by Mary Grand
‘Of course, first thing in the morning. I am right. Catrin, you need to talk to your father.’
Elizabeth ended the call.
Catrin was breathing very fast. Her heart was thumping in her chest. She started to shake violently. She couldn’t breathe. Her throat was getting tighter and tighter. Without warning, she started to heave. Lowri and Mark came out. Lowri rushed over to her.
‘Mum, it’s alright. Breathe slowly. It’s OK. Remember, feel the ground with your feet. Come on, breathe. Now, slowly. It’s OK. You’re not having a heart attack. It’s all going to be fine.’
‘What the hell?’ said Mark.
‘It’s a panic attack,’ said Lowri.
Slowly, Catrin felt herself calm down, but she was drained.
‘What happened?’
‘Bethan and Elizabeth have fallen out.’
‘Mum, it will be alright. Don’t worry. Shall we drive down to Cardiff and get Dad? Or we could go to London now, pick up Bethan?’
‘Elizabeth is bringing her back first thing. She’ll be alright.’
‘Are you sure? Do you want us to go and get Dad, then?’
Catrin looked at Lowri: again, that same concerned, anxious face. That face: it was her own; all those times looking down at her own mother. What was she doing to Lowri? Poor Lowri: always there, always picking up the pieces like Catrin had done, always being responsible. The one thing she had sworn she would never do to her children.
Catrin shook her head and sat up straight. ‘No, Lowri. I will ring Dad. We should be sorting this out.’
‘But–’
‘No, love. That’s enough. I’m so sorry. You and Mark can go and watch telly or something. I need to speak to your Dad.’
They returned to the house. Lowri, still looking anxious and confused, went in with Mark. Catrin went upstairs.
She tried phoning Gareth but, yet again, it went through to his voicemail. She tried the home phone: no answer. Catrin felt a wave of anger. How many times had she done this? She was always the one kept waiting, who got cancelled. She looked out of her window. She saw her father going to sit at the old table in the garden. He had put a small hurricane lamp on the table and started to pour himself a glass of whisky. It was time.
She went downstairs, out into the garden.
Lloyd looked up. Catrin glanced at the bottle and the glass.
‘What’s been going on then?’ asked Lloyd.
‘Bethan’s had a row with Elizabeth.’
‘That’s good. She’s better off away from that woman.’
‘I don’t know. You should never have lied to us about Elizabeth.’
‘We didn’t need her in our life. We had to protect Bethan.’
‘By lying?’
‘Of course. You and me, Catrin. That’s how we look after people. We control things to stop people getting hurt. You did a good job with your mother. Nobody guessed, did they? You know, people don’t really want the truth. It suited you, didn’t it? Thinking Elizabeth was dead. I saw your face the day I told you. You were relieved. It meant Bethan was all yours; you didn’t have to share her with anyone.’
The words came out spitefully, like a finger poking hard into her skin, but they hurt, partly because she knew there was a small element of truth, like a sharp stone in her sandal that worried and rubbed away at her foot.
She nodded. ‘Yes. Maybe you are partly right. I was relieved, but I didn’t ever think you were lying.’ She stopped. ‘What other lies have you told me, Dad?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘About Aled. What really happened the night he died? Why did you bring him back from America?’
‘You know why. He was going to work on a new project in the firm.’
‘But he had changed. I saw him that night. What had happened?’
‘Have you been talking to that woman, Elizabeth?’
Catrin saw her father look at her shiftily.
‘A bit. She told me that Aled had rowed with Mum about money. She also said Aled didn’t want to marry her.’
‘Now, that’s not true.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘Look, he was too good for her. She should never have come that night. I had it all under control before she came.’
‘Had what under control?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Dad, tell me.’
‘It was her fault. Turning up here pregnant. She should have talked to me. Aled was sensitive, needed protecting from the likes of her.’
‘She was young.’
‘Old enough to know better. She led him on, trapped him. I’ve met girls like her. Trap a man into marriage, settling down.’
‘Like Mum?’
A lightning look shot her way, a look of hate. Catrin stepped back.
‘I was going places, you know, only nineteen. I was already marked out as a top student, but I was a married man with a child, trying to pay to keep a roof over our heads. And you, you never slept. I was trying to study, but you kept crying.’
‘I was a baby.’
‘Always difficult: all the tantrums. No wonder your mother turned to drink.’
‘It wasn’t my fault,’ Catrin shouted, but he wasn’t listening to her.
‘And then Aled was born.’ His voice softened, ‘an angel.’
She stood very still. It was very quiet in the garden, as if all of nature was listening to them. Catrin’s father said quietly, ‘Aled was perfect. I shall never let you or this woman sully his name.’ His hand shook as he lifted his glass, drained it, and refilled it.
‘I know what you’re doing, Dad,’ Catrin said gently, just above a whisper. ‘I know you’re trying to silence the ghosts, but, when you are sober, they will still be there. I know, because I live with them every day.’
She left him in the garden and walked back to the house.
Chapter Thirty Two
Shaken, Catrin went straight up to her room and phoned Gareth’s number. At last, he answered.
‘We have to talk,’ Catrin said, before he had spoken.
‘Hang on. What’s happened?’
‘A lot. To begin with Bethan and Elizabeth have had a row.’
Catrin explained to him what had happened with Richard.
‘I can see Bethan would be very hurt.’
‘Deep down, I think she’s expressing some kind of anger about Elizabeth giving her away.’
‘She’s coming back?’
‘Yes, first thing in the morning. Elizabeth is driving her back. I should never have let her go. It’s all been too fast. Now it’s such a mess.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll find a way. You’re very good at these things.’
His calmness fed Catrin’s anger and frustration.
‘I thought you might come. Bethan needs you.’
‘What, now? I’m sorry, but you know how my work is.’
The universe silently cringed: it was completely the wrong thing to say. But then, most things would have been.
‘You and your bloody work.’
‘Look, I told you. I just need to get this finished.’
‘We need you here. I need you here, but you’re not.’
‘Not what?’
‘Not here. You are never bloody here.’
‘But work–’
‘Bugger work.’
‘Catrin, what is going on? Ever since you’ve been down there you seem to have gone to pieces and lost all sense of proportion. Before you went you were fine.’
‘No. I was never fine,’ she shouted. ‘I can’t cope, everything hurts–’
‘Are you ill?’
‘No, but I’m fed up with having to carry everything on my own. Are you fed up with me or something? Is there someone else or is it your job, or what?’
‘You know how important my work is, and you always say you’re fine with that.’
‘Well, I lied. I am not fine with it, and you should see that. Your work has become an obsession with you. It’s like you’re ad
dicted.’
‘That’s rubbish.’
‘It’s not,’ she shouted. ‘I’m right. It’s like you can’t live without it. It’s more important than me and the girls. If I asked you to stop right now, you wouldn’t. You couldn’t. You are like my mother. You may not have a bottle in your hand but you are just as bad.’
Catrin started to gulp tears. It hurt to talk. Gareth went very quiet before he spoke.
‘Catrin, when I’ve given this in tomorrow, caught up on my paper work, I promise we will talk.’
Catrin started to cry. She couldn’t speak. It would be the same tomorrow. She knew it. It always was. She ended the call, put down her phone, sat on her bed and cried silent tears alone.
Catrin couldn’t sleep. She sat in bed cuddling Safi. She was waiting for Gareth to phone, for Bethan to come home. Catrin got back out of bed. It was a full moon tonight. Safi looked up sleepily, sighed, and went back to sleep. Catrin knew then what she wanted to do. She crept out of her room, along the hallway, and slipped into Aled’s room.
She closed the door quietly but firmly behind her, and switched on the light. Looking around the room, she saw again the faded posters, the drawings of Worm’s Head. ‘Who were you?’ she whispered. Catrin started to open drawers. As in her mother’s room, nothing had been sorted out. There were drawers of socks and underwear, comics, books, pebbles collected from the beach. She sat on Aled’s bed, and looked around, trying to see the world from Aled’s point of view. She looked up, and saw he had put plastic luminous stars on the ceiling. She turned off the light. The moon shining through the window made them shine in the darkness. The moon was so bright that night. It shone on to the carpet. She saw something protruding from under the free-standing, slightly raised wardrobe. It was the edge of an envelope. Catrin pulled it out, opened the envelope, and stared at the contents. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She gasped with deep pain. Not again: she couldn’t bear it again.
Elizabeth sat on her sofa alone. It was very quiet. Bethan was not going to come out of her room. What was she going to do? She sat thinking about the row with Bethan. Slowly the words penetrated. ‘I hate you. I wish you really were dead.’ It was more than a teenage outburst; she knew that. Elizabeth went quietly upstairs, looked in the drawer, and took out the small white book-shaped box wrapped in tissue paper. Carefully, she unwrapped it and took it downstairs. Sitting on the sofa Elizabeth took a deep breath and opened it. She blinked back the tears which burned her eyes and was about to take something out when she heard the front door open. It was Richard. She carefully closed the box and hid it under a cushion. Richard came and sat next to her.
‘I thought I’d pop back to see you were alright. You’re not used to this stuff.’
He sounded so normal, rational.
‘Where’s Bethan?’
‘Upstairs.’ Elizabeth started to cry. Richard started gently to stroke her hair.
‘Hey, it’s OK.’
‘No, it’s not. You don’t understand.’
‘Tell me: what happened after I left?’
‘I can’t bear you hating me as much as she does.’
‘Teenagers say all sorts of stupid things–’
‘No, this is different. She’ll never forgive me for what I did.’
‘What was that?’
‘I gave her away. When she was a tiny, helpless, baby. I gave her away.’
Richard sat forward. Elizabeth saw that look of horror she had been dreading.
‘You mean–’
Elizabeth looked away. ‘I knew you’d hate me for it. She’s my daughter, my baby. I gave her away. Now, please go. I can’t bear you looking at me, hating me.’
Richard sat back. He was blinking fast, trying to take in what Elizabeth had just said.
‘Hang on. Just give me time. Let me think. You mean, you had a child, years ago?’
‘I was nineteen.’
‘God, you never told me. All that about not wanting children, and you’d had a baby–’
Elizabeth handed him the box she had been clutching. He opened it. Inside, he found a tiny baby’s hospital wrist band, and a photograph of a scan. Elizabeth started to cry.
‘No-one has ever seen these.’
Richard put his arms around her and hugged her.
‘When I gave her away, I vowed I would never have any more children. I didn’t deserve it. I was right.’
‘Elizabeth, why ever didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because I knew you’d be like this. It’s why I never tell anyone.’
‘But you are presuming I judge you for what you did. That’s not fair.’
‘But everyone does.’
‘Not everyone. Some may, I know, but there are lots of women who’ve been in that position, made the decision you made for good reasons. You know me and my ex-wife fostered children. I know how complicated things can be.’
‘You did that?’
‘Yes. Fran was a social worker. She was great with these kids.’
‘She was some kind of saint, was she?’
‘No, of course not. She was the one who went off with someone else. No, that’s not what I’m saying.’
Elizabeth looked up. ‘You don’t hate me?’
‘No, of course not. You should have trusted me.’
‘It’s just something I’ve always kept to myself. Only my aunt knew. Not even my parents ever knew.’
‘You never told your mother and father?’
‘No. They were part of the reason I went for adoption.’
‘Why?’
‘They were very religious. They were older parents. They’d have been mortified at me getting pregnant.’
‘But people, even then, were much more accepting of these things.’
‘Not them. You see, I was their only daughter, their world. They’d spent a fortune on my education. It would have broken their hearts.’
‘Tell me what happened, properly.’
Elizabeth told Richard about Aled. The night she had given birth to Bethan; the day she had handed her to the social worker and gone home to her parents, trying to live as if nothing had happened. As she told him, it was if wounds that had barely healed opened again. She bled tears as she spoke.
‘My God. It must have been heartbreaking, having all those emotions, and just keeping them in, hiding them.’
Elizabeth could see the look of intense pain on his face. He was trying to imagine himself in her position, but she had to be truthful.
‘Actually, I was quite numb at the time. But, yes, it was terrible. However, and I know you won’t like this, I still believe that for Bethan it was a good choice. I wasn’t ready to be a mother, and I didn’t want to hurt my parents.’
‘Your body would have changed. It must have been so hard not telling them.’
‘I had my aunt. She was like my mother in this country, but, having said that, we never talked about it after I gave Bethan away.’
‘But you did think about keeping Bethan? That’s why you went to see Aled?’
‘Yes. There was part of me that held on to some kind of fairy tale ending. I thought he might marry me. Then I could have told Mum and Dad. It was ridiculous. I can see that now.’
Elizabeth found a tissue, and wiped her eyes, but she felt cold and empty.
‘It sounds awful. I’m sorry you had to go through it all on your own. It must have been a heavy burden to carry alone. What you did doesn’t make you a terrible human being. Bethan is happy, well loved. Isn’t she?’
‘Yes. Catrin and Gareth seem to have been good parents. She’s grown into a beautiful, accomplished woman. She is Deaf. Yet she has done exactly what she wants to do. It’s so different to how things were for my mother. You see, she was Deaf.’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘Yes, my Dad signed with her, but she was so isolated. I think she was always ashamed of the way she was. They lived a very remote life. I suppose it’s why she sent me away to school. You see, she couldn’t speak that well. When I
phoned home, I only spoke to my Dad, but Mum would write letters to me. She was so proud of me. I think she saw me doing things she believed she couldn’t. It’s amazing looking at Bethan. She’s so confident. Catrin has done well. I’d have never coped like she did.’
‘I think you might have, actually.’
‘No. I’m not maternal.’
‘Now, that’s where I think you go too far. Why are you so convinced you would have been a terrible mother?’
‘I just know.’
‘You did what you thought was best for Bethan, didn’t you?’
‘I tried to.’
‘And how did you feel when you held her as a baby?’
Elizabeth felt herself tremble. She tore at the tissue.
‘I felt overwhelmed. I cried. It was like she was the only thing I could see. I kept looking at her. I whispered to her that I loved her, that I was sorry I was giving her away. I kept staring at her and studying every feature of her. I tried to memorise every detail. You know, some of the babies were put in the nursery at night, but I kept Bethan close.’
Richard looked emotional himself now. ‘So, you did love her, you see. You did what you thought was right. So did they keep in touch let you know how Bethan was?’
‘No. We agreed I would have nothing to do with Bethan. She could find me when she was old enough if she wanted to.’
‘It must have been hard not seeing her.’
‘I tried not to think about her. I would remember her on her birthday: that was all. I heard about the memorial for Aled. I thought I would go and just look at her, see she was alright. Does that sound mad?’
‘Not really.’
‘I went, but then I found out things. Well, anyway, we met and talked. It was incredible. I never expected to feel that way about her.’
‘You see, you do love her, and you can love a child again.’
Elizabeth felt herself go red. She looked down.
‘But I made a vow–’
Richard sat back and whistled. ‘My God. You said your parents were religious. Were you brought up Catholic or something?’
‘Oh, no.’
‘So you’ve managed to conjure up Catholic guilt all on your own?’
‘My parents had very strict principles. I suppose they were pretty judgmental.’