by Imogen Clark
To be fair to the woman, I’d thought we’d be pushing the whole jolly Christmas thing far more than we are doing.
‘Well, I did think about red . . .’ says Beth cagily. ‘But it’s not really my colour.’
This is not true. Beth looks fantastic in red, in most colours in fact. Then it hits me what is really going on here. This is the hand of Greg again. Beth meets Xanthe’s gaze defiantly but I see her twisting her engagement ring round her finger so quickly that I fear for the skin underneath.
‘But you look fantastic in red,’ objects Xanthe. ‘And it would be so pretty for the girls to wear red sashes and little red shoes.’
‘I think it’s a bit late to change everything now,’ I say, trying to support Beth just as she supported me over the gloves. ‘And the green does look very pretty on them.’
‘Hmmm,’ says Xanthe, and I could slap her.
Beth stands a little taller and swallows hard. ‘Greg and I chose the green together. He thinks that red is a bit tacky, especially at Christmas, and that the green is much classier, and I agree.’ She stands with her hands on her hips, defying Xanthe to disagree with her. Xanthe cocks her head on one side as she decides whether or not to be insulted. For one minute, I think she is going to challenge Beth but then she says, ‘Well, maybe . . . Red might be a bit hackneyed for a Christmas wedding.’ She pauses. ‘You and Greg must have what you want, of course. And the dresses are just too cute.’
Beth nods. ‘The girls look lovely. And so do you, Cara,’ she says, as if to signal the end of the discussion. ‘Now, let’s see about those shoes,’ she says to the girls, who start to squeal all over again.
I try to catch her eye but she’s focusing all her attention on her little bridesmaids. She looks slightly bruised by the whole exchange.
Later, when the dresses are paid for and Xanthe and the girls have twirled out of the shop and away, I suggest that we go for a drink on the way home. Beth looks at her watch and bites her lip but then she says, ‘Okay. Just a quick one but then I have to get back.’ She fiddles with her phone, sending a quick text to Greg, I assume, although she doesn’t say so. I wonder if this is starting to be a sensitive subject between us.
We make our way to the wine bar a couple of doors down. It is remarkably busy, given that it is still mid-afternoon.
‘You grab a table,’ I say, ‘And I’ll go to the bar. What would you like? If you say Diet Coke, you can consider our friendship over.’
Beth smiles weakly. ‘A glass of white wine? Something dry-ish?’
I get a bottle, carrying it to the table in a chiller, two glasses caught up in one hand.
‘Cara!’ she says when she sees me. ‘You said a drink, not a session.’
‘I know but I haven’t seen you for a proper catch-up in ages. One glass or three? What difference will it make?’
Beth looks like she’s going to object but then she doesn’t, and when I have poured the wine, she takes a long drink.
‘That’s good,’ she says and then pushes herself back into the chair.
‘So that went well,’ I say. ‘The dresses are lovely. Especially mine,’ I add. ‘Thank you.’
‘Do you really think so?’ she asks, as she bites at her already-bitten nails. ‘I thought they were but . . . well, after what Xanthe said . . .’
‘Take no notice of her,’ I say. ‘The girls will look adorable. The colour is perfect and whose wedding is it anyway?’
‘Exactly!’ Beth says, fortified, and takes another drink. ‘Xanthe’s lucky that she’s even invited to the wedding,’ she adds mischievously.
‘How come?’
‘She and Greg have had a falling out about her dog.’
I can’t disguise a smirk.
‘Oh, don’t laugh!’ Beth says and laughs herself. ‘It really was touch and go for a bit. Xanthe has this dog. Greg calls it the rat on a string.’
I stifle a giggle.
‘It’s a Shih Tzu,’ she adds, and I laugh out loud. ‘Coco. It’s quite sweet I suppose. Anyway, you know how much Greg hates dogs . . .’
I don’t but I just nod.
‘Well, he hates Coco even more than most. She nipped him on the leg when she was a puppy and she makes this really annoying yapping that gets on his nerves. Anyway, Xanthe takes the dog almost everywhere with her so she just assumed that it could come to the wedding. She was even talking about some matching ribbon for its hair, a little ribbon lead, that kind of rubbish. Greg went ballistic, said there was no way that a dog was coming to his wedding and that Xanthe would have to arrange to leave it at home. Xanthe had a prima-donna hissy fit and said if Coco couldn’t come then neither would she. Honestly, it was absolutely ridiculous.’
‘But they sorted it out, right? I mean, the girls are still bridesmaids.’
‘Oh yes. In the end, Xanthe agreed that the dog could stay in her car with the windows open and plenty of water and she’ll just nip out from time to time to take it for walks.’
‘And Greg is happy with that?’
‘He’s compromised,’ she says, and I can tell from her face that this is rare.
‘Beth?’ I say carefully. ‘You are okay, aren’t you? I mean, you are happy?’
She looks at me, her face confused.
‘What do you mean? Of course I’m happy. I’m about to marry the man of my dreams. Why wouldn’t I be happy?’
I pause but only for a nanosecond. This is my moment and if I don’t grasp it, it might not come again. As her best friend, it’s my duty just to check. ‘And is he?’ I ask, looking straight into her eyes. ‘Is he really the man of your dreams?’
She thinks about this but she doesn’t seem angry with me and I’m relieved. ‘I know he’s not everybody’s cup of tea,’ she says. ‘He likes things done in a particular way. He has an opinion on everything and he’d choose my socks for me if I let him but I love him. I know he’s a bit controlling but that’s part of what I love about him. And he wouldn’t hurt me, Ca. When we’re alone he treats me like a princess, he really does.’
I decide to believe her.
When I get home, I have another glass of wine with my dinner and then one after that. It slips down so easily and I like feeling not quite in control. It makes the other things in my life seem more stable. Instead of pushing my unwelcome thoughts away, the alcohol gives me permission to think about things, albeit foggily.
After Mrs P has left and Dad is safely tucked up in bed, I wander into my workroom. I have no particular plan, some idea about checking stock levels, I don’t know. Anyway, before I’ve thought it through, I’ve logged on to the internet. Without really thinking about it, I type ‘How do I find my mother?’ into Google. I click on the first site on the list.
The home page is covered with pictures of smiling faces. There is a little YouTube clip that shows a woman being reunited with a son she had placed for adoption when he was newborn. I scroll down to see what you have to do. It is a free service. You simply fill in the details, write a personal message and click ‘Send’. Then, if my mother is on the site looking, she’ll see the message and reply. It all seems very straightforward in my slightly muddled brain. Outside a tawny owl hoots in the tall, dark trees, calling to its mate. Or its children?
This is madness. As if some random, late-night internet search is going to turn up a woman who has been missing/dead for thirty years! I’m clutching at straws here and in any event, what am I trying to achieve? There are two sides to this conundrum but as they have sprouted in my mind they have twisted together, like the stems of an ancient vine. I force my mind to focus. First, I need to find out whether my mother is actually alive. Every cell in my body is screaming out to me that she is but that hardly counts as empirical proof. But even assuming I can establish that she isn’t dead, then what? Do I want to find her, meet her, build some sort of relationship, even? Here, I draw a blank.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Annie, 1984
Annie’s heart bangs so hard in her chest that she
can’t hear herself think. She mustn’t panic. She has one shot at this. She can’t mess it up like she does everything else. She must stay calm and just carry out the plan just like she’s been practising it in her head.
She looks at her watch. Two thirty. There’s half an hour until she has to go and collect Michael from school. If she wakes Cara as normal at quarter to, then she’ll be just coming round from her grumpiness and shouldn’t cry. The last thing she needs is for Cara to be difficult.
She tries to calm her breathing but the air rushes from her mouth in ragged shivers. Her body is pulled as tight as a bow, ready to propel her when she lets go. This is the right thing to do. It’s not as if she hasn’t tried . . . God knows she has tried, with all her might, but she can’t do it. She can’t make it work. It is never going to be all right.
In the cupboard under the sink, behind the bleach where Joe would never look, nestles her lifeline. It’s not much, just what she’s managed to siphon off the barely adequate housekeeping, but at least it’s something and it will give her a chance. Quickly, quietly, she takes the tin and tips the contents out into her hand. She stuffs the money into her purse, which she then plunges deep inside her handbag. Her bag is already full, not with the usual things that a woman carries but with underwear and favourite toys, nappies and toothbrushes. It’s just full enough that it won’t attract attention.
The pram is in the hallway and she goes to check, for the hundredth time, that she has everything. She can only take what she can carry and even then she can’t be drawing attention to herself. She has to stand in the playground with all those wagging tongues. If there is even a hint of a story then it will be out before Michael has come running from his classroom.
It will work, though, she tells herself as she climbs the stairs to Cara’s room. She has a plan and everything will be all right once the dust has settled. A bit of nastiness and then everyone will see that this is for the best.
Cara is lying on her front in the semidarkness of the nursery, her bottom high in the air and her head turned to one side. Her fine, blonde hair sticks to the side of her head with sleepy sweat and her cheek is furiously pink. The next tooth will be through soon. Annie touches her head, tries to straighten the damp hair, and Cara stirs, her little face angry at being disturbed even in her sleep. Annie picks her up, quickly swinging her round until she lies against her breastbone. Gently pressing her daughter’s head into her chest, she makes soothing sounds to prevent Cara exploding. It works. Cara roots into her and Annie sighs. This is going to be all right.
Downstairs, she lays Cara down in the pram gently and pulls the string of the musical toy that hangs over her head. Cara doesn’t open her eyes.
It is not easy to manoeuvre the pram down the front steps when its basket is so full but Annie manages it without losing anything and sets off up the street towards the school just as she usually does. She doesn’t look back.
The playground is already full of groups of mothers, all standing in their little cliques. Annie would usually make a beeline for Babs, her only friend, but today she holds back. She doesn’t want to get drawn into conversation. She just has to collect Michael and leave. She keeps her head low so that she doesn’t make eye contact with anyone and pretends to talk to the sleeping Cara, leaning into the pram, entirely focused on her.
‘You been shopping?’ asks a voice behind her.
It’s Babs; Annie recognises her voice before she sees her. ‘Jumble,’ she says quickly. ‘Dropping it off on our way home.’
She has pre-planned this answer, knowing that Babs isn’t the kind to know the precise details of any forthcoming jumble sales. Annie would like to have talked through her plan with Babs but she decided against it. They’ll be able to unpick it all over a cup of tea afterwards but for now it’s best that no one knows.
Babs nods but, as predicted, doesn’t question and Annie keeps quiet, not inviting further conversation. After a few moments, Babs drifts off to talk to someone else and then the bell rings and Michael appears. He is almost always first out of school, his coat on and his bag neatly fastened. Annie smiles proudly at him but doesn’t kiss him, as instructed. He’s told her that he’s too old for a kiss – well, not in front of the others anyway.
‘Spit spot,’ says Annie. ‘Let’s get going.’
Michael looks at the pram with its unusual burden and seems about to ask but then doesn’t and starts to tell Annie about his day, interrupting himself only when they turn right not left at the pelican crossing.
‘We’re going to Gran’s for tea,’ Annie says, but in a tone that doesn’t invite further comment.
The bus is difficult. So many bags mean that the pram won’t fold and it takes up more space than is available. The driver looks about to complain but he takes one look at Annie and seems to change his mind. She smiles at him gratefully and stands in the aisle, holding on to the pram tightly so that it doesn’t roll about.
Cara, disturbed by the bumping, begins to howl. Annie squeezes her eyes shut tight, trying to silence her child with the power of thought alone. What is she doing? This is ridiculous. Why did she ever think it was a good plan? Then Cara stops screaming and when Annie opens her eyes she sees Michael leaning over the side of the pram, blowing raspberries on his sister’s cheeks. Cara giggles.
Her mother’s house is not far from the bus stop. They’ll be there in less than five minutes. Annie pushes the bell for the next stop and when the bus draws to a halt she bounces the pram down the steps backwards, kicking an escaping bag back into the basket with her foot.
The bus pulls away and the three of them stand alone on the pavement. It is three fifty. She takes a deep breath, letting the air reach the very bottom of her lungs. Then she starts to walk.
There is no sense of coming home when she reaches the house, no fond memories, no warmth. Even though it is a year since her father passed away – a massive heart attack that snatched him on his solitary stumble home from the pub – his presence still casts a shadow over the place for Annie. She feels her heart beating harder as she approaches, though there is no longer any threat behind the flaking front door. Of course, Ursula is long gone as well, but nothing else has changed. The same tired nets hang at the windows, the old wire milk-bottle basket, slightly bent out of shape where Ursula once kicked it, still sits on the step.
Annie rings the doorbell.
Her mother answers the door. Her apron is stained; gravy maybe. She looks thinner than she did the last time Annie saw her. When would that have been? Just after Cara was born, so maybe six months ago. Her eyes are dark, with shadows like bruises encircling them. They are still sharp, though. Annie sees her mother take in the scene and understand its consequences immediately. She does not smile.
‘I’ve left him, Mum,’ Annie says, even though Michael is there, listening, taking it all in. ‘It was a mistake to marry him. Ursula always said it was and she’s right. I did it for all the wrong reasons. I think I’ll be better off just me and the kids. So can we come and stay here for a bit? I’ve got some money saved up so I can pay our way and it won’t be for long, just until I get something else sorted out.’
Her mother doesn’t move, doesn’t stand aside to welcome her in, doesn’t even speak. She just shakes her head.
Annie starts to panic. It never occurred to her, in all the versions of the plan that she’s run through in her mind, that her mother might not take them in. She thinks for a moment that her mother is joking, just pretending to reject her, that she will open her arms wide any second now and usher them into safety, or relative safety, but her mother stays stony-faced and shakes her head again.
Then she speaks. ‘No.’
Annie looks at her, confused. Did she really just refuse? She tries to push the pram past her and into the hall but her mother bars the way with her foot.
‘No,’ she says again.
‘But, Mum, don’t you understand? I’ve left him. We need to come in,’ says Annie, pleading now.
Mic
hael takes a step back from the doorstep and reaches for Annie’s hand, despite his new reluctance to hold it.
‘You are married, Anneliese,’ says her mother. ‘You took vows. For better or worse, that’s what you said. You have a duty to make things work. You can’t just up sticks when the going gets tough. Being married is hard work. It’s not all hearts and flowers, you know? Men can be a challenge. Your father certainly was but did I give up? No. I knew my duty to my husband and my children and I made the best of it. Joseph is nothing like your father was. He’s a lovely man and if you can’t make your marriage work, then that’s just because you’re not trying hard enough. Turn round right now, go back home and get on with Joe’s supper. If you’re lucky he need never know anything about any of this silliness.’
Annie feels the tears that she has been beating away start to choke her. ‘But, Mum,’ she tries again, but she knows it is hopeless.
She takes a deep breath and turns the pram around.
‘Okay,’ she says. ‘If that’s what you want. Say goodbye, Michael.’
Michael squeezes her hand so tightly that her fingers hurt.
‘Goodbye, Gran,’ he says. He lifts his chin and speaks loudly as if, for all that he is only five, he understands completely what is going on here.
Then she walks away from the house and her mother and goes back the way she came.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Cara, 2017
Beth’s wedding dress is ready. It hangs in my workroom with a good three weeks to go before the deadline and I can’t help but feel smug. When she came for the final fitting and was standing staring at herself in the mirror, not quite able to take in what she saw, I felt a buzz of pride fizzing through me that I had finished the dress in time and against all the odds that Greg had piled up in my way.
So, if the wedding is almost upon us then Christmas must be just around the corner as well. The festive season has never been a big event in the Ferensby household. When we were small, the lack of uncles, aunts or family friends meant that there was never a bulging sack of presents for Michael and me. Dad never felt the need to compensate for our meagre stash of gifts either, and bought us one present each and a bag of chocolate coins for the end of our beds. Then he would cook a variation on Sunday lunch and retire to his study, leaving us to watch whatever was on the television. I knew what a family Christmas was supposed to look like from the endless sitcoms and soap operas that I watched, but visitors, noise and party games never featured in our reality.