by CE Rose
It was my own fault really; I’d set myself up to be a successful mother, just like I had been a successful law student, a successful pupil, then barrister-at-law. I hadn’t expected failure; I hadn’t anticipated being crap at pregnancy, even worse at giving birth. But then again, I hadn’t foreseen my mum dying, when somehow I should have known.
‘You could always use formula, Ali.’
Miles’s comment broke my thoughts. He’d said it before, many times. And even though I hated those tempting words, I got where he was coming from: he needed a break from the stress as much as I did. But if I couldn’t feed my own child, then what was I good for? Breast was best; it was hammered in by the midwives, the books, the smiling poster women with those damned smiling teeth. Besides, I’d feel even worse if I gave in and exposed my baby to increased risks of heart disease, obesity, diabetes, stunted growth, low IQ or whatever the current research implied. A load of middle-class propaganda, probably; I had survived with good health until now; trends changed all the time. Had Mum breast-fed me? Was I dragged out by forceps? Two things I hadn’t asked her. Too late to enquire now.
‘Why didn’t you ring me?’ Miles asked again.
‘How did you find out?’
‘Laura called me,’ he muttered eventually. ‘She thought you seemed strange on the phone. She’s worried about you, Ali. Quite rightly. Eve’s dead. It’s horrendous, unbelievable. Of course I came home immediately.’
I glanced at my husband then. His blond hair was dishevelled; he looked boyish and vulnerable and dazed. He’d got on nicely with my mum, always said that if that’s how I’d look in thirty years, he’d done pretty well. And the shock was understandable. Both his parents were fit and healthy, his mother Madeleine especially, very much alive on the telephone and colluding about me every night.
‘What did Laura say?’ I asked, not really wanting to know, but wondering if she’d told Miles something she hadn’t mentioned to me. She’d said I seemed ‘strange’. An echo of my bloody mother-in-law. Wasn’t I entitled to be strange today? Odd, peculiar, downright insane if I wanted? Even on a good day, I didn’t have Laura’s talent for letting out emotion, for ‘working problems through’ and exorcising them. That just wasn’t me. Of all people, my sister knew that, didn’t she?
Miles didn’t reply. The silence felt uncomfortable, so I filled it in.
‘Has she spread the word, from the chief executive to the toilet attendant? Tweeted the news and updated LinkedIn? Condolences will be flowing even as we speak…’
I didn’t add that it was a relief she lived so far away; I didn’t want her telling the postman or the newsagent or the whole bloody street about my bereavement when I still hadn’t grasped it myself.
I was being harsh, of course. Communication was Laura’s way of coping. Mine was the opposite. I’d been loath to share the dreadful news with my husband, for God’s sake. How could two siblings be so different?
Closing my eyes, I sighed. Would she phone me back or should I call her? We spoke rarely and only for a purpose, Laura’s purpose: ‘What have you bought Mum for Christmas? We don’t want to duplicate. I’m at Mum’s for a week. Will I see you?’ And men – weirdly, she seemed to want to talk to me about men. If a new boyfriend was on the horizon she’d call, even asking my opinion: ‘He’s Jewish, he’s a ginger, he’s black; he earns less than me, he’s married. Does that matter?’
An honest answer wasn’t required.
Sometimes I wished she would ask about my world, about Joe or even Miles. Yet part of me understood. What interest did a baby hold for Laura, or our strait-laced legal lives, for that matter? She’d stomped off to Canada at eighteen to nanny some spoilt rich kids and had ended up at the top. An executive in a pharmaceuticals company, no less. I admired her tenacity, her efficiency, her lack of sentimentality. But occasionally a little attention, even praise, would have been nice.
How I had adored my big sister as a child. Yet still she’d left me. I sniffed at the thought. Our lives had changed today. Perhaps this would make us; give us a new reason to keep in touch.
Or maybe it would finally break us.
Chapter Four
Miles brought up brandies to our bedroom at nine.
He glanced at Joe, asleep in the carrycot by the side of our bed. ‘A thimbleful won’t hurt,’ he said with a small smile. He took an unsteady breath. ‘I need one too. A pretty large one, if I’m honest.’
I took the tumbler but didn’t drink. Instead, I inhaled the warm zest and asked my burning question: ‘Have you told Madeleine about Mum?’
He seemed surprised at the query. ‘No, not yet. There hasn’t been time to—’
‘Could we leave it for a while? I’m still getting used to it.’
‘Sure, but we do need to tell her soon, Ali. She’ll be devastated for you. You know how much she cares about you.’
His guileless face was a picture. ‘I know,’ I replied. ‘But there’s no need to spoil her and Henry’s holiday. Not yet. OK?’
An old image of Madeleine fired in, her brown irises loaded with concern. Not for her son, who’d just been admitted to hospital after crashing his car, but for me. An ironic recollection, considering today. It was swiftly followed by another more recent snapshot, but this time she was pitching and reeling, her hand to her cheek, those beautiful eyes stunned.
Pushing the uncomfortable memory away, I glanced at Miles. ‘Helplessness, terror. You know how that feels,’ I said. His expression was perplexed. ‘That’s what you said after you wrote off the Stag.’ I was saying the words but still couldn’t absorb them. ‘The hopeless, sliding moment before impact, then the terrifying collision itself. The sickening sound of crushing metal. Remember? That’s how you described it to me back then.’ I smiled thinly. ‘You walked out almost scot-free; I’ll never know how you managed it.’
He nodded apologetically. Then he pulled me into his arms and held me tightly. ‘I know; I was incredibly lucky. I’m so sorry about Eve.’
I almost cried then. It was lovely; the closest we’d been for weeks. The smell of his aftershave, the silkiness of his hair, the softness of his skin. Those old tender kisses. I missed all that.
The peal of my mobile broke the moment. It was Laura.
‘Oh God, what about Mum’s house?’ she asked, to the point as usual. ‘Is it secure? An empty building is a magnet for squatters.’
She catalogued her other concerns. The sudden thought of my mum’s absence made my heart thrash, yet my sister was thinking about practicalities: someone needed to turn off the water and the heating, make sure the windows were locked, throw out perishables, deal with the bins. I half listened and drifted, trying to breathe through the surge of anxiety.
‘The Lodge’ had been our childhood holiday home, a pretty, white-rendered bungalow in a small village called Horning on the River Bure. After five years of idyllic summers we’d abruptly stopped going and it was let out to holidaymakers. But when I was eighteen and left home for the University of Manchester, Mum suddenly decided to move from her beloved Sheffield to Norfolk, lock, stock and barrel.
I never got to the bottom of why she upped sticks and left all her siblings behind. She’d never settled in Horning during the Easter or summer vacations. She’d complained that the bungalow and its contents were old-fashioned and dank, the locals over inquisitive and she’d never got rid of the ‘damned smell’. But that autumn, she called my hall of residence telephone to tell me her plans.
‘Do you mind, love?’ she asked. ‘I know how attached you are to your bedroom and all your things, but I’ll rehouse them at The Lodge, I promise, and the journey isn’t too bad when you travel by train…’
A Liverpudlian boy – who wrote me exquisite poems – was waiting in my single bed, so I didn’t really absorb the shock of her words. ‘Not at all. Sounds brilliant. Go for it!’
By the time I’d reached my room, I found I was crying. I managed to hold back the deluge until my beau left, but in the following days I
was inconsolable. My flat mates thought I was crazy. Why cry over the sale of a house? It was only bricks and mortar after all, and maybe I would get some of the dosh. What they didn’t understand, because I hadn’t told them, was that it felt like the final goodbye to my dad. My brilliant, smiley, long-lost, handsome dad.
I tuned back into what Laura was saying and the penny finally dropped: I was the UK-based daughter; that’s why she’d called with her to-do list. Though Miles was watching, I couldn’t hold back my agitation. ‘I’ve just had a baby, Laura! I can’t simply drop everything and drive to Norfolk to sort out bloody bins. I’m still feeling…’
Did I really want to confess how bloody difficult I was finding motherhood? Not only to my businesslike sister, but to Madeleine, via her unwitting son-spy? I took a deep breath to settle the quaver in my voice, but Laura spoke first, her concerned tone catching me short.
‘I know it’s hard for you, Ali. It’s hard for us both. But we can’t just bury our heads. You see that, don’t you?’
I detected a sniff down the line.
‘But we have the Hagues to help us out, so there’s no need to dash down there. They’re desperate to do anything they can, but haven’t called you because they don’t want to—’
There it was again, like bloody Madeleine. Is Alison coping? Are you sure, darling? Ali’s not herself just now. You can see that, surely, Miles?
‘They don’t want to what?’ I demanded, a little too shrilly.
‘God, I don’t know, Ali. I have no idea, but people say that having a baby is really tough in the first few weeks. Tom and Joan never had kids either, so what do they know, but I think they’re just trying to be thoughtful by holding off.’
Embarrassed by my outburst, I said goodnight to Laura and ended the call. Tom and Joan Hague were an elderly couple who sounded out of place in Norfolk with their distinct Yorkshire accents. I didn’t know chapter and verse, but they’d both lived in Sheffield back in the day. Dad had been Tom’s accountant and they’d become good friends over the years. When Tom retired, he and Joan had moved to Horning, and it was they who’d told Dad about The Lodge when it came up for sale. The two oldies were part of my rose-tinted summers: helping Mr Hague clean his boat on the sparkling river cut; baking swollen fruit cake and scones with his straight-talking wife at their riverside thatched cottage.
‘Call me Auntie Joan,’ she’d said every holiday, but it had never felt right, so with a deep breath, I steeled myself to call ‘Mrs Hague’ and discuss water, refuse, perishables and heating.
It was answered after two rings. ‘Bureside 6275.’
It was Tom. I’d seen him at Mum’s in more recent times, but my mental image was how he’d appeared twenty-five years ago. Slim, handsome and dapper, he’d have been in his early fifties, but to me he’d seemed quite old, his teeth too white, his gaze resting on me for a beat too long for comfort. Touching my cheek, I remembered the soft tickle of his moustache. It had taken some time for me to warm to him and Joan, but then again, I’d been wary of everyone in those days.
‘Hello. It’s Ali.’ I swallowed. ‘Eve’s Ali. Could I speak to Mrs Hague please?’
‘Hello Alice, love. Will I do? Joan’s upstairs. She’s too upset to talk at the moment,’ he replied.
‘Yes, of course you’ll do.’
I was thrown from my questions about day-to-day mechanics. Mr Hague had always mistakenly called me Alice instead of Alison, but that wasn’t why I tensed. The old feeling of danger was growing, reinforced by his heavy sigh. I was going to be told things I didn’t want to hear.
There was a catch in his voice. ‘This is a terrible business, a terrible business. Your beautiful mum, our Eve. Far too young.’ He cleared this throat. ‘I’m still reeling if truth be told, so goodness knows how you’re feeling, but I thought it might help if I was your – well, sort of liaison officer, if you like. Save you from the upset of having to do it yourself. It certainly doesn’t hurt to be an ex-copper at times like this. What do you think, love? Save you that worry?’
Emotion burned behind my eyes. He’d always been kind, and his suggestion was exactly what I needed right now – someone to look after me. ‘Yes please. That would be great.’
‘Well, I’ll give you the bare bones, then you’ll know everything I do and that can be the end of it.’ He paused to blow his nose. ‘The other driver was a youth. Off for a day out to Great Yarmouth with his pals. The funfair’s my bet. Driving too fast, showing off… But here’s the thing, love. From the tyre marks and suchlike, it’s clear your mum came out of a side road into the path of his car. He tried to take evasive action, but he couldn’t help clipping her little Mini, which then went into a spin, so it’s doubtful the police will charge him. But that’s probably for the best, eh? I don’t need to tell you about the trauma of raking over things in court. The lads were shaken, none hurt. But the worst of it is…’
He took an audibly shaky breath. What could be worse than spinning in a car, waiting, petrified, for the final outcome? I was tempted to pass the phone to Miles, still by my side and silently listening. Even better, end the call. I’d done it at ten years of age, but covering my ears and refusing to listen wasn’t something I should do as a professional woman in my mid-thirties.
Mr Hague continued. ‘Well, while they were waiting for the police, recovery and so on, they sat on the grassy bank beneath the cherry trees, stretched out their legs and drank cans of beer. Seems they’d had them stashed in the boot for their day out. It may have been hot, but whatever happened to respect?’
I blew out the trapped air from my lungs. The triviality of someone else’s devastation. While Mum was clutching that damned brace and bleeding out, a group of young men were laughing and joking a stone’s throw away. And presumably there’d been a witness standing by, mentally recording each detail and gawping, perhaps even a little excited at the drama. That’s how life went. Like the mum who’d shaken the life from her baby. Another person’s tragedy, not mine.
I brought Tom back to the mundane. ‘So The Lodge; Laura and I—’
‘No need to worry about that, love. My legs aren’t what they used to be, but we’re only down the road and there’s also your mum’s cleaning girl and the gardener. They live in the village and both have keys. They’ll make sure everything’s sorted, look after the moggies and feed them. Look, I’ll let you go now, love. You’ll have the littl’un to see to.’
‘Thank you for everything. Bye.’
Turning away from Miles, I hitched down the bed and pulled the duvet over me. Though I was unbearably tired, my breath was shallow, my heart pounding again. God, Mum’s cats; I had completely forgotten about them. It was just one of the myriad of details I’d have to focus on. Of course they could live with us, but when I’d have the energy to drive over two hundred miles to collect them, I simply had no idea.
The next thing I heard was Joe grumbling in the dark. Shaking myself awake, I lifted him out of his carrycot. He abruptly stopped whinging and gazed at me expectantly. The surge of love was there, thank God.
I looked at the bedside clock. 1.03 am. Mum had been dead for twelve hours.
Chapter Five
The weekend passed, still and surreal; my mother was dead, but everything else stayed the same: Miles spent an inordinate time on his mobile; people smiled; children laughed; the neighbour said his cheery hello; the sun lit up the dust on every surface; the bathroom sink was smeared with toothpaste; the whole house needed a good hoovering and the huge tower of ironing seemed to glare.
When Monday arrived, Miles offered to stay home, but I knew he had commitments he couldn’t just ignore: court hearings, paperwork and conferences. He was finally at the point in his career where instructions from solicitors rolled in for him personally, so it was important to be consistent and reliable. And anyway, what difference would it make where he was? I was in the limbo between death and burial. Nothing felt solid or real. Perhaps if I’d seen Mum every day, or even every week, it might ha
ve been different. Like Charlie cat. I still peered through the kitchen window to see if she was hidden in the cat-mint, or opened the back door out of habit, almost calling her name. I still felt the slight breeze at the lounge or the kitchen entrance, expecting her to slink in. But I’d forget Mum was gone until a small Joe development reminded me: a smile that seemed to be more than just wind, the letter about immunisations. I must ask Mum… I wonder if Mum knows… I must tell Mum when she calls… Mum would find this funny…
That was when self-recrimination fired in. I’d cut her short the last time we talked. I’d ignored her other attempts to speak to me. She’d been due to visit on the Saturday; what on earth had been so important she’d needed to say it sooner?
* * *
Still in no man’s land on Tuesday, I met up with two mums I’d befriended on the maternity ward. Our friendship was in its infancy, and I suspected our tiny babies were all we had in common, but I enjoyed their company and chatter. I didn’t mention Mum. I knew it was probably irrational but I couldn’t face that old fear they’d judge me if I cried and think me unstable. Or, even worse, ostracise me.
We met in the Marie Louise gardens for a picnic. Karen struggled with a messy nappy, and as I passed her a wipe from my changing bag, I wondered if I looked or seemed any different. Could she tell that something terrible and irrevocable had happened in my life? Thank God I didn’t have to share my bereavement, not like at ten, when the teacher made an announcement to the whole form that ‘Alison Baker’s daddy has sadly died’. Perhaps she’d tried to be kind by her instruction to the children to ‘please be caring and sensitive to your little classmate’. But with me sat at my desk in the room? All eyes turned and ogling at me? Really? What had the woman been thinking?
