Hello, My Name is May

by Rosalind Stopps

  May forced herself to think of the other night. The other night when he had rolled his sleeves up to help with Jenny’s bath, and although May had tried hard to reason it away, hadn’t she seen marks on his arms that he couldn’t explain? He had said they were the scars of a skin infection like acne when he was a teenager, but did that make any sense at all? May had tried to ask him more about it but he had pulled his sleeves down and left the room.

  ‘I can’t bear to talk about it,’ he had said later. ‘I’m so embarrassed.’

  May never felt able to ask. If Alain was in a good mood, she wanted to keep it that way, and if he wasn’t, she didn’t dare. Nothing made sense.

  May pushed the thought to the back of her mind and set the table for dinner, Jenny balanced on her hip. She paused for a moment before setting out the glasses and the beer she had bought for a treat. Surely she was being stupid, she thought. Letting her imagination run riot. He was happy, that was all. Happy, not drunk.

  May fussed with the table. She put a small pot plant she had bought as a moving-in present in the middle, on a beer mat. If tonight doesn’t work out, she thought, if anything goes wrong, I’ll pack a bag for Jenny and me and we’ll leave. The thought went round and round her head until she wished she could push it away.

  May could always tell how Alain was feeling by the way he opened the door. If things were bad, he opened it in an angry way, as if a monster had entered the house and was looking for someone to kill. The door hit the wall as he pushed it, and his footsteps were heavy with misery. Tonight, however, the door opened in a normal way and Alain almost danced in.

  ‘Where are my favourite girls?’ he called. ‘I’m home, I’m home, I can’t wait to see you.’

  Jenny jumped a little in May’s arms when she saw her father. May decided that she was pleased to see him, and that to think anything else would be ludicrous and a prime example of the fact that she thought way too much, looking for problems when there weren’t any.

  ‘Here we are,’ May called.

  Alain came into the living room whistling a Rolling Stones song and danced May and the baby round the living room. May tried not to smell his breath just in case she found something but she didn’t, he smelt of herbs and peppermint.

  ‘You’re looking at the teacher of the year,’ Alain said. ‘You know that boy in my class I was telling you about, the one who wouldn’t settle and kept crying?’

  May nodded.

  ‘Well I got him to join in today, and guess what? He did a picture of me and wrote, “my teacher”, underneath it. It’s the first time he’s done anything like that, I didn’t even know that he could write. I sent him to show the Head and she was really pleased as well and she said I’ve got a way with me. May, it was amazing.’

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ May said and it was, it really was wonderful, only she kept thinking, that poor little boy, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know what you’re really like. She couldn’t stop herself. Shame on you, she thought, he’s a good man with a problem and you should be more caring, then he might be OK.

  ‘We were right to move to London, May,’ Alain said, ‘things are going to be so much better.’

  May realised that Alain had tears in his eyes. Come on, she thought, stop being such a spoilsport, join in, celebrate with him, for goodness sake.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I’m sure you’re right.’

  It was a lacklustre response, she knew that. Something that a tired parent might say to an enthusiastic child, not a partner’s response, not a proper wife’s. May knew it and she knew that Alain knew it as well. Her stomach clenched. If he hit her now, she thought, she had only herself to blame. If she was such a misery that she couldn’t even celebrate success, be pleased for him about the little things, then she didn’t deserve any better. May kept her head down and waited for what was coming.

  Nothing happened, and when May looked up again she realised that Alain was crying, holding Jenny close to him and sobbing into her little neck.

  ‘Here,’ he said, holding her out to May, ‘you take her, I don’t even deserve to hold her. I know what I’ve done, May, and I know how badly I’ve treated you, both of you. I could say I’ll never do it again, and I want to say that but I don’t know. I’m not myself, May, it’s like I’m possessed or something. It isn’t me, you’ve got to see that.’

  May felt as though she had been thrust onto the stage in the middle of a play she didn’t have a script for. If she said the wrong thing, it could all start again. She put her free hand to the patch on her head where Alain had pulled some hair out during the E.M. Forster argument. There were little tufts coming through, short and prickly. Alain dropped to his knees.

  ‘Forgive me, May,’ he said. ‘Forgive me, Jenny, I’m the sorriest guy in all of London town.’

  May was frozen for what seemed like ages but was probably only a couple of seconds. Come on, she said to herself, he’s making an effort, do something.

  ‘It’s OK,’ she said, ‘don’t worry, I know you didn’t mean it. Come on, I’ve made dinner, that casserole you liked, we’ll be OK.’

  She could see that he was slightly disappointed, and that he had expected more, a hearts and flowers speech full of forgiveness and plans, but May knew that she couldn’t do it.

  ‘Maybe in time,’ she tried to explain, ‘I’ll be different, I feel so numb at the moment.’

  ‘I know, darling, I get it. Baby blues, right? I’ve been reading up on it. Lots of women get them, it’s perfectly natural, don’t feel bad. We’ll face it together, whatever happens.’

  May gave him back the baby, who was watching the adults speaking as if she was at a tennis match. He would be safe with Jenny, she was sure, safer than she felt at the moment. May’s hands shook as she took the casserole out of the oven. She felt overwhelmed with anger in a way that she couldn’t remember feeling before, as if the core of her was made of white-hot steely fury that was radiating out to every part of her body. Baby blues, she thought, fucking baby blues. So that’s the way it’s going to go, is it, everything her fault? A quick sorry for all the pain and the fear and the anguish, the smashed up house and the sadness of broken dreams? The bruises on her legs and her poor sore ribs and Jenny flinching and the sleepless nights? Just a quick sorry, that was all?

  She spooned the mixture on to the plates, all thoughts of special dinner and celebrations gone, all sympathy for him gone. Breathe, she thought, just breathe, calm down. May knew that if she didn’t get herself under control it would start again and there would be no doubt at all this time, it would be her fault. She thought about the transcendental meditation course she had started and ditched, and tried to steady her breathing. In, out, in out, come on, May, she thought. She was concentrating so hard that a hand on her shoulder made her jump. She spun round.

  ‘Where’s Jenny?’ she said. ‘I mean, is she OK?’

  That would do it, she thought, one thing Alain hates is me constantly putting Jenny first, and then I go and say something stupid like that.

  ‘She’s fine,’ Alain said, massaging May’s shoulders. ‘I popped her in her bouncy chair with her giraffe and she’s as happy as anything. It’s you I’m worried about. You seem so strung out and jumpy. Is it me, merry May? Have I made you like this? I can’t bear to think that it’s my fault, I just can’t bear it.’

  May felt as if she might explode. She wanted to rage at him, hurt him, tear him to pieces, but she wanted to accept the comfort he offered as well. Without thinking, she put her hand directly on the casserole dish and screamed as the palm of her hand registered the pain.

  ‘Oh darling,’ said Alain, ‘come, put it in the sink, let me run the tap, it’ll be OK, keep breathing, the pain will go off in a minute, come on, brave girl.’

  He walked her across the tiny kitchen, locked together as if they were dancing, and put her hand under cold running water.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ May said. ‘I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to, I just…’

  ‘Ssh,’
said Alain. ‘I’m here, I’m with you, it’s OK. There’s no need to say sorry, remember that dreadful film? “Love means never having to say you’re sorry”?’

  ‘That was a ghastly film,’ said May.

  The pain was easing as she held her hand under the water. I’m acting like him, she thought, it’s fucking contagious.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to do it, but I can’t bear how things are, Alain, I can’t do it any more, it’s got to change.’

  Alain’s eyes overflowed with tears as he held her hand gently under the water.

  ‘There’s nothing I can say,’ he said. ‘I’m screwed up somewhere and I want to be different, I want to be different so much. For you and Jenny. I want to be the kind of husband and dad you can both be proud of. Hang on.’

  Alain went into the living room and started fumbling through his pockets.

  ‘Here,’ he said, holding out a small box. ‘I know it’s not your birthday yet but it’s close, and you need these more today than you will next week. Go on, open it.’

  May didn’t want to take her poor burnt hand out of the water, but Alain seemed so eager. She patted it dry on a tea towel and took the box. Inside were the most beautiful earrings, gold, and shaped like a circle with a cross, the symbol for woman.

  Alain got down on one knee.

  ‘We’re already married, I know I can’t ask you that again,’ he said, ‘but I would like to ask you this: would you please stay married to me? Would you give me another chance and try to stick with me while I clean up my act?’

  May felt sick. It was as if he had read her mind, she thought. He knew. He could see her thoughts attached to a huge pendulum, swinging between leaving and staying. Each side of the argument seemed so clear. Of course she should leave; he was dangerous, a liar and a bully. Of course she should stay; he was the father of her child, a loving partner and a sweet, thoughtful companion. May looked again at the earrings.

  ‘How the fuck can you have the audacity to wear a feminist symbol if you stay chained to this wife beater?’ May could hear exactly what Helen would say. But Jenny, she thought, what would Jenny say? May could imagine trying to explain to Jenny why she hadn’t stayed with her dad when she was a teenager. May’s hand was beginning to throb again.

  ‘Here,’ said Alain, ‘I’ll run a bowl of cold water for you, you just go and sit down with your hand in it, completely submerged. I’ll get the dinner out. I’ll feed Jenny too, if you’ve still got one of those bottles of expressed milk. You take it easy. You look a bit green.’

  May did as she was told. It wasn’t just the pain in her hand, she thought, and it wasn’t just the muddle she was in, not knowing what to think. She really did feel sick.

  ‘I think I might have eaten something dodgy,’ May said. ‘I really do feel sick, I don’t want any dinner, just eat yours.’

  ‘Oh darling,’ said Alain, bringing his plate of food through to the living room and scooping up Jenny with his other hand as if he had been practising the move for years. ‘I’m going to look after you now, properly. Hey, do you think you might be pregnant? You know how you were with Jenny, sick as a dog. Wouldn’t that be marvellous, darling?’

  Marvellous? thought May. What the hell would be marvellous about having two children with only a year between them? The sleepless nights, the sore breasts, the lack of freedom. He was wrong, she thought, definitely wrong. Everyone said you couldn’t get pregnant when you were breastfeeding, everyone.

  ‘I’m sure it’s just the bit of ham I ate while I was cooking,’ May said. ‘It probably wasn’t cooked through. I’m fine, you eat, give me Jenny and I’ll feed her. Thank you for the earrings, they’re lovely.’

  Alain bowed. ‘Whatever the lady wants,’ he said. ‘Sorry, I mean, “the woman”, obviously I do.’

  Later that night, while Alain was asleep, May got out the letter she had been writing to Helen.

  ‘Help, Helen,’ she wrote, ‘I think I might be up the bloody duff again and I can’t face it. I want to leave him but he’s being so nice, and I’m so tired, and I feel like I’m playing that party game where you’re blindfolded and then you get spun round and round and round and you have to point to the door. I can’t point to the door, Helen, I don’t know where it bloody is and I certainly don’t know how to walk through it. He can be so nice, Helen, that’s the thing, he’s not all bad, and if I can just love him enough then maybe we have a chance. I hated growing up without a dad, I don’t want that for Jenny, I wish you were here and we could talk properly. All my love to you and the nearly-born, sorry for bending your ear.’

  May put the letter into an envelope and sealed it up. She felt better for letting off steam but worried that she should have been more loyal to Alain, and less dramatic about the chance of another pregnancy. May got out the earrings to have another look at them. This time she pulled out the satiny inside of the box that was holding the earrings. Underneath was a slip of paper she hadn’t noticed before. ‘Darling Sue,’ it said, just that, in Alain’s neat, schoolteacher’s writing.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  March 2018

  Lewisham

  We’re going out shopping today, and I’m excited.

  Stupid old woman to be excited, but I am, I’m so excited that I couldn’t sleep last night. I never tell them when I can’t sleep because they give me those pills, the ones that knock you out. It’s my secret. They come in every morning asking how I slept and I give them a thumbs up with my good hand, regardless. Some things have to be private. I can’t give them everything.

  So my night-times are my own, and I lie here thinking about things. About Jenny and the times we used to have. I can recall all the books and stories I used to read to her, word for word. The one about the little boy whose cuddly dog accidentally gets given to the school fair, I’ve been thinking about that one. I think it has a happy ending, I think he gets the dog back, but it strikes me now as an outlandishly sad story to tell to a small person. Hey, you might as well say, hey this is the score, bad things are going to happen to you, in fact they probably have happened already while you were watching the damn mobile hanging on your cot. Everything you love is vulnerable, baby, so you’d better harden your heart.

  That’s what I tried to explain to Jenny, there’s no sugar coating. When I can talk I’m going to say that again, along with a few other things. I’ve got an agenda written on my notepad. I can’t write much, it’s too tiring and anyway I wouldn’t want anyone reading the private stuff, so I write it in code. I’m fantastic at keeping things covered up, I always have been.

  So shopping. I haven’t always liked shopping. When I was a young woman I was haunted by my own body, consumed with hatred for it. I wanted to wear what the other girls wore but everything looked wrong on me. All my clothes bulged and puffed and heaved as if they were hoping I’d take them off and they could find someone else to wear them. Then I got thin and met Alain and for a while I was the prettiest girl I could be but it didn’t last, and it didn’t do me any good at all. So I gave up and I spent quite a few years, the Jenny rearing years, looking as though I was in mourning. Black shapeless shifts, long grey skirts, flat lace-up shoes. I dressed like that right up until I got ill, now I think of it. Just didn’t care. So what it is that makes me long for flowers now, I don’t know, but I’d love to wear something pretty. Not too gaudy, just a sprig of flowers here and there to brighten it up. Red flowers, old-fashioned ones, vintage flowers. I’ve no idea why I long for that but I do, I think of it often and when I wrote it down for Jenny she seemed thrilled. I think she was pleased to have a plan.

  I’ve seen something like that, she said, they’ve got a top like that in a shop in Lewisham.

  I point to my old tracksuit bottoms and flap my hand to show her they wouldn’t match.

  Nonsense, she says, those tracky bottoms could do with lightening up, or lifting, or whatever it is they call it these days.

  She knows I hate them. I’d give anything to wear
a skirt again but when you need hoisting to go to the loo and all that undignified stuff, it’s better to take the easy option.

  Jackie is lucky. She’s my age, but naturally slim and with a good clothes sense. Plain understated stuff, that’s what she wears, all natural colours like stone and turquoise. It’s a pleasure just to watch her walk in.

  Why are you in here, I wrote down for her on my pad the other night. I know it sounded rude but I couldn’t help it, it just burst out of me. I mean, I know she’s my age, but she would surely be able to manage on her own, outside. She doesn’t need any help with eating or washing or any of the other stuff they have to do for me. She’s like a spring chicken. I wrote that on my pad, I wrote, spring chicken and then I pointed at her with my good hand so she’d know what I meant.

  That got a laugh out of her. Spring chicken, she said, did you ever hear anything so silly. Look at this, she said and she squeezed her eyes shut so that I could see the wrinkles on her forehead. I just laughed. Wrinkles are nothing, I wanted to say but it tires me, writing on the pad, so I save it for the important things.

  I need to be in here just as much as you do, May, she said, I get too sad on my own, that’s the thing, I can’t be trusted.

  Oh, I thought. Sad means mad, in here, in this lookingglass world where the old people are. It had never occurred to me that she was a mad one. I always thought you could spot the mad ones a mile off but it seems I have been wrong on that, as on nearly everything else.

  Don’t worry, she said as if she had read my head, don’t worry I’m not stark staring bonkers, it’s just sometimes I can’t stop crying.

  Seems sensible to me, I wanted to say but I wrote it instead. I wrote ‘sensible’ and she nodded, thank you.

  She’s coming out shopping with us. Me, my friend and my daughter, what could be better. I’ve got the kind of excitement that you get at Christmas when you’re five and I suddenly want to go back, take more pleasure in small things, take more pleasure in Jenny. Some of the teachers I used to work with would have been glad of a shopping trip, I know they would. We could have done that.