The Godmother

by Carrie Adams

  “Neil doesn’t like them.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s an arsehole.”

  Frankly, hearing Helen talk like this was progress.

  “In fact, if you’re ever in Norwich, you should look them up. Neil is embarrassed by them, but it’s them who should be embarrassed by him. If you’re ever in Norwich, you should look them up.”

  She’d said that already. But I was still not likely to go to Norwich.

  “They live off the cathedral green. It’s easy to find because there is a weeping willow in the garden. It goes down to water. It’s the only one with a weeping willow.”

  “We need to work out what you’re going to do.”

  “They are lovely people. A real happy home.”

  “Right. Norwich. Cathedral. Weeping willow. Got it.”

  “Happy home. That’s good.”

  Helen’s eyes were beginning to close.

  “Wake up.”

  “I’m so tired.” Her head nodded forward. “So tired.” She literally fell asleep sitting up. All I knew about depression was that it wiped you out so I eased Helen back on to the sofa. I looked at my watch. I would have liked to go home, get some sleep, tidy the flat, but Helen needed the sleep more and with Rose gone, someone had to look after the babies. Neil couldn’t, even if he did come home. Which I actually hoped he wouldn’t.

  That Sunday afternoon, while Helen lay catatonic on the sofa, I played Mummy with the twins. I loved it, for an hour or so. They gurgled at my animal impressions and I enjoyed holding their attention. Their eyes followed me everywhere. Only when I left them to make a cup of tea and some toast did they start to grizz—which led me to the premature conclusion that looking after kids was a piece of cake, as long as you had nothing else to do. And that included going for a pee. I made three cups of tea over the period of that afternoon and drank none of them. I had the twins asleep in my arms when Helen finally stirred. She made some coffee, took it upstairs to have a shower, and came back down twenty minutes later. She seemed much better. Amazing what caffeine and make-up can do.

  “Thank you for letting me get that off my chest.”

  “With all due respect,” I said quietly, “I think it’s going to take a little more than a chat with me to sort out your problems.”

  “You’re right. Neil has to be dealt with and I am going to deal with him. This shouldn’t have gone on as long as it has.”

  “I know a very good divorce lawyer,” I said.

  “I can’t afford to get divorced,” she replied. Then she laughed. “Only joking. Don’t worry, you remember my solicitor, he makes a pretty good ally. He’s good at dealing with Marguerite, too.”

  “And what about seeing a doctor?”

  Helen met my gaze. “I have a very understanding doctor,” she said.

  “Good. Talk to him, then.”

  I couldn’t bear it, she looked so sad. “I will,” she said.

  “I think you should give up breastfeeding, too. It’s wiping you out, you’ve lost far too much weight.”

  No wonder Neil wanted Helen to feed, I thought. It kept her locked up behind her pearly gates while he went out and sampled the pleasures of early stardom.

  “We’ll get you back on your feet, Helen, don’t you worry. You’re a child of the universe, remember?”

  Helen looked at me then. “I’ve lost a bit of the magic dust, haven’t I?” she said quietly.

  To the point that you are barely recognizable. “It’s natural. I don’t know much about marriage and kids, but I guess it’s hard.”

  Helen nodded. “I thought it would be easier than this. I thought I’d feel bigger as two. I didn’t realize I’d feel smaller.”

  I hugged her because I had no idea how to respond. Neil had been a panic buy, but she was well over the twenty-eight-day returns policy.

  “Thank you, Tessa. You have always been a great friend to me and I know I’m not that easy.”

  “Who is? The older I get the more I realize everyone’s a bit nuts.”

  “You’re not.”

  “Don’t be fooled.”

  “I don’t care what you say, I couldn’t have got this far without you.”

  I felt a pang of guilt. I’d been so mean, so unsupportive. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize what a tough time you were having. I think I was jealous.”

  “Jealous of Neil and me?”

  “OK, well maybe not the Neil bit.”

  “I’ve really fucked up,” she said. I presumed she was talking about Neil.

  “Nothing you can’t change.”

  “It’s going to get really tough. He’ll come after me, he’ll try and get the twins, he’ll ask for ludicrous amounts of money, I know it.”

  “He has a problem with drugs, and a problem with booze. What court in the land would give a parent like that the twins?”

  “None.”

  “There you are, then. What have you got to worry about?” I took Helen’s hand and squeezed it. She smiled at me.

  “You’re right,” she said. “I want them to have a happy home, Tessa. I didn’t and look what it’s done to me. I don’t want that for the twins. I’ll do anything to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  “OK. I’ll help you with the twins too. Francesca has had three kids, she’ll have all the answers. I bet every new mother feels like this, in way over their heads, knackered, depressed, I bet it’s all normal. We just need to get Neil out of the way.” I was trying to be helpful.

  “You think?”

  “Yes. I know the girl from China Beach is in there somewhere, we’ve just got to find her again.”

  “I’m pathetic,” said Helen.

  “You’re not. You’ve taken a beating but you’ll be OK.”

  Helen suddenly stood. “You’re right. Thank you. You must be desperate to go home, I’m so sorry for keeping you here and spoiling your evening.”

  “I’m OK. I’ve got no plans.”

  “Actually, I think it would be better if you went. I could do with spending some time on my own with the boys, and if Neil comes home, we should be alone. You’ve been here all day, you must want to get home.”

  “Of course, right. Well, OK then. If you’re sure.”

  “I need to do this by myself. But thank you for everything.”

  “I’ll go and change,” I said.

  “It’s OK. Give the stuff back to me another time,” said Helen. “Here’s a bag for your dress and shoes.”

  Did I get the feeling I was being hurried out of the house? Absolutely. But I had no idea why.

  I took the number 52 to Victoria and walked along the Embankment to the flat. I think I passed every love-struck couple in London. It was the decent weather. It brought them all out of their love nests. I trounced back in my pink velour to the sanctity of my flat, forgetting that I’d left it in a tip. Clothes crises do that to small studio apartments. My mail winked at me from the breakfast bar. I had unread emails in my in-box and a DVD to return. To hell with it, I thought, changing out of Helen’s clothes. I looked up the cinema times on the Internet, put on my old flying jacket and a thick hat, took the roof off the car and drove up the King’s Road in shades. I could. So I would.

  I spent the next few hours smiling through blissful sobs to some ridiculous rom-com where, of course, the girl got the guy even though she was a bog-cleaner and he was a king—well, not quite that bad, but nearly. Then I sat outside in the sinking sunlight, watching the world go by, flicking through the Sunday papers and somehow, while going through the motions of enjoying my own company, I started enjoying my own company. Suicide watch for single Sunday-nighters had been temporarily axed due to a new inappropriate man in Samira’s life, which was fine by me. I had enough on my plate with my old friends right now, I didn’t have time for any new ones.

  14

  fairy-tale ending

  On Monday morning the floor around my bed was still strewn with clothes from Saturday night. I was losing control of my life. But
rather than spend the morning clearing up and preparing for my first interview, which is what I should have been doing, I pulled on some jeans, a long-sleeved white T-shirt, pink Converse and hopped into the car. I had decided that the only person who could set Helen straight was Francesca. The model mother. The woman with all the answers. It was probably a mad thing to do, but I felt I had to do something. Guilt does that. I drove to Poppy and Katie’s school and arrived just in time to see two over-sized backpacks disappear between the double doors.

  “I was supposed to be clearing out the garden shed today,” said Francesca, kissing me on the cheek. “But I still feel so lousy from Saturday night that all I can do is eat.”

  “Quite the party girl you were.”

  “It was those Martinis that Ben got us, killer drinks. I hope we weren’t too annoying.”

  Ben. I’d been doing very well not thinking about him. Encasing myself in my friends’ lives was helping, but just hearing his name made me feel funny.

  “Your silence speaks volumes.”

  “Planning my wedding to the man I’d just met was probably a bit much,” I said.

  “Well, makes a change to you meddling in our lives—we were just getting our own back for once.” She punctuated this with a taut smile. I was left-footed, but she held the smile so I forged ahead regardless.

  “Well, I’m on more meddling business this morning.”

  I thought she’d laugh, but she didn’t. “I didn’t think you were here for fun, not at this hour. There’s a Starbucks round the corner,” said Fran.

  “Please, not Starbucks,” I pleaded.

  “Why not? Bad coffee?” she asked.

  “Bad memories.” I tried to take her arm, but she pulled away. I dismissed it. “Let’s find a real coffee shop and I’ll explain on the way.” I told Fran about my hopeless attempt with the twins the previous morning and my concern for Helen’s state of mind. Fran had done this three times—surely she could shed some light on the matter?

  “So you came here to talk to me about Helen?”

  “Yes. I was hoping you could speak to her.”

  “I thought Helen just drank too much on Saturday night.”

  “So did I at first, but things aren’t good at home. She seems completely at sea with the twins. I’m worried about her.”

  “It’s totally normal.”

  I shook my head. What I’d seen didn’t look normal. “Are you sure? She seems really depressed. I don’t think she can handle this.”

  “Hasn’t she got huge amounts of help?” asked Francesca, with a tone that sounded tinged with disapproval.

  “Not any more. She feels she’s doing it all wrong.”

  “She probably is. Most people do. I made some terrible mistakes with Caspar. My mum tried to help but Nick and I were so proud and stubborn, and I suppose, looking back on it, we were being defensive. We’d got ourselves into this mess and we were going to cope, even if it killed us. Which it nearly did.”

  “I don’t remember you having a bad time.”

  “You weren’t really around that much.”

  I knew that was true. “Whenever we spoke on the phone you said everything was going well and how sweet Caspar was.”

  “He was. I adored him. He still drove us mad though. He was still sleeping in our bed at eight months. Eight months of lying in bed, convinced I was going to squash him.”

  “If you didn’t like having him in bed, why didn’t you put him in his cot?”

  “Because he screamed until he was sick.” She shook her head, remembering a dismal, distant time. “It was my fault. The demand-feeding was great in the beginning, he ate then slept, ate then slept. Easy. But, slowly and surely, it all went crazy. When he woke up he wanted to be fed to get back to sleep. Trouble was he was so tired he never ate enough, so he’d wake up again. It seemed to be every forty-five minutes during the night, so in the end it was easier to have him in bed with us. Once I woke up and he’d latched on by himself.”

  I squirmed.

  “It was all my fault. Eventually my mum had to come and stay. She put him in his own bed and when he screamed she wouldn’t let me go and pick him up. It was the most hideous thing in the world. I hated her, I hated myself for letting her do it, I hated Nick for not sticking up for me…” Francesca shook her head. “It was awful. And there was only one of him and I was much, much younger.”

  “And you have a nice mum,” I said, thinking of Marguerite. “So what happened in the end?”

  “Mum stood resolute; we had three nights of utter hell and then he slept happily through the night in his own cot, in his own room. There were the odd little yelps, but he learned to settle himself pretty quickly. In the end, I thought it was probably me who’d been keeping him awake. Any little noise and I’d stroke him, pick him up, check him. I was deranged with exhaustion. Nick was fed up with the whole thing. But no one was more tired than Caspar, poor little thing. If he could’ve spoken he probably would have said, ‘Will you just fuck off and just leave me alone?’ That’s certainly what he says now, anyway.”

  “He doesn’t.”

  “Yes, he does. A seminal moment in one’s life when your baby towers over you and swears like a sailor. One for the baby book, I think.”

  “I thought things were better.”

  “Yes and no. Instead of disappearing off and going AWOL, he stays in his room all the time, listening to terrible music and burning joss sticks. A habit I have to thank you for.”

  I remained silent.

  “Oh, look,” said Fran. “A real coffee shop.”

  “He really told you to fuck off?”

  “You know what,” said Fran, holding open the door, “I really don’t want to talk about it.”

  Fine by me.

  The coffee came in a tall glass with a metal handle and a long spoon. I watched Fran drop hunks of brown sugar into her drink and slurp at the milky foam thirstily. I then watched as she inhaled a cinnamon and raisin swirl.

  Since returning to England I had regained all the weight I’d lost in India. Not working was not good for my waistline—far too much opportunity to eat. And drink. The ten days with my parents had not helped. On top of that there had been lunches with friends. Teas with godchildren. Out most nights. I used to crawl in from work, heat up a bowl of soup, have a bath and go to bed. Now I could usually find someone to have a drink with at six. That’s a long evening of consuming calories. I had promised myself I was going to be good, but that was before the mention of joss sticks.

  “How come you can eat anything and still stay so slim?” Subliminally I think I was trying to get Francesca on side.

  “Because I don’t sit down between seven in the morning and nine at night.”

  “But the kids are at school.”

  Francesca waved a threatening fork at me. “Don’t you dare, Tessa King.”

  “Dare what?”

  “Make me justify my day to you. I get enough of that from Nick.”

  “I didn’t mean that, I promise. I thought you got a bit of time to yourself with the kids at school, that’s all.”

  “Time to myself to fix light bulbs, change loo rolls, pick up wet towels, do the laundry, finish projects, take our shitty car to the garage, unload the dishwasher, fill up the dishwasher, unload it again, cook, shop, clear up in time to cook again…Shall I continue?”

  “No.”

  “Fucking boring, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wait a few minutes, the sugar will hit my bloodstream and I’ll feel more reasonable.”

  I took a sip of my coffee and scalded my tongue. It seemed puny to complain, so I replaced the cup and watched Francesca stab at the rest of the pastry.

  “This is what one night on the razz does to me,” she said.

  “I’ve never seen you like this, even after a night out,” I said, trying to be reassuring.

  “That’s because you’re usually at work,” said Francesca harshly.

  Didn’t see that left hook
coming. “Nor on the weekends when I come over,” I replied, with a defensive jab of my own. I’ll take so much…

  “On the weekends when people come over it’s fun and I stop worrying about the minutiae.”

  I was confused. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m not saying anything, Tessa.”

  What sounded like not saying anything felt like a swift low undercut to the ribs. Francesca turned away and ordered another milky coffee. I gave in and ordered one too.

  “Tell me more about Helen,” said Francesca. “She’s too thin—is she eating?”

  “She’s always been thin.”

  “Not that thin. Though it does often happen when women give up breastfeeding, they suddenly shrink.”

  “She’s still feeding them. She told me it made her lose weight.”

  “That’s bollocks. What it does is give you a ferocious appetite. An appetite that is impossible to ignore. And you lay down this really pleasant layer of brown fat on all the worst bits. Tummy, bum, thighs get a nice mottled, jelly-like appearance. Charming, really.”

  “Francesca, I have never heard you be so negative in all my life. What’s up with you?”

  “I told you, I can’t do late nights any more.”

  “Fran, you’re only in your thirties, not your fifties!”

  “Are you sure? I feel like I’ve been a grown-up for an awfully long time. I’m half tempted to buy myself an iPod, lock myself in my room, smoke dope and listen to Carole King.”

  “Dope?” I asked nervously.

  Francesca looked at me. “Sorry, whatever they call it these days. Bung, skank, or the latest—you might not have heard it—joss sticks.”

  I felt uncomfortable meeting Francesca’s gaze. The hostility suddenly fell into place. “Oh.” I didn’t know what to say.

  “You should have told me that Caspar was smoking cannabis.”

  “He told me he’d stop.”