All My Mothers

by Joanna Glen

  Take another look.

  The eyes of.

  Course it isn’t.

  Barnaby Blue.

  I sobered up in an instant.

  Barnaby Blue was dancing with Naomi.

  It was definitely them.

  Barnaby twirled her around, and he caught her, and he kissed her, and she was wearing a crocheted vest which showed a bright red bra underneath, with wide straps, which is what you need if you have big boobs.

  ‘I’ve seen someone I know,’ I said to Michael.

  ‘Introduce me!’ he said.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ I said. ‘Of course, just wait a second. I think I need the loo.’

  In the queue, I breathed, breathed, breathed.

  Look at the way they were dancing.

  And look at the way we were dancing.

  I wee’d in a strange nervous state, holding up my skirt and crouching over the loo, thinking, I’m only with Michael because Billy died; thinking, I’m making amends to Billy; thinking, Billy never wanted me to be with Michael; thinking, I don’t want to be with him either.

  I took Michael by the arm and dragged him across to Barnaby Blue.

  ‘Hey!’ I said, when I never said hey.

  Barnaby and Naomi stopped dancing.

  ‘This is Michael,’ I said, stiffly.

  ‘So good to see you,’ said Barnaby, embracing him like a bear, a gorgeous lovely bear – who in the world wouldn’t want to be hugged by Barnaby Blue?

  ‘And this is Naomi.’

  Michael hugged her, and I could imagine her big bosoms squeezing into his chest. I wondered if men really do prefer big bosoms. I felt my own, tight, small and plummy on my chest.

  ‘We got engaged last night,’ said Barnaby.

  I felt a pain in my stomach, or perhaps it was the start of my period, or maybe it was both.

  He got engaged?

  But he doesn’t love her, said my drunk mind, he loves me.

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Michael. ‘Let’s see the ring.’

  Don’t be so predictable, I thought, who cares about the stupid ring?

  I couldn’t look at Barnaby.

  I couldn’t look at anyone.

  Naomi held out her hand, laughing.

  ‘Very modern,’ said Michael. ‘They’re normally round or oval.’

  Very modern?

  I grimaced.

  You sound like a prick.

  You’re drunk, Eva, I said to myself.

  You don’t use words like prick and hey.

  Michael was holding Naomi’s hand, staring at the ring.

  Maybe people like him know about engagement rings.

  Maybe it’s part of his mother’s intentionality training.

  The ring was like a flash of emerald lightning on a thick gold band.

  ‘I’m not really an engagementy sort of person,’ said Naomi.

  Michael laughed: ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Who knows?’ said Naomi. ‘And there’s a first time for everything. That’s my theory. And I’m rowing up the Amazon to find an undiscovered tribe, so I’ll probably be eaten by a crocodile anyway!’

  She spun away from Michael, with the strap of her crocheted vest falling down and her big red bosom coming out.

  ‘We need to go,’ I whispered to Michael. ‘I think I’ve started my period.’

  How sexy can you get?

  ‘Well, many congratulations,’ I shouted over the music, sounding somehow rather elderly – maybe it was the many, next time don’t bother with the many – just stick with the congratulations.

  Barnaby Blue is engaged and I never called him Barny and now it’s too too too late.

  He loves me more than her, I know he does.

  What’s wrong with you? I said to myself.

  Has my period really started, I thought, or is it pain writhing about inside my belly because what I really want. What I really really want.

  Wasn’t that a Spice Girls song?

  What I really really want is to go home.

  ‘What bad timing,’ said Michael, as we walked home.

  ‘Their engagement?’

  ‘Your period.’

  ‘For me or for you?’ I said, and I was sobering up, and my words sounded sharp, and I felt utterly irritable.

  ‘For both of us,’ he said.

  I went and had a shower and double-layered my sanitary towels and swallowed Nurofen.

  ‘Mum says you must get them particularly badly. She says it’s not normal. But maybe you’re just super fertile. Every cloud has a silver lining!’

  I thought, I’m not normal.

  I thought, your bloody mother.

  I thought bloody bloody bloody everything, washing the lining of my womb off my knickers – my womb which is not silver at all, not even bronze, but needs one of those Well Done stickers Bridget and I used to get on Sports Day. Because my womb is a loser, and Christine will hate me forever because I have a very slim chance indeed.

  ‘Every cloud doesn’t have a silver lining, Michael,’ I said because I wanted to disagree with him. ‘Does Billy’s death have a silver lining?’

  He stared at me.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I should never have said that.’

  ‘I’ve given this a lot of thought,’ said Michael slowly and carefully, ‘and I’ve come to the conclusion that there was some weakness in Billy that the rest of us didn’t have.’

  ‘Don’t ever say that to me again,’ I said, and my voice was a zigzag of fury.

  Michael looked shocked, but he didn’t say anything.

  I put on new knickers and new harem pants – I had six pairs now.

  ‘You look like Aladdin,’ said Michael, laughing.

  ‘I like looking like Aladdin!’ I snapped. ‘And also, there was nothing weak about Billy. Everything that happened wasn’t his fault. Everything that happened was—’

  I stopped.

  I marched out of my bedroom, down the wrought-iron steps, and I went and sat inside the orange-tree courtyard of the Mezquita with the homeless people, and my stomach cramped, and I sobbed.

  The woman with the hijab and dark eyes came by and gave me a bottle of water. She touched my arm, and her palm was soft, and she smelled of roses. I asked her if she had a pen. She said she did: it was inset with little jewels, and she said I should keep it.

  Dear Bridget, I wrote.

  I am sorry that my letters have always been so crap.

  I find it so hard to put my feelings into words. You must remember that I was never much good at feelings. But I’m a bit drunk so that might help.

  I thought I was being funny sending you those similes. Also, at some deeper level, I guess I was trying to rewind the years and get us back to where we started. But you haven’t replied so maybe you found it stupid, or even insulting. Or maybe you don’t want to be my friend any more.

  I saw your dad and he said you’d had a hard time trying to be a mother to Bessie and Bella. I’m so sorry. I know I let you down.

  Also, what I’ve been meaning to tell you for some time was that you taught me how to love, and that I loved you completely from the moment I first saw you. Literally. It was like a chemical reaction, as your dad said. You were and still are my biggest love story.

  There was also Billy, Michael’s younger brother, who was my best friend at school. He was my second biggest love story, but he killed himself, as I told you. And it was kind of my fault. I’m not sure I’ve recovered. Sometimes I think I haven’t recovered from losing your mum either. Perhaps we don’t recover. Perhaps we’re like these sunflowers I saw growing in a scrapyard on the train here from Seville, literally out of the bonnets of smashed-up cars. (Does that make sense? Am I sounding very drunk?)

  Anyhow I’m sitting in the courtyard of the Mezquita, which is a mosque-cathedral (weird name, I know) – it’s the most beautiful building I’ve ever seen and I wish I could show it to you. Perhaps one day you might come and visit it. I’d really love that. Only if you’d like to.
>
  I’ve just had a big row with Michael, who I don’t love any more and haven’t for a long time, even though it probably looks to everyone else as if I do. I’m with him because I feel guilty about Billy. Even though Billy hated us being together.

  Everything about him is annoying me right now: his lanky legs, the hard skin on his feet, the way he keeps using acronyms, and won’t eat ice cream and doesn’t like campervans and also can’t dance flamenco properly. Do you think I’m being reasonable?

  Also, we bumped into Barnaby and Naomi and heard they’d just got engaged.

  Great news.

  (Liar.)

  It would be so good to hear from you.

  Sorry I’ve been so crap.

  I love you, Bridget, and I always will.

  (With the I in – good)

  Eva xxx

  Chapter 77

  Michael and I ate breakfast tensely amongst the ferns.

  He said he didn’t know what he’d done to upset me.

  I felt bad about that.

  What he’d done to upset me was be himself – and that’s not fair on anyone.

  ‘So did you like that ring?’ said Michael, trying to sound normal. ‘You know, that girl last night. With the tits.’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ I replied crossly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The girl with the tits. It’s disrespectful. How would you like it if everyone got to comment on the size of your penis?’

  ‘You’re acting really weird,’ said Michael. ‘I was asking if you liked the ring.’

  ‘While commenting on the size of Naomi’s breasts,’ I said.

  ‘So did you like the ring or not?’ said Michael, and he took a sip of coffee.

  ‘I haven’t thought about it,’ I said, looking down at the table.

  ‘Well, think about it now!’ he said, and he tried smiling at me, and I felt bad, at the same time as thinking that I had no reason to feel bad, why were women made to feel bad for saying things that were reasonable?

  ‘The zigzags?’ he said.

  ‘I suppose round or oval could be a bit boring,’ I said flatly.

  He stared at me, a second or two too long.

  Barnaby Blue is going to marry Naomi, I thought.

  So that dream’s over.

  ‘I was thinking,’ said Michael, taking another sip of coffee. ‘Why don’t we hire a car today and we could go and see that place, you know, the Arab palace thing …’

  ‘Medina Azahara?’

  ‘Yes, and we could take a picnic.’

  Help, does that sound a bit engagementy?

  Surely not.

  Surely he knew we were struggling to talk to each other, to be near each other, even to like each other.

  ‘What do you think?’ said Michael, trying to smile.

  ‘Great idea,’ I said.

  Because it was, in usual circumstances, a great idea.

  Chapter 78

  At Medina Azahara, Michael and I took photos of each other, smiling. You always smile for photos. Even if you stop smiling afterwards. Like the second afterwards.

  Michael left.

  I reread my letter to Bridget and decided to send it just as it was – a bit pissed.

  Carrie had gone off the Mili guy and was back on poetry, and we’d found a new place to read, a little square with a fountain, where sparrows chattered in the orange trees. I posted Bridget’s letter on our way there.

  But I found it hard to read, and kept stopping and starting.

  Carrie put down her book.

  ‘You’re so sad, Evs,’ she said.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘Barnaby?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Michael?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your father?’

  ‘Yes. I can’t believe he didn’t come.’

  We both picked up our books.

  Page 41, three times, and then again.

  ‘We could start our investigations,’ said Carrie. ‘Now I’ve gone off boys again.’

  ‘What investigations?’

  ‘We could go around all the convents in Córdoba and see if any of them took in babies in January 1975.’

  ‘Where would we even start?’

  ‘At the first one.’

  Chapter 79

  Carrie found a tourist map where the convents were all marked with a cross.

  As she put a copy of my photo in her bag, I felt a stab of tension in my temples.

  At the first convent, there was a tiny tiled hallway at the front leading to a shop selling olive oil and artefacts made of olive wood, with a nun behind a screen wearing grey.

  ‘Would you ever take in unwanted babies?’ Carrie asked her, as I picked up a chopping board, then a bowl.

  The nun shook her head.

  ‘We offer retreats,’ she said, handing Carrie a leaflet under the screen. ‘The next one’s in August if you’re interested …’

  ‘But in the past would you have taken in babies?’ said Carrie.

  The nun shook her head again.

  ‘Do you recognise the place in this photo?’ she said, holding out the copy.

  My temples throbbed.

  ‘Not in the least,’ she said curtly.

  We bought some olive oil.

  ‘I thought nuns were supposed to be nice,’ said Carrie.

  ‘I don’t feel optimistic,’ I said.

  We opened our map and set off to the next convent.

  There was a pale nun sitting behind a hole in the wall.

  ‘Brown,’ I whispered. ‘That’s no good.’

  ‘They might have changed colours,’ Carrie whispered back.

  ‘I don’t think they do. It’s not like football players.’

  The nun looked gaunt and lacking in sunlight.

  This was a cloistered convent, she said sadly through the hole, and the nuns didn’t take in babies, they just prayed – all the time.

  ‘Wow!’ said Carrie. ‘And you don’t get bored?’

  The nun hesitated and shook her head weakly.

  Carrie showed her the photocopy.

  ‘Do you recognise this place?’ she said, pointing to the wagon wheel and the angel.

  ‘I suppose it could be any patio in Córdoba,’ she said. ‘But I’ve never seen that angel.’

  ‘We think this baby is my friend,’ said Carrie, smiling, winningly, like she does, and gesturing towards me.

  ‘I can see that,’ said the nun, peering tenderly at the photo and then looking back at me. ‘It’s the almond eyes.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Carrie. ‘She’s looking for her mother. Can you help?’

  The nun looked thoughtful, and her eyes watered.

  Then she said, ‘There used to be a home for unmarried mothers, years ago. Run by nuns. It closed in the sixties or the seventies …’

  Carrie was asking a million questions.

  I was saying thank you.

  ‘I feel a bit sick,’ I said.

  ‘Go and have a drink,’ said Carrie. ‘And join me in the library when you’re ready.’

  I sat in Plaza de Tendillas, and watched cars go round and round the bronze statue of El Gran Capitán on his horse.

  I was suddenly terrified of finding out who my mother was and what had happened to me.

  What if it wasn’t a nice story?

  I couldn’t drink my coffee.

  I stood up.

  My legs were jelly.

  In the library, Carrie had two librarians with her, and they were looking at a computer screen as I walked over.

  ‘This is the friend,’ she said.

  ‘So definitely January 1975?’ said one of the librarians to me.

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said the other librarian.

  ‘It closed in 1970,’ said Carrie.

  As we left, I dropped the olive oil, the glass shattered and the oil splattered all over our harem pants. />
  ‘Why am I so upset about this?’ I said to Carrie.

  ‘It’s called displacement,’ she said. ‘You’re not really upset about the olive oil.’

  Chapter 80

  The Orsons’ party was approaching, and I started to pack because I didn’t have the strength not to.

  That was when I knew for sure that I couldn’t leave Córdoba.

  I’d have a week or so with Michael, and I’d come back.

  ‘I’ll keep on with the investigations while you’re gone,’ said Carrie. ‘And let’s hang on to the room until the end of September.’

  ‘Michael will go mental,’ I said. ‘He thinks I’m leaving here for good.’

  Carrie hugged me, saying, ‘That would be for bad.’

  ‘You’re so kind to do all this for me,’ I said.

  ‘I always fancied being a detective,’ said Carrie. ‘And I made you silver feather earrings for the party.’

  I hugged her, and I put on my backpack and headed for the station.

  Michael was waiting as I came through arrivals.

  He took my backpack with his long arms.

  ‘It’s so good to have you home,’ he said.

  Home?

  ‘I feel like our life together can start properly now Córdoba’s done,’ he said. ‘We can be back like we were.’

  No we couldn’t.

  That was the thing.

  And also, where we were wasn’t great either.

  Córdoba would never ever be done.

  It was us who were done.

  I knew that for sure as we got into his Mini at Gatwick Airport.

  ‘We’ve been too long apart,’ said Michael. ‘It’s affected our relationship.’

  I opened my mouth.

  No words came out.

  ‘After the party,’ he said, ‘I’m whisking you away!’

  Whisking, like eggs, and sour cream.

  I am sour cream, I thought.

  Barnaby Blue is getting married.

  The sourest of cream.

  I don’t want to be whisked.

  And certainly not by you.

  I want to get back to Carrie.

  ‘Michael,’ I said. ‘I never found the right moment to tell you this, but I think you should know.’

  ‘You’re not pregnant?’ he said. ‘I mean, I really want children, that is absolutely part of the vision but—’

  ‘Part of the vision?’ I said. ‘What vision?’