William started crying again, and Tina was grateful to be needed – although, as the night wore on and he fed and fed and then demanded to feed some more, she was drained beyond astonishment that anyone could need her quite so much. He had dozed so sweetly most of the day, but now, like a vampire, he wanted blood: milk from her blood, the milk that she wasn’t yet producing, but that, if he persisted, would eventually come in, replacing the insubstantial fluid he was getting from her now.
The hours passed in dark fits and starts, snatches of sleep broken by crying that was quieted by suckling again. And that was the end of Friday, the first day.
By noon on the second day the community midwife had been and gone, she still wasn’t up and dressed, her parents were about to return and Dan, who wasn’t working and was free to come any time, had already rung twice.
The third time, she picked up the phone, and said: ‘No. Not now. My parents are coming.’
‘Ohhh . . .’ He sounded heartbroken. ‘But I’ll only stay five minutes. I won’t be in the way, I promise. Maybe I could make it before they turn up.’
She gave in and told him to head on over, but to make it quick. Then her parents were early – Cecily obviously anxious and eager, Robert uneasy and forbearing – and Dan arrived soon afterwards.
He showed up all bright and hopeful and clean-shaven with a ridiculous blue heart-shaped helium balloon and an ostentatious bouquet and a teddy bear that was bigger than William was. He held William fearfully, but with an expression of proprietorial, incredulous pride; and he set about making small talk with Cecily as if it was perfectly normal for him to be hanging out in Tina’s flat, chatting to her mother about the weather and Cornwall and Christmas – as if he belonged there.
Then Cecily said, ‘So have you given any more thought to having William christened?’, directing the question to both of them.
‘It’s no good asking him that,’ Tina told her. ‘He’s a confirmed atheist. He’s very tolerant, though. He takes a sort of anthropological view of it all.’
‘I’m sure Dan’s quite capable of speaking for himself,’ Cecily said.
‘Thank you, Mrs Fox,’ Dan chipped in.
‘Oh – Cecily. Please.’
‘Thank you, Cecily. Well, I would say that the christening thing is up to Tina. Whatever she wants, I’ll go along with.’
‘That’s a very generous approach.’
‘Mum, please don’t nag. I’ve said I’ll think about it,’ Tina said.
She knew it would upset her mother terribly if she failed to have William baptized, and to her surprise, she could foresee her opposition ebbing away . . . it seemed feasible that some sort of wholly irrational homing instinct would kick in, and eventually she might think, Well, after all, why not? But not yet . . . not just yet.
When she took William back there was a definite tang of Dan’s aftershave clinging to him. It was as if William had been marked. It was a woody scent, not unpleasant, but also not wholly familiar, interfering with the sweet baby smell of William’s head.
It was all too much . . . and William wanted feeding, so she took him downstairs to her bedroom, away from the conversation Dan and Robert had started having, with Robert trying to find out if Dan was interested in rugby or cricket, and Dan tentatively mentioning Bristol Rovers.
She sat on the bed which she had never shared with Dan, and tried to latch William on. It didn’t work. He jerked away from her nipple as if it revolted him, and started wailing again.
Then Dan barged in without knocking, and she exploded into a histrionic, tear-spouting rage and told him to leave. He reacted as if she’d gone insane. She put William over her shoulder – he was still screaming – bundled Dan towards the front door, opened it and pushed him through and out down the stairs.
Cecily appeared and said, ‘Is everything all right?’
‘It’s not all right! It’ll never be all right!’
And so it seemed. But Cecily took William from her, and half an hour later she tried to feed him again and the magic she’d already come to rely on, her physical connection to her son, was restored.
Then even Robert’s muttered comment – ‘That young chap’s obviously trying to do the right thing, and you’re not making it easy for him’ – didn’t bother her. Why not be magnanimous? She left Dan a message of apology, and put the teddy in the cot, and tied the silly balloon to the rail – not that William could even focus on it, or make out the colour.
That night William fell asleep at the breast and she stirred and he abruptly came adrift. His parted lips were glossy with milk, and in the glow of the nightlight she saw herself eject a fine spray of white droplets that came to rest, glistening, on his cheek.
Wasn’t that the myth of the origin of the Milky Way – a stray spurt of sustenance from the lactating mother of a god?
There was much she hadn’t done for William; he didn’t have a freshly wallpapered nursery with a frieze of jolly animals and a stain-resistant carpet, or a doting father living under the same roof, or any hope of a wholly devoted, stay-at-home mum. But for now, there was one thing he wanted more than anything else, and she could at least give him that.
On the third day she was calm and heavy and languorous, as if sated. Cecily and Robert came again – how quickly they had settled into a kind of routine! Robert had his newspaper, and Cecily, who had run out of cleaning to do, had brought the bootees she was knitting.
But just as Tina had begun to get used to having them around, it seemed that her parents were beginning to tire, if not of her and William, then of all the to-ing and fro-ing required to see them. Cecily dropped some hints about her needing to get a bed for the spare room, for overnight guests.
‘But that’s going to be William’s room, when he’s old enough to go in on his own,’ Tina objected.
‘Maybe some kind of put-you-up or sofabed,’ Cecily suggested.
‘I can’t see Dad settling for that,’ Tina said.
‘I was thinking more for me. I’d love to come and stay and help out. But Daddy needs his rest, and he’s such a light sleeper. I’m not at all sure how well he’d cope if he was disturbed at night,’ Cecily said with a circumspect little glance in the direction of her husband, who was still stoically reading.
They agreed that since Tina appeared to be coping, Cecily and Robert would not return until the fifth or sixth day.
The fourth day was very cold. The Post ran a series of pictures of the hoar frost: glazed white fields and crystallized trees, the sun a delicately tinted disc floating in a sky of fog, exuding, not light, but a pale umbra of colour – lemon and rose diffused by milk.
On the fifth day it snowed, and she couldn’t venture out. She finished Cecily’s chocolate cake, and, at midnight, microwaved the last portion of lasagne.
On the sixth day she was reduced to eating from tins. She decided to leave the chickpeas till last. The snow was still thick on the ground, and she was due to file her column. She had a stab at drafting it, but the sentences refused to follow each other, or make sense.
She was glad to be interrupted by a phone call. It was Lucy, who arranged to come and see her on the tenth day. She sounded excited – something about a job interview. Tina tried to enthuse, but was aware of sounding rusty and lacklustre, as if she was beginning to lose the power of speech.
After she’d chatted to Lucy her head was clearer. She hunched over her computer with William lying on a pillow on her lap, feeding, and kept on typing until she reached the necessary word count.
Lucy must have got in touch with Natalie, because on the seventh day Natalie came round and refilled Tina’s freezer, and brought her a pile of glossy magazines, more flowers, and another cake.
By the eighth day William’s navel had healed, he was back up to his birth weight, and it was hard to believe she’d ever been nervous about bathing him or changing his nappy.
His eyes were blue. She knew all newborn babies had blue eyes, but she was sure she could see beyond the slight haze in his to a colo
ur that was bright and abiding, more like his father’s than the greeny-grey of her own.
The flowers Cecily had brought her were past their best, but the snow had dwindled enough for delivery services to be resumed, and a bouquet turned up from work. After the traditional congratulations, the message went on: Oh go on then, put those feet up! But don’t forget there’s a desk here waiting for you!
It was reassuring to see that whatever else had changed, Jeremy’s communication style hadn’t.
A couple of cards arrived in the post. Nothing from Justin . . . but then, everything was still at sixes and sevens, and it was early days. There was still time for him to make some small gesture to acknowledge her transformation.
She was glad to have left the life that had him in it behind her, but still, the break with the past would be cleaner, more absolute, if she could know for sure that she had finally earned his respect.
On the ninth day Tina was on her best behaviour. Dan came, and so did Cecily, on her own.
They all tried to stick to neutral topics of conversation, which was not a straightforward exercise. Tina was reminded of those medieval maps of the world, with vaguely recognizable land masses surrounded by seas embellished with ornate monsters, and warnings at the margins: Here be dragons.
Cecily attempted current affairs, but soon faltered, and resorted to reminiscing about Tina’s babyhood, much to Tina’s discomfort. It was bad enough to hear the familiar sigh, and ‘Of course, I would have liked to have more children . . .’ but to have Dan quizzing Cecily on what Tina had been like as a child was just infuriating. Dan duly heard that she had been the most strong-willed, demanding, vociferous little girl in Barnes, and looked smugly amused – as if this somehow proved him right.
They got on to the subject of holidays, and Cecily said, ‘You can have the Old Schoolhouse at Easter if you like, Tina. I mean, you can have it to yourself . . . and invite anyone you want to go along with you, of course.’ (At this she gazed almost flirtatiously at Dan.) ‘We won’t be there,’ she added, ‘Robert’s booked us on a trip to Venice, to celebrate our anniversary. It’s our ruby wedding. I’m planning to give a little family party sometime in the spring. Dan, dear, I do hope you’ll come.’
Tina looked pointedly at her watch to hint to Dan that he should begin to think about moving on; they had got through thirty minutes, surely there was no need to push their luck. Still, it was all good practice for the likely awkwardness of Dan’s mother’s first visit . . . to which she had agreed in principle, although she was being a little evasive about the date.
But then William, who was strapped into the little cloth-coloured rocking cradle Lucy had bought him, opened his eyes and began to whimper. Dan said, ‘Is it OK if I take him out?’
‘Sure,’ Tina said, so emphatically that it was obvious she would much rather have done it herself.
Dan fiddled awkwardly with the catch on the cradle strap, and she reached down to undo it. He smiled at her and said, ‘Thanks to the expert,’ clumsily scooped William out and settled back on to the sofa with him.
Dan looked down into William’s face and William’s hand wrapped tightly round Dan’s finger.
Cecily said, ‘Well, he definitely knows who his daddy is.’
‘Mmm,’ Dan said non-committally. Then he glanced up at Cecily and said, ‘Do you know what, I think he might have a look of you.’
‘Do you think so?’ Cecily said, and Tina knew she was pleased. ‘I know people love to make out these resemblances, but I have to say I’m not convinced. How can a tiny baby possibly look like a sixty-three-year-old woman? I don’t look like my own self at that age, so I fail to see in what way he could be said to look like me.’
‘It’s the high forehead, and something about the set of the eyebrows,’ Dan said.
‘Well, I’ll defer to your expertise,’ Cecily said, and Tina thought: Sold.
The doorbell rang, and Cecily said, ‘I’ll go.’
They sat without speaking as Cecily’s tread retreated down the stairs. Then Dan said, ‘So, you were a pain in the backside when you were little. That makes sense.’
‘I bet you were an absolute toe-rag,’ Tina countered.
‘I was an angel, actually,’ Dan told her. ‘So do you think you’ll take him to Cornwall at Easter, then?’
‘If you’re angling for an invite, forget it.’
‘I just kind of like the idea of introducing him to the seaside.’
‘Not going to happen.’
‘I think your mum approves of me.’
‘She’s only sucking up to you because she’s hoping against hope that you’ll redeem me from being a scarlet woman.’
‘No she isn’t. She just wants you to be happy,’ Dan said, and then added, ‘Mums always like me.’
Tina hit him over the head with a cushion. He held up his arm to keep her at bay and complained that she shouldn’t hit a man with a baby. But she kept pelting him . . . if only to ward off the strange, lurching urge to lean forward and kiss him.
The game halted abruptly as Cecily came back in, carrying an armful of parcel.
‘I expect it’s another present for William,’ she said, handing it over to Tina.
‘It’s addressed to me,’ Tina pointed out.
She did not recognize the handwriting. The postmark: Barnstaple.
She put the parcel on the dining table, fetched the scissors and cut through the brown paper to reveal a layer of bubble wrap and, beneath it, dark wood.
‘Oh my God,’ she said.
She picked the parcel up and turned it round. There was a return address. It was not a place she’d ever been, but she’d seen its name written at the head of so many letters, and heard it referred to with such affection, that she felt as if she knew it.
She pulled away the rest of the paper and bubble wrap, and there it was, as if it had never been away.
‘Isn’t that Great-Aunt Win’s sewing box?’ Cecily said.
‘It is.’
‘I’d forgotten you had it. I thought it was in the loft.’
‘I rather like it,’ Tina said. ‘I think it’s admirable. Romantic.’
She ran her fingers over the lid, took in the scratches, the dark wood, the image of the ship. There was a loud rushing noise in her ears; it could have been blood, or the sea, or the hum that precedes a faint.
She opened the box and lifted out the compartment lid with the inscription: Made by I alone. The compartment was empty.
‘I don’t see what’s romantic about it, I must say,’ Cecily said.
‘I just rather like to think of Win living defiantly by herself, with her sewing box for company,’ Tina said. ‘She’d obviously been let down in love.’
‘Well, yes, dear, but you know she didn’t actually live alone,’ Cecily said.
‘But I thought she never married.’
‘Well, no, she didn’t, she may have had some disappointment in that regard, but she did find a companion in the end. Miss Glennie. They lived in a little cottage in Port Maus, you know – it was after Win closed the school, and let the house to Arthur Symonds, the watercolourist. Next time you’re in the Black Swan, you ask about Miss Fox and Miss Glennie. They’re still remembered – they’re part of village folklore. They were quite inseparable. They even slept together. Of course it was completely innocent, which people find hard to believe these days, but there you are. They were like sisters, and it was perfectly normal for sisters to share a bed back then.’
Tina lifted out the whole of the top layer and saw what she had not seen for many years, the box’s red velvet lining. There was nothing inside apart from the dried roses, and a single letter.
She heard her mother asking her why somebody had just posted her Great-Aunt Win’s box, but she didn’t reply. Instead she muttered something – more an apology than an excuse – snatched the letter and rushed down to her bedroom to read it.
The envelope was the familiar shape and size, and inside was the same thick, creamy, headed
paper, but the handwriting was familiar only from the address on the parcel.
Northcourt Farm
Shepstowe
Nr Barnstaple
Devon
Dear Tina,
We’ve never met, and I hope we never do, as however I try to rationalize the part you’ve played in my life, the thought of you arouses strong feelings, and I am not certain of my ability to control them. Nevertheless, even though I have never seen you face to face, I know far too much about you for my own good. You also know a little about me – I prefer not to think about how much.
Until I came across this box, I knew about you in two ways. First and foremost, I knew you as the young woman with whom my husband had been conducting a lengthy, passionate, but very discreet love affair. Although I did not know your age or name, I deduced that you probably had a successful, demanding career, maybe in law or the media.
Lately, I had begun to suspect that this relationship had come to the end of its natural life. These days, my husband seems unusually grateful, as if he has repented, and decided on a fresh start. However, while you may have faded from his thoughts, you have continued to inveigle your way into mine.
As a mother myself, I wondered whether you would ever want children, and whether you understood that whatever he said, my husband had no intention of leaving me – us – to be with you. I wondered what your own mother would say to you if she knew. I wondered what I would say to my own daughter if I found out that she was doing what you did for so many years that I had almost (but not quite) got used to your presence in our lives, which usually manifested itself in the form of my husband’s absence – not in physical terms (his work took him away constantly, I was used to that) but an absence of mind, even when he was here with me.
I wondered, were you jealous, guilty, thwarted, bitter, hopeful? I certainly was.
Over recent months, I have also come to know you as many other readers do? as a writer of occasionally droll prose in a popular national newspaper. Today, by chance, I had the opportunity to put together the two versions of you with which I was already familiar, and find out exactly who you are.
Stop the Clock Page 24