by Ruth Heald
‘It’s best to use the front door,’ she says. ‘We’re not set up for people coming in at the back. No mat to wipe your feet. No shoe rack.’
I frown. It will only take thirty seconds to get to my house if I go out the back, instead of walking down the gravel driveway and then turning back again towards the cottage.
But I comply. It’s hardly worth making a fuss about. I carry my shoes down the hall, to the front door and then Ruth holds Olivia while I put them on.
‘Bye,’ I say.
‘See you Sunday. Don’t be late.’
* * *
When I get back to the cottage, it’s time to put Olivia to bed. First I need to feed her. I adjust my top and put her on my breast. She fidgets, hitting me and fighting before she eventually latches on. I wince at the pain and think longingly of the pre-prepared bottles of formula in the fridge. I’ve promised myself that they’re only a last resort. Only if the pain gets too much.
I gaze out of the window between the gaps in the dusty venetian blinds, thinking about my conversation with Ruth. I can’t work her out. She was always so nice to me before we moved, but now I’m starting to see what Matt meant when he said she could be difficult. She seemed to deliberately make me feel unwelcome at her house. Perhaps she was just tired. Sunday lunch will be a chance for us to start again and get off on the right foot.
The blinds are angled so I can catch glimpses of the outside world but no one can see in. A shadow crosses in front of the window, pauses, and then moves on. I freeze, my arm tightening around my daughter.
It’s nothing. Just someone walking past the house. Perhaps a rambler. Ruth has told us that a walking path cuts directly through our driveway. Despite her attempts to keep them out, they have a right of way.
I take my baby off my breast, ignoring her screams as I pull my top down, go over to the window and twist the lever to close the blinds completely. I sit back down on the sofa but neither Olivia nor I can settle. I know she’s hungry, but she seems unnerved now, reluctant to suckle. The health visitor told me earnestly that Olivia picks up stress from me, that I just need to relax.
I take her upstairs and fill the bath, checking the temperature on the floating children’s thermometer that’s shaped like a flower. It’s one degree too hot. I add more cold water, but now the water level is too high and the plastic baby seat disconnects from the bottom of the bath and bobs upwards. I pull the plug, let the water go down a bit and then gently place Olivia in the bath seat.
She screams. I pull her out quickly, her wet body soaking my T-shirt. I check the thermometer again, certain I’ve made a mistake, but the temperature is well within the range. I put my daughter back in and wipe a flannel over her bald head. I hear a faint knocking sound. I want to investigate but I can’t. Babies can drown in seconds. Besides, it’s just the cottage. It takes on a life of its own at night, creaking and groaning as the radiators clunk into action and the foxes howl in the garden.
The sounds unsettle me. Matt says I’m too used to living in the city where a constant background hum drowns out all other noise. Perhaps he’s right. But this place doesn’t feel like home. Dark crevices have formed behind the piles of boxes and looming walnut furniture. We need to declutter and unpack. Then maybe I’ll stop jumping at every sound.
I lift Olivia out of the bath. She screams as the cold air hits her and I quickly wrap her in a towel. I hold her close and then take her to the bedroom, putting her on my breast for what I hope will be the final feed before she settles for the night.
Once she’s in her cot, with her bunny beside her, I lie on the bed watching her face scrunch up in anger as she gets redder and redder. The books say I should let her cry for a bit, teach her to self-soothe. Just knowing I’m here beside her should be enough to calm her.
Whoever writes the books doesn’t have a baby like mine. Every muscle in my body is tense as I lie beside Olivia listening to her scream. I wonder if I’ll sleep more than two hours tonight. My limbs feel heavy and I’m so exhausted I can hardly move.
I wish I had someone to talk to. But I have no one. In London, I worked such long hours that most of my friends from school and university fell by the wayside. I made new friends at work, but they were mainly drinking buddies. Transient friendships that didn’t stand up to the challenge of our lives moving in different directions when I left journalism. If only I had my mother. Or Miriam. Miriam was my closest friend. The one person who I always made time for, no matter how hectic my job was. We met at secondary school, where we’d spend hours talking about our plans for the future. My ambition was to be a journalist and Miriam wanted to be a detective. We stood by each other until we both got there. When we first started working, we’d go to the pub every Wednesday night and speak on the phone most days, sharing the emotional roller coaster of our new lives in London.
But then Miriam turned against me. I made a mistake and she couldn’t forgive me. One day she stopped speaking to me. I tried to explain, but she wouldn’t listen. She stopped answering my calls, ignored me in the street. She cut me off entirely, when I needed her the most.
I try to put her out of my mind. I’ll make other friends. Maybe Emma and I will become as close as Miriam and I once were.
I don’t even have Matt to talk to any more. It feels like the distance between us has grown since we’ve had Olivia. Today at Richmond Park was the first time in a long time that we really connected. In the last few months we've only spoken about practical things: caring for Olivia, the logistics of moving house, setting up the surgery.
We’ve both been busy. That’s all. We need to start making time for each other, work on our relationship. When Matt gets home, I’ll talk to him about it. I know we can build a happy life here. We both just need to put in the effort.
Five
I pull my smart, green nursing shirt over my head and look at myself in the mirror. It’s the second top I’ve put on this morning, the first was surrendered to baby sick. Olivia’s cries chase me up the stairs and into the bedroom. Matt is with her. Even though I know I don’t need to respond, my shoulders still tense instinctively.
I stand up a bit straighter. I put in stud earrings to protect my earlobes from Olivia’s grabbing hands and apply mascara. It’s the first time since Olivia’s birth that I’ve bothered. I want to look my best for Sunday lunch at Ruth and Jack’s.
My reflection frowns at me, sizing me up and finding me wanting. Now I know my mother-in-law a bit better I worry she will think the same. I don’t want to consider what Matt thinks of my post-pregnancy body. I need to get back into shape.
Today is about making an effort, being Matt’s wife and Olivia’s mother. Pretending to be the perfect family. I take a deep breath and go downstairs. I’m ready for battle.
Matt is in the kitchen, pacing up and down in beige trousers and an ironed shirt. From the window I can see Ruth busying herself with preparing the meal, checking on the roast in the oven, then pulling the cutlery out of the drawer to set the table.
Matt looks at his watch.
‘Five to one,’ he says.
I nod and pick up Olivia.
Matt has told me that we can’t be early and we can’t be late. We have to ring the doorbell on the dot of the arrival time.
I swallow as I put my coat and boots on.
We leave our front door, head down the drive, turn left on the lane, and then walk down the tree-lined gravel driveway to their house.
At the door, Matt checks his watch, waits for the minute hand to click over to 1 p.m. and then knocks.
Ruth greets us, beaming. ‘Here’s my beautiful granddaughter.’ She wraps Olivia up in her arms, smothering her in kisses. I stand stiffly, waiting until she is handed back, and I’m given a perfunctory kiss on the cheek.
We’re ushered into the kitchen, where Ruth pours me a lemonade and Matt a beer.
Ruth looks beautiful as usual.
‘Lovely earrings,’ I say. They are aquamarine, an exact match for the tiny flowers that embellish h
er scarf. I look round the kitchen, but there’s no sign of her husband. ‘Where’s Jack?’ I ask.
‘In his study again,’ Ruth says, sighing. I’m not sure if he avoids Matt and me or if he is trying to minimise the time he spends with his wife.
I remember the warmth I felt when I first met Ruth and Jack. How perfect and beautiful they seemed, in their immaculate house in the country. Now I feel uncertain, not quite sure I’m welcome.
‘How can I help?’ Matt asks. ‘Should I set the table?’
‘No, everything’s done. You just relax.’
I can feel the tension vibrating from Matt. He seems constantly on guard, ready to bolt out of the door at any moment.
The doorbell rings and I jump.
‘Sarah!’ we hear Ruth exclaim as she opens the door. ‘I’m so glad you could make it.’
I look at Matt quizzically and catch his sigh.
‘Who’s Sarah?’ I whisper. But before he can reply, Sarah is in the kitchen, petite and vibrant, telling me how pleased she is to meet me and how beautiful Olivia is.
She kisses me on the cheek, then turns to Matt hesitantly.
There’s an uncertain pause, and then Matt leans in to kiss Sarah’s cheek, while she holds out a hand and then withdraws it, before awkwardly accepting his embrace.
‘It’s good to see you,’ she says, her right hand nervously tucking her wavy, auburn hair behind her ear.
‘You too,’ Matt says stiffly. He’s usually so gregarious, but his parents’ house has a weight to it that seems to flatten him.
Sarah turns to me and beams. ‘It’s so lovely to meet your wife and family.’
‘Sit up, everybody,’ Ruth announces. ‘Lunch is ready.’
Ruth has a wooden high chair for Olivia, but she’s far too young for it. I suggest I put her on the floor on the rug.
‘I can’t have my granddaughter on the floor.’ Ruth laughs.
‘I could go and get the baby seat from the car,’ Matt suggests.
‘No, don’t do that,’ Ruth says. ‘She should sit with us.’
I hold her close to me over dinner, trying to contain her cries. She claws at my breast to feed, but I discourage her. I fed her just before we left. Her cries block out the conversation and I pick at the roast dinner one-handed with my fork, eating one carrot at a time.
Ruth comes around with the wine. She offers it to Matt and he refuses, glancing over at me. I would love a glass, but Ruth skips right past me like she always does and offers it to Sarah. As I watch Ruth pour the wine, I feel my face flush.
‘I’m so pleased you came back, Matt,’ Ruth says. ‘I knew you would eventually. The village is the perfect place to bring up children.’
Matt doesn't respond. He never talks about his childhood, never shares happy memories or sad ones. Never says anything at all. I wonder if it was as idyllic as I’d thought.
Ruth continues. ‘A child couldn’t ask for any more growing up here. It’s so far from the dangers of the city.’ She looks at me. She thinks I kept Matt in London for too long. She doesn’t realise he didn’t want to come back here, that I had to persuade him. I was the one who wanted to escape the city, not Matt.
‘It’s lovely here,’ I say, through gritted teeth.
I manage to manoeuvre Olivia so she lies across me, her head in the crook of my arm. Now I have enough freedom to move both my hands and cut up some of the Yorkshire pudding and beef into tiny bite-sized chunks. It takes my full concentration just to eat my food.
I let the conversation wash over me. I’m the outsider here. Everyone knows their lines, except for me. Ruth is the perfect host, the caring mother, always laughing and the centre of the conversation. She carries everyone else as they perform to her script. Matt is the good son, returning back home to his mother at last and working hard for his family. Jack is the unflappable, supportive husband, taking her side in any argument. Even Sarah has a role, to recall memories of the village.
And me… I’m not sure what my part is. Before we came here I thought Ruth and I got on well, I imagined I might be her confidante. But now I think my role is simply Matt’s wife, or Olivia’s mother. I don’t feel part of the family; excluded from the inside jokes, the subject of raised eyebrows.
Ruth is reminiscing about Matt’s childhood. ‘Do you remember how you used to follow Matt around?’ she asks Sarah.
Sarah smiles politely. ‘It was a long time ago.’
‘Not that long ago. You were quite the little pair. Always together.’
I see Matt and Sarah exchange a glance. ‘There weren’t many children living round here. I had to put up with Matt.’
Matt laughs nervously and Jack’s face adjusts into a half-smile.
‘How’s your new practice going, Matt?’ he asks, changing the subject.
‘We’re opening next week. I’ve spent this week speaking to potential clients. Farmers mainly. But we’re planning on treating domestic animals too.’
‘You know Sarah’s been looking for a job,’ Ruth chips in.
Sarah looks up from her roast potatoes, her face flushed. ‘Well yes, just something local. I’m working at the supermarket at the moment, but I’m looking for a receptionist role.’
‘You could do so much more than supermarket work, Sarah,’ Ruth says. ‘You wanted to be a vet too, didn’t you? You had a place at Cambridge.’
Sarah stares at the floor, the atmosphere tense. ‘Well, you know. Things turn out differently to how you expect.’
I wonder why Sarah never took up her place at university.
‘I was lucky,’ Matt responds. ‘I had the opportunity to leave and study.’
‘But you’ve come back,’ I say. ‘We’ve come here to make a life for ourselves.’ My voice sounds hesitant, as if I’m no longer certain.
‘Sarah could work for you, Matt,’ Ruth suggests, ignoring me. ‘Surely you need some help with running the surgery?’
‘Well, yes,’ Matt says, sounding unconvinced. ‘But not at the moment, we’re still setting up.’
I think about all the hours Matt’s been working. He needs all the help he can get.
‘Couldn’t Sarah help you get the business off the ground?’ I ask. ‘You’ve been swamped. You could do with some assistance.’
He frowns. ‘Maybe.’
He shoots me a look, but I refuse to be quiet. If he had some help, he’d have more time for Olivia and more time for our marriage.
‘Why don’t you just give it a try?’ I say.
Ruth nods at me, encouragingly. ‘You’d have more time for your family, Matt.’
‘OK,’ he replies, turning to Sarah. ‘But it would only be admin, answering the phone, that kind of thing.’
‘Don’t feel you owe me,’ Sarah says, looking embarrassed.
‘Sarah, don’t be silly,’ Ruth says, her jolly tone out of keeping with the muted atmosphere in the room. ‘Of course Matt wants you to work with him. He’d be mad not to.’
‘I just need to check I can afford your rates first.’ Matt laughs and Sarah’s face flashes with something that looks like anger. The look disappears as fast as it came.
‘Well, if I don’t have any better offers, I suppose I’ll have to accept.’ She laughs, but I can see it’s forced.
‘Congratulations, Sarah,’ Ruth says, raising her glass. ‘Let’s drink to that.’
I raise my glass of water and notice that Sarah is holding up her wine glass as reluctantly as I am.
‘Any more?’ Ruth asks, serving spoon hovering over the potatoes. She looks at me pointedly and I realise everyone else has finished their meal.
‘No thank you,’ I say, and try to eat faster. But it’s gone cold and I’ve lost my appetite.
Sarah reaches out her hands towards Olivia. ‘I’ll take her,’ she says. ‘So you can finish.’
I smile gratefully, and look at Matt. It should have been him offering, but he seems distracted, staring into the middle distance.
I eat the cold food on my plate, trying
to satisfy the twin demands of speed and appreciation of Ruth’s cooking. Ruth frowns at me, but I’m not sure why. There are so many rules in this house that you trip and stumble over them. You never know which you are breaking, but you can’t help leaving feeling you’ve done something wrong.
We are evicted at 4 p.m. Ruth wants to get the washing up done before she goes to her tennis club committee meeting. As soon as the door shuts behind us, the argument starts. Ruth doesn’t realise we can hear her through the open kitchen window as she launches into a tirade at Jack. He didn’t help prepare the lunch, he didn’t make enough conversation, he spilt food on the floor.
I want to intervene, to protect Jack from Ruth. I turn to Matt. ‘Should we go back?’ I ask.
He looks at me in surprise. ‘Are you crazy?’
I’ve been baking all morning and the kitchen is a mess, the granite counter covered in a sprinkling of white dust. I smile to myself. This is one of the few things that brings me pleasure. The smell of freshly baked cakes changes the feel of the house. It’s warm and inviting rather than oppressive and closed. My daughter watches attentively as I mix and stir and pour. In these moments, just the two of us, everything feels normal and homely. I had imagined life like this when I was a child. A family, a kitchen, togetherness.
I hum to myself. I’ll spend the afternoon clearing up, changing the house back to the clinical, clean space my husband likes to live in, but for now I enjoy the mess, the ordinariness of a dirty kitchen.
When the cakes are ready, my daughter and I sit at the table across from each other and dig in. I smile at her and she smiles back, her green eyes a reflection of mine. I can’t describe how much I love her. All I want for her is a happy family life with two doting parents. The childhood I missed out on myself.
I hear a key in the door.
No. It can’t be him.
No.
I look around the kitchen, alarmed, but he’s already in the room.
‘What’s going on?’ he asks.
‘I didn’t expect you back.’
