The Place Where Love Should Be

by Elizabeth Ellis

  ‘Just because I’m tired all the time and feel like shit, I’m not going online to whinge about how tough my life is – because it isn’t!’

  ‘You could always see a doctor, if you need to.’

  ‘I can’t do that either.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s like… admitting defeat.’

  ‘And is that such a bad thing?’

  ‘It means this is real, it means it’s not some passing gloomy phase. It means I have to admit I can’t cope. I have no excuse for feeling like this.’

  ‘Perhaps you have. Think about it Evie – what happened, my leaving you – it’s hardly a role model, is it? You need to stop punishing yourself for what I did. The truth is, you don’t need an excuse. This just happens to some women, that’s all. And if you do nothing, even if I’m here for a while, it won’t necessarily go away by itself. It may even…’ she pauses, ‘it may even get worse. And believe me, you don’t want that.’ Helena pats my hand. ‘Okay, so now we need to try a few things to see what helps – and one of those is work.’

  When Helena takes Edward to the park, I stand at the door of the workshop staring at the pile of freshly-cut greenery on the bench, the full, spicy scent catching me by surprise. Along the back wall, my tools – pliers, wire cutters, frames, scissors – hang in a neat row just as I left them after the last order, before Edward made his unexpected entrance. I keep my work space immaculate, everything in its place, clean and waiting, perfectly organised. Why only here, in such contrast to the house?

  I pick a circular raffia frame from its hook and begin to sort the contents of the bench: the cypress from the ivy and choisya that grow in such abundance along the back fence of the garden, the sedum, asters and bugbane, all still flowering despite the late season. Autumn must be mild and I haven’t even noticed. I begin to work, slowly at first, layering and overlaying stems, catching and tying, threading, turning and weaving, working round the frame, piece after piece, lost in its rhythm, in the comfort of a task, a skill I’ve practised hundreds of times. My fingers, useless and swollen before the birth, though still sore, now work with familiar precision and speed.

  An hour passes, daylight fades. I place the finished wreath on the bench beside a small hand-tied bouquet and begin to clear up. Again I wonder why clearing up is second nature in my workspace but not in the kitchen. Why am I so adept at this craft but so defeated by Edward’s nappy?

  Later, after supper, Helena sips a large glass of wine and helps me make up bottles for the night. We stand together in the kitchen, fellow conspirators, scooping formula as if cooking up some illicit substance.

  ‘What would your health visitor say now eh?’ Helena shakes the contents of the final bottle and puts it with the others in the fridge. It’s so simple, it’s transformed the night feeds. These weeks are transforming my life. I’m left with an absence, as if the thing I’ve been carrying has dropped away, a migraine scar that’s finally healed.

  By the time Mark phones, Helena has gone and I’ve settled into the evening. The kitchen is still clear, washing up done and stacked away, the living room tidy, a pile of ironing lies on the table neatly folded and Edward is sleeping in his pram. It’s the stillness I feel, the quiet, the rumbling roaring panic subsiding a little, draining slowly away.

  ‘How’s things?’ Mark’s voice is distant, there’s a lot of noise at his end.

  ‘I’m sorry? The line’s bad.’

  ‘I said, how are you – how’s Edward?’

  ‘He’s fine. Asleep actually.’ I steer the conversation – don’t want to give details of my day. Mark won’t expect it, he isn’t one for small-talk. It’s about the only thing he has in common with my father.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ I ask.

  ‘We’re going for a curry in a bit.’

  I have trouble hearing. ‘I’m sorry? Mark, where are you?’

  ‘In the pub. I just said…hang on a minute, I’ll go outside.’

  I wait while he finds somewhere quiet.

  ‘Is that better?’

  I hear the swish of traffic, but it’s quieter. ‘Much better, thanks. How was your day?’

  There’s a pause before he answers. ‘Ok. It’s a good project, they’re a nice crew – mainly Polish, a couple of my usual guys are here too. It’s a bad time of year though. Weather’s not brilliant – very wet. It may hold us up a bit.’

  I’m surprised that I don’t mind. A while ago, I would have done. A while ago it would have sent me into a blind panic.

  ‘And Edward’s ok?’ Mark is saying. ‘You’re managing?’

  ‘Everything’s fine. Don’t worry.’

  ‘You sound different.’

  I tread carefully. ‘Really? How different?’

  ‘Better. More – I don’t know – chilled?’

  ‘He’s sleeping a bit,’ I say. ‘It helps.’

  ‘That’s something, I guess. Anyway, got to go. I’ve a pint waiting.’

  ‘Ok. See you soon.’ But he’s gone. I reach for the remote, but then lie down and close my eyes instead.

  Twenty

  Evening closed in, though the light stretched a little longer here than at home. It seemed a pointless hour of useless thin daylight. Francine had come to prefer the shorter afternoons in England, lighting lamps and drawing curtains against the damp misery of the day. The kitchen table now boasted a neat pile of papers in one corner, order from previous chaos. Wine had prompted her to action, not to labour over every minor decision, every envelope, letter, packet, jar: keep, recycle, reject?

  At home it was the bookkeeping she loathed. It was the downside of self-employment and she’d been unable to delegate. Until now. Until these last few weeks when she’d run off and left it all to Simon. Francine hadn’t looked at the books since coming here, had hardly switched on her laptop or checked emails. Since there was no internet in the house, a decent connection involved a trip to the Cheval Blanc and igniting curiosity she wanted to avoid. Gossip in Albières ran like water down a storm drain: the neighbourly concern that tipped too often and too far into stifling interference.

  At the first opportunity, Francine had escaped to Toulouse, though Maman had been inconsolable. It’s so far, she’d said, wringing her hands. It’s a… city, for heaven’s sake! Maman spat the word as if her daughter were proposing to walk its streets instead of taking up a place at its principal seat of learning. Maman had dealt with the whole of Francine’s education as a necessary obstacle, a regrettable fact that would remove her only child further from her. From maternelle to primaire and then to the lycée, all the way on a bus to the nearest town, Maman had slowly and painfully let out the ties that bound. But Toulouse had been too much, too far, and the subtle shift in Maman’s attitude suggested to Francine that she was in some way disgraced. Instead of the pride her success might have earned, it was as if she’d brought shame, though she had done no more than many of her generation, anxious to stretch their wings beyond the confines of a tiny rural community. When the opportunity arose to study English in England, to spend her third university year at a prestigious Public School in Northamptonshire, Francine saw another step towards independence, whilst her mother sank beneath the weight of her disillusionment. Francine’s relationship with her mother had remained tired and fractured, as if building something that would work for two adults was simply beyond her frame of reference. Her child had left, that’s all there was.

  Francine poured more wine, put the bottle back in the fridge and laid out a cold supper from the food she’d bought in town earlier in the day. She was developing bad habits – reading at the table, drooping over her plate, dropping grated carrot, as if the absence of company voided the need for decorum. Meals with William had been almost formal, at least less than casual. He’d never like to linger after the meal either in spite of her efforts to encourage it. He would start to clear the table the moment t
he plates were emptied, afraid of what might ensue if he sat there too long. Conversation perhaps? Mice?

  She really should ring William now, keep the channels open, but that last call, stilted and distant, had been less than encouraging and at the moment she had no wish to go through it all again. Still huddled in her coat and sleepy from the wine, Francine went to bed early. It wasn’t until the following morning, a cold bright contrast to the dismal weight of the past few days, that she checked the post box and found among the circulars and junk mail, a letter from Simon.

  William wasn’t expecting visitors. Since his trip to the library he’d holed himself up successfully for a couple of days, avoiding contact with anyone apart from the disappointing phone call to Francine. So when an urgent ring on the doorbell disturbed his breakfast, it took him a moment to realise what it was. He rose from the table and went to the front door, remembering to wipe his mouth of toast crumbs and potential drips of milk.

  ‘Joanna,’ he said, holding the door half open. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’

  ‘Well, no, Daddy. I hadn’t planned on coming this week.’ Joanna brushed past him in the narrow hallway, air kissed his cheek and marched into the kitchen.

  William closed the front door and followed. He stood patiently at the table by his breakfast plate. ‘Is everything alright? Andy? The children?’

  Joanna sat down in William’s chair and put her elbows on the table. ‘There’s something going on with Evie, I know it! She’s definitely hiding something.’

  William sighed and sat down opposite her. ‘Joanna, we’ve talked about this. Having a baby, motherhood – it’s all new to her. She’s tired that’s all.’

  Joanna began nibbling William’s half-eaten toast. ‘There’s more to it than that.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘I think she’s avoiding me.’

  ‘Really dear?’ he said, amused in spite of his mood. ‘I can’t think why she’d do that.’

  ‘I rang her yesterday, you know, just the usual catch-up and she was really weird – evasive, yes-no answers, that sort of thing. She doesn’t say a lot at the best of times but this was different. I got the impression she wasn’t on her own.’

  William stood up, filled the kettle and switched it on. ‘She does have friends you know. Maybe her neighbour called round. What’s her name?’

  ‘Rose. No, it wasn’t her, Evie would have said. And when I told her I’d go over today – you know, the usual visit to help her out like I’ve been doing for weeks now, she came up with a ton of excuses. I know Evie and she’s never that busy.’

  Joanna could look remarkably put out at times. Beneath her stylish demeanour William could still see a sulky child when she didn’t get her own way.

  ‘I shouldn’t worry,’ William said, ‘I’m sure she has a good reason. Perhaps Mark has taken some time off.’

  ‘Oh, Daddy, do keep up. Mark’s started a new job in Yorkshire, remember?’

  William didn’t remember. ‘Well,’ he said, spooning instant coffee into mugs, ‘I’m sure if she needs your help, she’ll ask for it.’

  ‘After next week, I won’t have so much time to spare. It gets crazy around Christmas. Olivia has her next ballet exam, Max is in the school play – another leading role and I’m doing the costumes again and Andy’s Dad’s ill and you know what that means.’

  William wasn’t sure that he did but Joanna ploughed on, ‘I’ll be up and down the motorway again, just like last winter. Of course, I don’t mind, but Andy’s up to his ears now he’s CEO so he can’t do much.’

  William doubted whether Joanna’s outburst was solely out of concern for her sister. He was inclined to think it indicated something slightly rotten in the state of her own rather perfect life. He made the coffee and sat down again. ‘Evie will have her reasons, I’m sure.’

  ‘But doesn’t it seem odd? Don’t you want to know why?’

  William sipped his coffee. Half into his mug he said, ‘At my age dear, nothing much surprises me. You do what you think is best, Joanna, you usually do, but I don’t feel it’s our place to interfere. If Evie doesn’t want us over there cluttering up the place while she finds her feet, then so be it.’

  ‘But I’m her sister – you’re her father for heaven’s sake! That’s hardly clutter. And anyway,’ Joanna fixed her father across the breakfast muddle, ‘has Mum been?’

  William’s coffee mug stalled half way to his mouth. ‘Your Mother’s had other things to deal with,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I know that and it’s really sad that Mamie’s not with us anymore and there’s stuff to do over in Albières but she could have helped Evie out a bit, couldn’t she, early on? Anyway,’ Joanna said, taking another piece of toast, ‘why isn’t she back? She’s been gone for weeks now. She’s not answering emails and her phone goes to voicemail. It’s like everyone’s avoiding me!’

  William rose from the table and started to clear the breakfast dishes. Something unfamiliar and unwelcome lodged in his stomach, a pain at the thought of what Francine was dealing with, a sudden image of her, together with Simon. He blinked hard, and began to scrub his cereal bowl a little too vigorously.

  ‘It’s not just Evie is it?’ Joanna persisted. ‘There’s something else going on.’

  William stood with both hands in the washing up bowl, staring through the kitchen window, then he took a deep breath and turned to face his daughter. ‘Your Mother’s taking some time out. She’ll be away for a while yet.’

  Joanna stopped chewing William’s toast and placed it carefully back on the plate. ‘You mean, you’ve split up?’

  William didn’t answer, he stared again through the kitchen window at a withered clematis trailing out of a broken pot, a fitting symbol perhaps, of his own senescence. What sort of a man, he thought, has both his wives walk out? He was back in the same kitchen one evening years ago with his mother and a young Evie standing by the door. Mummy’s gone, hasn’t she? Evie had said. She’s gone away, I saw her.

  Don’t be silly dear, his mother replied. Daddy and I were just talking. She’s… on holiday for a while. She needs a rest.

  Why didn’t we all go? Evie’s voice rose. Why didn’t she take the baby? Why didn’t she take me?

  His mother stood up. Come on now, she said, propelling her out of the room. Let’s get you back to bed.

  Evie’s legs stiffened and she dropped to the floor. His mother bent to pick her up but Evie dug her heels hard against the quarry tiles, arching her back. No! she screamed, I won’t go, I won’t!

  Oh yes you will young lady. Again, his mother attempted to pick her up but she lashed out, catching Rhona on the shin with her foot.

  William, watching from the sink, stirred into action. Mother, he said wearily, just leave her. I’ll see to it.

  She has to learn, William – she can’t behave like a toddler no matter what’s happened. She’s nearly six, for heaven’s sake!

  Why is it always about age with you mother? How is she supposed to feel?

  His mother placed Evie’s arms by her sides and stood up. Evie continued to writhe and flap like a stranded fish, then seemed to lose heart and gave up. William crouched down and propped her against his knees. Her back and hair were wet, her thin body damp in his arms. She shuddered, a single sob escaping before she fell silent. He’d grown used to these outbursts. He’d grown used to many things that a few months before had been unthinkable: an empty bed, empty spaces in the house, in his life – spaces he’d now had to fill alone, or with dubious assistance from his mother.

  I’m only trying to help, William. It can’t be easy for you. Slowly, she shook her head. I knew it was a mistake, as soon as I met the woman. I knew it would never work out.

  William sat on the floor and pulled Evie into his lap. Please don’t start that again, Mother. And she has a name, she’s still my wife. Evie had fallen asleep, hi
dden safely away from her confusion. William gathered her in his arms and stood up. He’d struggled all his life with his mother’s strength of will, had spent too much time listening to her, unable to challenge, or resist. And even that next time, the time when Evie told them what she’d seen, he had once again allowed his judgement to be swayed, allowed himself to be persuaded into ‘what was best’.

  Another life, a different wife. His mother long dead and his children grown. Standing at the sink, William turned back to Joanna.

  ‘Your mother needs some peace and quiet, that’s all,’ he said. ‘Let’s just leave it at that, shall we? No need to say anything to Evie, she’s enough to deal with at the moment.’ Then he tipped out the water from the washing up bowl and watched it trail away anti-clockwise down the drain.

  Twenty-One

  Dear Francine

  I know I probably shouldn’t be writing this – we said no contact unless there is a problem, which there isn’t. But I did just want to let you know that everything’s fine here – business as usual. Angela’s wedding cake is finally done, I’ve never known anyone change their mind so often and so profoundly. Anyway, she’s paid the bill now so that’s done and Nevitts have renewed their order for breakfast goods. Looks as if their little café venture is taking off in spite of the competition.

  I went away at the weekend, spent a few days with Robbie – my brother in Yorkshire you remember? Needed a bit of space, time to clear my head. I went out to Hebden Bridge and up onto the moors, walked around the Crags twice. Wild and wet as you’d expect at this time of year but great for thinking.

  I know you took off because of me, because of what happened, but it doesn’t change anything, doesn’t alter the way I feel. You know I’ll keep the business going as long as you need. I’ll be here as long as you want. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.

  Keep in touch,

  Simon x