Our Grand Finale

by Laraine Denny Burrell

  I leave the doctor’s office with instructions for follow-up care and take a slow walk home up the quiet back streets toward the house. I have survived the first step of my disclosure, but can I survive the second? Once home I go straight into the compact kitchen situated at the front of the house and take a seat on a kitchen stool where I can see out of the window to the street. I will be able to see when my mother arrives home, and I will be able to brace myself and be ready for step two, the confrontation with my mother.

  It will be an hour or so before Mum finishes work, and Loretta will go straight to dance classes after school, so for a while I am alone. I don’t move. My feet are perched on the rungs of the stool, and my hands are placed in my lap. My posture is upright; my eyes are on the street. I wait, and pray. The house is silent. The tension mounts. My nerves are held tight to my body by the closeness of the kitchen walls, refusing me any escape from what I am about to face.

  I see my mother walk along the path by the house, open and close the front gate, and walk across the forecourt. I don’t go and open the front door for my mother. I sit motionless, on the stool. The tension in my body makes me nauseous, as my muscles tighten inside me and asphyxiate my core. I sigh deeply, trying to calm my nerves. This is it.

  “Laraine? I’m home. Where are you?”

  “In the kitchen, Mum.” My voice is quiet, calm, belying the turmoil swirling inside my head and body. The walls begin to spin around me.

  “What have you been doing all day? Nothing, I suppose.”

  I hear the door of the hall cupboard open and close as my mother hangs up her coat. I note the annoyance in my mother’s voice thinking I had sat on my rear all day doing nothing around the house. My mother comes into the kitchen and puts her shopping bag on the counter. Ignoring me, she takes the kettle off the stove and moves to the sink to fill it with water.

  “Mum, I need to tell you something.” I take a deep breath. I need to get straight to the point, get it over with. I look down at my hands perched on my lap and say quietly, “I’m pregnant.”

  “What?” The kettle drops into the sink. Metal hitting metal, the harsh sound reverberating around the little space.

  Scottish indignation and righteousness come out in full force as my mother whirls around to face me. The woman screams, “What the hell have you done?” She takes two steps across the floor and slaps my face, the “smacking” sound of skin on skin accenting the anger. The woman begins pummeling me with both hands, hard, again and again, and with all the force her tiny frame can muster. The blows hit my bare arms—smack, smack—as I raise them to protect myself from my mother’s frantic thrashing. The next few moments go by in a dark blur. I close my eyes, trying to censor the moment. I feel the pain, but it is less than the hurtful sting of shame.

  “Oh, my God!” my mother shouts. “Oh, my God!” Each word emphatically spat into my face. The blows suddenly stop and I realize I am alone. I hear running steps thumping up the carpeted stairs. I hear my mother’s bedroom door slam above my head and the whamp of my mother falling down on the bed, followed by a noisy, pitiful wailing lest anyone should doubt the horror of the news. I open my eyes, sit upright, ignoring the aching in my arms and body, and look around the tiny kitchen. My body involuntarily sighs deeply. My mother’s torment is over. But it is best if I go somewhere else to face step three: my father.

  Sitting in my own bedroom waiting for my father to return home, I again find myself staring at the walls. It is a full-time occupation these days. I anticipate my mother’s dramatic rendition of the news to my dad, and the outrage he will express. There is no going back now, but the certainty of my father’s likely reaction—the yelling and maybe the belt—has yet to be endured. I tell myself, I am ready for it. I have to be. There is no other option.

  My father comes home. I hear my mother’s movement in the next room in reaction to the activity at the front door. I hear footsteps descending the stairs, followed by the muffled voices. I am unclear of the words, but can easily interpret the tone. In less than a minute I hear footsteps ascending the stairs, heavier impatient steps. The door to my bedroom flies open and hits the doorstop on the wall with a bang. I involuntarily flinch. My father stands in the doorway. He is looking at me through narrowed eyes; his face is crumpled up as if smelling something repugnant.

  “You’re a disgrace!” The words are spat at me like refuse thrown at a lowlife.

  I do nothing; I say nothing. I brace myself as my father takes a step forward into the room, but he simply grabs the door handle, slams the door shut, and is gone. That is it. Nothing more. Instinctively, I know the worst is over. I have survived. The nerves, the tension flies out of my body as if fleeing from a cage after being imprisoned against their will. My body deflates. All I want to do now is close my eyes. I lean sideways on the bed, tuck up my feet, and lie down, closing my eyes, sinking into the softness, allowing sleep to ease my aches and pain.

  For days afterward, I stay in my bedroom while my parents are at home, not wanting to unnecessarily face their disdain. From time to time Loretta comes up to check on me but neither parent will talk to me. I hear activity in the house, including my mother sitting on the bottom stair in the hallway phoning other family members and friends with the terrible news, dramatizing the circumstances, playing the victim; the crying and woeful recitation of the dreadful news is easy to hear everywhere in the small house. How can Laraine bring such disgrace on her, on the family? How can anyone live this down?

  In due course, my parents come to terms with the story and circumstances surrounding my pregnancy. I tell my mum that the doctor has advised the child be put up for adoption, hoping that this option might offer her some comfort that this unwelcomed baby might not be a permanent intrusion into her life. But within time, it is my mother who reluctantly asks me to consider keeping the baby. This is, after all, going to be her first grandchild.

  While my parents don’t forgive my disgrace, the atmosphere in the house becomes less hostile toward me and more resigned to the inevitable. For the times when I have to leave the house to go to the clinic, my mother bought me a huge brown overcoat to wear to cover myself up, even though it is June, July, summertime. My mother is still ashamed of me; she doesn’t want people to see my pregnancy. I ask myself over and over, Can I live with the stigma? I retreat into myself; it is easier, less confrontational that way. If I don’t see people, don’t talk to people, I don’t have to respond to their questions, their stares.

  I have to work with social services, trying to track down the child’s father to get support from him. I give them the only photograph of Mimis that I have; in it we are sitting together having dinner at a restaurant in Cairo, leaning toward each other, heads touching, smiling for the camera. Social services can’t find Mimis. He is gone from my life with no qualms of leaving me alone to raise his child. I learn how callous people can be, even those who say they love you.

  The last two months of my pregnancy pass. My time comes; my labor is induced, some force taking pity on me and granting me a short six-hour labor. While I am in the hospital both before and after giving birth, I watch the other women sharing the joy of a newborn with their husbands and partners. Lying on my bed, or strolling around the wards watching the interplay between the couples, I am envious. I feel very alone. I have no one to share this experience with. And even though I am momentarily resentful of the happiness of these other women, and doubt my own ability to raise a child by myself, I remember the words of Tariq, the Lebanese palm reader, and how I will only have one child. I lie on my hospital bed, my son snuggled in my arms, the sweet scent of baby mixed with the warmth and trust this little one has for me. He is my child. I am no longer alone. I keep my son. I name him Mark. I want him to make his mark on the world.

  author and son Mark, photo © Ian Denny

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  I am now a mother with new responsibilities, the most important of which is supporting my son. The English social servic
es will give me benefits, including housing. I should feel grateful for a system that will look out for me, but the thought is depressing. This isn’t where I want my life to go. Not after all the effort I have put into my dancing career and after living abroad and the experiences I have had. I don’t want my dreams to fade away just because I made a mistake. I look at my son sleeping in my arms. His eyes closed, his mind innocent. I chastise myself. He is not a mistake. I will never again refer to him as a mistake. He is a gift that I must appreciate and love. But what is the best thing for me to do for him? For us both?

  My mother wisely tells me that if I give up my dancing career because of my son, I will blame him for the rest of my life. My mother’s words are astute. My mother tells me she will give up her job to care for my son, and I will pay her the salary she would have made at work. I agree, thankful for the good heart and wisdom of my mother.

  I contact my agent in London to seek work abroad, knowing I will make more money working for foreign shows than in England. It is a wrench knowing I have to leave my son so soon, and before bonding with him; it is a difficult balance creating a life that will be good for both of us. But my parents have opened their hearts to their grandson. He will be loved and well taken care of.

  Within three weeks of Mark’s birth, I have a job as a dancer with a French dance group Les Danceurs d’Amon¸ named after its founder and producer, Garib Amon, and based in Paris. This new tour abroad has its own challenges. It is my first day of rehearsals with the group, and I find myself standing in the middle of the studio dumbfounded because the rehearsals are in French and beyond my understanding. I studied French in grammar school, but the extent of my knowledge is “Où est la porte” or “where is the door.”

  Two Dutch girls, Lea and Ansje, speak English and guide me through the routines, but clearly I need to learn French quickly. I also need to get back into shape. I tell no one I have just had a child. I am not sure of how people will react to me being a single mother. I avoid the stigma and focus on the job at hand. My work has a new purpose. It is to provide my son everything he will need in life, and to do that I must save my money to pay Mum her salary.

  After rehearsing in Paris for a week, the group travels to Lago di Lugano in Switzerland, where we perform in a nightclub for a month before traveling on to a place called Ngor, just outside of Dakar in Senegal. Senegal is a French-speaking country, which explains why a French group is asked to perform at the Ngor resort.

  My education continues as I broaden my knowledge of geography and history. I learn that an island just off the Dakar coast called Snake Island was apparently where the African slaves were kept so long ago before being shipped off to the New World. In Ngor, I learn a little of the local language, Wolof, and enjoy basic banter with the locals working at the resort nightclub.

  After Senegal, the group travels to Thailand. I see what on first glance look like lakes but which are in fact rice fields. Whole communities live on rivers or khlongs, and during my stay I often visit the floating markets to buy fresh, exotic fruits such as rose apples, papaya, and pineapples. The other dancers stay in their rooms or spend the day at the pool. I have to see the culture.

  author in Senegal, family photo

  “Hey, Francine,” I call to my roommate, “I am off on a tour today.”

  “Encore!” The disinterested French voice is accompanied by the rolling of eyes. She doesn’t ask where I am going.

  “If Garib asks, I should be back before it gets dark.”

  “Okay.”

  Today my tour takes me hours outside of Bangkok to a historic location. I am standing at the site of The Bridge on the River Kwai, looking down at the muddy-brown water of the river, and across at where gaps in the green overgrowth show where the original bridge had once spanned. I pull from my memory scenes from the famous film, and the history on which the film was loosely based. Here I am at the actual site and I compare the historic reality with the Hollywood story. The bridge was built by the Japanese during World War II to connect the Bangkok–Rangoon railway. It was known as the Death Railway because of the large loss of life incurred in its construction, not only of Allied prisoners of war but also of local civilians who were treated with brutality by the Japanese overseers.

  Original carriages from the trains that once ran from Burma across the bridge and through Thailand now rest at the side of the river. I study the carriages; they are now rusty, old, but are a historic part of the Second World War as it played in the Asian arena. I look back to the gaps on either side of the river where the original bridge once stood and imagine these carriages rumbling across the river at the expense of so much misery.

  A second bridge was built about a hundred yards up river, and I take the time to walk across the now dilapidated bridge with gaps in the railings and wooden sleepers. The holes in the railway show the brown water floating along in the river below. I am careful where I step, but more careful are the Buddhist monks who are also visiting the bridge. I learn the monks are not permitted to touch women, or money. As I prance along the bridge enjoying my firsthand look at history, the monks lean against the bridge’s railings, making sure they avoid any connection with my body. My tour also includes a visit to the cemetery where thousands of prisoners of war are buried. I pay my respects, knowing many of them were British and fought for my freedom.

  On another day I go to the Rose Garden, a Thai cultural center in the middle of a beautiful park with a lake and large pagoda. I watch elegant Thai court dancers as they perform traditional dances in beautiful and brightly colored sequin costumes with elaborate headdresses and long nails accenting their hand movements. Also part of the entertainment is a cockfight, a typical Thai pastime. I also watch a kickboxing match. After visiting the main arena at the Rose Garden, I go outside where I watch working elephants perform tasks such as moving logs and pulling heavy objects. I take a ride on an elephant, working hard to maintain my balance on top of the lumbering and swaying animal. At the end of each tour I return to the hotel in Bangkok, where the rest of the cast have spent their day lazing around in their rooms or by the pool. Silly girls, I think to myself. You don’t know what on earth you are missing!

  After Thailand the group moves on to Singapore. I love Singapore’s orderly civility. It is a hot, humid city, sitting barely one-degree north of the equator. Stepping outside the door of the hotel, I can immediately feel the humidity wrap itself around me as I walk along the street, the humidity a constant companion on my outings both day and night. I become used to perspiration running at will down my face, and drenching my body in confined areas under my clothing.

  Singapore is a host to many different cultures, including Indian, Chinese, Malaysian, and European. The many cultures are equally present in the food, the dialects spoken by the locals, the artifacts for sale, and the innumerable festivals held to celebrate gods, seasons, the moon, and whatever else. I love the way the local television begins its evening broadcast with women from each of the four cultures greeting the viewers in their native language. The message is that different cultures can live together with respect and in harmony.

  Singapore’s general culture is one of politeness. Restaurants have signs asking patrons not to tip the staff because it is their pleasure to serve you. Pedestrians don’t dare jaywalk after the government has gone to the trouble of creating crosswalks and lights to make crossing the road a safe activity for the pedestrians. And no pedestrian would be rude enough to step onto the road wherever is suitable for them, and cause drivers some inconvenience when there are crosswalks which drivers expect pedestrians to use.

  I perform two shows nightly at the Mandarin Hotel on Orchard Street. I also live in the hotel, sharing the luxury of my hotel room with Francine. As usual, most of the dancers like to spend their days lying at the pool, rationalizing their need to do as little as possible to conserve energy for the two shows. But I can’t live in this fascinating place and not discover its attractions. Every day I choose a new area to explore.r />
  As I experience the city, I picture my dad being there years before me, walking along the same streets, and visiting the same tourist attractions, finding some common bond we share with these strange, unfamiliar foreign places. I remember Dad’s stories of Singapore and the Tiger Balm Gardens. He brought back little jars of Tiger Balm from his visit.

  My own visit to the Tiger Balm Gardens is significant because I know my father had visited the gardens many years ago when he was a young sailor and had spoken about their glorious displays. My dad told me the story of the Chinese brothers creating Tiger Balm and using the proceeds from the balm to create a wonderful garden for the people to enjoy and learn about the mythical Chinese culture. I wonder what my father had thought as he walked through the elaborate gardens, infused with bright colored murals and with large statues and exhibitions showing scenes, some of them bizarre, from Chinese mythology, each with a lesson for the visitor. The vibrant education is converse to anything my father would have found in the drab streets of his boyhood Glasgow.

  The group moves on to Syria, another French-speaking country. The difference between Singapore and Syria is enormous, with Singapore embracing tourism, beaches, and sun-tanned bodies, and, in contrast and even in the 1970s, the Syrian government and law restricting people’s movements, controlling Syrian life and habits. We live and work in Damascus. We stay at the Omayad Hotel on one corner of a large square, a few minutes’ walk from the nightclub where we perform.