‘Can we have a look at some of the photo albums again? Are there any of when she’s exactly the same age as me?’
‘Of course we can. Let me root them out. They’re in the sideboard in the dining room.’
Less than a minute later Mum has returned with two well-thumbed photo albums, both a shade of brown that was the height of fashion three decades ago.
‘Here we go. I think these two are about right. Yes, this one’s from 1981 and this one’s … wait, let me put my glasses on … yes, this one’s ’81 too. Perfect.’
Mum opens the first album across both their laps and I hover above to see for myself what photographic memories lie in store.
‘Look at Mummy’s funny top. Those sleeves are so puffy. She looks really funny.’
I look over her shoulder to see what’s provoked such amusement. It’s a picture of me standing in this very sitting room, hands slung on hips in imitation of the older girls I’d watch walking home from secondary school across the field at the bottom of our garden. I’m wearing a faux-satin, candy-pink top complete with sleeves engineered to look like a surge of wind has just billowed inside of them. I can see why Ellie thinks I look faintly ridiculous.
‘You may think it looks silly but it was the height of fashion in those days. It was Princess Diana’s dress that did it. Big sleeves like that were everywhere after her wedding.’
Of course. It was royal wedding inspired, that top. I’d been desperate for some item of clothing to evoke that seemingly fairytale event and I remember Mum traipsing round the shops with me one Saturday morning a few weeks later, patiently pulling out blouse after blouse from cluttered rails, and me refusing every item until she finally picked out that one, its synthetic material shimmering under artificial lights. I barely took that blouse off all summer holiday.
‘Well, I still think it looks silly. Is that Mummy with Grandad?’
‘Yes, that’s right. You’ve seen lots of pictures of Grandad before, haven’t you? I think I’m right in saying that was right at the end of the school holidays, the bank holiday weekend if my memory serves me correctly. Mummy persuaded us to take her to Brighton for the day.’
‘Daddy keeps saying he’s going to take me to Brighton but he hasn’t yet. Is it nice?’
‘It’s lovely. Although we didn’t get to see much of it on that particular trip. The traffic had been appalling, just as your grandad had feared, and we’d had to turn around for home almost as soon as we’d arrived. Your grandad always did find it difficult to refuse Mummy on things like that. A bit like your daddy and you.’
‘Except when it comes to dogs. Then he’s really good at saying no.’
Mum and I smile in unison.
I remember that trip to Brighton. The days leading up to the bank holiday had been fiercely hot and I’d been taunted by too much footage on the evening news of children playing on beaches and splashing in water and I remember feeling as if every other child in the UK was at the seaside except me. Dad had been deeply ambivalent about driving all the way to Brighton just for a day trip and he’d been right; not only had the traffic been terrible but the weather that day had turned so instead of a sea breeze cooling sun-kissed skin, we found ourselves shivering on an overcast promenade. On the interminable car journey home, I remember vowing to myself never to wear shorts on long day trips ever again.
‘Look, there’s Mummy in my hat.’
I peer over Ellie’s shoulder and she’s right. There I am, standing in an unidentified forest, wellies on feet and that stripy hat on my head.
‘So she is. Can you see how tightly she’s got it pulled over her ears? You can barely see her eyes. It’s a wonder she could see where she was going.’
Ellie giggles and starts Mum off too.
‘Oh, I do love to hear you giggling, Ellie. You’ve got the most infectious laugh of anyone I know, do you know that? It reminds me of Mummy’s laugh. Hers was catching too.’
Ellie smiles, almost shyly, and huddles further under Mum’s protective arm.
‘Who’s that old lady there, Nanna? The one holding Mummy’s hand?’
‘That’s your mummy’s nanna. My mummy. Your great-grandmother.’
‘She’s in loads of these pictures. Mummy must have liked her a lot.’
‘Yes, they had a lovely relationship. They – your mummy’s nanna and grandad – lived just on the other side of town so Mummy used to see them nearly every day.’
‘A bit like me with Granny and Grandpa?’
A pained look passes over Mum’s face fleetingly before she steels herself to answer.
‘Yes, darling. A bit like that.’
I can see the hurt in Mum’s eyes and it’s enough to unleash the guilt in me all over again. If only I’d never moved away, if only I hadn’t settled so far from home, if only I hadn’t chosen to raise my family miles from Mum, perhaps then she’d be able to have the same relationship with Ellie now as I did with my grandparents then. As Ellie does with Joan and Ralph. It’s only now, now that I’m separated from Ellie permanently, that I can understand how much it must have hurt Mum when I moved to London. How much she must hate being two hours away from Ellie when Joan and Ralph are just a few minutes. How the simplest, seemingly pragmatic decisions we make can have ramifications we can’t comprehend until it’s too late.
Perhaps if only I’d never moved away I wouldn’t be here now. Perhaps I’d be there, looking at photograph albums with Mum and laughing at gaudy blouses and stripy hats and reminiscing about ill-fated trips to the seaside. Perhaps I’d still have the rest of my life ahead of me instead of nothing more than the impotent imaginings of what might have been.
I stop myself in my own regretful tracks. I’ve been down this path before and I know that all that awaits me at the end of this bitter cul-de-sac is a form of temporary insanity. If I hadn’t moved away I’d never have met Max and there’d be no Ellie and the question of proximity to grandchildren may well have been purely academic.
‘You know what, Nanna? You should just move in with Daddy and me and then I’d get to see you every day like I do with Granny and Grandpa. We’ve got a spare room and everything.’
Mum looks taken aback. Perhaps she’s wondering how Ellie’s managed to articulate her own private wish. Perhaps she’s gratified that such a thought should even cross Ellie’s mind. Perhaps she’s imagining an alternative life in which Max had agreed to let her do just that.
‘That would be wonderful, wouldn’t it, darling? But you and Daddy have such a cosy time together and I’m all settled here, aren’t I? You know that I’m always, always here for you, though, Ellie. You’re the most precious thing in the world to me and I so love our weekends together. You can come here as often as you like. You know that, don’t you?’
Ellie smiles and nods and I feel a surge of relief wash over me that Ellie still has my mum to look out for her.
The doorbell rings and Ellie jumps up to answer it. Mum stays in the sitting room, seemingly lost in her own thoughts, until Ellie returns with Max in tow, forcing Mum to snap out of her reverie.
‘Hi Celia. How’s the weekend been?’
‘Oh, lovely thanks, Max. We’ve had a super time, haven’t we, Ellie?’
Ellie nods enthusiastically.
‘Nanna and I baked a cake and went for a long walk and did a jigsaw puzzle that was really hard and had hundreds of pieces in it and I’ve been helping out in the garden, haven’t I?’
‘You certainly have. You’ve been a marvellous little helper.’
‘And you know what else, Daddy? Mummy really wanted a puppy when she was my age and Grandad wouldn’t let her have one either. Nanna thinks you should let me, don’t you Nanna?’
Mum raises a knowing eyebrow at Max before turning to Ellie in mock reproach.
‘Now, you cheeky monkey. I said no such thing, as well you know. Max, would you like a cup of tea before you head off? I’m afraid your daughter’s just devoured the last of the cake.’
‘No, I�
�m fine thanks, Celia. We really need to hit the road – I’ve got a ton of marking to do when we get back. Munchkin, do you want to run up and get your things and we’ll get going?’
Ellie does as she’s told and I wonder whether she’s always this well-behaved at Mum’s these days. I remember countless times when the three of us were on the verge of leaving and Ellie would kick up a fuss, necessitating arduous patient cajoling to get her into the car without a full-scale tantrum. Perhaps she’s simply grown up a bit. Or perhaps she’s just happier now to be returned to the parental fold.
‘So what have you been up to this weekend, Max? Anything exciting?’
I wonder how much Mum knows, whether she’s even aware of Eve’s existence. I can’t help hoping she isn’t. Not just for my sake, not simply because her knowing would somehow make their relationship all the more real, all the more threatening, but for Mum’s sake too. She’s still too fragile. Surely Max must realize that?
‘Oh, you know, not much. Got some jobs done around the house – all the things Ellie won’t usually let me get on with at weekends. Saw my mum and dad. Nothing wildly exciting. Even had a lie-in this morning – I’d almost forgotten what they were like.’
‘That’s lovely. You of all people deserve a restful weekend.’
So she doesn’t know. I’m glad. I wouldn’t want Mum having to imagine what I’m imagining now: the lie-in à deux. In my bed, no doubt. Mine and Max’s bed. I feel a wave of anger with Max for the likelihood that he’s allowed Eve to invade our most sacred of marital spaces.
‘I’m ready, Daddy.’
‘Excellent. Say goodbye to Nanna then.’
‘Bye, Nanna. Thank you for a lovely weekend. The cake was yummy.’
‘You’re very welcome, darling. I’ll see you in a few weeks’ time. And make sure you get Daddy to scan that project you were telling me about, the one about rainforests – I’d love to see it.’
‘Okay.’
Mum walks them to the front door where she embraces Ellie with an ardour that reveals how little she wants to say goodbye. But seconds later they’re gone and Mum returns to the sitting room. I go with her, delighted to have Mum all to myself for the first time since I died.
She sits on the sofa and pulls the open photograph album on to her lap, where she begins to study the images, her fingers running over the protective plastic film securing them in place, her eyes darting from one picture to the next as though there’s too much to take in, too much to focus on, too much to remember. I watch her, looking at the photographs, and want so much to be sitting by her side, to hold her hand and hear her breath and smell the distinctive face powder that she’s worn every day, ever since I was a child. I want to be a flesh-and-blood daughter for her again, the daughter to whom she gave so much and who now has nothing to give in return.
Mum slumps back into the sofa, her hands holding on tightly to the book of remembrance on her lap as if to let it go would be to allow all the memories it contains to disperse into the ether, never to return. Her head rests on the cushion behind her, her eyes staring impassively into the empty room beyond, only the sound of her slow, lonely breaths punctuating the silence.
And it’s at this moment, just when I want to stay with Mum even if only in spirit, just to keep an eye on her, just to feel that I’m by her side even if she can never know it, that the scene before me begins to mist and then cloud over and within seconds Mum has disappeared. With her go the photograph albums and the sitting room in which I spent so many years, watching TV and playing games and opening Christmas presents and feeling as safe and as happy as all young children deserve to.
Instead I’m alone again, with only my anger for company. Anger that Mum’s having to endure this repeated grief when she’s already suffered so much. Anger at Joan and Ralph’s daily contact with Ellie, in contrast to Mum’s monthly visits. Anger that Max is allowing another woman into my bed without a second thought. Anger that Ellie has nothing but photographs to remind her of the mother she may one day barely remember.
Anger that life is going on without me.
It’s a year and a half since I was prematurely evicted from life and yet I feel no closer to understanding where I am or what I’m doing here.
All I do know is that I have more time than I want or need to think about all that I wish I’d achieved with my life, and an eternity stretched out before me to regret all that I didn’t.
BARGAINING
Chapter 16
Just as I’m convinced that the clouds are beginning to dissolve, I wonder if I’ve made a mistake, if access isn’t being restored after all, if there’s some trick of the light that’s fooled me into thinking I’m about to take up my place on life’s viewing balcony when in fact I’m going nowhere. Because although I’m sure I can detect movement and identify vaguely familiar shapes and hear the gentle babble of collective conversation, what I’m looking down on appears to be as white as the world I inhabit.
The clouds clear a little further allowing nebulous forms to morph into focus and I see that I’m in a restaurant – a stark, austere restaurant – in which everything, from the floor to the ceiling, from the crockery to the table cloths, from the art to the uniformed staff, is glaringly, uninterruptedly white. It’s exactly like my world except with food, company and almost certainly extortionate bills.
In the corner of the white room is a long, rectangular table and gathered around it are Harriet, Max, Ellie, Connor and about twenty of Harriet’s friends. This, I realize, must be Harriet’s birthday lunch. She always hosts her own party, always at whichever restaurant happens to be the most coveted venue of the hour, the place where most people couldn’t get a table for two in six months’ time let alone a table for two dozen at a week’s notice, always at her own, vast expense, not an eyelid batted at the free-flowing Dom Pérignon or the guests ordering whole lobsters and filet mignon.
And she always invites Ellie. Ever since Ellie was just old enough to sit in a high chair at the head of the table, banging her rattle disruptively to the beat of Max’s and my embarrassment, Ellie’s been a permanent fixture of this annual gathering. They’ve got a funny relationship, those two; Harriet’s always treated Ellie more like a miniature grown-up than a child and Ellie’s response has been to behave with greater maturity in Harriet’s company, almost as if she’s trying on the costume of the adult she hopes one day to become.
It suddenly dawns on me, with simultaneous disappointment and frustration, that if this is Harriet’s birthday lunch it must be mid January already. Which means that I’ve missed Christmas and New Year. Again. That’s two consecutive Christmases that have been celebrated without me present in any form, living or dead, tangible or invisible. Two years that I’ve missed Ellie waking up at the crack of dawn and finding her gift-filled pillowcase outside her bedroom door, two years of missing her dragging the bulging sack into our bedroom and Max helping her lift it on to the bed, two years of watching her open her presents and delighting in what’s she’s received and her excitement that, at five o’clock or six o’clock or whatever ungodly hour she’s woken up, this is only the beginning of a day overflowing with gifts.
The thought strikes me, like an unexpected slap across the face, that perhaps my absence coincided with Eve’s presence. Perhaps Ellie has met Eve and the three of them spent Christmas together. Perhaps, buoyed by the successful introduction to Joan and Ralph, they decided to expedite their burgeoning romance. Perhaps they all spent New Year together too. Perhaps Eve’s at home right now awaiting their return.
A new sense of possessiveness overwhelms me. I want to be with Ellie, to be still – and always – the woman taking primary care of her.
It’s at times like this that I most fear my absences, these voids of time and space, the duration of which I have no way of calculating until I return. The times when all I can do is imagine what’s taken place while I’ve been gone and then, finally, when I’m eventually allowed back, try to piece together the fragments of info
rmation I manage to accumulate, like an incomplete jigsaw puzzle of someone else’s life.
I look at Ellie now, seated on Harriet’s lap in the middle of the table, and remind myself how lucky I am to be seeing her at all.
‘How old are you today, Hetty?’
‘Too old to be telling anyone, you little rotter. One day, in a very very long time, you’ll be my age too and then you’ll know why I’d rather keep that magic number to myself.’
‘But it’s not like you’re really old. Like a hundred or something.’
Harriet laughs.
‘No, indeed, I’m not a hundred. Thank you for that vote of confidence.’
Ellie beams as though in receipt of unmitigated praise.
‘You’re still really pretty, though. You’ve hardly got any wrinkles. And I like your sparkly earrings.’
Harriet pulls Ellie in for an even tighter squeeze.
‘And you, young lady, know how to say all the right things to a woman on her birthday. That’s why you’re my favourite person around this whole table. That and your impeccable taste, of course. These earrings were a birthday gift to myself. I figure who needs a man to buy me diamonds, when I can afford to buy them for myself?’
Ellie fiddles with the cluster of gems dangling from Harriet’s ears for a few seconds, an inquisitive expression on her face.
‘Hetty? Why don’t you have a husband?’
Harriet eyes my little girl with amused intrigue. If there’s one person who can handle Ellie’s irrepressible questions, it’s Harriet.
‘Well, grown-up girl, I just haven’t met anyone I want to marry.’
‘So is that why you don’t have any children of your own?’
Harriet hesitates for a second and I detect a rare faltering disquiet on her face before she settles into a reassuring smile.
‘Why do I need children of my own when I’ve got you to ask me awkward questions and admire my jewellery?’
The Dead Wife's Handbook Page 18