by Anna Maxted
‘We can discuss it fully another time,’ said Vivica, stubbing out her third cigarette on an Arsenal ashtray. ‘We’ve had more than enough excitement for one day.’ She flapped the smoke out of her face, and the gesture brought to mind the action of brushing something undesirable under a carpet. ‘Now, what’s all this I hear about you drinking? Jews don’t drink. It’s ridiculous!’
‘Mother,’ I said.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. After a long pause, I decided that we would discuss it another time, and I would extract an apology whether or not I had to enforce it with a Chinese burn. But even now, she was trying to help me in her clumsy way – she really was – though I had to remind myself that today’s visit was all about helping Lizbet. I would do her the courtesy of answering her question.
‘That’s ridiculous,’ I said. ‘“Jews don’t drink!” If you think that, you’re no better than Cousin Denise, the only person in that room who refuses to see that darling Ian is gay squared!’
Vivica sniffed. ‘She’s a fool. She’s always complaining that Derek won’t see a musical.’
A ray of sunshine fell across the wood floor, and I said, ‘I’ll stop with the drinking.’
Our father nodded, and Vivica smiled. He poured, and she took a sip of tea.
‘George has left Cassie, by the way,’ said our mother.
My mouth hung wide. It occurred to me that while some fat people have their jaw wired shut, I should have mine wired open.
‘While he needs to know that she is innocent of any wrongdoing,’ added our father, ‘we think it is for the best.’
‘Yes,’ said Vivica. ‘It sounds sad, but it’s not. Anyone can see that her marriage to George was disastrous, and it’s much better for the baby that it ends now. Little ones need to see that their parents love each other, and if that’s not the case, it’s best that Mummy and Daddy live far enough away from each other that they can fake goodwill.’
I nodded. And I thought, Cassie will shower that baby with love, and so will I. Stuff George. It won’t want for affection. Ever. I blinked, shocked by the passion of my own thoughts. Of course, what I meant was, I’d do my duty. Was I even still the baby’s aunt? Technically?
Then they stood up to go. Vivica kissed me lightly on one cheek, and our father kissed me on the other.
He turned as they left, and touched my arm. ‘We share your sadness about your baby, Lizbet. We look forward, but we haven’t forgotten.’
I shut the door and covered my eyes. Sometimes a few words are all that’s needed.
Chapter 29
My mind was elsewhere, and the ring-around grovel did not go well. Cousin Denise sniggered and I was tempted to say, ‘Listen, pal, Ian was telling me about Great-Cousin Tiffany In Australia’s wedding to Sean From Perth, and he described the bridal gown as “silk faille overlaid with beaded organza” – so stick that in your pipe and smoke it!’
However, Aunt Edith deserved an eye-to-eye apology, so I took a cab to her house. I hoped she’d see me arrive as I’d recently heard her complain that a relative had invited her to pay a visit. ‘Why should I go? The car is at the garage, and she’s not important enough to take a taxi for!’
I was surprised not to receive the great fuss of a welcome that I was used to. I thought I could detect a hint of sulkiness in Aunt Edith’s voice, and it shocked me. Then again, I had sabotaged her birthday party, made The Do about me.
I suppose that Aunt Edith and I were locked in head-to-head battle. I was determined that Aunt Edith continue in the role she played in our childhood – nurturing, maternal. I wanted to act the child and be mothered, more so than ever now. She had other ideas. She was old. Her beloved husband was dead. She lived alone. She wanted me to make a fuss of her.
I couldn’t remember exactly when I realised that Aunt Edith no longer rang me, but expected me to ring her, regularly. And however frequently I visited, she would always say, ‘Don’t leave it so long next time.’ As usual, Tim had been the voice of reason, saying, ‘She’s at a selfish age. At her stage in life she’s not interested in a two-way relationship. She’s after a sympathetic ear.’ All the same, it was a jolt to discover that she’d cancelled her subscription to Ladz Mag. ‘It’s not really for my age group, is it, dear?’
‘Aunt Edith, I am so sorry about making a scene at your party. Of course Cassie and Tim didn’t have an affair. I was a bit overwrought. I got carried away. I’ve been a little upset lately.’
Aunt Edith’s face remained impassive and I wondered if I’d have to go as far as pleading insanity.
I was almost certain that Aunt Edith knew about my miscarriage, and yet she’d never said a word. Now she gave a hint of it. ‘Elizabeth, we all go through hardship in life. Where would we be if we buckled under the first time things didn’t go our way? Young people today have no idea what it used to be like. They spend too much time feeling sorry for themselves. We just got on with it!’
I nodded. It might hurt not to receive a word of sympathy about the miscarriage but at some point, as Tim would say, I had to ‘suck it up.’ Aunt Edith was all too busy with her sadness about Uncle Peter, and my acting up about a baby I never knew must have seemed laughable, insulting. I do think that people are territorial about grief – they don’t like to share. She’d been with Uncle Peter for fifty-nine years. Now he was dead and her life could only get worse. I had hope and youth on my side.
‘Aunt Edith,’ I said, ‘I am so sorry for what I did. It was inappropriate. I don’t intend to buckle under.’
I paused. Collected myself. She was so very different from the person she had once been. I wanted to tell her that I finally knew about Cassie’s adoption – only because I wanted to hear good things about me – but this was Aunt Edith’s time. I owed it to her.
‘So what else happened at the party,’ I said. ‘Was the food nice? Did Denise buy a nice cake? . . . Ian made it? Good for him. Is he skilled in that department?’
Aunt Edith gave me a knowing look. Her response – ‘What do you think?’ – told me that I was halfway back in her good books. And really, that was more important to me than everything else. She was seventy-five – what did I want from her? She didn’t owe me, and if I was gracious towards her, that was enough.
Aunt Edith bustled around, making coffee, and I winced at her swollen ankles. They were purple and blotchy, and twice the size they should have been. She moved with difficulty, breathing heavily and leaning on the surfaces. She also had a ‘grabber’, a stick with a pincer on the end, that allowed her to retrieve an item from the floor without bending. She seemed to have aged since my last visit.
Maybe I had left it too long.
We talked for an hour – or rather, she talked and I listened. And then I kissed her goodbye, and hugged her gently.
‘Ah,’ she said, ‘you’re a good girl, Lizbet.’ And then, almost to herself: ‘You’d be silly to leave Timothy out in the cold for too long. Who knows what wonderful babies are waiting in the wings for the pair of you’ – what a beautiful, beautiful sentiment, I thought – ‘so get a bloody move on!’
Even so. I was not ready to make that call. The truth? I was scared. Aunt Edith assumed that I’d snap my fingers and Tim would lollop to my side, doe-eyed with adoration. I wasn’t so sure. And if he were to say ‘No’, that would be my life – gone! But I had an excuse for stalling. I had an equally important – and terrifying – appointment. With my sister.
The back of my neck prickled hot and cold with sweat as I approached her front door. It was imposing at the best of times – glossy black, with a brass knocker, and two neatly pruned minature trees in pots, stationed like sentries on either side of the porch. I’d wondered what to bring her. Perhaps the most appropriate gift would have been booties – or a silver Gucci rattle – but I was wary. Also, much as I wanted to make the switch from bad fairy to good fairy, I wanted to feel the part before I acted it.
I took nothing. I wasn’t going to offer bribes. (Not like Vivica �
� she thought a box of Godiva in the right direction would get you off a murder rap.) I was mortified at what I’d done to Cassie and George – more so now that I saw how much I meant to her. I believed what Vivica had said about Cassie’s reasons for keeping the truth from me. Cassie has always wanted to protect me, and it was only now that I saw how much.
Our father had explained about Cassie’s low blood pressure, and it made sense. I even allowed myself a smile at the thought that the Montgomery family suffers from high. I’d been fooling myself, wanting to believe their betrayal, needing an excuse to keep myself riled up. I felt that in my ridiculous accusation I had shown my sour childish soul for what it was. If I was a laughing stock among the Gargoyles, I deserved to be. Apart from anything else, Tim always hung around the house with his willy-tip poking through his boxers. It was practically a trademark.
I rang the doorbell, and waited.
I would keep focused on my apology. I wouldn’t tell her that I knew about the adoption – yet. The more I thought about it, the more nervous I became. Cassie hadn’t told me because she feared our relationship would become less. If I told her that I knew, maybe it would.
Cassie opened the door after a second. I launched into my apology, trying to ignore the soft swell of her stomach, and the dagger-like needles of pain in mine. So much hurt, on so many levels.
But she spoke over me. ‘I’m not bothered about the lie you told to the Gargoyles, but I will say, it’s not been pleasant, Lizbet, having your bad feeling radiating over me in waves for the last few months.’
She didn’t add ‘while I’ve been pregnant’ but I was sure that she thought it, and I felt ashamed. It was a rotten thing to do.
‘I feel terrible, if it’s any consolation,’ I said. ‘And I have retracted that statement to various . . . Gargs.’ I paused. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Fine,’ she said.
Cassie would face death before she admitted that pregnancy weakened her physically or mentally in any way. She was exactly the same about periods, even though when she was fourteen the pain made her black out.
‘Good,’ I said, ‘good.’ I added, in a rush, ‘You look very well.’ I tried to say the word ‘blooming’ but I couldn’t manage it. ‘I was going to bring you something but—’ I stopped. Is there ever any point even beginning that sentence? I wished my voice didn’t sound so strained, but I managed a genuine smile. Cassie expecting. I couldn’t stretch to ‘lovely’ but it was . . . nice. ‘And, er, how’s George?’
‘You did me a favour. George is gone!’
I was horrified again, even though I already knew this. Is it possible to be re-horrified?
‘Listen.’ I started to gabble, ‘I can fix that. I mean, Geoffrey did tell me but, well, I assumed he was being dramatic – George, I mean. I thought he’d be back in a day! He doesn’t actually believe that you and Tim . . . er, does he?’
‘You did.’
For a moment, I couldn’t speak, I was so sick of myself, of being me, a nasty person. I said, ‘I persuaded myself I did.’
She paused, then said, ‘Why do that?’
Her expression forbade tears. I replied, ‘The world felt so black.’ I offered her a weak smile.
I hesitated. Before it had all gone wrong, I’d read up on the nature of the baby, and one of the curious things babies did was to fling out their arms and legs in a start of horror, if you plopped them into their cot too hastily. This was called the Startle Reflex. The newborn was used to being snug and tight inside the womb, and the world of open spaces gave it a fear of flying apart. I didn’t want to say this to Cassie now, but after the miscarriage, my head had felt so full, my arms so empty, and my brain so mad and disjointed, I felt that I might fly apart, limbs shooting off in odd directions.
‘You were a victim,’ she said. ‘But that’s not what you want to be for ever.’
I nodded. The knowledge that she was adopted made her more vulnerable, and I wanted to make it right for her – make something right. I said, ‘I’d like to speak to George – and his parents. Explain myself. If that’s alright with you.’
‘It’s not necessary,’ she said. ‘I’ll do that. When the time is right.’ She added, ‘I hope you and Tim get back together.’
She really was being very kind to me. I felt a rush of affection. Vivica hadn’t lied. ‘Thanks, Cass.’
I followed her inside – we’d been speaking on the doorstep. There were three cardboard boxes in the hallway. I jumped at the chance to be useful. ‘Do you want me to carry those somewhere for you?’ I said.
She shook her head. ‘They’re full of George’s CDs. Kraftwerk, that kind of thing. I packed them up yesterday and I’m going to ask him to come and collect them tomorrow.’
I gulped. ‘Isn’t this happening a bit fast?’
She laughed. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? This marriage has been on the slide for a couple of years.’
I sighed.
‘What?’
‘Cassie, are you really going to be a single parent?’
Cassie made a face. ‘George’s mother, Sheila, used to say that when George was tiny, she found it worse to have Ivan in the house, doing the wrong thing with the baby, than when he worked late and she had to do everything herself.’
‘I feel like this is my fault.’
‘No,’ said Cassie, sounding stern. ‘This is between George and me. The baby will still have male influence in its life. I’ll do a Liz Hurley. Appoint ten godfathers. Peter-the-Hairdresser can be the Elton John figure. Greg from Hound Dog can be Hugh Grant. Rakish. Tim can—’
‘Tim and I are not together,’ I said.
‘He is still top of my list as a godfather,’ Cassie replied.
‘Really?’ I said. ‘Then I won’t mention the time he scared Tomas to death by letting him watch a Halloween episode of The Simpsons, then freaked him out for a week by saying, “You mustn’t be scared of skeletons, Tomas, you have a skeleton inside you!”.’
‘Nonetheless,’ she said.
‘Fine –’ I was scared of her, but I couldn’t let it go – ‘but, anyway, there’s a difference, isn’t there, between an influence and a father. I worry that if George is feeling hostile towards you because of . . . misinformation . . . well. I would feel terrible if that had affected his relationship with his own child. He has to know that the baby is his. It’s wrong to let him think otherwise.’ I could hear the pleading in my voice. ‘If he’s a parent, you can’t keep that from him. To be a parent, and to not have the joy of knowing it, of being it, it’s—’
Now Cassie was shaking her head and holding up her hand for me to stop talking, but I just had to say one more thing. ‘And you can’t keep it from the baby. Unless the parents are abusive, the best influence for a baby is the real parents. It’s about blood, Cassie. No godfather is going to feel the same bond as—’
‘Lizbet,’ said Cassie, ‘do you seriously think that Mummy and Daddy are going to let the Hershlags continue believing that the baby isn’t theirs, for more than five minutes?’
She stopped. And I realised what I’d said. I’d blithely confirmed that love was about nature, and nurture could go hang. When it just wasn’t true, and she and I were the glorious proof of this (though, recently, not so much). I had to tell her I knew, whatever the consequences.
‘Cassie,’ I began. My pulse started to race.
Cassie
Chapter 30
They’d told her.
I flicked my hair while I decided who I was angry with.
No one.
I was pleased. Relieved. She deserved to know. And to hear it from them. But, I felt shaken.
‘Lizbet,’ I said, ‘you do understand why I kept it from you?’
She nodded. ‘I think so.’ Her lips trembled. ‘I mean, I still am your sister, aren’t I?’
My heart melted to a red sludge, and I got up – slowly so as not to faint and botch the gesture – and hugged her. ‘Lizbet,’ I said, ‘you are my sister, my best s
ister, and nothing could ever change that. Even if my birth mother had had ten other girls.’ I paused. ‘She didn’t though. She had no other children at all.’
Lizbet pulled away from the hug, her eyes red, and said, ‘Oh, Cass. You were her only one. You must have been so special. To have your baby and be forced to give it up – the opposite of how it’s supposed to be! And now! And now she’ll never know that . . . her baby came back!’ She flopped her head onto the arm of the sofa and sobbed.
I stared, bewildered. I’d expected her to be upset. But I’d expected her to be upset for her loss. Not that I was going anywhere, yet there had to be a psychological loss, of knowing that our bond was nurture, but not nature. And then, of course, I realised that she was upset for her loss. As a sister. But more as a mother.
Finally, she sat up. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘But I feel it. I feel it, so deeply, for both of you. The pain. And for you – to have been that close, to have so nearly made it . . .’
She flopped on the sofa again. Then sprang up. ‘I wish you would have told me. No wonder it was so hard when I was preg . . .’
‘It’s ok,’ I said.
‘No it isn’t!’ Lizbet was trying to sip from a glass of water, but she was trembling so hard, it kept slopping into her lap. ‘It’s not ok. Stop pretending it is!’
If I didn’t take charge, Lizbet would spin around in chest-beating circles for the rest of the afternoon. ‘I realise,’ I said carefully, ‘that this is a huge shock. It’s bound to feel surreal. It’s not going to be a set of facts to which you’re going to be able to adjust—’
‘Cassie,’ murmured Lizbet, ‘we grew up together. Please stop talking to me like I was opposite counsel.’
‘Opposing counsel. Am I? I don’t mean to!’ Maybe formality was a shield to hide behind. ‘It’s just a way of speaking . . . efficiently . . .’ I tailed off, and we both giggled.
Then Lizbet frowned. ‘I think – there are too many thoughts – but now I know you’re adopted, I think, I see our childhood, no – I re-see our childhood, er, no—’