Stranger Still

by Marilyn Messik

  “You’ll be OK?” I asked.

  “Oh, I’ll be so much more than that.”

  “If,” said Rachael, “you are actually going, will you please actually go; we’re freezing to death here.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  The fallout was huge. Melvyn had been going out of his normally unruffled mind. He kept saying, it was the first time in thirty years of marriage they’d spent nights apart, and with a failure of his usual good humour, didn’t take kindly to David joking he was probably well overdue for a break then. I think he was also slightly traumatised by the reappearance of Laura in exotic garb.

  Disconcerted by his out of character crossness, Laura pointed out it hadn’t exactly been a picnic. The truth was, she couldn’t work out quite how everything had happened as it did – and all so fast - and the more thought she gave it, the more uncertain she was. Faced with the sheer impossibility of trying to explain to anyone else what she couldn’t explain to herself, and back on home ground, she found it easiest to revert to type and a pill. She was, she explained in a weak voice, utterly exhausted; after all it’s not every day one becomes a grandmother. She somehow managed to convey she’d delivered the baby with one hand, catered for a whole host of people with the other and between times dug paths through heavy snowdrifts to secure supplies. By the time she’d recounted this a couple of times, she’d convinced both Melvyn and herself, and marital harmony was restored.

  I did feel our relationship had moved forward slightly and that I’d seen, if briefly, another side of her. I was surprised and pleased when she mentioned, in passing, she’d purchased and despatched a couple of silky scarves and a soft cashmere pull-on hat in bright fuchsia for poor Alison – just until her hair grows back, and had thoughtfully included some Marigolds for Enid.

  My Mother, having established I was none the worse for haring all over the place like a lunatic, that David wasn’t about to leave me due to said haring, and that Sara, thank God, showed no evidence of ‘strangeness’; shed tears of relief. She and my Father, able to read a lot more between the lines than Laura, weren’t as amazed at how swiftly things had got out of control – they’d seen it happen before. Despite that, my Mother made it clear she’d been more than a little hurt it was Laura who was with me at such a life-changing time. She wouldn’t dream of mentioning it again she said, but I suspected that it might remain for all times, the slightly martyred elephant in the room.

  Our drive back from the school had been easier than feared, and in fact the predicted fresh snowfall considerately held off until late the next day, which allowed everyone to come and coo, congratulate and head off again. The heavens then opened and Great Britain ground to a complete halt for nearly a week, which suited us rather well and gave us a belated opportunity to get our bearings and give Sara some of the attention she deserved.

  She was even to my inexperienced eye, an exceptionally good baby, sleeping through the night after five weeks. Religiously reading Mother & Baby magazines, whilst they were careful not to put the fear of God up brand-new parents, they intimated that terminal tiredness, baby brain and breast or bottle issues were likely to loom large. However, this baby proved the exception to the rule sleeping so often, so deeply and for so long, that on occasion I had to shake her, just to make sure she was breathing properly.

  David was a man of two opposing parts that he was having trouble reconciling. There was no doubt, even whilst accepting it wasn’t entirely my fault, he hated the danger I’d put myself in. On the other hand, he couldn’t help but be pleased that Alison had been rescued from certain extinction, and a man who deserved all he got, had the tables turned on him so thoroughly. But he didn’t want to talk about it all, in fact, he was trying to forget most of it.

  Midwife Mavis, when I eventually got to the clinic for my check-up was reproachful.

  “Had it,” she said, shaking her head as she completed her notes, “occurred to me, heading off to stay with friends during the worst snow for years, might not be the brightest idea?” Nevertheless, she was delighted to pronounce that Sara and I were both in excellent working order and I seemed to have experienced far fewer issues than she would normally expect from a first-time Mum. Under her approving eye I nodded and smiled a lot, appreciating it wasn’t so much an issue of innate ability, more short spells of inattention, because awkward situations such as the ones we’d been in, tend to demand full concentration.

  * * * *

  It was always planned that I’d go back to work, the only difference being that now I had baskets either side of my chair; Katerina in one, Sara in the other or occasionally both in the same. Kat had taken upon herself a supervisory role and would sit in the Moses basket, accepting the kicking of small feet as just part of the job.

  It was no surprise I’d had no luck in pushing through the no-family-visits office rule. If anything, conviviality only increased. I sometimes wondered how we managed to churn out the amount of work we did, with maximum professionalism, minimal error and universal client satisfaction. There was one thing which had been playing massively on my mind, and I put off dealing with it for as long as I could manage, but eventually everything has to be faced.

  Trevor had spent a considerable time in hospital, unconscious for the first two weeks, during which Joy had taken time off, before then deciding she was better when at work. She said if she was at home doing nothing, she’d simply go round the bend although, visiting hours permitting, she spent most of the rest of the time at his bedside.

  In a quick consultation with Hilary and Brenda, mercifully not in the toilet, they couldn’t really tell how she was, other than distressed and worried over Trevor, although Brenda muttered;

  “Maybe best if he doesn’t come round. A leopard doesn’t change its spots,” then in answer to Hilary’s expression, “oh, don’t give me that look - only saying what we’re all thinking.” Joy hadn’t said a word about what happened ‘that day’, so we’d all followed her lead and it wasn’t mentioned. I knew I ought to spend some time with her, sit down and talk; truth was I didn’t know what to say. I’d gone over it often; what I’d done, could it have been done differently? Had my intervention caused the stroke? And then latterly, with my unwelcome new knowledge, could I have affected Trevor in the same way as Devlin and that didn’t bear thinking about. My reflections usually came full circle, there was no doubt at the point in time I took him down, something had snapped in his mind, his intentions were murderous and measuring all the ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’ against that certainty, didn’t leave much else to say.

  Initially when he did come round, it wasn’t known how much damage had been done, but with the endless patience and persistence of physio and speech therapists, his improvement was swifter than expected. To Joy’s delight (and Brenda’s misgivings), at the beginning of April he was allowed home and the grey pall of worry hanging over Joy started to dissipate.

  Almost imperceptibly during that time, she’d been gradually slipping back to who she had been. Her hair was bobbed, because it was too time-consuming to dry and style when long. This way, she pointed out, a quick fingers-through did the job and she was ready to go. Prior to Trevor’s illness she’d been toning down her bright blonde natural colour with a brown wash, but now said she simply couldn’t be bothered to re-apply and so for a time, until it grew out, sported a slightly piebald appearance which didn’t look as odd as you’d expect. By the time she was ready to welcome Trevor home, she was back to bright blonde and had reverted to red lipstick because she said it cheered her up, whereas the pale beige gloss she’d been using only reflected what she was feeling - and that wasn’t great.

  I’d cravenly avoided visiting Trevor in hospital – new baby and all that - then when he came home, put it off until such time as I couldn’t put it off anymore. But I went mob-handed, choosing a day I knew I’d be flanked by Brenda and Hilary. I left Sara with my Mother and Aunt Edna, along with a carefully typed out schedule, of which I knew they’d take no notice whatsoever.
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  During my previous somewhat fraught visit to the house, there hadn’t exactly been time for a conducted tour, but I did remember how dark and dated the decorations were and indeed most of the furniture. However, when Joy ushered us into the hall, it was all light, bright and colourful with flocked wallpaper banished.

  She laughed when she saw my expression. “Yup, bit of a makeover - Mr Pegneddy, I’ve had them hard at it and I want to talk to you about something,” she was leading the way into the living room. I hadn’t been in there before, but there was no mistaking the Joy touch here too. She’d done away with nets and drapes, great heavy green velvet things she said, swagged to kingdom come. Instead, she’d put in thin slatted blinds, matching the off-white walls which were lined with large colourful framed prints. She’d kept the sofa and armchairs, dark brown originally, but now re-covered and with a whole new lease of life.

  Trevor rose from an armchair to greet us, he was leaning on a walking stick, but other than that, and an almost imperceptible hesitancy over some words, I thought he was getting back to his old smooth self, but as I shook his hand, and went into his head, I couldn’t have been more wrong. He wasn’t back to anything like his old self. The constant internal dialogue had stopped and although we were only exchanging small talk, what he was saying was what he meant, there seemed to be no element of control, criticism or impatience running beneath, and when Joy went over to stand behind him and rest a hand on his shoulder, he reached up to cover it with his, and he wasn’t doing it for our benefit. I had heard stroke survivors sometimes underwent personality changes, but this was amazing. I relaxed a little then delved deeper and relaxed even further, I couldn’t find or feel anything I might have left behind.

  “Tea and cake?” said Joy, “hang on while I get it, and Trevor; don’t you dare tell anyone anything till I’m back!”

  Joy had taken a couple of major life decisions and although it meant she’d be leaving us, that was the only thing we could find fault with. Sipping tea, I nipped into her head. I don’t know what I expected, maybe a total blank as to what had happened between them, shock can sometimes mercifully do that, or maybe, I thought she’d have created a sanitised version she could live with.

  I was wrong. Joy had complete recollection, remembered every dreadful detail and in fact had made up her mind back there, back then. If he survived the stroke, she’d do her duty, see him through and help him all she could. She hoped he’d get back on his feet, but if he didn’t, she would organise and put in place whatever care he needed. Once that was done she was off. She’d made a terrible mistake; she’d chosen not to see what was happening in their relationship because she loved him, genuinely wanted to please him and hated the thought of being out there on her own again. But she was an intelligent woman, had seen how a problem ignored, isn’t a problem disappeared. She cared deeply for Trevor but she didn’t believe people could change, and she wasn’t prepared to take that risk.

  Things hadn’t turned out as she planned though. During his recovery, he seemed to be a different person. She didn’t have what I have, but based on what she could see and hear, he’d changed. She didn’t believe it at first and didn’t plan to let it impact on her decision, but despite that, it felt as if their relationship had started all over afresh. She was still pretty certain she’d be going, but then she made her second big decision – if there was a chance, just a chance he was changed, did she owe it to him and to herself to see if she could rebuild a future?

  “Trevor doesn’t want to go back to what he was doing before,” she was saying now, “he probably could but we’ve decided on a different direction. We’re selling his practice but we’ll still need income so, and don’t you dare laugh,” she took a breath, “we’re setting up a Bed & Breakfast!” She held up a hand as if to forestall protest, although there wasn’t any and certainly nobody laughed.

  “We’re centrally located here, not far from the Tube straight into town. We’ve five big bedrooms of which we only use one and two big bathrooms. There’s another floor above as well, where the maid slept in the days when they had maids, smaller rooms but great view, and another bathroom. We’re using the money we get from the practice sale to do up the rooms, one by one. She opened an efficient looking lever arch file on the table in front of her.

  “Look, I’ve got a separate section for each room, they’re all going to be different – colour scheme, furniture, style. We’re hoping for a couple of permanent long-term lodgers and then a lot of come-and-go stays, business-people, that sort of thing. So, what do you think?” I saw how carefully she’d thought things through and the fine threads of growing optimism and below those, the carefully tamped down fear it could all come to nothing.

  I said I thought it was a brilliant idea and as we started talking about how best to get word out, I glanced over at Trevor. If there was anything, anything at all I felt could hurt her, I wanted to know, but all I could see was his pride in her and excitement at their plans. Joy was sitting next to him on the sofa, on impulse I got up and went over to better look at the file with her. I moved his walking stick, so I could sit down. My hand where his hand had been, I didn’t have long, so let it flood through me – I got nothing, not a flicker of anything that set alarm bells going and certainly no memory of anything at all prior to the time he’d come round in hospital. Maybe this was one leopard whose spots had changed. All I could do was wait with her; watch and wait.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  To my enormous relief I had no return of the cramping, all pervading apprehension which had coloured my life for such a long time. I’d have liked to talk a bit about it, but I knew David didn’t want to and I found the odd phone conversations with Ruth or Glory to be unsatisfactory, compared with the ease of communication when we were together. I hadn’t of course spoken to Rachael in ages, but then she didn’t do chatting. There had always been two sides of the fence in my life and I’d spent years making it clear to myself and everyone else, on which side I wanted to be. Whilst I’d been happy to use what I had when I needed it, straddling the fence in order to get involved in other things was now, more than ever not on the cards.

  Obviously, along with my parents, David and I watched Sara closely and like all families came to the inescapable conclusion that if this wasn’t the cleverest, most beautiful baby ever, she was pretty close. Everyone seemed delighted she was normal and showed no signs of anything else and if very occasionally, I might have wished their relief to be a little less enthusiastically expressed, it was only now I had my own child, that I truly appreciated what my parents had to put up with. There was a tiny blip at her six-month check-up.

  “Ever noticed these?” Sara was on my lap and I had the task of holding her still so the doctor could check her eyes. With a gentle forefinger and thumb, he opened Sara’s right eye wide again, making little clicking noises with his tongue for distraction purposes. “See?” he said. I instantly knew two things; firstly, I was the worst mother in the world for not noticing and secondly, I didn’t need to see them, I had the same shadow markings on my eye. He guessed in part what I was thinking and was reassuring, “You wouldn’t normally spot them, they’re way up under the lid, nothing to worry about, rare but of no concern.

  “It won’t affect her sight?” I asked, although it had never affected mine.

  “No, just a thinning of the sclera, the white outer layer of the eyeball - like a birthmark, sometimes runs in families, anyone else have this?”

  “No,” I said for no reason other than it felt right. If we were talking about anything being in the family, the less said, the better.

  “Right, well, she’s a bonny baby all round. Anything else worrying you, anything you want to ask?” There actually were several things I’d like to ask but didn’t think that well-trained and highly experienced as he was, he’d have any of the answers. As we spoke, I was trying to get Sara back into her babygro, always a struggle if she didn’t want to go.

  He finished his notes, looked up
and frowned, “Erm, haven’t you…?”

  “Got it back to front? Yes,” I said, “and believe me, it isn’t designed for this, but she’s learnt how to pull the poppers open and if she wriggles enough, she’s out of it.”

  He laughed, “Right, well let’s see you in another six months, anything bothers you in the meantime, have a word with your Health Visitor or pop in and see me.”

  That visit unsettled me, I knew logically the marks in my eye were nothing to do with anything else and the marks in Sara’s were the same, unconnected, but if I hadn’t noticed them, was there anything else I hadn’t noticed? I was policing myself carefully. At home plates were now carried to the table, cups didn’t fly into the sink and if I wanted something, I jolly well got up and got it. There was of course, the odd occasion when acting on instinct couldn’t hurt; driving us home from the office one day, just as it was getting dark, a large estate car shot from a side road practically under my wheels. I hooted as soon as I saw him moving but he didn’t stop and I had to stamp on the brake to avoid unpleasantness. He must have been in a rush but nevertheless took the time as he drove ahead of us, to open his window and give me two fingers. The subsequent veering of his steering indicated just how disconcerting it must have been, to find he couldn’t get them down again for a good long while.

  * * * *

  By the time Sara’s first birthday came round, and despite my protests that she honestly wouldn’t know what was going on, plans were in place for a party that kept growing in numbers. We did have something additional to celebrate though. In November, David had been commissioned to do a series of articles which were going to be syndicated and there was the distinct possibility of a book to follow. It did present certain issues, but we’d have to find a way to work round those.

  David was approached on the recommendation of a journalist he’d shadowed for work experience, years ago. They’d struck up an unlikely friendship and stayed intermittently in touch, David always relieved to find Roger was still alive.