All My Mothers

by Joanna Glen

  ‘I’m just thinking,’ said Carrie. ‘What happened is probably lots of people’s fault, isn’t it? Not just his? Like your real mother and father’s. As well.’

  I certainly wasn’t prepared to blame my real mother. No, I couldn’t write her off before we’d even got started, after all these years dreaming of her. And as for my priest-father, I didn’t know what to think about him. No, I’d chosen my villains, and would not be diverted.

  ‘I don’t blame the others,’ I said. ‘No one else bought me.’

  ‘It was the nuns who gave you away,’ said Carrie. ‘Sister María Soledad has to take some of the blame.’

  I didn’t want to blame the nuns either.

  I’d totally fallen for Sister Ana.

  Her heady lightness.

  Her freedom from the constraints of reality.

  But here was my reality, which before I’d found it, had felt as huge and open as the sea.

  But now I saw that reality is what’s left behind when the other possibilities fall away.

  ‘Anyhow,’ I said, to stop Carrie in the tracks of her blame-game, ‘I must write to my mother!’

  Reality had shrunk to the size of the sheet of paper I tore out of my writing pad.

  ‘What shall I call her?’ I said.

  ‘Maybe Jhazmin at the start?’ said Carrie.

  ‘Or I could go straight in with Mum,’ I said.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she said, handing me a glass of wine. ‘I’d go slowly.’

  ‘You know I’ve never called anyone Mum?’ I said to Carrie, taking a sip of wine. ‘And that’s not a nice feeling.’

  I put the glass down and quietly took the mother-daughter articles out of the back of my old Quest Book – and I thought, the quest is over. And then I thought the opposite – perhaps it’s beginning.

  ‘A girl’s mother is her North Star,’ I read to Carrie. ‘I used to read these things and think they were beautiful. And dream of this perfect mother who was somewhere waiting for me. But now they sound a bit …’

  ‘The line between beautiful and cringerama can be very thin,’ said Carrie.

  ‘What do you think she’ll be like?’ I said.

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Carrie. ‘And I don’t want you to over-expect. I feel a bit scared for you now we’ve actually found her.’

  ‘How can I over-expect?’ I said. ‘I’ve been waiting for this moment my whole life.’

  ‘Real mothers can be highly disappointing,’ said Carrie, looking at me. ‘Take it from me. And you do realise she might have other children. A husband—’

  ‘You’re being very negative,’ I said.

  ‘I’m being realistic,’ said Carrie, looking anxious. ‘I want to protect you. We don’t know how she’ll react to your letter, whether she’ll be pleased or not. Please don’t set yourself up to be hurt.’

  I looked down at my mother-daughter articles and refused to meet her eye.

  ‘Would you like to be left alone?’ said Carrie. ‘I’ll go and sit downstairs.’

  I said that perhaps I would.

  I had a horrible dark feeling inside me.

  I wrote about fifty-seven versions of my letter, feeling tight and taut and unhappy when this was supposed to be the happiest day of my life.

  Dear Jhazmin …

  I kept it short and to the point.

  No beauty.

  No cringerama.

  Chapter 93

  I endlessly checked the post table.

  Nothing.

  I busied myself.

  I phoned King’s to see if they could liaise with the Facultad de Letras in Córdoba, so that Carrie and I could do our final year here. Then Carrie decided she wouldn’t bother.

  Nothing on the post table.

  The University of London agreed to let me study in Córdoba, but warned that this would rob me of the Hons bit of my BA Hons. I thought briefly of Christine Orson – how traumatised she would be on my behalf.

  Nothing on the post table.

  Carrie got a job in the dance shop where they sold flamenco dresses and dotty shoes. She started on her poetry book called I’m Giving Up On Men and made earrings out of peseta coins.

  My not-father phoned and gave us the earliest date his men could come and look at the house, which wasn’t this week but next, could we please tell Sister Ana? Carrie and I tried ringing on her bell, smashing on the door, ringing on the bell again, but she didn’t answer.

  I spoke to a neighbour, who gave me a key.

  We let ourselves in, nervously.

  Sister Ana was lying next to the wagon wheel, not moving.

  I rushed over and touched her arm.

  ‘It’s Eva,’ I said.

  ‘No puedo levantarme,’ she said. She couldn’t get up.

  She’d been watering the geraniums on the steps and she’d slipped.

  We called an ambulance.

  We fed the budgerigars.

  Sister Ana lay flat on her back, looking at the sky.

  ‘Sister Sky,’ she said. ‘Brother Sun. You knew that?’

  We shook our heads.

  ‘God pours his love into visible forms,’ she said, with that heavenly look she sometimes got. ‘El sol, el cielo, la luna, las estrellas – sun, sky, moon, stars – some people call it the Big Bang. But I call it Christ.’

  As the ambulance man lowered the ramp, she said to him, ‘You call it the Big Bang. I call it Christ.’

  ‘Do you, love?’ he said, wheeling her up the ramp.

  ‘I do, love,’ she said back.

  It made us laugh.

  How we loved her already.

  It turned out that she’d broken her left leg; other than that, it was cuts and bruises. If we were willing to stay with her, they’d let her home in a hospital wheelchair.

  Carrie and I moved in.

  ‘Let’s take some photos of the whole place,’ said Carrie. ‘Like a before and after.’

  The walls at the back were bulging outwards, and the flat roof terrace needed mending – there were plants snaking through the gaps in the red tiles and all the washing lines had collapsed.

  ‘We’re going to clear everything up,’ I said to Sister Ana. ‘Get rid of the rubbish. Make you a lovely bedroom.’

  ‘I don’t want you to,’ she said.

  ‘There are mice on every floor.’

  ‘I like mice.’

  ‘We think it would be better without mice.’

  ‘I have plenty of cats.’

  ‘While that’s true …’

  ‘It hurts me that the cats kill the mice,’ she said. ‘Pero así son los gatos.’ That’s just cats being cats.

  She sighed.

  Then she looked around as if she’d lost something.

  ‘Being human,’ she said. ‘What is it?’

  We hesitated.

  ‘Is Lorenzo coming?’ she said, reaching into the air.

  ‘He won’t be long,’ said Carrie.

  ‘You know that Lorenzo isn’t a real man,’ said Sister Ana.

  ‘We get real by being loved,’ said Carrie. ‘There’s a children’s book about that. With rabbits. I love it.’

  ‘I love Lorenzo,’ said Sister Ana.

  ‘Then he’s a real man,’ said Carrie. ‘You made him real.’

  ‘Is that how we make God real?’ I said.

  ‘No, that’s how God makes us real,’ said Sister Ana.

  My not-father was wrong to say she talked rubbish.

  ‘How did Jesus walk through walls after he died?’ I asked her, because it’s something I’d always wondered, knowing that he also had a body and ate fish.

  ‘He was more substantial than the stone,’ she said. ‘But less rigid.’

  And so was she.

  It’s hard to explain.

  But it’s what I look for in a person.

  We washed her sheets, and we hung them on the line.

  Sister Ana pulled one off and draped it over her head like a bridal veil.

  ‘I married Jesus,
’ she said. ‘He’s the only man a woman can rely on.’

  We smiled.

  ‘Men!’ she said. ‘You’ve got to watch them! Once your tits start sagging, they’re gone!’

  She was laughing again.

  ‘Son todos cabrones,’ she said. They’re all bastards. This was one of her favourite lines, and it always amused her to say it.

  ‘Did you expect nuns to swear?’ said Carrie.

  ‘Everyone thinks religion’s about not swearing,’ I said. ‘But I think God’s probably bigger than that.’

  ‘These things don’t bother Jesus,’ said Sister Ana. ‘Saggy tits.’

  She closed her eyes.

  ‘Do you think I’ll ever get married?’ said Carrie. ‘My relationships never last.’

  ‘We’re only twenty, Carrie,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t get too desperate yet.’

  ‘How about you?’ she said.

  ‘I would only ever want to marry Barnaby, and he’s taken.’

  Sister Ana opened her eyes.

  ‘Let’s sing a hymn,’ she said.

  ‘Does she think we’re nuns?’ I whispered.

  ‘We practically are nuns these days!’ said Carrie.

  We were awkward and didn’t know the words. But here we are, in a frame on the white stone windowsill of my bedroom: Sister Ana has her arm around me, the angel is watching, our eyes are laughing and our mouths are wide open, singing hymns.

  Carrie and I were soon belting out ‘Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory’ and ‘He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands’ and Sister Ana clapped her hands and spun her globe. Carrie and I felt ridiculous at the start, but we came to love it, losing our boundaries, storming through the wall, our three voices merging, as if, for a few moments, we were one, glory glory hallelujah!

  Chapter 94

  We had a phone line installed, and I called Cherie and came clean about everything: Córdoba, my not-father, the house. Because Carrie said it was right to. And I agreed.

  ‘Did he tell you he never married me?’ she said. ‘By the time the divorce law was passed in Spain in 1981, he’d changed his mind.’

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘That’s why there were no wedding photos,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said again.

  ‘The man is a total bastard,’ she said. ‘So I wouldn’t side with him if I were you.’

  ‘I know what he’s like,’ I said. ‘And I’m not siding with anyone.’

  ‘You’re not siding with anyone?’ she spluttered. ‘You stay in Córdoba and let him buy you with houses. And you’re not siding with anyone!’

  I hated her saying that.

  In case it was true.

  ‘You should have said no to him,’ she said. ‘No one ever says no to him.’

  I wanted to say sorry but I couldn’t get the word out.

  Perhaps because she still hadn’t said sorry to me.

  ‘I did everything I could for you,’ she said.

  Which wasn’t true.

  ‘But you never liked me.’

  Which possibly was true.

  ‘Even when you were little.’

  Could she take a tiny bit of the blame, I wondered.

  ‘And also you lied to me,’ she said. ‘You said you were going to Granada.’

  ‘You lied to me too,’ I said quietly. ‘My whole life.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Eva,’ said Jean, coming onto the phone. ‘That was my fault. The bit about Granada.’

  Our conversation was over, and only Jean had said sorry.

  My not-father appeared with men in boiler suits, who went off to inspect the upper floors.

  I felt greedy and unprincipled and utterly entranced by my house.

  ‘Can you tell us about Lorenzo?’ I asked him.

  ‘He ran the clock shop, and he was a photographer. And also the only gay in Córdoba!’

  He waved his arm about limply.

  ‘Can you stop that?’ I said.

  ‘Tell me Lorenzo is all right,’ said Sister Ana, stroking the piebald feather she’d chosen from Carrie’s board, which hung with her T-shaped cross on the leather strap around her neck.

  ‘Lorenzo is fine,’ I said.

  ‘He never comes,’ she said, looking broken. ‘I think I’ve lost him.’

  The men came down from the upper floors, saying they could start the repairs next month.

  Carrie and I began to work our way through the piles of rubbish.

  Every day, I checked the post table at Hostal Jardín.

  Every day, there was no letter.

  Neither from Bridget.

  Nor from Jhazmin Benalcazar.

  I started my course at the Facultad de Letras.

  ‘I’m like a living embodiment of the Convivencia,’ I said to Carrie. ‘My mother’s a Muslim, my father’s a Catholic priest and—’

  ‘The man you want to marry is Jewish?’ said Carrie. ‘Get over it, Evs. He’s taken.’

  ‘You said that. I was going to say that my favourite family in the world is Jewish.’

  ‘I was thinking that I really want to meet Bridget. And we should invite her over once we’ve got everything sorted. And Mr Blue maybe too. And let’s not invite Barnaby!’

  ‘Bridget hasn’t written for a while,’ I said, trying to sound casual. ‘I wrote to her in May when the feria was on.’

  ‘Well, perhaps you should write again.’

  ‘Even though she hasn’t replied?’

  ‘She might be busy,’ said Carrie.

  ‘I’ve actually written twice,’ I said. ‘But nothing from her.’

  ‘She was practically your sister – you don’t need to wait for a reply, do you?’ said Carrie, looking at me as if I was mad.

  ‘Also, I’ve still heard nothing from Jhazmin.’

  ‘Give her time,’ said Carrie. ‘The letter probably came as a shock.’

  And talking of shocks, I’d bumped into Barnaby Blue in Plaza de la Corredera, the big old square where, once the Convivencia was over, heretic-converts were burnt to death in the Inquisition.

  ‘How’s Naomi?’ I said awkwardly.

  ‘She’s in Brazil,’ he said, ‘doing research into an uncontacted tribe. She’s totally caught up in it all. Wants to be the first to contact them.’

  ‘Sounds exciting,’ I said. ‘Or unethical. One of the two.’

  I shouldn’t have said that.

  Barnaby shifted from foot to foot.

  ‘How’s it all going?’ he said.

  ‘I’ve found my real mother. I’m just waiting for her first letter.’

  ‘You’re joking?’ said Barnaby, and his voice sounded like Barnaby again. ‘That’s incredible. I’m so happy for you.’

  He opened his arms to me.

  And before he could change his mind, I fell into them.

  It was still lovely.

  He remembered that hugging me was a bad idea, and he stepped back.

  ‘I really hope she’s how you want her to be,’ he said seriously.

  ‘So do I,’ I smiled. ‘I’m sure she will be.’

  ‘I wonder what colour she’ll be,’ he said, which touched me.

  ‘Shall we meet up again?’ I said. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  I shouldn’t have said that, and I knew this as I said it.

  But doesn’t everyone sometimes want to do the wrong thing?

  Even St John of the Cross and St Teresa of Ávila?

  ‘Yes, maybe,’ said Barnaby. ‘Maybe we could have a drink some time.’

  But he didn’t say he’d missed me too.

  ‘I’ve moved,’ I said. ‘Have you got something I can write my new address on?’

  ‘My arm?’ he said.

  Oh, not his arm.

  I wrote my address on his gorgeous Barnaby Blue forearm.

  ‘Come and see my new house,’ I said.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘See you soon. Maybe.’

  ‘Also,’ I said. ‘Is Bridget OK?’


  ‘I haven’t heard from her for a while,’ he said.

  I walked back to Hostal Jardín, thinking that the first thing I would do was write to Bridget.

  Carrie was standing outside, unable to contain herself.

  She started fumbling in her bag and pulled out a pale pink envelope.

  ‘Don’t worry about the colour,’ said Carrie. ‘It’s probably all she could lay her hands on.’

  I held the envelope in my hands.

  I sniffed it – it smelled of envelope, nothing else.

  Please don’t make her pink, I thought, not another pink mother, I couldn’t take it.

  ‘Do you want to be alone?’ said Carrie.

  ‘You can come with me, but no talking,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe it’s better I don’t come then,’ she said. ‘I never really mastered the not talking!’

  I walked slowly through the ferns and up the wrought-iron staircase.

  I opened the door.

  I took the pillows from Carrie’s bed and put them on mine.

  I lit some tealights, like Sister Ana.

  It might be a very long letter, I thought.

  Dear Eva,

  This is Jhazmin Lane, your mother.

  Lane?

  I nearly cried.

  What happened to Benalcazar?

  You don’t get magical princesses called Mrs Lane.

  People called Mrs Lane have children, you can just tell.

  She’d left a biggish gap after the first line, and I put my hand over the writing beneath.

  This is Jhazmin Lane, your mother.

  I read it again and again, trying to make it magical.

  Perhaps the next sentence would be.

  I still live at the same address, in the house we moved to when I was twelve.

  Or maybe not.

  So your letter reached me.

  As you see.

  I have often wondered if this day would ever happen.

  Breathe.

  Pause.

  What I would feel and what I would do.

  Pause.

  And now it has happened.

  Pause.

  Breathe.

  I covered the page, imagining what she might say next – the magic was definitely coming.

  I looked up.

  I looked down.

  And I don’t know what I should feel or what I should do.

  Disappointing.

  I never forgot you.

  Of course you didn’t, I thought, because that would be inhuman.