Tell Me Where You Are

by Moira Forsyth

  ‘I don’t mind where you stay, I just want to be able to reach you if I have to. I need to know you’re all right.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Go and have your shower.’ As Kate reached the door, she called her back. ‘One other thing?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Happy Birthday.’

  ‘Doesn’t feel much like a birthday.’

  ‘Did Alec give you his present?’

  ‘Money.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve got for you, but I did buy a wee thing as well. Have your shower first though.’

  Kate shuffled off and dragged herself upstairs.

  Gillian had thought about this, Frances could tell. Her parcel was large and squashy, and turned out to be a black feather boa. Frances, eclipsed, wished she had asked Christine, who would have known what girls of fifteen like. Kate liked the boa.

  ‘Cool!’ she gasped, winding it round her neck. Gillian beamed, smug and pleased, though all she had done was buy something she fancied for herself. Frances, shopping at the last minute, between the Post Office and the butcher, had bought a silver chain with tiny glass beads threaded on it. Now she was afraid that perhaps it was too old, too young, not Kate’s style.

  ‘Oh!’ Kate breathed, her face lighting up in surprise as she opened the little package. ‘It’s really nice.’

  ‘Is it somebody’s birthday?’ Andrew asked when he came in and saw the cards and strewn wrapping paper.

  ‘I did tell you – Kate’s fifteen.’

  ‘Is there a cake?’

  Gillian left them after lunch, left them to tea and cake and a drowsy Sunday afternoon. She left Dingwall in sunshine but the sky was overcast by Nairn, and in Aberdeen a squally shower rushed at her as she came out of the station, looking for her father’s car.

  They were pleased to see her, while pointing out that she did not come often enough.

  ‘I’m here now. Sorry about the short notice.’

  ‘This is still your home, dear.’

  It was not. Upstairs in her old bedroom, she looked at the familiar surroundings, upgraded from childhood to adulthood when she became fourteen, as if her taste as a teenager need not be considered because it would not last. She had never liked the peacock blue of the carpet or the fussy swirls on the wallpaper and would rather the nursery print had been kept, and the lampshade with teddies dancing round it. Downstairs, the house closed in on her with its familiar heavy furniture, groups of china figures, and pot plants lush even in February on the broad window sills. Already, she longed to be gone.

  In the kitchen she helped her mother get out the tea things.

  ‘I hope you had a proper dinner with Frances, did you? We just have a sandwich on Sunday night. Will I cook you something – an omelette?’

  ‘No, don’t bother.’

  ‘No bother,’ her mother reproved. ‘The question is, have you eaten properly?’

  Had she? Gillian could not remember. ‘A sandwich would do.’ She held up a flowered cup. ‘You’ve had these a long time.’

  ‘Twenty five years and only one cup gone, so be careful.’

  Gillian carried shortbread and sponge cake to the living-room. The smell of baking was still fragrant throughout the house.

  ‘How is Frances’s friend?’ Grace asked, when they were settled and she was pouring tea. ‘Did you see him?’

  For a moment Gillian had no idea who her mother meant. ‘Oh – Kenny? No, not this time.’

  ‘He seems very nice. Not that we know him, but last summer he called round with some logs for Frances, to dry out for the winter.’ Grace sighed. ‘It doesn’t look as if it’s going to come to anything though.’

  ‘Frances will never marry again,’ Jim said with conviction. ‘I’ve told you that often enough but you never believe me.’

  ‘She might,’ Gillian said, defensive of Grace who looked crestfallen. She did not add not to Kenny, he drinks too much.

  ‘What about yourself?’ her father demanded, snapping a piece of shortbread in his strong fingers. ‘Have some cake or a bit of this stuff. Your mother’s been baking all afternoon.’

  ‘Any boyfriends just now, your father means,’ Grace said smiling, holding a plate of cake out to Gillian.

  ‘I’m too busy at work even to think about it,’ Gillian said, annoyed, and refusing cake to punish her father. As the only person who minded was Grace, she felt guilty and ate a piece of shortbread instead. ‘I might be going to San Francisco later in the year,’ she announced. She told them about the new contract.

  ‘Sounds very exciting,’ her mother said, glancing at Jim, who remained impassive. He did not believe in Gillian’s career, and pretended not to understand what she did.

  ‘Where’s it leading, that’s what I wonder,’ he had said to Grace, sometimes in Gillian’s hearing. Now he said, ‘and what will you end up being, after all this travelling about?’

  Grace patted her knee. ‘Be sure to send us postcards from all these far flung places.’

  Having done their duty, they turned to their own news: church and neighbours, the Rotary Club, a friend in hospital with cancer. There was always some friend or relative who had become ill since the last visit, sometimes several, Gillian noticed, depressed.

  They did not ask about Susan. ‘I’ll tell them,’ she had said to Frances, full of misplaced confidence, believing she was not really part of the old quarrel. They were all part of it: it enveloped them like the furniture, the brocade curtains, the family photographs crowding the top of the sideboard.

  ‘Time for the news,’ her father announced, switching on the television. Gillian gave up for the moment, relieved. Later, perhaps even in the morning before they drove her to the station, she would tell them. She would find a way.

  Frances drove over to see Kenny as she usually did on Sunday evenings. It was the time Andrew got round to homework, as she reminded him before she left.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, in a minute.’

  ‘Kate, what about you?’

  ‘Haven’t got any.’

  ‘I’ll see you about ten.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ Kate asked, surprised.

  ‘Her boyfriend’s,’ Andrew said. ‘It’s Ok – he’s harmless. We can trust her to come back and look after us.’ Realising what he had said, he flushed. ‘You know what I mean. Goin to do some maths.’

  He made a face as he passed Frances in the doorway, and a cut-throat gesture by way of apology. She shook her head, half smiling.

  ‘Tact isn’t one of his strong points,’ she said to Kate. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I’m not bothered.’

  ‘Will you be all right if I go out?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be? Have a nice time. I’m just goin to sit in front of the TV, and you don’t like the stuff I watch anyway.’ As Frances went out, she added, ‘Thanks.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘My birthday – the cake and everything. It was nice.’

  Frances sat in the car for a moment until the glow of pleasure and relief subsided. ‘Get a grip,’ she scolded herself. ‘She’s only here for a few weeks, all you have to do is get along, make sure she doesn’t get in any trouble. Nothing more.’

  When she told him about the row with Kate, the apology, the birthday, Kenny said ‘Sounds pretty normal to me. Nicky was a real pain at that age.’

  ‘Well,’ Frances admitted, ‘she seems to have turned out all right, even though you and June had such a messy divorce, so maybe Kate will survive too.’

  ‘Nothing from Susan?’

  ‘Something and nothing.’ She told him Alec’s story.

  ‘She’s playing a game,’ was Kenny’s conclusion. ‘Playing a game with all of you.’

  ‘A game? Maybe. But with Kate? That would be unforgivable. Isn’t it more likely she’s got some kind of mental illness? And if that’s the case, we ought to try to help her.’

  ‘Beloved Frances,’ Kenny said, opening his arms so that she would lean against his chest, ‘come here and give me
a cuddle. That’s better. Don’t you think you have enough responsibilities already? Give Susan up. She never did much for you.’

  ‘It’s Kate I’m worried about.’

  ‘As if I didn’t know. She’s not your worry either, when it comes down to it.’ Before she could answer he kissed her, putting a stop to argument. Frances pulled away after a moment.

  ‘I’ll have to go soon.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Soon.’

  In the background, a Beethoven sonata murmured with the ache of some other sadness.

  ‘What melancholy music.’

  ‘Will I put on something more cheerful?’

  ‘No, it’s all right. Suits the mood.’ She nestled close again. In front of them, stretched out by the fire, the dog grunted and twitched in his sleep.

  ‘Look at him,’ Kenny said. ‘Getting old, like me. Don’t leave me Frances, stay and be a comfort to me in my dotage.’

  She laughed. ‘You’ve got a bottle for comfort. Don’t think I haven’t noticed it’s a different one tonight.’

  ‘Ach, you’re a hard woman. I might give up the drink if I had you to look after me.’

  ‘I’ve more than enough folk to look after without adding you to the list. As you keep reminding me.’ She sat up and pushed the pins into her hair more firmly.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, watching her. ‘Are you frightened of getting too fond of her?’

  He had put his finger on the sore spot of course. She moved away and sat up straighter on the sofa.

  ‘I’ll miss her when she goes. I don’t want to feel any more than that.’ She shrugged. ‘You have to protect yourself in my situation.’

  ‘And have you managed that? It seems to me that you love Kate.’ He put his large hand over her entwined ones, clasped tightly together between her knees.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I do.’

  Gillian watched television with her parents all evening. They wanted to see the second part of a thriller they had watched the previous Sunday, then there was the news again, which was exactly the same as the news they had watched at tea-time. Gillian dozed in the big arm chair. She was wakened by her father asking her again what time her train was next day. She had thought at first of catching an afternoon one but found herself saying she had to get back early. She still had not told them about Susan.

  ‘What about a cup of tea?’ her mother asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a drink.’ Gillian longed suddenly for Chablis, dry and clean in the mouth. To her surprise her father brightened at the idea, and brought out his whisky and sherry decanters.

  Now, Gillian thought, when they had their drinks and Grace her hot milk. Now or never.

  ‘I wanted to tell you something,’ she said. ‘Frances and I thought you should know.’

  They turned to her expectantly, though her mother stifled a yawn, and Gillian could see she hoped whatever it was would not take very long.

  ‘It’s about Susan.’

  There were nights when Frances would have liked to take Kenny home with her, to sleep sheltered by his comfortable bulk. She supposed that when Andrew had left home it might happen sometimes, but that still seemed a long way off. Besides, by this time on Sunday night she had started thinking about work again, her mind on school and the problems of the week ahead.

  She was later than usual coming in and Andrew and Kate were in bed. She spent some time sorting out her bag for school and was setting it down in the hall when the telephone rang. As late as this, it made her heart leap.

  ‘Fran? It’s Gill. I’m in bed at Mum’s – on my mobile, so I won’t disturb them.’

  ‘Have you told them?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Sort of?’

  ‘I said she’d gone away, like you did, on a retreat, then I said she doesn’t want to be in touch.’

  ‘They knew that much already.’

  ‘I decided if I told them the whole truth they’d start thinking she’d been murdered or something and kick up a fuss. I thought if I hinted she was off her trolley it would be even worse. You know what they’re like about things like that – there’s this big stigma about mental illness.’

  ‘So what do they think has happened? That she’s on a sort of extended holiday?’ Frances’s voice rose.

  ‘They got hold of the wrong end of the stick altogether. They seemed quite pleased. As if they thought good, this time she’s come to her senses, she’s getting herself sorted out.’

  ‘Gill!’

  ‘You’ve no idea how impossible it was. How dead it is here, I feel stifled, I can’t wait to leave. And now I feel incredibly guilty, and sorry for Mum. He’s so bad tempered, honestly, he never considers her feelings, just bangs on and on with his own point of view, never thinking good of anyone. It might have been different if I’d got Mum on her own.’

  ‘So, I assume you didn’t tell them about yourself.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The baby.’

  ‘Stop calling it a baby!’

  ‘Sorry, you didn’t tell them about the collection of cells. The accident.’ As soon as she spoke, Frances wished she had said nothing. ‘Gill?’

  But the connection, abruptly, had been severed.

  8

  Easter came early, at the beginning of the school holidays. This meant that as well as coping with the busy end of term, Frances had to make up beds and shop and cook for the holiday when her parents would arrive. Jack came home, giving her another hungry person to cater for. He went round the supermarket with her, pushing the trolley and throwing in whatever caught his fancy while she studied the shelves and cabinets, wondering what to have for lunch on Easter Sunday.

  She was much too busy to worry about Gillian, yet she did. Counting weeks, Frances realised that if Gillian was going to have an abortion she must have done it by now, or she was leaving it very late. She had not asked, hoping Gillian had changed her mind, not wanting to know if she had not.

  ‘I am really sorry,’ she said, calling her sister immediately after Gillian was home from Aberdeen. ‘I’m over sensitive about this sort of thing. But I shouldn’t have said what I did. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Forget it, I’ve got to sort this one out on my own, it’s not your problem.’

  Since then they had spoken only once, about their parents, Kate, work, but not about Gillian herself. This made a change but left a strange gap, and Frances was afraid to ask the question which might fill that gap. Then, with one day of term to go, when she was thinking only about the Infants Easter Parade clearing her desk, Gillian called.

  ‘Can I come up for Easter?’ she asked. ‘I’ll bed down on the floor, I don’t mind.’

  ‘Yes,’ Frances said, without considering where everyone was to sleep. ‘If you’re coming by train, remember they’ll be crowded.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ve booked first class, treating myself. Train gets in just after three tomorrow.’

  She was very sure of her welcome. ‘I’ll get Jack to meet you, Frances said. ‘How have you been?’

  ‘I’m Ok. I just want a rest.’

  ‘I can’t promise that – not with the boys around and Mum and Dad – ’

  ‘Och, you know what I mean.’

  ‘We’ll have time to talk, at least.’

  ‘Nothing to talk about now.’

  So Frances had her answer. The weight of this loss, that was not her loss, swelled. How heavy such sadness was, dragging everything down with it. ‘Take care then,’ she said, feeling helpless. ‘See you soon.’

  In the night Frances dreamed of the baby that was not to be called a baby, the little collection of cells formed to no purpose and now dispersed. In the dream it was not Gillian but Frances herself who was pregnant, and the sister she walked with, talking of whether the baby would be born or not, was Susan. This was a young Susan with shoulder length hair and that light quick way of talking so that you had to listen hard to make out the words. Only her sisters heard everything Susan said, attuned to he
r from childhood.

  Frances did not recognise the garden she was walking in: it was sunny, with flowers shoulder high in deep borders on either side of a narrow path, blooming scarlet, pink and white. She knew it though, knew she was at home there. Some great worry had been lifted: she had decided to keep the baby. Susan was saying yes, it was the right thing to do, it was what she had done. Frances woke with a start, wondering where Susan’s baby was, not realising it was Kate.

  Gillian was awake at five and got up at six, not liking the company of her own thoughts and wanting the day to begin. It would be long: she had a lot of work to clear before she could leave for the weekend. The best way to avoid thinking was to work hard and be with other people, Gillian believed, so she had been working long hours recently. Unlike Frances, she did not dream of babies, or that she was still pregnant.

  Just before she left work on Thursday, Richie, who with his partner Rose owned the company, came in to tell Lynn and Gillian that it looked as if the San Francisco contract might fall through. ‘There’s a problem,’ he said. ‘One of the major sponsors has pulled out.’

  He stayed for a while, perched on the corner of Lynn’s desk, explaining the downturn in the US economy, the sponsor’s share price falling. … Neither Lynn nor Gillian was really listening. They tended to listen only to the first five minutes of anything Richie said. After that they drifted off as he digressed and expanded. He was content to have a debate with himself as long as there was an audience.

  This time, looking at each other, they raised eyebrows and made despairing faces. No San Francisco, Lynn’s expression said, and Gillian’s too, though what she was thinking was – I’m free, I’m qualified and experienced – I can do anything I like. When Richie finally drifted back to his own office, Lynn exclaimed,

  ‘Sod that. What’s really going on do you think?’

  Gillian shrugged. ‘Don’t know and don’t care. At the moment.’

  ‘You coming for a drink?’

  ‘I’ve got to pack up. Going north tomorrow.’