My father did father-like things with his kids as they stumbled across the pebbled beach—chased them, hugged them, swung them round—even though both son and daughter were a bit old for such games. His obvious love for his children winded me. He looked like such a natural, a man who would have yearned after fatherhood the same way most women long to be mothers. He could never have helped my mother do what she did to me. That crime was hers alone.
I sat down on the top step of the rockery and looked out over the garden. I couldn’t help thinking about that last argument with Isobel. I can’t remember what started it—probably me running up a massive credit card bill again—but I remember the vitriol in her voice shocking me. Despite regular warnings that the tumour would affect her behaviour as it grew, I never thought she could be so nasty.
Things soon got out of hand. I called her a bitch and she said I’d ruined her life and I said she shouldn’t have adopted me then. Her failing body shook with rage.
‘I know you don’t like me,’ she said, ‘and I know you want to be with your real mother, but you have to face facts.’ She grabbed hold of my wrists. ‘Your mother didn’t want you,’ she hissed. ‘She didn’t want you.’
I wrenched my hands free and slapped her. Hard across her bony cheek. She slapped me back, a belter that left my right ear numb.
‘I’ve wanted to do that for a long, long time,’ she said.
If she hadn’t said that, I wouldn’t have hit her again. I did though. The other cheek this time. Afterwards, I turned away and ran towards the house. She cried out my name, but I didn’t look back. Once indoors, I’d rushed upstairs and taken refuge in my bedroom.
The rockery step was cold beneath me. Time to go back to the car, but I couldn’t move. I shivered and reached into my coat pocket for my cigarettes. Emma smoked much more than me, a habit I needed her to stop.
Last week, while I was having a fag outside the kitchen at Birch Grove, Kegs came out to join me.
‘A nasty vice,’ he said, as he lit up a Benson and Hedges, ‘picked it up in the army.’
‘When you were a soldier,’ I said, ‘did you ever kill anyone?’
A deep crease appeared between his eyebrows, deep enough to hide something dark in.
‘I’ve been responsible for the deaths of others,’ he said.
‘Is that different from killing someone?’
He exhaled a plume of toxic smoke. ‘I used to think so, but now I’m not so sure.’
50
Tuesday, 12 September 1995
Royal Edinburgh Hospital
My GP got me an appointment at Leeds Infirmary straight away. First came another scan with the same, tight-lipped sonographer. She examined my stomach with her probe, disbelief on her face as she stared at the monitor.
The screen faced away from me again, and I didn’t ask to look. I didn’t need to; I knew what was in there.
‘Is she okay?’ I asked. ‘Is she normal?’
The sonographer said the foetus appeared to be healthy but there were no guarantees.
Afterwards, I met with a consultant, Dr Taylor. A woman about Mum’s age, with soft hazel eyes. She put an arm around my shoulder when I entered the room and guided me to a seat by her desk.
I could barely take in the explanation she offered me. A rare occurrence, she said, very rare indeed. A trainee surgeon had failed to complete the procedure properly. It did happen but hardly ever. No surgical procedure had a hundred per cent success rate.
As she spoke, I nodded and said, ‘Oh, right,’ and, ‘I see.’ As if we were discussing nothing out of the ordinary. As if I wasn’t sixteen weeks pregnant by mistake.
She asked if I had any questions about what had happened. I shook my head, too numb to think of any. She explained I had every right to make a complaint if I wanted to.
Shame kept me silent. Sitting in that office, I felt as if I’d come to collect an inevitable punishment, one predicted by my mother. What right did I have to complain?
Dr Taylor said we had to focus on what to do next. She opened up my medical file and that’s when I told her about the nightmares. She asked if I’d had any similar experiences while awake. Any hallucinations.
I told her about hearing the wailing baby. She looked very concerned. She asked if I’d struggled with my decision to have the abortion, and I said no. I knew it was the right choice. She asked how I’d felt after the operation. Relieved, I said. A bit sad but glad to have it over with.
She said I had two options. Either have another termination as soon as possible or continue with the pregnancy and have the baby.
I told her I didn’t know. I didn’t know what to do.
She said that in her opinion, bearing in mind what I’d told her, it could be more damaging for my mental health if I continued with the pregnancy.
‘Really?’ I said.
She nodded. ‘Potentially, but I’m afraid the decision’s up to you.’
51
Tuesday, 29 December 2015
1.11 p.m. Emma should be out soon. I’ve picked a waiting place halfway along the road that leads into Birch Grove. So far, the day is dry and bright. Perfect weather for hanging around the streets like a weirdo. Emma will have to walk this way to reach her part of town. Then we can bump into each other as if by accident, me on my way into the home, her on her way out.
I hoped to see her yesterday when I visited Mum, but Vera said she’s had a few days off. After updating me on Mum’s chest infection—no response to the antibiotics this time but no deterioration either—Vera checked the staff rota and confirmed Emma would be working until one o’clock today.
‘I’d have her here twenty-four seven if I could,’ Vera said. ‘She’s a little marvel.’
I nodded but couldn’t stop thinking about the photographs. After realising they were missing, I searched everywhere. Under furniture, beneath the heaps of Mum’s belongings waiting to be boxed. I even opened up the boxes we’d finished the previous night in case the envelope had fallen out of my bag and Emma had packed it away by mistake. I retraced our movements, venturing back to my own room and the box Emma had ripped into with such glee. My hands shook as I bent back the cardboard flaps to peer inside. After conducting a minimal search, I fetched a roll of masking tape from downstairs and sealed up the lid of the box for the second time.
1.15p.m. What if she stays on to do some extra hours? That would be just like Emma. It’s hard to imagine her stealing from me, but I have to be certain. Otherwise I’ll be stuck with the ridiculous notion that she might be the mystery photographer. After my fruitless search for the pictures, I remembered her gazing in at me from the floodlit patio and shivered. Could she have done it? Why though? What possible motive could she have?
I did consider e-mailing her. A brief apology for my erratic behaviour followed by a casual enquiry about whether she’d seen a white A4 envelope lying around the house. Had she picked it up by mistake? In the end, I decided to ask her face-to-face. Her reaction is bound to give her away; she blushes at the slightest thing.
1.22 p.m. Emma saunters out of the driveway with Surinder. A black transit van roars up and stops beside them. The two girls embrace before Surinder climbs into the passenger seat. Emma waves as the van pulls away, and the driver beeps back.
I wait for her to come towards me, but instead she turns and walks the opposite way, towards town.
The fish hook tugs at my guts again and the invisible line unwinds between us, luring me on. I should catch her up and ask what I need to ask, but I don’t.
***
I follow her through the precinct. She ignores the shops with their gaudy sale signs plastered across the windows. As we leave the town centre, I expect her to take the street that leads to the underpass and on to her bedsit, but instead she turns right.
Ten minutes later, I’m standing by the taxi rank next to Brentham train station, watching Emma at the ticket machine inside. Funny, but I’ve never thought of her leaving the town before. She never stru
ck me as the kind of girl who’d want to go anywhere. I wait until she goes through the ticket barrier before entering the station. By the time I reach the barrier, she has vanished down the steps beyond it.
From here I have a good view of the platforms. She emerges on number four, where the trains for London depart from. The tannoy announces a city-bound train is approaching the station now. I ransack my bag for my return ticket and then hurry through the barrier. I run along the underpass to the exit for platform four, taking my time to climb the stairs, waiting for the rumble of the approaching train to cease before stepping out.
She is boarding at the front end of the train. The first class end.
The tannoy reminds all passengers that the train is for London Liverpool Street only.
I open the nearest carriage door and step inside.
52
Tuesday, 29 December 2015
I nearly lose Emma on the Underground, after getting stuck on the escalator behind a pair of Japanese teenage boys with huge trolley cases. I arrive on the northbound Victoria line platform just as she slips onto the waiting train, and I manage to squeeze in one carriage down before the doors sigh shut. When the train curves round a bend, I glimpse her grasping one of the central metal poles. As the tannoy announces our arrival into Highbury and Islington, she adjusts her backpack and edges towards the doors.
Minutes later, we exit the station. A bus disgorges its passengers onto the pavement, blocking my view of her. When the bus pulls away, I see her crossing the road at Highbury Corner. Once she is far enough away, I do the same.
She turns left into a long, sweeping terrace of Georgian houses facing Highbury Fields. Expensive cars line the street. What is she doing here? Visiting a friend? A relative?
I hang back, worried she might notice me. In the distance, she opens the front gate of one of the houses and is soon out of sight. Crossing over to the park, I find a bench with a good view of the house she entered. A house with a panel of buzzers beside its yellow door. Must be divided into flats.
Nothing to do now but sit and wait. I do up the top button of my coat. Lycra-clad joggers bounce past, headphones trailing from their ears. The sun lingers above but has no warmth to give. I can’t stop shaking. I sense Emma is leading me somewhere, but do I want to go?
A bike pulls up in front of the house. The rider dismounts and removes his cycle helmet. The tall, blond figure in black skinny jeans looks familiar. Is that Ryan from Aroma? At the yellow door, he presses a buzzer. Seconds later, he pushes the door open and disappears inside.
If it is Ryan, he could be going to a different flat from the one Emma is visiting. He might even live in the building. It’s hardly likely the two of them would know each other.
Five minutes later, he emerges clutching a carrier bag that appears to be stuffed with clothes. He fastens his cycle helmet and mounts his bike, balancing the carrier bag on one of the handles. Before he pedals off, he raises a middle finger to the empty windows on the first floor.
***
4.10 p.m. Daylight fading fast. I play with my puzzle ring, working it back and forth. How long should I sit here? My only alternative is to go to the house and press all the buzzers in turn until I find her. She’ll think I’m insane.
My phone sounds from the depths of my bag.
‘Hi, Grace,’ Kegs says when I answer. My stomach plummets in anticipation of bad news.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.
‘Nothing to panic about, but your mum seems worse this afternoon. She’s still not responding to the antibiotics.’ He promises to get the doctor in again if she grows any weaker. ‘Just wanted to keep you informed,’ he says.
A light comes on in one of the ground-floor windows. An elderly woman enters the elegant living room and tugs one curtain then the other across the glass.
‘Do all your staff have to provide references?’ I ask.
‘Sorry?’ Kegs says. I repeat the question. ‘Of course,’ he replies, defensive, ‘I follow them up myself. Why?’
‘I’m helping Emma apply for a college course and she’s worried her references might not be good enough.’ The lie slips from my mouth with disturbing ease. ‘If you’ve checked them though, they must be fine.’
‘Absolutely. She had cracking references.’
‘Great. That’s great.’ Of course Emma has good references. She’s a good worker.
‘Okay, then,’ Kegs says. ‘Feel free to call anytime if you want an update.’
My mother is fading, making slow but inevitable progress towards the finish line, and all I can do is interrogate Kegs about Emma’s references. I realise the absurdity of my situation. Sitting in a park, staring at a building and waiting for a girl I barely know. I should be with my mother.
‘Thanks,’ I say and hang up. I think of Mum in her narrow bed and wonder if she knows where she is heading. I’ll go and see her tomorrow. My stomach drops again. As if my mother is a lift cable that has kept me moving smoothly up and down all these years, out of sight and unappreciated, and now the cable has snapped, sending me hurtling.
A warning pull in my abdomen turns my attention back to the house, but Emma doesn’t materialise. What am I doing? Have I fixated on Emma to avoid thinking about Mum? Possible. While certain I saw the envelope in my handbag that night, I was drunk and tired and distracted. What if I made a mistake? The photographs could have fallen out of my bag at any point on Christmas Day, and I may never know what happened to them. I need to go home and rest and leave Emma alone. It was arrogant of me to assume she’d have no life outside of Birch Grove. What does it matter that she’s here? Why should it affect me?
I heave my stiff body off the bench and exit the park. After a final glance at the house with the yellow door, I set off along the terrace and only look back once.
***
On Upper Street, I stop at Aroma but find it closed. Cold and exhausted, I can’t even be sure I saw Ryan earlier. All I’m certain about is my need to get to the flat and get warm.
Ten minutes later, I turn off Goswell Road into Lever Street. My block looms ahead of me, the windows blinking and sparkling with festive lights. When I get closer, I notice a glowing Santa hanging down from one of the first-floor balconies like a garish burglar.
At the main door, I punch in my entry code and am about to step inside when someone yanks me away from the building.
‘When were you going to tell me?’
Dan. His face is drawn, his eyes wild. ‘When?’ he says.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Our daughter.’ From his coat pocket, he produces a card and holds it up. The card is white with a green Christmas tree on the front. Under the tree, a three word greeting:
HAPPY CHRISTMAS DAD
My stomach is a solid block of fear; my heart is beating far too fast.
‘Why did you lie to me?’ he says.
‘I didn’t.’
‘You told me you went through with the abortion.’
‘I did.’
‘That doesn’t make sense.’
The fault line splits apart. A savage pain rips across my belly. I double over, fighting for air.
‘Did you send the card, then?’ he says. ‘Is this your idea of a sick joke?’ He hauls me up. Another white-hot contraction tears through me. It is her. She is coming.
‘Grace,’ he says, ‘did you send it?’
‘No,’ I gasp.
His eyes harden. ‘You kept a pregnancy from me?’
Not just from him, from everyone. From myself. The memory of her hidden inside my mind, the way she hid inside my body all those years ago.
‘I knew you were lying.’ He spits the words in my face, but they cannot touch me. As if he isn’t real. As if I’m watching him on a screen. ‘Jesus. Another kid… I warned you I couldn’t have anything to do with it.’ He shakes his head. ‘This can’t be happening. This is not what happened.’
He isn’t angry because I lied about our child and kept her from him. H
e is angry because I’ve rewritten his history, and he doesn’t like this new version.
‘Read what she said.’ He thrusts the card at me. ‘Read it.’
I open the card.
Dear Dad. Hope it’s okay to call you that? I’m your daughter, but I don’t think you know I exist. That’s not your fault. I’m lucky I’m still alive after what my mother did to me!!!! Maybe we’ll all laugh about it together one day. Or maybe not. Wishing you all the best for Christmas and the New Year. Xx
‘She put it through my front door,’ he says. ‘If I hadn’t seen it lying there, Stella might have picked it up and read it. Or one of the kids.’
I’m lucky I’m still alive.
Another searing blast of pain and she is with me. My daughter. She is hot between my thighs, and the midwife cuts the bond between us. She asks if I want to hold what I have birthed. No, I say, although I’ve never wanted anything so much.
‘Grace?’ He tries to take the card, but I clutch it to my chest. He wrestles it from me, ranting about the trouble I’ve caused and the stress he is under, hiding this news from Stella. The lies he had to invent to get here today.
‘You’ll have to speak to the girl,’ he says. ‘I can’t have her anywhere near me or my family.’
The midwife cradles my daughter in her arms. Is she normal, I ask, is she healthy? The midwife smiles and tells me my daughter is perfect.
‘Where is she?’ he asks. ‘Where does she live?’
I shake my head.
‘London?’ he says.
‘I don’t know.’
She Chose Me Page 20
