by Isla Dewar
It didn’t matter any more. Nobody raised an eyebrow or made a comment when she told them what she was called. Everyone assumed she was Georgina. It was all down to guilt anyway, wasn’t it? It swept through you as soon as your child was born. A keening need to give your new, freshly scented infant a perfect life. It was overwhelming. And there was no relief. There ought to be, George thought. The guilt-ridden ought to be given a place in the Beatitudes. Blessed are the guilty, for theirs is the kingdom of wine and chocolate and extra-strength tissues to wipe away the tears.
When Willy was four George realised she had a warrior on her hands. The child spoke constantly, argued a lot. He disputed the use of a green bowl for his cereal when he preferred blue. He hated being dragged from morning play to change into outdoor clothes. He took issue with the clothes George selected for him. He disappeared in supermarkets, running top speed. He ran everywhere. He shouted a lot. Oh, how he loved shouting. Another warrior, George thought. James and Emma were schemers and dreamers. But Lola had been a warrior. Still was. She’d raged daily about something or other – usually boys, the unfairness of women’s treatment and the price of shoes.
Still, Lola’s rants had been delivered at a relatively tolerable volume. Willy’s shouting wasn’t. He let his voice soar because it made him feel powerful. He was, after all, only little. In fact he was the littlest in the family, so making himself heard was life affirming. The child got exquisite pleasure in moving as fast as he could. He’d run round the garden, arms spread, shouting his name. The family, home for Sunday lunch, would watch. Lola, enthralled, joined in. James and Emma followed. All four children tearing round the lawn barefooted. They stopped in front of her breathless, grinning and pink. ‘You should try it,’ said Lola. ‘It’s great.’
George shook her head. She was too old for such behaviour. But that night, at three o’clock, when the world was silent, when as always she couldn’t sleep, she sank into her nocturnal bout of black guilt about the dreadful things she’d done. She’d stormed out of her childhood home furious at the name her parents had given her. She’d gone to an all-night café where anything could have happened to her. She’d been rescued by Alistair and had fallen, ridiculously, for his kitchen. Oh, what a kitchen. She was sure cooks were the best lovers. They were about sex and food. Was there anything else? And was she a dreadful person to believe that?
She’d married her rescuer. Had his baby. She’d discovered that her parents had funded her schooling, her clothes and her food from a distance. They’d followed her life by keeping in touch with Alistair. The guilt George suffered over that.
Alistair had bought a car, an ancient thing – an MG convertible. It rattled and shook and made worrying noises as it careened along. One evening he’d set off and hadn’t come back. The car had hit a tree. Alistair died, and for a while George hated him for doing that. To this day she worried when someone went away from her that they wouldn’t ever return. But she kept it to herself.
There was more. After Alistair’s funeral George continued to live at the flat. She respected the kitchen and used it only to make toast and heat baby food. She didn’t pay rent or any bills and knew the end would come sometime. One day two men came to the door looking for Alistair.
‘Excuse me,’ said one of the men. The main man, George thought. ‘We’re looking for the bloke who lives here.’ He took a couple of steps towards her. He was small, stocky, wedged into a smart suit complete with waistcoat. His head shaved. He looked like a man with a temper. His friend was taller, in jeans and a T-shirt. He looked like he could help with the temper.
‘He’s out,’ George said. ‘I’m just staying for a couple of days. I don’t really know him.’ She was frightened. She was young. She was grieving. She feared for her child. She thought she might be responsible for the overdue rent.
She packed a bag, stood a moment in the fabulous kitchen, took Alistair’s favourite little knife, and walked away. There was only one place to go. Back home to her parents. She was surprised to find they were expecting her. They knew about Alistair. They welcomed her; she was still their George.
Lying in bed now, next to Frank, too guilty to chase sleep, George told herself, ‘They were daft to love me. I didn’t deserve it.’ She cursed herself for denying Alistair. My friend, my soul mate, my lover, my love – and I said I didn’t know him. He deserved better.
She slipped out of bed and went downstairs and stopped by the window and gazed at the moonlit garden. So tempting out there. So soft, so quiet, so soothing. She opened the back door and stepped out. The air was fresh and clean, as if she was the only person in the world using it. She wore her favourite sleeping outfit – wide black pants and strappy top, sheer flimsy material. The grass was early-morning damp. The lawn was long and wide with a flower bed in the middle. It was perfect for moonlight running.
George took off slowly. She was hesitant, perhaps a little old for this. But it felt wonderful and soon she was flying; top flapping silky against her, arms spread. She thought it wrong to shout her name. She’d wake the neighbours. So she whispered it hoarsely as she went. ‘George. George. George.’ On her third trip round she felt her legs getting sore and her breath catching in her throat. Hadn’t experienced this since she was a child. ‘GEORGE,’ she shouted as she turned and headed down towards the back door.
Frank was leaning against the wall, watching. He wore his red silk dressing gown, a cigarette between his lips. He looked bemused and a little ashamed of her. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘Running. Trying not to shout. It’s wonderful. You should try it.’
‘I don’t think so.’
She was standing before him now. She was breathless, pink but definitely not grinning. ‘Oh well,’ she said, ‘your loss.’
‘Running about like that is infantile.’
She walked past him into the kitchen and put on the kettle. ‘You have the house. I’ll take the children.’
‘You’ll need the house, with kids to look after. We’ll sort it out after they’ve left home.’
It was over. The end had started with the face slap a few years earlier but this was what finally broke them apart. Oh, they’d behaved like a married couple. Had friends round, watched their children grow, gone on trips, bickered and eaten family meals. They’d even had sex. That was what it had been, though – sex. They’d stopped making love a long time ago.
He moved out two days later to a friend’s vacant flat and in time to his own city flat. He lived alone. George had supposed he’d install a beautiful long-legged woman to warm his bed. But no, he just wanted to be a bloke again. No woman running barefoot and wild-haired round a lawn for him. The children visited every second weekend for take-away food and trash television. George moved to the middle of her king-size bed and comforted herself that single life had some perks.
We are enduring, George would write to friends. It wasn’t anything she’d actually say. Speaking to friends, she’d tell them her family was fine. They were. Lola was studying design at Manchester, James was star of the school football team, Emma was tinkering with the notion of becoming a chef. Willy got bigger and smiled and wanted to be a fireman when he grew up.
It was May. The world was softly green and warm. Frank decided to take his children on a weekend break. James refused to go. He was centre forward and wouldn’t miss a big match. Emma was at a crucial point in her early teenage life when going away for a weekend meant not seeing her friends so she refused to go as well. ‘You’ll see them on Monday when you go back to school,’ George had told her. She received a scornful look that said she was old and understood nothing. For once, she let it go. ‘It’s just you and me, big man,’ said Frank, picking up Willy’s bag and heading for the car.
The call came at eleven o’clock on Sunday morning. The family was at the kitchen table reading the papers, drinking coffee. The radio was on. It always was. Sun streamed through the window highlighting toast crumbs. George picked up the receiver and knew from the
small silence that something awful had happened.
‘It’s Willy,’ said Frank.
George said nothing. Nerves gripped her stomach.
‘He went to the swimming pool on his own. I told him not to. I said to wait till I got up. But he wouldn’t.’
‘My Willy,’ said George.
‘He drowned.’
Her mouth went dry. She could no longer hold the telephone. It was as if she forgot how to breathe. Face ashen, trembling, she turned to James and Emma. ‘Willy’s dead,’ she said and ran from the room.
When James and Emma came to her she was sitting in the living room staring ahead. Remembering this, she thought her mouth was open, her face blank. She entered a tunnel. She couldn’t speak. The days and months that followed were mostly blank. George remembered hitting Frank when he came later that day with Willy’s case. She screamed at him, ‘Why did you let him go to the pool alone?’
‘I didn’t. He just went. Soon as I saw he was gone, I ran after him.’ And he stood, arms by his side, unflinching as she slapped him. Over and over she slapped him.
She howled as this pain, this unbearable pain raced through her. It filled her. She thought it the end of her.
When they went to choose a coffin, George raged. ‘Not white. He was no Little Lord Fauntleroy. He was a warrior. Red, he loved red.’
She slept deep dreamless sleeps. She couldn’t get up in the morning. Couldn’t face showering. Hardly spoke. Anna moved in and cared for the others. She’d had little to do with children but she fed them and laundered their clothes. She took time off work to make their lives as normal as possible. Hard when their mother was sleeping most of the day and wandering the house at night, deranged with sorrow.
‘That stupid stupid stupid little boy,’ George shouted, furious. ‘He never did as he was told.’
Walking along a busy city centre street, moving through crowds of people, some going the same way she was, some surging towards her, George felt lost, helpless. She could hardly breathe. She was numb. Something happened to her hearing. It wasn’t working. Pins and needles prickled down the arms. What was happening? Why were people going on living, working, just being when her lovely Willy had died? When her world had ended? The unfairness of it, the insanity of it, made her throat tighten, her blood stop running through her veins. ‘STOP,’ she cried. ‘Just all of you STOP.’
For a small moment it seemed as if everybody did stop. Then they started up again. Streaming along the street. George stood, not knowing what to do. Someone took her arm, led her to a seat outside a café and told her to sit. ‘Just get your breath.’ She was brought a cup of tea. She took a sip. Looked at her rescuer. An older woman, maybe in her late sixties, she was obviously used to taking charge, had no reserves about gripping a stranger’s arm and leading them to the safety of a small café. She had a kindly face. A man, her husband George assumed, stood back looking on. He had the slightly embarrassed look partners of opinionated, bossy people often had. He gave her a weak smile.
‘My son died,’ George told them, ‘and people are still walking about as if nothing happened. I can’t cope with this.’
The woman said, ‘I know. How cruel is that? Drink your tea, then maybe we’ll get you a taxi.’
George never discovered who that woman was. Months later she thought to put a notice in the local paper thanking her. But she never got round to it. She took to her bed and to her dressing gown. It saved the business of selecting clothes to wear. She stared a lot. Said little. It must only have been for a couple of weeks but it felt like months and months.
One day Anna, sitting on the chair beside the bed, said, ‘I’ve written you a poem.’
‘I thought you’d given that up.’
‘No, I think it gave up on me. Anyway, here it is. “We are here. Waiting. For you to come back to us.”’
‘It doesn’t rhyme.’
‘Not all poems do. It isn’t the rule.’ Anna got up. ‘I’m going downstairs to rummage in your fridge. You have children in the kitchen who need to be fed.’
‘I know,’ George said. ‘I heard them speaking and moving about.’
‘They’re there all right.’
‘I’m scared. I don’t want anyone I love in my life to leave, to go anywhere. I fear they won’t come back.’
Anna said, ‘We will, though. We always will.’
George heard her cross the room. ‘It’s a good poem.’
‘It’s a true one, anyway.’
Fifteen minutes later, the family sitting at the kitchen table looked up as George entered the room. She was pale, tired, wearing her jeans and a favourite baggy jumper. ‘We probably ought to order pizza,’ she said.
Of course, she didn’t get better. She mastered the art of smothering her grief. It was always there. Sometimes at work, or at home, she’d think of Willy – imagining him alone and fighting in the water, struggling to surface. She’d cry out. Hold her stomach and find a quiet, empty place to lean on a wall and calm herself.
*
Two years later, she decided she needed a holiday.
‘I’m going somewhere warmer than here and where I don’t understand the language. I don’t want to know what people are saying. I’m going alone. I need to think.’
She settled on Italy. Lucca. It was late October – warmer than Edinburgh but not uncomfortable. Her hotel was in the town centre and every day she walked. Along the city wall she went and through narrow streets. She drank espressos in small cafés. She gazed at shoes and bought a pair she knew she’d hardly ever wear, but they were too beautiful not to own. She discovered a restaurant where the ceiling was covered with vines and a pizza place that claimed to be the home of pizzas. She fell in love with tiramisu. Ordered it everywhere she went.
Matthew was staying at the same hotel and took to watching her come and go. ‘You didn’t see many women on their own back then,’ he told her later. He didn’t want to appear to be stalking her, but he’d seen her go to the restaurant with the vibrant growing vines and he was there one evening when she came in.
He asked if she minded him joining her. In fact she did mind but didn’t like to say, so she flapped her hand at the empty seat opposite hers and said, ‘Knock yourself out.’ They ate pasta with spinach, drank white wine and she didn’t bother to look at the menu for pudding. The waiter brought tiramisu. ‘We know you like it.’
‘Ah yes,’ said Matthew, ‘it’s everywhere, is tiramisu.’
George slowly scraped the drizzled cocoa from the top and put the spoon in her mouth and shut her eyes. ‘Italians have perfected the trifle. They have perfected everything. Food, wine, coffee, life.’
He agreed. He told her he was a chef. ‘I had a small bistro place on the west coast, seafood mostly. Then I branched out, opened another and another. I should have mastered tiramisu. It didn’t occur to me.’
Years later, in bed, she told him he had the perfect face. ‘Everything a woman wants in that collection of features – kindness, humour, compassion, intelligence – and your eyebrows don’t meet in the middle.’
They’d walked back to the hotel. He bought her a tiny bottle of orchid oil from a pharmacy. They stopped for a glass of grappa. She felt it burn her throat. He took her out for dinner the next night and then back at the hotel he put his arms round her and held her. She’d told him about Willy. He put his hands on her back and pulled her close. He kissed the top of her head and let her lean into him. He knew she needed that. And he needed someone to hold close.
Twenty years on she was still leaning, still eating his Italian food. It was love in a time of tiramisu.
7
Maya Angelou Swung It
‘I miss punk. I really liked it. The music almost hurt. People were angry and shouty. The hair was wild and pretty horrible, to be honest. It was a bit of an ugly time. I really fitted in,’ said Anna.
‘Yes. I remember,’ said George. ‘You were very angry. But your hair told everybody that you had a sensible streak. It was purpl
e but very tidy. Your Marla who asked you to babysit sounds like a punk.’
‘She is shouty. But I’m not a babysitter.’
‘You should definitely do it,’ said George. ‘It would be good for you.’ She wiped the last of her bouillabaisse from her plate with a piece of bread and popped it into her mouth. This week’s lunch meeting was on her, so they were eating out at a small bistro in Leith.
‘What makes you say that?’ said Anna. ‘I don’t need anything that’s good for me. I’m fine.’ She took a swig of her house red.
‘No, you’re not. You live on baked potatoes and you hardly ever talk to anybody except me. Solitude and a mono diet is no way of life. Besides, you could use the money.’
‘I have little time for money,’ said Anna.
‘But you have bills, and from time to time you need new shoes, and then there is the business of eating. You have to buy potatoes. The money could go towards classy potatoes.’ She leaned back to let the waitress take away her soup plate. She took a sip of her sparkling water. ‘Keats would have done it.’
‘Babysat? I don’t think so.’ She raised her wine glass to her friend and bill-payer. ‘Here’s to not driving.’
‘Percy Bysshe Shelley would have babysat.’
‘Percy Bysshe Shelley had children.’
‘An NCN man, then?’ said George.
‘NCN?’
‘A never-changed-a-nappy man.’ George nodded and thanked the waitress for her sole Véronique. The waitress smiled and said, ‘I’ve met a few of them.’ She placed Anna’s peppered steak in front of her. ‘Enjoy.’