I just couldn’t help retaliating. I’d had enough. ‘Well, perhaps I don’t notice every time, but mine could be a more natural response than taking on your child’s every slight and making it your own.’
‘You really hate me, don’t you?’ screamed Jennie, so loudly and so startlingly that everything stopped and everyone turned incredulously in our direction.
‘OK, come on, let’s leave it alone.’ Angie tried to intervene, but she sat up so quickly her sunglasses flopped back foolishly onto the end of her nose. ‘It’s too sodding hot for this…’
‘Shut up, Angie,’ screamed Jennie, in that same harsh, lunatic voice. ‘What d’you know about anything? She’s always trying to put me down and make me feel stupid, just because I’m a mother and I happen to care about—’
I said, ‘Stop it, Jennie, you know that’s untrue.’
‘You can’t get at me,’ she roared, ‘so you try and attack me through the children.’
Shocked and embarrassed, I rose to leave.
‘That’s right, that’s right, just turn your back on me, pretend the problem doesn’t exist.’
There was no point in reasoning. It was too late to be rational. In a minute she’d let out her shameful secret and she would regret that far more than me.
Graham came hurrying out through the French windows. ‘Jennie? What’s this? What the hell’s happening?’
Sam pocketed his spanner and muttered, ‘Let’s go.’
Everyone else trailed out of the garden, toes curled to be witnessing such a bizarre scene. I wondered how many of them already regretted their involvement in the swimming-pool project. And, no doubt, were blaming me for promoting it.
‘Martha, can I come with you?’ Poppy pleaded, all twisted and frightened and backing away from Jennie.
‘Oh no you don’t,’ shrieked Jennie, more hysterical than ever. ‘Oh no, you damn well don’t take my kids away from me!’
‘Be a good girl and stay here, Poppy.’ I bent down to comfort the sobbing child. ‘Mummy will be OK in a minute.’
Graham quickly picked her up. ‘I’m so sorry, Martha,’ he began, shock and bewilderment creasing his face.
‘It’s OK, Graham, it’s quite OK.’ I hurried to reassure him.
‘I really don’t know…’
But we were gone like everyone else, over the grass and through the door to the safe harbour of our cosy kitchen.
‘Shit,’ said Sam.
‘What’s the matter with Jennie, Mummy?’
Every nerve in my body was jumping, so I plunged into the old washing-up. ‘Jennie’s not very well just now.’
‘But you have to go and get Poppy,’ Scarlett demanded nervously.
‘Don’t worry, Poppy will be perfectly OK.’ I crashed around with a burnt pan and a scrap of filthy scourer.
Scarlett refused to leave it alone. She started on Sam, tugging at his trousers. ‘Go now, Daddy, and bring Poppy here.’
‘I can’t, sweetheart, she’s in her own house.’
‘But it’s so horrible there.’
I turned. I knelt down. I felt like that ghastly freak in the Fairy Liquid ad, but I wasn’t bothered by bubbles or hands. ‘But you like going to Jennie’s while I’m at work. You’re happy there, aren’t you, Scarlett?’
‘Not when Jennie gets like this.’
I tried not to show too much concern. ‘And does she often get like this?’
‘Sometimes,’ Scarlett sobbed.
I had to ask. ‘Does she shout at you?’
‘Not at me – at the telly and the cooker and the washing machine. And sometimes she breaks plates…’
I looked up at Sam over the top of our daughter’s head. He raised his eyebrows. Careful to be casual, he asked her, ‘So what do you do when Jennie shouts?’
She was getting bored with the subject; we’d been dwelling on it too long. She was trying to climb onto the chair to reach the soaking dishes. ‘We pretend it’s all right and go on playing, but sometimes we hide under the stairs.’
Sam paused for thought. And then he turned to ask gently, ‘Would you rather not go there any more when Mummy goes to work, Scarlett?’
She sniffed and rubbed her nose. ‘I have to go. To be with Poppy.’
‘So where the hell does this leave us?’ Sam demanded, hands on hips.
‘Dear God, I just don’t know.’ I passed Scarlett a plate to wipe. ‘And I’m too messed up to discuss it right now. We’ll talk tonight when her ladyship’s in bed.’
‘She’s as mad as a fucking hatter,’ said Sam.
‘Please don’t use that word when Scarlett’s around,’ I reminded him angrily. ‘Or “mad”, for that matter. It really doesn’t help.’
But was it true? Was she insane?
SEVENTEEN
Jennie
WAS IT TRUE? WAS I insane?
I know that I ought to have been on my knees. Martha had been more patient with me than I had any right to expect. If the children weren’t involved, she’d doubtless have cut me off months ago, and this last fiasco – my moment of spontaneous combustion – could well mark the point of no return.
I’d finally flipped. Such raw, grotesque and naked emotions in full public view. My mask had split and left me exposed, and all my neighbours had seen and heard my preposterous outburst. They’d be whispering behind closed doors. How was I going to face them? We would have to move.
‘Don’t be silly, Jennie.’ Graham pointed out that by the time the house was sold and we’d gone, the worst of my purgatory would be over. ‘Everyone has their breaking point,’ he said kindly, attempting to pull a blind over the wretchedness of my situation. ‘You just cracked, that’s all, and no wonder – your mother’s death could have triggered it off, and on top of that you’ve only recently had a baby…’
‘Last year,’ I bleated weakly.
‘These things take time.’
This conviction of his could well be more for his own protection than mine. But his blind devotion shamed me. When would he learn how unworthy I was? What if he knew the truth?
And I worried about what alternative plans Martha would make for Mondays and Thursdays. Could I approach her even now? Was there anything that might make things right?
No, not this time. How could there be?
I wallowed in self-pity yet I knew I’d brought this on myself; or rather, it was the creature that raged inside me, the alien being that stoked my obsession.
Was I schizophrenic? Would I hear voices next?
With a broken heart, leaving Graham in charge, I hobbled bleakly to my bedroom, unable to face anyone, not even my caring husband. This was the end of any scheme to start a swimming club in my garden next month, because none of my neighbours would risk involvement with a neurotic hell-hag like me. And anyway, it wouldn’t work. I hated having people round. I’d spend my whole life hiding – waiting for them to dry off and go. Oh God…
I dragged the boxful of Stella’s things from the bottom of the wardrobe.
I reread her pitiful letter, the one begging Stan to come back.
I wished my father’s name wasn’t Stan.
I read his reply – just three lines on cheap notepaper – dated six months later, with no forwarding address.
I tried to imagine her frantic wait, all alone with a baby. And it was even worse than I’d originally thought – he hadn’t hung around for two years, he had taken off the week I was born. And she, stuck in that basement flat surrounded by strangers, miles from her native Wales and prevented by shame from returning.
I reread the cruellest letter of all, the one I had learned by heart, the one in the thin, cheap envelope addressed in small, mean writing, the one whose lines were so coldly pious.
‘No, Stella, you have made your bed and you must lie in it. Do not come home again.’ Then there were the God bits… some God, to insist that a mother shun her daughter when she’d got herself in the family way and without a man to support her. It was horrendous, quite horrendous. An
d although I had never been there, it didn’t take much to imagine that little grey village set round the chapel, where everyone knew everyone else, women peering under their head-scarves. They called it the Swinging Sixties, but in that dour little place it was still the Dark Ages.
No wonder Stella was bitter, no wonder she resented me when she’d given up so much that I might live. I never failed to ask during our lonely Christmases with the plastic tree and the telly on – where was the rest of our family? Why didn’t we have the joyful times, the get-togethers we were so busy watching?
‘Some people have no-one at all,’ she would say. ‘Be grateful. Don’t always think of yourself.’
And I thanked God now, that while she lived Graham and I had never failed to invite her.
There were three photos of my father Stan. One at the register office which showed his face most clearly, and two on the steps of some caravan, wearing dirty jeans and a T-shirt, holding a fish in his hand. Not even a fish to be proud of: a tiddler which anyone else would have thrown back in the water. This must have been taken by Stella herself. Not much of a pictorial history – not a lot of fun. There was a temporary air about him. How long had they known each other before the dreadful deed was done? Was I really this man’s child?
No wonder my life was one terrible debt of commitments that I had not sought. How I wished my mother and I had been able to talk about things like this.
A soft knock on my bedroom door.
‘Yes?’
‘There’s someone downstairs to see you,’ said Graham.
Martha? Could it really be her? Could such a miracle happen?
‘Hilary Wainwright.’
No no no. My heart plummeted like a shot bird. Hilary Wainwright from number four; a smart, cultured woman. God. I hardly knew her from Adam.
‘Why is she here?’ I whispered.
‘Ssh. She’ll hear you. She says she wants to talk to you.’ Graham sounded as puzzled as me.
I shoved Stella’s box back under the bed. I needed to wash my face, somehow I must compose myself before I faced this stranger, the counterpane was crumpled, my hair was greasy… Too late, the woman was at the door.
‘Jennie,’ she said quickly, before her nerve failed her. ‘I won’t stay if you’d rather I went, but I just wanted to say that I feel dreadful about what happened and I should have spoken up at the time. You must be feeling so rotten, but some of us do understand, you know…’ She paused to catch her breath. She smiled shyly. ‘Some of us have been there. I just wanted you to know that. And now I’ve said that, I’ll go.’
How could I let her leave, after she’d been so kind? I moved my blouse from the bedroom chair and smoothed the seat for her, a courtier to a queen.
I didn’t know what to say.
She played with her hands, as nervous as I was. ‘I’m not trying to say our experiences are similar but two years ago I had a breakdown, so I know about feelings of desperation…’
I was astonished. This cool person in soft beige Jaeger, with a Moschino belt clasped round her waist, was she really saying she’d lost it? ‘Really? Did you? Nobody knew. Martha never said.’
Hilary said, ‘She never knew.’
‘But Martha and Sam are friends of yours’ – I had suffered such pangs of jealousy – ‘they’re always round at your house for supper.’ So many times I had watched them arrive and cheered if they left before midnight.
‘Nobody knew how ill I was,’ said my neighbour of the stiff upper lip. ‘Or how tempted I sometimes was to strip stark naked and scream in public. So if there is anything I can do for you, Jennie, you have only to let me know.’
Hilary’s kindness, though genuine, was badly misdirected. And now I felt such shame at the times I had scoffed at the Wainwrights, at their oilskin macs and their Timberland boots, at their two smart sons at public school and their compulsory Volvo. Even now she was dressed for sailing. Her shirt was silk and the scarf round her neck had yachts printed on it.
They had never invited us for supper.
But we hadn’t asked them either. We never asked anyone.
It was only since the swimming-pool project that the Wainwrights had deigned to visit our garden, in shorts and immaculate deck shoes. Slumming it, I told Graham.
Maybe Martha had seen her come over?
I must keep her here, perhaps start Martha wondering.
‘I’m getting more frightened’ – this was the truth – ‘less able to keep control, and sometimes the pressure round my head makes it feel like a tin exploding in a pan.’
Hilary’s look said she knew what I meant. ‘But is there a reason?’
I nodded. I felt as drained as I looked.
‘Well, that’s a start,’ she told me in her school-marmy fashion. She taught at the tech and I wondered which subject. Elocution? Navigation? Her silky smile went with her outfit. ‘You can’t call your behaviour irrational when there’s some logic behind it.’
‘To me it feels like madness,’ I said. Now that the ice was broken, it was easier to talk. I needed her detachment and I appreciated her cool control. I struggled against a violent urge to throw myself at her feet and confess, to bring it all up like vomit, to clear my system of acute distress. ‘And my outbursts upset the children.’
But would she understand if I told her the way, when I was tired and things went wrong, I would stand and scream at myself, at God, at fate, at the red handkerchief that had run and ruined my load of white washing, at anything and everything that conspired to hold me in this trap from which there seemed to be no escape? If Martha gave way to hysterical shrieking, nobody would have turned a hair. Letting go of her feelings was just part of her nature… I had seen her smash plates and rip towels in half – and after raising their eyes, people laughed. So did she. It released her tensions. It made her feel better. But I wasn’t Martha. My screams of anguish looked like total collapse and I knew how they terrified Poppy and Scarlett.
‘Yes. I started to panic in certain places,’ Hilary confided in me, as I sat on the edge of my crumpled bed and stared at her sleek, beige hair. ‘I couldn’t breathe, I was fighting for life. Post office queues were endless, traffic lights stayed red till my eyes were bulging. Panic attacks’, she said, ‘are very common.’
Enlightenment slowly dawned. Hilary thought her symptoms were the same as mine. She was going to tell me the heartening story of how she had beaten her demons, but my madness was nothing like hers. I decided, then, that I would be called sane if I’d fixated on God instead of Martha, if I’d taken the veil, been made holy. Become a true bride of Christ. Or if I was obsessed by a man, I would be sad, yes, but understood. History is littered with women who have idolized men; and Victorian women actually died under their aspidistras, sprawled on then-velvet chaises-longues, the cause being unfulfilled love. So maybe, unlike Hilary’s, mine was not strictly a mental illness. All I had done was make someone unsuitable the pivot of my life.
Devious with my fixation, I spotted an opening, another chance. If I admitted to Hilary’s illness, if I called myself mad instead of bad, I might escape the penalty of death and be accepted in the Close once again. If Hilary could sympathize with that, then so would everyone else. I clutched at this new reasoning as a drowning man grabs hold of a floating log.
‘I feel exactly the same,’ I told her. ‘Panicked. Breathless. That’s what happened this afternoon. I lost control. I thought I was dying. But look at you now. How did you do it?’
‘Tranks,’ she said. ‘Can’t beat them. Therapy sessions, self-help groups.’
‘And they worked?’ I asked in a troubled voice, appalled by the thought.
‘It took time, it took patience, but in the end they did the trick.’
Martha would be encouraged to think that I was seeking the help she’d always said I needed. I would deserve all the support I could get. And how would it look if she turned her back and refused to aid my attempts at recovery?
My tears were genuine tears of relie
f, but Hilary – as I had intended – interpreted them as despair. ‘I don’t know what to do about Martha,’ I sobbed, and Hilary laid a cool hand on mine. ‘My best friend – you heard what I said – you all heard how I screamed at her…’
‘Oh, I’m sure Martha will understand.’
‘No,’ I said quickly, ‘that’s just it.’ My interruption was feverish but my voice came soft as a whisper. ‘She won’t understand. How can she? I’ve used Martha through all this: she’s had to endure my moods, my rages, my hysteria… She’s been such a brick, you’ll never know, but this last episode was too much for anyone.’
Hilary’s hand was stroking mine now. I had her total attention. People like it when fellow sufferers follow their advice. ‘Would you like me to talk to Martha?’
‘Oh, I don’t like to involve…’
‘Really, Jennie, I don’t mind. Anything that might help. You’re going to need your friends more than ever if you’re really going to conquer this.’
‘What will you say?’ I averted my eyes.
‘Well, I’ll tell her how very sorry you are and how you’re going to seek help for your illness. I’ll say that, because you are ill, you can’t be held responsible for your outbursts…’
‘But Martha won’t want me to babysit Scarlett or Lawrence again. She’ll think I’m not fit…’
‘Well, it might be wiser to give that a break, create more time for yourself.’
I shook my head and hugged myself. What must I do to convince my kind neighbour that this was desperately important to me? ‘If Martha decided she no longer trusted me to look after her children, well, I think that would finish me.’ I went on sobbing quietly. ‘That’s the one thing I know that would undermine me completely.’
Sensibly, Hilary said, ‘All I can do is see what she says and whatever’s decided I’ll let you know. But don’t take Martha’s attitude to heart. Martha’s a wonderful person and very fond of you, I know, and I’m sure she is not as upset as you think. It’s a great shame you feel you can’t speak to her yourself.’
‘Martha wouldn’t like that.’
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