The Squeeze

by Lesley Glaister

  I was surprised she hadn’t mentioned that she had a child.

  ‘You didn’t say you had a wife,’ she pointed out. ‘Come.’ She led me down the hall and opened a door to show me a narrow room lit by a glow-worm night light, a little head on a pillow, face turned away. Toys and crumpled clothes on the floor, the smell of sleeping child.

  I saw her differently as she made coffee. Clumsy from the drink maybe, but still, a mother. She was built like a woman in an old movie: forties or fifties, waist and hips and breasts, curves and hollows that Nina just did not have. I was relieved that Rita also stayed for coffee; she was a small woman, intense, her skin lined, her cheeks red, her eyes bright. When she got up to leave, I pulled myself upright too.

  ‘Don’t let me break up the party,’ she said, but I knew I must drag myself away from the warmth and the big rumpled sofas before something happened that I would regret.

  Alis

  We lay on the tulips cover listening to voices in the house below us, and a toilet flushing many times very loudly and water rushing down a pipe as if it would come right into our room.

  Marta said she needed the toilet.

  I got up and knocked on the door. I needed toilet too. I shouted this but no one came so I lay down again.

  Marta put her hand on her pussy and cried because she was broken.

  How did they get you? I asked her.

  For a long time she said nothing and I thought she was asleep but then she whispered. She told me about a man who bought roses for her Mama. Her Mama, she believed in this man, believed that he was good, that Marta could go with him to the UK and make a better life, send money home. They believed she would be a teacher in the UK and maybe marry a British citizen.

  But then one day Marta’s Mama she saw sense, maybe, and she told Marta, No, you must not go. First, Marta’s Mama wanted to find out more about this man, this Pavel. When Marta told him this he took her out for coffee to talk about it and next thing she woke up on the ship.

  Tears ran into her mouth when she told me this.

  I told her she must be realistic. She must learn to hide behind her face and make it smile. It’s only your body, I said to her, as Mama said to me. It’s not your heart and not your soul. These will not break.

  I prayed and asked her to pray with me and she did but she doesn’t believe. Her Tata said there was no god.

  I never knew my father. Maybe he was a good man. Maybe he was a motherfucking pimp.

  Only God knows this.

  Mats

  Three weeks later, Nina visited for the weekend. I met her at the airport. When she came through the arrivals gate she looked so good. I was proud she was my wife. Her smart black coat and boots, the pale shine on her lips, her slanting ice-blue eyes searching for me. She looked so fresh among the crumpled travellers. I kissed her and she tasted of peppermint – she always sucked a candy on a flight to equalise the pressure in her ears. I love the way you get to know these things about a person, small details like this.

  Back at my apartment, she walked round examining things.

  ‘You need more lamps,’ she said. ‘And cushions. It’s cold in here.’

  Nina was right. Compared to our apartment in Oslo it was draughty, and the cold was damp, hard to dispel. The big central lights cast a flat and gloomy light. In the kitchen she unpacked marsipankake, brunost and home-baked cookies sent by Mor. Our families were always close, spending Christmas and holidays together. My folks were so happy when we got married, so happy to call Nina their daughter-in-law. Mor told me she had wished for this since we were children.

  Nina and Mor played tennis together each week. Sometimes we played doubles: Mor and me against Far and Nina; quite an even match. My parents were upset with me for moving away. They thought I was leaving Nina behind, though they must have known this was not the case. I knew they were impatient for a baby to come; though they would never have put this pressure on us.

  Once she’d made a list of stuff for me to buy, we went out to eat. I’d been researching the right place and had asked Fergus for suggestions, but he’d just laughed. ‘Can’t remember, pal. So long since we went out on the town.’ His twins were bad sleepers and his eyes baggy and shadowed. When I asked Vivienne, she suggested a wine bar called Valentine’s. It had a good reputation for food and was nearby. Handy, she said, a nice English expression.

  I thought we might make love first – three whole weeks – but Nina would not even take off her coat.

  ‘You need a better mirror,’ she told me, coming out of the bathroom. And, ‘Later,’ she said, turning her head when I tried to kiss her.

  The place was filled with colour from the bottles of spirits, the cocktail menus, stained glass and shiny brass. It was packed with Friday-night people and almost too noisy to talk. Not a good choice, but I could see why Vivienne would like it. ‘Somewhere else?’ I suggested, but Nina shook her head. It was late already, she pointed out, and she had worked all day, driven to the airport, and then flown to Edinburgh. She was tired and hungry – I should have realised that. I should have known to take her somewhere quiet; it was my mistake. She did not say it; she did not have to.

  There were tables on a mezzanine overlooking the bar and at last we were seated with our menus. Nina was tense and answered my questions briefly, but once our food and wine had come – chicken salads, chips, white wine – she relaxed and at last she smiled.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t feel so good.’ She had her period and a cold coming.

  ‘I will look after you,’ I said. ‘Lots of sleep.’

  ‘No, we should see the city,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a list.’

  I smiled and took her hand. That was my Nina!

  ‘I wish we were at the cabin now,’ I said. Remembering something Fergus often said, I looked up at the ceiling. ‘Beam us up, Scotty!’

  She nodded. ‘I was there last weekend,’ she told me. With her fork, she picked up a piece of avocado and studied it before putting it in her mouth.

  ‘You didn’t say.’ I was surprised. We had talked on Friday and on Sunday nights and she had mentioned nothing of this.

  ‘On your own?’ I said.

  ‘The roof needs work,’ she said. ‘It’s an early thaw. Very drippy.’

  ‘Far will fix it,’ I said. ‘Ring him. They could go down for the weekend. And you with them.’ I had never known her to go on her own.

  She nodded.

  ‘Maybe I’ll fly back next weekend,’ I said. ‘If I leave lunchtime we could go together.’

  I wanted nothing more in that noisy place with drunken Scottish voices yelling all around us, I wanted nothing more than a quiet weekend at the cabin with the snow sliding from the roof. I love the shush of this; the sound that tells us spring is on the way.

  ‘Not next weekend,’ she said. ‘We must stick to the schedule.’ We had a timetable of visits once every three weeks, taking turns to travel. When we’d arranged it, three weeks had not sounded so very long, but that first three weeks alone in Edinburgh had felt like months.

  She had been treating a footballer with a knee injury and she told me about the difficulties. And there was a skier, a champion, taking up her time. She had played tennis with Mor and two other women. She had lost a kilo and decided to repaint the bathroom floor.

  ‘And what about you?’ she said. ‘Have you made friends?’

  I told her about Fergus and his family – boys of four and two, as well as the new twins and an exhausted ghost of a wife. They had invited me to a welcome dinner at their house, but it had been a mistake. The dinner was late, the other guests had not come and at least one of the babies was crying for the whole evening so that Karen was in a frantic state. She was burning and dropping things and snapping at Fergus, who poured drinks too fast, then almost fell asleep during the dessert.

  ‘Come back in five years,�
� Karen called after me as I left. I think it was not a joke. On the doorstep, Fergus, full of whisky, pulled a face, clapped me on the shoulder, said, ‘Sorry pal,’ and tried to shut the door before I was properly outside.

  ‘If that doesn’t put you off breeding, nothing will,’ he’d said to me on the Monday. But it had not. Of course I did not want four children close together like this. And Nina would manage better than Karen, she would not allow such chaos or such mess. She would not come apart. And I would do so much. She could work and I could stay at home if she preferred, for a few months at least.

  ‘The contract is only a year,’ I said to Nina, over coffee. ‘Maybe we could start trying for a baby in a few months? Then I’ll be home for the birth.’

  She said nothing. I felt a tap on my shoulder, saw Nina’s eyes widen, and there was Vivienne. She was wearing a fur jacket, a strange netted hat with a veil across her eyes, her big curvy lips painted crimson. ‘Fancy dress,’ she shouted. ‘Who am I?’

  She jutted one hip forward, and puffed on a cigarette with her head tilted back. I had no idea but—

  ‘Betty Grable?’ Nina guessed.

  ‘You got it!’ Vivienne peered at her for a moment through her netted veil. ‘We’re off to a party.’ She waved vaguely in the direction of the bar. ‘Just stopped off for a bevvy on the way. Hey, why don’t you come?’

  I shook my head. ‘Nina’s tired.’

  ‘Thank you but no,’ Nina said.

  ‘See you on Monday then,’ Vivienne said and was gone. Nina watched her push herself into the crowd.

  ‘The receptionist,’ I explained.

  ‘Not a friend?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Mats, you should get out and meet people,’ she said. ‘Join a tennis club maybe?’

  ‘There’s a squash court at work,’ I said.

  She smiled and squeezed my arm. ‘I don’t want you to be lonely.’

  *

  On Sunday evening at the departure gates, I held her tight. ‘I’ll miss you,’ I said. She returned my hug, then pulled away.

  ‘Listen, Mats. While you’re here, I want you to be free.’

  I stared at her pale face, nose a little red from her cold, eyes clear and with no colour.

  ‘Excuse us.’ A large couple with an enormous flotilla of wheeled suitcases trundled between us.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ Nina said. ‘They will pay the same price for their ticket as I pay for mine and they must each weigh twice as much as me.’

  ‘What do you mean, “free”?’

  ‘To do what you want.’ Her eyes were narrow, reflecting nothing.

  ‘You mean sex? But I don’t want . . .’

  ‘I must go through.’ She was looking at the gate now.

  ‘You mean you want,’ I said.

  We stood in silence as people barged and hefted and edged their luggage round us.

  ‘I must go,’ she said again. Her flight was called and maybe I caught a flicker of relief in her expression.

  She started to move away. I grabbed her wrist. Thin wrist in black leather.

  ‘The cabin,’ I said, ‘who was with you?’

  Her face flinched.

  I let her go.

  I let her go.

  She looked back once. I hadn’t moved. After she’d gone I waited in the airport till her flight had taken off. I went outside and tilted my head back and listened for the engine’s roar. Above the airport lights you could not make out the stars.

  Alis

  In the morning a woman unlocked the door and put her head into the tulip room. She had a big face and big, big, black hair. She let us use the toilet and the shower with gel that smelled of oranges. We sat in the kitchen and she gave us bags of chips all warm and wet with vinegar. The woman spoke nicely about the weather and made us coffee. Her hands were puffy with gold rings on every finger, digging in. She smelled of hair spray. The radio was giving taxi numbers and traffic jams and weather between the music.

  She said we must be good and not let Auntie Deirdre down.

  Yes, of course, I said. I kicked Marta under the table and she said yes too. But then she cried and said it was all a big mistake. She thought she was coming to the UK to teach Romanian to English children.

  Auntie Deirdre laughed and laughed. What a good joke! Why would English children want to learn Romanian? She had purple lipstick on her big yellow teeth.

  I wanted to laugh too at stupid Marta.

  Auntie Deirdre said that Dr Hari was coming soon to check us over and give us contraceptive implants. We don’t want any little accidents, do we? She told us to make sure punters wear condoms or else pay a bonus. Auntie Deirdre smiled nicely at us. She offered us cigarettes. That day I thought it was not so bad there; she was not so bad.

  Even I thought that!

  Dr Hari was thin and young with brown skin, Indian maybe. He didn’t smile or talk to us. He made us lie on a bed in a cold room. He put his cold fingers inside with glove on. He took swabs and he put implants in our arms. For me it was quick but Marta tried to keep her knees shut. Dr Hari and Deirdre held them open and Marta fought and cried till Auntie Deirdre slapped her.

  Marta said to the doctor to please help her get away and go home to her Mama, this is all a big mistake.

  So stupid I could not bear to look.

  Of course she was punished for this, and me too. This was not fair. Four filthy pigs. Marta cried all the time and got hit in the back and belly and arm twisted behind her back till I thought it would break. By making this silly fuss she was putting her family in danger, Auntie Deirdre said. She must think of their safety and behave.

  When we were back in our room she put her hands between her legs and curled up like an animal and sob, sob, sobbed.

  I tried to hug her but she didn’t want.

  Even I was sore. One of the men was very rough.

  Then she slept and I slept. When we woke we lay together under the tulips. It was still dark. I do not like the dark but it is not so bad when someone is there. We held hands tight. I could see the bright of her eyes staring upwards. Tiny dots of stars through glass.

  Two

  1992

  Vivienne

  click

  OK. Here we go. This is weird. Record yourself, she said. Actually she said I should write it, but I don’t like writing. So I’ll record. Same difference. Sue said OK. Said it would have the same therapeutic benefit. Where to start . . . Just start. Just talk. Just start.

  click

  Shouldn’t have listened to that. Can anyone stand the sound of their own voice?

  click

  OK. Went to Sue the Counsellor because of the toad. Because Mats made me. That or else. Else what I don’t know.

  Anyway. OK.

  Mats.

  Mats is my husband but . . . How can I describe him? You know that game: if someone was a dog what kind of dog would they be? Well, he’d be a Labrador, a really soft one, one that would never bite, not to save his life. He’s your original tall, dark, handsome type. Black hair longish, pushed back, cheekbones, jawline. He’s got it all going on. Tall, rangy is the word – looks great in a suit – not fat at all but big, big all over if you get my drift. Fit. Yup, a catch. And sweet with it – flowers, treats for Artie, you name it. When he started work with us all the girls fancied him right off. Rita too, eyes goggling like marbles, like they were going to roll right out of her head. He was a catch all right. And if I hadn’t caught him someone else would have. It was like there was a row of fielders behind me, hands cupped, all set, but I wasn’t letting him past. Oh no.

  He was in Edinburgh to do a temporary job for the company, fancy free, I thought. I think I thought.

  click

  Told Sue this wasn’t working, hadn’t made any difference to my mood levels. She said, persevere.


  click

  Anyway, at first we were happy. It was, well it was brilliant, like a dream. Whirlwind romance, quickie wedding in Mexico – talk about romantic! – and a new house in Morningside near a good school. Morningside! Me! Mats was fantastic with Artie, who was five when we got together. It was almost as if he was hungry for a kid. Nothing funny about it, I don’t mean like that. Not Mats, he’s straight as they come. Straight as a die whatever a die is.

  He just wanted to be a dad. And what a good one he is.

  Arthur’s dad, well. OK, quick detour. Is this relevant? Dunno. Anyway, decided to go it alone, biological clock going bonkers, no one on the horizon. Didn’t want or need a man, then anyway. Did it all unofficially – you wouldn’t believe the hurdles you have to jump to do it through the proper channels. The proper channels! Well, my channels were functioning all right; bull’s eye first time. Of course, I do wonder about the dad. What I do know – he’s 5’11”, brown hair, blue eyes, a university professor, some kind of ology.

  Arthur’s got my eyes, greenish, and fairish, nondescript hair, which mine would be if I left off the Nice’n Easy. He definitely looks like my child. £500 I paid for him basically, for the makings of him. Anyway it worked. To cut a long story short, Artie was born; five years went by, and Mats came on the scene.

  Soon Artie was asking if he could call Mats ‘Daddy’. And Mats was so delighted, he took him to Legoland, just the two of them on a boys’ weekend and they came back very bonded. I sometimes wonder if Artie prefers Mats to me. We’re good cop/bad cop parents, and guess which is which?