Maria in the Moon

by Louise Beech

  Next to the picture of Dad was a Peter Rabbit figurine. Dad liked rabbits; he’d grown up on a farm and had had millions running and leaping about the yard. He had promised one day to get me one. ‘When you’re nine,’ he had said. ‘You’ll not want to do all the cleaning and feeding and brushing before that.’ I’d insisted I was grown up enough and would look after it perfectly.

  ‘When you’re nine,’ he’d insisted. When you’re nine.

  He died when I was eight.

  I touched the picture’s glass. A call I’d taken at Crisis Care came to me: from a woman whose father had died after a long fight with cancer. She’d cradled him for six hours before ringing anyone. She cried for two before telling me this. Said she couldn’t bring herself to call anyone for all that time because when they came and took him he’d never be hers again.

  ‘I look for him everywhere,’ she’d said. ‘In the pub, the kitchen, in the eyes of every new boyfriend.’

  I was there when my mum died, on a labour ward; but, of course, being only minutes old, I can’t recall it. I wasn’t there when my dad died. I don’t remember who told me, what time it was or where I was. I know it was a heart attack. And I know he died in his favourite chair. I sat in it afterwards, trying to keep his cushion warm, because if it got cold he’d have no reason to return.

  Did I sit there during my forgotten ninth year?

  Did the woman at Crisis Care still seek her father?

  ‘Catherine! Where are you?’

  I dropped the cushion. ‘I’m coming, Mother.’

  They were all in the dining room. Like actors in a weekly soap opera they’d assumed the usual positions: Mother at the top near the walnut cabinet that displayed her pottery creations, me next to Celine, Graham opposite us with his back against the wall where the Constable print hung. The best blue-and-white swirly china was being given its weekly outing, and a silk cloth hid the plain table. I smiled; Fern had stolen some fancy napkins from a restaurant and we used them for our TV dinners, eating boil-in-the-bag fish on the cream fabric.

  Celine smelt of fruity shampoo and expensive shower gel, and looked like she’d barely work up a sweat at the gym. Her blonde hair was teased into careful curls.

  ‘You OK, Graham?’ I put my wine glass on a coaster to avoid staining the cloth.

  ‘Yes; you?’

  ‘Don’t let it get cold,’ said Mother.

  The vegetables and carved meat steamed in trays, and extra stuffing sat in a silver bowl. I helped myself to copious amounts. Fern and I were no chefs and a decent meal was a rarity.

  ‘I just read your friend’s column,’ said Graham. His face was a map of laughter; lines that always led to a smile. ‘I love how she paralleled a badly put-up shelf with marriage.’

  ‘What are you reading that for?’ asked Mother. ‘She’s pretending to be married and running around with every man who looks her way.’

  ‘I tell everyone her column is fake.’ Celine ate her peas two at a time, chewing until she must have been eating her tongue.

  ‘Like your breasts,’ I said.

  ‘Catherine! Can we not have breasts at Sunday dinner?’ said Mother.

  ‘She’s talented,’ said Graham. ‘Wish I could write like that.’

  ‘Dad, you’d not have made the money you have if you’d been a writer,’ said Celine.

  I wanted to say that she’d not have her new nose either, but refrained. Graham had made his money the old-fashioned way: hard work. He owned six double-glazing shops in the area.

  ‘When do you start the voluntary work?’ he asked.

  ‘Wednesday.’ My glass was empty. ‘Any more wine?’

  ‘You know where it is,’ said my mother. ‘Though I think you’ve had enough.’

  I brought a bottle in from the kitchen, poured myself and Graham a glass each.

  ‘I don’t know why you have to do that suicide stuff.’ My mother dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin. ‘Why can’t you find a decent man like Celine has and settle down? You’ll be thirty-one next week. Why couldn’t you make a go of it with Billy? He had a home, a job and that beautiful face; could have been your chance at beautiful children.’

  ‘Where’s Mark?’ I asked Celine.

  ‘In Scotland,’ she said.

  ‘Sleeping around with teenagers again?’ I asked.

  ‘Catherine,’ scolded my mother. ‘Those rumours were jealous tittle-tattle between bored women. Mark is a marvellous husband.’

  I bit my fork.

  ‘How’s your house coming along, Cath?’ asked Graham.

  ‘The insurance company says work starts on the twentieth. Should take six weeks. I’ll not be back in for Christmas, but soon after.’

  ‘So you’ll get all new carpets, furniture, wallpaper?’ Celine pushed her plate away; it was still half full. ‘Doesn’t seem fair when some have to work hard for nice things. Your house was rundown before it was flooded, and now you’ll get a brand-new kitchen and stylish furniture.’

  ‘I’d happily have kept my shithole,’ I said through a mouthful of potato.

  ‘Can we not have shithole at the table,’ sighed my mother.

  ‘It’s what Sharleen meant. She just didn’t say it.’

  ‘Because she has manners; and she’s not Sharleen. Why do you have to be so crude?’ My mother cut her chicken with vigour, the action at odds with her even tone. ‘I thought you’d have grown out of it by now.’

  ‘You’re lucky to have that house.’ Celine didn’t even look at me.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I dropped my cutlery onto the plate; I no longer felt hungry.

  ‘If your dad hadn’t left you money you’d never have property. I don’t know anyone who works in a care home and is single and has their own house.’

  ‘What does my inheritance have to do with you? My dad worked hard for his money, and what he left me was mine to do with as I wished.’

  ‘Maybe if you’d used it to go to university you’d have a better job now, dear.’ Mother’s face assumed a helpful, serene smile.

  ‘Why is my money up for discussion?’ I demanded. ‘No one discusses what Sharleen does with money. Dad would be glad I bought my own place. He’d turn in his grave if I was still living here!’

  I stormed out in true teenage style, went to the bathroom and sat on the toilet lid for ten minutes. The grout between the peach tiles was almost black and the shower curtain stank of mildew. As a child I used to hide in here to escape guests, family, nagging. Mother said I had a morbid fascination with places with locked doors.

  ‘One of these days you’ll get stuck;’ she’d preached, ‘and then what will you do?’

  Now, I took a tube of cream from my pocket and coated my inflamed hands. Why did I so often feel the urge to hide? When had it begun?

  Back in the dining room Celine eyed me through blue mascara. Only Graham was still eating.

  ‘Where did we go on holiday when I was nine?’ I asked after a while.

  ‘Goodness me, I don’t remember,’ sighed Mother. ‘How would I remember that?’

  ‘Because you were there, maybe?’

  ‘What year was it?’ Then to herself: ‘Who was I going out with?’

  ‘Lots of people,’ I said.

  ‘Catherine! Don’t be rude. In between your father and Graham’ – she touched his hand – ‘there was only Gary. Honestly, can’t we have a Sunday dinner without rudeness?’

  ‘And breasts? I’ll try.’

  ‘Menorca,’ said my mother.

  ‘Menorca what?’ I asked.

  ‘We went to Menorca the summer you were nine. Lovely hotel, lousy weather. You cut yourself in a rock pool. Bled for hours and ruined my beach towels.’

  ‘I don’t remember.’ Despite covering my hands in cream, they still burned; I longed to scratch them. ‘What else happened when I was nine?’

  ‘You probably annoyed me,’ she sighed.

  ‘Specifically?’

  ‘Specifically?’ She grabbed th
e wine, turned her glass upright and poured. ‘You were a moody so-and-so.’

  ‘When I was nine Dad bought me a horse,’ said Celine.

  Graham smiled and nodded.

  ‘Mabel I called her. Beautiful dappled coat she had.’

  ‘We stopped calling you Catherine-Maria.’ Mother seemed pleased that she had a snippet of memory to give me. Perhaps it would shut me up.

  Nanny Eve had always called me Catherine-Maria when I was small; I already knew that. I loved to hear her words in that musical Irish voice. She said Maria with the same reverence as she spoke the Hail Mary. It was beautiful, she said: Italian for Mary. She’d picked it when I was born. But until now, I’d had no recollection of when everyone stopped using it. Nanny Eve died when I was eleven and I’d thought the name just died with her.

  ‘When I was nine?’ Second-hand memory was frustrating.

  ‘Yes. I remember writing your tenth birthday card and I just put Catherine. I’m sure that was the first time.’ My mother had already finished half her wine; a sign she was edgy. I took pleasure in irritating her.

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘It seemed childish – a mouthful. You were ten, after all.’

  ‘But Nanny Eve loved it.’ Suddenly I felt my identity had been stolen and wanted a culprit to pin the blame on. I’d always known the name had died, but now I knew it had happened when I was nine – my blackout year – and I desperately needed to know why.

  ‘Why are you so snappy? Why do you care about us changing your name?’

  ‘Because you said I was nine.’ I wrapped my hands around the cool crystal tumbler.

  ‘Who wants dessert?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, me,’ cried Celine. ‘I only ate two potatoes and eighteen peas, so I can.’

  My mother scraped the uneaten food into a pile on one plate.

  ‘What is it today, dear?’ Graham lit a cigarette, inhaled and leaned back in the chair.

  ‘Trifle,’ she said.

  I thought of the Friends episode in which Rachel made a trifle with peas and carrots and meat because the page in the recipe book was stuck to the one for shepherd’s pie. Everyone rubbed their bellies and pretended to like it so they wouldn’t hurt her feelings. We all endure trifle and peas in some way.

  ‘Just a small portion for me,’ I said. The wine had made me lightheaded and I didn’t want to ruin the high.

  Mother carried the trifle in like she was presenting a winning sculpture.

  ‘Just thought of another line from Fern’s column,’ smiled Graham. ‘She said a husband with a power drill was as happy as a wife on a weekend with the girls.’ Graham had a mild crush on Fern; it only made him more endearing.

  ‘I really don’t like that girl,’ snapped Mother. ‘Why would you want to live above a takeaway with her? And that owner is a pervert. I don’t like his ears. He has devious ears.’ She touched her earrings.

  ‘Don’t talk that way about Fern,’ I said. ‘I don’t diss your tanned-to-within-an-inch-of-her-life friend Barbara. Fern is just having fun. Fun! Anyone remember that?’

  I jumped up and in my haste caught the cloth, sending wine and trifle flying like white-and-red fireworks. Celine screamed; I turned to see her lap fill with jelly and custard, her white trousers massacred. Mother gasped and ran for a cloth.

  I headed for the garden and sat on the bench near the steps, where a wall protected me from the eyes inside the house. My jeans didn’t protect me from the cold metal and so I shifted from one buttock to the other. Traffic hummed beyond the fir trees: life; escape. When gravelly footsteps sounded behind me I knew it would be Graham, though I didn’t expect him to be wearing my red coat.

  ‘Does it suit me?’ He grinned. ‘It was the only one in the cupboard.’

  ‘Apparently it doesn’t suit me,’ I said.

  ‘You know how she is.’ Graham perched on the wall, took out a pack of cigarettes and offered me one. I considered, but declined. I didn’t need to give that bad habit up again.

  ‘Let’s not have the monthly you-know-how-she-is talk,’ I said. ‘What have I done so wrong?’

  Graham exhaled smoke with a shrug. Reflected in the frozen pond were the leaves on the evergreen trees. I thought of a man up my street who had lost his carp in the flood. Flushed out of their pond, they’d swum wild in the temporary garden lake. He couldn’t catch them, so when the water subsided they drowned. I’d watched him drop six fish into the bin; each dead-weight thud haunted me for weeks after.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Graham.

  ‘I get on with my life, ask for nothing.’ My voice broke. ‘I’m not doing too badly for nearly thirty-one.’

  ‘I think it’s great that you do crisis-line stuff.’ Graham ground the cigarette out with his foot and put the tab end in one of my mother’s plant pots. We shared a knowing smile. If she ever looked in the tub, there would be at least a year’s worth of Graham’s smokes. ‘I think you’ll make a great listener. They’re lucky to have you, Catherine.’

  ‘Why can’t she say that? It’s not difficult, is it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Graham, where are you?’ Mother’s voice came from the kitchen window; his smoke rings must have given him away. I knew all the best hiding places in the house and this wasn’t one of them. The cupboard under the stairs was a good one, and behind the shed. Not inside it though; I’d never liked the darkness there as a child.

  ‘Will you drive Celine home?’ called Mother. ‘She’s not feeling well.’

  ‘Duty calls.’ Graham headed inside, the sleeves of my red coat just too short, his shoes crunching on the gravel.

  I didn’t want to go in yet. I’d always preferred my own company, even as a child. That much I could remember – because it hadn’t changed, I supposed. I used to hide in alcoves and cupboards, behind curtains and under beds. I hid in my dad’s study once during one of my birthday parties, long after he’d died.

  Images flashed randomly before my mind’s eye, like a computer slide show. Balloons stuck to a banister, one floating free. A banner draped from a curtain rail. Ten candles blazing on a pink-and-white cake. So I was ten. I was in Dad’s chair clutching a stuffed bunny I’d won at pass-the-parcel. I saw the rabbit as if I held it now. White and soft, with plastic whiskers that tickled my cheek when I kissed it.

  Someone disturbed me – it might have been Mother or maybe Nanny Eve. I wasn’t sure. Then the image dissolved, like a word on the tip of your tongue: just within reach, but the letters liquefy as you try to arrange them.

  ‘Catherine!’

  My hands wrapped around the stuffed rabbit I no longer had. Fisted fingers clutching at the memory.

  ‘Catherine, you’ll get pneumonia,’ called my mother from the kitchen. Two birds departed the fir tree in a flap of startled wings. ‘Graham’s back and said he’ll take you home. For goodness sake, come inside and stop behaving like a child.’

  I went inside with hands that were on fire and a memory as frozen as the garden pond.

  8

  Dad’s protective cloak

  Exhausted after Mother’s house, before Fern had come home, I fell asleep on the sofa with Songs of Praise still on. I dreamt about Dad. It must have been because I’d sat in his study armchair earlier. When I woke again, a memory came vividly to me.

  After he died, Dad’s study was one of the many places I would hide. In there I was clever and loved and safe. In there my hands didn’t itch or knock things over. In there he smoothed my hair and it stayed down.

  In the memory, I was looking for an answer. Dad was who I’d always gone to for answers. No matter how many questions I asked, he had some sort of reply. Whether he looked it up, invented it, or happened to know the answer already didn’t matter. I’d sit in the green chair in his study and wait for him to come home from work, my head full of queries.

  Mrs Willis, my English teacher, had set us a piece of homework: we were to answer the question ‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’, and then ask a member of
our family what they had wanted to be. I’d known Mother would shoo me away and send me to ask Dad. Nanny Eve would say that in her day women dreamt more of children and marriage than of fancy careers or exciting adventures. But Dad would come up with something special. I had already written my answer. I wanted to help people. I wasn’t sure how. I had written in blue biro that I wanted to help old people walk up the street and sad people become happy. Whatever job that was, I wanted to do it.

  I curled up in Dad’s chair and waited for him. He entered with a briefcase in one hand and a coat over his arm, smelling of the outside and work. Whiffs of Mother’s chicken casserole drifted in from the kitchen. We wouldn’t have long before she’d be calling us for tea.

  ‘What’s up, sweetie?’ he asked. ‘Have we got spellings to practise?’

  ‘What did you want to be when you grew up?’ I asked him.

  He put his coat around my shoulders, like the magical protection cloak a superhero might wear. Peter Rabbit sat on the windowsill. His blue jacket was chipped and his stone feet were dusty. I wriggled my toes and pulled the coat tight. One day, much later, I would look for Dad’s protective cloak. Mother would say it had gone to the charity shop. I’d wonder if it still had its powers on a different body. I’d spend a long time trying on the other coats in the house, looking for that safe feeling, but never finding it.

  ‘I wanted to be an astronaut,’ Dad said. ‘Or a rock star.’

  ‘Not you,’ I giggled, pointing to his smart shoes and plain tie.

  ‘Not me?’ he teased. ‘I’m cool. I could be.’

  ‘Yeah, right!’

  Then, because it was just us and I knew Mother could not hear, I asked, ‘And what about Mum? What did she want to be?’

  Dad looked sad. He was always sad when I mentioned her. ‘She wanted to be a nurse,’ he said after a while. ‘And that’s what she almost was. She had just finished her training when … when you came.’

  Mother called then that our food was on the table and we shouldn’t let it get cold. Dad started for the study door and then stopped. He came back, face serious, and bent down so his eyes were level with mine. The chair’s leather felt warm on my bare legs. Branches tapped on the glass like kids playing knock down ginger.