by Claire Allan
I wanted to know as much about him as I could. What he did. What he liked. How he spent his free time. What books he read and what movies he watched. Was he excited about the baby his wife was carrying? The baby who’d be mine. Would he have been a hands-on kind of dad? Was he one of those ‘new men’ types – not afraid to change a nappy or push a pram?
I thought I might ask her a little about him when I next saw her. Slip it into the conversation casually. ‘Your husband must be excited?’ I’d ask. It’s possible she’d offer me something to go on. A little insight into his life and his personality.
He’d looked like a good man. Peter had been a good man. He’d been a good husband to me. He’d have made a brilliant father to our children, if life hadn’t been so cruel.
God never gives you any more than you can handle, I reminded myself. He must have thought I could handle an awful lot. Peter – he wasn’t up to God’s test.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Eli
My mother reacts just as I’d expect when I tell her Martin’s going back to London. She looks at me as if I’ve lost the plot, even though all along she’s been assuring me she doesn’t think there’s any truth in those horrible notes.
‘Are you sure you don’t want him to stay?’ she says. ‘Did he say something to you to influence you to let him go?’
‘No, Mum,’ I say. ‘I just realise if I trust him I have to prove that I trust him and this is one way to do that.’
‘Hmm.’ She eyes me. ‘He should be the one proving things to you, though.’
‘I think we both need to work on that and let the police work on finding out the truth of what’s going on.’
‘And being here, without him, while all this is going on? Are you not scared?’
I am, of course I am, but I don’t want to let whoever’s behind this win. I don’t want them to know they’re scaring me.
‘Sure, but I have you,’ I say with a forced smile. ‘Haven’t you always kept me safe? Haven’t you always told me that a mama bear protects her baby bears? You’ll stay with me, won’t you?’
My mother, hearing the phrase she’d quoted to me every time I felt scared as a child, can’t help but smile back.
‘Of course I’ll stay, but I’m not sure how that mama bear story holds up now that I’m older and have a dodgy knee.’
I see it then. A chink in her perfect armour. Fear, perhaps. I suppose fear of what’s happened is natural. I’m shaken by it myself. My mother had been downstairs, close to it, when it happened. She’d run out, fearless, I’d thought, to see who was there. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, she was more aware that there could actually have been an intruder inside the house. There would’ve been little she could’ve done to defend herself, or me.
‘Well, I suppose, then, we’re in this together, Mum. There will have to be a bit of mutual protecting.’
I pull her into a hug, allow myself to melt into the soft fabric of her jumper, the scent of her perfume mixed with talcum powder. The scent of home.
‘Look,’ I say, pulling back, ‘why don’t we do something nice to distract ourselves? You’ve been on at me to do some shopping for this baby. Why don’t we go together? Today. To Mothercare. You can help me to look at a crib and maybe a pram. I know nothing about this stuff and I’d really value your opinion.’
I force enthusiasm into my voice. I don’t really want to go baby shopping. Martin and I have already more or less decided on what pram, sorry, travel system, we’re going to get. Well, Martin has. I just nodded when he showed me one he said rated highly in Which? magazine that was considered to offer value and style. I hope my mother will jump at the idea of coming with me. That we can share some lovely mother/daughter time, where we don’t have to talk about everything that’s happened over the last few days.
‘Ah, pet, I don’t know,’ my mother says. ‘I didn’t sleep well last night and I might not be the best company.’
Perhaps irrationally, I find myself welling up at her answer. I’d expected her to react with enthusiasm at the notion of going shopping with me. She was always trying to drag me round the shops in Belfast. Admittedly, she normally likes to stay close to home when she comes to visit me – always citing that our house is like a country escape and she’d prefer not to get caught up in the traffic and noise of a city when it was such a big part of her daily landscape at home. But I really thought she’d be itching to get out baby shopping. I was relying on her to be extra excited about it to gee me along.
She must see the disappointment in my face.
‘Look,’ she says, ‘here’s an idea. How about you come home with me for a bit? You’re off for a couple of days. It might help you to get away from all this for a while. Get your head round it. We can shop tomorrow together. There’s a lovely new coffee place close to Victoria Square. And they have the Mamas & Papas store there too, as well as some lovely little baby boutiques. We can sit in front of the fire tonight, with a mug of hot chocolate, made just how you like it, with marshmallows and everything. It’ll give us the chance to have a good chat, just like old times.’
There’s a certain appeal to it. There is, if I’m honest, a massive appeal to it. To escape back to Belfast where I’d spent my teenage years, to the familiar sounds and smells of home. My old bedroom isn’t quite how I left it when I moved out, but my mother’s made sure it’s still very much my room. Yes, there’s a double bed where the single one once was, and the Take That posters aren’t on the walls any more, but she’s got framed pictures of me, my friends, and Martin and I hung on the wall.
My mother’s living room is the perfect haven in a busy city. Even though her house is close to Queen’s University, once she pulls the heavy curtains across the bay window in the evening, it feels like a cocoon of safety. I hadn’t been a teenager who routinely disappeared up to my room and away from my mother. When my friends went home, I’d often come and sit with her in front of the fire, both of us talking about our days. Those were good times. Innocent times.
And I miss them, want to relive just a little of what that was like, so I find myself nodding to my mother and saying that sounds like a brilliant idea. She rewards me with a broad smile and I leave her in my living room, which suddenly feels sterile in comparison, and go upstairs to pack an overnight bag.
Martin’s standing by the bed, looking at his open case.
‘I’m going to Mum’s for a day or two,’ I tell him. ‘Just for a change of scenery. After everything …’
He looks at me and nods. ‘I understand. I feel awful that you’ve been through this. That I wasn’t here when that rock came through the window.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ I tell him, even though I can’t say with absolute certainty that it wasn’t. ‘Did you confirm your travel arrangements?’
‘Flying out of Belfast tonight at eight,’ he says. ‘But only if you’re sure?’
I’m as sure as I’m likely to be, so I nod.
‘I can be back if you need me, at any time. I can fly back tomorrow if you want. Fly out again on Tuesday. Whatever you need to make this work.’
I know that’s not true. After all, he couldn’t get an earlier flight back this time and even then he was delayed, but I had to believe his intentions were honest. I had to try and trust him.
‘I’ll be fine with Mum,’ I say and I kiss him lightly on the lips.
He bends down and kisses my stomach, whispers that he loves our baby and that he loves me. I ignore the uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach and start packing.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Eli
After I’ve said goodbye to Martin – a strange goodbye in which we tried to pretend that everything was normal – I send a quick message to Rachel, telling her I’ll be in Belfast in case she needs me for anything work-related.
Martin always jokingly says I’m married to the job and not him. I always reply that at least my job involves real people and not just drawings of buildings, and then we pull silly faces at ea
ch other until we both admit we’re borderline workaholics and unlikely to change.
Until the baby is born, that is.
Then, well, we don’t really quite know what ‘then’ will entail. That’s still up for discussion. I’ve no doubt it’ll be hard for me to step away from work for my maternity leave. Dealing with palliative care is much less intimidating to me than dealing with a new baby. Still, I push that thought to the back of my head as I send the message to Rachel. I’ll deal with it – we’ll deal with it – when the time comes.
It’s not long before she messages me back:
Delighted you’re getting away, even if only for a day or two. You need to rest up. All will be good here. Xx
I smile at my phone, unplug my charger from beside the bed and toss it into my case. Glancing around my room, I’m happy that I have everything I need. My mother’s waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs.
‘Are we taking both cars?’ I ask. ‘That way I can just drive back when I need to come home. I prefer driving now to the bus.’
My mother’s face drops. ‘Here was me hoping we’d have a girly road trip.’
‘Ah, Mum,’ I say, ‘sure, you’ll have me all to yourself, in your own space and everything, when we get to Belfast.’
She smiles weakly. The kind of smile that sends offspring guilt into overdrive.
‘Okay,’ she says. ‘I suppose. But promise me, if you get to Belfast before me, don’t go upstairs. I’ve a surprise for you and I want to see your face when you see it.’
I’m intrigued and although the rebellious part of me is tempted to look anyway, I know I’ve never been able to bluff my mother. She’ll know straight away if I’ve had a sneak peek. I promise her I’ll wait.
‘You’re a good girl, Eliana Johnston,’ she says.
‘Hughes,’ I remind her. ‘Hughes.’
*
I never feel odd letting myself into my mother’s house. Martin says he thinks it strange that I still refer to my mother’s house as home or ‘the house’ as if it were a constant anchoring point in my life, which, of course, it totally is.
‘This is your home now,’ he’d tease, gesturing his arms around the expanse of our kitchen diner. ‘We’ve done a lot to make sure it’s your home. Why do you keep harking back to your mum’s?’
‘This is my home, too,’ I’d told him.
It isn’t as easy as he thinks to break ties from the house in which I’d spent my formative years. I’d lived here until I was twenty-seven – seeing no reason to add rent bills to the cost of studying. Whereas Martin had flown the family nest at the first chance, moving from Derry to London to study at eighteen. His parents had downsized once it was clear he had no intention of moving back in, so he didn’t have a pull to his teenage bedroom, the kitchen he’d learned to cook in or the living room he’d sat in with his friends.
While waiting for my mother, I make the place as cosy as I can. I switch on the Tiffany lamps in the hall and living room. Pull the curtains across to block the cold, wet evening. I switch her heating on to full power and light the fire she’s prepared in the hearth. Then I make a pot of tea and am just about to start rifling through the biscuit tin to find something that appeals to my churning stomach, when I hear my mother’s key turn in the lock.
‘I’m in the kitchen,’ I call to her. ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea.’
‘Can I show you my surprise first?’ she calls from the hall. ‘Come upstairs! I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve done a little something for you and I really hope you’ll appreciate it.’
I follow her upstairs, towards what had always been the spare room. Too small to be much of a guest room, it normally holds all the bits and pieces Mum can’t really find use for elsewhere. Things like boxes of my old clothes and toys that she can never bring herself to get rid of. I sort of expect that when she opens the door, I’ll see that she’s sorted through some of my old things and pulled out a few choice items for me to take back to Derry.
What I’m not expecting is that an almost fully decorated nursery will greet me. I gasp as I’m met with a room decorated in neutral hues of cream and beige. A white cot and matching dresser with changing table. A rocking chair padded with soft cream cushions, lined curtains reaching down to the floor. There’s a rug in the shape of a teddy bear on the floor and in one corner are at least five boxes of nappies stacked on top of each other. A number of other shopping bags sit around the room. It’s too much to take in and if I’m honest, I don’t know how to react.
My head’s screaming at me to thank my mother. To tell her she’s a star and that this is beyond lovely, but my heart? My heart is sore, jealous, angry that someone else has put together a nursery for my baby before I’ve had the chance to do it myself. I know this makes me an ungrateful brat.
As I try to find the words that won’t cut my mother in half with hurt, she starts to speak.
‘I probably went overboard, but once I started, well, I got a bit carried away. And I thought it’d be lovely for my grandchild to have a place to stay when you come to visit – a room of her own. It’s been so long since you’ve been up, what with you being so unwell, and I didn’t want to trouble you with it. It’s mostly second-hand. So don’t worry that I spent too much. It’s all good quality, though, and I cleaned it all thoroughly.’
I’m still staring, tears now sliding down my face. I wonder if my mother’ll equate them with gratitude. She continues to speak.
‘You won’t remember, but when you were a baby, we had so little. I was never able to decorate a nursery for you. It wasn’t quite as bad as having you sleep in a drawer, but it wasn’t far off. Just you and me. In a bedsit in Paisley, barely room to walk around the place once the crib and my bed were in the room. Most of your clothes in those early months were from charity shops. I suppose I wanted to do something more for my grandchild, now that I can.’
I look at her face, her expression one of sorrow, and I feel guilty for feeling cross with her. I have to bury these feelings. I smile through my tears, hug her and tell her I love her very much. It’s not until I’m alone in my old room that I properly cry over the fact that my mother seems to care about my baby more than I do.
I put my hand to my stomach, which is churning as usual, despite me having taken my anti-sickness tablet, and I will my baby to kick or wriggle or respond to my touch in some way to tell me not to worry. To tell me the love will come later. That it’s fine. That we’ll work it out. The two of us. Just like we’ll work it out, the three of us. The baby, Martin and me.
My baby doesn’t move, though. She seems to be sleeping, blissfully unaware of my inner turmoil.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Louise
It was a shame I couldn’t have brought my baby back to the house I’d lived in with Peter. Everything had been there and ready for her. But it would’ve been much, much too risky.
I just knew she was going to be a girl. I could tell by the shape of her mother’s bump, sitting high and to the front. I sat with my wedding ring, which I’d put in my jewellery box six months before, on a piece of yarn and I’d let it swing over the palm of my hand. The first time, of course, it had swung back and forth and back and forth, and I’d whispered my baby’s name to the wind. My first baby. Who never had a chance. Gone before my stomach had even started swelling.
It was a heartache I’d experience again and again: eleven weeks, six weeks, eight weeks, twenty-one weeks. Thirty-three weeks. The one that broke me. Totally. Twenty-three weeks had been cruel. Thirty-three had been devastating. I’d been so very sure that time. Had felt his kicks. His wriggles. His hiccups. I’d felt as if I knew him. Then he was gone. It had broken both me and everything around me.
The wedding ring I’d been swinging had stilled for just a moment, and I’d closed my eyes and thought of my new baby. It had started to swirl round and round. A girl. She was going to be a girl, just as I’d thought.
I felt such a wave of joy as I’d sat there in the room I’d prepare
d for him, my baby boy. A sense that finally, my prayers were being answered. I’d looked at the cot. The cream wallpaper. The matching yellow curtains. The rug on the floor in the shape of a teddy bear. At the Babygros in white and lemon and pale green folded on the chest of drawers. The packets of nappies. The changing mat, still in its wrapper, the breastfeeding pillow behind my back on the rocker. Yes, it was a shame my new baby would never see that room, just as my son hadn’t.
But there was no way no hide a baby there. Not in that house. Not in that neighbourhood. Not in that city, where everyone knew everyone else’s business and thought nothing of sharing it with every Tom, Dick and Harry they met on the street.
I’d already been the subject of enough gossip. ‘Isn’t that the poor woman whose baby died?’ Their whispers were never quite quiet enough and most of them asked their insensitive questions to their insensitive friends with all the subtlety of a brick hurled through a window.
I’d come to recognise the sad eyes. Heads nodding in my direction. The swivel of eyes towards me before the heads bowed together and the whispering continued. ‘That poor woman.’
Those who’d had the guts to speak to me weren’t much better. People who barely spoke to me before now came over with their faux sympathy. They weren’t really sorry for my troubles, of course. They were just relieved that my troubles weren’t theirs. It was evident in the way they held on to the handles of their prams a little tighter.
The unthinkable had happened to me and they thanked God every day that it hadn’t happened to them.
And then, to rub salt in the wounds, the one person who could even begin to understand what I was going through, left me. Peter. My husband. The father to the children we’d never hold.
I can’t deal with this any more. I’ve tried to understand. I’m grieving, too, but you’re unreachable. You seem to want to make it your life’s work to be as miserable as possible.
