by Ruth Heald
‘Oh,’ Emma says, and I catch what I’m sure is a sympathetic look.
‘Do you know her?’
‘Everyone knows her. She’s the kind of person you need to know in this village. If you’re her daughter-in-law, you’ll be looked after.’
I smile, bemused. There’s a whole side of Ruth I know nothing about.
Emma reaches down and picks up a brown paper bag, with a logo I recognise from a shop in a nearby town.
‘I bought you some cake. As a welcome to the neighbourhood. Shall I bring it in?’
I want to say no. I don’t have enough energy for a conversation.
But Emma has already stepped over the threshold and into my home.
‘Shall I take my shoes off?’ she asks, sitting down on our dirty bottom stair, juggling her baby as she unzips her boots.
I cringe. The house is filthy. Soon the feet of Emma’s pale tights will be black from the dirt and dust.
‘Sorry about the mess,’ I say, gesturing half-heartedly at the unpacked boxes.
Emma smiles. ‘Hard to keep a tidy house with a baby.’
‘What’s your baby’s name?’ I ask.
‘Lizzie. And yours?’
‘Olivia.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Two months.’
‘Lizzie’s three months.’
The interaction is following the same script as all my introductions to other new mothers. The same conversation plays out at every mother and baby group across the country. Our lines are so well rehearsed it feels like we’ve met a hundred times before.
‘Come through,’ I say, picking my voice up, trying to be more friendly.
I see the cottage with fresh eyes as I lead Emma through to the dilapidated kitchen. I’ve been convinced that as soon as Matt and I remove the clutter we can make the house our own. But now I notice the peeling 1970s wallpaper and the unidentifiable stains on the threadbare carpet.
‘This is Matt’s grandmother’s house,’ I explain. ‘She passed away.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Emma says, concern in her eyes.
‘It’s OK. I didn’t know her that well. But my mother-in-law… well, she’s finding it hard to let go. I want to put some pictures up, maybe give the house a lick of paint. But Ruth…’ I try to think of the best way to phrase it, so I don’t sound ungrateful. ‘Ruth wants the house kept as it is for now. She’s still grieving.’
‘It must be difficult for her.’
‘Yes, I know,’ I say. I lost my own mother years ago and I remember how hard it was to part with her possessions.
‘It’s an amazing place. So much history.’
Emma is at my kitchen counter, holding Lizzie under one arm as she rifles through a drawer and pulls out a knife to cut the cake. I put Olivia down and go over to the sink under the window to fill the kettle. I can see Ruth and Jack’s house at the end of our garden. A dark, looming shadow. There’s no one home.
‘How big a slice do you want?’ Emma asks, moving the knife round the cake to indicate where she might cut.
‘A small one,’ I say.
I look at her slim waist enviously and wonder why some women’s bodies seem to snap back into shape after they give birth.
In the living room, I put down the tea and cake and offer Emma a seat on the antique sofa. The flowered cushions sag as we sit down.
Between mouthfuls, Emma tells me everything there is to do in the area. There’s a park up the road and the local mothers run a playgroup once a week in the village.
‘There’s more in Oxford,’ she says. ‘It’s only half an hour in the car. There’s baby yoga, baby swimming, baby cinema. Anything you fancy doing, you can take a baby with you.’
‘What did you do before?’ I ask.
‘Before?’
‘You know. Before Lizzie. Before maternity. Before nappies and sleepless nights.’
Emma laughs. ‘I was in senior management. Can’t imagine it now though. How about you?’
I have a childish desire to impress her. ‘I’m a journalist,’ I say. It’s a white lie. I was a journalist once. It feels like a lifetime ago.
‘Local press?’
‘No, one of the big national papers. In London.’ I smile nervously, wondering if she’ll ask for the name of the paper. I don’t want to tell her. What if she looks me up and sees I haven’t worked there for years?
‘Gosh, a national paper. It’s so hard to break into that field. You must have been determined.’
I nod, embarrassed. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to remember how well I was doing before my career came to a swift end.
Emma’s eyes search mine. ‘What brings you all the way out here? It’s a long commute to London.’
‘My husband’s a vet. He’s setting up a new practice here. And we wanted to be closer to his parents, so they could help out with Olivia. So I’m less alone.’
Heat rises to my face. I hadn’t meant to admit I’m lonely.
But Emma’s expression is understanding.
‘Where are your family?’ she asks.
‘My father was never around. And my mother… She passed away. A long time ago.’ I pick up my tea and take a sip, hiding behind the motion. It’s my mother’s birthday tomorrow. It always brings everything back.
‘It’s so hard without the support. My parents are gone too.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It was years ago. I was a child.’
We sit in silence for a moment, before Emma turns the conversation back to babies. Sleep patterns. Feeding. Colic. The topics are comfortingly familiar. Emma’s warm and easy to talk to and I hardly notice the time pass. We keep chatting as the sky begins to darken, but Emma doesn’t seem to be in any rush to get home.
When Emma eventually gets up to leave it’s already Olivia’s bedtime and even then I don’t want her to go. I hadn’t realised how much I craved company. Matt has been working late every night since we moved, and I always put Olivia to bed alone.
On the doorstep, spur of the moment, I invite Emma and her partner round to dinner, later in the week.
I see the shadow cross her face and immediately regret it. It’s too soon. We hardly know each other.
‘I don’t have a partner,’ she says. ‘I’m a single mother.’ She seems to shrink in front of me, her eyes dewy.
‘Oh,’ I reply, surprised. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean––’
She straightens up, blinking back tears. ‘It’s OK,’ she says, with a forced smile. ‘At least I have Lizzie.’
Before I can reply, she sweeps her blonde hair back behind her ears, turns and walks away, hurrying down the driveway. I feel awful that I’ve upset her, especially after we’d had such a lovely afternoon. I hoped we might be friends. But now I’ve messed that up.
I go back to the living room and feel the silence caving in on me. Without Emma’s chatter it feels like the cottage itself is breathing, inhaling and exhaling as it bides its time. Even in my own living room I feel self-conscious, like someone is watching.
Olivia’s eyes follow me across the room as I clear away the teacups. Maybe it’s her. Maybe my own baby is making me nervous. She’s always watching. I never know what she’s thinking. Sometimes it feels like she’s peering into my soul and judging me for all my inadequacies as a mother.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I jump at the noise. It’s coming from upstairs. A gentle rhythm. Knocking.
I pick Olivia up and go up the stairs. Only half an hour ago the cottage felt open and warm and welcoming, filled with Emma’s laughter. Now the air is heavy, oppressive.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I get to the top of the stairs and peer through the open bathroom door.
It’s just the blind banging against the window frame. Emma must have left the window open when she used the bathroom.
I let my breath out and then laugh. What’s wrong with me? How can I be so paranoid about every sound?
Olivia looks at me and starts to c
ry. I think about how Lizzie didn’t cry the whole time she was here, but Olivia needed constant comforting. I grit my teeth as the all too familiar anger rises inside me. I push it back down and it’s quickly replaced by the guilt that swirls around my head constantly. I want so much to love my daughter the way I should, but I just don’t seem to have it in me.
Sometimes I wonder if her older sister would have been different. If she’d survived. Would she have been more good-natured? Would we have had a stronger bond?
Perhaps Olivia is taking her cues from me. The loss of her sister numbed my emotions, and now I can’t love my baby the way I want to. Maybe she senses my fear and reflects it back.
With my daughter clutched under one arm, I pull the bathroom blind up and shut the window. It overlooks our garden. I stare out at the pond; a dark hole of dirty water, reflecting the moonlight. I shiver, imagining myself submerging under its murky surface, getting caught in a tangle of weeds that lurk beneath. It’s not safe having a pond in the garden with a small child. One moment of inattention and a child could drown. I can’t let Olivia play outside until it’s drained. A cloud passes over the moon and for a moment the pond disappears, lost in the dark green grass. But I know it’s out there, a deep dark hole, an accident waiting to happen.
Three
When I wake the next day, I have a moment of peace before I remember it’s my mother’s birthday. When I sit up, I feel my headache building behind my eyes and I reach for the paracetamol on my bedside table. Another birthday she isn’t here to celebrate. Reality is dulled as I go through the motions of the morning, feeding Olivia and preparing breakfast. While Matt gets Olivia ready, I light a candle, filling the kitchen with my mother’s favourite orange blossom scent, and stand still for a moment, eyes closed, imagining she’s with me. Tears slide down my face, before I’m brought back into the moment by Olivia’s cries. I wipe my cheeks with the back of my hand.
‘Ready to go?’ asks Matt gently, touching my shoulder lightly.
I turn and he sees my grief. He wraps his arms around me and holds me.
After a moment, I pull away. ‘I’m ready.’
I blow out the candle and walk to the door. I have a second candle in my bag, that I’ll light at my mother’s grave. It’s hard to believe a whole year has passed since I last visited.
Matt drives us to Wimbledon, where my mother’s buried. We stop at a petrol station on the way and I buy flowers and bottled water. I ignore the displays of red roses and instead opt for orange and yellow chrysanthemums; her favourites.
At the graveside, I sit cross-legged on the grass, as the wind whips through my hair. The ground is hard and I can feel the February frost seeping through my jeans. I’ve been coming to my mother’s grave on this day for the last twelve years. I fill the built-in vase with the bottled water and add the brightly coloured flowers, spreading them around evenly. They already look dog-eared and I tip in the little packet of flower food that came taped to the stems, in the vain hope they’ll last a few more hours in their battle against the elements.
I put my candle on the cold, flat granite and strike the first match. It takes three before there’s a spark of life. It’s immediately blown out by the wind. Every year it’s the same. There’s only ever a flicker of light, before it goes out, but it’s enough for me to have shared that light with her, if only for a second.
‘Happy birthday, Mum,’ I whisper. The words disappear into the air.
I close my eyes and try to bring her back. Her smell; her perfume mixed with the strawberry scent of her shampoo. I imagine her voice, her laugh, her smile when she greets me. I imagine the feel of her arms around me, strong and dependable when I was a child and then weak and fragile, bird-like, before the cancer finally took her. I can picture her with Olivia, gathering her up in a hug and then rocking her gently, gazing into her eyes adoringly.
But it wasn't meant to be.
I glance across the cemetery and see Olivia with Matt on the other side of the vast space. Matt is bending over to read the inscriptions on gravestones, Olivia close to him in her sling. I’m glad she isn’t old enough to understand.
On my side of the family there is only me. My father disappeared off to his new life in South Africa long before my mother passed away. I’m glad Olivia will grow up close to Matt’s parents. I hope that between us all we can give her enough love, so she won’t ever feel like she’s missing out on her other set of grandparents.
I chat to my mother as if she’s alive. On her birthday last year I confided in her about how much I still longed for a baby. We’d been trying for over two years by then and I was exhausted by it. I was still grieving the loss of Olivia’s sister and I’d lost hope that we’d get another chance.
I didn’t know that just a couple of months after I visited my mother I would see the double line on the pregnancy test. Our lives have changed irreversibly since then. We’ve had Olivia, moved house. Everything I longed for last year, I now have. I felt I was finally being given another chance at life. My opportunity to do things right.
So why can’t I be happy?
I touch the cold stone and then the words tumble out. I tell my mother how exhausted I am, how I never have a proper night’s sleep. Motherhood hasn’t lived up to my expectations. I just can’t seem to bond with my daughter. Sometimes I feel like I don’t deserve to be a parent. I’m not cut out to be a mother.
When I run out of breath, there is no answer. No reassurance or advice. Only the wind rustling through the trees. I wish my mother was here to guide me. To tell me how to love my daughter, the way I know she loved me.
I feel a hand on my shoulder and I jump.
‘Are you OK?’ Matt asks. ‘You’ve been here a while.’
Olivia’s fidgeting against him in the baby sling.
‘I’m fine,’ I say, slowly rising to my feet. ‘I was just telling Mum about Olivia.’
‘She finally gets to meet her granddaughter,’ Matt says. Tears well up in my eyes. My mother’s only time with Olivia will be moments like this, by her graveside each year, as Olivia grows.
I wipe away the tears, as I feel the warmth of Matt’s embrace. He circles his arms around me, Olivia in the sling between us.
‘It’ll be OK,’ he says.
But he can’t promise me that.
* * *
As we start the journey back, Matt tells me he has a surprise for me. We’re stopping at Richmond Park to see the deer.
When we arrive, Matt gets Olivia out of her car seat and straps her to him in the baby carrier. She calms as soon as she feels his body against hers. I love the way they look together; Olivia’s deep brown eyes and high cheekbones are a reflection of Matt’s. Her frame is so small against his and for a moment I see the loveable, tiny baby that others must see.
The sun shines brightly, but there’s a bitter breeze and I carefully put Olivia’s woollen hat over her bare head and then put my own coat on.
Matt carries the rucksack of nappies. My body is free, unencumbered. I can swing my arms, stand up straight, even run if I feel like it.
Matt takes my hand and our fingers interlock as we walk towards the deer park. I feel safe. It’s so good to be out of the house in the fresh air.
‘How are you settling into the cottage?’ Matt asks. He’s been so busy setting up his new veterinary surgery, he’s hardly been at home in the last week.
I don’t know how to answer. I think of the cluttered house, filled with unpacked boxes. I think of how hard I’m finding it to bond with Olivia.
‘OK,’ I reply uncertainly, remembering I was the one who insisted we move to the countryside. Matt wasn’t keen at first, but I was determined. I was sure there’d be high demand for vets around here. I even found the premises for his surgery for him.
‘Just OK?’ He looks at me, concerned.
‘Well, I’d expected your mother to clear out Pamela’s things.’
‘Me too. But she can be difficult sometimes.’
‘Oh,’
I say, surprised. ‘She’s never seemed that way to me.’ Sometimes I think Matt takes his parents for granted.
‘I’ll talk to her about it,’ he replies, brow furrowed.
‘Is everything all right?’ I ask.
He squeezes my hand. ‘It will just take a bit of getting used to, I think. Being back. To be honest, I thought I’d never return.’
‘Oh,’ I say, dismayed. I desperately want us all to be happy there.
‘Even my sister moved away,’ Matt says. His sister used to live in the village near Matt’s parents, but she moved to Hong Kong about a year ago.
‘She got a new job, didn’t she? A better one?’
‘Yeah, she did. But I think she wanted to get away from Mum too.’
‘She’s not that bad, surely?’ I ask, confused.
He puts his arm round me. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll figure things out. I just need to get used to being back, that’s all.’
We keep walking. Despite the bracing wind, Olivia falls asleep against Matt’s body. We wander through the deer park, hand in hand. I remember how much I envied families like ours when I was desperately trying to get pregnant.
Now I’m living the life I dreamed of. I try to summon up gratitude for everything I have, but I can’t. It just doesn’t feel right.
Matt interrupts my thoughts. ‘Do you remember when we were here last?’ he asks, smiling.
‘Yes,’ I say. We haven’t been to Richmond Park for five and a half years. But that day five and a half years ago was one of the best days of my life.
It was the height of summer. We had a picnic by the lake and fed the ducks our leftover bread. Then Matt took me to the deer. It was just after breeding season and there were lots of fawns, staying close to their mothers. Matt told me the history of the park, how the deer had always been able to roam freely.
Later, when the park was due to close, we hid in the bushes, trying not to giggle as we watched the groundskeeper patrol, locking the gates and securing the park. When we were sure he was gone, we put our blanket down by the side of the lake and drank champagne. We lay down and made love in front of sleeping ducks and reeds, picnic crumbs digging into my back as I shuddered in Matt’s arms.
