Growing Up for Beginners

by Claire Calman

  ‘It’s just that I hadn’t really thought about the future – allowed myself to think about it – how it might be once the kids grew up. It snuck up on me. One minute you’re still having to hunt for their school shoes every morning, the next they’re swanning off round the world and sounding blasé about backpacking through the Far East. I hadn’t realised – not properly – that…’ She sank into silence for a minute.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That they would really leave. And that it would just be the two of us. I mean, I knew it – of course I did – but intellectually, not here, in the core of me.’ She clamped both hands to her stomach. ‘I know I’m being ridiculous. Everyone else just knuckles down and gets on with it, don’t they? Plenty of couples stay married for decades – and they don’t all still love each other or are – are – desperate to talk to each other at the end of each day…’ Her voice faded. ‘But they manage. They stay together. What’s wrong with me?’

  ‘Eleanor.’ Conrad took her hand in both his own. ‘Staying together when you no longer love each other is something… something people of my generation did.’ He bowed his head for a moment. ‘Your generation wants more. Expects more.’

  ‘We’re never satisfied, you mean.’

  ‘No. I’m not talking about silly celebrities who get married for two months then divorce because the gilding gets a little chipped. If you still love Roger, and want to make it work, fine – go and get a decent marital therapist. Work it out.’

  ‘But I don’t love him.’ The statement sounded calm and matter-of-fact, as if she had been offered chilli sauce in a restaurant, and was politely declining it. She had never said the words out loud before, perhaps had not even allowed them to take shape in her head.

  Conrad nodded without enthusiasm.

  ‘How long?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She shook her head, gazing blankly into the room as if blind. ‘Years. Years and years. I cannot even remember what it felt like to be close to him… connected. Sometimes he comes into the room and I am surprised to see him there, as if he were someone I knew long ago who had unexpectedly wandered back into my life. When I hear his key in the door each evening, I feel sick. Just a sense of absolute dread.’ She rested her chin in her hands, half-turned towards him. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘It’s not for me to tell you what to do. All I will say is this. I think…’ His eyes met hers for a moment, then he looked away. He glanced towards the painting then looked towards his desk, ‘… being in a marriage where you do not love each other is a very, very lonely… desperate place to be. Far more lonely than living alone. Truly.’ He gestured briefly at his study, his flat, his space. ‘It is possible to find a good deal of peace and contentment on one’s own.’

  There was silence for a few moments, then she said: ‘But you – you stuck with it.’ This was turf onto which she had never dared tiptoe before.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘You regretted it?’

  He said nothing but the lack of denial was enough.

  ‘Oh, Daddy.’ Now she squeezed his hands in her own. ‘But were you never in love? No, don’t answer that – I don’t mean with my mother, let’s not go there – but with someone else? When you were younger? Or – or…?’

  Her father was looking at the painting once more.

  ‘With her? You knew her?’

  He nodded. ‘I commissioned it.’ He stood up then and walked over to the painting. ‘For thirty years, it’s all I’ve had of her.’

  ‘But how on earth have you borne it… if you still loved her? Love her?’

  A crumpled laugh escaped his lips.

  ‘Badly,’ he said.

  There was so much she wanted to ask him: How had it ended? What was the woman’s name? Was she still alive? Did he try to get her back after Marcia died? But now was not the time. Perhaps one revelation was enough for now.

  ‘Back to you, I think.’ He stood by the painting, now with his back to it.

  ‘I don’t know if I’m brave enough.’ She looked down again.

  ‘To leave?’ He removed his glasses and held them up to the light as if they were smeared. ‘You do it every day. You open the front door and leave. It’s just that you go back again. Find somewhere for you. Rent a flat for three months to give yourself time on your own to think, at least. Do you have enough money to do that? I can help if you need it. You know how much was left after I sold the house. Take it. Put it towards a place of your own.’

  ‘I have enough for a while.’ For a decade or more, she had kept her own separate savings account ‘in case of emergency’. She had never defined to anyone, least of all to herself, what that emergency might be, but – now that she let herself own the thought – she realised that she had known for a very long time.

  47

  Restoration

  There was a small tapping at the door. Honestly, some days it was impossible to get anything done. If it was those bloody people about the tree again… She’d already had some branches lopped off to appease those barbarians – what more did they want? Cecilia slipped her coat on. Her friend Lilian had advised her always to put her coat on when answering the door, then she could say she was just on her way out if it was someone she didn’t want to waste time on. Rather a good idea really.

  Olivia was standing on the doorstep, looking small and waif-like in her thick woollen coat and outsize scarf. The white oval of her face peeped out from the mossy green of her hat and coat, a shy flower hidden among leaves.

  ‘Are you all right? Will you come in?’ Cecilia was tentative, as if inviting in a rather formal guest. ‘I’ve been so worried about you. Christmas was horrible without you.’

  ‘Mads told me you went to Ursula’s?’

  ‘I did. She made something grim and grey out of what appeared to be budgie food and mushrooms.’

  Olivia grimaced and shuffled in.

  ‘Can I make some tea? It’s freezing out there.’

  ‘Of course. Shall I do it? Let me make it for you.’

  Olivia usually preferred to make her own as she was fussy – no, particular – about the way she took it. Now she shrugged. ‘But can you leave the bag in, please?’

  ‘Yes, I know you like it strong.’ Cecilia looked at her daughter. ‘You look chilled to the bone. Where are your gloves?’

  ‘Mads nicked them. I’m OK.’

  Cecilia reached out to feel her hands.

  ‘They’re like blocks of ice!’ She held Olivia’s hands between her own to warm them, but Olivia withdrew them slowly and tucked them into her own coat pockets.

  Cecilia bustled about in the kitchen in a fluster, over-filling the kettle then tipping half of it out again and hunting for the better teabags that Olivia herself had once brought. She took down the teapot, thinking it would be nicer, friendlier somehow, if they shared a pot of tea together, even though she usually drank coffee.

  ‘What I wanted to know…’ Olivia’s eyes shone with tears. ‘I only wanted to know what he was really like. And how you felt about him.’

  Cecilia reached for her daughter’s hand but she gave the smallest shake of her head and withdrew it.

  ‘I know you had all those lovers… and we make jokes about it and all that… but you’ve never sounded as if you loved any of them, not really. I mean, I do believe you loved Dad – Philip – but not in that way…’ Her voice tailed off.

  Cecilia gently guided her to a chair.

  ‘Philip was your father in all the ways that matter most, you know that. He was there when you were born, holding my hand, poor sod. That nearly killed him, he’s so squeamish.’

  ‘Ma.’

  ‘He adored you. Adores both of you. You know he does.’

  ‘I know that.’ Olivia exhaled loudly and unbuttoned her coat a little way. ‘Look, I’m not complaining about Dad – I love him to bits – but this is not about him. It’s about me. I’ve always wondered about him… my father. I know it’s just his DNA, but it still matters.’

/>   ‘But you hardly ever asked anything.’

  ‘Because you were so dismissive about the importance of it!’ She covered her face with her hands for a moment. ‘Don’t you see? Oh, it was just this guy, great screw, so tall, so clever and handsome… You never told me you loved him.’

  ‘I found it too painful to talk about him.’

  ‘But it was selfish, Ma.’ Olivia seemed to scrunch down inside her overcoat. ‘You were thinking of you, not me.’

  Cecilia nodded but said nothing.

  ‘And why marry Philip at all? You must have known he was gay, even back then?’

  ‘Yes, of course. The only people who didn’t know were his parents. They were completely in denial.’

  ‘But it wasn’t the 1950s or 60s – were people really so hung up then, in 1982?’

  ‘God, you have no idea. His parents were uptight like you wouldn’t believe. Do you remember them from when you were a child? Ultra-establishment, rich, upper-middle class, terribly anxious about what other people might think, conservative with both a small and a large C. Honestly! You can’t go through life fretting about what other people think all the time!’

  ‘I remember Grandma took us out for tea at Fortnum & Mason and you dressed us up in our party frocks and you did my plaits so tight, I could barely move my head. And she told me off for reaching across her to get the butter.’

  ‘Quite. And among arty people, you’re right, no one cared about the gay thing. If anything, we thought it was pretty cool. But Philip’s parents were a completely different kettle of fish. He said if he’d told them, they would have disowned him. And you have to understand that people were already very jittery about AIDS. By then, there had been so many deaths in the States. The tabloids were calling it “the gay plague”. Suddenly, it seemed to be acceptable to be openly homophobic again. And Philip’s parents were constantly throwing parties and dinners to introduce him to eligible women – he hated it. But he was over forty by then and they were extremely antsy about the fact that he showed no sign of getting married.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘And then I – I became pregnant.’

  ‘With me?’

  ‘Yes, my darling. With you. But I was… alone… and frightened. And completely broke. And I didn’t know what to do. I was getting more and more panicky as the weeks went by. Then Philip happened to call me and I burst into tears and he rushed round and said “Look, sweets, let’s get married.” He offered to support me and the baby, and said his parents would buy us a house – a house, for God’s sake! – and mostly leave us alone and… and I didn’t know what else to do… and I thought it would be better for you to have some sort of daddy around, at least, so I said yes. We were both desperate in our different ways, I think.’

  Olivia nodded, then looked down.

  ‘Did you want to get rid of me?’

  There was a silence.

  ‘The thought crossed my mind. God, you have no idea how desperate I was before Philip. But I couldn’t. I was nearly thirty-seven by then. And I thought maybe I would never have another chance to have a baby – and even though I was scared – really scared – I thought that, if I did, then I would hate myself sooner or later. Even without Philip, I would have gone ahead and managed on my own somehow.’ She looked at her daughter. ‘And I’ve never, ever regretted it, I promise you.’

  ‘And later you had Mads? She’s not his, is she?’

  ‘No. I did conceive her during a casual fling, just as I said.’

  ‘And you said the same thing about me.’

  ‘Yes. When you were little, you called Philip “Daddy” and it never really came up till Maddy was born.’

  ‘But then you got divorced anyway, a few years later.’

  ‘Well, it was inevitable. Philip fell in love with someone and moved out, but by then his father was terminally ill and his mother moved to Florida and just turned a blind eye to the whole thing. Philip gave me the house and carried on supporting us until my mosaics started to do so well, and seeing you girls often. Even later on he was always around, popping in and out, as you know, until he moved to the States.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Are you hungry? Shall I make you something to eat?’ Cecilia got to her feet.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Really nothing? I think there might be some of Ursula’s wholemeal mince pies left over somewhere. They’re really not too bad.’ Cecilia rootled in the cupboards.

  Olivia shook her head and hunkered down into her coat.

  ‘But, Ma?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I need to know, why didn’t you tell him you were pregnant?’

  Cecilia turned and faced her daughter. ‘I – it’s hard to explain.’

  ‘I want to know the truth, that’s all. Please don’t try to fob me off with, you thought it was for the best, or you didn’t want to make him leave his wife in case he regretted it later. Why didn’t you tell him?’

  ‘I can’t… you don’t understand.’

  ‘Exactly. I really don’t. And I want to. You owe me.’

  Cecilia stood there, staring into space, shaking her head.

  ‘Please. Think back. Remember – I know you – reason has nothing to do with it. Nothing rational: you were trying to let him do the right thing by his family, or any of that. How did you feel? That’s how you make decisions.’

  Cecilia moved a few steps and sank onto the edge of a chair. She shook her head again, wordless.

  ‘I need to know.’

  ‘It’s just – so – awful.’ Her face crumpled, eyes squeezed shut, and, when at last she spoke, her voice cracked.

  ‘I was afraid.’

  ‘Because?’ Olivia’s voice was cold.

  ‘I—’ Cecilia tried to meet her gaze but, abashed, looked down again.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘I was afraid that – if I told him – that…’ Cecilia caught her breath. She had never given voice to the thought, barely allowed herself even to glimpse it for a moment when it slithered, dark and reptilian, into her dreams. But now, here with Olivia, she could no longer hide from it. ‘He – he—’ She started to cry then, curling into herself, giving in to it. After a minute, she felt the pressure of Olivia’s hand on her shoulder and heard her voice.

  ‘I do see it’s hard, Ma, but please try. Don’t you think I have the right to know?’

  Cecilia straightened herself up as best she could and nodded.

  ‘Yes, of course you do. I’m sorry.’ She cleared her throat and took a breath. ‘I was scared that I would tell him about the baby – about you – and that, even then, he might not choose me. That he would tell me to get rid of you or want to keep me on the side for ever, visiting us in secret – like some horrible, shameful thing. I was afraid that he would still choose to stay with… her… with them. From wanting to do the right thing, the honourable thing.’ She shook her head. ‘His fucking honour! But that’s what he was like. I could bear it for me but not for you – not if he knew about the baby, yet still chose not to leave his marriage. I couldn’t bear that.’ She covered her face with her hands.

  ‘So, if you never told him, how could you possibly know what choice he would have made?’

  Cecilia shook her head, unable to speak.

  ‘Perhaps he would have chosen you? Us.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, we’ll never know now, will we? Because you never gave him that choice – a real choice. You should have given him that choice. It was a terrible, terrible thing to do – not fair on him, not fair on me.’

  ‘I know.’ Cecilia stretched out a hand towards her daughter’s but Olivia kept hers on her lap. ‘I am truly sorry. Can you ever forgive me?’

  Olivia shrugged, as if she had been asked a question to which she did not know the answer and did not care that she did not know it.

  They sat in silence for a minute.

  ‘Tell me what to do to help make it better. What can I do?’ Cecilia got u
p again and crossed to the kettle to boil more water.

  ‘Build a time machine to turn the clock back?’ Olivia scraped her chair back over the floor then stood up. ‘Not so easy to repair the past, is it, Ma?’

  ‘Do you want me to try to contact him?’ Topping up the kettle at the sink, she spoke over her shoulder. Dear God. What the hell would she say? Often she thought he might be dead, though even the idea of it made her feel sick. Better by far not to know, not to try to find out. ‘I have no idea if he’s even still alive.’

  There was a pause then Olivia spoke.

  ‘He is.’

  ‘What?’ Cecilia dropped the kettle and it crashed into the sink. She swung round. ‘What do you mean – how do you know? My God, have you seen him?’

  He was alive. Tears sprang to her eyes once more and she swept them away with her hand. He’s alive.

  ‘No, of course not. I only found out who he is very recently. My…’ She paused for a moment. ‘My boyfriend, Andrew, works at the British Museum. He sees him there all the time.’

  ‘At the BM? But he can’t possibly still work there? He must have retired ten years ago.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Olivia shrugged. ‘Andrew says he’s working on a book and is there two or three times a week. In Prints and Drawings.’

  ‘I can’t believe it.’ Cecilia sat down again. She used to go to the museum sometimes, long ago, taking her sketchbook so she could draw, but really just so she could feel near him even though they were apart. Once, she had met his daughter by complete chance, sat side by side with her drawing in companiable silence, unknowing. Then, when Cecilia had realised who the girl was, she had thrust her own sketchbook into her hands as a gift, wanting somehow with this strange gesture to feel connected to her in some way. The incident had given her pause, made her see that maybe it was the right thing after all, that his children still needed him.

  ‘If you didn’t refuse to have a computer like every other soul on the bloody planet, you could easily have found him yourself. You could have Googled him. He’s written three books. Articles for specialist journals. He gives lectures. He’s right there.’