by CE Rose
I paused for a while. There was no doubt that he loved her; indeed, it was something I was certain of myself. So what had he been apologising for?
Mum’s letters were more circumspect and reserved, almost tetchy. She talked about the weather, work and clothes and signed most of her letters, ‘Cheerio & love Evelyn.’ Dad expressed his passion for her, yet she replied blandly with details of her mundane daily life, incidents at work, what she’d eaten for tea, when she went shopping and what she’d bought. Perhaps he loved her more, or maybe he was just better at expressing it. In one he wrote, We’ve all just been having a discussion on “love at first sight”. Bill insists his was. You know my thoughts on the subject – unfortunately I know yours.
Feeling disappointed on his behalf, I slotted that one back in the pack. I wanted to rewrite her replies. But there was a fond wryness in his text and I could picture his smile as he caught Mum’s waist, pulled her towards him and said, ‘Ah, but who did she choose? Me or Mr Lamborghini? Mr Irresistible, that’s who.’
I sighed. Mum wasn’t a particularly demonstrative person with words, that was all. It didn’t mean she wasn’t capable of deep love. It was actions that counted, wasn’t it? Too easy to say, ‘I love you, Ali’ but not see it through.
‘Your turn now,’ I said to Joe. Planting a kiss on his head, I opened a chunky picture book filled with bright images of animals and fruit. ‘Dog! Cat! Apple!’ I pointed. ‘Mummy loves you so much,’ I added.
It really wasn’t hard. Perhaps I had to say the words whenever I felt them. Love letters survived but life was transient.
* * *
Mid-morning I searched for George through the windows, but there was no sign of him or his tools, so I ate a bowl of cereal and went back to the past. At some point during Dad’s stay in the sanatorium, Mum travelled to Leeds for a week-long work course. Her early correspondence showed her reluctance to go, but the trip clearly wasn’t as bad as she’d thought. Her letters described the boarding house and the other occupants with some humour. One letter read:
The owner is Mrs Dilworth. She seems quite nice but she’s one of these know-alls. Your mother would get on with her just fine. There’s a man from Newcastle. He’s about 5 ft tall, weighs about 7st, has no hair, wears a flat cap and eats like a bird. Now I know where the expression ‘seven-stone weakling’ comes from – Newcastle! Then there’s another man who’s so old. He loves to talk about when he was on the stage. I rather think I’m expected to go out with him but I’ve managed to get out of it by washing my hair every evening. You should see it shine! He’s quite harmless of course, but imagine going for a walk in Roundhay Park with him. Then there’s another bloke staying, a Mr Lang. He’s about thirty-five but very frightfully, frightfully. He’s very high up in the Post Office so not very likely to take any notice of me.
She must have been missing Dad then as this letter was signed ‘love and kisses, Eve.’
I smiled at her sardonic wit; it was really so Mum. How she’d hated ‘know-alls’ and Dad’s mother. Her own roots were fairly working class, but Dad’s family came from the industrial side of Sheffield, so his were a rung lower in her view. She went to the grammar school; she worked for the civil service, don’t you know! And how she loved Dad’s success, the wealth that came with it. The exotic holidays, the jewellery, the new car every year and her ‘daily’. Such a snob without realising it.
Later, when I was finally up and about and trying to programme the washing machine, I realised Dad hadn’t just been in hospital for Mum’s birthday, it’d been her twenty-first. I thought of her clear boredom and her insular or insensitive comments at times:
The queerest people come in to pay their telephone accounts – a man today told me I had a lovely shaped nose.
Or: If this weather keeps up and you’re still in there I think I’ll have to join something or other at work. Maybe swimming on Thursday. Bert will look after me and keep me safe from Stan. And: I’ve got to do something and not just sit here waiting and looking miserable. And I do feel miserable – I’ve got the most hateful tummy-ache.
What had I been doing on my twenty-first? I was with Sidney, but I was free from any grief save for getting essays in on time, and I didn’t always manage that. Perhaps I was making excuses for my mum, but what must it have been like to have the responsibility of a boyfriend with a life-threatening illness? Frightening for sure, but her everyday life still went on.
At least their story had a happy ending. In Mum’s final letter she wrote: I feel wonderful tonight. We have so many things to plan. Dad has been asking about your intentions again. He thinks you look about eighteen especially when you grin. He says too that he’s never known anybody grin as much as you do. Anyway, he won’t have to worry once we tell them our news after your discharge on Saturday…
Yes, a happy ending. I pictured Dad in his wedding portrait. Wasn’t it?
Chapter Thirty-Four
The doorbell rang at three. It wouldn’t be George; he had a key. But when I peered through the glass, it was a key-holder after all. Nancy was on the doorstep, a bright orange scarf tied charlady-style around her head. Hooked in one arm was a wicker basket, in the other Mrs Hague.
Though I couldn’t say why, the unexpected sight of Joan made me gasp. It was quickly followed by pleasure. She was older, of course, but still fairly tall and otherwise much as I remembered. She was wearing those sixties-style spectacles but no dangling earrings today. A mark of respect was my guess; like her waiting politely at the front door with a bunch of pink tulips rather than striding in through the side door; like her sporting dark slacks and a cashmere twin-set to visit, despite the roasting heat.
She took my hand and squeezed tightly. Hers was trembling. ‘Hello, love, how are you?’ After a sniff, she turned her attention to Joe. ‘Oh love, isn’t he beautiful.’ Her eyes turned rheumy and I thought she might cry, but Nancy stepped forward and briskly swapped her hamper for Joe.
‘Come on then, little lovey. Let’s introduce you to Joan. She’s been longing to see you. Talked of nothing else since you were born.’
We made our way to the kitchen. Bustling like two noisy bees, the ladies set out a glossy fruit cake on a china stand and made tea; cooing and smiling, they tickled Joe’s feet, delighted when he responded in kind.
‘He does like an audience,’ Joan said. ‘Blue eyes, I see. Do you think they’ll stay blue? And he’s a blondie.’
‘I think so.’ I thought of Miles. ‘He’s like his dad all round,’ I replied.
Not a cold fish like his mum. Though thinking of my own mum’s letters, it wasn’t exclusively me.
‘Oh you’re a bonny little lad,’ Nancy said. ‘Your grandma would have been so proud! She’d have loved having you here so much.’
‘Aye, she wanted a boy.’
‘And all those lovely clothes she bought him.’
‘And the knick-knacks. Laid out on the bed like a picture…’
‘We could’ve had a ladies’ day out in your Roller. Eve would’ve enjoyed that.’
‘Aye, she would.’
‘Three women and a baby. Has your Tom got it fixed yet?’
‘Let’s hope he has by the time this littl’un’s wanting to drive it.’
I glanced from one elderly woman to the other but I really didn’t mind them talking about Mum. There was such a warm feeling in the room, I could almost pick out her Chanel perfume. She was with us, surely, and smiling.
At some point Nancy theatrically sniffed. ‘If I’m not mistaken, someone’s made a mess in his nappy.’ Holding up a gnarled hand, she made for the door. ‘You stay and chat, lovey, I’ll change him.’
Joan suddenly leaned so close I could see where she’d missed her pale face powder. She peered intently. ‘I just wanted to say that I’m so sorry about…’
Anticipating doleful condolences about Mum, I tensed. Maybe I wasn’t so chilled after all.
‘About those lads and the beer,’ she continued. ‘Drinking and laughin
g as though nothing was amiss. Whatever happened to respect?’
It was an echo of Tom’s words. I took a breath to say something, but Joan spoke again.
‘Young’uns think only of themselves. Think it’s all right to just do as they like or take what isn’t theirs. That’s when they need to be brought to book.’
A shiver of discomfort rustled down my spine. It seemed an odd thing to say, but she’d been a copper’s wife, so had probably come across many unsavoury young’uns over the years.
‘I guess so,’ I replied. Then wanting to be fair, ‘But by all accounts it was Mum’s fault, so…’
I expected Joan to protest, but she sat back and poured more tea. ‘Aye, that’s very true.’ She nodded to the Dundee. ‘Tempt you to another slice, love? When it’s gone, it’s gone forever.’
* * *
By the time Joan left, I’d got used to her straight-talking ways again. Seemed you could take the girl out of Yorkshire, but not the other way around. A spade was clearly still a spade in Norfolk. But I was used to that from my relatives, especially from Auntie Brenda. Seventeen years’ worth, in fact.
Shelving that thought for now, I picked up the box of baby rice and read the instructions. Taking a nervy breath, I made up a small amount. Was I doing the right thing? But Joe must have known what was coming. Propped in his chair, he kicked his legs with excitement. I offered him a pea-sized amount at the end of a spoon. He hesitantly accepted it, rolled it around his tongue, then opened his mouth like a beak. Baby rice was clearly tastier than it looked.
I laughed through my taut emotion. My baby’s first solid feed; Miles should have been there, but perhaps Mum was watching from somewhere. Making a note to record ‘the first’ in my diary, I frowned. Why would I do that? For me, for posterity and Joe too. One day I’d like him to read it and know my love and delight on this day.
Carrying his chair through to the lounge, I settled Joe down, flung open the sideboard door and stared at the shoe boxes marked ‘Diaries’ in marker pen. I took out the first and snapped the rubber band thoughtfully. Mum wouldn’t have kept them if she hadn’t intended them to be perused one day. But then again, when she’d left the oil paint on her palette, she hadn’t known death was imminent.
I sighed. Was I being silly? I had read her love letters only this morning, was a diary any more private? I wouldn’t mind Joe reading mine. In the past I had tried to write a proper journal. Not exactly Anthony Wedgwood Benn, but a thought or an event for each day. Now it was just a word or two about my son’s progress: his long-gone colic, weight increase and height, his first windy smile. And now his first solid food.
I put the box back. The letters were enough for today, and in truth I didn’t want to move on yet. Like finishing a good novel, I was still with the characters, the smiling handsome idiot and the woman who excited him. Except, astonishingly, these people weren’t just a cast, they were my mum and dad.
Sitting back on my haunches, I thought of Laura. I’d definitely insist she read our parents’ exchanges. We were our history; we were what they made us, not just through blood and genes, but nurture. Maybe if she understood Mum better, she might understand herself too.
Idly, I picked up a leather-bound pad and opened it. Mum’s autograph book. From the date, she would’ve been about fourteen. I carefully flicked through the delicate pages. On one, her friends had described her in a few choice words:
Chasing boys, gossiping… Flicks, boys, gabbing… Boys, dancing, eating… Eating chocs, chasing boys, gossiping.
Then someone had written: If courting was against the law and kissing was a crime, Eve the owner of this book would now be down the line…
That made me smile; it sounded just like my big sister.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Though the weather was humid outside, the bungalow seemed chilly and hollow with just sleeping Joe for company in the evening. Headachy and anxious about my temperature swings, I now wished Nancy and Joan were still around, but Nancy had been under Tom Hague’s ‘strict instructions’ to get his wife home by five. My neediness surprised me. Maybe I was softening, getting used to people dropping in without an invitation, even liking the claustrophobia of village life.
At the end of my pregnancy I’d spent hours on my own but I’d never felt as solitary as I did now. The stillness and silence of The Lodge had spooked me as a child, but I’d always been here with someone else; even Laura had resisted the temptation to sneak off when Mum and Dad went out. She’d been irritated, of course:
‘If you weren’t such a scaredy baby I could have met up with Ivan and Kelvin and had fun instead of being stuck inside with you, little weirdo.’
But she’d stayed nonetheless.
Once the sun disappeared, I became cold to the point of iciness, so I put on the central heating full blast, comforted by its familiar gulps and chugs. It was a crazy thing to do in the middle of a particularly hot summer, but the chill felt malevolent; I wanted it gone.
I was apprehensive and jumpy, but couldn’t describe why. I wasn’t a flipping kid anymore; a white-faced phantom wasn’t loitering behind my closed eyes. Why the dreams had happened here at my happiest was a mystery. ‘Mum,’ I used to say, ‘do ghosts exist?’ and she’d reply firmly, ‘Of course not.’
I’d be satisfied then. But after a moment she’d add, ‘Even if they did, they wouldn’t hurt a lovely girl like you.’ And that would seed doubt in my mind: maybe the nightmares were real; a cold room, an old room, an unexplained breeze; the cat’s bushy tail; the geranium-like smell of blood.
It had been ridiculous, of course, but still I sighed deeply. My febrile imagination hadn’t just plagued my childhood, had it? Shaking my head, I pushed that distressing memory away. It was well in the past; no good would come of dwelling on it now.
Aware I was being irrational, but doing it anyway, I flicked on every light. Then I tightened my dressing gown and padded to Mum’s bedroom, hoping I might feel her benign presence. I thought of lying on her bed and reading Villette, but I knew I’d only listen to the quietness, so I sat on the old piano stool and opened the dressing table drawer to examine her accessories as I had as a girl.
Scooping out an armful of gloves, I neatly paired them on the table top: pale brown kid leather; long satin in white, cream and black; delicate lace; a variety of suede, some with press studs and others with tiny round buttons. Had Mum worn them all? My small hands certainly had.
I dipped in again and found something solid. Ah, like a hidden jewel, it was a tarnished bottle of Chanel No. 5 with half an inch left. Not wanting to waste it, I didn’t have a sniff, but placed it on the ledge like an ornament, then moved onto the handkerchiefs. All silk, differently coloured and patterned. There must have been fifty.
And there it was again, that sinking feeling in my stomach. Her treasured belongings were lovely, but what on earth would I do with them? There were two flat boxes of laced-edged hankies that hadn’t even been opened. Mum had lovingly accumulated them all; I couldn’t just throw them away.
The headscarves seemed stuck, so I gave a little tug and pulled out a scrolled document. Intrigued, I unfurled it, but it was only Mum’s O level certificate. She had passed in eight subjects with excellent grades. Presumably she’d also taken A levels before joining the Civil Service. Yet she’d left a good job to become a full-time ‘housewife’, a docile – and yes, spoilt little wife.
Frowning thoughtfully, I remembered the thick wad of twenties Dad used to leave by the radio each week for Mum’s ‘housekeeping’. The image made me shudder; how I’d hate not to have my financial independence, the sense of self-worth working had given me. It felt as though my clever mother had sold out somehow. And yet, look at me. Right now I had no life outside this small village. My husband was in the hurly-burly capital, high with adrenaline and purpose, whereas I was alone, rattling around an old house, fearful that—
Keep an eye on Alison; Ali’s not Ali.
I thrust that thought away again.
Ali was perfectly fine. She was just feverish, that was all. Returning to the drawer, I made to replace all my finds, but a sheet of paper at the back caught my eye. Though not in an envelope, the blue notepaper was the same as the love letters, so I knew it’d be a missive between my parents. Separated from the others, it felt ominous. Would it be from Mum or Dad? Retreating to the bed, I took a breath and opened it.
Dad’s handwriting:
Hello, my life’s blood. For days now I’ve had an ache which reaches a climax in the evening and consists of bitterness, resentment, longing, high sensitivity, foul temper, jealousy, love and hate. I fight against this sickness which merely aggravates the blasted thing…
Some of the pages were missing, but the fourth continued:
My uncle once told me that when he was in the 8th Army in the desert he liked his wife to have male ‘company’ at home. If that’s normal then I’m very much abnormal. I know that I’m unnecessarily possessive and anti-social with things I love but I could never share you in any way, even if it means a broken heart. The trouble is that I love you so and I’m sorry I have to write this.
Exhausted and perplexed, I folded the letter. What on earth did it mean? If it hadn’t been for the familiar script, I wouldn’t have recognised the tone as my grinning dad. He sounded so very sad… But sleep was tugging me, so I pulled back the bedding, climbed in and closed my eyes. This particular puzzle could wait until tomorrow.
* * *
A smashing sound jolted me to consciousness with a gasp. What the hell was that? I tried to listen through the thud of my pulse in my ears. It wasn’t a nightmare. Someone was in the house; I could definitely hear them. The bedroom door was ajar, the rustling and movement coming towards me, unmistakable. This was not my imagination; this was real.
