‘You could shell the peas,’ she said. ‘They’re in the bottom drawer of the fridge.’
I opened it and the first thing I saw was a bottle of champagne. Did they have an announcement to make? They’d been together a few years. It would make sense.
So, I was waiting, as we all sat around the table and tucked into the lamb, for someone to clear their throat and say something.
And, sure enough …
‘It’s great to have everyone here,’ Jon said, as I cut some lamb into tiny pieces for Charlie. He was sitting next to me on a pile of cushions, strapped to the chair with a belt. He looked a bit precarious but seemed happy. ‘And I’ve got something I want to tell you all,’ Jon continued.
I caught Anne’s eye, wanting to see her smile and colour, but she looked more worried than happy.
Jon appeared serious too. ‘I went to the doctor a couple of weeks ago –’
‘Oh, no.’ It was Dad who interrupted him and, even though he spoke only two words, he sounded scared and upset. ‘Oh, Jonathan.’
I think we all individually anticipated the worst. I could hear it in the way Dad said Jon’s name, see it in the shock on Cathy’s face. I went cold and something shrivelled inside me.
It had been only a matter of time before one of us began to display the symptoms that our mother had shown when I was in my early teens, to note the occasional involuntary jerk of a limb or muscle spasm and try to write it off as ‘one of those things’, to wonder if hormones were to blame for mood swings and uncharacteristic angry outbursts, or if it was something whose name we all knew and the terrible, unforgiving prognosis.
Had the doctor confirmed Jon’s suspicions? Had he been told that, yes, he had the disease and, no, there was still no cure, no relief even from the debilitating symptoms, nothing to look forward to but a steady decline in which he would lose control of his limbs, his bodily functions, and eventually this would kill him?
‘No, Dad!’ Jon’s voice was urgent. ‘It’s not that. It was something else entirely. Nothing to worry about.’
‘Oh, thank God,’ Dad said.
I looked at Abe who was looking at me. He must have seen my reaction. I breathed out now, relieved, so relieved, for the time being.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t meant to alarm you,’ Jon continued. ‘It is related. But not in a bad way. The doctor told me something and I thought you should all know. Maybe you’ve heard already.’ He looked at Cathy and me.
I shook my head. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘They’ve developed a test for … for Mum’s condition,’ Jon said, refusing to dignify it with its name. ‘They isolated the gene last year and now they can test for it. We can have a blood test and find out one way or another if we carry it.’
There was a perceptible pause while we all took in what he had said. There was a test that would tell us if we carried the faulty gene, a test that had not been available to Mum or her father and had only very recently been developed and approved.
Nobody said anything until Dad asked, ‘And will you?’
‘We’ve been talking and I’m thinking about it,’ Jon replied. ‘You have to have counselling first. They won’t let you have the test without understanding all the implications. But I’ve thought about it quite a lot and I want to know.’
Abe was looking at me expectantly, but I didn’t know what to say. I busied myself helping Charlie spoon up potato and gravy.
‘I’m sorry,’ Jon said. ‘I didn’t mean to spring it on you. This probably wasn’t the right way but there’s something else.’
He looked at Anne and this time she smiled. ‘The reason I’m thinking about it really,’ he said, ‘the reason I think I want to have the test is that I’ve asked Anne to marry me and she’s said yes. Before we decide whether to have children or not, well, we think we want to know.’
‘Oh, Jon, that’s wonderful!’ I jumped up from my seat, nudging Charlie, who ended up at a wonky angle in his makeshift high chair. ‘Sorry, baby.’ I propped him up again, while around me the others were moving to congratulate Jon and Anne.
‘There’s some champagne in the fridge,’ Jon said.
We celebrated.
‘That’s great news, isn’t it?’ Abe said to me, as we were driving home.
Minnie and Charlie had both fallen asleep in the back.
‘Wonderful,’ I said. ‘I really like Anne and she and Jon seem happy.’
‘I meant about the test.’ He glanced sideways at me.
‘Oh. I suppose so.’
‘Don’t you think?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘But you could find out if you’ve got it or not. You could know for certain, one way or the other.’
‘I’m not sure I want to,’ I told him.
I’d been thinking about it all day, ever since Jon had told us, and I knew that Abe would tell me I probably needed more time to think but I wasn’t sure I did.
If I had the test and discovered I was free of the gene it would be wonderful, but what if I wasn’t?
‘Why not?’ Abe asked.
‘I don’t know if I could live with the knowledge,’ I said. ‘I feel that I can live with not knowing. Maybe if I started to have symptoms I’d want to find out. But if they told me I had the gene, I don’t know if I could carry on living as I do now.’
‘I don’t understand.’
I tried to explain that I could live with the possibility that I might carry the gene but not the certainty.
‘But it would make life so much easier if we knew.’
‘Or so much more difficult.’
Neither of us said anything new. We kept reiterating our different positions. We were never going to see eye to eye.
‘It’s different for Jon. He hasn’t had children yet. He wants to know before they decide to have them.’
‘And you already do and you could find out if their mother will still be around when they’re older or not.’
‘And what if I won’t?’
‘Then at least we’ll know.’
‘But I don’t want to know,’ I repeated. ‘Not yet anyway.’
‘It’s your decision,’ Abe said, although he clearly resented me making it.
‘I’d never forgive my husband,’ women say.
There’s a multitude of things they claim they won’t forgive them for: being violent towards them or their children, spending family money on drink or drugs – or themselves – losing their job and lying about it, having a sex change. Once you start imagining things you won’t forgive your husband for, with a group of unforgiving women, the list is endless.
‘I wouldn’t forgive Tony if he spent that sort of money on a season ticket without telling me.’
‘I wouldn’t forgive Mark if he bought a season ticket at all.’
‘I wouldn’t forgive John if he didn’t buy a season ticket and get out of the house every Saturday afternoon so I can have some time to myself!’
This is the sort of conversation I have with my friends. Top of the list of unforgivable things is infidelity. I’ve always felt uncomfortable in that conversation. How they can be so sure? I’ve always hoped I’d be able to forgive Abe pretty much anything because the alternative would be losing him altogether and I’ve never wanted that.
Perhaps at the root of my friends’ inability to forgive is a lack of love.
‘Would you leave Abe if you had more money?’ one asked casually, over coffee one morning. ‘I mean, if you could afford to strike out on your own, would you?’
‘No!’
‘Don’t you ever fantasize about it?’ she pressed.
‘No,’ I said truthfully.
‘God, you and Abe are so …’ She drained her coffee, irritated.
‘What?’
‘I don’t know. Happy.’
‘Not always.’ She had no idea. ‘No one is happy all of the time.’
‘Attached, then,’ she said. ‘You’re so attached. You don’t even fa
ntasize about leaving him.’
‘We’ve got a family. He’d have to do something pretty terrible.’
‘Such as?’ And we were back on familiar territory, but even there I couldn’t agree with her.
‘I’d definitely chuck Mark out if he was unfaithful.’
‘Even if it meant losing everything? Your home? Your family? Your friends?’
‘I’d be so furious. It would be a total breach of trust. Wouldn’t you?’
‘I don’t know what I’d do,’ I told her. ‘You never really know what you’ll do in a particular situation until you find yourself in it. You never know how hard you’ll fight to keep hold of someone or something.’
‘So you could forgive him?’
‘You don’t know how much you can forgive, how much pain you can put behind you until it happens to you. Nobody does.’
I can’t talk to any of these women about the phone call on the evening of the bomb. I don’t talk to anyone about what I now know to be true. I don’t want anyone else’s opinions weighing in on my marriage.
Nobody but us knows the full story, the circumstances under which we met, the things that Abe had to shoulder when he took me on. And nobody knows how much I love him or that I would rather bear almost anything than lose him.
So I don’t speak to them.
I don’t even want to talk to Abe about it, but after the initial shock, the numbness and relief I felt on the night of the bomb have turned to anger and upset. The overwhelming urge to lash out is not prompted by anything in particular.
We’ve circled each other for days without saying anything. He goes to work and comes home on time. We’re both on our best behaviour. It’s a scene of domestic bliss that suddenly offends me so much that I want to smash it.
It’s breakfast time. I feel strangely detached, like an extra in a cereal commercial. Minnie and Charlie look more than usually fresh-faced. This is down to nits. Their heads were crawling: I forced them to shower before breakfast and made them wash their hair, then began an assault on the nits, making my way meticulously around Minnie’s head and combing it so hard, it hurt. I was a little more careful with Charlie. Minnie’s hair is now in two neat plaits. Charlie’s is still wet, combed away from his face so that he looks Brylcreemed.
I wonder what the imaginary cereal company, paying for the imaginary ad, would think if they knew my children’s wholesome look was down to an infestation of parasites.
‘Do you think the owls will come into the classroom?’ Minnie chats about the day ahead.
There is some sort of avian visit to their primary school. I signed the consent form, saying I had no objection to them spending time with owls. I wonder what grounds for objecting there could be.
‘I want to hold one,’ Minnie goes on.
I wonder what parasites live on owls and if they can spread to humans.
‘I want to turn my head all the way round like owls can.’ Charlie tries but can only twist his head far enough to see Abe preparing their packed lunches, just like the perfect dad you’d want in a breakfast commercial. ‘Do I look like an owl, Dad?’ he asks, widening his eyes.
‘Did someone say something?’ Abe grates cheese. ‘I thought I heard a too-whit or a too-whoo.’
‘Twit. Twoo.’ Charlie laughs.
‘Twit. Twoo,’ Minnie echoes, smiling.
‘Do you want tomatoes in your sandwiches, baby owls?’ Abe asks.
And that is what makes me snap.
‘For fuck’s sake. They’re not baby owls.’
Charlie’s wide eyes widen further still. ‘Mummy said the F-word!’
Minnie can’t quite believe it.
‘Right, kids, have you finished your cereal? Time to brush your teeth!’ Abe is all mock-jovial and starts chivvying them out of the room.
I start to tidy the table, to give myself something to do. I pick up a pint of milk and take it to the fridge. I’m feeling sick with the enormity of everything I’ve been trying to suppress these past few weeks.
I don’t know how it happened – I’m not aware of it slipping or of my letting go but I’ve dropped the milk. The bottle smashes and the milk runs all over the floor.
‘Mummy dropped the milk,’ Charlie says, concerned, and then I lose it.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Charlie! Why don’t you just do as your father says and go and brush your teeth?’
Abe doesn’t tell me I’m being unreasonable. ‘Do as Mummy says. Go and brush your teeth.’ Then: ‘What’s going on, Ivy?’ he asks.
I can’t even begin to find the words.
‘What brought that on?’ he asks, as the children trudge upstairs chatting animatedly.
‘Mummy said the F-word!’
‘We’re not fucking baby owls!’
They laugh but I know my outburst has disturbed them.
‘I couldn’t stand the pretence any longer,’ I tell Abe.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘This.’ I gesture at the room. ‘Us playing perfect happy families. You and me dancing around each other, pretending that everything is fine when we both know it’s not. We need to talk.’
‘I know.’ Abe comes over to where I’m standing and tries to put his arm around my shoulders. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Not now.’ I shrug it off. ‘I have to take the kids to school. You’ve got to go to work.’
‘I’ll take the day off.’
‘Not here. I don’t want the house tainted. I don’t want to have the conversation we’re about to have here, in our home.’
‘Where, then?’
‘Let’s drive somewhere.’
Abe nods.
‘Where shall we go?’ He pulls out of the parking space.
‘I just want to get away from here.’
Abe says nothing and takes a left turn at the end of the street. I stare out of the window, worn out from the pressure of trying to keep a lid on what I know. Still not really wanting to confront Abe.
The landscape of terraced houses opens out a bit. The buildings become detached, and before long we’re in open countryside, driving down the A20. Abe presses down on the accelerator and manoeuvres into the fast lane. The road signs point us towards Dover. ‘Shall we go to the sea?’
‘Okay.’ I continue to focus on the shifting landscape. He can decide where to go and what to do. That’s the least he should do.
I feel exhausted – and must have fallen asleep because I wake as Abe is backing into a space carefully, even though the car park is empty.
‘Greatstone,’ he says, almost triumphantly, as if he created the beach himself.
‘Really?’ It’s a favourite beach of ours. Only an hour’s drive from London, with a huge sweep of golden sand backed by a long chain of dunes. The kids love it. We love it, Abe and I. In the summer after we met, when I was newly pregnant with Minnie, we used to drive there in the evenings after work, getting there just in time to swim before the sun went down. Then we’d find a pub, eat sandwiches and chips and go home drunk on fresh air, seawater – and each other.
Once, in late September, we got stuck in traffic and arrived after dark. The sea felt too cold to swim, but we paddled and spread a rug out in the dunes and made love. It was dark and late and we were hidden by the landscape.
And there’s a picture of Minnie jumping from the top of a dune on to the sand below. The angle the photograph was taken from makes it look as if she’s jumping from the most enormous height although it was only a few feet.
‘We never came here last summer,’ I say.
Abe was always too busy. The children would have loved to come and I could have driven them myself after school. But it was an outing for the family, not just the kids and me.
‘We’ll go this summer,’ Abe says. ‘I’ll come back from work early and we’ll go after school.’
Two months earlier, this suggestion would have been full of promise. But now …
Now that we’re here I feel a quiet sense of dread. Abe is opening the door.
‘Ivy,’ he says. He’s out of the car and has opened the passenger door. He’s coaxing me out as if I’m an elderly lady. I allow myself to be helped. I allow Abe to take my hand and lead me across the car park on to the beach. It’s late March and the cut of the sea air hits us as we walk. Despite myself, I move closer to Abe for body warmth, and he puts his arm around me.
‘We must look like lovers,’ I say, imagining how we would appear to others, although the beach is deserted.
‘I do love you,’ Abe says. ‘I always have and I always will.’
‘Then why?’ I demand, shaking free of his arm as I turn to look at him. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’
‘I didn’t mean to hurt you,’ he says.
‘Is she someone from work?’ I ask, for the first time since I found out.
I know it sounds odd for a couple who live together to spend six weeks dancing around a subject that others would fall upon the moment it’s reared its head. But I needed time. I didn’t want it to destroy us. I don’t want it to destroy us now. I am the one who could let it. I know that. But we may have to deal with more important things than an affair. I know that, too. If we can’t deal with this, will we be able to get through worse, if it happens? That’s why I have to get through this.
‘Sort of,’ Abe says. ‘I met her through work. She’s associated with one of the clients but I don’t work with her. I don’t have to see her again. I haven’t, not since … And I won’t.’
‘I can’t bear to know the details,’ I say, and all the cool detachment I have somehow managed to muster for the past weeks evaporates. I’m crying.
‘Let’s sit down somewhere.’ Abe is trying to usher me towards the dunes but I don’t want him to touch me.
I stride ahead, almost running, and when I reach the dunes I keep walking, winding along the path that leads through them, ahead of Abe but I can hear him behind me.
‘Ivy,’ he calls, and I stop. ‘Let’s sit down.’
A little way from the path, there is a sheltered bowl, created by the lie of the dunes; the spring sunshine is beating down on it. It looks inviting. I nod.
Ivy and Abe Page 19
