‘Mum, he knew the dustmen were coming that morning.’ There’s a pause, then he sees the memory adjust itself. What he doesn’t add is, and so did you.
She’s always defended Gerald. He remembers coming home from school one day, aged eight or maybe nine, to find his guinea pigs gone. He’d gone straight through into the garden only to find an empty space where the hutch should have been. Bewildered, Jonathan had run into the kitchen where his mother was cutting up kidneys on a wooden board. He’d stopped, eyes level with the blood-smeared knife in her hands. ‘Well?’ she’d said. ‘What do you want?’ He tried to speak but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the kidneys, which bled in an almost human way, like a cut finger.
‘Jonathan, I’ve a pie to make; I can’t stand here all day waiting for you to—’
‘Salt and Pepper,’ he said. ‘Where are they?’
‘Ah.’ She put the knife down, then picked up a cloth and wiped the worktop before turning back to him. ‘Your father took them to the RSPCA this morning.’
‘But . . . why?’ Jonathan thought he could feel his heart beating in his ears.
‘Because you haven’t looked after them, have you?’ Her voice was sharp. ‘You promised to clean them out every Saturday, and when your father went out there this morning, well, he said it was disgusting, frankly. I’m sorry, Jonathan, but your father’s right. If you can’t be trusted to look after them, they should go and live with someone who can.’
He’d fought the tears for long enough to argue that he’d been going to clean them out today, and it was only two days late, but she told him not to answer back.
The room is quiet apart from the hissing of the gas fire and the clink of ice cubes. His mother stubs out her cigarette and tops up her drink. ‘We did a lot of things badly, Jonathan. We should have . . .’ She falters and a tear runs down her papery cheek.
‘Mum, I didn’t mean to upset you.’ He leans forward to put a hand on her arm. ‘I don’t blame you for the things he did, but I wish . . .’ He stops; he shouldn’t be getting into this, not now, but it’s the first time she’s even hinted at regret. Something a colleague said recently pops into his mind. They’d been talking about good and bad parenting, and the older man had said: That’s what’s great about grandchildren – they’re your chance to put right the balls-ups you made with your own kids. Maybe that was true. He watches his mum dabbing her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief; perhaps the baby will change everything.
‘I loved Gerald very much at first, you know,’ she says. ‘He was the most charming man I’d ever met, so gallant – a real gentleman.’ She reaches for another cigarette. ‘He treated me like a princess when we were courting. He had such presence.’ He knows what’ll come next – he could say it along with her. She needs something else to think about, something to take her mind off the past.
‘My parents thought the world of him. Mother said his voice was so commanding he could have ordered the sun to come out and it would have.’ She half-chuckles. ‘Mind you, even after we married, I often felt like I should still call him Mr Robson.’
‘Yes,’ he nods, ‘I remember you telling me.’ A grandchild will give her something to look forward to, he thinks; a new purpose.
‘He let me carry on working after we married. He was ever so good about it. I remember once . . .’
He stops taking it in. He’s suddenly very keen to tell her; it’ll make all the difference, and what’s more, they’ll have a common interest, a bond.
She’s looking at him. ‘I should have—’
‘Mum, I’ve got something to tell you.’
She looks bewildered for a moment and he realises she was speaking.
‘Sorry to cut in but I – we – meant to tell you, but what with Father being ill . . .’ Guilt nips him sharply for using that excuse. ‘I didn’t say anything before but . . .’
She seems to recover herself. ‘Oh darling, do get on with it.’ She lights another cigarette and winds it towards her mouth with some difficulty.
‘Yes, right. Sorry. Well, the thing is, Fiona and I, I mean . . . well, we’re going to have a baby. You’ll be a grandma!’
He waits. He doesn’t know what to expect, but it isn’t silence. Her face is blank. The only movement is her cigarette smoke, drifting upwards, greying the room.
‘I said, you’re going to be a grandmother.’
The gas fire continues to hiss and pop. The old mantel clock ticks so loudly that it’s more of a clunk. ‘Mum?’ He tries to read her expression but she’s looking through him.
‘It’s a bit of a shock,’ she says.
He is so unprepared for this that anything else he might have said falls away. He searches for the right words but he can’t come up with a single thing; it feels as if his mind is just a great void. ‘A shock?’ he manages eventually. But she doesn’t respond. Several moments pass and the silence becomes increasingly brittle. His mouth and lips feel dry and he feels cold inside. ‘Maybe I should be going,’ he says after a while, ‘and let you get to bed.’
She doesn’t reply, so he stands and says goodnight. She’s staring straight ahead, eyes blank, mouth turned down. He pauses at the door. ‘Mum, are you all right?’
‘What?’ She turns towards him as though she’s forgotten he’s there. ‘Oh, yes. Yes, thank you.’ Her voice has changed and she seems distracted as she gets to her feet. ‘I think I shall get off to bed now. I won’t see you out, if you don’t mind.’
Back at home, Fiona is standing at the fridge eating leftover pizza. Next door’s cat is winding itself around her ankles, weaving in and out. ‘Now the nausea’s worn off, I can’t stop eating.’ She smiles. ‘Well? How was she?’
‘I told her.’
‘Told her what?’
‘About the baby.’
Fiona’s smile dims. ‘You told her? Just now?’
He nods. ‘She, er . . .’ He considers lying, saying his mum had been delighted and couldn’t wait to be a grandma. But there’s no point. He crosses the room and puts his arms around Fiona. ‘There’s no easy way to say it; she didn’t seem very pleased.’
He feels her stiffen then she pulls away. ‘It’s hardly bloody surprising, is it? What on earth made you tell her today?’
‘It may not have been the best—’
‘Of course it wasn’t! She’s just buried her husband, for Christ’s sake.’
‘I know, but I thought—’
‘Sometimes, Jonathan, you can be such a fucking idiot.’ She pulls out a chair and collapses into it. ‘What were you thinking of?’
‘You, actually.’ He throws his keys on the table and goes to the fridge, tripping over the cat, which hisses at him. ‘You’ve been on about it for weeks.’ He takes out a bottle and empties the last of the Chardonnay into a glass. ‘When I finally—’
‘When you finally decide to tell her, you choose to do it a few hours after your father’s funeral. Un-fucking-believable!’ Shaking her head, she gets up, takes a glass from the draining rack and tips up the wine bottle, but only a few drops drip out. ‘Fuck,’ she says, and bangs the bottle back down. ‘Come on, then.’ She looks at him, and the flame goes out of her voice. ‘You’d better tell me what happened.’
‘She said it was a shock.’
‘A shock?’
‘I know. Surprise would have understandable, I suppose, but . . .’
Fiona turns away from him. ‘I really thought she’d be pleased.’ There’s a catch in her voice. She reels off a few sheets of kitchen roll and dabs at her eyes.
‘Me too. Maybe when it’s sunk in. Anyway, it’s what we think that matters.’ But he’s shaken, too. He’s used the term ‘gutted’ so carelessly after minor disappointments that it’s become meaningless, but it describes perfectly how he feels now: like a fish on a slab with its guts, its very centre, cut out.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Maggie’s sessions with Dr Carver are on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays; she remembers this now. And she remembers mo
st of the nurses’ names, and almost all the patients’, at least, those from her ward. Her memory is beginning to grow, but the roots still aren’t very strong.
‘Don’t push yourself too hard,’ the doctor says. ‘Relax, talk to the other ladies, and let nature take its course.’ He taps his temple twice.
‘I know.’ Maggie speaks the words along with him: ‘You can’t force the old grey matter into action . . .’
‘ . . . before it’s ready. Quite right.’ He smiles as he shows her out. ‘Now, mind you get yourself along to the social this evening,’ he adds. ‘Do you a power of good.’
*
There will be ‘party food’ according to Dr Carver; bridge rolls, cheese and pineapple, cocktail sausages – but not on sticks, apparently, because some patients can’t be trusted. So the evening meal is light; liver sausage or luncheon meat with Heinz vegetable salad and brown bread and butter, or beans on toast. Maggie isn’t hungry, so she just has a piece of toast and then heads back to the ward where she lights a cigarette and sits on her bed, legs stretched out in front of her, watching the smoke swirl up and up in the evening sunlight. What will this ‘social’ be like, she wonders? She’s used to Pauline, Norma, and the other women on her own ward, but as for meeting new people, patients from the other wards . . . her stomach shifts at the thought. Although Pauline seems to think it’ll be fun. ‘I always enjoy them once I get there,’ Pauline told her this morning, ‘but I have to force myself to go.’
‘Dolly!’ Maggie calls out as the old lady passes. ‘You going to this thing tonight?’
‘The shindig? No, love, I ain’t got time. I’ve got to get me stuff packed. I’m going home soon, see.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Maggie nods. ‘That’s good, then.’ At first, she’d believed everyone who said they were going home soon, but now she knows it’s mostly wishful thinking. After a couple of weeks of daily treatments, though, Dolly does seem to be going though a good patch. She walks upright, smiles at everyone and can even be heard singing to herself as she works in the laundry. At the moment, Maggie’s working in the laundry too, but she’s asked Sister if she can work in the kitchen. How long will she be here, she wonders? And what is her real life? A loud clapping breaks into her thoughts. ‘Here we are, ladies.’ Sister holds up a small cardboard box. ‘You’ve got fifteen minutes to make yourselves beautiful.’ She puts the box on the table and folds her arms. The women hurry down the ward. Maggie stubs out her cigarette and follows them. They crowd around, rummaging in the box and pulling out various items before scurrying over to where one of the orderlies is setting up a row of mirrors. When she can get near enough, Maggie looks into the box: there are stubs of lipstick, well-used pots of eyeshadow and rouge, pitted black cakes of mascara and mirrored compacts of pressed, pinky-beige powder. The scent reminds her of her mother, and a wave of childlike longing sweeps over her. She fights the urge to cry and concentrates on selecting some make-up. As she joins the other women at the mirrors, she is surprised to realise that she remembers her own face; it looks familiar, almost the same as she left it, apart from the puddles of darkness under her eyes. The cake of mascara is cracked and dry, so she spits a little saliva onto it and uses what’s left of the brush to mix it to a usable consistency. She glances to her left and sees a line of women, all applying make-up at the same time. There is another rumbling in her memory, and she pauses with the brush in her hand. There was a long, narrow dressing room, and all the girls sat in a line, putting on thick, greasy make-up. She travelled by train to get there; she had a suitcase . . .
When she’s ready, she goes along to the other end of the ward to find Pauline, who’s lying on her bed, clutching a photograph and staring at the ceiling.
‘Are you coming to this social thing?’
Pauline shakes her head and looks at the picture she’s holding.
‘Oh, come on,’ Maggie says. ‘You said you always enjoy it when you get there.’
‘Can’t face it tonight,’ Pauline says. ‘You go. You can tell me about it later.’
‘I don’t want to go on my own. Please come, Pauline.’
Pauline doesn’t answer.
‘Go on, just for half an hour.’
Pauline sighs, then she sits up, pushes the hair off her face. ‘Oh all right; might as well, I suppose.’ She swings her legs over the edge of the bed. ‘Give me a minute, will you.’
Pauline’s face is pale and gaunt. Her eyes are dull, the lids swollen and reddened; there are bruise-like crescents underneath and a deep red mark on each of her temples. She shows Maggie the photograph. ‘Look. That’s my baby, Angela. It’s her first birthday today, but they won’t let me go home because it’s “not the right day for home visits”. I’ll see her on Tuesday, but it’s not the same.’ She takes a comb from her handbag and starts viciously backcombing her hair. ‘A year old, and she barely knows who I am.’
Maggie looks at the picture. The child has fair hair and a tiny curl resting on her forehead. Her little starfish hand is clutching a fluffy toy of some sort – a dog, perhaps – and she’s smiling at whoever is behind the camera. The smile is slightly lopsided, just like Pauline’s. The genial-looking man holding her is gazing at her with pride. There is a tug at Maggie’s memory and she remembers there’s something she’s supposed to do, in thirteen . . . or was it on the thirteenth? But she doesn’t even know what month it is, let alone the date. Something else is coming back, but before she can grasp it, the nurse’s voice cuts across her thoughts. ‘Come along, ladies. Do get a move on!’
*
The day room is packed with people. There are patients and staff, some in uniform, some in civvies. The first thing Maggie notices is the pungent smell of body odour, and the men – the very presence of them. Apart from the doctors, the only men she usually sees are the orderlies who bring the dinner trolley from the main kitchen, and the pig-man – the rotund little Irishman who collects the buckets of pigswill from the ward kitchens on Mondays. She fans herself with her hand. The room is so crowded that she’s lost sight of Pauline already. Even though the windows are open a few inches at the top and bottom, the heat is almost unbearable, and she can feel a film of perspiration forming on her upper lip. The ceiling fans rotate above her head, but they barely disturb the hot, heavy air. She tries to think about what it is she has to do; something to do with the picture Pauline showed her . . . but with the smell and the heat and the people jostling her, it’s impossible to concentrate, so she stores the thoughts away for later.
She drifts around the room until she spots Norma sitting on the wide sill, looking out across the grounds. The bees are making the most of the last rays of evening sunshine as they hum lazily around the lavender that grows just beneath the window.
‘Hello, Norma,’ Maggie smiles. But the face that turns towards her is desolate; the eyes that yesterday twinkled with mischief are now flat and dead.
‘Too far down the pole,’ Norma says, her voice so faint it only just scratches the air. ‘Too far down today.’ And she turns back to the window. The sun slips behind the trees and in an instant the garden is in shadow, robbed of the pinks, reds and yellows that provide such a welcome contrast to the dismal hospital interior. Maggie hovers for a few moments. Apart from Norma, the only other women she’s talked to are the other nervous breakdowns. How long have you been in? Have you had ECT? When are you going home? They ask each other the same questions, repeat their stories to anyone who’ll listen, and compare notes about their sessions with Dr Carver. Maggie can cope with that; and she can cope with the sunny, childlike Norma who flits around the room like a butterfly. But this Norma is different, her cold misery impenetrable. Maggie lays a hand on her shoulder, but there is no response. A fat, glossy bee has slipped in under the window and is now buzzing around Norma’s head and butting dementedly at the glass. Norma doesn’t even seem to notice.
CHAPTER NINE
The phone rings just as he’s getting out of the shower.
‘Jonathan, it’s yo
ur mother. I’m so glad you’re there – I thought you might have gone to work. I – I couldn’t sleep last night. I’ve been thinking about what you said. I’m pleased for you both, really I am, and I’m sorry for my behaviour. It was just that I wasn’t—’
‘No, I’m sorry. It was really bad timing.’ A mental image of Fiona nodding pointedly pops into his brain.
‘Listen, darling, could you come over? I’d like to explain properly.’
He hesitates. So far, yesterday is the only day he’s taken off. He could take more time, but it would feel dishonest, given that what he’s feeling isn’t really grief. And anyway, when he’s teaching, his thoughts don’t keep returning to that last fraught visit with his father. Try as he might, he can’t remember the last words they’d spoken to each other.
‘Sorry, Mum, I told them I’d be back today, but I’ll pop in on my way home, all right?’
*
Somehow, he muddles through the day, but he knows he’s not on form; maybe he should have taken a few more days off. Darkness is falling rapidly as he drives through Blackheath Village; he looks at the fairy lights strung across the narrow roads and the Christmas trees twinkling in shop windows. Next Christmas, he’ll be a father; his mother will be a – he thinks about the words – grand mother. She’d never been a particularly motherly mother, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be grandmotherly, did it?
The sitting room is warm and smoky when he arrives. He glances at the half-full ashtray.
‘I know,’ his mother says. ‘I shan’t be able to do this when the baby comes.’
He smiles, disproportionately pleased to hear her say when the baby comes.
‘You must have thought my response yesterday extremely rude.’ She takes another cigarette from the pack and he notices her hand shaking.
‘No, it was my fault. I don’t know what I was thinking of.’
‘I’m sorry, darling, could you light this for me?’
He takes the lighter and holds the flame steady for her, half-expecting a craving to take hold of him again, but it doesn’t.
The Things We Never Said Page 6