Chapter 19
‘I’M SORRY, MARIA, I’ve been moaning on for hours and you’re probably sick and tired of me. But at least you understand now why I feel such a hopeless failure. I mean, first I lose Simon and then I’m useless with Sam. Every time I go to the hospital and see his pathetic little body, I just can’t stop crying – which is no help to him or anyone. The nurses like me to talk to him, so he gets to know my voice, but all I seem to do is bawl my eyes out.’
Edging closer on the immaculate dove-grey sofa, Maria reached for Chloe’s hand – although tentatively, as they were still comparative strangers to each other. ‘You mustn’t be so hard on yourself. It’s only natural to cry – any mother would. And, remember, you’ve been through a huge upheaval and suffered a terrible loss. Heaven knows, I was blubbing all the time, after Amy was born, and with far less reason than you.’
‘Honestly, Maria?’
‘Believe me, I was a complete and utter mess. But it does get better, I promise. This is the very worst time for you, Chloe, because you’re not only grieving for Simon, you’re bleeding and sore and scarred, and still reeling from the shock of all that’s happened to your mind and body.’
A shock manifest in Chloe’s whole appearance: her eyes puffy from fatigue, her expression one of defeat, and even her posture awkward, presumably reflecting the pain of the Caesarean. ‘Many women in your position would simply have collapsed, yet here you are, up and dressed and functioning.’
‘I’m not sure about the functioning.’ Chloe managed a weak smile. ‘You see, when I’m with Sam, I keep feeling I’m not coming up to scratch. I’m meant to continue expressing my milk, but I’ve come to detest using that damn breast pump. It’s not just uncomfortable, it reminds me all the time that I can’t feed Sam myself.’
‘But you will eventually – once he’s strong enough to go home. And, meanwhile, think of the good it’s doing him, even with the pump.’ She had no intention of admitting her own sense of failure when it came to breast-feeding: the sore, cracked, swollen nipples, the tears streaming down her face – and the baby’s – as she wept in pain and frustration. And her mother’s obvious embarrassment about so intimate a subject had prevented them discussing it at all.
‘You need to give yourself a few pats on the back for coping so well in such a difficult situation. You see, it’s important that you keep strong enough and well enough to make those daily visits. And don’t worry if you cry. The crucial thing is that Sam knows you’re there and can feel your touch.’
‘Hell, I should be with him now!’ Chloe glanced at the mantel-clock: an elaborate antique one, with two gilded shepherdesses supporting an ornate dial. ‘I’d no idea how late it was.’ She stood up slowly and stiffly, as if she had aged a decade during the last few weeks. ‘I’m usually at the hospital by ten and it’s almost quarter to eleven.’
‘Right, off you go, but try not to rush and tear. And,’ Maria added, getting up herself, ‘if there’s anything I can do, you only have to say. Amy reckons I’m a dab hand at housework and ironing, so I could run round the house with the Hoover while you’re at the hospital, or iron Nicholas’s shirts and stuff. Or, if you’d both like a few dinners cooked, I can rustle them up in Amy’s kitchen, then come back later and put them in your freezer.’
‘You’re an angel, Maria, honestly, but there’s no need for any of that. Nicholas belongs to Shirt-Express, so they take care of his laundry, and we’ve signed up to a catering service, which delivers home-cooked meals each day. And, as for housework, our cleaner comes in daily. In fact, she should be here any minute.’
Maria felt almost foolish for having imagined such a wealthy couple would actually iron shirts, scrub floors or toil over a hot stove. Yet she was well aware that, for all their money, Nicholas and Chloe still faced a raft of pressures unknown to her at their age – or indeed, at any age: the necessity to look super-gorgeous, super-slim and super-groomed, to pursue super-successful careers, and possess super-stylish homes. All that took its toll. Indeed, earlier in their conversation, Chloe had been fretting about the weight she had gained in pregnancy, and saying she couldn’t imagine ever feeling fit enough to return to her demanding job, even when Sam was back from hospital and the full-time nanny ensconced.
‘Thanks for everything, Maria, including those croissants and peaches. I know I wouldn’t have bothered with breakfast if you hadn’t actually put them down in front of me! I’m just sorry I was in such a state when you first arrived.’
‘Don’t worry. Amy told me you were feeling low.’
‘She’s jolly lucky to have a live-in grandma,’ Chloe observed, as they walked to the front door together. ‘My mother’s a top barrister and so high-powered she’s almost too busy to see us, let alone stay and lend a hand. And Nicholas’s poor mother has been or less inoperative since she had her stroke.’
‘Well, I can pop in any time you like and when Sam’s well enough maybe you’d let me take him out in his pram. After all, I need some practice with babies.’
‘I’d love that, Maria. In fact, you can be his honorary grandma, if you like.’
Maria gave her a hug, feeling mingled apprehension and excitement at the prospect of a relationship with two babies. At twenty-eight weeks, Amy’s child had an 85 per cent chance of surviving even it if were born today and, by its due date of 16 August, Sam would be over three months old and, with any luck, a strong and healthy child. Perhaps she could bring her grandchild to Chloe’s in its carrycot and wheel both babies round Regent’s Park. She had already noticed the elegant twin-pram parked, sadly, in the hall.
Once she had left the house and set out towards the tube, her mind returned to Simon’s tragic death, and to the item on the news last week, claiming the UK was a far riskier place for childbirth than most other first-world countries. Even if her grandchild was delivered alive and well, she still worried about how Amy would cope with the pressures Chloe was facing: the shock of the birth itself, the problems around breast-feeding, the constant pull between home and work and – most daunting of all – the frightening sense of responsibility for a new and fragile life, a responsibility so fiercely compelling it was as if the umbilical cord had never been cut. Sometimes, as a young mother, she had felt overwhelmed by the sheer temerity of having brought another person into the world, when that person faced the all-too-human risks of illness, addiction, depravity and despair.
In fact, the visit to Chloe had been sobering altogether and, although she was more than willing to help – indeed, ached to lessen Chloe’s grief, she just had to clear her mind before the all-important lunch with Silas. It was essential that it didn’t prove as disastrous as her first visit, so she decided to take a walk until it was time to leave for Lewisham. Perhaps today’s serene and sunny weather would dispel her gloom and even leave her calm and well prepared.
Silas removed the pizza from the microwave and placed it on the stained Formica worktop. ‘But what you never understood, Maria, is why I didn’t want kids.’
‘Yes, I did.’ She was standing against the wall, since there was barely room for the two of them in the cramped and gloomy kitchen. ‘You valued your freedom and hated being tied down. And you had plans to go abroad and—’
‘Yes, all that—’ He gave an impatient wave of the oven-cloth ‘—but something else I never divulged, although it was the main reason, actually. You see, my own childhood was so wretched, I vowed when I was just sixteen never to inflict that level of misery on anybody else. Safer not to have children if you couldn’t guarantee them a decent sort of life. And, to put it frankly, I wasn’t sure I could ever give any such guarantee.’
She stared at him, astonished. This was a very different Silas, concerned about others rather than himself. ‘So what happened in your childhood? Weren’t your parents there?’
‘Oh, they were there all right, but useless. My father was a drinker and my mother suffered appalling bouts of depression. And, being the only child, I bore the brunt of my father’
s rages and my mother’s constant mood-swings. But I’d rather not go into it. It was such a painful time, what’s the point of raking it all up again? All I’ll say is that it changed the way I regarded family life, which for me became abhorrent.’
She was not only jolted by the revelation; she also began to wonder if she had been as self-absorbed as him, by failing ever to consider that his intransigent adult character might have been forged by a traumatic childhood. Yet, mingled with her sympathy was a worry about the genes he might pass on to Amy’s child: alcoholism, mood-swings and depression.
‘Anyway, the pizza’s getting cold, so we’d better have our lunch.’ He cut two large slices and placed them on mismatched plates, which he carried into the sitting-room. He appeared to have no table, so they had to eat on their laps, and the only drink on offer was plain tap-water. His poverty distressed her, especially the contrast with her own situation: living in a house with a well-stocked wine cellar and a table seating twelve. Yet at least he had made an effort in sprucing up the flat. All Wednesday’s clutter had disappeared and he, too, looked distinctly smarter, in a clean white shirt and decent tailored trousers. She was still surprised, however, by how conventionally he dressed these days, compared with in the past.
When she came to think of it, though, she too had changed in that respect. Her natural inclination back then had been to go for drably muted clothes, to avoid attracting any attention to herself. Yet, here she was, in her sixties, wearing a multi-coloured velvet top and eye-catching earrings, set with glittery fake stones – both charity-shop purchases, and both due to Felix’s influence. He encouraged her to dress with panache and actually liked her to stand out in a crowd – the very opposite of how she had been in her youth. Her mind leapfrogged to the life class – the tuition she was missing; the sense of camaraderie with her lively fellow students; the kick it gave her to imagine their astonishment were they to see her, afterwards, disporting naked in the tutor’s bed.
‘It’s a good thing I like pizzas,’ Silas remarked, with a wry smile. ‘They’re usually two-for-one, and a couple last me for at least six meals, so you could say they’re my staple diet.’
‘And this one’s delicious,’ she said, politely, forcing her attention back to the food. In fact, bought-in pizzas were hardly economical, compared with cooking from scratch – and hardly healthy, either. Just as well she had brought some fruit for dessert, since she doubted if he could afford his five-a-day, even cheap, from a market. She was also struck by his cultural poverty. Where were the books, the records, which, even without a permanent home, he had lugged from one friend’s pad to the next? And where were the challenging views on movies, music, theatre, art? So far, they had talked of little save the deficiencies of the NHS and the dire state of the economy. Yet, however narrow his present outlook, she acknowledged the debt she owed him in having widened her horizons and hugely stretched her mind. Without him, she might never have been introduced to a whole wealth of new opinions, provocative philosophies, daring writers, way-out jazz.
‘Well,’ he said, leaning forward in his chair, having finished his pizza slice, ‘I asked you here to tell you my idea, so maybe now’s the time.’
She looked up, encouragingly, determined to respond as positively as possible to whatever he might say.
‘To put it in a nutshell, I’ve been reconsidering this business of our daughter. I admit I overreacted and allowed the past to carry too much weight. I should have moved on from my childhood by now, considering how long ago it was.’
She smiled approvingly. The obdurate Silas of Wednesday had changed beyond recognition. And the fact he had used the phrase ‘our daughter’ was nothing short of a miracle. ‘So would you be willing to meet her? Of course, we’d make it as easy as possible – both come here, so you wouldn’t have to travel, and choose a day and time to suit you.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t want just one meeting.’
‘Oh, Silas!’ she exclaimed, incredulous yet jubilant. ‘Are you actually saying you want to be part of her life?’
‘No, that’s not quite what I mean.’ He looked up and met her gaze. His emphatically dark eyes seemed to have burned two holes in the ashes of his face. ‘I want you to be part of my life.’
Confused, she failed to catch his drift. Perhaps she hadn’t heard right, on account of the noise from the flat above. Someone had started hammering and the sound echoed through the ceiling.
‘You see,’ he said, raising his voice to compete with it, ‘yesterday evening, I began thinking back to those years we spent together and I realized they were the happiest of my life.’
Happiest? He had seemed anything but happy at that time; rather impatient and belligerent – not to her, admittedly, but towards the world in general.
He reached out a hand towards her – an old man’s hand, swollen and blue-veined. ‘Oh, I know it all went wrong because of the baby, but that doesn’t mean we couldn’t start again. And things would be easier this time, because we wouldn’t need to keep shifting from pillar to post, as we did when we were young. If you moved into my flat, at least we’d have a place to call our own. And we’d both have our pensions, of course, and …’
She was rendered all but speechless by so preposterous a notion. He was indulging in total fantasy – further depressing proof of his total self-absorption. Clearly, he hadn’t given the slightest consideration to her viewpoint in this plan; that she might already have a relationship, for instance, or already made her own plans for the future. And how could he fail to see that the prospect of giving up a stylish and substantial house to move into a tiny flat with a man not far off eighty and facing a likely death sentence wasn’t wildly attractive?
His words were still washing over her, but she was so appalled she could barely concentrate, until another mention of ‘our daughter’ focused her attention.
‘Obviously, she could come to visit, although I wouldn’t want the baby staying too long. That may seem harsh, Maria, but I’m just no good with babies.’
I, I, I, I, I … What about her, for God’s sake and – more important – what about Amy herself? He was talking about the flesh of his flesh, yet without the slightest interest in any child or grandchild, beyond restricting their hours of access. It was all she could do not to march out in disgust – except she had done that already, on Wednesday, and with disastrous consequences. Instead, she said nothing whatsoever; just clenched her fists in an effort to control herself, and let him maunder on.
‘Oh, I admit I’ve let myself go, but with you here, Maria, I’m pretty sure I’d buck up. Of course, it wouldn’t be like the old days, with a whole circle of my arty friends inviting us to gigs and poetry-readings and all that sort of stuff, but you and I could go to films and plays together.’
And who would pay, she wondered? Two seats in a West End theatre could set you back well over £100, and even movies weren’t cheap.
As the tide of fantasy finally petered out, there was a sudden awkward silence in the room, but he probably hadn’t noticed that she hadn’t made a single comment yet.
‘So what do you think?’ he asked, putting his plate on the floor so he could move across and hover by her chair.
All at once, an image of Felix flashed into her mind, his incredulous, indignant face as she relayed Silas’s proposal: to swap her ardent artist-lover for a monstrously selfish, clapped-out invalid and spend her days taking him for check-ups at the hospital, or eye and hearing tests and chiropody appointments. And, suddenly, to her horror, she felt a great, explosive guffaw beginning to well up in her throat. Desperately, she fought it. It would be insulting and unkind to laugh – in fact, completely unforgivable – and, in any case, would wreck all chance of Amy ever meeting him. So, with a frantic effort, she tried to turn the laugher into a dramatic, belching cough.
‘I’m sorry, Silas,’ she snorted, clapping her paper napkin to her mouth, as she struggled to suppress the slightest hint of mirth. ‘There’s a piece of pizza stuck in my throat
and I just have to spit it out.’
And, dashing into the kitchen, she did indeed spit into the sink, as her guffawing coughs choked slowly to a halt, to be replaced by further resentment. It was as if she needed to spit out the last two hours, along with her fury, her distaste and her total bafflement as to how on earth she could respond to this new, abhorrent life-plan, while still retaining Amy’s hopes of a meeting with her father.
Chapter 20
WHILE SHE WAITED for a train in the dingy underground station, Maria reviewed the life class she’d just left. The male model had provided a real challenge but, unlike her days at art school, she hadn’t averted her eyes from his penis but studied it with zeal; its indolent limpness, the interesting blue veins snaking along its length. She had also managed to capture the sharp angles of the model’s figure and brooding hauteur of his face. Felix was impressed – she was pretty sure of that – although he had deliberately tempered his praises, as he always did these days, to prevent any of the students picking up the slightest hint of their affair.
That affair was on her mind because of tomorrow’s trip to Cornwall and, as she stepped into the carriage, she was anxiously aware that tonight was her last chance to mention the plan to Amy. Her daughter, she feared, was unlikely to welcome the news of an entanglement with another man when she was still distressed about the delay in meeting Silas. The problem was, Silas was still holding out for a personal relationship with her before he would agree to one with Amy – although he had at least accepted that she couldn’t move to Lewisham on account of her commitment to the baby. Amy, however, was ignorant of all the tricky bargaining involved, and she could hardly explain her deep distaste for any such relationship, without damning him in his daughter’s eyes.
Yet, as she alighted at Oxford Circus and changed to the Victoria Line, she burned with indignation at his blithe assumption that she would want to share his bed – further proof of his narcissism and total lack of interest in her feelings and situation. Was he even capable of sex, at the age of seventy-six and after all his cancer treatment? According to Kate, even Viagra couldn’t work a miracle.
An Enormous Yes Page 21