The Love Story of Missy Carmichael

by Beth Morrey

  I paid very little attention to the clothes, because I was so distracted by my hair, shaking my head and tucking strands behind my ears. Leo always liked it long and on the few occasions I’d grown tired of it and suggested a chop, he’d protested so vigorously that I’d abandoned the idea, flattered by Leo’s strong emotions on the subject. I wondered what he would say if he saw me now.

  Angela burst back in with various garments over her arm and looked me up and down. “Yes,” she said. Then she turned me away from the mirror, helping me into a cardigan and shoes, and putting something around my neck, adjusting and tweaking.

  “Right, you’ll do.” She spun me round and we both admired the new me. Tall, and rather sparse as ever, now there was a new elegance to my disposition, the sharp twenties hairstyle, the tailored trousers, cut slightly short to reveal green suede block heels that matched the softly draping pale green cardigan with the darker blouse beneath. I looked neat and put together in a way I’d never managed for myself before—ding, dong, the witch was dead.

  Just before Aunt Sibby died, I went to see her, withering away in her bedroom in Yorkshire. She was nearly ninety by then, a grand old age, but it was still pitiful to see. A lot of the time she didn’t make much sense, drifting in and out of lucidity, one minute asking who was looking after her animals, the next talking to her husband, Randolph, who’d been dead for years. But one thing she said stuck with me. “I hate how ugly I am,” she rasped. “I’m so beautiful on the inside; why can’t the outside be the same?” As I grew older, skin sagging, the flecks and crevices of dotage creeping in, I saw what she meant. There was part of me that believed I should still look like the adoring bride who gazed up at Leo all those years ago. I’d lost those versions of myself—the girl in the cellar, the student, the wife, the young mother—but now I could see traces of those previous selves etched in the lines on my face and felt a fondness for them all.

  I fingered the jet-black beads at my throat. “It’s lovely, but I couldn’t possibly afford all this.”

  “Nonsense,” replied Angela firmly. “The haircut was Sylvie’s treat, and this is mine and Denzil’s. Mainly Denzil’s. But he doesn’t like shopping.”

  “But . . . but . . .” I gestured to the outfit. “It’s too much.”

  “Bullshit,” she said, gathering up my old clothes. “Otis wants his adopted grandma to look cool. I’m just following orders.”

  As we emerged from the dressing room, Otis dissolved into tears.

  “It doesn’t look like Missy!” he wailed, his lip trembling.

  Angela was conferring with the delighted sales assistant, so I knelt by him and took his hand.

  “It’s still me,” I said. “Just a bit more dressed up.”

  He sniffled and wiped his face on his sleeve. “You’re still a witch though?”

  “Of course. Always will be. This way, it’s our little secret. No one else will know.”

  He nodded, satisfied, and we left the shop with my old clothes in a bag. Outside we were met by Sylvie, looking even more twinkly-eyed than usual.

  “Marvelous,” she exclaimed, tweaking my beads. “You look sensational. I don’t know about you, but all this grooming makes me fancy a spot of lunch. How about it?”

  Angela said she knew a little place around the corner, and, linking arms, we made our way there, Otis skipping ahead. Gripped firmly on either side, I wondered what had provoked Sylvie and Angela to embark on a Missy-makeover like this. And then, as we pushed open the door of the restaurant and a huge roar went up, it became apparent.

  We were greeted by a crowd of people, all holding glasses, milling around and shouting. Denzil and Miguel, Deirdre from the library, Hanna from the café, Simon and Maddie with baby Timothy, Phillip, numerous other dog walkers and finally Mel and Octavia, who were holding hands and beaming. Turning, astonished, toward a smirking Angela, I saw a huge banner had been hung along one wall:

  HAPPY 80TH BIRTHDAY!

  “Surprise!” shrieked Sylvie, thoroughly overexcited.

  Lost for words, I thought back to the other me sitting dejectedly on the sofa a year ago, and it seemed impossible that I could be standing here now, in my finery, with all these people. Once again I felt a lump in my throat, but this time it was a joyful nugget, a heralding of happy tears. So I swallowed it down and smiled at everyone, as they surged forward to congratulate me.

  We had a splendid lunch, all piled onto one long table, making far too much noise and drinking far too much red wine. It seemed everyone had bought me a present—candles, books, bottles and chocolates galore. I opened and exclaimed, and toasts were raised, mostly to Sylvie, who loved to drink to herself on every occasion. And then it was my turn. I stood up, waiting until they fell silent, groping my way to a script.

  “I didn’t expect this,” I began, to laughter. “I didn’t expect any of this. I feel so very grateful that you’re all here, but also sorry that someone else isn’t.” I thought of Leo, of Alistair and Arthur, so far away, but for once I didn’t mean any of them. “I’m sorry Bobby isn’t here, because she is the reason I know you all so well, the reason you’re all here. So I’d like to toast her.”

  We all clinked our glasses: “To Bobby!”

  Afterward, Angela sidled up to me and said, “Bobby isn’t the reason,” handing me a parcel. I opened it and found a small string of pearls—the buttons that fell from my blouse the day I confronted Adrian. They’d been restrung as charms in a delicate little bracelet with a tiny silver clasp. I held it in my hands, fingering the ivory baubles like rosary beads, thinking of them scattered down Angela’s pathway and imagining her scooping them up.

  I turned to Angela, who looked embarrassed. “Thank you,” I whispered. “This is perfect.” And she ducked her head, grabbed a passing Otis and made a show of rubbing chocolate off his face.

  Melanie and Octavia approached, both flushed and slightly tipsy.

  “Mum, I’m so sorry but we’ve got to go. We’re moving tomorrow and have to finish packing up. What a lovely lunch.” Mel stared at me appraisingly. “You look great.”

  I patted my hair. “Thank you. And thank you both for coming. I really had no idea.”

  Octavia grinned and hugged me and they both turned to leave. But as they got to the door, Mel swung back, all at once self-conscious and determined.

  “That letter you sent last year. I just wanted to say . . . it meant a lot. I never knew you felt that way, but I’m glad you told me. And glad things seem to be changing.” She gestured toward the assembled group, still laughing and carousing. “I’m happy for you,” she said. “You’ve got some nice friends.” She reached out her hand to me and I took it in both my own.

  “More than nice,” I said, squeezing. “More than nice.”

  Chapter 39

  Melanie and I had our big row on my seventy-eighth birthday. She came over to try to make a thing of it, but with Leo so recently gone I was in no mood to celebrate. Yet the occasion demanded some sort of marking, so instead of a party we had a fight. Emotions, noise, memories—just the wrong kind.

  I watched her bustling around my pristine kitchen, quietly seething, then decided I didn’t want to keep quiet about it. Once again she was rabbiting on about this big house, how would I cope, and why didn’t I think about getting something smaller. My house was the only link with Leo left, and she wanted me to off-load it along with everything else that was precious to me. The rooms where Alistair and Arthur stayed, the attic full of my family, the garden I tended, the space where light pierced my heart for the first time since I lost my baby. So after glowering at her for a while as she cooked her silly quinoa, which wasn’t any kind of birthday dinner, I decided to make her as angry as I was.

  “It must be wonderful to be so sure of yourself; I’m sure Octavia enjoys it. No doubt you both have your eyes on such prime property. You probably think you’d be very comfortable here, but I
’m not prepared to give it up just yet.”

  Mel swung round, dark green eyes glinting. “What on earth are you suggesting?”

  I shrugged. “Oh, get the tiresome mother to shuffle off and make way for your new London lives. I’m sure I’ll be fine in some shabby little flat while you play Lady and Lady in your Stoke Newington palace.”

  “How dare you? The very idea of it! Octavia and I are happy in Cambridge, thank you very much. We have no desire to live in this old wreck.”

  “Oh, a wreck, is it? Then it should suit me very well, since I’m such a crumbling old vessel.”

  Mel snorted. “Oh, come off it. I just want you to be comfortable, and this house is . . . unmanageable.”

  “And we all know how you like to manage things.”

  “That’s not fair. I only want what’s best for you . . .” She tailed off, aware how trite that sounded.

  “What would be best for me is if you just leave me alone. All . . . this”—I gestured to the quinoa, which smelled of very little—“nonsense. Leave it. Take it home to Octavia. I don’t want it. I’m fine on my own. I don’t want you.”

  She flung a wooden spoon on the table and stood with her hands on her hips. “No, you don’t, do you? You never did, in fact.”

  I didn’t want to continue the conversation, but we were wrestling on a precipice, and the momentum was carrying us over, even though this would end badly, disastrously. The air crackled with it. I licked my lips, which felt dry and sore.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You never wanted me. You only wanted Dad and Ali. And Bertie.”

  It was like a firework had gone off in the room, whizzing and cannoning around, enveloping us in the aftershock. My chest was tight, my field of vision narrowed until all I could see was her unshed tears and hunched shoulders as she recoiled from her own blow. Bertie, Bertie, Bertie. I hardly ever said his name except in my head, all the time, an echo in an ancient buried cave. Now Mel had lit a match and revealed that the walls were decorated with endless tiny handprints. That spark was all I needed to send me over the edge.

  “Get out.” It came as a hoarse whisper, out of my mouth before I knew it. “And don’t come back.”

  She slumped. “I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean . . . Sibyl told me . . . before she died. I don’t think she knew what she was saying. She said . . . your mother told her.”

  “I don’t care. Get out. You’re right, I never wanted you. So you can go.” The thrill of saying it was somehow purifying. The rage finally had a channel, and it was going full tilt. “Go on, go!”

  She was still for a minute, then picked up a tea towel and arranged it neatly on the bar of the Aga. She took the pot off the stove and set it in the sink, which sizzled slightly on impact. The clock ticked.

  “I said go.” I couldn’t resist twisting the knife. It felt awful, which was better than nothing.

  She turned to me, breathing slowly and evenly. I loathed her self-possession. Where did it come from? I could barely keep myself in check—she had to leave before I lost control.

  “I’m going. But I just want you to know. What you did . . . it wasn’t wrong. Sibyl said you never forgave yourself but . . . there was nothing to forgive. You shouldn’t blame yourself.”

  This was worse than anything else she could have said. The anger overflowed and erupted out of the dark corner where it lurked, ready to scorch everything in its path. I got to my feet unsteadily, placing both palms on the kitchen table.

  “I don’t blame myself,” I said shakily. “But I do blame you.”

  Her brow furrowed. “What does it have to do with me? I don’t understand.”

  “When you were born”—I made sure to enunciate every syllable—“you weren’t him.”

  She backed away toward the door, eyes wide, then grabbed her coat with shaking hands, not bothering to put it on, picked up her bag and turned the latch on the door. For a second she leaned her forehead against it, then pulled back and looked me in the eye.

  “Happy birthday,” she said, and then she was gone.

  I ate the quinoa, which tasted how it smelled, and sat drinking the red wine Mel brought with her, shivering in my bare living room and deliberately not thinking of anything at all. The cave was dark and empty again, and I could almost ignore the echo if I put the radio on, or had another glass, or scrubbed the Aga, which was flecked with those stupid grains. By the time the phone call came my hands were cracked with bleach and my head was fuzzy, but when I answered I could tell she was as drunk as I was.

  “Don’t hang up,” she said. I didn’t say anything, but didn’t put the phone down either. Suddenly I didn’t have the energy anymore. The anger had found its outlet and now there was nothing left.

  “I just wanted to say I’m sorry. Again. I shouldn’t have said anything, not my business, it was wrong of me to bring it up. But I wish you . . . had told me . . . I wish you . . . would say . . .”

  But I couldn’t. Like Leo couldn’t, or wouldn’t. Regard, not love. So I sat there in silence listening to the catch in her breath, looking at my empty glass, until I heard the click as she quietly put the phone down, then the dial tone that just went on and on.

  Chapter 40

  15 May 2016

  Dear Melanie,

  Such a strange way to begin a letter, when I’ve never really treated you so. You were never “dear” to me, were you? From the beginning, I acted as though you were an aberration, and I suppose in a way you were, because you weren’t Bertie.

  What is so painful to me is that you knew it. So I am doubly guilty. You said I shouldn’t blame myself, but a lifetime of blame is hard to shake off, and it tends to spill over into other things. Into blaming you. I treated you as though you were somehow complicit, which of course is absurd. What I said to you that day was unforgivable, and I said it because I was angry—so very, very angry—with myself, with your father, with life itself. But not with you.

  I’m not angry anymore. I’m sad, and sorry, and I know I should have been a better mother to you, my Melanie, instead of being the mourning mother of Bertie. When I saw you today, standing with Octavia, I felt very glad that you have managed to find the kind of straightforward happiness that eluded me.

  But getting Bobby—that ridiculous, beribboned hound who very nearly ruined your wedding—has opened up something in me. It’s a beautifully uncomplicated, direct relationship, unhindered by dark secrets or lopsided requirements. We both need something from each other, and we’re both giving it. So far it’s proved wonderfully beneficial. I wish I could have been as open with you, my dear.

  Congratulations on your marriage. You have my blessing, and were he able to give it, you would have your father’s too. Not that you need it. You are your own woman, and anyone would be fortunate to call you their wife, or their daughter.

  I hope that one day you will forgive me. Not just for those words, but for everything else.

  With my love,

  Your mother

  Chapter 41

  And so the upshot is, I looked at the budgets and I’m afraid I just can’t make it work. I can pay you to the end of the month, of course, and I hope you’ll come in until then, but I understand if you’d rather not under the circumstances . . . I’m so sorry.”

  I didn’t really hear her at first, busy admiring my new hair in the darkened window that lined one wall of the reception. But gradually I began to appreciate Deirdre’s remorseful expression, hands twisting in her lap just like Jette’s used to in the cellar. Luó; “to untie, release.” They were letting me go. Seeing Deirdre’s distress, I made sure to say that I understood and that it was completely fine; in fact, I would appreciate the extra time to myself. Then I picked up my bag and left before she could see my face fall.

  When the shock subsided, I tried to look on the bright side. The extra money had been very welcome,
but it wasn’t as if I was entirely unoccupied—I still had Otis to look after, and my friends, and of course Bobby. There was plenty to be grateful for. So I went and met Angela for lunch and she was gratifyingly irate, launching into one of her favorite rants about cuts, while I nibbled my salad and tried to stay positive, looking at my pearl bracelet as it caught the light of the spring sunshine pouring through the window of our café.

  “Anyway, you could get another job,” concluded Angela, opening up her sandwich and systematically removing chunks of pickle.

  I paused, my fork halfway to my mouth. “Not at my age! I’m eighty, for heaven’s sake. Who gets a new job at eighty?”

  “Who gets one at seventy-nine? You did it before, and now you know that computer system whatsit. See, you CAN teach an old dog new tricks!” chirruped Angela, through a mouthful of crisps.

  I laughed. “I think I’ll stick to looking after Bobby and Otis.”

  “Well, about that.” A crisp fell to the floor and Angela dived after it, but before she ducked under the table I saw a flicker of guilt flash across her face. “I’ve managed to get Otis into an after-school club. He’s been moaning because all his friends go, and they had a space.” She came up from under the table. “It’ll free me up now I’ve got more work on. He starts next week. Stop me pestering you all the time.” Angela babbled on, avoiding my eyes, but when she finally lifted her head, I found I couldn’t look at her, instead pushing arugula leaves around my plate, hunting for the olives.

  “Well, that’s nice. He’ll enjoy being with his friends.” She was right; he didn’t want to be with an old biddy like me, making twig houses for bugs. So that was the library and Otis gone, all in one morning.