The Winter Children

by Lulu Taylor

‘Really?’

  She laughs now, a merry, pealing sound. ‘Of course! What on earth could be wrong?’

  ‘Well, now, I don’t know.’ He puts down the paper and sits forward in his chair, regarding her with a mixture of solemnity and affectionate concern. ‘Why don’t you sit down for a moment?’

  She hesitates, eager to be off, wanting to return to her own private world. But she’s spent long enough learning to subsume her desires when Walt is around to be able to put that on hold. ‘All right.’ She sinks down on the edge of an armchair, as though poised to leave at any moment. ‘What is it?’

  ‘How long have we been married now, Frankie?’

  ‘Sixteen years, darling.’ She smiles warmly at him.

  ‘I think I’ve got to know you a little in that time.’ He returns her smile. When he does, his face brightens, and the sagging jowls lift a little. The sparkle in his eyes reminds her of the Walt who attracted her all those years ago: never handsome, but with a vitality and a good humour she found soothing. He was going places, she knew that. The ride would be a good one, and he would make her life easy, both materially and as a companion. Not being wildly in love would be an advantage. It would protect her from the pain that went with passion.

  ‘We’ve got to know each other,’ she replies.

  ‘Yes. I hope you’ve been happy, Frankie.’

  ‘Of course,’ she says, as though incredulous it could be any other way.

  ‘I’m glad. You’ve made me happy too. But . . .’ His eyes take on a hint of sadness. ‘I’ve wondered if something is wrong lately. You’re not yourself. I heard you’ve resigned from the Red Cross committee. You’ve been so distracted too. I know I’m not about all that much but when I am, it’s as though you’re completely absent, even when you’re in the room with me.’

  ‘Oh, that’s silly,’ she says, a tiny ripple of apprehension rolling through her stomach.

  ‘And now you’ve forgotten that the children are coming home.’

  ‘No, no, I remember now,’ she says quickly.

  ‘So have you arranged to have them met at the airport?’

  ‘I . . . I’ll check on that right now.’ She stands up, wanting to be away from this interrogation.

  Walt frowns. ‘And for the weekend? What are we doing? I have in my diary that we are possibly going skiing.’

  ‘Oh.’ She sighs with a touch of irritation. ‘No, we can’t do that now. At least I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m going back to England tomorrow morning.’

  Walt looks astonished now. ‘You can’t do that! Fred and Lympie are home. We should be together as a family.’

  ‘Please don’t call her that, you know I don’t like it. The children will be fine.’

  ‘What are you doing there that’s so important?’ His voice is rising a little and he’s sitting forward in his seat, looking up at her as she hovers, keen to be on her way.

  ‘I’m trying to make the arrangements for this house you’ve bought. Remember? That’s why I’ve resigned all my committees. I’m going to be spending all my time overseeing the renovation. So,’ she says tartly, ‘perhaps you should have thought about that before you bought the old wreck.’

  ‘I thought that’s why we’ve got Dan and Olivia there – so they can oversee it,’ Walt protests.

  ‘They can’t do everything. We still haven’t hammered out the details, and they can hardly approve the architect’s revised plans, or decide which contractor we’re going to use.’ She feels she’s managed to turn things around so that she is coming out on top. No longer the bad, forgetful mother, but the harassed wife, overwhelmed with the organisation of practical details and arrangements.

  Walt stands up, his knees cracking with the effort of lifting his frame upwards. ‘You can go on Monday, can’t you? There won’t be anything to be done on a Saturday, will there?’

  She thinks about this. He’s right, of course. Her appointments are for Monday and Tuesday, arranged precisely so she can spend longer with the twins. She could go out on Sunday night, when Frederick and Olympia are on their way back to school, but that would mean putting off the moment she has been yearning for, when she will see the babies again. They’ve been in her thoughts constantly, filling her dreams and her waking hours with memories of their faces, the piping of their voices, the sweet smell of their skin and hair. Then she remembers. ‘Mr Howard from Preserving England is going tomorrow afternoon. It was the only time he could make for weeks. That’s why I need to be there.’

  ‘Call him. Rearrange.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s possible—’

  ‘Come on, Frankie. You can’t tell me you’d rather see that conservation guy than our kids! You said only the other day how annoying you find him. Call and postpone.’

  She stares at the floor, following the pattern of the blue silk Persian rug with her gaze. She can’t bear the thought of putting off what she’s been looking forward to so keenly. But her duty is here, she realises that. And she would like to see Fred and Olympia.

  Of course I would.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ she says briefly, then strides towards the door. ‘I’ve got to see about collecting the children now. We’ll talk when I get back. Can you ask Anastasia to book somewhere nice for dinner? Marie won’t have time to make anything now, so we’ll have to eat out.’

  She marches out, frustrated that she now won’t see the twins as she has been longing to.

  Not for long, though. I’ll be with them as soon as I can.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Olivia can’t pretend to herself that she’s not glad Francesca won’t be coming until Monday, and not till late as all the morning flights were booked. Even though their days are no longer governed by the strict timetable of the working week, there is still something special about the weekend. They can’t help sticking to the rituals – a luxurious supper cooked by Olivia on Friday night with plenty of wine, watching a film together on Saturday night, a roast lunch on Sunday. The repetition is comforting and something she looks forward to. Even though it would be perfectly nice having Francesca here – and they can hardly say no, as it is her house and there is an unused spare bedroom awaiting a guest – she prefers being on their own.

  On Friday night, gleeful that they have been released from the impending visit for another forty-eight hours, she cooks with particular relish: steak in a peppercorn cream, potatoes persillade, and purple sprouting broccoli with snippets of anchovy and globules of melting butter. Dan opens a bottle of shiraz and they celebrate the best part of the day: the twins safely upstairs and fast asleep, and two or three lazy hours to themselves to eat and drink and talk. He goes to watch a cricket match he’s recorded while she cooks, and Olivia takes occasional sips of her wine, enjoying the peaceful, harmonious atmosphere as she prepares the food.

  Not so long ago, this ritual became strained and difficult. As the years of unsuccessful IVF took their toll, their relationship suffered. At dinner, they would sit in silence with the radio on so that they did not have to talk about what was dominating their lives. It wasn’t only the pressure of their desire to become parents and the continual dashing of those hopes; the powerful and uncontrollable currents of artificial hormones surged through Olivia, making her morose, weepy, and hopeless with a hair-trigger temper. Dan tried to be understanding but he soon lost sight of the fact that these feelings had been created within her and there was little she could do about it; they were beyond her control. He lost patience and fought back, grew equally as tetchy and cross as she was, argued furiously and became cold and distant when she wouldn’t – couldn’t – snap out of it.

  ‘For God’s sake, I don’t know if this is worth it!’ he yelled during one of their most fierce confrontations. ‘Do you know how long we’ve been living like this? Do you?’

  He stood across the kitchen from her, his blue eyes flashing and his dark eyebrows set in hard arches. She stared back, eyes pricking with tears, trembling with h
er own anger, not sure any longer what they were fighting about or why, or what she felt about anything except miserable.

  ‘I’ll tell you.’ He took two steps towards her and she cowered a little, even though she knew there was no way he would hurt her. His desire for confrontation was what frightened her. ‘It’s been years. It’s been fucking years. Where has the joy gone? We’re so eaten up with this thing, it’s taken everything good out of our lives together. When did we last have sex without thinking about conception and babies and ovulation and all the rest of it?’ He stared at the floor and then shut his eyes, an expression of agony on his face. ‘Shit!’

  She wasn’t able to do anything but cry. She didn’t have the strength for anything else. All she longed for was his arms around her, comfort, kindness, understanding of the sapping nature of this journey they were on, with no promise of a destination. Her hands were over her face, tears soaking into her palms, but she didn’t utter a sound. No arms enfolded her. Instead, she heard him turn and leave, and a few moments later, the slam of the front door. When he came back, she was as cheerful as she could be, and he didn’t mention her tears or ask how she was. That night, they lay back to back and didn’t touch or speak. When she felt him relax into slumber, she wept again that he could sleep without resolving things, telling her he loved her or trying to make it better.

  For the first time she began to wonder how well she knew Dan. Their love had been a happy, indulgent thing that had brought them both pleasure and happiness, and she believed it was strong and true, made to face anything. But now she felt that in a time of trial and difficulty, when she needed him desperately, he was not able to stand firm and give her the patience and generosity she craved. In the talks about parenthood, she felt a distance grow between them and sensed that there was something deep inside Dan that he was concealing. When they talked about adoption, he agreed with her that it was a definite option, said how much he would be in favour of taking on a child from abroad, and yet she felt that he was not quite sincere. She could not help suspecting that sometimes he said things he did not mean to keep her happy. Frustrated, she pushed harder, asking more questions, trying to find out what he really thought, but he kept slipping away, staying elusive, saying the right things but leaving her with the uncomfortable sensation that he was prepared to hide what he really thought. He would fudge, obfuscate, even, perhaps, lie to her. It was a horrible thought that she could not quite credit, and she tried to ignore it.

  The next morning, peace gradually returned and they carried on as best they could, knowing that the next Slough of Despond was not far away. Then came the dreadful day when they were told that her eggs were no longer viable. There was no way she could become a mother, at least, not a genetic one.

  They walked away from the Harley Street clinic, where their life savings had been spent, in a state of shock. She was thinking, If only I’d known! If only someone had told me that it could all run out like this. She remembered the years of trying to stop conception: the contraceptive pill, taken for over a decade; the morning-after pill prescribed several times after accidents and forgotten pills; the jittery wait for a period after an illness that might have interfered with the process of contraception. What was it all for? I should have grabbed the opportunities while I could, while there were still eggs to fertilise, while my body still had the capability. It’s gone . . . it’s over. I missed it. But how? How did that happen?

  For over a decade, she and Dan had talked themselves out of having children because, for one reason or another, the time wasn’t right. They had thought they were in control of the process, and that her body would wait obediently until they decided, for whatever abstract reasons, that they were ready. The flat, she remembered, was part of it. They’d thought there wasn’t room, or that it wasn’t in a fit state – as though a baby would arrive and immediately criticise the decor and demand its own nursery. And all along, while they dithered and delayed, her body had been in the process of winding down its fertility. It had been ready for motherhood since she’d turned fifteen and now, its blind biology unconcerned with things like school, careers, bank balances and steady relationships, it considered she’d had long enough to sort things out. The babies had been there, a potential child every month, and if she hadn’t done her bit, that was it. During the decade of indecision, over a hundred chances had come and gone.

  More than a hundred potential children. I’ll never know even one.

  She was struck by the fiercest sense of loss she’d ever known, greater than when her father had died. All that possibility, wasted. She reeled under the blow.

  Dan walked beside her, morose, his collar turned up. ‘So that’s it.’ His voice was terse, low, sad and full of finality. ‘It’s over. The end of the line.’

  As soon as he said it, she heard a voice sounding loudly within her. The word it spoke reverberated through her. No. She would not accept this. Something powerful refused to let that happen. She would fight it and win. Her grief wrapped itself up into a ball and tucked itself away in her heart. She felt hope fill her, pulled in from some invisible and unknown source. Stopping in the street, facing him full on, she said fervently, ‘No, Dan. No. It’s not the end. We’re going to take a different path. But we will still be parents.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ He looked bewildered.

  ‘There is another option. We can use an egg donor!’

  He frowned, his lips tightening. When she’d mentioned this possibility before, he’d never responded, just brushed it away and changed the subject.

  Olivia went on: ‘I’ve read about it on the internet forums, and researched a bit too, just in case. I’ll show you when we get back.’

  Back in the flat, they opened up their laptops and started surfing through websites of clinics and agencies that offered egg donation, some for eye-watering fees, and it seemed a straightforward process – although nothing with fertility treatment so far had been straightforward.

  But when she told Dan this was what they must do, he refused point-blank.

  ‘Absolutely not. I don’t want to bring up a stranger’s child. I want our baby made up of us. You and me. I’m not interested in mixing my genes with a woman whose history, whose family, whose nature I do not know.’

  They talked for hours, Olivia getting more emotional as she realised that Dan was adamant on this point. She’d reached an inner, obstinate core of him she’d never seen before, where there was no compassion, no give at all. They moved around the kitchen, facing each other in mini standoffs.

  ‘So you don’t think nurture has anything to do with it?’ she demanded. ‘Don’t you think environment is important? More important than whether you inherit the ability to sing or write with your left hand?’

  ‘Actually, I don’t think nurture is everything, now you mention it. It’s important, I wouldn’t argue with that. In fact, nurture is vital. But all the nurture in the world isn’t going to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, and what if you get a sow’s ear?’

  ‘A sow’s what?’ She sighed with exasperation. ‘They’re eggs! So we can use your sperm to make a baby who’ll be ours! You know as well as I do that the eggs coming from one person guarantee nothing. What about my great-grandmother who went mad and got put in an institution? What about my aunt who had depression and killed herself? What if my eggs got a hefty dose of mad suicide genes instead of liking gardening and being good at art? There are no guarantees, but at least this way we get a baby, and it will be related to you and your family, if that’s what matters.’

  He stalked about, cross, his brows knitted, and said, ‘No. I can’t do it. I’m sorry. I can’t stand the idea, and that’s all there is to it. I don’t think I could love a child who was half a stranger to me. At least we know about your great-grandmother and your aunt. With this option, we’d know nothing. Not least about hereditary diseases and all that. What if we had a baby and loved it and lost it to some dreadful condition we hadn’t realised was in the family?’<
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  ‘I want to take the risk!’ Olivia screamed. ‘You can’t deny me that!’

  ‘I don’t want it, and I won’t do it because I’m ordered to!’ he yelled back. ‘You can’t force me to!’

  They rowed for hours until, in a mess of misery and tears, Olivia went to bed to weep hopelessly into her pillow, while Dan bedded down in the spare room. She thought that night that maybe this meant they would split up. Would they be able to reconcile their opposing views, and if he won, would she ever be able to forgive him for robbing her of the chance to bear a child?

  She didn’t think, in her heart, that she could, even though she loved him so much.

  The next week was terrible. They barely spoke, both aware of the seismic shock to their relationship. They had always been so together and such a team, and now they were riven apart and unable to see the way back, neither able to yield to the other.

  She began to think seriously that they would separate over this, and she was lying in bed late, with Dan out somewhere, wondering if he was thinking the same thing, when she heard the door slam. He moved around the hall and kitchen for a bit, and then came to find her in bed, opening the door quietly until he saw that the bedside lamp was on, and then padded in to sit beside her.

  He took her hand in his and said, ‘If you really want to do the egg donor route, then I’m behind you. We’ll do it.’

  She sat up, happiness washing through her as his words sunk in. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. I want us to vet the donors really carefully. And I’ve done some research and found a clinic we could use. It’s in Spain but it comes really highly recommended and it’s cheaper than the London ones. Would that be all right with you?’

  ‘Yes!’ she cried joyfully. ‘Anything, I don’t mind! But . . .’ She smiled at him, searching his face. ‘What made you change your mind?’

  ‘I want you to be happy,’ he said, kissing her and holding her close. ‘I can’t bear us to be apart.’

  ‘I’m so glad. I can’t bear it either,’ she said, hugging him back, filled with love and gratitude. And they began the process the very next day, using the clinic that Dan had found.