Growing Up for Beginners

by Claire Calman

  They both looked furtive. Or embarrassed perhaps? Olivia passed over a bundle wrapped in a piece of red material with white polka-dots, bound in a length of dusty black velvet ribbon. Cecilia’s mouth grew dry. She took the bundle as tenderly as if it were a bird with a damaged wing, ran her fingertip over the spotty cloth – a man’s cotton handkerchief. God, even now the sight of it brought tears to her eyes. Automatically, she pulled the ribbon loose, peeled back the hankie. His letters. Notecards really – each one a single thick, creamy card in an envelope. His handwriting – that confident, sloping script in fountain pen. She thought they were lost, had hunted everywhere for them. In the past, before they disappeared, she used to get them out once a year to reread them on their anniversary. Anniversary! No champagne, no cake, no toasts, no kisses – it was a poor cousin of an anniversary – just Cecilia alone with her letters, thinking of him and wondering if, somewhere, he might for at least a few moments be thinking of her.

  ‘You didn’t read them?’

  ‘No, of course not!’ Madeleine said, at exactly the same moment as Olivia confessed: ‘Yes. Just a couple. Sorry.’

  The girls looked at each other.

  ‘They’re private.’ Cecilia’s voice was quiet. She looked up at them, waiting for some sort of explanation.

  ‘We couldn’t help it.’ The words tumbled out of Madeleine, never one to keep silent. ‘The bundle was loose when Olivia dragged it out and then we – we – fought over it. We were just messing about, and I grabbed it and the letters flew all over the place and so – so – we just took a tiny peek, really, while we were picking them up… just to see… what sort of letters they were, and – and—’

  ‘We picked them all up and tied them back together properly in date order using the frank marks, I promise,’ Olivia said.

  Cecilia snorted with impatience.

  ‘Do you think anyone binds up harmless holiday postcards in this way?’ She held the bundle up in her cupped hands. ‘For goodness’ sake, you’ve seen love letters before, surely?’

  ‘Well, no, actually. I haven’t.’ Olivia’s voice was barely above a whisper.

  ‘No, never. Who writes letters any more?’ Madeleine made a face. ‘I’ve had some pretty rude texts before now. Do you remember that guy Micky? He was really—’

  ‘Mads! Getting away from the point here.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Sorry.’

  ‘You’re always going on about your love life and how many lovers you’ve had and all that, so we didn’t think you’d mind.’ The expression on Olivia’s face was curious, unreadable.

  ‘Madeleine, I’d be grateful if you could put the kettle on and make some more coffee, please.’

  ‘Why me? I’m hopeless at anything domestic, you know I am.’

  ‘Only because you’re lazy.’ Olivia sounded angry rather than teasing. ‘Three heaped scoops of coffee. Add boiling water. Stir. Even you can manage that, surely?’

  Madeleine stomped through to the kitchen.

  ‘Ma? Are you OK?’ Olivia’s voice sounded hoarse and cracked, as if she had a cold coming.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Cecilia looked up at her. ‘Could you both give me a few minutes? I need… it’s just… on my own, you see.’

  ‘We were about to pop out to get some emergency chocolate anyway, weren’t we? Come on, Mads. Leave the coffee.’ Olivia manhandled her sister towards the front door and there was a flurry of whispers that Cecilia didn’t even attempt to hear. ‘Actually, I ought to be making a move anyway so I’ll be off.’ Olivia waved from the door and left.

  Cecilia stroked her thumb across the top envelope. Took out the notecard. It was the first one he’d ever written to her:

  My love,

  When your fingers first brushed against mine, it was like a distant sound heard in a remote part of a house. A house where, you remember, with shutters stuck with paint, it was so very dark as well as silent. Your smile shot through to me like sunlight into a forgotten cellar, and then there was the gaze of those jewel-like eyes. Surely this must be happening to someone else…?

  She clutched the bundle close and let her head rest back against the cushion.

  The test is positive. She is six weeks pregnant. She feels as if her stomach is doing loop-the-loops inside her. She is horrified and thrilled at the same time, one moment sheer panic edging into the lead, the next a sensation of pure excitement shoving all else brusquely aside.

  ‘Are you all right?’ the nurse asks, leaning over her. ‘Is it… good news for you?’

  She feels herself flush – she, who is embarrassed by nothing on this earth, not nudity, not sex, not shitting, nothing. She nods quickly, inexplicably timid.

  ‘I think so.’

  The nurse’s face lights up into a smile.

  ‘Well, congratulations then! Remember now – go and see your GP and book your scan, OK?’

  She comes out onto the street and into a different world. Look – that bird! What is it? She tilts her head back as it flies up then settles into a tree. Perched on a branch, its shape is now unmistakable. It is a pigeon. She laughs at herself. An image swims into her head of herself holding her baby up, dancing round and round. Her skin feels as if it is buzzing, a tiny sensation of current thrumming across her. It is as if she has been seeing the world through a murky glass screen for her whole life, and now, suddenly, someone has wiped it to make it sparkling clean and clear. The leaves on that tree – the purest, fiercest golden yellow she has ever seen; the outline of the branches against the cloudless sky. She wants to draw it, paint it, drink it all into her.

  She knows she is his love, and when she thinks of him, which is so often that it becomes as unconscious as breathing, she thinks of him as Dear Heart. In bed, those are the words they use. The rest of the time, perhaps the precious intensity of those old-fashioned terms of affection – Dear Heart, My Love – seem too far removed from the ordinary world around them, and so they have abbreviated them to initials: he is DH; she is ML.

  Ever since that first time when they lay in bed together, still light outside with the curtains half drawn, they stayed there as long as they could. She has had no shortage of lovers. In fact she has been to bed with men whose names she could no longer remember. They called it screwing back then, but now, here in the half-light, she hates that word. That is not it at all – not for this, not for the slow, dreamy, delirious joining of him and her that has transported them both. He is hers and she is his – that is the way it is. When they are together, he looks at her, not even smiling, just completely absorbed in her – her eyes, her hair, her voice. He traces the curve of her cheek with his finger as if he has never seen a woman before, never felt skin before.

  ‘My Love,’ he says.

  Her eyes suddenly fill with tears.

  ‘Dear Heart.’

  ‘You are crying, my love. What is it?’

  She weeps properly then, tears running unchecked down her face, her neck, onto her breasts, trickling onto the sheet beneath.

  She shakes her head.

  ‘I don’t know. It sounds crazy. I think I’ve never been so happy.’

  She laughs at herself and he kisses her eyelids and gently, so, so tenderly licks her tears away with the tip of his tongue.

  But now, the thought of him gives her pause. Will DH be pleased? His own children are teenagers, it is true; soon they will be grown up. Who could ever have imagined they would have lasted together this long – over three years? They are at once thrillingly different but unexpectedly extraordinarily alike in some ways. With him, she is gentler, more patient. Talking with him, being with him, makes her feel not just more alive but more like her best self.

  There is no doubt in their minds that they want to be, must be, together. They have talked about it many times. Once his son turns sixteen, he will ask for a divorce and he will be free. Less than a year to go. And she will wait. The idea of being with anyone else now is utterly repellent to her. She would wait a lifetime if she had to.

  But i
t is different now. He will see that. It will have to be sooner. Surely he will see that? It is his baby, too. Their baby. She clutches the thought to herself, hugging it. Our baby.

  She wants to see him, is suddenly desperate to see his precious face, to see the way his rather stern expression softens the moment he sees her, the way his eyes brighten. She wants to lean into him, look up at him, be wrapped in his arms and never let go.

  She ought to call first, but she cannot wait to see his face when she tells him. And, really, it is so near. Already, she finds she is walking that way without knowing what she is doing.

  She passes through the wide gates with a throng of others. The main entrance and the stairs are full of people coming and going. No one gives her a second look. She takes the lift up to the third floor. Goes behind the section of wall with the huge Michelangelo Epifania cartoon that hangs there, knocks on the door and waits to be let in.

  ‘Please,’ she says, trying to cover her excitement, wanting to run to her Dear Heart, wanting to call out for him right there in the lobby, ‘can you tell me which room is the Keeper’s Office? I need to see him. I need to see Conrad Marriott.’

  She knocks.

  ‘Come!’

  She peeps her head round the door. Conrad is alone but on the phone. He looks very surprised to see her, but beckons her in.

  ‘Got to go now, Geoffrey. Yes, please do that. Thank you. ’Bye.’ He puts down the phone.

  ‘How extraordinary.’ He gestures for her to take the chair opposite, on the other side of this desk, though he remains standing. ‘I was literally just about to call you. Are you all right? I’m so sorry but I’m afraid I really have to dash – right this minute.’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. Was it about tomorrow?’ They have plans to meet tomorrow afternoon. She looks across at him. She is desperate to tell him about the baby but it will have to wait until tomorrow when he comes to her flat; he’s clearly distracted and in a rush; now is not the time.

  ‘No. It’s Benedict. He’s had a car accident – been found half off his head, driving on the wrong side of the road with his similarly bloody useless friends. That fucking idiot!’

  She jolts back at the intensity of his anger but says nothing.

  ‘He’s in police custody.’ Benedict is only fifteen so has no driver’s licence. ‘I had no idea he could even drive. At least it was my car he took, otherwise we’d have a theft charge on top of everything else.’

  ‘Is he hurt?’

  ‘No, thank Christ. Unbelievably. That boy has the luck of the devil.’ Conrad strikes the desk with his fist. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go right now. I’m meeting our lawyer at the police station.’ He squeezes her arm firmly. ‘I’ll call you later, dear. I really must go.’

  She rises unsteadily to her feet. He called her ‘dear’. He never calls her ‘dear’; even in a café or a park, where he does not call her ‘My Love’, still it is ML or nothing. When your world is just the two of you, why do you need a name?

  She has never even met Benedict, but she hates him, hates him with an intensity and fury that shocks her. Clearly, he has been indulged his whole life and he’s done nothing but abuse it and cock everything up. She drifts out of the Museum, not looking where she is going, and walks all the way home.

  Conrad doesn’t call her that day, but the following day, half an hour before he is due to come to her flat, he calls. As soon as she hears his voice, she knows he is not coming – not just today, but ever again.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I have to be at home more. I have to sort the boy out. Make him knuckle down somehow, make him work, get some qualifications so he can get into university – no, unlikely, a polytechnic maybe – any one that will take him, frankly. Keep him off the booze, the drugs. If I don’t then one day they’ll find him dead in the gutter.’ His voice cracks and he stops speaking. A strange, choking sound reaches her ear and she realises that he is crying.

  ‘No, Dear Heart, don’t cry. Please don’t. I cannot bear it if you cry. It’s OK. I will be OK.’ She reassures him because he is in pain and she loves him more than anything and so what else would she do? ‘I know you need to do this,’ she says. She pushes her feet down hard into the floor, clenching every muscle to hold herself together or she will shatter into a thousand splinters.

  Then he gathers himself and his voice returns, though it is so freighted with pain that it barely sounds like him.

  ‘You know how much I love you. I have never loved anyone like this. I cannot bear it.’ He stops again. ‘I’m so very sorry. My Love.’

  And he is gone.

  Cecilia brought the letters up to her face, hoping for the faintest trace of his smell that might have lingered on his cotton handkerchief, but there was nothing there now but dust and age and regret. She leafed through the envelopes slowly, looking for that last one, back again. Shifting from her reverie to a state of alertness now. Checking the faded frank marks for the dates – the last one, the last one, months after the others, where is it? Telling herself that it must have just slipped down inside the plan chest, that’s all. Later, she will crawl up the stairs and look for it. It must be there. The alternative sits in the middle of her head, a solid block of stone: the girls have taken it. Dear God. Olivia.

  34

  The Last Straw

  Andrew received a text from Vicki. Ah-ha! He knew it. She’d seen that Ian was nothing but an orange-hued, decking-obsessed creep and was begging Andrew to reconsider and take her back. Hmm, now that he thought about it, he wasn’t at all sure that he would. The image of Olivia stole into his head, but he was determined to ignore it. No point letting himself wallow in self-pity. He might consider taking Vicki back, but it wouldn’t do her any harm to sweat a bit first. He opened the text:

  Hi. Can you pick up your last few things this weekend please? Sorry about you-know-who. Didn’t know how to tell you. V

  Yes, down on bended knee, begging to have him take her back, clearly. Where the hell was he supposed to fit all his stuff? His parents didn’t have a garage and the shed was the one space his dad could actually call his own. Although in theory it was just where he worked on little DIY jobs or potted up his cuttings for the garden, Ron had a comfy chair in there and a radio and a small heater, and it was as close to a sanctuary as he could manage.

  Hi.

  Andrew never said ‘Hi’ normally but he wanted to match his tone to hers – casual, offhand.

  Sure thing

  He never said that either.

  Sat a.m. Who’s you-know-who??

  That last sentence was ridiculous, obviously, but why couldn’t she just say the bastard’s name, tell it like it was without attempting to gloss over it: sorry about shagging Ian behind your back. Didn’t know how to admit I’m a lying, two-timing cheat.

  Another text:

  Sat fine. Around 10 if poss.

  Saturday, 10.25 a.m. Andrew was not usually late, but, of course, now that he was a devil-may-care single man, he couldn’t be expected to be at Vicki’s beck and call. Being late implied that he was so busy he could barely fit in this tedious, unimportant little errand, and it suggested that he had been out the night before – out with the lads, waaaay-heeey! – drinking and getting his end away with any number of hot women and had probably only just now dragged himself out of the tangle of sweaty sheets and soft, sleepy limbs to vroom up to Whetstone. He gave a long, impatient ring on the doorbell as if he had already rung it a couple of times with no answer.

  Vicki came to the door. She was wearing grey velour tracksuit bottoms and a too-large fleece, plus flat, fluffy slippers, similar to the kind his mother wore, rather than her usual high-heeled mules. Andrew was struck by her outfit because it was so unlike Vicki ever to wear anything remotely baggy. She was proud of her trim figure and perky bottom, so always favoured fitted tops and tight trousers or skirts that showed off her slim form to advantage.

  ‘Hi. How’ve you been keeping?’ she asked. ‘Please, come in.’

  ‘
Brilliant. Couldn’t be better, in fact. Yes, indeed.’ He nodded vigorously and entered the hall. ‘You?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ Actually, she looked rather pale and tired.

  ‘And how’s the gardener?’ Andrew drew himself up tall and sauntered towards the patio doors at the rear of the house.

  ‘The gardener?’

  ‘Yes, Whatsisface. Sutton.’ God, that felt good. No wonder Conrad had used his surname. It felt like such a put-down while not ostensibly being rude or deliberately offensive. ‘I see the decking’s not been laid yet. Is he slacking?’

  ‘Oh, Ian. He’s very well, thank you.’ She folded her arms and looked away. ‘He’s been very busy with the takeover and everything.’

  ‘Takeover? Ah, has his tiny little firm been eaten up by some corporate giant, then? Shame. Still, difficult times I suppose…’ He rocked back slightly on his feet and puffed out his chest.

  ‘He’s taking over another firm. A web design company. He’s been wanting to expand for ages. I’m going to be in charge of that division, actually, after–’ She looked down for a moment. ‘Later on.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, trying to read her face, ‘that’s good. Congratulations. Anyway, better crack on.’ Now he really was sounding like Conrad. He could see that this brigadier mode had quite a lot going for it in the right situation. ‘Now, boxes, boxes. Let me at ’em.’

  ‘It’s just one more box plus a few awkward things that wouldn’t fit.’

  There was his wok and his tall reading lamp, the one they’d bought together. Well, he had paid for it, in fact, so he supposed it was more his than hers, but she had helped pick it out.

  ‘Sure you don’t want it?’

  She shrugged. ‘You know I’m not much of a reader, am I? Not like you.’