Untitled Book 3

by Susan Elliot Wright

  Dear Eleanor,

  I’m writing this in the middle of the night because I can’t sleep, and I don’t know if you’ll ever read it. At the moment, I wouldn’t know how to get it to you, and even if I did, I’m not sure I have the courage to actually hand it over, but I am going to write it anyway so the words will be here, on paper, and perhaps you’ll read them at some point.

  I see now that I have done so many things wrong. I came down to see you this morning but you’d already gone. This may be hard to believe, but I was going to ask how you’d feel about coming along to the cemetery with me. I thought maybe we could go to Peter’s grave together, and then, perhaps, to your Sarah’s.

  Tears well up instantly behind her eyes. So her mum really had wanted to talk back then. Even though this is what Peggy has been telling her these last few months, part of her still hasn’t quite been able to believe it.

  Peggy suggested it, and at first I thought she was wrong, especially so soon after your own loss. I have read your note several times, and each time it makes me cry. I don’t say that to make you feel guilty; I’m the one who should feel guilty. I’m so sorry I didn’t talk to you about your baby, your Sarah. I wanted to comfort you so much. Every time I looked at you I could see your grief, not only in your eyes but in your whole body; I could see it underneath your skin, and in the way you moved; I could hear it in your voice when you talked. But I am a coward. I thought that if I brought it up, you might start crying and never stop. I was terrified of stirring up my own grief for Peter, too, and I didn’t know how to deal with it.

  She turns over the page. There are several sheets of paper here, all covered on both sides with her mother’s elegant handwriting.

  It was heartbreaking to read what you said about being desperate to talk about Sarah and not wanting to pretend that she never existed. Of course you wouldn’t want to pretend such a thing, and I’m so sorry you thought that’s what I was trying to do. It seems so obvious to me now that you would have thought that, given that I didn’t speak of Peter at all until you found that photograph when you were eighteen. I know now we made a terrible mistake in taking you to Mr Greenfield, but what he said seemed to make sense to your dad and me at the time, that if you were able to completely forget what happened that day, you would grow up more easily and happily. We were wrong.

  You see, I made you think it was your fault because you’d put him in the water, and by covering it up, by not telling you anything at all, I made it worse. You said in your note that you thought I’d always blamed you, and I cannot tell you how sorry I am that you’ve thought that all this time. I have never blamed you. When I shouted at you that day, it was a reflex reaction; I didn’t mean it was your fault, Lord forgive me. You certainly weren’t trying to hurt him. You were little more than a toddler, playing with your dolls. Even if it was as simple as that, you couldn’t possibly be blamed. But that isn’t all there was to it.

  She feels a thud deep in her abdomen, as though her heart has dropped down from her chest into the pit of her belly. Hadn’t her mum said something like this fairly recently? There was more to it. What did she mean? She turns to the next sheet of paper.

  I’ve been sitting here all night – it’s starting to get light outside – forcing my head back to that day. You’ve said you can’t remember exactly what happened, and neither could I, not properly anyway, not until tonight. As you know, Peter was born with a lot of problems. They still called it ‘retarded’ then, and they wanted me to put him in a home, but I refused. I’d seen what went on in those places – I worked in one before you were born, as you know; I wanted to try to make things better. Now, this is something I’ve never told anyone before, not even your father. I had a brother, Maurice.

  Maurice! Eleanor’s hand shoots up to her mouth involuntarily. So that’s who he was!

  I didn’t even know I had a brother until I was fifteen, because he’d been in a home more or less since birth. It was a dreadful place. My mother never told me exactly what was wrong with Maurice, but when I met him, he had the mind of a two- or three-year-old, but he was thirteen. There was something wrong with his heart, too, and his lungs, I think, because he couldn’t breathe properly, and he had fits. He wasn’t expected to live past his teens and my mother decided I should visit him just once, but she made me promise I would never tell anyone. I was especially not to tell my father we’d been to see him, because Father thought it best to forget all about him and move on. When we arrived, Maurice was strapped to his bed with what looked like leather belts and he was moaning and crying. Mother asked the matron why, and she said it was to stop him falling out of bed and hurting himself. Mother insisted they remove the straps, and they did, but I’m ashamed to say I was so frightened I wanted to run out into the street. I’d never seen anyone like him before, you see. You didn’t, in those days, because they were all shut away in homes. Anyway, I made myself stay and look at him, even though I was scared. His head was big and round and his eyes were tiny and much too far apart. He was wearing short trousers that looked too big for him because his legs were so skinny, and when he moved his feet I could see that there was webbed skin between his toes. Mother talked to him as though he was perfectly normal, but he couldn’t talk back, he just made a horrible grunting noise. It made me think of what the bus conductor had said to my mother when we got off at the stop just outside the home. ‘Visiting, are you, love? Poor wretched creatures.’ Once I’d got over the shock, I started to think I might go and see him again, not least because I wanted to make sure they weren’t still strapping him to the bed. But he died soon after our visit, from an epileptic fit, Mother said. She had a little cry, but then she said she was glad he wasn’t suffering any more. Anyway, what all this is leading up to, Eleanor, is that I need to tell you something I hadn’t properly remembered about the day Peter drowned. You see, the moment I first held Peter in my arms, I knew he was like Maurice.

  Eleanor leans back on the sofa. She can hear Peggy and Jill talking and laughing in the kitchen, Charlie chattering away to Dawn in the bathroom. Part of her feels she should be hiding away to read this, but being up here in the daylight, hearing laughter and chatter around her, makes her feel safe. She reads on.

  It’s only a couple more pages, but it takes her several minutes because she has to keep rereading bits to make sure she’s got it right. It is the final sentence, Can you forgive me? that brings on the tears she’s been holding back.

  It is a moment or two before she becomes aware of Charlie standing next to her, his head tilted to one side. ‘Have you got a tummy ache?’ he asks, his huge, clear eyes full of concern.

  She quickly wipes her eyes and shakes her head. ‘No.’ She rummages in her jeans pocket for a tissue and tries to smile. ‘Just feeling a bit sad, that’s all.’

  ‘Do you need a cuggle?’ He moves closer and puts a hand on her knee, as though ready to climb onto her lap. Her whole body tenses, the same reflex reaction she always has around young children. But this time, she feels her muscles relax again.

  ‘Yes,’ she manages to say without sobbing, ‘I think I do need a cuddle.’ For the first time, she lifts him onto her lap and leans her face against his silky hair. It is still damp and smells of Johnson’s baby shampoo, a smell she’ll never forget. Charlie slides his chubby little arms around her neck; he is warm and solid and soft, and the feel of his tiny hand patting her back is so profoundly comforting that she isn’t quite sure what she’ll do when it stops.

  Marjorie, June 1968

  Marjorie pushed the pram up and down the pathway that ran alongside the lawn for a good half-hour before Peter finally closed his eyes. His breathing sounded dreadful and his little face still bore the signs of his distress. He’d been restless and wheezy all night and awake since five, snuffling and grizzling the whole time. She’d known caring for him would be difficult, but she hadn’t realised quite how difficult; she’d had some vague idea that simply being his mother would help her to ease his discomfort, but she fe
lt every bit as inadequate with her own child as she’d felt with those poor, doomed creatures she’d cared for during her nursing days.

  He seemed to be asleep now, thank the Lord, so she parked him in the shade of the pear tree and went back inside to check on Eleanor, who was still sitting on the settee, cuddling the Tiny Tears Peggy bought her for her birthday.

  ‘Oh, has Playschool finished?’ She moved to switch off the television.

  ‘No!’ Eleanor said, pointing to the screen. ‘I want to see that big girl.’

  ‘But darling, that’s just the Testcard. It’s not a programme.’

  ‘Please may I watch Testcard?’

  ‘But . . . Oh, very well.’ Why argue if it kept her quiet? ‘I’ll be in the kitchen.’

  ‘Okay.’ Eleanor put her thumb in her mouth and sat back on the settee.

  She walked wearily into the kitchen, her arms weak and aching from holding Peter and a dull, ominous pain in her back. Her heart sank at the sight of the piles of washing that were still on the floor. The laundry seemed to have more than doubled since Peter arrived, and all she’d managed to get through so far today was the nappies. How she was going to tackle the rest of it she didn’t know, especially with her hands still feeling raw. She must remind Ted about getting that twin-tub – Peggy said hers had changed her life.

  She filled a tumbler with water, threw two aspirin into the back of her throat and washed them down in one gulp.

  ‘Mummy?’ Eleanor appeared in the doorway with the huge plastic box of Lego bricks. ‘Can I play with my Lego?’

  ‘Yes, of course you can. Just take it back into the living—’

  But before she could finish her sentence, Eleanor tipped the bricks out onto the lino with a crashing noise that seemed to smash Marjorie’s fragile, aching brain against the inside of her skull.

  ‘Ooh, Eleanor.’ She put her hand to her forehead. ‘Darling, Mummy has a terrible headache. Try and play quietly now, there’s a good girl.’

  Eleanor immediately started trying to be quiet, but as Marjorie stood at the sink, attempting to muster the energy for the next batch of washing, the constant chinking of the Lego bricks became almost too much to bear. How could those little plastic bricks make so much noise? Eleanor had become more demanding lately. Probably normal for a first child who suddenly has to share her mum with a new baby, but in this case, the baby took so much there was nothing left. Poor Eleanor – she’d been promised a baby brother who would be fun, who would gurgle and chuckle and admire his big sister. What she’d got was one who drooled and never smiled; who needed constant attention and who used their mother up completely; a brother who may never be able to sit up unaided, never mind play with his sister.

  But Eleanor tried, bless her. She never tired of leaning over the cot, shaking a rattle in front of her brother’s unmoving eyes or waving a fluffy toy in a desperate bid to get his attention. ‘Look, baby. Look at the chicky-chick.’

  She sighed and leant against the sink. ‘Eleanor, how about you put the Lego away for a while and play outside in the garden?’

  Eleanor shook her head. ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Oh, come on, darling. You love playing in the garden.’

  Eleanor frowned. ‘Don’t want to play in the garden.’

  Typical. If it had been pouring with rain or freezing cold, you could bet your last shilling she’d want to play outside. Marjorie sighed. There was no point in being cross with Eleanor; it wasn’t her fault.

  She wiped her hands on her apron and crouched down to Eleanor’s level. ‘Tell you what, how about if I come with you?’ The washing would have to wait; she was too tired to stand at the sink for hours anyway. ‘Auntie Peggy’s coming round later, so we could just wait for her in the garden.’

  Eleanor looked mildly interested but was still reluctant.

  ‘It’s lovely and sunny; how about we get the paddling pool out? You can give your dollies a bath.’

  Eleanor was already on her feet, selecting dolls from the toybox in the corner.

  *

  Eleanor’s swimming costume was still pegged on the line from yesterday, but it was perfectly dry now, so after she’d got Eleanor into it and persuaded her to wear the matching yellow sun hat, she opened the shed where she’d thrown the paddling pool, still inflated, yesterday afternoon. When she’d left it out the other day, the wind had got up overnight and blown it right down to the end of the garden where it had got caught in the forsythia. They were lucky it hadn’t punctured. She uncoiled the hose and turned on the outside tap, keeping half an eye on the pram as she filled the pool. Please don’t wake up yet, please don’t wake up yet.

  Eleanor was in the pool with two of her dolls before Marjorie had even finished filling it. She turned the hose off and wound it back onto its wheel, then she opened the fold-up chair, picked up her copy of Woman’s Realm and settled down to read, now and again glancing at the back gate for Peggy. At least once Peggy was here she didn’t have to worry so much about Eleanor, who would be all over her the minute she arrived.

  She wasn’t aware of her eyes growing heavy, and she hadn’t even realised she’d dozed off until she felt Eleanor’s wet hand on her arm. ‘Mummy! Wake up!’

  She opened her eyes, but her vision swam. How stupid, to fall asleep in the sun, and with Ellie playing in the pool, too.

  ‘Mummy! Peter’s too slippy.’

  ‘What, darling?’ She tried to get to her feet but a wave of nausea knocked her backwards. As she steadied herself, her vision cleared. Eleanor was standing beside her, looking as though she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t.

  ‘I did taked his nappy off all by myself. He wants to get out now but he’s all slippy.’

  At first, it didn’t quite register. She looked over to the pool. She could see the dolls in the water, wet patches on the grass, the folded towel she’d left in readiness. Then she saw Peter’s vest; then his rubber pants with the nappy still inside.

  She froze for a moment as the realisation dawned. ‘What have you done?’ she screamed as she sprinted across the grass. ‘You stupid, stupid child!’ She was vaguely aware of Eleanor’s face crumpling and her running back towards the house as she fell to her knees beside the pool. Two of Eleanor’s dolls floated on the surface, but Peter, barely bigger than the Tiny Tears even at eight months, lay on the bottom, completely submerged.

  Although she had heard the expression ‘time stood still’ many times before, she hadn’t properly understood what it meant. But now it was actually happening; it was as if a whole day’s worth of thoughts and sensations were happening simultaneously. This was what she was aware of, all within a fraction of a second: Peter was completely still and his face, with its twisted mouth and vacant, too wide-apart eyes, looked more relaxed than she’d ever seen it; no sound came from him, not a grizzle or a whimper, no laboured, whistling breaths that forced his chest into impossible exertions. She could feel the dry grass prickling her knees; she could hear a lawnmower somewhere in the distance. Peter was quiet at last. As she gazed at him, marvelling at how peaceful he looked, his hand moved, then his eyes flickered and his face began to contort. And then something very strange happened; she felt herself separate into two. The next moment she was hovering a few feet above the ground, looking down on her other self, still kneeling on the grass. She watched as her own hand moved slowly through the air, over the surface of the water, towards her drowning child. Even from up here, she felt her hand break the surface – the water was pleasantly warm; she was glad of that – warm water could sometimes soothe him. She saw her hand rest gently on his tiny, inadequate chest, the fingers splayed.

  Something wasn’t right; she should be snatching him from the water, giving him mouth-to-mouth; she’d done it before on one of the little mongol boys in the home. He’d got an electric shock from a loose socket and his poor weak heart had almost given up, but she’d brought him back, he’d coughed and spluttered into her mouth and he’d carried on living . . . not that anyone no
ticed.

  But there was her hand down there, resting on Peter’s chest, holding him gently in place until eventually his face relaxed again and the faint fluttering under her fingers finally stopped.

  Everything started to jumble up in her head. A fat bumble bee landed on her arm and brought her crashing back into her body and then she had Peter up and out of the water and in her arms and he felt so much heavier. She should do mouth-to-mouth; why was she not doing mouth-to-mouth? Again she slipped out of her body and looked down at herself; she could see the back of her own head and the top of Peter’s, his hair darkened by the water, as she held him against her. She was rocking him.

  And then Peggy was there running towards her, dropping her shopping bags which spilled out, sending oranges and potatoes and tins of things rolling over the grass, and Eleanor was coming back down the path, wiping her tear-stained face which was already smeared with dirt and grass stains.

  ‘Oh my God! What’s happened?’ Peggy cried.

  Marjorie carried on rocking her baby.

  Eleanor started to cry harder. ‘I putted him in the paddling pool,’ she sobbed. ‘I did want to get him out again but he was all slippy.’

  Peggy put her arms around Eleanor. ‘Shush, sweetheart,’ she said. Then turned to Marjorie. ‘Is he . . . ?’