by Kate Eberlen
Now she’s looking up at the high ceiling, the ornate chandelier, as if she’s trying to keep the tears that are shining in her eyes from falling.
‘But I had to do something, I couldn’t just watch it all happen again and not even try to save her.’
40
Sunday
8 a.m.
Letty is sitting on the toilet, staring at the awards for campaigns that Frances won during her years in advertising, and wondering why her mother allowed her achievements to be consigned to the walls of the loo. She feels partly to blame herself, because she never challenged the narrative that her father’s family created to explain Frances’s abrasive presence in their midst: she was a brash, difficult woman who’d come from nowhere because she was clever, but used her intelligence to make money rather than doing anything truly creative or worthy.
It was so unfair. Frances wasn’t privileged like her father’s family. She’d never been to concerts or opera or ballet when she was growing up. Everything she knew when she arrived at Oxford was self-taught. She had no idea which cutlery to use at formal dinners, nor what sort of conversation was acceptable at sherry parties and what was not. She thought students at Oxford were supposed to have opinions and air them, but she didn’t realize that was only in certain social contexts.
‘It was as if everyone else had a rule book left in their room, like a Gideon Bible, but they’d run out of copies when they got to me,’ she remembers her mother telling her when Letty first went up. And Letty had wondered why she was making such a fuss about it, and what on earth did cutlery matter anyway? What she’d never done was put herself in her mother’s shoes, a diminutive female redhead arriving in a city she’d been to only once for interview, ill equipped to deal with rich, entitled posh boys. In that position, you’d consciously have to create a brave identity in order to survive.
Letty thinks of what her mother said about dancing with Ivo after the May Ball, with Bryan Ferry crooning just for them as the sun rose over the ancient cloisters. She imagines their bodies moving together to the sensual serenade, both of them young, optimistic, idealistic, and still protected from the realities of life outside by those medieval walls of privilege.
They already knew Frances was pregnant. They had clearly decided to keep the baby.
The way the story was always told, or not exactly told, she thinks, but hinted at, by Marina, was that Frances got herself pregnant to ensnare Ivo. But this was the end of the seventies. Nobody had to keep a baby then.
‘Isn’t that the difference when you’re in love?’ Frances had said the other evening. ‘I mean, it’s not just having sex, is it? It’s that you want to have his children.’
Letty recalls the feeling of Alf deep inside her, and her craving for him to go even deeper, so far that he would become part not just of her body but of her soul, and atoms of Alf would become all mixed up with atoms of Letty, their bodies entwined, their souls indivisible. Then she looks at the wand in her hand. Was that why this happened? Or was it just chance, serendipity, the expired use-by date of the last cherry-flavoured condom, which they’d only read afterwards?
‘I don’t think I’m very fertile,’ she’d told him.
And he’d smiled at her and said, ‘Let’s not worry, then.’
But she’s pretty sure he wouldn’t feel the same way about a positive pregnancy test.
9 a.m.
Frances lies in bed, wondering why Letty is spending so long in the bathroom.
What can she be doing in there all this time?
When Frances arrived home the previous evening, Letty was asleep. Frances crept into her room, staying for a moment to make sure she was breathing, then remaining a little longer, liking the feeling that nothing bad could happen while she was watching over her.
Ivo wasn’t there, of course, although in a way that was a relief, because Frances was too exhausted to parry questions or dissemble, too tired even to decide if dissembling was what she was going to do.
She’d taken the last train out of Blackpool with a connection to London, changing at Preston. Alf insisted on accompanying her to the hotel to pick up her small suitcase, and then he carried it to the station for her.
There’s something rather old-fashioned and chivalrous about him, which Frances thinks must be the dancing. She’s always loved the révérence at the end of a ballet class, and with ballroom, it’s similar. As the dance finishes, he bows to her. It feels rather nice. And God, he’s so handsome it’s almost impossible not to get girlishly giggly when he smiles at you. What’s lovely about Alf is that he’s obviously aware that he’s good-looking, but there’s nothing calculated about his smile. He’s not flirting, he’s not patronizing and he’s not arrogant either. It’s not that he’s guileless, exactly, but there’s an openness about him that’s very attractive.
Perhaps he’s so at ease with himself because he’s grown up with two strong women as the main influences in his life? A single mother is obviously going to have a close relationship with her son, especially as she was so young when she had him. But there’s also the grandmother Cheryl, whom he obviously respects and who’s clearly a piece of work.
When Alf told her why his mum was in hospital, Frances instantly abandoned the idea of revealing who she was or why she was there. She’s still concerned that it’s not fair on him.
But it was Alf who said, when they talked about Letty’s condition in the Tower Ballroom, ‘I understand what you’re going through, Fran. I mean, I know it’s worse for the person who’s ill, but it’s difficult being the one who loves them, isn’t it?’
‘That doesn’t put you off? Letty, I mean?’ Frances heard herself asking.
‘It’s part of who she is, isn’t it?’ Alf said. ‘I mean, I don’t want her to be ill, but you can’t pick and choose bits of someone, can you?’
A couple of tears had filled her eyes when he said that, and spilled down her cheeks.
‘Come on.’ Alf had stood up and offered his hand. ‘This is a Viennese. It’s the one Debbie and Giovanni did for their American Smooth in the last series of Strictly . . .’
And so they’d danced to ‘Memory’, which Frances had always considered a terrible schlocky old Andrew Lloyd Webber crowd-pleaser; before she was swept around and around Blackpool’s Tower Ballroom, when it became one of the tracks she’d put on the fantasy playlist she is always updating, to take to a desert island.
10 a.m.
Alf is standing on the platform at Blackpool station.
Now that his old room at home has become the twins’ nursery, he’s staying at Cheryl’s, so they usually have breakfast together. His gran was happy to hear he was going down to meet up with some friends in London. They decided not to bother worrying Donna with it. Gary’s there to take the girls out for a walk. Maybe even take Donna out too. It will be good for them to do something as a normal family. Apparently, his mum had held both of the babies in her arms the previous evening. And she’d managed to feed them and burp them, and first Dorabella, then Isabella, had smiled at her as she changed their nappies, and she’d said, ‘Did you see that, Mum? I’m so lucky, aren’t I?’
So, as Cheryl says, baby steps, but it looks like they’re on the right road.
Alf remembers the last time he took the train down to London, when he didn’t even know about his mum being pregnant until Sadie told him. That seems like a lifetime ago now. He felt nervous then too; not like this, but because he knew he wasn’t doing the right thing leaving without saying a proper goodbye. He thinks they’ve got over that now. It was always going to be difficult making the break between childhood and being a man, and he made mistakes. As Cheryl says, maybe they could all have handled it better. But that’s behind them. It feels like they’re onto a different stage of their lives now.
This time, he knows he’ll come back, and he’ll stay until he’s no longer needed, and then . . . he doesn’t know what. That’s the future.
Now he’s in the present. He looks at his watch. T
he train journey takes three hours to Euston. Then he has to get the tube, then walk the short distance from the station to the house. He can’t believe that in less than four hours’ time he will see Letty.
11 a.m.
Letty finds Frances standing in the kitchen, halfway through a slice of toast, making a pot of tea.
‘You look refreshed. Much better!’ says Letty.
‘Thank you! And what about you?’
‘I’m well, thanks.’
‘Did Ivo come over?’
‘For about an hour. He said you were worried about the illness coming back.’
‘Bloody hell!’ says Frances.
‘It’s not that,’ Letty tells her.
‘Letty, please don’t exist in a state of denial. You’re not eating properly. You’re depressed. Don’t tell me I’m imagining it.’
‘You’re right, I haven’t been eating and I am preoccupied. But that’s because I’ve been feeling nauseous. Especially, if you must know, in the mornings . . .’
Frances is about to speak, but then the words sink in and she drops the remainder of the piece of toast on the floor.
‘Fuck!’ she says, stooping to pick it up. ‘Why does it always fall marmalade side down?’
For a moment, Letty wonders if Frances did actually hear what she said, and then her mother asks, ‘Have you done a test?’
‘Yes. This morning. I’ve done two, in fact. Both positive.’
‘Is it Alf’s?’
‘Who else’s would it be?’
‘The other guy . . .’
‘That was over a year ago!’
‘Then why . . . ?’ Frances asks, bewildered.
‘Please don’t ask,’ Letty says. ‘My problem now is, should I tell him?’
‘Alf?’
‘Obviously, Alf.’
‘Well, it may be obvious to you, Letty . . .’ Her mother’s face has gone all lined and frowny again as she tries to compute the information and the available options.
Eventually she says, ‘I suppose it really depends, doesn’t it?’
‘On what?’
‘On what you want to do.’
‘You mean, on whether I want to keep the baby?’
‘Yes!’
‘It’s only a few weeks. I may lose it. Or it may be a false positive.’
‘I don’t think you get false positives, Letty. False negatives, maybe, if it’s early . . .’
‘So, I have thought about it.’ Letty resists another wave of nausea. ‘I don’t think I could go through with an abortion.’
‘Why not?’ Frances demands.
‘You didn’t!’
‘I could have done, though.’
‘And what made you not?’
‘Ivo and I loved each other. If we were going to have babies, it seemed mad to get rid of one just because the timing could have been better . . . and residual Catholic guilt, I suppose.’
‘The last thing I wanted to do was get pregnant. It never even crossed my mind,’ Letty tells her. ‘I am not ready to have a baby, and yet . . . I don’t feel I’m ready for anything. I don’t know what being ready even feels like . . . I’ll need support, of course.’
‘Was it great sex?’ Frances asks.
‘What?’
She’s used to her mother saying inappropriate things, but this is too much. She’s perfectly entitled not to support Letty, of course, but . . .
‘The thing is, I have this theory that happy babies are made by great sex,’ Frances explains. ‘Oscar’s always been so equable and . . .’
Her mother stops mid-sentence, as if she realizes the inevitable implication of what she’s just admitted.
‘And it wasn’t so good when I was conceived.’ Letty finishes the thought for her. ‘That really is too much information!’
‘The trouble is,’ Frances tries to backtrack, ‘once we’d decided that we’d like another one – and we really, really wanted you, darling – time was running out and it didn’t happen straight away. And frankly, there’s nothing that kills your sex life more than plotting your ovulation cycle. It’s like, we have to do it tonight or else, and—’
‘Stop!’ cries Letty. ‘I get the idea . . . And if you must know,’ she admits, after a long pause. ‘It was unbelievable sex!’
12 p.m.
Well, this is awkward, Frances thinks, looking at her watch. Alf said he’d try to get a train at around ten, and the journey takes three hours, three and a half if you include the tube. That means he’s probably going to arrive in two hours’ time, and now she’s even less sure that she’s done the right thing. In fact, she is quite certain that it was wrong of her to interfere, and she only hopes that she hasn’t put a jinx on the whole relationship.
Alf will probably think she knew about the pregnancy!
Never mind that. It’s Letty she’s concerned about. It obviously took a lot of courage for her to talk to her about it, especially at such an early stage. And when she actually asked her for support, all Frances could give her was her totally illogical pet theory about happy babies!
She’s always longed for her daughter to trust and confide in her, and she just did, and Frances blew it.
‘I really think you should tell Alf,’ she says.
‘Surely it’s my choice what I decide to do?’ Letty says.
‘Of course it is!’ Frances says.
‘Because I’m a hundred per cent sure that Alf won’t want to be with me,’ says Letty.
‘Of course he’ll want to be with you!’ says Frances.
She really is going to have to tell Letty what she’s done, Frances thinks, and she’s got less than two hours to do so. ‘You mustn’t be so hard on yourself, Letty . . .’
‘That’s such a stupid thing to say! You don’t know anything!’ Letty suddenly shouts, and runs upstairs.
1 p.m.
Frances is knocking on Letty’s door.
‘Letty, darling,’ she says. ‘There’s something I have to tell you. I’ve done a really bad thing.’
‘I just need some time, Frances . . .’
If she just had enough time and peace of mind, Letty thinks, she would see her way through this. It’s so hot and oppressive in the house, and yet she doesn’t want to go out for a walk on her own that might clear her head.
‘Just let me tell you this one thing, and I’ll give you all the time in the world,’ Frances is saying.
Her mother sounds so miserable, on the point of tears almost, that Letty gets up off her bed and opens the door.
Frances comes in and sits down on her bed.
‘So, I’ve done a mad thing. I think it must be the heat,’ she says. ‘I didn’t mean to . . . well, initially, anyway. I needed a couple of days away to cool off, so I checked into the Renaissance . . .’
‘You were in a hotel just down the road?’ she says.
‘To begin with, yes,’ Frances says. ‘But I had this thought that wouldn’t go away.’
‘Thought?’
‘That I might be able to find Alf, check him out, persuade him to come and see you.’
‘What? Why?’
‘He sounded good for you . . .’ Frances falters.
‘But how?’ Letty asks, still dumbfounded.
‘You said he was in Blackpool. I thought, how many dance schools can there be? Quite a few, as it happens . . . and I’ve always secretly wanted to learn ballroom, as you know . . .’
As she tells her, Letty can’t help admiring her mother’s tenacity. Who on earth, apart from Frances, would ever think she could fix this?
‘Are you serious?’ she asks, when Frances tells her about ringing the dance schools in alphabetical order.
‘So, third time lucky. He answers the phone . . .’
2 p.m.
Alf takes the Northern Line to Belsize Park.
The exit from the tube is on a hill. It looks pretty much like any number of suburban streets, if it weren’t for the fact that there are no empty storefronts, and only one charity shop.
The rest are all estate agents, coffee shops, florists, restaurants; it’s obviously a prosperous area.
Letty’s street is a tree-lined avenue of white stucco houses, a bit like where the children live in Mary Poppins. Each is five storeys high, if you count the basement and the windows in the roof. Each has tiled steps up to a large porch that’s supported by columns. They’re the sort of properties that Stuart sells to oligarchs and rock stars for millions and millions of pounds.
He always knew Letty was out of his league, he thinks. But not this far. It’s never going to work between them. The gap’s too big. She never even replied to his email, so why on earth did he ever think this was a good idea?
It all seemed so straightforward when he was talking to Frances. He likes Frances. And she was a girl from Preston, wasn’t she? And she managed to fit in here, didn’t she? He tries to breathe through the nerves, before climbing the steps to the shiny black front door with its brass lion knocker. His hand hovers over it.
Still time to change my mind, he thinks. Then a movement at the curtain-less bay window makes him glance to the side.
Letty smiles at him from the empty room. Dimples. He has thought only of the horror on her face as she turned and ran away from him. He had forgotten the dimples. But then the smile fades and she disappears. The front door opens and she’s standing just a couple of feet in front of him, and yet she seems as unreachable as when he first saw her.
‘I believe you already know my mother,’ Letty says, as she shows him downstairs to the kitchen where Frances is sitting at a big table. She looks as if she’s been crying, Alf thinks. They both do.
‘This house!’ Alf says.
‘You’re not seeing it at its best,’ says Frances.
‘No, I mean, it’s huge!’
‘Oh, don’t worry, we only own about a tenth of it.’
‘We’re moving to Stoke Newington,’ Letty informs him.
‘To Palatine Road,’ Frances adds.
He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say.