‘He’d leave his girlfriend and come and live in our mansion, of course. Everything would be fantastic.’ Chris began to look convinced and she squeezed his arm. ‘How can it be wrong to take Mary to her own home to look for her own suitcase? I would’ve told Mum we were coming if she wasn’t so stressed.’
‘If the suitcase has got good stuff in it, can we tell her? She won’t be mad at us then, will she?’
‘She’ll be ecstatic. We’ll be heroes.’
Maybe it was the simple fact of moving at speed, but once they were settled on the train, Mary was the most content Katie had seen her. She gazed out at the retreating fields and sighed with happiness as they were replaced by row upon row of terraced houses, their back gardens sloping down to the railway track. Squat industrial buildings replaced the houses, followed by a series of bridges straddling a dual carriageway.
‘Would you just look at all those cars!’ Mary said. ‘All off somewhere or other.’
Katie smiled. ‘It’s good to keep moving, isn’t it?’
‘Sit in a chair too long, my girl, and you might never get up again.’
‘I was actually thinking of becoming a nomad. I might never go home.’
Mary whooped with laughter. ‘That’s the spirit!’
Chris pressed his leg more firmly against Katie’s, which meant he disagreed with the entire conversation, but at least he was keeping quiet about it.
Katie tried to imagine staying on the train to the end of the line. The sky would stretch itself out and the horizon would expand and they’d end up somewhere totally new. They could reinvent themselves, have adventure after adventure …
Perhaps it was being on a train, but Mary thought the memory game might be getting harder. Today’s category was babies and Mary wanted to think of the sleepy weight of her daughter, of that place at the top of her skull that smelled of newness, of her wise little face and her arms like sea anemones and her toes and fingers like tiny prawns.
But Pat and Dad kept getting in the way.
Here is her father growing colder, whittling Mary down with his silence and his little notes:
When are you leaving?
You can’t stay here.
I don’t want you under my roof.
Here is Pat, with her lists and plans, determined to find a solution. Poor Pat. She’d even gone to the yard to see if she could procure Robert’s address, but all she discovered was what Mary already new – that he’d broken his contract with the railway and gone back to his wife.
‘So, there we are,’ Pat says. ‘He’s got off scot-free, hasn’t he?’
1954 – how to be a good mother
Two days after Caroline was born, Mary still hasn’t stopped shaking. Even when she’s wrapped up in bed with the electric heater on she shivers.
‘It’s the shock,’ Pat says.
She brings Mary soup and sweet tea, rubs her back with menthol, gives her a hot pad for her feet and a smelling bottle to clear her head and takes the baby away for hours on end so Mary can rest.
‘Maybe I’ll feel better when my milk comes in,’ Mary says.
But the milk doesn’t come in. Not really. Not enough so the baby will ever stop rooting for more. It’s as if Mary’s cold in her bones, as if the very centre of her has become open to the elements.
‘It’ll have to be a bottle,’ Pat says.
But Mary doesn’t want that. She’s made a promise to love this child. She hauls herself out of bed and puts a dressing gown over her nightie, a hat on her head and socks and slippers on her feet. She builds a nest of pillows in the armchair next to the heater and sits in it, wraps a blanket round her shoulders and tries once again to feed her daughter.
Outside the window, the sky is skittish with cloud and the cherry tree is bursting with blossom. Every time the wind picks up, petals flutter to the grass and Mary thinks of weddings. It doesn’t help.
Her milk, what there is of it, is thin and pale and it’s only minutes before Caroline whimpers in frustration. Mary scoops her up and holds her close.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m so sorry.’
The baby snuffles at her neck, but there’s no satisfaction there and soon the child is wailing. Pat comes in to see what the fuss is about.
‘Move the pillow,’ she says, ‘and change the position of your arm. You can’t expect her to feed lying on a slope.’
‘She sounds so lonely,’ Mary says. ‘Look how her jaw shudders.’
‘She’s hungry, that’s all.’
Pat shuts the curtains so the sun won’t get in the baby’s eyes and turns off the heater in case it’s sucking oxygen from the child’s system. She gets a glass of hot cordial for Mary and sits on the edge of the bed and sighs as the baby desperately roots about.
‘I can’t bear it that she’s starving,’ Mary says. ‘Tell me what to do.’
‘Let me give her a bottle, that’s what. I’ve done this before, remember? Hush now, hush, little one,’ Pat croons. ‘Don’t cry, there’s nothing to be sad about.’
But there is. This baby’s mother is useless. Mary knows it. And now the child knows it too.
At night, Pat insists Caroline sleeps in the box room next to an open window. ‘She doesn’t want to be breathing in your stale air now, does she? And that back room’s further from Dad, so he’ll be less disturbed.’
But how do you check your baby’s still breathing if she’s all the way across the landing? And if she wakes in the night, shouldn’t you go to her, rather than let her cry herself back to sleep?
‘If you stop lifting her up and fussing her,’ Pat says, ‘she’ll soon be feeding and sleeping at entirely predictable times.’
‘How do you know all this?’ Mary asks.
Pat merely scowls. ‘Better to put a fence at the top of a cliff than station an ambulance at the bottom.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that regularity of feeding, sleeping and bowel movements is best for a child.’
Now that Pat gives Caroline bottles, Mary resolves to help with other things instead. She watches her sister, eager to be as competent: the towel across the lap, the water at elbow temperature in a bowl, the cotton wool and baby powder. Pat demonstrates folding the nappy, how to tuck your fingers inside when using the safety pin so the baby doesn’t get jabbed, how to tie the crossover vest with its ribbons, how to ease a nightie over the baby’s head.
‘I love you very much,’ Mary tells Caroline as she struggles with socks and bootees. Because if she keeps saying it out loud, she might become a good enough mother to deserve such a lovely daughter.
But every day brings an increasing fear. Because what if Pat’s right and Mary will never manage? And what if Dad really isn’t going to ever speak to her again? Every time she walks into a room, he walks straight out. Every time she says anything, he pretends not to hear. What sort of atmosphere is that for a child? ‘You,’ she tells her baby daughter, ‘you deserve better than this.’
Every time she cradles Caroline, Mary can’t help thinking, if I’m left alone with you for long enough, I’ll do something wrong. I might accidentally drop you on your head or tangle you in cot sheets and suffocate you. And as you get bigger there are more ways to hurt you. I might give you the wrong medicine or let you run out into the road. And I have no idea what babies eat, so you’ll probably starve and I can’t knit or sew, so you’re bound to get chills. Left to my own devices, you’ll be lucky to make it to your first birthday.
Then Mary feels terrible for thinking such horror, and holds her daughter tight and plants kisses all over her soft sad face.
She tries to tell herself that it isn’t her fault. She goes over and over it. ‘Listen,’ she says to herself. ‘It’s simple. Not every woman is motherly. Some of us just don’t have it.’
She tries to make up stories with happy endings, ones where she and Caroline live in London together and Mary is an actress and Caroline has all the children’s roles, like Perdita in A Winter’s
Tale or Wendy in Peter Pan. But then Mary remembers that Perdita is brought up by a shepherd and Wendy flies away through a window and both end up motherless. Not even her fantasies come good.
Every morning, Pat makes up a bottle, feeds the baby in the kitchen, then puts her down for a nap. Pat makes Dad his breakfast, hands him his packed lunch and waves him off to work. Pat’s started knitting again. She’s bought pink wool and is making a matinee jacket, whatever that is. Mary can hear the needles from all the way upstairs. Clickety-click, clickety-click. Pat says there’s nothing for Mary to do, except stay in bed and try to decide what the rest of her life might be like. But Mary can’t get past the idea of taking her child and moving to London. Whenever she mentions this to Pat, she looks appalled, comes back at Mary with tales of mothers thrown out of boarding houses, of landlords taking advantage when they discover there’s no husband, of women living in the streets, of babies getting tuberculosis or being bitten by rats.
Every possibility is taken away. Mary has no money, no prospect of work and nowhere to live. As Pat keeps telling her, ‘You’ve really gone and done it now.’
One morning, Pat orders Mary to come downstairs and sit at the kitchen table. A paper and pen is produced. Pat’s going to sort things out once and for all. This situation can’t go on. She writes down Mary’s options. These include getting the baby adopted (immediately crossed out, because hasn’t there been enough loss in this family?), feigning the death of Mary’s made-up husband in a car accident (crossed out because no one will believe it), Mary wearing a ring and pretending her husband works abroad (ditto), the entire family moving away and starting all over again (Daddy’s too old and would never agree), Mary and the child staying locked in the house for ever (cruel to the child and at some point the neighbours will notice).
‘Well,’ Pat says, pushing the paper away, ‘that leaves us with finding this baby a father.’
Mary sinks her head into her hands, fighting back the nausea that overwhelms her. ‘Robert’s got a wife.’
‘I’m aware of that.’
‘So what are you suggesting?’
Pat taps the pen against the table. ‘How long since you last saw him?’
Mary’s throat hurts. She wipes her eyes and looks at her sister. ‘Four months.’
‘And did you go with anyone else? I mean, you are sure he’s the father? There couldn’t have been a mistake?’
Pat says mistake as if she’s swearing. It makes Mary smile, despite the threatening tears. ‘I’m sure.’
‘Well, we need to find a new man, then. One who won’t mind taking on a child.’
Mary’s heart sinks. What ridiculousness is this?
‘Men have urges,’ Pat says. ‘Women have longings. It’s a dangerous combination. Much better to put all that aside and sort this out in a practical way.’ She taps the table three times and Mary thinks of a magician conjuring a rabbit. ‘What about Lionel Dudley?’ Pat writes his name on the paper. ‘His mother’s just died, so he owns that nice little house now. Daddy always speaks very highly of him. He dresses well. He’s clean and quiet and must earn at least ten pounds a week. I imagine he even has prospects for promotion, despite his age.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Daddy’s colleague from work.’
‘What’s he got to do with anything?’
‘He might like a ready-made family. He needs a woman to keep that house for him now his mother’s gone.’
Mary blinks at her sister. Doesn’t she understand men at all? ‘I don’t think it’s a wife that man’s after. Don’t worry, I’ll bring my daughter up on my own.’
Pat glares at her. ‘And where exactly will you do that?’
‘I’ll think of somewhere.’
‘I will not stand by and see this family’s reputation in tatters while you brazen it out with a baby and no ring on your finger!’
‘Oh, don’t worry about your precious reputation, Pat. I’ll go to London.’
‘You think anyone will rent you a room? And how will you pay for it? You’ll be on the streets before you know it.’
Mary finds it hard to breathe suddenly. The room begins to slowly spin. ‘I can’t marry a man I don’t love and that’s the end of it. I refuse to spend my life in misery.’
‘Your life!’ Pat’s voice is shrill. ‘Never mind your life. You’re giving no attention to the child. You of all people should know what it’s like to grow up with a parent missing. But at least yours was decently buried and not married to somebody else!’
‘Don’t bring Mum into this.’
‘Then don’t talk to me about misery!’ Pat stands up and jabs a furious finger at Mary. ‘I gave up everything for you – grammar school, college, all of it. The reason I don’t have a husband or family of my own is because of you!’
‘Well, if you want a husband so much, why don’t you marry Lionel and keep his little house nice? I’m sure you’ll suit each other perfectly. Very convenient for both of you.’
There’s silence. Mary’s words echo. The kitchen reverberates with them.
Nineteen
‘You all right, Mary?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘You know where we are?’
‘Absolutely.’
It was tempting to check that she actually did, to ask her the name of the street or to see if she remembered why they’d got the train in the first place, why they’d walked up the hill from the station, what they were here for. But direct questions with only one correct answer were Mum’s speciality and were beginning to seem cruel.
The keys worked, and there was no alarm. They went into the hallway and shut the door behind them, standing in a little bundle as their eyes adjusted.
‘Are you sure it’s not haunted?’ Chris asked, peering into the gloom.
Katie gave him a warning nudge.
He frowned at her. ‘Why’s it so dark then?’
‘It faces north,’ Mary said sadly. ‘However, if you go through to the back, you’ll find a different story.’ They followed her down the hallway and into the lounge. Mary went straight to the curtains and whipped them open, ‘That’s better.’
The room came into focus. The fireplace, the mantlepiece with all the trinkets, the armchair with its blanket, the wing-back chair with its tapestry cushion.
Chris sank onto the sofa in front of the TV. ‘Does it work?’
‘I don’t see why not,’ Mary said. ‘You just help yourself.’ She beckoned Katie over to the window. ‘Look at this.’
Katie went to stand beside her and looked along the stretch of her arm. Outside, a set of traffic lights moved from red, through amber to green. It was shockingly bright out there – Mary had been right about that. Light bounced off the houses opposite and off the slow-moving cars. It looked like water on the road, a strange oasis shimmering on tarmac.
‘There’s a whole row of shops,’ Mary said. ‘You can get anything you want – newspapers, sausages, you name it, they sell it.’ She laughed loudly, pressing her cheek against the window and steaming up the glass. ‘And there’s the garden, just the edge of it. You have to go through the kitchen door for that one.’ She beamed at Katie. ‘You want to go out there?’
‘What about the suitcase? Shouldn’t we look for that first?’
‘If you like.’
But Mary didn’t move. Chris gave Katie an I-told-you-so shake of his head as he flicked through channels with the remote.
Katie had imagined Mary like a hungry animal roving through rooms, foraging for the case. She’d find it in a wardrobe or under the bed and recognize it immediately. She’d produce a key from the depths of her handbag and open the padlock. It would be full of cash or maps or the deeds to a castle. But Mary was different from their last visit. Then, she’d been interested in the house and all it contained. Today, it was as if the outside world bewitched her – the street, the shops, the garden.
There was treasure to be found, Katie was sure of it. But how would she re
cognize it without Mary’s help? Katie tried to recall the names, softly spoken by Mary last time they were here, each one an incantation, like words from another language. That was a Welsh dresser over in the corner, she remembered that – made of pine and very trendy in the seventies. And the armchair favoured by Jack was G Plan. The long low sideboard was teak and made in Scandinavia. That was a cocktail-cherry coat rack on the back of the door, very popular following the Festival of Britain and inspired by molecular models used in chemistry.
A strange excitement thrilled Katie as she recalled the details. These things were so alien, yet they were also part of her somehow, some long line of history that she’d now inherited. She grazed a finger across the top of the music box and lifted the lid. The plastic ballerina rose from her spring and wobbled drunkenly. Katie smiled as she wound the key. Mary, this house, even the tinny music coming from this box – for a brief time, maybe just for a few more days until Mum got a care home sorted, Katie had a stake in them.
‘Shall I look for the case, Mary, if you’d rather not? Do you think it might be upstairs?’
‘“Greensleeves”,’ Mary said. ‘I can name that tune in one!’
Well, that sounded like permission.
The stairs creaked. Katie crept up holding the handrail tight and tried not to think about Jack lying on the landing and all the stuff that might’ve leaked out of him. She hoped there wasn’t a stain. That would be too much to bear.
There were three doors, all closed. She was beginning to feel like Goldilocks. A suitcase was big. It would be easy to find. Just keep breathing, Katie, you can do it. The first handle she tried led to a bathroom – a bath, a loo, that was it. The second opened up into a small box room, and after a furtive glance under the bed (dust and a roll of carpet) and inside the fitted cupboard (rows of shoes, shelves of jumpers), it was obvious there was nothing.
A splash of sunshine appeared on the landing and disappeared just as quick, like a torch flashing from the sky as Katie stood outside the last door. It startled her. What if someone was in the final room? What if Jack really was a zombie and that’s why Mary kept seeing him? Or what if he’d been killed by a psychopath and they’d come back to finish off everyone else?
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