Andrew was looking at her anxiously and she realized that her fists were clenched, as if she were about to do battle with an enemy. No, only with herself, that part of her which still clung so tenaciously to her selfish plans and dreams. It would be intolerable to land back where she had started, to become a drudge again, a stay-at-home, her horizons bounded by a privet hedge.
‘Well, goodbye,’ she said – second time. She was tempted for an instant to make it a real goodbye; to dash not to Walton but back to the Hackney flat, and barricade the door.
‘Mother, are you all right?’
‘Yes, of course,’ she snapped – a last flicker of rebellion. Then she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, trying to rid her mind of all the seductive images: the Seine, St Mark’s, St Peter’s, Chartres. And London too: Jubilee Court, the Circus Space, Brad and Rosie in their newly-opened shop. The suitcase was emptying – out went guidebooks, passport, airline tickets, and in went dowdy clothes, ball and chain.
No, she wasn’t bitter. Not really. And she had made her decision at last. Her mind was mercifully blank now, as the last strains of laughter and music from the Parisian pavement cafés subsided into Andrew’s nervous cough.
She fixed her eyes on him, somehow managing to keep her voice steady. ‘Andrew,’ she said, ‘I’ve decided to move back to Stoneleigh – if you’ll have me, that is. Then I’ll be on hand to help.’ She swallowed, forced a smile. ‘I want to look after Antonia and … and Gerry.’
Chapter Thirty Seven
Catherine dawdled along the aisle once more, wondering what to buy. Andrew and Antonia were out for dinner tonight, so there was nothing she actually needed. But supermarkets had become a sort of refuge, away of killing time. She deliberately went to different ones – Sainsbury’s in Cheam on one day, the Sutton Safeway another. And she could while away a good couple of hours in the huge New Malden Tesco with its acres of displays: every conceivable type of food, toiletries and housewares, flowers and stationery. Already she had three birth congratulations cards and an impressive collection of birthday cards for the next five years at least.
She stopped at the fresh meat counter. There was always tomorrow’s meal, of course. It would be fun to cook something adventurous or wickedly rich, but Antonia was becoming even more faddy as her pregnancy advanced. Beef was verboten, needless to say. Indeed all red meat was suspect; cheese indigestible, sauces too high in cholesterol, puddings brimming with sugar. They didn’t actually need her to cook – they could just as easily have existed on cottage cheese and salad. In fact they didn’t need her, full stop. There was practically no housework with both of them out all day, and the small general stores in Stoneleigh had a perfectly good delivery service.
She put a free-range chicken in the trolley, then took it out again. How would she fill the yawning void of tomorrow if she did Tuesday’s shopping now? Monday was the worst day, with four more days limping in its wake, when all serious worthwhile people were at work. A few of them had stopped off here to stock up on lunch-time sandwiches, or buy fruit and yoghurt to eat later in the office. She herself wasn’t usually out so early, but after dropping Andrew and Antonia at the station she had decided to drive all the way to Dorking, to delay returning to an empty house.
She trudged into the next aisle, passing the baby foods. No need to buy anything here yet. The baby wasn’t officially due until 5 January – still fourteen weeks to go. Both mother and foetus were doing extremely well. The crisis last month had proved to be a false alarm, blown out of all proportion by a lack of communication. Apparently Antonia had been admitted only as a precaution, but no one had explained that until the following day when she’d been discharged with instructions to take it easy and report any further trouble. There was no further trouble, and after a fortnight’s convalescence she had returned to the office, leaving the ‘nanny’ in situ.
Catherine dropped a plastic rattle into the trolley. Perhaps it would fill the echoing silence of Manor Close, which seemed more of a morgue than ever. Unfortunately the Ewell cottage had been snapped up by someone else, and Andrew and Antonia simply assumed she was happy to live with them. After all, she had given up her market job and ended things with Will before Antonia was rushed to hospital, so in their opinion she was clearly at a loose end.
Angrily she abandoned her trolley – rattle, chocolate bar and all – and darted to the exit. She had no one to blame but herself if she spent her days mooning around indulging in self-pity. If she didn’t have enough to do until the baby came, then it was time she found herself some useful work – voluntary work, if necessary.
She strode to the car park, relieved to see Antonia’s car unscathed. She had a secret fear of one day finding a scratch on its immaculate white paintwork. Her own car she had left with Will – a small return for his generosity. She thought of him often these days, wondering what he was doing and whether he missed his muse. She missed him, to tell the truth. And London. These suburban streets seemed so dreary compared with Camden Town or Hackney. If only she hadn’t given up her Hackney flat. She had upset Brad in the process and quarrelled with Rosie, who accused her of selling out to suburbia. Yet she also had to contend with Andrew’s frequent warnings about the perils of the inner city. She felt she was losing her own judgement, or maybe simply losing heart, on account of all the recent changes and upheavals.
It was only half past nine when she arrived back at Manor Close the whole day still stretching ahead. She removed a scrap of paper from the inside of the car. Although Antonia’s Renault was far superior to her own elderly Allegro, she hated the dependency – having to keep it so unnaturally clean and tidy; having to ask whenever she wanted to borrow it.
She slammed the front door and picked up the post from the mat – a pile of stuff for Andrew and Antonia, including two Christmas catalogues. Christmas in September was depressing at the best of times, but this year she could hardly bear to think that far ahead. December seemed so distant, yet the mornings were already colder and darker, the evenings drawing in, and the first jars of mincemeat had gone on sale in Sainsbury’s. Jack and Maureen would be there on Christmas Day, of course, but now she saw them anyway, several times a week. And Antonia’s parents were coming up from Devon, so the tiny house would be bursting at the seams. She tried to imagine Antonia nine months pregnant. The prospect ought to thrill her, but all she could see was three complacent couples round the Christmas table and one rebellious single – a square peg in a round hole.
Sorting the post into the two customary piles – Andrew’s and Antonia’s – she pounced on a flimsy airmail envelope. A letter for her, from Nicky. She brightened instantly and took it into the sitting-room, kicking off her shoes and curling up on the sofa in a way she would never do with Antonia around.
Catherine, haw awful! I was horrified to hear your news. Is Antonia okay now? And when are you going back to London?
She raced through the next two paragraphs to get to Nicky’s own news: she had met another man, a Canadian called Dominic, who was single and available, not to mention charming and attentive – in fact, similar to Stewart who had originally lured her out there, but with one important difference: she actually fancied him.
She returned the letter to its envelope, stifling a twinge of jealousy. Would she ever meet another man? It seemed increasingly unlikely when the only people she talked to these days were checkout girls or the milkman. If only she could ring Nicky and have a proper chat. But apart from the prohibitive cost of the call, Nicky would be busy, like everybody else. Surely she could find something to occupy herself, even if it was only knitting for the baby – blue bootees or a shawl.
‘Fuck blue bootees,’ she said out loud. She had to talk to someone, renew her links with the real world. Rosie should be in – she worked at home on Mondays, making toys for the stall. She dialled the number, but the phone shrilled on, unanswered. Just as well, perhaps. Things were still tense between them; Rosie thought her a fool for caving in to her family.
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Next she tried Gill at the office, but was told she was in a meeting. Well, what did she expect? People in the real world had engagements on a Monday morning, commitments all the week.
She replaced the receiver and stood in the hall, wondering who else to phone. Maeve was away in Greece and Brad had gone to Brighton to buy gemstones – and was annoyed with her in any case, like Rosie.
She decided to write a letter instead – an instant reply to Nicky – and then she’d go out and post it. Big deal: a trip to the pillar box, all of two hundred yards.
She helped herself to a piece of Andrew’s paper and sat chewing her pen, unable to compose so much as the opening sentence. Nicky was puzzled about her breaking up with Will and assumed she was going back to London, so there was a great deal to explain. She wrote a few rambling sentences, only to cross them out again. She wanted to make her arguments coherent, but they sounded feeble, contradictory. Anyway letters were so long-winded; no substitute for talking face to face.
Abandoning the messy sheet of paper, she drifted upstairs to the baby’s room and stood gazing at the cot, which her efficient daughter-in-law had bought already. It was wicked to feel resentful about the baby, instead of giving thanks each day that it was so exuberantly alive, kicking in the womb, its heartbeat loud and clear according to the midwife. She touched the tinkling mobile suspended from the ceiling. It had arrived yesterday from Kate – the work of an Indian woman at the centre: crudely coloured, roughly made, and out of keeping really with the rest of the cutesy room.
On impulse she ran downstairs again. Kate might be in if she phoned – it was about half past two in Delhi.
After the usual delays, an Indian woman answered and offered to take a message.
‘Thanks,’ said Catherine. ‘Would you please ask her to phone her mother at Stoneleigh? It’s important,’ she added, hardly knowing why. ‘Tell her it doesn’t matter how late she rings – any time at all, so long as she reaches me.’
Why was she making it sound so urgent? Kate would probably think that Antonia had lost the baby this time. But the woman had rung off already.
With a sudden decisive movement, Catherine seized the phone book and started riffling through its pages in search of a local charity. She would say she had only three months free, but hoped that was better than nothing. It would certainly be better for her than mooching around making pointless phone calls. Even if she only sorted jumble in a charity shop, at least it would get her out of the house.
‘Oxfam here I come,’ she said, grinning for the first time in a week.
She giggled to herself. How shocking that the new Lady Bountiful, who had already landed a job typing letters for a human-rights charity, was sprawled on the sofa in a state of inebriation. Well, hardly inebriation – this was only her second sherry – but it did feel reprehensible at four o’clock in the afternoon. Even more depraved: she was deep in a pornographic magazine. She had actually gone out in search of a knitting pattern – yes, blue bootees after all – then wandered into the newsagent’s to buy Woman’s Journal She couldn’t find a copy, and looking for a substitute had discovered Women Only. Intrigued, she had taken it home. Having gawped at a succession of full-frontal naked men, she was now reading the ‘true’ stories – women like her, on their own at home, seduced by Adonis-like window-cleaners or masterful plumbers. Samantha from Southend (conveniently dressed in her négligée) had just opened the door to a double-glazing salesman. Mesmerized, Catherine took another sip of sherry. Double-glazing salesmen didn’t call at Manor Close and even if they did, she doubted if they were in the habit of romping on the bed stark naked within minutes of their arrival. Blast! The phone was ringing, competing with Samantha’s orgasmic yelps. Reluctantly she went to answer it. The last two calls had been for Antonia – friends who thought she was still off sick.
‘Mum?’ said a familiar voice.
‘Oh, Kate. I …’
‘Is everything okay? Vatsala said it was urgent, but I’ve only just got back.’
‘Everything’s fine,’ Catherine murmured, feeling guilty at leaving a panicky message, then forgetting all about it whilst she slavered over naked men.
‘Vatsala said you sounded awfully worried.’
‘I’m sorry, darling, I was a bit het up, but it was just me being stupid.’ Poor Kate. She had better things to do with her evenings than reassure a neurotic mother. ‘Put it down to PMT. My period’s due any moment.’
‘So’s mine. How odd.’
It seemed a touching bond between them that, although separated by thousands of miles, their menstrual cycles were synchronized. ‘Do you still get those awful period pains?’
‘Yes, worse luck. Remember when you used to rub my tummy? Oh Mum, I miss you.’
‘And I miss you. D’you realize, we haven’t seen each other since the funeral. That’s over two years.’ Suddenly she startled herself by bursting into tears.
‘Mum, whatever’s wrong? What is it?’
She wiped her eyes. ‘I … I don’t know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cry. It’s just that I feel so … stranded here.’
‘I’m not surprised. Frankly, I think Antonia’s got a frightful cheek expecting you to drop everything.’
‘Oh, she doesn’t expect it. I offered.’
‘But why, when things were working out so well? You don’t realize just how far you’ve come since Dad died. I really admired you, getting that flat and everything, and coping on your own. I mean, never mind Antonia – surely Andrew ought to understand you’ve got your own life to lead, have to manage without you. Why the hell can’t he?’
Catherine fiddled with the phone lead, surprised by her daughter’s words. She had often wondered if Kate had used her trip to India as a means of escaping home and parents. Yet now she sounded almost homesick.
‘I felt really lousy last week. There’s this tummy bug going round the centre, and I was lying on my bed in the heat wishing you weren’t so far away.’
‘Oh, Kate …’ Catherine was close to tears again. ‘Look, let me ring you back. You can’t afford these calls.’ She put the phone down and went into the cloakroom, splashing her face with cold water. She hardly knew why she was crying, except all last week, once Antonia had returned to work, she had felt waves of sort of … emptiness, as if she were living in a shadow-world, isolated from other people. She tore off a length of toilet paper and wiped her eyes again. Secretly she was gratified that Kate was on her side. If only they weren’t restricted to these brief expensive phone calls.
She returned to the hall and dialled the Delhi number, but for some reason it failed to connect. She was almost grateful for the delay, which gave her longer to pull herself together. It wasn’t fair to unload her troubles on Kate, who obviously had enough to contend with: PMT and a tummy bug, on top of her gruelling job.
At last she got through; Kate’s voice clear and sharp for once.
‘Mum, what happened? You were ages. Is everything all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, you don’t seem very sure. Last time we talked – I mean before all the hoo-ha with Antonia – you were like a different person. Even though you’d just chucked Will, you sounded as if you were coping okay. And you were so chuffed about the flat and …’
‘Yes, I know, darling, but things … changed.’
‘Mum, all that happened was that Antonia had a bit of a glitch with her pregnancy and, as far as I can gather, Andrew went doo-lally and hit the panic-button. But if she’s back at work now, she must be perfectly all right. So why on earth are you still stuck at Stoneleigh waiting on her hand and foot?’
‘I’m not, Kate. She …’
‘And what about that holiday you booked? You were really looking forward to it. Well, what’s to stop you rebooking it?’
‘I … I’m not sure. I suppose I’m worried that Antonia might have another glitch, as you put it.’
‘Tough luck. She’ll have to manage, like everybody else. Shit! You ought to s
ee the women here – washerwomen and sweepers and what-have-you. They haven’t got doting mothers who’ll drop everything and help them out, not even if they’re dying. And they have to work right up till the day of the birth. Too bad if they’re tired, or ill. There’s no such thing as maternity leave.’ Kate’s voice had risen indignantly, but now she gave a snorting laugh. ‘Anyway, why the hell are we banging on about babies? Antonia’s isn’t due for over three months, and if you hang around till it’s born you’ll never get away. Once she comes to rely on you, I can’t see her letting go.’
‘Look, I don’t like criticizing Antonia. It’s not her …’
‘Mum, listen – you were dying to see Paris and Venice. Well, go and see them, okay? You’ve never really had a chance before to do the things you wanted.’
She nodded in silent agreement. Will had said the same. And Nicky. Though she was surprised that Kate had noticed. Somehow, as a mother, you expected your children to remain blinkered to your own needs. And that was true of Andrew, at least in certain ways. She hadn’t dared to tell him about Will’s money – he was bound to disapprove of her accepting it. But Kate knew all about it, and understood perfectly well why Will had offered it. How odd, and yet how heartening, that her daughter and her ex-lover should both want her to expand her horizons, to strike out on her own.
‘In fact, why stop at France and Italy when you’ve got the whole world to choose from? Now think about it, Mum – is there anywhere else you’d like to go?’
All at once her eye fell on Nicky’s letter, which was sitting on the table beside her own unfinished one. ‘Well, yes,’ she stammered, ‘the Virgin Islands. I did promise Nicky I’d visit her one day – only as a joke, of course, but …’
‘Well, now you can. Go on, phone her and tell her you’re coming.’
‘Oh Kate, I couldn’t possibly. It’s so far. The fare would be astronomical.’
‘Mum, you’ve got the money, for heaven’s sake. That’s why Will gave it to you.’
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