The Place Where Love Should Be

by Elizabeth Ellis

  Andy turns on the radio and chats above the music, sounds from the distant past. He talks about work, the children, his father who needs full time care. I half-listen; it keeps my mind from the fact that we’re hurtling along in a metal box at 70 miles an hour.

  But when we reach Joanna’s village, I’m beginning to feel sick, an arrhythmic knock against my ribcage. I shiver, don’t want to be here, don’t want to see Joanna, can’t bear the thought of all the fuss, the noise, the children, the excess, the oh, such a wonderful life my sister lives.

  I can’t do this. I can’t get out of the car. I want to be home.

  Andy doesn’t ask any questions, he simply turns the car round and takes me back. The house is empty, Mark is out somewhere, working no doubt. Andy stands in the living room, watching me. It’s alright, I tell him. I’m good. Tell Jo I’m sorry.

  As Andy leaves, Edward starts to cry. I pick him up and pat his back as I pace, feel his body settle into stillness, a solid weight ceasing to struggle. If I put him down now, and he sleeps, I might be able to clear up a bit, prepare a meal, wash my hair. Something normal – it isn’t much to expect from an afternoon. But my familiar landscape has blurred and slopes away. I’ve lost my boots and I stumble bare-foot in the dark, stepping over shadows still lurking in the past, that hang over all my memories: my mother in bed after Joanna was born, the sad dark place my mother’s leaving abandoned me to. These moments still visit, especially now, since Edward came. I wonder what would have happened if my mother had stayed, if I had not heard Joanna cry that afternoon and seen what I had seen. If I had simply closed the door. Or later, after my mother had gone, finding my father and Grandma Rhona in the kitchen, that ultimate betrayal. If I had kept it all a secret, then maybe nothing would have changed. But it was too much for a five-year-old to bear, too much to witness, and I was too afraid for my sister.

  Nine

  William had drunk too much coffee. When this happened, there was an irregular thump in his chest. Ventricular ectopic beats the doctor called it – not his heart stopping or failing or any of the myriad conditions he imagined from time to time. He’d grown used to Francine’s absences over the years, when she took the children to France at Easter and in the long summer break. He would see them all off on the train and return alone to the stillness of the house, the quiet, unhindered calm. Treasured time, just for himself. Later, he would drive down to Albières for a few days before bringing them home. The girls would rush to meet him, toasted by the sun, by unhampered access to open air. Though he loved to see them, it was not an easy transition, forced back into the rigours of family life. At such times, there was a disconnect; William saw himself as an intruder, his children not his but something fleetingly borrowed, a short-term loan. He was in constant awe of what nature had served him – of how two such different beings had sprung from the same union – yet were somehow nothing to do with him at all. A flash of his mother here and there in Evie’s height and temper, and in Joanna, in her small, dark form, the constant heart-breaking reminder of what he had lost.

  All a long time ago, William thought as he stoked up the fire and struggled with the newspaper. This time, he did not savour the quiet space Francine’s absence offered him. The disturbance of these past weeks, the uncertainty, had left him rattled. This time he would not be going to fetch her, would not have the joy of seeing her smile and wave and wander barefoot up the rough garden to greet him with an armful of beans. This time, she had just gone, and he had no idea on what terms or for how long.

  Joanna’s duty call woke William later. He’d fallen asleep over the newspaper, most of which now lay in a heap beside the chair. She was saying something about Mark’s new job in Yorkshire.

  ‘Really, Daddy, can you believe it? He’s leaving her alone in that poky little house for days on end!’

  ‘I’m sure they’ve discussed it, dear,’ William said, covering the mouthpiece as he yawned. ‘Evie’s a big girl and she has you nearby. I understand her neighbour’s very good too.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not the same. Andy was absolutely brilliant. He took a month off work.’

  William didn’t consider this a fair comparison. Andy worked in his father’s highly lucrative haulage business – something to do with logistics. No doubt the mortgage would still be paid whether Andy was there or not. It was different for Evie and Mark, William was well aware of that.

  ‘Of course, I do what I can,’ Joanna was saying, ‘but Evie’s really not coping too well and I just think Mark should do more, that’s all.’

  True, Mark wasn’t quite what William had expected for Evie: a little rough around the edges, a little closed, as if something lurked beneath the surface waiting to pounce. William had always found him a rather formidable character, except on the rare occasions they discussed horticulture or construction. William didn’t doubt Mark’s sense of commitment though, either to his work or to Evie.

  ‘Don’t be too hard on Mark,’ he said, ‘I’m sure they’ll manage.’

  ‘Well perhaps you and Mum could go over there for a bit, when she’s back? You know how wonderful Mum was when I had Olivia and Max. When is she back, by the way? I haven’t heard from her for days. I’ve tried to call but it goes straight to voicemail and she’s not replied to any of my texts either.’

  William sighed. He loved his daughter dearly but she could be such hard work. He could imagine the barrage of messages, largely a series of exclamations and ridiculous cartoon faces.

  ‘Your mother has a lot to do over there,’ he said. ‘It might take a while.’

  Joanna wasn’t giving up. ‘So why don’t you go over too? It would do you good, Daddy. Have a break.’

  A break from what, exactly? William thought. Whatever was happening with Francine, he wasn’t going to deal with it by going over there and getting in the way. Besides, he was comfortable here at home. Not happy, that much he acknowledged, but on familiar ground.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said, ‘really, I don’t need a break, I’ve lots to do here.’

  Joanna was not appeased. ‘I’ll pop over next week then. Bring you some food if Mum’s not back?’

  William began to squirm. He did not want a visit from Joanna, or from anyone. ‘I need to go now dear. There’s someone at the door.’

  ‘Ok, Daddy – speak tomorrow. Love you.’ And the line went mercifully dead.

  William put his head in his hands. Hiding away, lying to his daughter, he couldn’t even bring himself to be overly concerned for Evie. She would cope, she always did, with or without his help. The baby would settle, she’d get a routine going soon enough. He wondered briefly whether he should go and see her – after all he knew with cruel insight, what can happen by failing to cope post-partum. But perhaps Joanna was wrong, was simply feeling left out, denied something else to twitter about, or whatever it was she did. And if he did go over there again, he’d have to make up a lot of excuses about Francine, a lie in fact, and William was ill-equipped for that.

  He threw another log on the fire and picked up the scattered sheets of newspaper. At the back of his mind was the niggling need to do something, but it was so much easier not to. He didn’t want to think about it, he really just wanted to be left alone.

  Ten

  I’m in the living room on the couch, trying to fold the laundry. My next-door-neighbour Rose stands in the kitchen, wafting cigarette smoke out through the open back door. I tell her Mark’s working on a new contract in Yorkshire.

  ‘Oh, my,’ Rose says, leaning in so she can see me, ‘that’s a long way.’ To Rose, the city centre is a long way.

  ‘About two hours, that’s all. It’s a good job, we could do with the money.’ I’m rational, defending the decision.

  ‘Still.’ Rose closes the back door and comes through to sit next to me on the couch, adding nicotine to the smell of last night’s cooking. ‘He must have to leave early – that won’t be much
fun for you, specially not with his lordship here.’ Rose nods in the direction of the pram where Edward has obliged us by sleeping for twenty minutes.

  ‘Actually, he’s staying up there during the week.’

  ‘Is he now? That’s a bit tricky, isn’t it?’

  ‘He wasn’t around much before, so it’s not that different. We’ll manage.’

  Rose doesn’t have children. She works as a care assistant for elderly clients around the town. Like Joanna, she just turns up from time to time. Unlike Joanna, I don’t mind, not even when she moves a few piles of clothes or papers and stacks them neatly on the floor in the corner, or washes up the dishes and puts them away, so that when I next make up a bottle there is a clear, clean space for me to do it. The kitchen is not out of bounds for Rose.

  ‘You could ask your Mum to come down,’ Rose says now, standing up, adjusting the belt of her blue and white uniform over her ample frame. ‘I’m sure she’d love to help.’

  ‘You mean Francine?’

  ‘Yes.’ Rose looks puzzled. ‘The one who comes here with your dad.’

  ‘She’s my stepmother.’

  ‘Pah!’ Rose flaps a hand. ‘Whatever. Couldn’t she come for a bit?’

  ‘I’m not sure. She’s very busy – has her own business to run.’

  ‘Like mother like daughter,’ Rose grins, pleased with her observation.

  No, not like that at all. I think of how Francine rushed over to be with Joanna when both her children were born, staying in their lovely guest suite, keeping the household ticking over.

  ‘There’s nowhere really for her to stay,’ I say. ‘We’re a bit cramped as it is.’

  ‘Well she could visit. Where did you say your parents live?’

  ‘Northamptonshire.’

  Rose’s face drops. ‘Ok, that’s a bit of a hike but…’

  ‘I don’t think she’ll have time anyway.’

  ‘What about your dad?’ Rose is not giving up. ‘He’s retired, isn’t he?’

  I have to smile at the thought of my father pottering around my kitchen, trying to cook a meal or make small talk. Where do you keep the…? Where are the…? And could you just explain how this works. ‘I don’t think so somehow,’ I say.

  But later, I begin to wonder whether Rose has a point, would it be so hard to ask Francine for help? They’ve been wanting me to visit but I always decline, pleading fatigue, too much stuff to transport or the disruption to Edward’s routine. As if we have some kind of routine to disrupt. I’m surprised they even want to see me, after that time they came and tried to help and I was so foul.

  I place Edward back in the pram, then pick up the phone and tiptoe from the room.

  I hear Francine’s voice echoing across the miles; she’s using her mobile and the line is bad. We don’t often speak on the phone, we don’t often speak at all.

  ‘Evie – this is a surprise.’ Francine sounds very French, I’ve forgotten how strong her accent is even now.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ I say, ‘is this a good time?’ For some reason, I feel the need to apologise.

  ‘It’s lovely to hear from you. How are you? How’s the baby?’

  ‘We’re fine,’ I say, after a moment. ‘The baby’s ok. You know – growing, still feeding a lot, not sleeping much.’ I stop then, unsure why I’m telling Francine this, unsure why I’ve phoned at all.

  ‘I think it’s hard, this early time,’ Francine says. ‘You must be patient.’

  ‘I’m managing,’ I say, beginning to bristle.

  ‘And Mark?’

  ‘He’s ok, only…’

  Francine waits.

  ‘Only he’s got a new contract and he’s working away for a while. His hours are very long – longer than before.’

  ‘I see.’

  This is awkward now, I wish I hadn’t started. ‘It’s only for a few weeks or so but, with the baby… it’s difficult. I never imagined it could be so hard. He’s only tiny but, well, he fills up my world at the moment.’

  There’s a pause, then Francine says, ‘And that’s a bad thing? You’re still finding it hard?’

  I know then that she doesn’t understand. Like everyone else, Francine thinks my world should be full of him – of joy and gratitude and love. But I know it’s not and I also know I shouldn’t have phoned. I begin to redraw mental lines in the sand, lines I should never have crossed. ‘I shouldn’t be bothering you with this,’ I say now. ‘You must be busy.’

  ‘No, it’s fine, really. What would you like me to do?’

  But I cannot ask for what I need, and ask instead about my father. There’s another pause, I hear a small sigh at the end of the line.

  ‘He’s alright,’ Francine says. ‘But I haven’t seen him for a week or two. I’m in France.’

  This is news to me. ‘I didn’t realise,’ I say.

  ‘There’s a lot to do here, I need to clear the house.’

  ‘And Dad’s not with you?’

  ‘No, he had… other things to do.’

  I struggle with this. ‘Is he ok – he’s not ill?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. He has some work to finish, that’s all. He’s writing a paper for the Historical Society annual dinner. It’s next week, so there isn’t much time.’

  I don’t understand why my father can’t write a paper in France just as easily as at home. ‘Will you be away long?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m not sure yet. I need to visit the notaire, settle the business accounts and so on. It will take time.’

  I think of Francine, alone in the house at Albières, patiently sorting through her mother’s things, stacking neat piles of paper, old accounts, ledgers from the bakery kept since the war, all coated in flour, the fine dust that graced every object in the house. I’m reminded of summers there in the beautiful grey limestone house with its red tiled roof, the bakery a graceful lean-to on the side. The acres of land where Joanna and I would wander unobserved for hours in the August heat, or feast on the sweet, soft crumb of the tartes aux pêches made with fruit from the orchard. After Francine came to live with us, we spent every summer in France. At times, I even forgot the battle lines, accepting Francine’s presence in our lives as if she’d always been there. It was easier with her in Albières, it seemed the right place for her to be and it was so hard to be angry all the time.

  I loved to travel with her father Philippe in the van, taking bread to the next village, parking on the main street in the early morning as the women formed an orderly queue in the road. I learnt the names of all the villagers and what they liked by way of bread. I learnt the costs involved and how much change to give. And when we’d finished, Philippe would take me to the bar tabac and I would sit on a high stool in the smoky room with an Orangina and chat to him. I liked to watch the way he moved a cigarette across his mouth as he talked, screwing up his eyes against the smoke.

  Now Francine is telling me about the village, how changed it is since those days.

  ‘Will you keep the house?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m not sure yet. There are people here who’d love to get their hands on it. Probably pull it down and build a small estate on the land.’

  I haven’t been there for nearly twenty-five years. Why is that? Another stab – of guilt this time. I have always tried to love her, it’s not her fault my mother left. I could have been kinder, could have made life easier for her. And for no reason that has any logical basis, I start to cry.

  Eleven

  Francine finished the call to Evie and put the phone back on the table amid the papers that lay strewn across it. Though touched that Evie had contacted her, the call had ended badly. Evie, once more in tears, had hung up so abruptly there seemed little point ringing back straight away. Unwittingly, it seemed Francine had found yet another way to upset her. She’d had countless years of putting her foot wrong where Evie
was concerned but reducing her to tears was new. Perhaps the lack of sleep would be getting to her by now; with a new baby you probably couldn’t tell day from night.

  Those particular weeks were unknown to Francine, she’d come onto the scene later, after the film had started, and spent over thirty years trying to make sense of the plot. Now, viewing it all from a safe distance, she realised she had never really caught up. With Joanna, an insouciant infant, it had been easy, Evie aged six a different challenge altogether. She recalled the unease of her first visit to William’s house, when Evie did not join them at the table for tea but watched from a dark corner of the kitchen. William and Grandma Rhona passed sandwiches and cake but Francine had no adequate language to speak to a child in English and met with Evie’s blank gaze, assumed she was not making herself understood.

  Evie, William had said, Francine is talking to you.

  I didn’t hear, Evie replied. She talks funny.

  Francine is French, Grandma Rhona told her. Your father’s explained. She’s come here to work at his school – to teach the boys. Now come and eat your tea.

  Evie had slunk over to the table, plonked her chin into her hands and stared at her throughout the meal. William and Rhona tried small talk and failed, while Francine, derailed by the stoniness of a six-year-old, vowed never to return.

  As the year wore on, Francine had struggled with the rigours of teaching adolescent boys in a second language, the demands on her time and energy far removed from the grand English adventure she had imagined. She found herself drawn to the calm of the school library, its privacy and space a reassuring anti-dote to her failing spirits. And William was there, offering quiet company, an interesting article, a word or two of comfort. They began to spend more time together: a chat over coffee, a shared table at lunch, becoming no doubt the subject of speculation amongst staff and students.