It’s too early yet to visit Helena, and too early for Francine to check in. Waiting together in my room, she asks what she can do to help. I think of Amena, her wise words: You need family at a time like this. But now Francine is here, I wonder how this is going to work. What will she expect? Can I ask her to feed Edward while I take a shower?
It’s all beyond weird. Last night I took my child and tried to walk into the river, my mother lies saddled to machines that are keeping her alive, my partner doesn’t know where I am and my father and sister know nothing of this at all. Now my stepmother is here, summoned back from France with no notice, waiting to be told what to do.
Francine indicates the pram where Edward’s hands emerge from time to time and his noises switch to urgent. ‘Shall I?’ she says.
‘Please. I’d quite like a shower, if that’s ok?’
‘Of course, you go ahead.’ Francine picks Edward up, pulls off his cap and rests him against her shoulder, holding him as if he will break. I hand her the bottle, remembering the last time we were together with Edward, her visit with my father when all they tried to do was help. Tears threaten again and I disappear into the bathroom.
‘Are you hungry?’ Francine asks, when I come back. ‘Shall we eat here or do you want to get going?’
I’m not hungry, though I know Francine will need to eat. ‘We can have breakfast – it’s better here than the hospital.’
In the restaurant, we form an odd little group among the suits and lap-tops. I manage some cereal and watch as Francine tries a croissant. There’s no way it could taste anything like her own. I never told her how much I loved them, the times I would refuse them at breakfast, then sneak a couple to eat on the way to school. Or the pains-chocolats, the tartes aux pêches at tea-time, the friends I gathered with sweet enticements. I look across at her, the set of her jaw, the sweep of her long fair hair. This woman I lived with for twelve years, who cooked and cleaned and cared for us. Now I have my own child – just one – and I can’t even manage him on my own. She had no reason to come here, to drop everything and turn up and help me with a child I’ve kept away from her as if she had no rights. I’m filling up again, rolling out tides of regret. She did her best, I can see that now, too late perhaps. All her youth and energy spent on bringing us up. I think of all the fractious, moody moments when I must have made her life hell. I want her to understand how I never meant to hurt her.
After breakfast, Francine suggests taking Edward for a walk while I go to the hospital. I explain about his next feed and pack a bag with whatever might be needed. When Edward lies ready to leave in the loaded pram, there’s no knock or dread or panic. I’ve done it all without a thought: a reflex, like taking a breath.
At the hospital, there’s a long queue at reception. The usual woman is on duty but this time with a fixed smile on her face. She’s back on the day shift, it must suit her better.
Outside the ICU are two metal chairs, both unoccupied, and a trolley with a bloodstained blanket hanging over the side. Helena’s, I wonder? Through the swing doors I see the nurse’s station is empty; a monitor screen flickers, a phone is ringing. I hover outside, wanting to go in, to know more, but sense again the intrusion. Perhaps it’s too early, I should have waited. Will they even let me in?
I sit on one of the metal chairs as my phone pings another message from Mark: where are you?
I hold the phone in both hands, my thumbs leave more greasy marks on the screen. Thinking of Mark brings the heart-knock back and I still cannot speak to him. I text instead: I’m in London. I’m ok. Edward’s fine. Please don’t worry.
It’s not enough. He deserves more than this, but I can’t deal with it yet. There’s Jack too. I promised to let him know, he’ll be worried, wondering. He too deserves more than I’m able to give.
I wait an hour before being allowed in to see Helena. There’s little change. She’s lying still, tubes around her nose, into the back of her hand. A large bruise has spread across her knuckles, her thumb is black. I sit beside her in the half-light. It’s easier now, knowing I have time, knowing Edward is cared for. While Helena sleeps, I tell her about the morning, about Francine arriving and taking Edward, about the messages from Mark I cannot bring myself to answer. I don’t tell her about the night before, about the rain and the cold streets and the water’s edge, but still I think of Karim and Amena and their goodness when hope had fled.
Helena wakes and smiles briefly, wincing as she tries to move.
‘Are you in pain?’ I ask. ‘Shall I fetch the nurse?
Helena shakes her head. ‘No, I’m ok. It’s good you’re here.’
The neurologist is due at midday; this morning he arrives on time. His entourage crowd around the bed, he studies Helena’s notes, checks the monitor, nods.
‘Good, good – you’re doing well. You’re in good hands, I see.’
Then he turns back to the group, addressing them in hushed tones. I hear a series of medical terms, none of which means much. My Latin doesn’t extend that far. The group confers and they all nod.
The consultant turns to me and says, ‘You’re Helena’s daughter I believe? Perhaps we could have a quick word.’
I follow as they all troop out and reassemble by the nurse’s station. One of the team, a young woman, addresses me.
‘Your mother is improving now – her vital signs have stabilised and the scan shows no permanent damage to the brain. However, she has a major fracture to her right hip and we’ll need to operate. It may involve a hip replacement, depending on what we find.’
‘I see,’ I say.
‘We’ll monitor your mother here for the next twenty-four hours, and all being well, we’ll schedule the operation for early next week. The orthopaedic surgeon will be along later. After that we’ll transfer her to the ward – she’ll be more comfortable there,’ the doctor touches my arm, ‘and so will you.’
The doctor reminds me of someone, it hovers on the edge of my memory, just out of reach. ‘I see,’ I say again. ‘Thank you.’
They wander off to the far end of the unit, to another bay, another casualty, leaving me to process what I’ve just heard. It’s good news, a positive outcome, yet somehow doesn’t feel like it. I’m awash once more – relief and confusion lapping at my feet. Helena will be well again in time, and then what? The curtains thrown back on this twilight zone, this peace, the truth exposed.
It’s still too soon to give it up.
Thirty-Five
It was still raining as Francine made her way up Brady Street towards Weavers Fields. At the hotel, the young man in reception had mentioned the canal towpath nearby and it seemed a good place to head for. Anywhere quiet. Francine had forgotten the constant din of city life, her visits to London infrequent, her student years in Toulouse a distant memory.
The pram was loaded and heavy. How was all this needed for such a small baby? Joanna had always carried enough to equip a crèche. Evie had more restraint and, she suspected, a lot less money, but there was still a large bag containing two bottles, some nappies, a changing mat and a spare set of clothes.
Francine did not doubt Evie’s distress, her troubled voice on the phone, the cry for help. Yet she saw a different Evie from the listless wreck she and William had found on that futile visit after Edward was born. Had William not been so reticent, had she not been so self-absorbed, they could have done much more. But it had always been hard to get it right, all the way through, pushing water uphill. Now there was Helena. The spectre. A new incarnation had risen, lying injured in a hospital bed and Francine was not at all sure how to deal with it.
By the time she reached the towpath the rain had stopped. A stubborn, murky veil hung around at ground level, while above, thin sunlight struggled through, offering hope that somewhere higher up, better things were to be found.
Francine crossed a footbridge into Victoria Park. There was a deserted pla
yground, a bench by the empty bandstand, the whole enclosed in swathes of mist. She worried for Edward out here in the damp air but the thought of hanging around at the hospital, or the hotel, was stifling. At least here she could think, clear her head and work out what to do: William, her mother’s house, the business – even Simon. She walked a thin and precious line with Evie; it would not do for her to find out what had happened two weeks ago in Albières.
By the time I find Francine in the park it’s gone midday. I explain about the latest report, the progress, the operation. She is silent for a moment, then says:
‘How does Mark fit in to all this? Should we let him know what’s going on?’
I fidget on the seat, fiddle with the rain cover on the pram. ‘Maybe. I don’t know.’
‘I think you should. He needs to know what’s happened.’ Francine stands up, rewinds her scarf. ‘Let’s go. It’s cold out here for Edward.’
I take the pram and we begin walking back through the park. It’s busy now with dog walkers, workers tempted from their desks, runners pounding past, a flurry of lycra and sweat.
‘The problem is,’ I say, ‘I don’t want to explain all this to Mark over the phone. There’s too much – I’ve left it too late. Effectively, I ran away. At least that’s how he’ll see it. I think he’s really mad.’
‘Maybe, but that’s only because he doesn’t know where you are or what’s going on.’
‘It’s more than that. Things haven’t been right since we had Edward. I know it’s a lot to deal with, a lot of change. I don’t blame him, not really. I’ve been… not good.’
Francine turns to face me. ‘I’m so sorry we didn’t do more to help. That I didn’t do more. I’ve been a bit…preoccupied.’
‘It’s not your fault. Something happened when I had the baby – something I never expected. To do with my mother – to do with Helena and what happened, why she left. As if I had to live through it all again. That’s why the love didn’t come, I think. Everything I was, everything I’d built up around myself, I feared it would all come undone, like silk scarves from a conjuror’s hat, one after the other, and I’d never catch them. So I kept the plug in. Only it doesn’t work, does it?’
Francine looks down as she walks then speaks carefully. ‘And has it helped, seeing your mother?’
‘When I found her, I couldn’t match up what was in my head with what I was seeing – who she is now, or who I am. But yes, it helped. I understand now what happened – why she…’ I stopped abruptly. ‘Why she tried to do what she did and why she had to go. I understand now, it makes sense because …’ my voice collapses.
‘Because you’ve been there too?’
I nod rapidly and begin to sob, drawing in deep gulps of cold air like a donkey about to bray. Francine manoeuvres the pram to the side of the pavement, pulls on the brake and puts her arms around me.
‘Would you like me to fetch Mark?’ she says, gently rubbing her hand across my back.
I lift my chin. There’s a damp, snotty mark on Francine’s coat and I try to wipe it away. ‘I should go to see him,’ I say, still hiccoughing. ‘But I don’t want to leave Helena.’
‘I know. So, if I go and talk to him, that’s a start. Then he can decide what he wants to do. What time does he get home?’
I tell her he’s usually home by four on a Friday, that he often goes to the pub. I tell her we both used to go but because I stopped drinking for Edward, there didn’t seem much point any more.
‘Tomorrow then,’ she says, ‘after lunch. I’ll need to borrow your car.’
‘It’s in the hotel car park. But it’s my work van, will that be alright?’
‘I’ll manage. I’ve done it before, remember?’
I realise she’s talking about France, about her father’s van, and the times I used to ride with him taking bread to the villages around Albières. ‘I remember. I liked your Dad.’
‘He liked you too. He called you maligne: a clever little thing.’
And as we wander back through Bethnal Green and into Whitechapel, I think of that other time Francine came to rescue me in London. I think of all the times Francine has tried to reach me and the many times I stamped and railed and shut her out. Now I can think of no-one I would rather be with.
She too is my mother, I’ve just never allowed her to be.
Thirty-Six
There were no lights in the window of Mark and Evie’s house; there was nowhere to park either, both sides of the street lined with vehicles.
Francine drove round the block hoping a space might appear, but finally left the van at the end of the street in front of a pair of garages with a sign that said Strictly No Parking. She didn’t expect to be long, though if Mark was out, most likely at the pub, it might take a while to persuade him to leave. She knocked but there was no sound from inside, just a flick of curtain from the house next door. She knocked again, then set off down the street towards the pub.
Outside, a knot of smokers shuffled and stamped in the cold air, blocking the doorway. Inside was warm and dull, the room half empty with music coming from a dark corner. The bartender caught her eye hopefully, but Francine shook her head. At the far end Mark was leaning on the bar, staring at the pint glass in his hands. His long hair, usually tied up, hung around his face. There was a crumpled, feral air about him as if he’d slept in his clothes. Perhaps he had. He looked up but didn’t move when he saw her.
Francine put her bag on the bar and hunted for her purse. ‘I thought I might find you here,’ she said.
‘I should be surprised, but somehow I’m not,’ Mark took a long drink, turned to look at her and shook his head. ‘She’s left, hasn’t she? Buggered off. It’s like a morgue at home.’
‘But she told you,’ Francine hesitated, remembering Evie’s story. ‘She told you she wouldn’t be there.’
‘Oh, yeah, that’s right. Gone to Laura’s for a few days.’
Francine swallowed hard. ‘It’s not what you think,’ she said.
Mark turned back to his beer. ‘I rang Laura, she’s not heard from Evie for weeks. That didn’t surprise me – before I went to Yorkshire she’d hardly left the house.’
Francine touched his arm but still he didn’t move. ‘She’s been ill, Mark.’
He drained his glass, put it down on the bar and wiped the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Ill? How do you mean, ill?’
Francine hitched herself onto a barstool. ‘It happens sometimes,’ she said, ‘after a baby.’
Mark slowly shook his head. ‘Like the ‘blues’ you mean?’
Francine had never heard the term in English. ‘I think that’s what it’s called. It’s not something I’ve ever needed to know.’
Mark shrugged, ‘Me neither.’
‘She didn’t say anything to you?’
‘She wouldn’t talk to me.’
‘And you didn’t ask? Didn’t notice anything?’
Mark fiddled with a beer mat, turning it over and over. ‘So where is she then? If it’s not ‘what I think’, where’s she gone?’
‘I think you might need another drink.’ Francine caught the barman’s attention and ordered another beer and a mineral water for herself. One of them needed a clear head and she could see Mark was already unfit to drive. When the drinks arrived, they moved to a table in the corner and sat down.
Francine took a sip of water, ‘Did Evie ever mention her mother?’
Mark thought for a moment. ‘You mean Helena? No. I knew the basics. Evie always made it clear you were her stepmother, but no, she never talked about her real mother, or what happened, except that she left.’
Francine shifted in her seat. ‘Ok. Well it seems they met up recently and since then Helena’s been going to the house to help out. No one knew, certainly not William or Joanna.’
Mark put down his glass and stared
at her. ‘Shit,’ he said, ‘I had no idea.’
‘Neither did we, but you know how Evie keeps her distance. I’ve grown used to it. Even when she needs help she won’t ask for it.’
Mark nodded slowly. ‘I should know, I’ve lived with her for seven years. I suppose I did notice things were getting better at home – like she’d started to do things again. But what’s this got to do with what’s happened? Where is she now?’
‘At the hospital. There was an accident.’
Mark looked up sharply.
‘No,’ Francine said, ‘not Evie.’
‘Edward?’
‘No, no. He’s fine too. Helena’s had a car accident. She’s been taken to St Jude’s in London – there’s a trauma unit there. Evie’s with her and she wants you to come to the hospital.’
Mark looked round the room as if he’d just woken up. ‘How’s that going to work?’ he said. ‘I can’t just drop everything, can I?’
‘She needs you Mark,’ Francine said. Then she added, ‘Edward needs you too.’
‘Yes, but –’
‘It’s Saturday tomorrow. You’ll manage.’ Francine looked at her watch. ‘If we go now, it won’t take much more than an hour. I’ll drive.’
Mark sat a moment longer then heaved himself up from the table. ‘Ok,’ he said. ‘I’ll get some stuff.’
Tidy and clear, Evie’s living room was unrecognisable from the chaos of Francine’s previous visit. A pile of fresh laundry lay on the table in the corner with the basket of nappies, creams and wipes all neatly stacked. There was no crockery on the floor, no food left open and wasting, no stale cooking. But the emptiness, the gap where the pram had stood, seemed poignant by their absence. It was not surprising that Mark had taken off to the pub.
Mark came downstairs carrying a sports bag. He’d changed out of work clothes, put on a clean sweatshirt, tied his hair back up in a top knot. He smiled then, a flash that transformed him, and Francine began to see what Evie had fallen for. Francine had met him for the first time at Joanna’s, when the family gathered one Sunday afternoon for a barbecue. Evie came into the kitchen as she stood at the sink washing salad.
The Place Where Love Should Be Page 16
