Mother and Child

by Annie Murray

  We both miss Dorrie but it’s he who has been in bits. He was already going to pieces, even before she died. He’s fragile, exhausted, easily emotional. Now that we’ve done all the things that immediately needed doing, sometimes he just sits and stares, for ages.

  ‘I don’t know who I am any more,’ he said to me one day.

  On another: ‘I just feel stuck. I don’t know what to do.’

  He was just sitting there in the kitchen, late for work. He looked up at me and his eyes were scared. He looked like a little boy. I went over and put my arms round him, rocked him gently. The weird thing is, I feel stronger. As if I’m coming through something, even though some days I still feel as if my body is weighted down with stones. But I have got something – just a little – to give to him.

  And while I miss our Dorrie, all her love, her modest, self-effacing, humorous kindness, I have put everything I can into trying to help and support Ian over these weeks. Because I can see he’s near the bottom – close to really losing it. And I’ve found love and strength from my Creaking and Groaning tribe. They know what’s going on – I talk to them now. They give me advice and support.

  I sit with Ian for hours, hold him, listen to him, suggest he might want to talk to a professional counsellor because much as I love him I can’t be everything for him. I think he’s coming round to the idea.

  ‘I never thought I’d be one of those people,’ he says, embarrassed, when finally admitting he might need help. This evening, he came home from work and just cried for over an hour.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘But there’re a whole load of things we never thought, aren’t there?’

  After relaxation we all sit up, in that calm, dazed state that the end of a yoga class brings on.

  ‘Any news?’ Kim says. She sits, limber and cross-legged.

  ‘You go first?’ Pat suggests.

  Kim smiles. ‘Well, we’ve had a good summer. Mike and I and the kids went to Devon and . . . Yeah,’ she nods, ‘it’s been good. But the other thing is – last night I was with one of my moms. She asked me to be her doula a couple of months ago and she was already quite far on. But she’s the first one I’ve got to know and seen through – it was her first. Last night she had a little boy and I was there with her and the midwife all the way through . . .’ Her eyes fill with tears although she’s smiling. She wipes them away. ‘Sorry – it’s really emotional. I mean, I can’t hack being a midwife any more, but it was really special. A perfect little boy called Charlie.’

  Everyone makes happy noises and Sheila pats Kim on the back. ‘Good for you, love – I knew you’d work something out. Sounds just right for you.’

  ‘It really is,’ Kim says. ‘Anyway – that’s me. What about the rest of you? Other than a certain run, obviously! I’m so sorry I missed it! The photos looked fab – you all look really fit and amazing! Are you all still running?’

  There’s a silence.

  ‘It’s been too hot,’ Sunita says. But she seems a bit subdued.

  ‘What have you been up to then?’

  ‘Oh,’ Sunita says. ‘Summer holiday is all children, children. I haven’t had time for anything else.’

  Pat has no real news – she and Fred went to Wales for ten days.

  ‘And Hayley?’ Kim says. ‘I thought you were going to college? What are you doing still here?’

  ‘But I am!’ Hayley beams round at us. ‘Uni doesn’t start yet. I applied quite late, but I’ve saved up quite a bit of money now - and I suddenly had a brainstorm about the kind of thing I’m interested in. I’ve got a place at Birmingham Uni to study Environmental Science. I had to write and beg them – but I think someone had dropped out and they actually found me a place!’

  We all take this in.

  ‘Well, that’s a bit different from beauty therapy,’ Sheila says carefully.

  ‘Have you got A levels?’ I ask her. ‘I mean – sorry, of course you must have!’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’ve got what they ask for. In fact, they ask for ABB and I’ve got AAB – A’s in biology and history and B in chemistry.’

  ‘Have you?’ Everyone seems amazed. None of us had ever considered that she might be so well qualified.

  ‘That’s fantastic!’ I find I’m laughing. ‘Good for you, Hayley. And you’ll live at home, will you?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I don’t want to pay rent. I can live with my nan – keep an eye on her – and go in from here. I’m going to get a little car. It’s not far. And depending on my classes, you never know, I night even still be able to come to yoga!’

  ‘Environmental Science,’ Sunita says. ‘Is that pollution and all?’

  ‘Well, it’s all sorts of things,’ Hayley says. ‘Sort of a mixture of geography, chemistry, biology – anything to do with the way the earth works. So yes, chemical pollutants are one thing. To be honest, after all this, learning about Bhopal and everything, I’d be really interested in studying more about that.’ She grins – especially at me. ‘So thanks, guys!’

  We cheer her on. She’s like our little mascot. Then they’re all looking at me.

  ‘Well,’ I say, ‘it’s been a bit of a summer. As you know, my lovely mother-in-law left us a few weeks back so we’ve been pretty busy. And Ian, my husband – he’s needed a bit of looking after. I suppose soon I’m going to have to look for a job, now school’s beginning again. Although I’m not sure that’s even what I want any more.’

  ‘So what about the running?’ Kim says. ‘How much did you all raise between you?’

  ‘Eleven hundred pounds.’ Sunita announces this proudly. ‘Between us.’ She raised the most – no one in her enormous family got away without sponsoring her.

  ‘That’s amazing!’ Kim says. ‘Are you going to do it again next year?’

  We all look at each other.

  ‘We don’t know,’ I say.

  What we do know is that everything feels flat. We have done what we set out to do, the money has gone to the charity and, effectively, we are back to square one. And none of us was especially happy with square one in the first place.

  I’m concerned about Ian. I am doing everything I can to help him, care for him. But something in me is rising up, protesting. I have no Paul, no Dorrie. Do I just go and get a job like before? When nothing else is as it was? Something is birthing itself in my mind, slowly and quietly. A thought – a seemingly impossible idea that I keep trying to ignore but which keeps prodding and nagging at me.

  When we meet at Sheila’s later that week, everyone seems restless and a bit fed up.

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ Sunita says. ‘My husband says I am being very grumpy because my body is addicted to running about and I am not doing it any more.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you all just go for a run?’ Sheila says, plying us with chocolate muffins that I made to bring along this time. ‘There’s nothing stopping you, is there?’

  Sunita takes a cake and stares at it in her hand with an air of fate. ‘I am going to get fat again.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ Pat says. ‘Look, come on – we can all go out, even if it’s only once a week. I know Hayley won’t be here to keep on at us . . .’

  ‘Well, I might be,’ Hayley says. ‘Depending. But no, realistically I probably won’t. Why don’t you get everyone going, Sunita? All you have to do is your song-and-dance routine and everyone will be running behind you!’

  ‘Double-double.’ I grin at her. ‘Yes, come on, why don’t we? We could do the run again next year. We need something to aim for.’

  ‘It’s just that asking everyone for sponsorship money again,’ Pat says, ‘feels a bit . . . well, cheeky.’

  ‘They can say no,’ Sheila says, to my surprise. ‘Every little helps. Most people can afford a pound or two at least and it mounts up.’

  ‘So – shall we?’ Sunita says. I can see her perking up already.

  ‘OK,’ I say. And then it just comes out. Just like that. ‘The thing is – the thing I really want is to go to Bhopal.’

/>   I wait for a chorus of ridicule or at least of incomprehension.

  Pat, sitting beside me, turns and without missing a beat says, ‘Right. I’ll come with you.’

  Thirty-Six

  ‘I know it’s mad.’

  It seems to be the first thing I say to everyone. As soon as I say it to the group, I can’t stop saying it. And in the end, I have to say it to Ian. Bhopal. The bafflement of anyone else is nothing compared to the arguments I put up in my own head. What’s the point? You’ll just be in the way. What use are you, another white Westerner coming and just looking at the situation? (After all, it was a Western company that caused all this in the first place.) Who d’you think you are? Are you just looking for that boy because of Paul – so that in the end it’s all about you? Etc., etc.

  I can’t really answer those questions. It’s not about the boy any more, that I do know. All I know is, I have to go. I am involved whether I like it or not and I want to understand better. And that’s about it really.

  ‘I’m only talking about a week – two at most,’ I say to my baffled husband. ‘Seriously, that’s all. I’ll be back and things will be . . . I’ll be here.’

  And when one evening as we sit with a drink at the table on the little patio at the back of the house, I explain why – as much as I can – and how I feel, Ian is sweet about it. He’s seeing a counsellor one evening a week now, a man called Evan who lives in Kings Heath and it seems to be helping.

  ‘We’ve got the money,’ he says. ‘We’d have gone somewhere with Paul.’ He looks shyly at me. ‘I’d never’ve got through the last few weeks without you being so – well, so great. I don’t know as I’ve been much good to you through it all. I look back and I think . . .’ He shakes his head.

  ‘I suppose we lost each other for a bit when we lost him,’ I say. ‘But . . . I guess we’re still the only people now who really understand, who loved him. Shall we . . .’ I hesitate. ‘Shall we have a look through the albums later?’

  Our albums of Paul, the blue one and the brown one which I made such efforts to compile – the building of our memories, our family. We have never looked at them together since he died.

  ‘Not sure I can yet,’ Ian says. But then he tries. ‘Yeah, maybe. And Jo – what we were talking about. I thought you were going to get a job?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I smile at him. ‘I mean, I will – do something. There’s no reason you have to earn all the money all the time.’

  ‘Well, it’s one thing I’m good for.’

  I touch his arm. ‘Don’t. You know it’s not like that.’

  He gives me his lopsided smile. ‘If you say so.’

  ‘The trouble is, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know anything any more either – other than that I can’t just go back to doing the same job as before. All I know at the moment is that I need to do this one thing.’

  ‘Will you be all right? I mean, you know you’ve travelled before and everything.’

  ‘Pat wants to go.’

  ‘Pat?’ He laughs and it’s good to hear it. ‘What the hell’s Fred going to say?’

  ‘God knows.’ I laugh as well.

  Pat constantly surprises me. When I next see her – she calls round for a coffee – I tell her I’ve emailed the British charity and they are fine for us to visit. They’ve sent advice about nearby accommodation, said there might be an interpreter who could lend us a hand if he’s free. She tells me, calmly, she has announced to Fred that she is coming with me and that is how it is.

  ‘Blimey, Pat,’ I say. ‘That’s a bit harsh. The poor man’s been used to you never moving more than a hundred yards from the house and now you’re talking about taking off several thousand miles!’

  Pat giggles. She looks very tanned and healthy and her smile really brings her face to life.

  ‘I know. But the thing with Fred is, I don’t think the distance really makes much difference. If I said I was going to Scotland it would be much the same. Anyway, he went a bit quiet and then he said, “The thing is, I was thinking I might go with Len and the other lads on that golfing week they were on about in Majorca. But I didn’t like to ask you . . .” ’

  ‘What – at the same time?’

  ‘No, it’s quite soon. Len told him there’d been a lad pull out. And he wasn’t going to ask me because he thought I minded him going.’

  I stare at her and then we both start laughing hysterically.

  ‘Talk about Stockholm syndrome,’ I manage to say eventually.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think it’s quite that bad,’ Pat says. ‘More a case of a great big rut. And neither of us has been used to being able to go far – we could never have afforded it and then it just wasn’t something we’d ever done. But now the boys have grown up and . . . well, it’s not out of the question. And to give Fred his due, he’s been very good about it. Said he’d drive us to the airport if we want – even if it’s London.’

  Part of me wants to resist this because it just feels like Fred trying to be in control of everything again, until the last minute. But I have to agree it’s a kind offer.

  ‘What about the kids you look after?’

  ‘I can get someone to cover me. I think she’ll be glad of the money.’

  ‘So you’re really coming?’

  ‘If we’re really going?’

  We look at each other in some amazement and then I say, ‘Yes, I think we are.’

  We make arrangements – tickets, visas, jabs, accommodation. How things have changed – booking on the Internet is not how I did it all those years ago. We have ten days altogether – almost a week in Bhopal and a couple of days sightseeing in Delhi afterwards. Whenever Pat and I meet, our talk is of flights and arrangements and packing. I am amazed at her. She seems up for anything – not at all the way I would have expected her to be when I first met her.

  And in a way Fred seems excited about it. When I see him, in the middle of all this, he says, ‘So, got everything sorted out, have you?’ He seems to regard me as an expert in the travel department.

  ‘Nearly,’ I say.

  Out of the blue, whether to impress me or what I don’t know, he suddenly announces, ‘I’ve been thinking I might learn French.’

  Pat looks astounded by this declaration.

  ‘Great,’ I say. ‘Brilliant idea.’

  As the preparations move forward, I can’t help feeling guilty about doing all this without Ian. ‘I’ll stock the freezer with stuff,’ I tell him. ‘It’ll keep you going while we’re away.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I can cook some of the time,’ he says. ‘Time I learned to fend for myself a bit more. Actually, I was thinking, while you’re away, maybe I’ll go down of a weekend – Saturday night – and see Cynth and the boys.’

  ‘Great,’ I say again, to another man who seems suddenly full of ideas. He’s never, ever suggested that before! But with Dorrie gone, he and Cynth both know they don’t have anyone else much. I’m glad for him. ‘You can see Sweep as well.’

  Our date for departure is very near the end of October. After Paul’s anniversary. I don’t want to go before then. Pat confides in me that her baby daughter was born in October too – on the seventeenth. Our visit takes on a feeling of memorial – of honouring them as well as honouring the mothers and children we are going to see. Throughout this time, as the nights darken, the air smells of woodsmoke and the first fireworks start going off, I am glad to have the distraction of getting ready for the journey. So that every second of my day is not spent picturing a drunk Lee Parry, already well out of control, folding his puny body into that car that did not belong to him, revving up and starting his brainless, selfish, death-dealing course towards our son.

  Thirty-Seven

  FLAMES NOT FLOWERS

  A rainbow sunrise fills the sky as the plane lowers itself into Bhopal.

  Pat and I lean towards the window and begin to see a yellowish land dotted with bushes, out of which appears a motley collection of buildings at the edge of a city, an
d then runways, more dry scrubland in the dawn light – it could be just about anywhere. I find myself almost surprised, as if expecting to see a place wrecked and devastated, even now. But, of course, it’s not like that.

  We’re here. I want to tell Ian, to share it with him. But he’ll be asleep now – we’re five hours ahead and it’s about seven-fifteen in the morning here.

  He was a bit wobbly saying goodbye to me.

  ‘It’s not that I don’t want you to go – for you, I mean,’ he said, when we lay in bed the night before I left. He was trying his best to be kind, not to guilt-trip me, though goodness knows it doesn’t take much. ‘I suppose I just . . . I’ll miss you.’

  I could hear tears in his voice, another reminder of how fragile he is these days, how close to the edge.

  ‘It’s not long,’ I said, stroking his chest, then reaching up to touch his cheek. In a frail way, things feel so much better. ‘I’ll be back before you even notice.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘What if something happens?’

  We know now that things can happen – to us, not just somebody else.

  ‘We’ll be OK. I’ve got Pat with me. I’ll text you – every night.’

  My mind is so involved with home in these moments that it startles me when I feel the plane touch down and it brings me back. India. My God, I’m in India.

  Pat glances at me as the plane careers along, braking hard. She looks as she always does, girlish, curly-haired and calm. But I see her draw in a deep, nervous breath. ‘Well, here goes.’

  So far all we have seen of India is the inside of Delhi airport while we waited for the early flight to Bhopal. The old airport used to make you feel you had arrived in India. In the newly built one, glassy and modern, with a mesmerizingly hectic brown-patterned carpet throughout and everyone glued to their mobile, you could be anywhere.

  But now we are somewhere. Before eight in the morning we are in a taxi. The tawny light across the pale earth around the airport has a grainy quality, almost giving the feeling of being inside a painting. The roads are so far surprisingly empty. We sit quietly on the back seat of a white Maruti, which in itself feels strange. Last time I was here, over twenty years ago, almost every car was a bulbous Ambassador with a fifties retro look.