A Tale of Two Sisters

by Anna Maxted

  The words rang in my ear. I’d never heard them before. I was also aware that our father was congratulating me for having had sex. I felt bad for the Hershlags – being left out – but they seemed as crazed with delight as the real grandparents.

  ‘Maz-altov,’ said Mr Hershlag, blowing his nose. ‘This is wonderful news. Wonderful news! How are you feeling? Even if you’re sick, you must eat! You gotta force yourself!’

  ‘I knew it,’ said Mrs Hershlag, smiling. ‘I knew it the minute I saw you! You looked different. There was this look about you, a magnificence. Now, my dear, you will be a mother until the day you die.’

  I nodded. There was a lump in my throat.

  ‘Marvellous. Marvellous!’ said Tim’s father. ‘We thought we’d be waiting for years yet, didn’t we, dear?’ He beamed round the table. ‘So, Cassie. An auntie! Congratulations!’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Cassie. She said it like her mouth was full of ash.

  Everyone looked at her, their faces aglow with joy.

  She sipped her water, and said, with a little laugh, ‘When are you dropping this sprog then?’

  ‘Where will you have the baby?’ said George, the one person I knew who ever spoke over Cassie. ‘Will you go private? You should go to the St John and St Elizabeth. They let you do everything as naturally as possible. It’s where Gwyneth Paltrow had Apple.’

  ‘She had what?’ said Mr Hershlag. ‘An apple? A woman gives birth – that’s all they give her? What’s the matter with them?’

  Mrs Hershlag put her hand on his arm. ‘Apple! It’s the name of her daughter!’

  ‘Why?’ said Mr Hershlag.

  I giggled, and shook my head at Tim. He shook his head too, and smiled. He didn’t say a word. I guessed that, for the moment, he couldn’t and I wasn’t surprised. It was like stepping out of your house into a force-ten gale.

  ‘Hello, Baby,’ said Tim later, to my stomach. ‘Everyone’s expecting you. You are a very important person.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Everyone’s expecting you except Cassie. Sorry you had to hear that, Baby. She’s jealous because everyone’s making a fuss of you, not her.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Tim. ‘This baby’s going to be born, and Cassie’s going to regress. She’ll start wetting the bed, and asking to have her bedtime milk in a bottle!’

  ‘Hah-HAR,’ I said, and tried not to mind.

  ‘Hey,’ said Tim, and he winked at me. ‘It’s a new idea. She’ll get over it.’

  Because of Cassie, there was a small grey pebble of gloom amid the happiness. Still, I didn’t obsess about it as my head was filled with a thousand thoughts and opinions and recommendations all belonging to everyone else. Tabitha Next Door had given birth to Baby Celestia two weeks before, and was milk white with exhaustion. She was also sporting five scratches on her face, courtesy of Tomas, who was less than pleased with the interloper.

  ‘You’ll love being a mummy!’ she cried, summoning a shred of energy to raise her voice. ‘And one is a piece of cake! Where will you go for your equipment? We went to the Babylist. So did Liz Hurley. But I don’t recommend it. So pricey. I suggest you go to John Lewis, you can’t go wrong with John Lewis. And what schools have you put him down for? Well, if you hurry you might just be in time. They’ll squeeze him on the end of the waiting list. Ideally, he’d go to St Michael’s, but you need a letter from the Pope, and also you’re just out of the catchment area. It would be so much easier if schools had their own estate agents. You could try the Catholic school, but you’d have to become a regular churchgoer. I know you’re Jewish, Elizabeth, but people will do anything for their kids. Shoshana Goldberg made her husband, David, get a JESUS tattoo. They also claimed they’d attended St Ethelred’s every Sunday for two years but “sat at the back”. They’re appealing. Oh, but I do know, there’s a house for rent two doors along, you could always move in for six months. They could hardly refuse him a place then. You’d have to get everything changed though, the address on your bank statements, everything. They will check. They’ll knock on your door one morning at seven, to ensure you really do live there. Well, how far gone are you? Sixteen weeks? Oh, you’ve got a bit of time. I wouldn’t trust the other local primary. Do you know they only have two computers in a class of over thirty children! And dreadful sports facilities. And they’re still turning down kids left, right, and centre. Yes, thirty mothers are fighting the council, they’ve been forced to send their children on a two-bus journey to a school in the next borough – did you see it on the news? There was a fatal stabbing in the infant class. The hamster bought it. But don’t forget. John Lewis for the baby gear. I bit the bullet and bought a double buggy last week, but it was so ugly I couldn’t bear to see it standing there in the hall. They took it back, not a problem, madam. They’re not cheap, but you pay for the service . . .’

  Tim’s mother disagreed. She thought Mothercare. I wasn’t used to Tim’s mother pressing her opinions on me. But, here she was, telling me, on the phone at great length on a Saturday afternoon, what the baby needed.

  ‘A Moses basket, on a stand, so the cat won’t get him. And a car seat. Will you choose a cheap-and-cheerful car seat that you can carry indoors, or a sturdy well-made one that stays fixed? I wouldn’t go for convenience over safety, that’s the only thing. Are you going to change your car, love? The Renault Megane does well in all the safety tests. And you can’t fault a Volvo. You can’t take risks with a baby. All it takes is one careless driver. You don’t get a second chance. Will you get a rain cover for the pram? What about a foot-muff? The slightest chill – pneumonia! And a head hugger? You want Baby to be snug and secure in there, you don’t want someone to be able to lean in and pinch him, there was that woman in the shopping centre in Australia. What pram will you buy? The Bugaboo seems to be what everyone is going for these days. A newborn needs to lie flat, I think they worry about curvature of the spine. You’ll need a changing bag. And a steriliser. One whiff of dodgy bacteria in the bottle, you’re looking at intensive care. But they’re ever so clever these days, you can sterilise in the microwave. Will you be feeding with bottle or breast? Don’t they say now that formula destroys the immune system, gives the baby asthma, and all sorts? Although if you choose breast and the milk doesn’t come through, Lord, I’ve heard of newborns starving to death because the mother didn’t realise. Best to buy bottles, and powdered milk in case. Although these days, they do ready-prepared milk in cartons, it’s the cleverest thing! There are some beautiful cots on the market, I think you have to buy the mattress separately, and new – you don’t want Baby to suffocate. It’s the dust mites, they’re everywhere. You’ll need quite a few changes of sheets. And a changing unit, but do get one with sides, we can’t have Baby rolling off and hitting his head on the floor, God forbid. A sling is nice, it’s nice for the man, I think, and you don’t always want to be carting the pram around. Although there was that poor, poor woman who tripped on a paving stone, her poor, dear baby – fractured skull. You’ll have to buy a cat net. Or will you be getting rid of Sphinx? One scratch, and Baby’s blinded, there’s no going back. You’ll need at least three cellular cot blankets, a fleece blanket, a waffle blanket, swaddling sheets – will you want to swaddle? It’s so easy for Baby to overheat, they get a rash of little ones dying every time the temperature goes up, their poor delicate systems can’t cope. They say that eighteen degrees is the perfect room temperature for a little one to sleep in, even as low as fifteen, but I mean, that’s ridiculous! You might as well leave Baby in the garden! It’s fashion, that’s all it is! In my day, we kept our babies as warm as toast! Mind you, I say that, but in my mother’s day, well, she’d leave Tim’s poor Uncle Rupert outside in the drizzle for hours, and when she remembered, shout at me to go and brush the rain off the pram’s hood! You should get a digital room thermometer though, just in case, you don’t want to find Baby blue in the morning. And a baby alarm, one that monitors their heart rate. You can even install a little camera, I think Martin knows someone.
Muslin squares, they’re always posseting – lay them on their side, heaven forbid they choke on their own vomit, it’s always a worry. I’d invest in a V-shaped pillow, for nursing. A nursing chair, even. You have to be comfortable. A good bouncy chair is important, they spend a lot of time in their bouncy chairs. But always on the floor, yes? Or we’re looking at brain damage. What do you feel about dummies? They maintain they’re not a choking hazard. I’m not so sure. But of course you’ll make up your own mind. You’ll need nail scissors, an ear thermometer, a play mat, and a baby bath, and some soft towels, we don’t want to irritate baby’s soft skin. Now if you need me to wash Baby’s clothes, I’ll be happy to do that. Oh, yes. You have to wash everything, it’s the starch, and they are so sensitive. If Baby takes after Tim, he’ll be covered head to foot in baby eczema, but don’t worry, love, he’ll grow out of it, poor little mite. But you’ll need Filetti, or non-biological, and no fabric softener. Baby will need booties. And vests, and babygros, and scratch mitts, they have nails like razors, given half a chance they scratch themselves to bits, bless them! Bibs – don’t forget bibs – and hats, and you’ll have to get the house safe for Baby. Will you be getting an air purifier for Baby’s bedroom? These pollutants do goodness knows what damage. Will you be phasing out the use of household cleaning products? They’re full of cancer-causing chemicals, and lemon juice and vinegar are as effective, and at least you have peace of mind – God forbid Baby is poisoned by the atmosphere, they’re so susceptible at that age. Or will Baby be sleeping in with you? Not in your bed, of course, you could roll over and crush him, here, let me pass you over to Martin . . .’

  ‘Hello there, my dear, looking forward to the new arrival? I’ve blocked off the next five weekends to help you and Tim on the house. You’ll want to strip off the wallpaper in the Little One’s room before you repaint. As it happens I’ve looked on the internet, and there’s a non-toxic paint available. I’d give it a few extra coats, myself, because your average paint contains all this poisonous gubbins for ease of application, so I’d imagine this organic stuff is a little thin. And you’ll need to replaster here and there, it’s inevitable if you strip a wall. And rip up the old carpet. And sand the floor. And varnish it. You’ll need a stairgate for the basement door. And at the base of the stairs. And at the top. How do you feel about the steps at the front of the house? It’s going to be tricky, manoeuvring a buggy up and down those steps. It wouldn’t take much to turn those steps into a ramp. It’s no trouble to hire a cement mixer, I’ve already checked it out . . .’

  Eventually I put down the phone to see Tim standing in the doorway with a funny look on his face. ‘Hi!’ he said.

  ‘Hello!’ cried my mother, popping out from behind him.

  ‘Vivica’s been shopping,’ added Tim. ‘She’s brought round . . . stuff.’

  I stared at her. Vivica never came round unannounced.

  ‘A few bits for my first grandchild!’ said our mother. ‘We don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl yet, do we, so everything’s in yellow!’

  My mother started to rip open bag after bag, flapping tiny trousers and tops in my face until they became a blur. I was reminded of Gatsby, pulling shirts out of his wardrobe for Daisy. I picked up a doll-sized vest. It was the colour of full-cream milk and there was a small red butterfly embroidered over the heart.

  ‘Baby Dior!’ said my mother. ‘You can’t beat the French!’

  I tried to imagine the little person who would fit inside it, but I couldn’t. My mother departed seven minutes later for a hair appointment, leaving the kitchen in a cloud of tissue paper.

  ‘Tim,’ I said, ‘This baby is going to cost us twenty thousand pounds before it’s even born. We don’t have that money. It’s all essential,’ I added. ‘All of it.’ I paused. I could hear my voice and it was high and hysterical. ‘There’s the Symphony-in-Motion 3-D Developmental Mobile, for instance. It plays Mozart, Bach, and Beethoven. It’s designed by a team of baby development experts, including psychologists and musicologists, it’s based on the latest research into infant hearing and sight, and the influence of classical music on infant mental and emotional development and it costs forty quid, forty quid, one of a million items we have to buy, we have to, we need it, the baby needs it, and if we don’t, the baby will be . . .’

  ‘Retarded?’ said Tim. ‘Christ! How do women in Africa manage?’

  Happily for him, there was a ring at the door. I opened it to find a man dwarfed by a tall bouquet of deep red roses. I knew immediately that they were from my father, because I recognised them as Grand Prix roses. He always sent Grand Prix roses to my mother because, he said, ‘You should never send a woman any other rose.’ I supposed you couldn’t work for a smart hotel for thirty years without some patina of romance (or snobbery) rubbing off on you.

  ‘With love, Dad,’ said the note, in handwriting that wasn’t his. I touched my fingers to the dark velvet petals, and breathed in their heavy scent. It was fitting that he sent me red roses – the colour of sex and death, the colour of the blood that gushed from me when I miscarried my baby girl three days later.

  Cassie

  Chapter 7

  When Mummy and Daddy came into my bedroom the day I turned thirteen, I presumed it was to give me tickets for the a-ha concert. I always provided a typed shortlist of acceptable gifts – unlike Lizbet, who expected our parents to know what she wanted, even though she had a roomful of junk as proof that they didn’t. For her thirteenth birthday, Mummy bought her a cassette: Noel Edmonds’ Prank Phone Calls, and a china ornament of a collie dog. Daddy bought her jeans from Marks & Spencer, and a key ring with a small fork hanging off it.

  Instead, they told me I was adopted.

  It took a minute or two to adjust.

  I said, ‘We’re adopted?’

  ‘Not Lizbet,’ they said. ‘Just you, Cassie.’ I pursed my lips. And then they gave me the a-ha tickets.

  ‘Six months after we had Lizbet, there were . . . complications,’ said Mummy. Suddenly, she looked as though she might cry. ‘It was . . . horrible.’

  I narrowed my eyes. There were tales in family lore of Mummy sitting on a rubber ring after Lizbet. But my mind was already soaring away from our semi-detached house with its double glazing and crazy paving, far, far away to a sunshine land of yellow sands and blue skies and ripe peaches the size of beach balls (Torremolinos?) where my mother was young, beautiful, barefoot, fatally attractive to men, a bit like Ursula Andress in Dr No, and my father was Mick Jagger.

  ‘Lizbet . . . monster baby . . . swelled up . . . ankles to forehead . . . loose stomach skin . . . vibrating machine . . . tone up . . . easy . . . mini-treadmill . . . thick elastic band . . . plug it in . . . shook you into shape . . . so violent . . . must be doing wonders . . . . Two hours . . . reading Vogue . . . bumper issue . . . agonising pain . . . . bleeding . . . beige shag-pile . . . only had the carpet four weeks . . . your father . . . 999 . . . emergency operation . . . nice turn of the century red-brick mansion block off Harley Street . . . ectopic pregnancy . . . hadn’t realised . . . entire womb . . . whipped away . . . practically hollow . . . terrible.’

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘It was terrible,’ said Mummy. There was a defensive edge to her voice. Daddy patted her knee, and looked grave. They were sitting side by side on my white bedspread like two bad children. I sat stiffly behind my white vanity desk, and lined up my lipsticks like toy soldiers. My mind bulged grey and thick with the new information, and I felt that if I moved my head so much as an inch, it might distort, like a pumpkin mutating into a butternut squash.

  ‘We thought it was the right time to tell you,’ said Daddy. He paused. ‘Now that you’re a woman.’

  I rolled my eyes. Our parents were all gnarled up because Nina Sara, the fat daughter of Mummy’s best friend and arch rival, Evelyn Toberman, had recently had a bat mitzvah – where she’d stood up in synagogue in a dreadful purple frock and sung Hebrew prayers at the pitch of a mosquito to mark her
spiritual journey into womanhood – and I’d refused. Frankly, our parents would have been hard-pressed to tell the difference between a bat mitzvah and a vampire bat. But they resented Evelyn Toberman sucking up the glory, and being invited to lunch by The Rabbi’s Wife. (The only dealings Mummy had had with The Rabbi’s Wife were about Succoth, the Jewish harvest festival, where you do a lot of sitting outside, and she’d blown it by saying, ‘Well, the weather looks as if it will hold – touch wood!’)

  ‘So, can I stay out till one in the morning?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ said Mummy. ‘You’re barely out of nappies!’

  ‘Right.’ I pursed my lips again. They unpursed of their own accord and reformed in a grin. ‘You’re not my parents,’ I said. ‘You can’t tell me what to do!’

  Technically, this could be fantastic.

  I added, ‘And if I’m not Jewish, Passover is nothing to do with me. So from now on, I’ll be skipping Seder Night prayers and just be joining everyone for the food.’

  Daddy frowned. ‘Cassie, you are Jewish. Your biological parents were Jewish. So you’ll be sitting through the entire length of the Haggadah each year, just like the rest of us. And we are your parents. Not in the genetic sense, but in every other real sense. Including the telling you what to do sense. But maybe,’ he hesitated, ‘you can stay up till one in the morning tonight, inside the house. I hope it’s not been too much of a shock. If you want to ask us anything,’ he added, backing out of the room, ‘don’t feel that you can’t or that you’d be hurting our feelings.’

  ‘You seem fine anyway,’ said Mummy, in a voice that brooked no argument. ‘Are you pleased with the O-Ho tickets?’

  I gazed at the tickets. They were front row, which I expected. Daddy was renowned for being able to secure the best tickets to any event, and was not satisfied unless the hotel clients reported back with comments along the lines of, ‘We were sitting in front of the Prime Minister!’