A Tale of Two Sisters

by Anna Maxted

  But it took me fifty minutes. Money for old rope!

  The rest of the week was a little less frenetic. I dithered about sending Tim the love note – the thought of him receiving it flustered me. I tried to distract myself, but it was hard. Every decision I made reminded me of him. My birthday was on a Sunday this year, so I decided to take a day off in lieu. Tim would approve, I thought, before I could stop myself. I already worked from home on Mondays and Tuesdays, so I decided to have Wednesday off too, make it a five-day weekend.

  ‘But that’s press day!’ said the editor. ‘We put the magazine to bed that day! You have to be here!’

  ‘Kat,’ her name was Kathryn, but she preferred Kat (for some reason). ‘I’m sorry to bore you with my personal problems,’ I said, and her ears twanged. ‘I split up with my partner, Tim, after a personal . . . upset. I’m hoping for a reconciliation. But if not –’ I paused – ‘I may have to fight him for custody of our cat, Sphinx. I need Wednesday off to assess my position.’

  ‘Gosh! How stressful! Poor you! I didn’t realise there was a child involved! That changes everything! You should have said! Oh, my! Have Thursday off too! And Friday! Compassionate leave!’

  ‘There isn’t a— Oh. I see. Thank you! Ok, I will!’

  My pre-birthday holiday passed without incident – except that on Friday I posted the note to Tim. Which meant I spent Saturday, my Birthday Eve, feeling sick. At least I didn’t have to make an effort to look less than hideous and ill. Fletch was engrossed in an affair with a new woman – she was eighteen and wore braces on her teeth – and he was spending every spare moment at her university digs. Apart from the obvious, I think he got a kick out of being back at college.

  Cassie rang, and Tabitha rang, and Vivica – all questions and fuss about the seaside trip. I liked it that such a simple idea was so exciting to everyone. Every person has particular childhood memories of the seaside, and yet it probably means almost exactly the same thing to all of us. Cassie and Barnaby were going in his mimosa-yellow Triumph Spitfire GT6 (a real baby car – not). Tabitha and Jeremy had a Volvoful of children ‘and the only way to stop Celestia from crying is for me and Jeremy to sing “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” (awimba-weh!) for an hour solid,’ and so Vivica and Geoffrey were giving me a lift.

  ‘We’ll pick you up at nine sharp, Daddy says,’ Vivica told me.

  I was glad that there would be a limited amount of time between waking up on my birthday (alone, giftless, in a bed that didn’t belong to me) and having company. Of course, Geoffrey being Geoffrey, there was a sharp rap on the door at eight. God’s sake! I had one point of a triangle of peanut buttered toast jammed in my mouth, my hair was flat at the back where I’d slept on it, and I was still in my pyjamas. (In my defence, I can go from nasty to nice in fifteen minutes – hairwash included.)

  I opened the door without bothering to remove the triangle of toast, probably to make a point. Also they were the ones who had to cry, ‘Happy Birthday!’

  ‘Happy birthday,’ said Tim. He was holding the latest issue of Pussies Galore! in one hand, and was wearing a massive pink ribbon in his hair – the bow on top of his head – which looked like a fluffy Easter egg.

  My mouth fell open slightly – enough for the triangle of toast to drop onto the floor at his feet. ‘Sorry,’ I mumbled. ‘Thank you! Hello! Hello! Er, what is this?’

  ‘I’m your birthday present.’ He blushed. ‘I didn’t have time to get to the shops.’

  I wiped toast crumbs from the sides of my mouth, and smiled. ‘You’re the only birthday present I want.’ I paused. ‘Apart from the one from a shop.’

  ‘I love you,’ he said.

  ‘I love you,’ I said.

  ‘I know.’ He beamed at me, and held up Pussies Galore!

  ‘You read that, do you?’ I said.

  ‘Your editor biked it to the house.’

  ‘Now why would she do that?’

  Tim flapped the front cover at me. There, in bold,

  WORLD EXCLUSIVE TO PUSSIES GALORE!

  A short prelude to a

  LOVE STORY BY THE INTERNATIONALLY

  ACCLAIMED BESTSELLING AUTHOR

  (AND FELINE FAN)

  ELIZABETH MONTGOMERY.

  ‘Jesus, God,’ I muttered. ‘I forgot to change the ending.’

  ‘The ending hasn’t happened yet,’ said Tim.

  ‘Well, it’s an open ending. It’s the modern way. They sell the cat, and buy a dog. But you have to guess the rest. They might buy it back.’

  ‘I’m not selling Sphinx!’ said Tim. ‘Ah, here we go.’ He cleared his throat, tweaked the pink ribbon, and began to read: ‘“Tim, this is a love letter. I’d like to spell that out . . .”’

  Cassie

  Chapter 42

  Before the baby was born, I overbought on big quilted bodysuits, the sort that transform newborns into yetis. I had a fluffy white one, with hood and bearcub ears. I had a blue fleecy one with silk lining and tiny toggles. I had a yellow one with detachable mittens and booties. I had a soft, beige, duvet-like wrap, and a rainbow of cashmere blankets – and still, I kept buying. Lizbet also went crazy, presenting me with a sheepskin rug for the pram, a moo-cow snow suit lined with polar fleece, and a tiny faux-fur Russian winter hat with earflaps.

  I saw that we thought alike. There wasn’t enough padding in the world for my baby.

  There still isn’t.

  That’s a shock to women like me, spoiled by everything being doable. Being a parent forces you to consider the imperfections of the planet. But it also forces you to note your own lapses as a human being – a pastime I never bothered with before. I was always around grown-ups and my feeling was, if I displeased them, they’d bear their disappointment. It’s not the same with kids. You upset them, your head’s on the block – with your arm wielding the axe. And if you please them, it’s usually by some underhand means – television.

  Your fears and faults meet you head-on. Before, it was easy to avoid them, look at other people, like the sociologist across the road who always parked his car in front of my house. I didn’t care what anyone thought of me – I thought I was near perfect. But when your temper makes a small child cry, you ache to wind that moment back and do it again, right – because for your children to think bad of you is torture.

  I thought George was going to cause no end of trouble with Barnaby, but he didn’t, and that was why.

  He said at the hospital. ‘I don’t want my daughter to grow up thinking her father is a louse. I want her to be proud of me.’

  The birth of my first child was an unusual day.

  I was about to call my sister, when she rang me. ‘Cass! I can’t make it to the seaside. I’m really sorry. But something came up.’ She paused. ‘It has to be dealt with immediately.’ Then she started to laugh.

  Tim was there with her; I knew it. He has the same effect on her as the sun on the sky. I think he always will. Tim’s love makes Lizbet carefree, quite a feat when you’re the parents of month-old twin boys. But I’m impressed with Lizbet – she’s a lot more relaxed than I was. She rang me twenty minutes after the boys were born to say that they were both beautiful but she was concerned that James had a weak chin. I said, ‘All babies have receding chins, darling, it’s to make breastfeeding easier.’ Then I giggled to myself.

  I arrived at the hospital an hour later – Barnaby and George were looking after Sarah (three years, and makes me shine a torch at her feet while she pirouettes) and Joseph (twelve months and an angel from heaven, though his godliness will be tested when he realises his middle name is Clyde). My ex-husband is now quite the child psychologist, having quit the BBC and created an evil empire, Tootle Pips, a music and drama group for babies and toddlers. All the mothers think he’s fabulous. (It’s amazing, what little men need to do to impress women; who did these girls marry?)

  And Barnaby is shaping up to be a fine dad. He adores Sarah and talks to her as a contemporary – ‘Ah! My dear! Would that chocolate lollipops for brea
kfast were the order of the day!’ And he dotes on Joseph whom he is already preparing to be the next star of Tootle Pips. (He’ll take the porky little hand, rap it on the kitchen side and bleat, ‘A pint of milk!’ – rap! rap! rap! – ‘And make it snappy!’.)

  Sometimes, I look at Barnaby, making ‘Moo-OOOSE!’ faces at our son, or playing Grandmother’s Footsteps with Sarah, alongside various dolls, and I think that I saved him from a terrible destiny.

  Lizbet was propped up in bed, a beatific look on her face. I knew that look. We are a mother. It was the look of the Virgin Mary, as depicted by Michelangelo, only more tired. She looked stunned, pale, and in a state of grace. Two tiny red bundles were asleep at the bottom of her bed. Tim was asleep on the floor. I gazed at the twins – each with a shock of orangey blond hair – and I couldn’t stop crying.

  Ah babies, you made us wait.

  ‘They’re perfect,’ I said to Lizbet. ‘They are gorgeous and divine. Look at them.’

  She beamed and said, ‘I’ve just got off the phone to Tabitha. She laughed when I said I’d had boys. She says she feels that people with all girls don’t really have children. I think she meant that girls are easier.’

  ‘Possibly, but then they make up for it as teenagers, I’m told. She’s still a nutcase. So when’s everyone getting here?’

  ‘I fear they’re en route.’

  She rolled her eyes, but I knew she wouldn’t have it any different. That was the point of families. They pestered you when you felt battered half to death and desperate for peace, they burst in with soppy grins, arms of flowers and gifts and silly balloons, creating noise and fuss, passing round the baby like a rugby ball, saying nothing that hadn’t been said a thousand times before in every maternity ward in the world – and everything said, showing you how much they love you, and how rarely they get the chance to reveal the depth of that love.

  My Sarah’s birth day, I was torn between wanting Lizbet to be in the hospital (not in the room – she hadn’t gone through childbirth yet – who was I to ruin the surprise?) and wanting her to spend the entire day making up with Tim. My waters had broken at six that morning, suggesting that a seaside trip was unwise. Also, I’d squeezed into Barnaby’s GT6 the previous afternoon, and become wedged. I’d prised myself out just as he came to my rescue – he said it was like watching a sardine get out of a can.

  I confessed to Lizbet and the parents (though I was tempted to casually update them when the baby was a week old), and they all went bananas. Amid the excitement, we forgot to tell Tabitha, who ended up spending a day at the beach alone with her husband and children. Lizbet said that when Tabitha rang her mobile that evening, she didn’t dare answer. When she got up the courage to listen to her message, she found that her neighbour had discovered that without the supporting yet dissipating force of nannies, friends and relatives diluting the family unit, she, Jeremy and the children managed together ok.

  That day, Lizbet and Tim, and Mummy and Daddy, would have got to the labour ward before I did. I had to reassure them that there was no urgency. They should proceed as normal. My contractions were intermittent. I was going to wash my hair, and then Barnaby and I would call a cab, get to the hospital for lunchtime. Barnaby would call in the evening, to let them know if the baby was on schedule or dragging its heels.

  Twenty minutes later, Barnaby and I were speeding through Central London in the GT6 – him, with his hand on the horn, me with soaking wet hair, my head out of the window like a dog, screaming, ‘Help meeeeeeeeeee!’ Four remarkably medieval hours later, baby Sarah arrived. She was purple, covered in blood and a whitish wax, and her black hair was matted to her round head. Her eyes were puffy and screwed up tight, and her mouth was open in a mighty bellow of rage. I’d delivered a Halloween pumpkin – I was slightly shocked.

  The doctor put her on my chest, and I whispered, ‘Hello, Baby,’ and held her to me.

  She looked right at me, deep into my eyes. It was like an exchange of information, direct from soul to soul, and it took my breath away. I felt a click in my chest, a physical shift, as if something had broken – or maybe was whole again.

  George took her to be weighed. He was trembling.

  ‘You should have been a doctor,’ I said to him, nodding at his green scrubs, and he smiled weakly.

  ‘You did so well, Cass,’ he said. ‘I’m proud of you.’ He hesitated. ‘I didn’t know it would feel like this.’ He shook his head and glanced at Barnaby, who was standing in the corner, also in scrubs, grinning. I saw he felt overwhelmed, and awkward. ‘You can come, if you want,’ George said, gruffly. ‘You might as well.’

  Barnaby stood up, and sat down again. ‘You go,’ he said. ‘You’re the father.’

  George swept out, and there was a new dignity and poise to his bearing (although it could have been the scrubs). I lay back on the pillow, and gazed at the ceiling in a daze, while I was stitched up like a burst seam. I have a daughter, I have a daughter!

  I smiled at Barnaby, and he squeezed my hand. ‘You’re brave,’ he said. ‘I’ve never been so frightened. I don’t think I could have done that.’

  ‘Don’t make me laugh,’ I said.

  ‘How does it feel?’

  He might have been referring to the tears and bruises. But I knew he wasn’t.

  ‘Just . . . right.’

  George returned with Sarah, perfection in a white babysuit, and peacefully asleep. He gently placed her in my arms and ran to call his parents.

  ‘I’ve been relegated,’ said Barnaby, stroking Sarah’s head with the tip of a finger. ‘And rightly so.’

  Baby Sarah took it upon herself to give Barnaby a crash course in advanced parenting, saving every leak from every orifice until the second he held her. She also woke four times a night until she turned one. He took it very well. Alcock wasn’t perfect, however – I suppose it was inevitable. More than once I swayed downstairs at dawn to find my daughter bolt awake, zipping to and fro in her musical swing chair, while Barnaby, lulled to sleep by ‘Frère Jacques’, lay motionless on the couch.

  The first baby is always revered, but I do think that Sarah was blessed. She had two besotted fathers, three and a half sets of doting grandparents (Mummy, Daddy, Sheila, Ivan, Mr and Mrs Alcock, and Sarah Paula’s elderly mother, Valerie, who – the first time Lucille introduced us – fell on me like a bald eagle on a sparrow). Great-Aunt Lucille vied with Great-Aunt Edith to crochet personalised patchwork blankets. I was touched, and made sure to fold them all neatly in a high cupboard. Mummy knew me better, and bulk-bought steadily from Ralph.

  A first baby throws all your relationships into relief with the clarity of a cut diamond. Your parents suddenly loom large – for better or worse – while friends disappear, and who knows if it’s you or them doing the vanishing. There was a great lake of hitherto untapped love sloshing about. I did have my anxieties about Aunt Lizbet. She treated her niece like a Ming vase. And then, she had the second miscarriage, at seven weeks.

  I thought Lizbet might not want to see Sarah. For a while, she didn’t want to see anyone. But three weeks on, Lizbet told me to stop visiting her ‘barren!’. Sarah was eleven months, then – an age at which they make you smile, and make you weep. That child had six teeth and the bite of a wolf. Her screams could pierce an eardrum same as a knitting needle. She slept like she was in training for the SAS. And yet, when Lizbet was as close to hell as a regular person can get, Sarah put her little chubby arms tight round my sister’s neck, and patted her, with soft little baby pats, on the back.

  ‘You know,’ said Lizbet, drawing a deep breath, her eyes shut tight, ‘that just puts the life right back into you.’

  And then – as if she could see into the future – my sister smiled a glimmer of a smile.

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  Epub ISBN: 9781446493564

  Version 1.0

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Published by Arrow 2007

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  Copyright © Anna Maxted 2006

  Anna Maxted has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

  First published in Great Britain in 2006

  by William Heinemann

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9780099439929