by Beth Morrey
I turned to Angela, who looked embarrassed. ‘Thank you,’ I whispered. ‘This is perfect.’ And she ducked her head, grabbed a passing Otis, and made a show of rubbing chocolate off his face.
Melanie and Octavia approached, both flushed and slightly tipsy.
‘Mum, I’m so sorry but we’ve got to go. We’re moving tomorrow and have to finish packing up. What a lovely lunch.’ Mel stared at me appraisingly. ‘You look great.’
I patted my hair. ‘Thank you. And thank you both for coming. I really had no idea.’
Octavia grinned and hugged me and they both turned to leave. But as they got to the door, Mel swung back, all at once self-conscious and determined.
‘That letter you sent, last year. I just wanted to say … It meant a lot. I never knew you felt that way, but I’m glad you told me. And glad things seem to be changing.’ She gestured towards the assembled group, still laughing and carousing. ‘I’m happy for you,’ she said. ‘You’ve got some nice friends.’ She reached out her hand to me and I took it in both my own.
‘More than nice,’ I said, squeezing. ‘More than nice.’
Chapter 39
Melanie and I had our big row on my seventy-eighth birthday. She came over to try and make a thing of it, but with Leo so recently gone I was in no mood to celebrate. Yet the occasion demanded some sort of marking, so instead of a party we had a fight. Emotions, noise, memories – just the wrong kind.
I watched her bustling around my pristine kitchen, quietly seething, then decided I didn’t want to keep quiet about it. Once again she was rabbiting on about this big house, how would I cope, and why didn’t I think about getting somewhere smaller. My house was the only link with Leo left, and she wanted me to offload it along with everything else that was precious to me. The rooms where Alistair and Arthur stayed, the attic full of my family, the garden I tended, the space where light pierced my heart for the first time since I lost my baby. So after glowering at her for a while as she cooked her silly quinoa, which wasn’t any kind of birthday dinner, I decided to make her as angry as I was.
‘It must be wonderful to be so sure of yourself, I’m sure Octavia enjoys it. No doubt you both have your eyes on such prime property. You probably think you’d be very comfortable here, but I’m not prepared to give it up just yet.’
Mel swung round, dark green eyes glinting. ‘What on earth are you suggesting?’
I shrugged. ‘Oh, get the tiresome mother to shuffle off and make way for your new London lives. I’m sure I’ll be fine in some shabby little flat while you play Lady and Lady in your Stoke Newington palace.’
‘How dare you? The very idea of it! Octavia and I are happy in Cambridge, thank you very much. We have no desire to live in this old wreck.’
‘Oh, a wreck, is it? Then it should suit me very well, since I’m such a crumbling old vessel.’
Mel snorted. ‘Oh, come off it. I just want you to be comfortable, and this house is … unmanageable.’
‘And we all know how you like to manage things.’
‘That’s not fair. I only want what’s best for you …’ she tailed off, aware how trite that sounded.
‘What would be best for me is if you just leave me alone. All … this’ – I gestured to the quinoa, which smelled of very little – ‘nonsense. Leave it. Take it home to Octavia. I don’t want it. I’m fine on my own. I don’t want you.’
She flung a wooden spoon on the table and stood with her hands on her hips. ‘No, you don’t, do you? You never did, in fact.’
I didn’t want to continue the conversation, but we were wrestling on a precipice, and the momentum was carrying us over, even though this would end badly, disastrously. The air crackled with it. I licked my lips, which felt dry and sore.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You never wanted me. You only wanted Dad, and Ali. And Bertie.’
It was like a firework had gone off in the room, whizzing and cannoning around, enveloping us in the aftershock. My chest was tight, my field of vision narrowed until all I could see was her unshed tears and hunched shoulders as she recoiled from her own blow. Bertie, Bertie, Bertie. I hardly ever said his name except in my head, all the time, an echo in an ancient buried cave. Now Mel had lit a match and revealed the walls were decorated with endless tiny handprints. That spark was all I needed to send me over the edge.
‘Get out.’ It came as a hoarse whisper, out of my mouth before I knew it. ‘And don’t come back.’
She slumped. ‘I’m sorry … I didn’t mean … Sibyl told me … before she died. I don’t think she knew what she was saying. She said … your mother told her.’
‘I don’t care. Get out. You’re right, I never wanted you. So you can go.’ The thrill of saying it was somehow purifying. The rage finally had a channel, and it was going full tilt. ‘Go on, go!’
She was still for a minute, then picked up a tea towel and arranged it neatly on the bar of the Aga. She took the pot off the stove and set it in the sink, which sizzled slightly on impact. The clock ticked.
‘I said, go.’ I couldn’t resist twisting the knife. It felt awful, which was better than nothing.
She turned to me, breathing slowly and evenly. I loathed her self-possession. Where did it come from? I could barely keep myself in check – she had to leave before I lost control.
‘I’m going. But I just want you to know. What you did … it wasn’t wrong. Sibyl said you never forgave yourself but … there was nothing to forgive. You shouldn’t blame yourself.’
This was worse than anything else she could have said. The anger overflowed and erupted out of the dark corner where it lurked, ready to scorch everything in its path. I got to my feet, unsteadily, placing both palms on the kitchen table.
‘I don’t blame myself,’ I said shakily. ‘But I do blame you.’
Her brow furrowed. ‘What does it have to do with me? I don’t understand.’
‘When you were born.’ I made sure to enunciate every syllable. ‘You weren’t him.’
She backed away towards the door, eyes wide, then grabbed her coat with shaking hands, not bothering to put it on, picked up her bag and turned the latch on the door. For a second she leaned her forehead against it, then pulled back and looked me in the eye.
‘Happy Birthday,’ she said, and then she was gone.
I ate the quinoa, which tasted how it smelled, and sat drinking the red wine Mel brought with her, shivering in my bare living room and deliberately not thinking of anything at all. The cave was dark and empty again, and I could almost ignore the echo if I put the radio on, or had another glass, or scrubbed the Aga, which was flecked with those stupid grains. By the time the phone call came my hands were cracked with bleach and my head was fuzzy, but when I answered I could tell she was as drunk as I was.
‘Don’t hang up,’ she said. I didn’t say anything, but didn’t put the phone down either. Suddenly I didn’t have the energy any more. The anger had found its outlet and now there was nothing left.
‘I just wanted to say I’m sorry. Again. I shouldn’t have said anything, not my business, it was wrong of me to bring it up. But I wish you … had told me … I wish you … would say …’
But I couldn’t. Like Leo couldn’t, or wouldn’t. Regard, not love. ‘Mother, we all know there’s very little you love about me.’ So I sat there in silence listening to the catch in her breath, looking at my empty glass, until I heard the click as she quietly put the phone down, then the dial tone that just went on and on.
Chapter 40
23B Garrod Street,
Cambridge
15th May 2016
Dear Melanie,
Such a strange way to begin a letter, when I’ve never really treated you so. You were never ‘dear’ to me, were you? From the beginning, I acted as though you were an aberration, and I suppose in a way you were, because you weren’t Bertie.
What is so painful to me is that you knew it. So I am doubly guilty. You said I shouldn’t blame myself, but a l
ifetime of blame is hard to shake off, and it tends to spill over into other things. Into blaming you. I treated you as though you were somehow complicit, which of course is absurd. What I said to you that day was unforgivable, and I said it because I was angry – so very, very angry – with myself, with your father, with life itself. But not with you.
I’m not angry any more. I’m sad, and sorry, and I know I should have been a better mother to you, my Melanie, instead of being the mourning mother of Bertie. When I saw you today, standing with Octavia, I felt very glad that you have managed to find the kind of straightforward happiness that eluded me.
But getting Bobby – that ridiculous, beribboned hound who very nearly ruined your wedding – has opened up something in me. It’s a beautifully uncomplicated, direct relationship, unhindered by dark secrets or lopsided requirements. We both need something from each other, and we’re both giving it. So far it’s proved wonderfully beneficial. I wish I could have been as open with you, my dear.
Congratulations on your marriage. You have my blessing, and were he able to give it, you would have your father’s too. Not that you need it. You are your own woman, and anyone would be fortunate to call you their wife, or their daughter.
I hope that one day you will forgive me. Not just for those words, but for everything else.
With my love,
Your mother
Chapter 41
‘And so the upshot is, I looked at the budgets and I’m afraid I just can’t make it work. I can pay you to the end of the month, of course, and I hope you’ll come in until then but I understand if you’d rather not, under the circumstances … I’m so sorry.’
I didn’t really hear her at first, busy admiring my new hair in the darkened window that lined one wall of the reception. But gradually I began to appreciate Deirdre’s remorseful expression, hands twisting in her lap just like Jette’s used to in the cellars. Luó; to untie, release. They were letting me go. Seeing Deirdre’s distress, I made sure to say that I understood and that it was completely fine; in fact I would appreciate the extra time to myself. Then I picked up my bag and left before she could see my face fall.
When the shock subsided, I tried to look on the bright side. The extra money had been very welcome, but it wasn’t as if I was entirely unoccupied – I still had Otis to look after, and my friends, and of course Bobby. There was plenty to be grateful for. So I went and met Angela for lunch and she was gratifyingly irate, launching into one of her favourite rants about cuts, while I nibbled my salad and tried to stay positive, looking at my pearl bracelet as it caught the light of the spring sunshine pouring through the window of our café.
‘Anyway, you could get another job,’ concluded Angela, opening up her sandwich and systematically removing chunks of gherkin.
I paused, my fork halfway to my mouth. ‘Not at my age! I’m eighty, for heaven’s sake. Who gets a new job at eighty?’
‘Who gets one at seventy-nine? You did it before, and now you know that computer system whatsit. See, you can teach an old dog new tricks!’ chirruped Angela, through a mouthful of crisps.
I laughed. ‘I think I’ll stick to looking after Bobby and Otis.’
‘Well, about that.’ A crisp fell to the floor and Angela dived after it, but before she ducked under the table I saw a flicker of guilt flash across her face. ‘I’ve managed to get Otis into an after school club, he’s been moaning because all his friends go, and they had a space.’ She came up from under the table. ‘It’ll free me up now I’ve got more work on. He starts next week. Stop me pestering you all the time.’ Angela babbled on, avoiding my eyes, but when she finally lifted her head, I found I couldn’t look at her, instead pushing rocket leaves around my plate, hunting for the olives.
‘Well, that’s nice. He’ll enjoy being with his friends.’ She was right; he didn’t want to be with an old biddy like me, making twig houses for bugs. So that was the library and Otis gone, all in one morning.
‘You’ll still see him at weekends,’ offered Angela. ‘And there’s always the school holidays.’
Ah yes. The holidays. I found a last piece of mayonnaise-drenched chicken and speared it.
‘Speaking of which,’ she continued, ‘did Sylvie tell you, she’s off to France for the summer?’
My dismay came crashing back. ‘The whole summer?’
‘Yes, her mother has to have an operation, and she’s going to stay with her afterwards, help her out.’ Angela reached across the table to touch the back of my hand but it was more than I could bear so I moved it away, wiping my mouth with my napkin.
‘I thought her brother lived in France?’
‘He does, but he’s got too much on, apparently. Typical.’
‘Oh dear, her poor mother.’ I felt guilty that my first concern was my own loss, and envy of this off-stage presence who could summon Sylvie and be with her for a whole sun-soaked summer. If I had an operation, would Melanie come and tend me at my bedside? Of course she would, and probably Octavia too. Though they would both drive me mad. We’d come a long way since my mother marched for women’s rights, but we still did the tending, on the whole.
The library, Otis, Sylvie. I sensed my fragile house of cards wobbling, and fingered my pearls nervously, remembering my New Year’s resolution. Angela still wasn’t smoking. She seemed much better though, and I was glad. She deserved a happy life, not one tinged with regret.
I went home, mainly to enjoy Bobby’s vociferous greeting – she needed me, and I needed a reminder that someone did. But rather than hang around the house twitching, I decided to go for a walk, get us both a bit of fresh air. Once we were out, I found myself wandering towards Sylvie’s house, and discovered her in her front garden, pruning the parterre. Seeing us, she ceased her ferocious clipping and beamed.
‘Missy! How nice, come in for a coffee. I’ve just made some courgette cake in defiance of the shortage.’
‘What about Aphra?’ I gripped Bobby’s lead.
‘Don’t worry, she’s off somewhere butchering small creatures.’ Sylvie threw down her secateurs on the front door step and led me in, where we were greeted by Decca and Nancy. They bore Bobby off for canine mischief, leaving us alone in the kitchen, which as usual smelt of a thousand indulgences.
An enormous sponge squatted on the peninsula, topped in a cream frosting and carelessly scattered with minuscule ringlets of lemon zest. Sylvie picked up a silver cake-shovel and plunged it into the middle, cutting me a huge slice, which she set in front of me with a spoon. ‘Tuck in.’ For a while we sat in silence, preserved in a kind of reverence for the cake, the like of which I had never tasted before. Each bite bounced around my mouth like an arcade ball, cherished by every taste bud. That hint of lemon sourness cutting through the sweetness of the frosting, its dense grittiness caressing my tongue. Sylvie was a genius, everything she touched turned to ambrosia. I noticed Bobby had re-joined us and was drooling at my feet. Usually I would have given her a morsel but this was too delicious to waste.
‘God, I’m good,’ said Sylvie, licking her spoon and sitting back on her stool with a sigh of satisfaction. I nodded, my mouth full of sponge. Bobby pawed at me, her claws scraping my leg and I shook my head at her, still chewing and relishing, so she scampered off to rejoin Nancy and Decca, casting me a slightly truculent look as she left.
‘So, what’s new?’ Sylvie poured a cup of coffee from the cafetière and pushed it towards me.
‘I’ve lost my job at the library,’ I mumbled, scraping up a last spoonful.
Her mouth opened in surprise. ‘No! How on earth?’
‘Budget cuts. Deirdre was very apologetic.’
‘Merde. You poor thing, are you sad about it?’
‘Yes, a bit.’ I paused. ‘I’ll miss having somewhere I need to be.’
Sylvie looked at me over the rim of her coffee cup. ‘Hmmm. Talking of which, there’s something I’ve been meaning to say. I saw Desiderata Haber last week—’
‘Oh, the Habers were so lovely
. Their poor son.’
‘Yes, poor Sam, hopelessly indulged by loving and in-love parents,’ scoffed Sylvie picking up our plates and walking over to the dishwasher with them. She continued with her back to me. ‘Anyway, we got talking and Desi said … I mean, she mentioned – I hope you don’t mind my asking …’
‘What?’ I spied a speck of cake on the peninsula and picked it up between my thumb and forefinger.
‘Why didn’t you tell me about Leo? I had no idea.’
I could hear the dogs scuffling in the living room, faint growls and whines as they wrestled and rolled. Even without seeing her I recognized Bobby’s voice amongst them. The crumb of cake fell from my finger and I stared at it, fighting a rising nausea, the sickly sweet smell of the frosting assaulting my nostrils. I’d had too much. I could feel Sylvie watching me, and risked a sideways glance. She looked concerned, holding the cake shovel in one hand and a tea towel in the other. Still I said nothing.
‘Missy. I didn’t mean to pry. I’m just … so sorry.’
‘No need. It’s fine. I— I … must be going. I said I’d take Otis to the playground this afternoon.’ I tipped myself off the stool, stumbling and fumbling for my bag and Bobby’s lead. ‘Thank you for the cake, it was delicious. I must get the recipe from you some time.’ Gabbling, I just needed to get out of there before I embarrassed myself further. Hearing the clink of her lead, Bobby scrambled back into the kitchen, nose twitching. With shaking hands, I clipped it on.
‘Oh dear, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean … I just … Please don’t go.’
‘I must.’ A solitary tear fell, but was absorbed into Bobby’s thick fur. Head down, I made my way along the corridor to the front door, feeling Sylvie and her pity behind me.
‘I shouldn’t have asked,’ I heard her say. ‘But I just wanted you to know – if you ever need to talk …’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘I must go.’ I grappled at the latch and wrenched the door open, feeling the bile rising in my throat. Lugging Bobby along, we stumbled down the steps and between the neat hedges, where I could see the early weeds of spring poking through the soil. Hearing the door close behind me, I gagged and yanked Bobby’s lead. We made it around the corner before I vomited, a congealed yellow custard that projected from the back of my throat, splattering onto the pavement, where Bobby sniffed it cautiously and looked up at me, her expression alert and curious.
