The Things We Never Said

by Wright, Susan Elliot

  He is enjoying the rich, smoky flavour of the coffee and thinking how much a cigarette would enhance it, when he senses her behind him.

  ‘Hey.’ A warm hand on his shoulder, a kiss on the back of his head. Fiona yawns and pulls out the chair opposite. One side of her face is creased with red marks and her eyes are still half-closed. ‘What’s up?’ she says. ‘Can’t sleep again? Or is it another bad dream?’

  He nods. ‘Can’t get it out of my head.’

  ‘What was it about?’

  ‘I don’t want to put it in your head as well.’ He’s told her about some of the snowy dreams, the ones where he thought the child in the dream was himself, but he doesn’t think telling her about babies sinking in the snow is a great idea. ‘I’m not sure which is worse,’ he says, ‘this or the insomnia.’

  Fiona doesn’t say anything for a minute, then she picks up his mug and slowly takes a mouthful of coffee. He notices that she’s started biting her nails again.

  ‘Jonno,’ she says slowly. ‘This insomnia, the bad dreams and so on – is it . . .’ She hesitates. ‘Is it because of the baby?’

  ‘Because of the baby? How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, this is what I was trying to say yesterday morning – I know it was a stupid time to bring it up, but there isn’t a good time and . . .’ She looks down at her hands. ‘I’ve got to say it. I know we had a lovely time last night, but apart from that, you don’t seem very happy, to be honest. You’re stressed, you’re not sleeping. And it’s all since we got pregnant.’

  ‘I’m tired, that’s all; it’s nothing to do with the baby.’ He looks at her. Her hair has fallen across her face so he can’t see her eyes. ‘Listen.’ He reaches for her hand. ‘We both wanted this.’

  ‘But it’s taken so long to get pregnant; you could have changed your mind.’ She brushes her hair out of her face, but she still won’t meet his eye. ‘You told me yourself that you broke up with whatserface because she wanted kids—’

  ‘That was totally different.’

  ‘And you’re so reluctant to . . . I mean, you haven’t even told your parents yet.’ Now she’s looking at him again. ‘What am I supposed to think?’ Her eyes begin to glisten.

  ‘Fi, I’m not unhappy,’ he says gently. ‘And of course I want this baby. I suppose I’m a bit scared as well, but that’s normal, isn’t it? Scared I’ll make a balls-up of it; scared I’ll turn into my father; scared Larkin had a point – that we’re destined to ruin our kids’ lives even if we don’t mean to.’ He pauses. ‘Aren’t you scared too? Just a bit?’

  She thinks for a moment. ‘I suppose so. But I still don’t see why you haven’t told your parents.’

  ‘I’ll tell them soon. I just need to—’

  ‘Jonathan, why not just tell them?’

  He sighs. Even thinking about his father brings on a sort of cold dread. ‘I suppose . . . it’s him, really. You know what he’s like.’ He knows with bitter certainty that his father will be unimpressed, unmoved, convinced that being a father is something Jonathan cannot possibly succeed at. And what if he’s right? What if, despite all Jonathan’s pronouncements about how he’ll always support his child, praise every achievement, never shout unnecessarily, what if, despite his best intentions, he simply fails?

  Fiona’s face softens. ‘Oh, Jonno. I know he’s a difficult man, but surely he’ll . . .’ But then she appears to lose confidence in what she’s about to say. She gets up, walks around the table and stands behind him, sliding her hands down his chest and nuzzling his neck. She smells of bed and his dick twitches, but then he remembers the dream, and shrugs her off without meaning to. ‘No, please don’t go.’ He catches her arm and turns his face into the warmth of her stomach.

  CHAPTER TWO

  June 1964

  The ceiling is high and domed, and the white-painted brick walls make the room look stark. There’s a wireless on somewhere nearby; the newscaster’s clear voice is familiar: . . . announced that Senator McNamara will fly to South Vietnam next week to assess the situation. Here at home, Beatles’ manager Brian Epstein has confirmed that the group’s summer tour will go ahead. The tour was in doubt after drummer Ringo collapsed during a photo shoot . . .

  Brian Epstein; Ringo; she knows these names. She hears a woman’s voice, urgent. ‘Quick! Sister’s coming.’ . . . twenty-four-year-old Beatle is suffering from tonsill . . . then there is a click and silence. There’s something heavy covering her; she lifts her head and sees it’s a coarse, peat-coloured blanket with edges overstitched in red, and on top of that, a floral bedspread. She’s too hot, so she kicks the covers off and just lies still for a moment, looking up at the fancy plasterwork, way, way above her head. It’s very beautiful, that ceiling; like the icing on a wedding cake. There’s a fleur-de-lis pattern along the side wall, and in the centre where there should be a light, she can just make out the shapes of winged cherubs holding bunches of grapes. She drags her eyes away from the cherubs. She doesn’t remember seeing them before, and yet she knows she’s been here for a while because she’s acutely aware that time has passed, even though she has no memory of it actually doing so. It’s a bit like when you’ve had gas at the dentist’s. She turns her head to the left. There’s a huge set of doors at the end of the room, but she can’t remember what’s on the other side. She should get up and look, but she’s too tired; so tired that even to think is too great an effort. And there’s something she needs to do before . . . before what? She has thirteen . . . days? Hours? Time is going wrong.

  She sinks back below the surface and dreams about two little babies, playing in the snow, but as she opens her eyes the dream fragments into a thousand pieces. Oh, why is it so hot? Perspiration prickles along her hairline and pools in the hollows of her collarbones. How can she be dreaming of snow in this heat? Even the inside of her mind is hot and scarlet and misty. She tries to think and she feels something move, something plucking at her attention, but when she tries to focus, it scuttles off into a corner and crouches there, just out of reach. This time, though, she doesn’t drift back into sleep. Instead, she lies still, flicking her gaze around the room; there are other beds, and a woman standing by the window, writing something on a clipboard. A memory flits across her mind: she sees herself writing something, sign here; and here; good girl. Thirteen . . . thirteen what? But it slithers away. A golden evening sunlight bathes the woman’s face. She has thick, sooty eyelashes and a lot of blonde hair under her white cap, and she’s wearing a uniform, a blue dress with a white pinafore. The word nurse settles in her mind; yes, the woman is a nurse.

  ‘Is this a . . .’ she begins, but her voice is so dry and thin from lack of use that barely a sound comes out. She tries again, this time consciously mustering what strength she can. ‘Am I in hospital?’

  The woman’s head jerks up. ‘What?’

  Don’t say what, say pardon, she thinks, and wonders where the thought came from.

  The nurse moves away and calls out to someone, and within a minute or so, there are two more people standing around the bed. ‘Go on,’ the nurse urges. ‘Say something.’

  They are all watching her. There are two nurses now; the new one is a coloured girl, with a face as smooth and shiny as melted chocolate. The man is dressed in a tweed jacket with a saffron-yellow pullover, a white shirt and a black bow tie. He must be sweltering in those clothes. He’s older than the nurses, a big man with a mass of red-brown hair and a sprawling, copper-coloured beard, which takes up the lower half of his face and makes it seem even bigger.

  ‘Margaret,’ he says, his voice low and gentle, as though he’s afraid he’ll startle her. ‘Do you know where you are?’

  She looks from one to another of the three faces looking down at her. Margaret; is that her name then? It doesn’t seem quite right. The nurse, the first one, leans down to her and smiles. ‘Go on, dear. Say something. Like you did just now.’

  Maggie decides to risk it. She opens her mouth, wills the sound to come. ‘Have I – have
I had an accident?’

  There is a burst of conversation, a palpable sense of, not relief exactly, more of release, a lifting of tension. She’s not sure how she has triggered this, but they seem pleased with her.

  ‘Not an accident; no, no; not an accident,’ the bearded man says, taking a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and a white handkerchief from his breast pocket. ‘But you have been very poorly.’ He polishes the round lenses before putting the spectacles on, the tiny frames all but disappearing on his great bear-like face. ‘Oh yes.’ He peers through the lenses. ‘Very poorly indeed; and for quite a little while. Now, I want you to take things slowly, just one step at a time. Get a little more rest and I’ll be along to see you again in due course.’

  *

  It feels like hours later when the sunlight wakes her. She tries to sit up, but catches her hair, which someone has plaited, under her elbow. The plait has come almost completely undone. How did her hair get this long? She looks around her; she can see the room properly now. Hers is one of a row of beds, mostly empty, all black-framed and with pink-and-yellow flowery bedspreads. The walls are a light-brownish colour, like weak tea. Opposite, there are tall mullioned windows, flanked by wooden shutters. Despite the heat, they’re only open a few inches at the top and bottom. Dust motes dance in the scorching sunshine that penetrates the glass; a fat black bluebottle zips back and forth, crazed in the heat. At one end of the room are double doors with glass panels above, at the other, a vast fireplace with easy chairs around it. She tries to get out of bed, but a nurse hurries towards her. ‘Not yet, dear,’ the nurse says. ‘Wait until you’ve seen the doctor.’

  She sees the man in the tweed jacket walking down the ward. He drags a chair over and places it next to her bed, then settles himself and smiles at her. She flops back on the pillow, exhausted with the effort of trying to get herself up. ‘This is a hospital, isn’t it?’ she asks.

  ‘Well done! Yes, this is a hospital.’ He takes a notebook from his inside pocket, flips it open and writes something quickly.

  She looks down at the long, greyish nightdress she’s wearing, but doesn’t recognise it. Lying across the end of her bed, there’s a sack-coloured dressing gown, and a sudden flash of memory tells her she has worn this garment; she remembers holding the edges together because it has no belt or buttons, and walking slowly along a corridor to the lavatory, a nurse either side holding her arms. There are six lavatories in a row, but no doors. Surely she would not have used a lavatory without a door? But then she has a vivid memory of sitting on the cold china in the gloom of early morning, and looking up at the row of washroom windows, of ice on the inside of the frosted glass. And seagulls; there were seagulls screeching outside.

  ‘Are we by the sea?’

  ‘Not far from it. Brighton’s about twelve miles away. Why do you ask?’ He’s looking at her intently.

  ‘I heard seagulls . . .’

  ‘Ah! Yes, yes, indeed. They come a long way inland sometimes. Now, tell me what you thought about when you heard the seagulls.’

  ‘I didn’t think about anything, just . . .’ But there is a twitch in her memory. The sea; cold, cold water. Images flash up to her left and to her right, some frozen, some shimmering with movement, but they evaporate before she can grasp their meaning. ‘How long have I been here?’

  ‘Oh, quite a little while, I believe. Not too long, you know, erm . . .’ He turns towards the nurse who leans down and mutters something in his ear. ‘Ah yes,’ he nods. ‘That’s right. December, wasn’t it? Yes, yes. Not long before Christmas.’ He is still speaking to the nurse.

  ‘You mean . . .’ She looks at the nurse. ‘I’ve been here since . . .’ She shakes her head. No; that can’t be right. Why can’t she remember?

  ‘Now, Margaret,’ the man says. ‘Can you tell me what your full name is?’

  The question bats her previous thought away. ‘Margaret Letitia Harrison.’ It comes out by itself. ‘Maggie,’ she adds, remembering that too. And then another name flashes into her head, and another; the two names are linked and for a moment everything sparkles and shouts; something is coming back, there is something she needs to do, and she hasn’t got long to do it. She tries to hang on so she can read the thought, but then it shrinks back and goes out like a candle.

  The man smiles, nods, writes something else in the little notebook. ‘Good,’ he mutters. ‘Oh yes. Very good.’

  Maggie feels a stab of irritation. ‘Are you a doctor?’

  He ignores her. ‘Do you know what year this is?’

  ‘What year?’ she repeats. Surprised that it doesn’t come to her immediately. Her thoughts are loose and shaky, and won’t hold together. The man is waiting for an answer; so is the nurse. Perhaps they think she’s simple.

  ‘It’s nineteen . . .’ She pauses, then it jumps into her brain. ‘Nineteen sixty-three.’

  He nods, writes it down. ‘Sixty-four, but that’s close enough. And can you tell me who the Prime Minister is?’

  ‘Mr Macmillan,’ she is certain this is right. ‘Harold Macmillan.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He writes this down, too. ‘Very close, but no.’ He frowns. ‘Macmillan resigned, you know, not long before you came to us.’ The nurse leans down and speaks into his ear again. He nods and says something back. All Maggie hears is ‘ . . . not have been aware . . . circumstances . . . trauma . . .’

  ‘What?’ She knows they’re talking about her, but none of it makes sense. ‘What are you saying—’

  ‘All in good time.’ He snaps his notebook shut then looks up and smiles, his eyes creasing into little slits. ‘Well now, it’s splendid to hear you talking again, I must say. I’ve no doubt you’re on the mend this time. No doubt at all.’

  ‘Please tell me,’ Maggie says. ‘Are you a proper doctor?’

  The man chortles at this. ‘That depends on what you mean by “proper”, I suppose. Some of my colleagues might dispute the fact but yes, I am a proper doctor.’ He extends his hand and she automatically shakes it. ‘I’m Dr Carver; I’m a psychiatrist.’ He pauses. ‘Couldn’t very well have gone into surgery with a name like that, could I?’ He turns, grinning to the nurse, who smiles dutifully.

  ‘So you think I’m mad.’ He doesn’t answer. She looks around the room. ‘Is this . . . a . . . one of those . . .’

  ‘It’s a psychiatric hospital, yes. Now you mustn’t worry about that. If you’d broken your leg, you’d go to an ordinary hospital, wouldn’t you? We’re very modern in our approach here, you know. It’s not like the old days.’

  ‘I’m not mad,’ Maggie says. ‘I just can’t remember . . .’ She pauses, tries again, concentrates as hard as she can on the hazy images skating just outside her mind’s edge. It is as though some memory is bouncing against the perimeters, trying to find a way in.

  Dr Carver is watching her intently. ‘Tell me,’ he says, ‘do you know why you’re here?’ His voice has gone soft again, and she senses he is being careful. ‘Can you remember anything about when you were first admitted? Or before you came to us?’

  Again there are glimpses as she tries to force her brain to work, but the effort almost hurts. She shakes her head. ‘I can’t remember anything.’

  ‘That’s perfectly normal.’ Dr Carver gets to his feet, towers over her again. ‘It happens now and then, but it won’t last. I’ve a notion it’s the brain’s way of protecting us. Anyhow, it’s early days yet, early days indeed. Try not to think too hard.’ He taps his temple twice with his index finger. ‘Can’t force the old grey matter into action before it’s ready. Does no good, you know. No good at all.’ He starts to move away. ‘I’ll come and see you in a day or two. We’ll have a little chat.’

  Maggie watches him walk down the ward as the nurse straightens the bedclothes. ‘I’m not mad, you know,’ she says. But the phrase not right in the head comes out of somewhere, and it’s true, something isn’t quite right in her head. There are too many spaces.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Jonathan feels a
discernable tightening in his gut as he drives across Blackheath to his parents’ house. Even if his father isn’t thrilled, he’ll be a bit pleased, surely? Traffic is slow. It’s late afternoon and the light is beginning to fade as the November sky prepares to draw its blanket over the day. Out on the expanse of grassland, walkers huddle deeper into their coats against the wind; dogs chase balls and sticks; a few kids run, faces turned upwards as they pull at the strings of their kites, desperate to get the last dregs out of the afternoon. At the edge of the pond where he and Alan Harper used to fish for minnows and sticklebacks, a couple of oversized crows are shrieking at each other as they worry at a discarded burger. Blackheath: as kids, he and Alan had been beguiled by the idea that it was so-named because it was the site of a massive burial ground for victims of the Black Death, and they’d been gutted to discover that the plague story was an urban myth – the name actually came from ‘bleak heath’. And when you look at the balding, boggy grass, the grimy, defeated skyline and the traffic snaking down into the polluted bowl of Lewisham and Deptford, it is utterly appropriate.

  The area near Greenwich Park is crowded with cars, lorries and trailers emblazoned with the words Zippo’s Circus. A small group of boys mill around, just as he and Alan had all those years ago; it was Billy Smart’s in those days. One year, he’d asked his father if he could go to the circus as a birthday treat. ‘Certainly not,’ Gerald had said. ‘Apart from anything else, it is extremely bad manners to ask for a gift.’