Untitled Book 3

by Susan Elliot Wright

‘Then you could offer to go with her to the cemetery at Chislehurst.’

  ‘No. No I don’t think that would be a good idea.’ She got up to see to her toast.

  ‘Why not think about it for a bit? I know things haven’t been easy between you two, especially since she found out.’

  She meant when Eleanor confronted her with the death certificate and she’d ended up telling her she’d put him in the water. She flicked her head to loosen the memory.

  ‘But when you think about what Eleanor’s been through, and what you went through with Peter, well, it seems to me . . .’ Her hand strayed towards Marjorie’s cigarettes, then she pulled it back. She was determined to give up this time, she’d said. Marjorie admired her but half hoped she’d fail – she liked to smoke in company. ‘It seems to me you’ve both suffered a similar thing. A mother losing a child – it’s such a terrible loss, and only someone who’s been through it can really understand. I thought, if the two of you went to Peter’s grave together, you could go with her to see Sarah’s. And I’m sure things could be easier between you if—’

  ‘Peggy, I know you think everyone should talk about everything bad that’s ever happened to them, but it’s not always the best way.’

  ‘That’s not what I’m getting at.’

  ‘No, listen. I know you mean well, but sometimes it’s better not to bring everything out in the open. She’s not long lost her baby; if I start trying to drag her along to visit her brother’s grave, it’s bound to upset her. She’s only just started to eat again, don’t forget.’

  ‘I know, but you need to reassure her.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that not only does she blame herself for Peter, she blames herself for this as well.’

  ‘But it was a cot death.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Marjorie. Have you not been listening? Was the room the right temperature, should she have put her on her back instead of her front, should she have fed her more often, less often. The poor girl’s going mad with it, and you haven’t said a word.’

  ‘But I’ve done whatever—’

  Peggy shook her head. ‘You’re looking after her marvellously, but you haven’t said a word, and sometimes you actually try to shut her up when she mentions it.’

  ‘That’s not true!’

  ‘It is, Marjorie. The other evening when you both came up to me for dinner, she asked if you thought it was possible that there was something about her milk that the baby could have been allergic to and you pretended you hadn’t heard; you got up and started clearing the dishes.’

  Had she really done that? But then the memory crept back. ‘I just thought . . . I thought it would upset her.’

  ‘But Marjorie,’ Peggy spoke gently, ‘I’d bet a month’s wages it’s upsetting her more that you won’t talk about it. And I don’t think you’ve talked to her about Peter, have you?’

  Marjorie felt the tears behind her eyes.

  ‘You’ve both lost a baby; you don’t have to lose each other as well.’

  Marjorie didn’t move. Had she avoided talking to Eleanor because doing so forced her back into her own memory of that day? Her recollection had always been slightly hazy, possibly because of the sedatives she’d been given so soon afterwards. And she’d never wanted it to be clearer; it was easier, more comfortable not to remember, and she assumed it would be the same for Eleanor. But perhaps Peggy was right; perhaps she’d done more harm than good. And now she had a chance to try to make things better between them. Maybe she should ask about the baby; she could ask to see a photograph – Eleanor didn’t know she already had one.

  ‘Marjorie?’

  She looked at Peggy. ‘You’re sure I should ask her to come to the cemetery? You don’t think it’ll upset her terribly?’

  ‘Of course it will – it is upsetting. It’s a terrible, terrible tragedy. But when something hurts that much, not bringing it out into the open won’t make it hurt any less. In fact, keeping it festering away inside probably makes it hurt more.’

  She thought about it, imagined going down to Eleanor’s room, knocking on the door. She tried to think how she would start, how she would phrase it.

  ‘Just try it.’ Peggy stood up. ‘I need to go. Ken’s coming home tonight, though God knows why. I’m not used to dealing with him midweek.’ She pushed her chair in. ‘Talk to her, see what she says.’

  Marjorie sighed. ‘Maybe you’re right. I’ll go down now and see if she’s awake.’

  Peggy smiled. ‘I think you’ll feel better afterwards. See you later.’

  Marjorie made Eleanor a fresh mug of tea. The house felt unusually quiet as she walked down the stairs; there was an increased sense of emptiness. Maybe she’d gone out already; she sometimes went out walking very early and then had a nap later. ‘Eleanor?’ She knocked and opened the door.

  The room was empty. The bed was neatly made and an envelope with Mum written on the front sat waiting on the pillow. She took out the folded A4 sheet. The writing was messy, nowhere near as neat as Eleanor’s usual hand, but Marjorie had always been good at deciphering near-illegible handwriting.

  17th June 1984

  Dear Mum,

  Sorry to leave without saying goodbye but I wasn’t sure how you’d react. You have been very kind, and I’m not sure how I would have got through the last few months without you. I was annoyed with Peggy when she said she’d told you, but now I’m glad, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you myself. I know it must have been difficult for you to have me living here again, especially under the circumstances.

  It’s exactly six months since I lost Sarah, and I know it’s also fifteen years today since Peter died. You’ve always said you never blamed me, and I’m sure that, in your head, you don’t. But in your heart you know that if it hadn’t been for me, he’d still be alive. Since Sarah died, I’ve wanted to die too, and I don’t know how I would have coped if I’d had another child to care for, as you did. I’m amazed you were able to do anything for me at all. As I’m sure you must know, I blame myself for Sarah’s death, despite what the inquest said. I keep telling myself they were just being kind. The thing is, I was so nervous, so worried about being responsible for her, that I’m sure I must have made a mistake with her feeds or something. That’s bad enough to cope with. But I keep wondering how I would feel if it had been someone else who was in charge of her, and I think that even if it had been someone I loved, and even if it had been absolutely clear that it wasn’t the person’s fault, a tiny part of me might still blame that person. Do you see what I mean? I might not be able to help blaming them, even if I loved them, and even if I knew it couldn’t be their fault. So what I’m saying is, I don’t blame you for blaming me, if that makes any sense.

  I wish we could have talked about Peter and Sarah. Maybe we will be able to one day. But at the moment, I think it’s because we have this same experience that – well, not the same, but you know what I mean – that makes things so difficult. It feels like a double dose of grief. I know you don’t like to talk about Peter and what happened because it upsets you. It upsets me, too, and talking about Sarah upsets me even more. But I do want to talk about her. I don’t want to pretend she never existed, even though she wasn’t meant to exist – I would never have deliberately chosen to have a baby, not after what happened with Peter. But Sarah lived for ten weeks and five days and for that time, she was my daughter and your granddaughter. I am still her mother, and I need to allow myself to be her mother, and when I meet people, I want to be able to tell them about her, show them photos of her. I don’t want to feel guilty for remembering my baby – I feel guilty enough already.

  Anyway, sorry, I didn’t mean for this to be so long and I didn’t mean to ramble on. It was meant to be a quick note! I’ll drop you a postcard to let you know I’m okay. I’m not sure when I’ll be back, but I need to get away and be on my own for a while. Thanks again for all you’ve done and please say thank you to Peggy for me, and tell her I’ll never forget everyth
ing she did for me.

  Love,

  Eleanor

  Marjorie felt as though her insides had been hollowed out. Still clutching the note, she allowed herself to collapse onto Eleanor’s bed. Again she was too late. She’d missed her chance; possibly her last chance.

  Eleanor, the present

  ‘Well, she settled more easily than I thought she would,’ Eleanor says when she gets back to the house. Peggy is in the hall, waiting for Dennis to pick her up. She’s wearing an elegant black dress with a cream linen jacket, and she’s bought a new black leather weekend bag specially for the trip. ‘You look lovely, by the way – just right for Paris.’

  ‘Thank you, sweetheart. So she was all right about it in the end?’

  ‘Absolutely fine. I’m not sure she’ll remember that I’m picking her up on Tuesday, but she seems to understand she’ll be sleeping there for a few nights.’

  ‘That’s a relief. I was sure she’d be okay once she got there, but I wouldn’t have been able to relax completely if I thought she was upset.’

  ‘I left her chatting with one of the residents about dancing. Rock and roll – they were taking about the jitterbug, of all things!’

  Peggy grins. ‘She used to do that, you know, she and your dad. Everyone else used to move off the dance floor and stand round watching them.’

  ‘I wish . . .’ Eleanor half laughs. ‘Silly. I was going to say I wish I’d known her then.’

  ‘Not silly at all. I wish you’d known her then, too.’ She glances at her watch. ‘Dennis’ll be here any minute. Now listen, you make sure you have a rest while you get the chance, all right? Do as your auntie Peggy says.’

  Eleanor smiles. ‘Don’t worry about me, just have a brilliant time. Did you say it’s his birthday tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, he’ll be sixty-five.’

  ‘And you’re—’

  ‘Old enough to know a good thing when I see it.’ She laughs. ‘My last chap was even younger, you know, but I think I was a bit much for him.’

  ‘Your last chap? Peggy, you dark horse. I didn’t know you’d been seeing anyone.’

  ‘Well, that was a long time ago now, before your mum got ill.’

  Again Eleanor thinks about how much Peggy has sacrificed. ‘I’ve been a bit self-absorbed, haven’t I?’

  ‘Rubbish,’ Peggy says as the car horn toots outside. ‘You’re entitled.’ She picks up her bags. ‘There’s my fella. If I wear him out, I’ll trade him in for a younger model.’ She kisses Eleanor on the cheek. ‘Rest!’ she says.

  *

  Eleanor goes into the living room and flops onto the sofa, savouring the silence. It’s strange, being in the house without having to worry about her mum, or even think about Peggy. She has four whole days to herself, and it feels like the ultimate freedom. She’ll just sit here for five minutes to get her head together, then have an early lunch and read for a while, maybe give Jill a call a bit later.

  She doesn’t remember resting her head on the arm of the sofa or tucking her legs up underneath her, but when she wakes, she has a crick in her neck and her cheek feels bobbly where the rough fabric of the sofa has left an imprint on her skin. She sits up, disorientated, and wipes the corner of her mouth where she’s dribbled. When she looks at her watch, she has to blink, rub her eyes and look again. She has slept for four hours solid. She swings her legs down and groans aloud as she moves her neck. Her back hurts, too. How can she have slept that long? Suddenly, adrenaline rushes through her body making her heart thump and her fingertips tingle. Her mum. Where . . . ? And then she remembers: her mum is in respite care for the weekend, being looked after by someone else. She breathes out and her heartbeat starts to return to normal, but she still feels uneasy until she checks her phone to make sure there are no messages.

  Yawning, she goes into the kitchen, makes herself some toast and a cup of black coffee. Rest, Peggy said; well, she’s certainly done that. And she’ll probably sleep more, but one thing she definitely wants to do while her mother isn’t around is go through all those papers and photographs properly. Somewhere, she is sure, there is at least one snap of Peter.

  She goes down to her mother’s bedroom and stands in front of the cupboards. Her father built these when they first moved here, apparently. She’s stopped tidying things back properly every time Marjorie pulls them out because it happens so often, so it’s all in quite a mess now. She opens the lower doors, takes things out and starts sorting them into three piles – photographs, papers that need to be looked through later and stuff that’s obviously rubbish. There are electricity bills so ancient they bear the London Electricity Board’s LEB logo, gas bills from SEGAS – both companies long defunct. There are old shopping lists, letters from Lewisham library about overdue books, even old bus tickets. She hadn’t realised Marjorie had become such a hoarder. But that made it even more likely that the picture was still here.

  After a couple of hours, she considers the three distinct piles. There aren’t as many photographs as she thought, and although the pile of papers to be gone through is substantial, it’s nothing compared to what can be thrown away.

  It’s almost six. She stands up and stretches, pleased with what she’s achieved. She rubs the back of her neck which still aches from sleeping awkwardly this afternoon. As she moves her head to try to ease the pain, she realises she hasn’t looked in the top cupboards yet. God knows what’s in there. They probably haven’t been opened for ages, though, because you need a set of steps to reach them. She grabs the chair from in front of the dressing table, climbs onto it and manages to open the cupboard door, but she can’t even see what’s on the bottom shelf, never mind the top one. She’ll have to get the ladder. A break first, though. Still revelling in the novelty of being responsibility-free for the first time in six months, she grabs her jacket, walks round the corner and buys a bottle of wine. She deserves it.

  Her brain is so full of her mother’s paperwork and photos that she finds herself completely unable to decide what to have for dinner, so instead she makes cheese on toast, opens the wine and takes it all downstairs to her mum’s room, resting the tray on the bed while she fetches the steps from the utility room.

  Even on the top rung she can only just about reach the highest shelf. The first cupboard contains yet more blankets and a couple of sleeping bags; the shallow cupboards across the alcove are completely empty, and the other deep one contains suitcases, two on the bottom shelf and one on the top. She pulls tentatively at a handle. This one is light, clearly empty. The next one has something in it, but she suspects it’s a smaller case. She reaches up to the top shelf, where there’s another small suitcase, heavier this time. She needs both hands to lift it out and has to steady herself as she climbs down. When she opens it, her heart sinks. More of the same. Old payslips, rates bills, recipes. But there are some photos here, too. Maybe this is where she’ll find what she’s looking for. She carries the suitcase over to the bed, pours herself some wine and picks up a piece of cheese on toast, which is cold now, but she’s hungry enough not to care. As she eats, she takes things out one at a time and makes another three piles. There are photographs here that she hasn’t seen before, but still not the one she’s looking for.

  She is about to call it a night when she spots a folded piece of paper with the word Mum written on the front. As she unfolds it, a colour photograph slips out. She freezes, glass halfway to her lips. ‘Sarah,’ she whispers aloud. ‘My Sarah.’ She puts down her glass and touches the picture with her fingertip. How come her mother has a photo of Sarah? Could she have given it to her and forgotten? Surely not. She looks again at the note but struggles to read her own handwriting. It snakes all over the place; she must have been in quite a state when she wrote this. Some of what she’d written sounds young and naive, but she is surprised by how articulately her nineteen-year-old self has expressed her feelings; it’s easier to write about these things than talk about them, she supposes. The photograph is similar to the one she keeps in her pur
se, taken a minute or so later, or perhaps earlier. She has only ever had five photographs of Sarah, four taken on the day she was born – she was forever grateful to Ken for bringing his camera to the hospital – and another one that Rita took the day Sarah started smiling. In that one, she’s wearing the brown and yellow striped Babygro that Peggy gave her. She remembers showing Dylan that photo; he’d smiled and said she looked like a little bumble bee.

  Apart from the photos, the only proof she has that her daughter existed is her birth certificate, the hospital bracelet that had encircled her tiny ankle and the rust-coloured booklet they gave her at the clinic. The cover had become detached from the other pages, and only the first few lines were filled in, recording a steady, healthy weight gain.

  She still keeps these things all together in a thick plastic wallet that stays next to her bed wherever she sleeps. In fact, that plastic wallet is probably the only thing apart from money and a few clothes that she took with her when she left that day. She remembers putting that note on her bed, then going to the back door with the intention of slipping out quietly through the side alley. But as she’d walked through the utility room, she heard her mother and Peggy in the kitchen upstairs, their voices louder than usual, so she went back along the hallway and let herself out through the downstairs front door.

  That was in June 1984. Even now, she has little recollection of what happened between that day and the day, around two years later, when she ran into Jill again at some open-air music thing in Brighton. They hadn’t kept in touch for more than a few weeks after they left Greenham, so the first thing she had to do when they met up again was to explain about Sarah, a task that never got any easier. Jill immediately put her arms round her and cried with her, an experience she found profoundly moving. Eventually, they talked about other things. It turned out Jill and David had just bought the run-down farm buildings and surrounding land up in Scalby and had what they called ‘a crazy idea’ of turning it into a community farm. With love and attention, they said, it could be transformed from a hopeless wreck into something new and alive and productive. She hadn’t taken much persuading to go with them, and she remembered those first few weeks on the farm: the cuts and splinters she got from clearing piles of rubble and broken machinery; the pain in her back and shoulders from whole days of digging; the tiredness that was so extreme she felt almost tearful with it. But she also remembered becoming aware that for the first time in two years, she cared about what she was doing, and that she started to feel as though she was being put back together.