by Niki Mackay
She was so absolute in her madness, so absent by it. In some ways that made her more free than I was. I was always just aware enough to look okay. I often toyed with following in my mother’s footsteps. Then I met Naomi and Oliver and it was like someone had switched the lights on.
Naomi was utterly fearless. Marcus fell for her hook, line and sinker, and who could blame him? At sixteen most girls were on the verge of becoming adult, Naomi was already there. A free soul, housed in a body that made all kinds of promises. She broke his heart and laughed while she did it. It wasn’t just that I envied about her, though. It was that she seemed so much more worthy than me, of love, attention. I’d look at her doting, adoring mother and compare her to Ruth. A broken and haunted woman. Naomi always seemed enough for Anthea – as though her life was utterly complete because of her child. I always thought Ruth would have been better off without us kids. Probably my dad too. I’d see her flinch when he touched her. I used to think she’d be better off dead. And then she was.
Bethany looks like Ruth, Martha and me. My mother had strong genes even if everything else about her was weak. I bet Martha dotes on Bethany when she’s well enough. When we were children my sister had a host of dolls, which she was constantly caring for. I was clueless, I’d lose heads, arms, tangle hair with chewing gum. She used to hide them from me so I couldn’t ruin them.
Dean had asked me if I wanted a family at some point and I’d laughed at the idea, shaking my head. He’d asked if it was because of my mother. He’d pushed hard on Ruth and I’d struggled to answer.
I experienced her more as a background presence than an actual person. She was always there physically, but mentally she was off somewhere else. She’d be sitting on the sofa, a vague smile on her beautiful face, upstairs having a lie down, out at an appointment. Barely there, hidden behind a large glass of vodka.
She was immune to us most of the time. Whether we were hurt, fractious or ill. She’d shrug and send us on our way, to our father, the nanny, each other. Marcus took it the hardest, he devised lots of ways to get her attention. None of them worked; good behaviour, bad behaviour, everything went unnoticed. He turned his efforts to Dad instead. I thought about Mum more after she died. When I missed her, or the idea of her.
Dean was relentless with me in searching out a happy memory. For a long time I couldn’t muster any at all. Eventually one came to me. Mum sitting in the garden singing. I was watching her from behind a willow tree. I’d never heard her before. Her voice was arresting. Low and rich. ‘Amazing Grace’ poured out of her like an instrument, sun lit her from behind and she looked like an angel. She saw me watching and stopped. I ran and threw my arms around her before I thought not to and, for the only time I can recall, hers circled me back. I remember inhaling her hair, pressing my hands against her shoulders. I don’t think I had ever been that close. She softly pushed me back and stroked my face.
‘Mummy, you’re beautiful.’
‘So are you, darling.’ And then something changed. I could see it in her eyes. It was as if she came to. The wall came up again. The moment ended. She moved away, adjusting me as she went, so there was space between us. ‘Run and find Anna now.’
I didn’t want to, I wanted her, but when I tried again to reach her she stood, turned and went back into the house. When I told Dean about this he asked me how it made me feel. I told him it was worse than it had ever been before. Before that day I had just assumed she was incapable of affection, mothering, as though something was missing. I realised then that it was there, a maternal instinct, but just out of reach. She died two years later. I never touched her again.
I’m early to meet Claudia. Not Costa this time. It’s going to be a while before I brave going back there. I don’t want to bump into Mrs Andrews again. It’s busy in here. Gaggles of giggly young people, students from the university, I guess. Men in suits who dip in and out with paper cups, not stopping. Women with buggies laden with colourful shapes and jingling bells. Small, bemused babies lost somewhere in the accessories, nuzzled deep in sheepskin throws, their eyes poking out. The end of rush hour. A switchover time.
I am jolted from my nosiness by Claudia. She is dressed well, less formally than before; it suits her better. I stand to greet her and take her drinks order. I watch her while I queue for coffees. She is a head-turner and plenty of men take a second glance. She either ignores it or doesn’t see. Her eyes stare straight ahead at nothing. She is so still she looks like she might not be real.
I pop her coffee down and she smiles. She clicks sweeteners in and watches in horror as I pour sugar freely. I laugh. ‘I know, it’s dreadful. I hope it calms down, but it’s so nice not to be rationed.’
She takes a sip of her coffee. ‘You’re enjoying freedom?’
‘Oh, yes. There are so many little things you take for granted. I’m not watched or monitored – it’s wonderful.’
‘It must be.’ There is a pause; her words seem to echo around us.
I ask her, ‘You met Marcus when you were very young?’
She nods. ‘Yes, twenty-one.’
‘What were you doing then?’
‘Studying.’ She rolls her eyes as she says it as though learning is a silly pastime.
I ask her, ‘What subject?’
She blushes. ‘Law.’
‘Wow.’
She’s shaking her head, colour rises on her cheeks. ‘I didn’t qualify. I don’t practise or anything. I got the degree, first class, would you believe.’ She laughs, getting redder. ‘Marcus was working for James by then and he had a sideline of student lets. A girlfriend and I rented one.’
‘What happened?’ I ask her. ‘Did you change your mind? About law?’
She shrugs, thin shoulders rising under cream cashmere. ‘I graduated, we got married. We both wanted children and Marcus was doing well financially. There didn’t seem much point.’
I think about my brother. His constant need to shine. I’m not sure he would stand to be outdone by his wife. ‘And then Bethany arrived.’ I smile.
‘Yes, she came along almost immediately. Bless her.’
‘No desire for any more?’
Her eyes wander. ‘Not yet.’ She sips at her coffee. ‘Marcus says you sat a degree?’
I shrug. ‘It staved off the boredom.’
‘Still, a big achievement. Especially . . . well, you know, doing it there.’
I had always assumed I’d go to university. Naomi and I had discussed where. Probably London, for the nightlife. I smile at Claudia but it feels strained. ‘It won’t be much use with a record hanging over my head.’
‘Is that why . . .? Marcus told me . . .’ She’s blushing furiously.
‘About the private eye?’
She nods. ‘Sorry, it’s none of my business.’
‘It’s okay, it’s an obvious question, isn’t it?’
She waits while I try and think how to put it. ‘It’s partly the work thing.’ I don’t tell her that I don’t really need to work, not financially. Dad has been awfully generous despite disowning me in every other sense.
‘I assumed some provision had been made.’
I nod. ‘I believe I’m innocent.’
She asks, ‘Why did you confess back then?’ and then apologises straight away.
‘No, it’s fine. I don’t mind you asking. I just wish I could give you a proper answer.’ I struggle, trying to find the words. I think of the things Dean has said about a fugue state. ‘Everyone was saying it was me. I couldn’t remember anything very clearly but I was angry at Naomi. Really angry. Well, you’ve read my diary along with everyone else?’
She nods.
I go on, ‘My lawyer said I was definitely going down, but I’d get less time if I pleaded guilty. Dad said I should do what my lawyer said.’ I sigh. ‘I realise how it sounds.’
‘So why didn’t you tell anyone?�
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‘I told my dad.’
Her eyes widen. ‘You’re kidding?’
‘No. He hasn’t spoken to me since, and he refused to pay the lawyer any more money after I told him.’
She looks appalled. I feel the familiar shame broil in my stomach. Unlovable, unwanted. I hear the girls in prison laughing as another visiting day passed by and I was the only one still on the prison floor.
‘Why?’ Claudia says.
‘He said I needed to accept my situation and get on with it.’
I take a slug of coffee. Embarrassed, though I don’t know why. ‘He wouldn’t take my calls. Never answered my letters. Marcus wrote to me and told me to leave him alone.’
Her eyes are shiny. ‘God, that’s awful.’ I look away, scared I might cry. She asks, ‘What if you’re wrong?’ She blushes immediately, muttering, ‘I’m sorry, it’s none of my business.’
It is the million-dollar question. The one that keeps me up at night. What if I’m just mad? Like Ruth. Like Martha. But worse. Dangerous, murderous mad. I swallow and say, ‘I don’t think I am.’
She smiles, the first genuine one I have seen, I think. It’s not like the Stepford ones I saw at the dinner table. It lights up her face. ‘How exciting!’
‘Oh, I suppose it is! I hadn’t thought about it like that.’
‘You’d have a fresh start.’
I smile back at her. ‘Everyone’s entitled to a few of those.’
‘Do you think?’
Our eyes lock. ‘I do, yes.’
We talk about Bethany for a while; she avoids talking about Marcus when I probe, aside from to reiterate what a great provider he is, and we quickly move on. When I ask after Martha she pauses.
‘She’s not doing well, is she?’ I say.
Claudia shakes her head sadly. ‘I’m afraid not. The last time I saw her she was skin and bone, to be honest.’
‘Marcus says you visit her quite frequently?’
She shrugs. ‘I do try. Especially when she’s . . . you know.’
‘Is she in Sandcross a lot?’
She nods. ‘Yes, her stays seem more frequent. I’m sorry, that’s probably not what you want to hear, is it?’
‘But Dad looks after her?’
She shrugs. ‘I think he does his best.’
‘Marcus?’
‘He’s very busy with work, to be honest.’ Claudia looks away, not quite meeting my eye. Maybe I’m not the only one they’re ashamed of.
My coffee’s cold. I down the last of it anyway. ‘She doesn’t want to see me, you know.’
Claudia gives me a sympathetic look. ‘Maybe you should just show up?’
‘It’s up to her, isn’t it? I’m not going to go inflicting myself.’ I sound like a petulant child, even to my own ear. Claudia pats my hand and I blink away tears.
16.
Madison Attallee
I wake up suddenly, eyes pinging open, limbs jolting. I gasp. I feel as if I can’t breathe, like I’m suffocating on nothing but air. It’s a panic attack. Plain, simple, tragic and boring. I was known at the station as the Ice Maiden. The impenetrable DI. I led my team into horrific crime scenes and sat through children’s autopsies. I watched other officers faint, cry and leave. I stood it all out, becoming tougher with each case. Now I am here. Lying shivering, drenched in a film of cold, sticky sweat. Unable to swing my legs out of the bed and fucking walk. Basics. Such sodding stupid basics. They are normal – the panic attacks – for someone in my ‘situation’.
I’ve been talked through them. I know what to do. Wait. Breathe. In and out. And in and out. And in and out. I do this. Eyes glued firmly on the white ceiling, trying to rid myself of the overwhelming feeling that I’m about to die, that I’m caught up in an early death show. A warm up to the final bastardly act. Only it’s not. It’s all in my stupid head. I don’t know how long I’ve been lying still, breathing, but I can feel my heart slowing down and my skin stops burning hot and cold. Finally, I can get out of bed.
I strip the sheets, pillowcases, duvet cover and shove them in the washing machine. I stand for a moment enjoying the cool feel of the kitchen floor on my feet. It’s the second Saturday of the month. I get two court-designated hours with Molly this morning. I get them every fortnight and I always wake up the same way. It’s ridiculous really, to be so scared of my own child. But she has the power to break me in a way nothing else does.
I was scared even when she was little, though I wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone. Not in a million years. I remember the first day Rob went back to work and I was left there on maternity leave. It should have been Rob – I thought that right from the start – with his calm voice and big welcoming arms. The perfect father, and a better parent than I was ever going to be.
He left that morning and I was at the door, Molly in my arms, in my ratty old dressing gown, waving him off for the day. I put her down in her little Moses basket and then I sat and cried solidly for an hour. It was the weight of her. The responsibility. By the fourth week I had discovered that a few glasses of wine in the day passed the time, made the colicky bellows less harsh. But always when Rob got home, I was there. Dressed. Make-up on. Waiting, a smile plastered on my face. I was the one with the womb, after all.
When I finally went back to work, I knocked the glasses of wine on the head. From one extreme to another, but I was absolutely intent on proving I wasn’t my mother. No way would I be Charlotte Attallee. I didn’t touch a drop and I wasn’t to pick up another drink until Molly was five. It was important to prove to myself that I was fine. Those dry five years said to me that I was unafflicted with alcoholism. The demon that made my mother so lacking in self-control and dignity. But I worked instead of drinking. Long hours, progressing quickly. Extra shift? My hand went up. I rose rapidly through the ranks. Leaving Molly at nursery was never a problem for me, though I made the right noises. What I felt every morning when I walked away from my tiny baby daughter was relief.
Which isn’t to say I didn’t love her. God knows I loved her. I was just so scared of her. I secretly knew I wasn’t up to it. As if there may be some genetic link to shit parenting. It wasn’t all bad. The older she got, the easier I found it, but by that time Rob was firmly established in his role as the good one. When she cried, she wanted him and he swooped right in. I’ve wondered, since our divorce, about how much Rob likes to rescue. I thought he was my saviour, but sometimes I think he was a barrier to my child.
He’s on time. I can see him out in reception. My caseworker is smiling at him. Giggling at something he’s said. Women love my husband. They always have. Then she is there. Small, but so much bigger than she was a fortnight ago. All blonde hair and flushed cheeks. She comes in and heads straight to me, leaning in for a hug. This is a good, good day. I hold on, as if for dear life. Her skinny little shoulders are the best thing I’ve ever put my arms around. It’s not always like this. At first she wouldn’t even look at me. But she kept coming. And that has to mean something, right?
‘Hello, Madison.’ Her own bit of justice – I haven’t been Mummy for nearly a year. The ‘Mummeees’ used to drive me mad. Now I would give anything to hear them. Careful what you wish for.
I ask how her week’s been and she thinks seriously for a moment and tells me the ins and outs of who is friends with who and who is being left out (I’m glad it’s not her). I ask what she’s been doing and she says she’s been very busy with Daddy and Janet. I ask who Janet is and she looks at me like I’m stupid and says, ‘Daddy’s girlfriend.’
I nod and manage to avoid being sick in front of her. I’m distracted for the rest of the visit and I hate myself for it, but she chatters on and hugs me again when it’s time to go. I hold on a second too long and she says, ‘Ow, Mummy, you’re hurting me.’
Mummy. I giggle and pretend to chase her with squeezy arms. She squeals in delight and then
she’s gone. I’m left sitting alone. An ache in my heart and a bittersweet feeling.
Janet. The only Janet I can think of is someone Rob works with. She’s been at a few of his office events. I half remember a dark-haired woman about my age. Did she fancy my husband? Would I have even noticed? I’m not jealous. Not of Rob. That right disintegrated a long time ago. But Molly. My little Molly. I’m assaulted by images of them as a family, walking along hand in hand, some other woman doing the whole mum thing with my daughter. And doing it better, no doubt. It wouldn’t be hard. Anything would be better than two measly hours every fortnight in a contact centre.
Next I get to see my shrink. He’s a few doors along in this awful government building. Blood is taken, to check I’m on the straight and narrow. To check my cleanliness. Any tainted blood, which means alcohol, narcotics, prescription drugs I haven’t been given legitimately, and my situation with Molly will be reassessed.
He comes in. Dr Abanol, cool, calm, collected. I immediately feel a wreck. The sweating doesn’t help. But I have my ‘doing just fine’ shit-eating grin plastered across my face. He smiles. ‘Madison, how wonderful to see you.’ His eyes do their usual flick up my legs. I’m wearing trousers today. I hope it’s a disappointment.
‘How was Molly?’
‘Fine, fine. It was lovely to see her.’
‘That’s good.’ More smiling. Perfectly sized white teeth. A dashing contrast with his olive skin. Not a hair out of place. My own bleached frizz is a mess. I’m quite sure I can feel it expanding with perspiration.
‘And how are you?’ Here comes the earnest look. Dark eyebrows knit together revealing one neat small line. His stupid, fucking head tilts to one side. The perfect picture of concern and empathy.
I mirror the look back as I always do, tilting my own head. I put on my pondering face. Intently thinking about the question in hand, as though I’m not asked it every two fucking weeks. I never tell him that I’m pissed off. Or that I fantasise about hurting Rob. That I miss the adrenalin of my job.