Postcards From Berlin

by Margaret Leroy

  I realize I am sweating. I wonder if she can see the spike of my pulse in my wrist.

  “What kind of a woman was your mother?” she asks.

  “She was … quite pretty.” I flail around. “She was always very suntanned. She liked jewelry.…”

  There’s silence for a moment: This isn’t what she wants.

  “D’you see anything of her in yourself? Are there ways in which you feel you’re like her?” she asks.

  “No. Not at all,” I tell her. Too readily, too quickly.

  She has a rather deliberate puzzled expression, an expression that’s asking us to help her understand.

  “Richard, perhaps I could ask you what you think,” she says. “Whether you’d say there are ways in which Catriona reminds you of her mother.”

  “Well, I’ve never met her,” he says.

  The present tense panics me.

  Her green eyes flick across our faces.

  “Perhaps you have some memories of her that you could share?” she says to me.

  Images of my mother crowd my mind. Pulling on her makeup, all the glittery colored sticks, putting on her bangles and gloves and going out for the evening and leaving me alone. Drunk, her speech slurred, weeping about her life and how it had all turned out, dark mascara streaking her face, eating mayonnaise from the jar with a spoon. Coming to The Poplars, bringing me the rabbits with the stitched-on satin hearts. Just give me a bit of time. Karl and me have got to get ourselves sorted.…

  “She — always worked.”

  Jane Watson nods encouragingly.

  “What did she do?”

  “She was a waitress.” I keep my voice quite level.

  “Tell me some more,” she says. “Just any memories. Anything that comes into your head.”

  Bur nothing comes, nothing that’s safe. I feel a flicker of panic. I dredge down into my mind, trying to find something, anything, that will satisfy her.

  There’s a sharp, brittle sound as Richard clears his throat. He turns to me, and relief washes through me. Thank God, I think, he’s going to rescue me.

  He reaches out and puts his hand on mine.

  “Darling, don’t you think we should be a little more open?” he says.

  I stare at him.

  He turns toward Jane Watson and takes his hand away.

  “The fact is, Jane, there are things we haven’t told you,” he says. His tone is friendly, conversational. “Catriona had a very difficult childhood, more difficult than we’ve said. Didn’t you, darling?”

  My heart thuds.

  I glance at Jane Watson. She’s sitting very still, as though there’s some rare wild animal she’s worried she’ll frighten off. There are shiny spots of color on her cheeks.

  “Don’t you think we should talk about that?” he says to me.

  I hear the sudden blare and jingle of an ice-cream van from the road outside — an ordinary sound, as though nothing has changed, as though things are just as they were. Jane Watson nods very slightly.

  “Isn’t that for me to decide?” I say. But I know this isn’t true, that now I don’t have a choice.

  Jane Watson leans forward. “You seem very angry with Richard, Catriona,” she says. Her voice so tender, careful. “Yet to me it seems that he’s trying to help you here — trying to make things more open, more trusting, between us. And all my instincts tell me there’s something here we need to open up.”

  “It’s my life,” I say pointlessly. “It’s up to me what I say about it.”

  “Of course,” she says. “Of course, in the end it’s your choice. But you do have a sick child, Catriona. We mustn’t let ourselves lose sight of why we’re here.…” And, when I don’t respond, “Richard, perhaps you could help Catriona out here, just fill me in a little on what happened.”

  “Catriona’s mother couldn’t care for her,” he says.

  Jane nods almost imperceptibly. “Yes,” she says quietly, encouragingly.

  “Catriona was put in a children’s home when she was thirteen. I mean, surely we should talk about that, darling?” he says to me.

  I look at him. He’s smiling slightly, a smile that’s an echo of hers, and his hair is flattened against his head by the rain. For a strange, dizzying moment, he’s someone I don’t know.

  “Catriona, I know this is very difficult for you,” says Jane Watson.

  I can’t speak.

  “I just want to say how grateful I am to Richard,” she goes on. “For opening all this up. You see, one thing that’s puzzled me, Catriona, is why you’re so opposed to the idea of looking at psychological reasons for Daisy’s illness.”

  She leaves a little pause. I hear the slow tick of the clock. I’m aware of Richard beside me nodding slightly.

  “And I think I understand much better now,” she says. “That maybe to do that would mean opening up deep sources of unhappiness for you, looking at things that are very hard to look at …”

  Richard nods again.

  “But sometimes that’s just what we need to do,” she goes on. “To open up those scars, to look at the painful things … Catriona, I’d like you to tell me a little about what happened.”

  The damage is done now: everything ripped away.

  “My mother was an alcoholic. When I was thirteen, she couldn’t cope anymore, and she put me in a home.”

  “And where was that, Catriona?”

  “It was called The Poplars.” My voice is dull, reluctant,

  “Ah,” she says. “The Poplars.” A flicker of recognition crosses her face. She read about it, perhaps, when the Pin-down inquiry was in the news. “I’m wondering what that experience was like for you.…” She’s taking it all so slowly, peeling away the layers, like a child with a precious parcel she’s delicately unwrapping. “You must have felt very lost and lonely, and perhaps very angry with your mother who had virtually abandoned you.…”

  Rage seizes me. What right has she to tell me how I felt? What does she know about those things — the sour milk, the torn wallpaper, never having anything that is your own? Jane Watson’s never run away with just some stolen Frosties in her rucksack, or hidden in the toilet on the train, or slept under the pier on Brighton beach. Jane Watson’s never had anything to run from.

  “It was all so long ago.” I keep my voice flat. “The trouble is, people can make all sorts of assumptions. If they feel you’ve had that kind of childhood. I mean, I’m just a perfectly normal person now.…”

  She shakes her head a little.

  “You’ve had some terrible things happen to you, things that must fill you with rage. I mean, I sense a lot of anger in you, Catriona,” she says. “But it seems so important to you to say it doesn’t matter, that it wasn’t significant.”

  “Perhaps that’s how I cope.”

  “Well, maybe it’s one way. Or one way of trying to cope.”

  “I just don’t see why any of this is relevant. I don’t see what it has to do with Daisy.”

  “Thank you, Catriona,” she says. “I’m so very grateful to you for keeping us on track. Because you’re absolutely right: We need to see what all this means for Daisy. And, you see, I think there are ways in which all this could relate to Daisy’s illness. I think, when you’ve had the kind of terrible experience you’ve had — when you’ve been so unloved — then there’s a very needy child inside you. And if there is that part of you that still feels uncared for — however loving your relationships in adult life —” she says, with a quick, warm glance in Richard’s direction, “then the caring that doctors provide can seem very special; it gets to be, even, something you might seek out — because it satisfies that needy child inside.”

  I think of Daisy: the hours of retching, the pains that lock her limbs. There’s a white glare of rage in my head. I’m dazzled; I can’t see.

  “I went to the doctor because my daughter was ill.”

  The anger is in my voice. Both of them lean forward. There’s the same look of concern in both their faces.
>
  Richard puts his hand on my arm.

  “Catriona, Jane is only trying to help,” he says. “To help all of us — you and me and Daisy.”

  Jane nods, leaves one of her delicate pauses.

  “Well, maybe we’ve come to the end of what we can usefully do today,” she says. “You both worked very hard. Thank you so much.”

  I pick up my handbag. She’s watching me.

  “You look so tired, Catriona,” she says.

  I nod, but I don’t want her sympathy.

  “I know you will have found this a difficult session,” she says.

  “It’s nothing to do with that.” I try to control the anger that still surges through me. “I’m tired all the time. Having a sick child is tiring.”

  “Of course,” she says. “I understand.”

  She gets up, brings us our coats.

  “The trouble is, she’s such a perfectionist, aren’t you, Cat?” says Richard, helping me into my coat.

  I shrug. “Maybe.”

  “Well, I can see that,” says Jane. She’s smiling, casual: as though this is just a bit of small talk, a normal conversation.

  “She’s ever so hard on herself, really,” Richard says. “Everything has to be just right. You do try to do everything yourself, don’t you?”

  “You need to learn to delegate,” says Jane.

  “Exactly. But she won’t,” says Richard. “I did talk — a while back — about getting someone to live in — just to help out through this bit, while Daisy’s ill. I mean, I rang the au pair coordinator, I was prepared to organize it. She didn’t want it, did you, darling? Didn’t want to have anyone else in the house with you …”

  “I didn’t feel I needed it.” I wish he hadn’t raised this.

  “That seems like quite an inviting prospect, surely,” says Jane Watson. “An au pair to help out.”

  “It’s just not necessary. We manage fine,” I tell her.

  Her leaf green eyes rest on me for just a little too long.

  “Well, thanks so much for coming in,” she says. “I’d like to see you both once more, if you’re happy with that. I’m planning for that to be our last session together.”

  “Sure,” says Richard.

  As we go out, he holds the door for me — this man I thought I knew and loved, who has become a stranger.

  I get into the driving seat, but I don’t put on my seat belt.

  He doesn’t look at me.

  “Why the fuck did you tell her about me?”

  “Just calm down,” he says.

  It’s raining still. I hear the hissing sound the rain makes on the gravel.

  “I can’t believe you did that,” I say. “Just can’t believe it.”

  “For God’s sake,” he says. “Can’t this at least wait till tonight?”

  “No,” I say. “It bloody can’t.”

  He turns to me.

  “She needed to know, Catriona,” he says. His voice is level, reasonable. But his face so close to me seems too big, gross even, and there’s contempt in the downward curve of his mouth.

  “Why the hell do you think you can trust her? She’s not on our side, Richard.”

  “It’s not a question of sides,” he says. “You get so paranoid.”

  “I hate it when you say that.”

  “Catriona, these people think they can help,” he says. “I mean, these are the top medics — Jane Watson is a consultant. They know what they’re doing.”

  “just because she’s some bloody consultant doesn’t mean she’s right.”

  “She’s very sharp,” he says. “She knows her stuff.”

  “I don’t trust her,” I say. “I think she’s just looking for evidence.”

  “Look,” he says, “I know you don’t like her. We’ve been into all that. OK, I do think she’s attractive. For God’s sake, men are like that. It doesn’t mean a thing.”

  “It isn’t that,” I say. “She’s slippery as hell, Richard. I mean, why can’t you see that? That’s what these people are like. Why on earth should I trust her? I’ve known too many people who claim to be there to help you who do such terrible things.”

  He has a particular expression — a little disdainful, saying that life is simple and obvious and I just don’t get it. “That’s not most people’s experience, Catriona. Do we really need to spell this out? I mean, let’s face it, your childhood was a little exceptional. Like Jane said, it’s bound to leave its mark.”

  Rage seizes me by the throat. “You bastard.”

  We stare at each other. I see the shock in his eyes. Our faces are too close for so much anger. The air in the car feels frail, hot, glimmery — as though something is burning.

  Over his shoulder I see Jane Watson go past, just a few yards away across the car park. She’s wearing a black rain hat and the chic trench coat from her consulting room door, and she’s walking easily through the storm in her elegant snakeskin boots, as though she is inviolate. I hear the hissing and spitting of the rain.

  I start up the car. I drive off too fast for safety, not looking at him.

  Chapter 30

  I PEEL THE APPLES and cut them into crescents. They’re russets, smelling of orchards, of golden, bee-rich afternoons. My fingers are wet with juice.

  Daisy puts down her pencil and watches.

  “I used to like tarte tatin,” she says. “Didn’t I, Mum?”

  “You did.”

  I cut a tiny crescent of apple and put it on a plate in front of her. She doesn’t touch it. I see that on the first page of her new notebook she’s drawn a cat with a top hat and a walking stick. Since she’s been ill, her drawing seems somehow static, the same pictures over and over, all these cartoon animals.

  “I love the cat,” I tell her.

  “Megan likes my cats, but Abi doesn’t,” says Daisy. “Abi says they’re stupid.”

  “Can Abi draw cats?”

  “Not really,” says Daisy.

  “Well, then. Maybe she’s jealous.”

  Daisy considers this, trailing a finger through the pale siftings of flour on the table, where I’ve rolled out the pastry,

  “Abi’s got this crazy scheme,” she says. “She’s practicing hopping in case she twists her ankle.”

  I smile in spite of myself, in spice of what happened this morning. The last piece of apple skin peels off in a perfect spiral, shiny as metal.

  Just for a moment, I’m almost content, pushing the fear away from me. Here in my apple-scented kitchen, with my knife and my rolling pin, I have magicked up a temporary safety, like Nicky with her ribbons and pentangles, weaving a spell of protection; as though only these things are real, the warmth and the smells of cooking and the blue-glazed vase of lilac on the table and Daisy beside me drawing cartoon cats.

  “And she has silly sandwiches,” says Daisy. “She has lettuce and ham and Philadelphia and jam, and a bit of mayonnaise, in little patches. Gross or what?”

  It’s exactly Sinead’s intonation.

  “Gross, definitely.”

  “It makes me feel sick,” says Daisy. “Lunchtimes at school make me feel sick.”

  “Daisy, is there ever a time when you don’t feel sick?”

  She shakes her head.

  “I even feel sick in my dreams.”

  There’s a hot smell from the oven and the windows are steaming up. I open a window. The sky is a livid purple and the air is hollow and echoey with birdsong. Soon it will rain again.

  Daisy stands beside me as I stir the sugar. It sparkles, melts to a translucent syrup, darkens to yellow gold. A rich scent of caramel wraps itself around us.

  “Were you allowed caramel when you were little?” asks Daisy. “Or wasn’t it invented then?”

  “It was invented. I didn’t have many sweets, though.”

  “Your mother wasn’t very nice to you.”

  “No, she wasn’t, really.”

  I’ve told the girls a little about it — how when I was thirteen she didn’t want me to liv
e with her anymore. Once I heard Daisy say to Megan, I only have one granny, and Megan saying, Everyone has two grannies, and Daisy saying, They don’t, they don’t all have two.…

  Now she says, “She should have been nicer, Mum. I’m going to be very nice to my children.”

  We watch as the sugar deepens to a lavish acorn brown.

  “Why do things change when you heat them?” Daisy asks.

  “I don’t know, sweetheart. Isn’t that awful? There are so many things I don’t know. I should have listened better at school. D’you want to put in the butter?”

  “OK.”

  It sputters noisily, frothing, as she stirs it in.

  I pour the caramel sauce on the apples and cut out a circle of pastry and tuck it down round the apples and put the pan in the oven, the heat brushing my skin. When it’s cooked and I turn it out, tenderly, meticulously, the apples will be golden pink and glossy.

  There’s a whispering outside the window, the first raindrops falling. Thunder growls in the distance.

  “We might see lightning,” I say.

  “I know all about that. It’s electricity,” says Daisy. “We did electricity at school. You have to use a light bulb and lots of wires. I liked electricity.”

  “Maybe you should be a scientist when you grow up.”

  “I want to be a vet,” she says. “Or have a pet shop.”

  It’s such a heavy storm it demands attention; there’s a thrill to it. We stand at the window and watch.

  “Sinead will be drowned,” says Daisy.

  I look at my watch; she really should be home by now. We try to remember whether she took her raincoat.

  The rain turns to hail, big hailstones that bounce exuberantly on the patio and knock all the thistledown off the dandelions in the lawn and rip the blossoms off the pear tree so there’s a white sleet of petals. Behind us, hailstones rattle down the chimney and burst out onto the hearth; they have an oily coating of soot, and they leave black smears where they fail. I go to get newspaper to protect the floor, but in the time it takes to spread it, the storm has eased, just gentle rain falling onto the wreck of the garden, the leaves of the birches lush, wet, holding their darkness to them, the lawn covered in drifts of snowy petals and the bedraggled skirts of the dandelions.