Unbecoming

by Jenny Downham

  ‘The one you gave me at the house?’

  ‘In the car. When you first arrived. It’s a shame to be frightened and London’s not as big as you might think. It’s divided into smaller places, like villages or towns. They all have different names. There’s Hackney, of course, and Enfield where I used to live and Covent Garden where I work and Soho where I go out to dinner or meet friends. And there are buses and tube trains and trams to get between the places. It’s like a puzzle that joins up into a wonderful whole.’

  The girl eyed her with interest, but said nothing.

  ‘I’m an actress, did you know? I’ve just done a season at Cromer, on the end of the pier. That was nice. I’m not working at the moment because I want to concentrate on you. I just turned down a job in Venice. That’s in Italy.’

  ‘Yes,’ the girl said. ‘I know.’

  ‘Ah,’ Mary laughed. ‘Good at geography as well as maths, eh?’

  ‘I think you may be talking about Mum?’

  ‘My mother’s dead. I’m not talking about her at all.’

  ‘I mean my mum – Caroline.’

  ‘Yes, that’s it.’

  ‘I’m Katie.’

  ‘Of course you are. I knew that.’

  Mary leaned back in the chair to work it out. She sat there for minutes as the girl carried on with her writing. Katie was Caroline’s daughter. Caroline was Mary’s daughter. Mary had a mother, who had a mother of her own. Back and back it went, like Russian dolls.

  But you could get lost like that. You could end up in darkness, sitting in a cave with Neanderthals …

  Mary swallowed, tried to focus, yanked her thoughts back to Caroline.

  She’d come to stay, Mary knew that much. She was unhappy, Mary knew that too. The child wanted to return to Pat, didn’t understand why she couldn’t. Things needed explaining. Despite her father swearing Mary to secrecy, the truth was surely best.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she whispered to the writing girl. ‘Do you happen to know where Caroline is?’

  ‘She’s upstairs. I’ll get her.’ The girl pushed her chair back from the table and jogged out of the room.

  Darling, I need to explain about Pat …

  Sweetheart, there are some things you don’t know about Pat …

  Beautiful girl, I know you miss Pat, but there are very good reasons we can’t visit her …

  None of it was right. Words didn’t quite cut the mustard. But what else could she do? Write Caroline a letter? That was still made of words. Mary had written hundreds of letters in her life, and had any of them done any good? Perhaps the only hope was to keep trying? After all, if you give a monkey a typewriter and enough time, one day it will write a sonnet.

  A woman said, ‘You wanted me?’

  Mary turned to her. ‘I wanted Caroline actually.’

  ‘For goodness sake. I am Caroline!’ The woman swilled liquid around the bottom of a glass, tipped her head back, gulped it down.

  ‘I was talking,’ Mary said, raising all the dignity she could muster, ‘about my daughter.’

  ‘That’s me,’ the woman said. ‘I am your daughter.’

  Mary considered this. ‘She’s got different hair.’

  ‘Copper and gold. Yes, I know.’ The woman slapped a bottle and the empty glass on the table and sat next to them. ‘I got old.’

  She was old, it was true. She had long greying hair that dragged her face down. And those glasses certainly didn’t help.

  ‘Have you ever thought of contact lenses?’ Mary asked.

  The woman laughed, a scoffing kind of laugh that was really rather unpleasant, considering Mary was only making a polite enquiry. The woman turned to the bottle and sloshed some more out. It lapped up the glass like a little red tide. ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘since you seem to be wanting to talk. What do you want to do about a bath tonight? It’s pretty late, so do you want to wait until the morning instead?’

  ‘I don’t need a bath. I want to talk about Pat, about all of that.’

  ‘You do need a bath actually. We’ve got an important visit tomorrow. You remember where we’re going?’

  Mary felt an urgency – she had to get together the right amount of words and they had to mean the right thing. But inside her head was a softening, a sliding away.

  She looked about the room for clues. This was a lounge clearly – a table and chairs and in the corner a television. On the sofa, knees curled up, a girl with flame-red hair was looking rather sheepish.

  ‘Should I be here?’ Mary asked her.

  The girl gave her a weak smile. ‘Probably not, but I’m glad you are.’

  Mary gazed at the window, how dark the day was. Perhaps it was winter … She drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair. ‘I got a telegram from my father. Come quick, it said.’

  ‘Can we get back to discussing the bath, please?’

  Who was this woman who kept interrupting? A telegram definitely rang a bell. Had there been a cat? A clock? Something melting in an oven? Birds?

  An image of Pat scattering spent matches in the garden landed squarely in Mary’s head. Yes, that was right – Pat thought that if the matches received sufficient moisture they’d germinate. She’d raked a thin dressing of sand on top as she explained, ‘They’ll turn into something warm, I hope – red-hot pokers, or toadflax.’

  ‘Pat was ill,’ Mary said. It was a sudden revelation. She was pleased with the memory. It felt very solid.

  Pat had been pegging tins onto the washing line to keep the birds away. They shone and chinked. Bottle tops too, rasping in the breeze. To make light of it, Mary reminded her that magpies might be attracted to the silver. Pat was afraid. She thought they might come swooping and scurried up the path to safety dragging Mary by the hand. They stood together at the kitchen door. Pat kept shushing Mary, kept telling her to listen. Could she hear the whirring of wings?

  ‘My father begged me to help,’ she said. ‘My sister was unwell and needed a break. She had no joy in anything and neither did Caroline as far as I could tell. She needed some life breathing into her.’

  ‘Some life?’ The woman with grey hair sounded furious, took another swig of her drink. ‘You took your daughter away from everything she knew because you wanted her to have some life?’

  ‘I took her to London,’ Mary said quietly. She remembered this bit very clearly. Such high hopes she’d had. Her daughter and her together at last! It had been a slow blossoming. ‘She was a funny little thing,’ Mary said. ‘Nothing like me at all. Very quiet, very good at maths.’

  ‘I wasn’t what you wanted, was I? I was a complete and utter disappointment.’

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘You really want to discuss this? OK, then.’ She sat forward on her chair. ‘You remember taking me to Oxford Street? It was right at the beginning, almost as soon as I’d arrived. “It’ll be such fun,” you said, but you never asked me what I wanted and I ended up with a silver minidress and some leather boots. You said I’d be the height of fashion, but I hated wearing them. I hated the way everyone stared. You kept inviting people round – all your friends, people I didn’t know. They only came because they wanted to be nosy. And there was ridiculous food, nothing I ever wanted to eat …’

  ‘You were at my house? Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. Your friends sat about drinking and smoking and playing music. I kept in my bedroom, knowing if I came downstairs they’d all look at me and tell me to come and join in, sit down, have a glass of something. Sensual parenting, you called it. You remember what that is?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘It’s having no boundaries and accepting no responsibility for anything.’ She stuck her hand out to count off on her fingers. ‘No regular meals. In fact, rarely any food in the house at all. No bedtimes. No homework. No settled adults in your life.’ She wiped her hand on her skirt as if rubbing the list away. ‘You were always showing me off like some kind of prize. My daughter, you used to announce and it really annoyed me. It felt so unf
air to Pat, who was in hospital having a terrible time. I wanted to see her, wanted to phone her or at least write her a letter, but I kept being told no, not yet, maybe later. For nearly two years.’

  Mary blinked. That wasn’t true, was it? They’d sent plenty of letters. But when Pat was in that hospital she couldn’t have visitors.

  ‘I was like a little alien among all your friends, being petted and shown about and taken for dinner at fancy restaurants and meeting different men every five minutes and having to call them Uncle this or that and being taken to parties after the show when I really should have been in bed. You used to make me a nest in a corner and encourage me to sleep while you lot moved the chairs to one side for dancing. How was a kid supposed to sleep through that?’

  Mary leaned forward. This story was stirring something. ‘Excuse me? Are you a police officer?’

  ‘Why? Are you feeling guilty? You should be. Here’s a thing – one night everyone had to go round and do an act. You had a beautiful voice and you sang something lovely and they all looked at me – what could I do? But instead of protecting me, saying I was shy or tired or too young, you were the worst. You kept saying, You must know something, surely there’s something you can do, some kind of turn? But there was nothing. I couldn’t even remember any jokes. My head was entirely empty and I looked at you and saw your disappointment and knew I wasn’t the plucky, extrovert daughter you wanted me to be. I wasn’t pretty enough or bold enough. You should’ve left me with Pat, you should never have taken me away.’

  The woman leaned back in her chair and looked sternly at Mary. It made her feel rather uncomfortable. Was she obliged to listen to this?

  ‘Sometimes you went out to the theatre and didn’t come back at night.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘When I woke up in the morning, you were still out. So I got dressed, had some breakfast and went to school. What else could I do?’

  Mary nodded. ‘You sound sensible.’

  ‘Oh, I was. I didn’t mention my mother’s absence to any teachers. I knew they’d be upset, knew it would get you into trouble. When I got home, I was very relieved to find you sleeping in your bed.’

  ‘Oh,’ Mary said with a sigh, ‘that’s all right then.’ She was glad the story had a happy ending.

  ‘Not really, because it happened once a month at least, no warning at all, which meant I was never sure if there’d be anyone there or not when I woke up in the morning. So because I could never be sure and because it was so terrible to creep along the hallway to see if you were missing, I made a decision. Do you know what that decision was?’

  Mary shook her head. Best to keep quiet.

  ‘I decided never to check. I decided I wanted to be alone, that it was preferable. So now when I woke up, I didn’t bother looking in your room, I merely went downstairs, made my own breakfast, made my own packed lunch and went off to school. I was careful to shut the door properly, careful to take a key. After weeks of this, it was as if I lived alone. It became commonplace for me not to seek you out if I needed anything, commonplace not to talk to you, or to require anything from you. And do you know how old I was at the time?’

  ‘Fifteen?’ Mary suggested.

  ‘Twelve. I was twelve years old.’

  That did seem young to be doing so much. Still, Mary had been younger than that during the war and everyone had been expected to muck in. Perhaps she should mention this?

  ‘I used to think,’ the grey-haired woman said, ‘that it was my fault, that if only I was more interesting, you’d want to spend time with me. But as I grew older, I came to realize you were extremely selfish. You needed constant admiration. Whatever kind of child I’d been, you’d still have dumped me as soon as any man gave you the wink. I was so glad to get back to Pat as soon as she was better. Nearly two years with you was more than enough!’

  The flame-haired girl stood up. ‘Mum, I’m not sure this discussion is doing anyone any good.’

  The grey woman scoffed at her. ‘It’s doing me a lot of good, I can tell you.’

  ‘Please, Mum. Why don’t I make us all a coffee? Let’s talk about this tomorrow.’

  The woman shook her head. ‘You wanted to hear about London, didn’t you? Well, here it is, in all its glory. Not so romantic now, is it, Katie? I’m here all the time for you and your brother. All the time! I gave up any notion of a career to look after you both when you were younger, and now I actually have a job I say no to extra hours and put myself out of the running for promotion. You know why? Because you still need looking after! I help you revise, help you with homework, I know your teachers, come to every damn parents’ evening, every concert and play. I look after you when you’re sick. Have you ever had to spend a night alone in this flat? No. Have you ever come home to empty cupboards or had to get the nits out of your own hair, or had to plan how to make food last until there was more money available? Never.’ She was furious. Shouting with it. The girl had a hand over her mouth, listening to her. ‘But Mary – well, I’d put very good money on betting she got pregnant on purpose. Ha! That never crossed your mind, did it, Katie? She knew her dad would throw her out, knew Pat would offer to look after me, knew she’d finally get the freedom she wanted. How about that, eh? Is she so wonderful now? She sacrificed me so she could have the life she dreamed of.’

  Mary leaned back in her chair. She’d heard this speech before somewhere. It hurt to hear it now. Like pinpricks of sharp light biting the back of her eyes. ‘I’d like to go home now,’ she said softly. She hoped someone would show her the way.

  Twenty-six

  A woman met them in the lobby. ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘I’ve been expecting you.’ She was wearing a badge with her name on – ‘Eileen’ it said and underneath, Manager.

  ‘Sorry we’re late,’ Mum told her. ‘We had a little attack of nerves.’

  ‘We’ meant Katie. She’d spent the last ten minutes refusing to get out of the car in a final attempt to get Mum to change her mind.

  ‘Nerves are entirely to be expected,’ Eileen said, ‘but I assure you we’re a friendly lot.’ She winked at Katie. ‘How about a guided tour and then you can see what you think?’

  Katie let Mum go ahead with Eileen, then took Mary’s arm and followed behind.

  ‘We’ll start with The Willows,’ Eileen said as she punched a key code into the door, ‘our high dependency unit.’

  As they followed her through to a corridor there was an immediate whiff of institutionalised food and a stronger, chemical smell above that.

  ‘Willows?’ Katie leaned into Mary. ‘I bet there won’t be a tree in sight.’

  Mary chuckled, although Katie hadn’t meant it as a joke.

  During the forty-minute car journey, Katie had tried to imagine St Catherine’s care home (specializing in caring for people with dementia). Mum had said it had a person-centred approach and was in a wonderful setting, but Katie couldn’t get beyond the idea of the hospital in that Jack Nicholson movie. Of course, that wasn’t actually a care home, but it was still an institution that took away all your freedom.

  Mary had been busy admiring the scenery, excited as a schoolgirl on an outing, not realizing she was about to be betrayed. So Katie told her the bit in the movie where Jack’s character breaks everyone out and they all go fishing. Mary didn’t seem that interested, so Katie told her the bit where he gets put in a straitjacket and has his brain fried. It was such a relief when Mary looked horrified and demanded Mum turn the car round.

  Mum refused to do that (of course) and told Katie to stop stirring things up, to keep ‘blinking quiet’ and accept this was ‘the best solution for all of us’. She went on the hard sell after that, talking about entertainers and outings and living in small units like a family.

  But Mary already had a family. She didn’t need a new one made up of a bunch of abandoned old people. ‘The only criteria,’ Katie told Mum, ‘should be if you wouldn’t mind living there yourself.’

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ Mum sna
pped. ‘It’d be a blessed relief.’

  And that was the difference. Mum liked safety and closed doors and windows and regulated meal times and people being the same every day and no surprises at all. But to Mary, a life like that was a nightmare.

  ‘This corridor is actually a loop,’ Eileen said as she encouraged them along. ‘It circles the entire building and all the rooms lead off from it, so everyone gets a view – the courtyard, or outside across the fields, or for some lucky residents, towards the sea.’

  ‘The sea?’ Mary said.

  ‘We passed it,’ Mum said. ‘Remember?’

  Mary frowned. ‘I don’t think I was there.’

  ‘You said the stones on the beach looked like pearls.’

  ‘It’s just across the road,’ Eileen said. ‘We’re in a wonderful location.’

  Mum smiled, but Katie wasn’t going to be seduced by the sea and Mary wouldn’t be either. She had seemed excited to see it, sniffing the air as if it stirred some ancient memory and she’d definitely made the pearls comment, but she wouldn’t like watching it from a window. She’d want to get up close and splash about. And Katie would bet any money that no one in St Catherine’s was going to let her do that.

  A woman appeared at the curve of the corridor, gripping the handrail as if she’d fall if she let go.

  ‘Ah, here comes Doris,’ Eileen said. ‘A lot of our residents like to walk, so a looped corridor provides that opportunity in a safe environment.’

  They walked in circles all day? Indoors? That was terrible. That was worse than hamsters on a wheel. They all stared as the woman got closer. She didn’t acknowledge them as she shuffled past, despite Eileen’s cheery, ‘You off for a walk, Doris?’

  Katie flicked a look at Mary, but she was gazing with great interest out of the window and across the car park.

  ‘Sometimes we stick a duster in her hand and get her to polish the rail,’ Eileen said, smiling at Doris’s retreating back.

  ‘You could get my mother to generate your electricity,’ Mum said. ‘She can walk for England.’

  Eileen laughed. ‘You’re not the first person to suggest that about someone, believe me.’