‘It’s not that I’m not pleased, it’s just that it was, well, as I said, something of a shock. Oh, don’t look at me like that; I know we’ve never discussed that sort of thing but you’ve been married, what, eight years? I suppose I thought you’d decided not to have children. One doesn’t like to ask.’ She takes a long draw on her cigarette. ‘Jonathan, I’m thrilled you’re going to have a baby, I really am. And I’ll do my best to be what a . . . what a real grandma should be.’
‘Well, thank you,’ he says, but she still seems agitated.
‘There are some things I need to talk to you about; things I should have told you before, probably. Your news . . .’ She smiles at him. ‘Your wonderful news – put me in mind of something that happened long before you came along.’ She pauses. ‘I had a baby, you see, a little boy who died soon after he was born. We called him Gerald, after your father and his father. He only lived for two hours; such a tiny little scrap. Your father was heartbroken.’
‘Mum,’ he says gently. ‘I didn’t know—’
‘Oh, there’s a lot you don’t know.’ She takes a gulp from a cup of what looks like cold tea. ‘They wouldn’t let me hold him; they didn’t in those days. Just took him away and told me to try again while there was still time.’ She keeps her head lowered as she fumbles in her bag for a handkerchief and blows her nose, then she takes a deep, shaky breath. ‘It changed Gerald a great deal, you know.’
Jonathan tries to think of something to say but nothing comes, so he just listens.
‘You had to get on with life in those days. It took me a while, though. I barely got out of my chair at first, so your father had to look after me as well as the house. He was very attentive; even read to me to try and take me out of myself. But he wasn’t as strong as people thought. Once I started to get back to normal, he went downhill; couldn’t sleep, couldn’t read; he even stopped listening to the wireless. Sometimes he’d sit in that chair for hours, just staring at the wall.’
Jonathan tries to picture them, grief-stricken, bewildered, trying to come to terms with the loss of their baby. Why hasn’t she told him this before?
‘I wanted another baby so much. I thought it might make things better, but . . .’
He leans forward. ‘But what?’ he asks softly.
‘You see, your father didn’t . . . I mean he wouldn’t . . .’
‘He didn’t want another child?’ Things are beginning to make sense now.
‘It wasn’t that, exactly. It was . . . oh dear, this is terribly difficult.’ She stubs out her cigarette and reaches for another.
Part of him wants to press her, to ask her exactly how his father had reacted when he knew she was pregnant again. Had he been angry? Had he continued to be angry after the birth? Another part of him doesn’t want to know. His mother’s hand is shaking even more now. She seems to have second thoughts about the cigarette and tries unsuccessfully to get it back in the pack.
‘Mum, look, don’t talk about it any more now, not if you don’t want to.’
She reaches for the handkerchief again. ‘No, no, I must.’
He waits. But she’s pressing the handkerchief to her lips, trying unsuccessfully to compose herself. How much longer can he sit here watching an old lady’s distress? ‘Mum, don’t.’ He rests his hand on her arm. ‘It’ll keep.’
*
That evening, he lies in the bath while the water cools around him. He thinks about his parents, going about their daily tasks despite their grief for the child who hadn’t even lived a day; his mother cooking, shopping, struggling to contain her sadness. How the hell do you cope with the death of a child? It’s something he can’t even contemplate. He slides down, dropping his shoulders under the water to soak away the tension. Downstairs, Fiona has put on a CD – Elgar, because it’s good for the baby apparently – and he’s neither particularly listening to nor ignoring the music when he suddenly becomes intensely aware of it, moved by the deep, rich tone of some notes, the achingly melancholic quality of others. As he listens, the sound seems to soar up through the floorboards, spilling into the water around him and making his flesh feel raw. It is as though a layer of skin has been peeled off, exposing all the most tender places.
*
When he gets into bed, Fiona is sleeping soundly, her cheek resting neatly on the palm of her right hand and her lips parting with a little click as she breathes out. She’d seemed preoccupied tonight, and she’d wept when he told her about his mum losing her first child; perhaps he should have kept that to himself. He thinks about that long-ago baby, his brother. Would they have looked alike? He doesn’t look like his father but people say he has his mother’s eyes. He wants to ask his mum how she’d felt about being pregnant again, how she’d been after having him. Perhaps she’d had post-natal depression. He pictures his father looking down at him, seeing him both as a poor substitute for his dead brother and as the reason for his mother’s suffering. He hadn’t stood a chance of gaining a place in Gerald’s affections, he sees that now. And the strange thing is, he can see the logic. After all, if anything happened to Fiona, would he be able to forgive the baby? He thinks about the Gerald his mother described, the heartbroken husband caring for his grief-stricken wife. She said Gerald had cried.
He turns over and closes his eyes tighter, but the more he tries to empty his mind, the more impossible it becomes. He turns onto his back and watches the beam of a headlight sweep across the ceiling. Fiona mutters something in her sleep and turns over. It’s no good; he’s wide awake now. Gently, he slides out of bed and pads downstairs.
He pours a small brandy then unlocks the back door and stands there for a moment, looking out into the garden. The smell of fresh pine cuts through the smoky December air. The Christmas tree is propped against the side of the house, waiting to be dragged in, decorated, then thrown out again a week or two later. The thought triggers a wave of childlike sadness which surprises him. His memories of early childhood are hazy, but perhaps it’s just as well. Briefly, he pictures Gerald holding a newborn baby, and again he finds himself wondering whether, given the chance, his father would have mellowed in grandparenthood.
Despite the cold, he takes his glass, walks along the path to the bench at the end and sits down. The garden looks silvery in the moonlight, and there’s hardly any sound. He pulls his dressing gown more tightly around him. A movement to his left startles him, but it’s just a young fox, snaffling up the bread and scraps of meat Fiona put out for it. For a moment the creature looks up and their eyes meet. See? it seems to say. You’re not the only thing she cares about. Then it disappears through a hole in the fence and he is alone again.
Already, Fiona loves their unborn child; she talks to it all the time with tenderness in her voice, even looking down at her stomach as she speaks. He tries to imagine his little son or daughter, curled up inside her, listening to the gentle rise and fall of her voice against the rhythmic beat of her heart, but he can only summon up an idea or impression; he can’t seem to think of his child as a real person, not yet.
Soon, the combination of the cold and the brandy numbs his mind enough for him to attempt sleep again. He climbs back into bed carefully, so as not to touch Fiona with his icy limbs, and as he sinks gratefully into slumber, his thoughts mangle into dreams.
He is playing in the garden of his parents’ house when it begins to snow. He goes into the house through the French doors; the room is full of people, and there are two tiny white coffins on stands in the centre. His parents stare blankly through him. He turns back to the garden where he spots something moving. At first he thinks it’s a couple of cats or fox cubs and he tries to open the door, but it is locked. He pushes his face up against the glass and sees that it’s two babies, big enough to sit up, laughing and playing in the snow. He bangs on the glass and one of them looks up and reaches out to him. But the snow is so thick and heavy that the babies are already partly buried, so he needs to act fast. He turns back to the adults and tries to speak but no sound com
es out, so he runs to each in turn and stands in front of them, tugging at their clothes and pointing to the disappearing babies. Still nobody sees him.
CHAPTER TEN
The day room is really filling up now. More patients are herded in, overdressed and over-made-up, and Maggie recognises hardly any of them. It occurs to her that she has no idea how big this hospital is. ‘Ah, Margaret!’ The familiar voice of Dr Carver cuts through the general hubbub. ‘Glad you made it, well done.’ His big bear-face grins at her. ‘Having a nice time?’
She is about to say that she’s not sure how she feels just now, when he nods encouragingly. ‘Good, good. Try and make sure you mix with the other patients; don’t want to be a wallflower, do we?’
Maggie smiles back. She doesn’t want him finding someone for her to talk to. ‘I’m just going to get myself a drink,’ she says. ‘Then I’ll have a wander around.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ Dr Carver smiles, patting her on the shoulder. ‘Jolly good.’
She takes a paper cup of Pepsi-Cola from the long table just inside the door. She is still slightly shaken by her encounter with Norma – Norma whom she’d thought was ever-smiling; Norma who seemed so happy in her girlish world of curtseys and dancing and funny little tunes. Maggie sighs. There are so many unfamiliar faces; so many who are obviously a bit funny in the head. If only she could see someone she could talk to. There’s always Peggy, she supposes. Peggy is sitting on her suitcase in the corner, make-up all smudged and smeared as though applied by a chimpanzee. But if she goes over to Peggy, she’ll have to sit there and look interested while Peggy opens her suitcase and counts the thousands of bus tickets she keeps in it.
After a while, she begins to get used to the heat and the smell. She looks around. In some parts of the room there are little pockets of normality, people at tables playing cards or ludo, or standing in groups, talking and smoking like normal guests at a normal party – normal except for the paper cups and lack of anything interesting to drink. A little cartoon deer with a blue bow capers across her memory; I’d love a Babycham . . .
At last she spots Pauline talking to a thin, dark-haired man who looks a bit like George Harrison. She starts at the thought; how on earth can she remember the name of some man from some stupid pop group when she remembers so little of what’s happened to her in the last seven or eight months? Pauline, who looks more cheerful, is now beckoning her over. That picture of Pauline’s husband and daughter comes into her mind again, making her wonder whether . . . but no. She looks at her hand: no wedding ring; no mark where a wedding ring might have been.
‘Fancy a game of Monopoly?’ Pauline says.
The man looks at her and smiles. He doesn’t look too mad, so she pulls up a chair and joins them.
‘Sam,’ the man says, shaking her hand. His skin is warm and dry, and he has a gentle Scots accent, soft and dark, like damp earth. Maggie finds herself listening closely to the melodic rise and fall of his voice. As he sets up the game, the cuff of his shirt rides up, revealing a knobbly scar on the inside of his wrist. Maggie tries not to look. The three of them begin to play, talking generally about who’s gone home recently and who’s due to go. Soon, inevitably, they talk about their own breakdowns and treatment.
‘I can still hardly believe I’ve had ECT.’ Maggie rolls the dice and moves six spaces. ‘Regent Street, I’ll buy that.’ She counts out the money. ‘I vaguely remember going into the treatment room and them rubbing that stuff on my head, but I don’t remember the actual shock.’
Pauline sighs. ‘Sometimes, you don’t remember it at the time but then you start to have nightmares about it. Not as bad as the real thing, but you can still end up hanging onto your head and screaming. Then they give you another lot.’
‘Which makes ye scream again,’ says Sam.
Maggie can’t imagine Sam screaming, or even raising his voice.
‘It’s supposed to obliterate whatever horrible thing put ye in here,’ he says. ‘But it’s no’ that selective, is it?’ His hair is so long that it almost touches his collar at the back, and it moves as he shakes the dice.
‘I still don’t know what put me in here,’ Maggie says. ‘Odd, isn’t it? I can remember how to play Monopoly; I can remember all the words to “Love Me Do”; I can even remember the name of the cat I had when I was ten.’ She pauses to take her turn, moving the miniature rocking horse three places along the board. ‘But apart from blurry little glimpses, I can’t remember anything important.’
Sam is looking at her, as though he’s really listening. ‘That must be hard,’ he says. ‘I used to think I’d rather no’ remember anything, but some of them in here, they cannae even recognise their own families.’
‘You can remember, then?’
He nods, lights a cigarette. ‘I’m no’ saying ma memory’s intact – I cannae remember where I put ma socks or when I’m supposed to go to occupational therapy.’ He takes a long draw of his cigarette. ‘But I remember every detail of the day . . .’ His voice catches and he closes his eyes.
Pauline gently touches his arm. He shakes his head as if to dislodge something, while the fingers of his right hand twist his wedding ring round and round.
‘ . . . of the day I lost ma wife and ma wee lad. Every detail.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ Maggie is aware that it’s something she must have said a dozen times in the last couple of weeks. But she is more sincere this time; she really wants to show her sympathy to this quietly spoken man.
‘Thanks,’ he picks up the shaker as though he’s going to throw the dice again, but then he pauses.
‘The sea took them; swept them off the pier. I jumped in, but I couldnae find them. Next thing I know, the lifeboat is there, and they’re pulling me out.’ He shakes his head as though that is the worst part of the memory. ‘I should have gone straight in after them, but I threw her a rope instead.’
‘But that’s right,’ Maggie says. ‘That’s what you’re supposed to do.’
‘Aye, but the rope was rotten; it snapped.’
Maggie lays her hand on the back of Sam’s. She’s not sure whether it’s acceptable to touch a man you’ve just met, but there are different rules in here. Sam’s wrist is bony and the skin is warm and dry; she can feel the little hairs under her fingers. Surprised by the intensity of the sensation, she withdraws her hand, but he turns his over and catches her fingers briefly in his own.
The music is getting louder. They manage to sing along to ‘She Loves You’ while continuing their game. No one except Peggy and a few of the nurses join in with ‘Summer Holiday’ because the idea of going on holiday seems so far removed from their daily existence that even thinking about it is too painful. For Maggie, the song is also a reminder of home – she misses the sea and is about to say so when she remembers what Sam has just told her about his wife and child.
After ‘Glad All Over’ and ‘Devil in Disguise’, there’s a pause in the music. Maggie glances over to where the record player is set up. A group of nurses are looking through a pile of 45s, then one of them selects a record. ‘How about this?’ she grins.
‘Couldn’t be more perfect,’ says Julie, the skinny, spotty nurse who’s always so horrible to Pauline. ‘Put it on,’ she orders, then she leans back against the wall, folds her arms and smirks as the air fills with a voice Maggie recognises: Patsy Cline singing ‘Crazy’. The nurses try to stifle their laughter.
Sam shakes his head. ‘Ignore them. Let them have their silly wee games.’
‘Wait, I’ve got one!’ One of the male nurses pulls the record off abruptly and puts another on the spindle. Patsy’s voice rings out again, this time with ‘I Fall to Pieces’. The nurses are still laughing, but Sister is marching across the room, her tree-trunk legs moving like pistons. Maggie would not want to be on the wrong side of Sister. A few patients, apparently oblivious, sing along to the song, encouraged by the nurses; others have made their way to the middle of the room and are trying to dance. There is another tremor i
n Maggie’s memory, something deep. She remembers this song, people dancing and smoking cigarettes. For a moment, she has a vision of her real self: she is at a party, standing in the middle of the room, dressed up, smiling. The man is on his knees, singing along, singing to her.
The black hole is opening up inside her again, that aching, hollow emptiness; then Pauline and Sam start to fade, the day room disappears and Maggie starts to shiver. She is outside, in the cold, in the dark; there is a buzzing in her ears and then the blackness rushes in. Her legs give way beneath her.
When she opens her eyes, she sees her legs stretched out in front of her and her feet in their flat black pumps, tilting sideways and making a ‘V’ shape. She is glad she’s wearing slacks rather than a dress.
‘Will ye stand back and give the lass some air!’
She can feel an arm supporting her head, and she tries to twist away, but then she realises where she is, and who is holding her.
‘You’ll be fine,’ Sam says. ‘Och, hush now; no need to cry.’
*
Back on the ward, she pulls the covers over her head and pretends to be asleep. She hears the others come back from the day room, the drugs trolley being wheeled through the ward and the nurses reading out each patient’s name and the details of their medication. She tries to blot out the sound of their voices because she wants to concentrate on what she’s remembered. She thinks about the George Harrison man, Sam, but then pushes him to the back of her mind – she can think about him tomorrow. The night nurses are talking about someone needing medicine for a chest infection. Infection. The word catches on a ragged edge of memory. She needs to think about that, too, but she is more tired than she’d realised, and soon the thoughts and words and pictures begin to jumble and tangle as she sinks into sleep.
*
Just after midnight, she sits up in bed with a gasp, eyes so wide they feel like they’ll never shut. Now she remembers; now she knows why she’s here.
The Things We Never Said Page 7