothing, he just murmured along in what he hoped were the right tones, in the right places. She was hoping to go home as soon as she could. His support was limited and they both knew it.
‘I’ve decided to terminate,’ she said, almost as an aside. Yet there was a steeliness to her voice.
‘But you promised…’ he tried.
‘I know I did. But I was confused and I had no idea then how bad I was going to feel. And I thought I loved you.’
‘But you… promised me…’
‘I shouldn’t have done. I’m sorry, Keaton, I truly am, but I’m not keeping this baby. I discussed it with the doctor this morning. It’s a formality, apparently. And I didn’t want a baby anyway, deep down, not at my age. And this way we can both put the whole sorry episode behind us and get on with our own lives. We’ll really never have to set eyes on each other ever again.’
When Keaton started to sob she turned from him. ‘You’d better leave,’ she said, curling up into a tight ball. ‘You’re upsetting me and I need to rest.’
Forty-three
April 2014
It was easy really, and he was glad he’d thought of it. The windows were dirty, and he suggested, after breakfast, that they clean them. They could start upstairs, he said. She readily agreed. He left her in her room and went into his and waited, motionless, unsure how to proceed, breathing fast and erratically, sighing, swallowing. He felt sick. He’d never done anything like this before. Of course. He was a good man, wasn’t he? Everybody had always told him so. He wanted to surprise Lucia; catch her off guard. He called through, ‘Don’t forget to open the window nice and wide, the old place could do with an airing!’ and he heard the window open. All the windows at Lane’s End House were big and they opened wide. Yet the house was dark and gloomy and cold. Edward silently slipped into her bedroom and watched his sister for a while. She looked small as she cleaned the window. The smell of window cleaner filled the room. Lucia didn’t turn to him, didn’t hear him. He took a step towards her. She reached up to the highest corners of the window. Her hands looked like the enfeebled claws of some ailing creature. She was thin. She was weak. This was cruel. But it wasn’t wrong.
He heard a car. No. Oh, no. Who on earth…? They didn’t have visitors; yet today, the worst time ever there had been for visitors, here they were. What kind of intervention was this? He would have to get on with it. Just do it, old man, he said to himself, and crept another step closer. His head swam; he was delirious with fury and regret and bitterness. Part of him looked down on himself from above, shocked at what he was about to do, but powerless to stop it. He felt strangely young again – strong. He reached the window. Lucia looked around at him. There must have been something dreadful in his face because she crumpled. She was terrified of him and in that moment he realised, of course, she always had been. His fault, and the punishment would be his, as much as it would be hers. The car below pulled up and after a few seconds he saw dear Tina emerge from it. Lucia looked around and saw her too, and glanced back at her brother, a look of haughty, smug triumph. He grabbed her then; he grunted, or roared, or something, an instinctive noise of determination, involuntary and crude, and he pulled her back from the window. He felt the huge rap of the front door knocker. He pushed his sister to the floor. He spat at her to be quiet. She tried to scream but he clamped his hand to her mouth. She struggled, but he was stronger than her, and they stayed like that until he peered over the window sill in time to see Tina disappear around the side of the house. The kitchen door was unlocked. He had very little time. He hauled his frail sister to her feet. She gasped, flailed her arms, tried to claw at him. He kept his hand to her mouth.
‘Shut up! Shut your mouth! You despicable woman! You… bitch!’ The voice was cruel and he was surprised that it was his voice, his words. This was really happening.
She clawed at his hands. ‘Edward please—’
‘You told her I raped you?!’
‘You— agh! Please! You did.’
‘No! No, Lucia! I did not. It was never that. Not that! It was wrong, every day of my life I’ve regretted it. Always. Can’t you see? Don’t you remember? It was something we both… it was mutual! You know it was!’ They stared at each other. Broken, unspoken truths swimming between them. She knew. In her eyes he saw only a person he hated. Perhaps she saw the same in him. Her face was proud. He saw nothing sisterly or good. She was a traitor of the worst kind.
And he was no longer her brother. All the bonds were broken. He pushed her towards the open window. They fought, they grappled, they grunted. It seemed like hours but it was seconds, mere moments, and all his life’s energies had gathered towards this, and in the struggle they knocked the lidless bottle of window cleaner onto the floor and Lucia slipped in the pink mess and her leg twisted. She cried out in pain. He took advantage and grabbed her around the waist, pushing her ever further through the wide open window. She resisted, still grappling, slipping, kicking; not crying or moaning any more, all her listless energy gathered in her struggle against this bizarre defenestration, this awful end to her life. And it was surprising to him, her near silence. She was further out now and she gasped; he tightened his grip on her waist with one arm, his fingers clenching her meagre flesh, and with the palm of his other hand he pushed, pushed her so hard – and still
she resisted. ‘Please, no,’ she said, a whisper, and: ‘There was a baby.’
Edward stopped. He paused and breathed hard. ‘What?’
‘There was a child.’
‘No.’
‘We made a life between us… our baby.’
‘No!’
‘But I was persuaded to be rid of it. Ask Simone, she knows. She took me to see a woman – an abortionist, a back street abortionist. A French woman, of course. She flushed it out of me, scraped it all out of me… gone, just gone. Our baby. Didn’t she tell you about that part? Your wife? She made me do it. She didn’t want me to be fat in the wedding photographs. Selfish woman – friv—’
‘You liar!’ he roared. Sobs fell from him like huge raindrops, pregnant with dread.
He pushed and released his grip on her waist; they had reached tipping point and she cried out, ‘No! Please! Stop! Forgive me!’ and with a final push, she toppled. She shot forward, screamed, and a voice cried, ‘Jesus Christ!’ and something clattered to the floor and skittered across it and then… Then gentle arms, his niece’s arms, eased him to one side, and Tina pulled Lucia in, in, in, back in, and his sister gasped and gagged and sobbed uncontrollably and sank to the floor beneath the window. Edward lowered himself onto Lucia’s bed where he sat, stiff and terrified, staring at the knife Tina had dropped moments before. Remorse set in and he felt Tina’s soft arms around him, rocking him, saying, ‘It’s all right, it’s all right, Uncle Edward,’ and now he trembled, trembled, trembled, and closed his eyes and prayed for his soul.
Wednesday 20th May 2015
Dear Elizabeth
I’m so glad that we have rekindled our correspondence after all these years. Facebook just doesn’t count! Neither do all those Christmas cards. When I wrote to you I wasn’t sure you’d want to write back. I’m so glad you did, and that you feel the same, and would like to resume our letter writing. You’re right, it is a dying art.
It’s great to hear all the news about your kids. What a successful bunch they are! You must be so proud. Please give my regards to your dad, who I still hope to meet one day. I find it incredible that you kept all my old letters! I’m afraid I can’t say the same about yours. I think they may have been destroyed or thrown out by my aunt when Lane’s End House was sold, or maybe it was years ago, as she was always one for a thorough spring clean.
Thank you for your invitation. Once Meggie is old enough to get something out of it, we shall visit. Uncle Edward says he would love to see his brother again. I’m sure I would enjoy looking through all my old letters to you! Although I’ll be terribly embarrassed. They’re full of girlish nonsense, no doubt.
You’re right, I am incredibly fortunate to have Meggie. I didn’t realise I was pregnant for the first two months or so! I thought it was too late for me to have a child… and now it probably is! But there’s a natural order to things and there’s no use in fighting it. Meggie will be an only child, but she is so loved I trust she will never feel lonely.
I don’t know about God… but I do feel blessed, you’re spot on there. And I hope, in the end, that I have done right. It certainly feels right. It is an amazing feeling to hold and feed my own baby, the baby I thought I didn’t want and would never have.
You asked about Uncle Edward. Yes, it is wonderful to have him and Simone living here. And it’s so good to have her back in my life, I can’t tell you. I was amazed when Uncle Edward told me she was back. It turns out she’d been thinking about it for a long time. She’d often seen me in the cemetery when I visited Meg’s grave. I never really noticed her at the time. I mean I saw a woman there quite frequently, but I didn’t recognise her. People change so much.
After Lane’s End House was sold, Edward used some of the money for the renovations on this place, and it’s worked out so well for all of us. They have their own flat (apartment) which is the converted garage and an extension on the back with French windows into the garden. They have their own shower room and bedroom and kitchenette and living room. But they share our front door and Keaton and I can look out for them without being too overbearing. They are a fiercely independent pair, and next week they’re heading off on a Mediterranean cruise, the lucky things. Keaton and I are so envious. Again, when Meggie is older…
You asked about Lucia. She has cut herself off from all of us. In a way I don’t blame her. They argued, you see, on that day I decided to visit, and later dear Uncle Edward told me he had just about had enough of her and that he once did something appallingly bad, and so did she. But he wouldn’t tell me what it was he did (in fact he doesn’t talk about any of it any more). He begged me to get him out of that house, away from her, so I had to. Lucia wouldn’t speak to him once he’d left, and she still hasn’t and you know, I don’t think she ever will. Edward was fair with the money from the sale of the house; I don’t suppose he had any option but to be fair, as the house belonged to both of them, but even so he was more than generous about it. She is living in a flat somewhere, we think, none of us are sure where it is. Not far away, I get the feeling, but it may as well be on the other side of the planet. I rather hope it is. I don’t want to see her again. There has been no contact in a year, and that’s fine by me! That episode is finally over, I’m happy to say, and I won’t be losing any sleep over her absence in my life. Yes, you’re right, she must be an incredibly lonely person. But I think she has brought it on herself.
My dad, William, is still around! He came down from Birmingham for Meggie’s christening. It was good to see him. He brought his wife Patti with him; she’s down to earth and a strong person, just what Dad has always needed in his life I suspect. In some ways she reminds me of my mum. She was a big laugher like Patti. It was good to see Dad so happy and see him smile; there was a time as a child when I wondered if he would ever smile again. He hasn’t drunk alcohol for years now and takes care of himself, runs in the park and has even gone vegetarian. He had a cuddle with Meggie and he said she looked exactly like me and Meg when we were babies. It was good to talk with him about the past. But we didn’t dwell on it. What’s the point, he said, and I agreed with him.
Did I write about Meg a lot in my later letters? I’m sure I must have done. I convinced myself that she wasn’t truly dead you see, because to me then, she wasn’t. It went on for years, right up until last year which sounds crazy and you know, I think I was a little crazy. But now I’m better. Seeing Uncle Edward so upset that day I called round, something snapped in me, something broke, but in a good way. I think I must have come to my senses. With all that has happened, life for me has been an upward struggle. I’ve been climbing a mountain for all those years and now I’m finally at the summit, and everything is laid out before me in the right place and the view is breathtaking. That is how it feels.
Dearest Elizabeth, please write back to me when you get the chance, though I know we are both busy people. I can’t promise the prolific stream of letters I used to send, which is probably a relief to you (!) but I dearly would like to stay in proper touch from now on. It will be such a pleasure to resume our friendship.
Much love, Tina x
Forty-four
May 2015
‘Hush, darling,’ said Tina as she expertly unhooked her nursing bra with one hand. ‘There’s a beautiful girl.’ Tina helped her baby to latch on, and she watched in fascination as her daughter’s little mouth suckled greedily. Tina rocked herself and Meggie back and forth, back and forth in the rocking chair, the baby’s wild suckling gradually calming and slowing to something more contented. Keaton, with the new perpetual grin on his face, watched as Tina fed their daughter. The night she was born, Meggie had been placed into her weeping father’s arms. Tina had seen how much his child meant to him. Tina knew Keaton would be a good father, and do anything to protect his daughter. She had Keaton’s dark hair, his triangular mouth shape.
Edward poked his head around the living room door
and offered to make coffee. Simone wasn’t up yet, he said, the lazy old thing. But she was tired. And when she did get up, they would make breakfast together for everyone. How did French toast and freshly squeezed orange juice sound?
It sounded wonderful, and she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. What an inspired set of choices she and Keaton had made over the last year. He had been right all along to want a child, to believe in her ability to be a good mother. Yet Keaton was too grateful, sometimes, too in awe of her, too in awe of Meggie, and Tina occasionally had to tell him to shut up. It bothered her a little, this over-thankfulness, but it was all right. She put it down to his generous spirit. And of course for far too long she had put off motherhood and in doing so she’d quashed Keaton’s dreams, and her own. She no longer cleaned houses; although she was still in touch with Judy and Sandra, and the Haynes family, and had visited them to show off Meggie.
And as for Meg – she had gone. Tina no longer spoke to her, and she no longer spoke to Tina. Tina had found a good counsellor, a colleague of Kath’s, and she’d worked through everything from the beginning, which as she knew was a hard place to find, but worth the search. She discovered that her mother’s absence had affected her more than she’d realised. But like Meg, Pamela was gone, long gone, and it was all right. Tina had made her peace with it.
It happened. It’s over.
Tina clung to these words. They were her comfort, her mantra. She spoke them to herself daily. They were her favourite words, and they were true.
A Life Between Us Page 23
