by Ruth Dugdall
I make myself some toast, with butter and jam. It’s the best thing I’ve tasted, ever. I’m happy to be home. And then someone rings the doorbell.
“I want to know what’s going on, Alice!”
The door is barely open when my father pushes me aside and walks into the hall. His face is grey with fatigue and he looks old. There’s dried blood on his chin, where he nicked himself with a razor. His eyes are the only lively thing, young with anger, narrowed and piercing in that face of lines and weariness. I feel a stab of pity that I’ve done this to him.
He didn’t speak to me in the courthouse, and I can see all the words are held in his chest, which he pushes out slightly, his hands deep in the pockets of his old trench coat. “What have you been up to, girl?”
I arrange my face to hide my disquiet and gesture with my square of toast. “Eating?”
“Don’t be clever,” he scowls, “it may work with your mother, but you don’t fool me. Why didn’t you tell us you were in a mental hospital?”
I’m less sure of myself, but carry on with the charade, as I can see no other way. “I didn’t want to worry you.” He comes close. He hasn’t brushed his teeth this morning and his face is a mess.
“And don’t you think not knowing where you’d got to was worrying? I even called the college to see if they knew where you were. You’ve been sacked, haven’t you?”
“University,” I correct. I turn my back and return to the kitchen, my father close on my heels. It’s a struggle to swallow the last of the toast and when I do it scratches my throat. I need a drink and can feel a headache starting at the top of my spine. I want him to sit down, but think he’ll refuse if I ask. His arms are across his chest, moving up and down with his rapid breathing. I sit at the table, pushing the plate with the remaining toast to one side but taking a sip of tea. He stares at me.
“Well?”
“I haven’t lost my job, I’ve just been suspended. Until after the court case.”
“Why didn’t you tell us, Alice?”
“I didn’t want to worry you. I’ll be reinstated soon enough.”
“I didn’t mean about the job, I meant about David. That is his name, isn’t it, David Jenkins? Not Richard. In the newspaper it never said anything about him having terminal cancer.”
I can’t even look at him.
He reaches into his pocket and removes a crumpled piece of paper. I recognise it at once, of course. I’ve seen it before. It’s the Hemlock Society flyer, designed by a do-gooder by the name of Roy who has made me his cause. My father is not willing to be my champion. He looks at me as though I wound him, “What the hell have you done, Alice? Your mother is worried sick.”
My head snaps up, searching his face, “How much does she know?”
“I’ve been hiding the papers, though what she heard in court today was bad enough. God only knows what she makes of it all. I’ve no idea.”
“Of course not,” I say, bitterly, “that would mean you’d actually have to communicate.”
He takes a step forward, his fist tight. “Don’t you try to put the blame on me and your mother. We’ve done our best for you, God knows. And this is how you repay us?”
Something inside me snaps. “Repay you? I didn’t realise I was in your debt! Is that how it works when you adopt a child? Buy me now, I’ll pay later?”
Dad sits heavily on the pine bench opposite me. He runs a hand over his scarred chin. “I didn’t mean that, but since you said it, maybe it’s true. Only we’re the ones who are paying. We took you in, Alice. We knew you’d had a hard start, but we tried our best to be a family. You’re not like us, Alice. You’re clever, I know that. But this… A man died, Alice, here in your house. The newspaper… they said something else… that he castrated himself and you… God, it’s so disgusting… ”
I interrupt, not wanting him to say it. “How much does Mum know?”
“More than she let’s on, that’s certain. Some of her friends won’t come round anymore. And that Betty from across the way? She’s always popping in on some excuse or other. All this publicity seems to attract the wrong kind of people. Your mum didn’t deserve this.”
“She’s not my mother!” The words are out before I can stop them.
Dad stands up, wringing his hands as if they’re wet. “She’s all the mother you’ve ever had, girl. And she loves you. You think on that while you’re tearing her world apart.”
I don’t get up to see him out.
Two Nurofen and a glass of water. I sit and breathe, waiting for the dizziness to pass. I still haven’t unpacked my bag when I hear the knocking. I recognise the sound, the slow, steady pace. I open the door, and Lee stands there like hope. I am held, caught up in Lee’s familiar smell of salt water and fresh air, the battered leather jacket on my cheek. I long for a warm shower, to rid myself of the institutional stench of cabbage and bleach, the courtroom tang of penance. But Lee doesn’t know of my inner turmoil, and I receive the kiss gratefully. From the strength of the hold, Lee must have thought I had gone for good.
My God, it’s so good to be home, even if the relief is temporary. In fourteen days I’ll be sentenced. Being locked up once against my will is surely enough. What could they hope to gain by doing it again? I’ll be a good girl now.
Lee knows nothing about Smith’s death in this house. Lee never bothers with reading the papers or watching the news, but with other things, like the best technique for butterfly stroke, the fixing of a slow puncture on an RAF dingy, and now it’s simply a warm mouth and hands running over skin that hold interest. What does it matter what happens in the world outside?
Lee has brought me tulips, large red petals, elegant proud heads, and long green stems. They’re my welcome home gift, and as I search those puppy-dog eyes I see understanding. I wonder if I’m wrong, that maybe Lee does know where I’ve been.
“I want you to know, Alice, that I don’t mind. Whatever you did. That I’ll cope.”
I look at Lee carefully. “Aren’t you going to ask where I’ve been?”
“No. I’m going to wait until you tell me.”
“How can you be so patient?”
Lee manages a half-smile. “I’ve learnt to be patient. Sometimes I thought I’d leave you for good, but it just never worked out that way. So now I just wait, for the time to be right. You’re an attractive woman. I mean, just look at you. You always were out of my league. You’re beautiful. So I can’t really be surprised that you’ve got someone else. I don’t blame you either. I’m just glad to have some place in your life. If I have to share you, then I’ll accept that.”
Does Lee know about Smith? I’m surprised when I see tears in those brown eyes. A survival equipment fitter should be made of stronger stuff.
“I was here last week, and I saw the car. The Volkswagen. I saw someone at the window, and it wasn’t you. I saw brown hair, not blonde. The thing is Alice, I’m not good at saying this, but I love you. Really. And I’m willing to hang on, hoping that at some point it’ll just be me. That I’ll be your only lover.”
Last Thursday Cate Austin was here, collecting my things. Her car is a Volkswagen. I start to laugh. I laugh so much that my face is wet with tears. “There’s no other lover for me, not since last summer. It’s only you now.”
The relief is so great it registers in those eyes, and Lee is like a child who just found a way home, holding me tight. I am kissed, my face, my lips.
“I love you Alice. I can’t believe how much I love you.” This is something I’ve heard seldom in my life. It’s a treasure. I will keep it safe.
Although I’ve known Lee all my life, there are still surprises, like a child’s game of pass-the-parcel. With each layer I unwrap I think I’ve reached the prize, only to discover yet another bright wrapping. I didn’t expect this return, this respite. This love, so undemanding. So seemingly unconditional. But all things have conditions and I would be a fool to believe that it would withstand my confession. Love never lasts; I know this. I
t must be trapped, at the perfect moment, if it’s to remain unsullied. Lee loves me, but I can’t trust that it will always be so. And although I love Lee, it’s not enough. It’s not the love I felt for Smith. It’s not the kind of love that inspires poetry.
The stillness of the middle hours is a harsh landscape and it’s always in the silent part of the night that we are stripped bare of our pretensions and confidence, taken back to our basest insecurities. Seeing Lee’s head on my pillow, cupped hands resting on clean sheets, I taste what it is to have a normal relationship. Part of me yearns for it; shared bills, holidays – children, maybe. It’s a mirage, pretence of what my life could be. Yet when Lee looks at me, when our bodies join, I believe it.
The night is dangerous for me. It’s an infidelity to the past, to Smith’s sacred plan, too much a cosy illusion of love.
At the very least, Lee gives me this.
Twenty-seven
1981
Alice had another mother who was older and didn’t cry so much but didn’t laugh so much either. She made Alice wear different clothes. The special lilac cardigan had disappeared and she wouldn’t help Alice look for it. She bought her other things to wear: dresses with lace and bows at the back. And Alice mustn’t climb trees, mustn’t stroke strange dogs. New rules for a new life.
The new mother tried to tell Alice why she had a different mummy. Alice was learning Bible stories, which she read to her every night. No more Cinderella or Little Red Riding Hood.
“It’s like Jesus,” New Mummy said. “He had two daddies: God, who was his real father, but also Joseph, who raised him like his own son. Who was there for him every day.”
“So I’m like Jesus?” Alice was thinking of other parts of the story, the bits she didn’t like, with the soldiers killing the babies after the Three Wise Men spoke to Herod.
“Yes – well, no – but you do have two mummies. The one who had you in her tummy, who’s in heaven. And me. And I love you as much as if you came from my tummy.” It was getting confusing and New Mummy was getting teary. Still Alice couldn’t quite grasp the idea. “So my real Mummy, she’s like God?”
But New Mummy started to set out the dolls’ china tea set. “Let’s have a tea party, Alice. Which of your dollies would you like to invite?”
Alice arranged her teddies and Barbie in a line, still thinking of her real Mummy who was like God. Who she couldn’t see, but whom she felt every minute, watching her. Especially when she prayed.
When Alice was five she started school.
She wore a stiff shirt and stood in a playground, counting seconds until she returned to the dusty classroom where the chalk scratched the board and made her shudder. Until she must sit in the plastic chair with a hole in the back, through which the boy behind poked her with a sharp pencil, breaking the lead on her new white shirt, gurgling that dreaded word into her ear. Over and over, that same word, ‘posh’ which she didn’t really understand, just that it was what New Mummy called other people, and what Real Mummy had called nice places. I used to live somewhere posh, Mummy would say, in a beautiful home for the perfect family. Then she’d laughed like it was a joke, which Alice hadn’t understood. Some jokes were just for grownups.
The boy said ‘posh’ like it was a bad word, making Alice feel ashamed without even knowing why. She looked down at the thick, hard cuffs of her new shirt, the red tie on the desk like a dragon’s tongue. She wouldn’t cry. She bit her lip until it bloomed.
In the cold playground she watched other children kick balls and skip ropes and tangle elastic with new shoes, and wondered if that was why they wouldn’t let her play. But she didn’t feel posh, like the new clothes, like the big house in the photo. She felt cold.
Another girl stood on the edge of the playground. They were solitary together. Her tie wasn’t a sharp tongue but a floppy thing, and her shirt was baggy on her narrow shoulders, no longer the white of new clothes. Everything about her looked used.
The poor girl smiled, an uncertain crooked thing, and Alice dared a smile back. Are you my friend? She wanted to ask in this place where everyone shouted and everyone wore the same colours and everyone was a child, but no-one was like her. Where no-one liked her. Are you my friend?
And the girl still smiled. A miracle. They stood together, faced the other children, shoulders touching.
“I’m Alice,” she whispered, shy with her gift.
The other girl coughed suddenly into her thin hand. She turned to Alice. “My name is Lee.”
Alice had a friend. Had someone to smile with. Their teacher, Miss Giddyhoo, was a kind lady, teaching her last class before she retired. She explained that this meant she wouldn’t work anymore, but would have more time for gardening. She dabbed a pink hanky to her eyes as if gardening was a sad thing. Miss Giddyhoo knew that Lee was Alice’s friend, that the boy behind her wasn’t, and made them change places. Soon it was not a pencil in Alice’s back, but Lee’s nudging foot, the shoe abandoned on the floor, secret whispers from behind as they chatted through the days and weeks to Miss Giddyhoo’s gardening leave.
Lee was allowed to come to Alice’s home after school, and New Mummy preferred that. “I like you where I can see you,” she told Alice, “besides, it gives Lee’s mother a break.” Lee had three brothers, two of them babies.
“Twins,” Lee stuck out her tongue, “both as horrible as each other.”
They laughed at that, and Alice wished Lee could come and live with them forever. Or that she had a brother or sister, so she would never have to be alone. She told New Mummy this, who rubbed her flat stomach sadly and said, “I’m afraid that won’t happen.” Then she started to clean the kitchen.
“Can’t we play something else, Alice?” Lee pushed out her lower lip.
“No. We’re playing my game.”
“It’s boring!” Lee looked ready to cry but she wouldn’t leave. Lee knew what to do. It was a game they’d played many times. She lay back on the bed. “Not the bed,” said Alice, “on the floor,” she whispered, knowing New Mummy was downstairs. She didn’t want her coming up to see what they were up to.
Still sighing, Lee dropped to the floor, as stiff as a plank, “It’s cold,” she complained, but Alice was soon next to her, her head on Lee’s flat chest. Her arm was over her waist and Lee said, “Mmm. Better,” snuggling her face into Alice’s hair.
Alice told her, “You’ve got to lie still, remember. Only I can move.”
Lee closed her eyes, lying straight, and Alice placed a leg over her leg, stomach against waist. Lee was firm and bony, and that was good. It made the memory come back easier. Alice felt the heat under her, and listened to Lee’s heart, wishing her friend understood the game. Lee was weary, she sighed; she was only still when Alice kissed her. Her cheek was soft with warm skin, like dough.
It was cold outside, and the floor was drafty but they remained, the two girls, as the weak sun died behind the clouds and the smell of steaming vegetables rose from the kitchen below. Lee’s stomach grumbled and Alice nipped her, hard.
“Ow!”
“Well, be quiet then.”
Alice closed her eyes, but she didn’t smell the food, she didn’t feel the cold. She remembered the smell of clean skin. Of fresh nail polish and old carpet. She smelt cheese ripening in the sun and bread crusts. She remembered love.
Alice knew that no-one else noticed Lee, with hair the colour of dishwater and big brown eyes like a pathetic puppy. Alice liked that Lee was so invisible. It meant Lee was all hers. That she wouldn’t leave.
“I had a heart murmer when I was a baby,” Lee whispered proudly, “it didn’t beat right,” like it was a wonderful secret. Alice looked at her thin chest as if she could see through the second-hand clothes to Lee’s heart. As if she could see what hadn’t worked properly.
At night, when Alice was in bed, she listened to her own heart, its strong beat in her ears, going quicker if she thought about it too hard, until she got scared that she might faint, like a jogger who had
run too far. She wondered if her heart didn’t work properly and that was why it hurt so much.
New Mummy tried to hug her, but Alice pulled back from her thin, sharp body. Real Mummy had always been soft, but Alice couldn’t say this. Who would she say it to? She had a different home, a different family. But her heart, caged in her chest, was still the same.