by James Runcie
Martin and I were attentive, over-anxious parents, determined to be better than our own, but neither quite trusting the other, our panic due to a surfeit of love we could neither define nor resolve. We argued about feeding and how quickly Lucy should be weaned. I accused him of rocking her too slowly, of carrying our daughter like a parcel even after he’d made the effort to support the head, and of leaving her to sleep with too much light. In turn he told me I was wrapping the baby too tightly so that she was hot and temperamental; that I let her sleep too long in the afternoons so that our nights were disturbed; and that she spent so much time in our bed we no longer had any marital privacy.
What marital privacy? I thought. Surely he doesn’t want that already?
There was no time for anything except Lucy. She didn’t settle into any pattern and although people told me to let the baby take the breast every four hours and cry in between I couldn’t allow her to go without. I was determined to feed on demand even though my breasts were sore and the nipples were cracked. Milk got everywhere, through the pads and the T-shirts, because Lucy didn’t take that much. Little and often, that’s what she wanted, but I couldn’t get the hang of it. The shock of her dependency was overwhelming. I began to wonder who I was and to hate myself: my breasts, my body shape, even the sound of my own voice.
I tried to talk to Martin but he didn’t understand the tiredness and the tears and the hatred of my own body; my fear that it would never regain any of the tautness that it once had. I lost weight, watching what I ate because everything found its way into the milk, and the maternity wear fell off me. But even when I regained what was left of my figure all my old clothes felt wrong. I was reduced to wearing fishermen’s smocks, drawstring tracksuit bottoms and slippers. Bits of food and sick and house dust kept sticking to me and I had no time to clean anything because I was so preoccupied with each change for the baby. The midwife came and told me to rest when Lucy slept but there was always so much preparation and tidying up to do, I couldn’t keep up.
The kinder Martin was to me, the more irritating I found him. When he told me I looked beautiful I thought he was lying. When he said he was proud of me I didn’t believe him. When he read that cabbage leaves could calm the pain in the breasts I shouted back that he had never understood anything about my breasts and never would. I wanted him out of the way; and then, as soon as he was gone, I wanted him back to help me.
I felt sadness and then guilt about being depressed. How could I be sad when I’d had a much wanted baby? None of the books I’d bought went into sufficient detail. They simply said I might get tired or feel like a treat: steak and champagne if we could afford it, liver and beer if we couldn’t. Liver! The thought made me gag.
Some of my friends suggested some new clothes and a bit of shopping but I hated my body so much I couldn’t imagine looking good in anything. I was tense and fearful, and Martin’s voice took on a pained tone of sympathy that was never convincing because I knew he was wondering how long this was all going to last.
He walked slowly round the house, carefully trying to institute a feeling of serenity, which only made me more angry. I couldn’t believe how anyone could take so much time over anything. Eventually I lost my patience and shouted, ‘For God’s sake, what are you doing? Get a move on. There’s so much to do.’
‘Calm down, Claire.’
‘DON’T TELL ME TO BE CALM.’
‘It doesn’t help when you’re like this,’ he said. ‘I have pressures too.’
‘Of course, silly me, it’s you who have been putting yourself out. Forgive me for being so selfish and thinking it was about me, my baby and my stitches.’
‘I know it’s difficult …’
‘Oh, do you now?’
‘Of course I don’t know exactly …’
‘No. Not exactly.’
‘But it would be nice,’ he said quickly, ‘if I knew when you were going to get over this so we could start being a family, instead of having to put up with all this …’
‘All this what?’
‘I don’t know. Attention seeking.’
‘Is that what you think this is?’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.’
‘You bloody did.’
‘Look. I’m doing my best. I can’t help it if you’re so bloody difficult to live with.’
‘Well, fuck off then,’ I said. ‘Fuck off and grow up, Martin Turner.’
I could see that he was shocked that I’d called him by his full name but instead of leaving me or putting his arm around me, he gave me one of those infuriating smiles of his, like he’d thought of a joke, and said: ‘What shall I do first then, fuck off or grow up?’
I threw myself at him, beating his chest with my fists, hating the man I loved, not knowing how I could ever experience such fierce fury, or why I was so out of control, or when these feelings would ever leave me.
Violet
Martin and Claire couldn’t sit still for a moment; they were so worried about Lucy, the world and each other. It was as if they thought life was going to catch them out if they didn’t move quick enough. When she was in the kitchen Claire spent all her time watching the baby and checking where the food had come from: if any of the vegetables on the market had been sprayed with insecticide, if eggs from battery hens contained salmonella, if ratatouille, or whatever it was called, was safe to freeze.
Her voice was strained and high and she couldn’t trust anyone with even the simplest of tasks. She was always fussing over her child and telling me I should change the way I ate and the washing powder I used, talking about additives and chemicals and how it was a sin to bleach. But her clothes had that grey look about them because she had started to use some new-fangled non-biological rubbish. I do think ecology has its limits.
Her conversation was filled with a running commentary on Lucy’s every look, need and gesture, as if her daughter was the most interesting thing in the world and everyone else was irrelevant. When I suggested that she and Martin could do with a bit of a rest and were in danger of spoiling the baby, they just pointed to their motherhood manual and said: ‘No child suffers from too much love.’
Honestly. They never made it easy for themselves. I even caught Martin changing a nappy but when I said I was surprised to see him doing such a thing he told me that I had a lot to learn about the gendered nature of domestic responsibility. I didn’t know what he was talking about.
I tried to remember what he had been like at the same age, but I could only think how pink he had been and how his ears might need to be pinned.
‘I remember when you were a little boy, Martin,’ I said. ‘Do you remember cutting the fringes of the rug in the living room?’
‘No, Auntie Vi, I don’t.’
‘You thought it was growing; said it needed a haircut.’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘Then you found the scissors and started cutting away at it. Snip, snip, snip. Your father was so angry. I had to stop him giving you the slipper.’
Len interrupted. ‘Don’t bring that up now, Vi.’
Claire came over all prim. ‘We don’t believe in hitting children.’
‘Well, I’m sorry I spoke.’
I was only trying to make a bit of conversation but next time I wouldn’t bother. Neither of them could see past the baby.
When Len got to sixty-five I thought we should celebrate by going out for a meal but Martin and Claire even made a fuss about that because they were worried about leaving Lucy with a babysitter. At one stage it looked like they were going to try and bring her with them but I wasn’t having any of that.
‘The restaurant does not welcome children in the evenings,’ I said. ‘They have to think of the other guests.’
‘In Italy parents take their children everywhere,’ Claire said.
‘But this isn’t Italy,’ I answered, ‘and that’s where all their problems come from, if you ask me. No backbone and too much aftershave. All the men are in love wit
h their mothers …’
‘Have you ever been there, Auntie Vi?’
‘I don’t need to go there to form my opinion, thank you very much.’
They were so chippy but eventually we got it sorted out and settled down to a good no-nonsense menu: melon balls or prawn and avocado cocktail, plaice or fillet steak, Black Forest gateau or fruit salad. You could choose between Hirondelle and Blue Nun if you wanted value and there were old bottles with little fountains of dried candle wax from previous dinners. Of course I wouldn’t have the gateau or the Blue Nun because I didn’t like to eat anything German. That was something of a rule in our family. My mother wouldn’t even dance the waltz because she said it was German.
A couple at the next table were describing Mrs Thatcher as ‘the best man for the job’, and I nearly joined in. Quite right, I thought, but I knew if I said anything too political there would be trouble. Claire said she’d like a cheese omelette even though it wasn’t on the menu, and Martin went AWOL and ordered the plaice. Len had a bit of a laugh about that and tried to jolly things along because he could see that Claire was cross. It was far too warm a day for plaice, he said.
‘I just want the fish, Dad.’
‘Order what you like,’ said Claire. ‘Don’t mind me.’ I was surprised she let him have it.
Then Linda appeared all dolled up at the bar with a gentleman friend. She had some kind of glitter in her hair and was making a good job of showing the little bit of cleavage she had – just the right side of common, it was – and I could see Martin fall for it straight away.
‘Hello, everyone,’ Linda said, and then, ‘Hello, Martin.’
Martin should have introduced Claire but he was too distracted for manners. He and Linda had all the embarrassment of former sweethearts, not kissing each other, standing awkwardly, neither quite knowing what to say.
‘Linda …’ Martin looked at her so fiercely she had to turn her eyes away. As soon as she did so he said, ‘I’m sorry I haven’t …’
‘That’s all right …’
It was like watching something you shouldn’t have. Len was about to ask Linda to have a drink with us but I put my hand on his knee to stop him and thank goodness he knew what I meant.
‘It’s lovely to see you, Linda,’ I said. ‘Keeping well?’
‘Not bad … you all right, Martin?’
‘This is my wife,’ he said, gesturing to Claire.
‘I guessed as much.’
Claire kept looking at Linda. ‘I couldn’t really be anybody else.’
‘It’s nice to meet you,’ said Linda.
‘I’d always wondered what you were like,’ said Claire.
‘Well, I hope I’m not a disappointment.’
Martin could see that it was getting a bit tense but he couldn’t think of the right thing to say. ‘We’re old friends,’ he explained to his wife.
Claire smiled. ‘I do know who Linda is, Martin.’
‘Long time ago now,’ said Linda. Her boyfriend was signalling he’d got the drinks. ‘I’d best get back.’
‘You don’t want to lose him …’ I said.
She gave a little smile. ‘Bye then, Martin,’ she said. ‘You all have a good evening.’
As soon as she had turned to go, and still within her hearing, Claire picked up her wine glass and announced: ‘So that’s the famous Linda.’
‘Nice girl,’ said Len. ‘Though not as nice as you, of course, Claire …’
I could tell he was thinking that he’d been right all along and that Martin would have been better off with his first girlfriend. She was far less opinionated and had always been more like one of us. The restaurant had to make such a fuss about Claire being a vegetarian and you never got that with Linda.
‘Couldn’t you just have our vegetables?’ I said, but Len was trying to get on her better side and made sure they cooked her the omelette.
Then Martin piped up, quite unexpectedly, ‘Pity George couldn’t come.’
‘Don’t you worry about George,’ I said. ‘He’s much happier where he is. You know he can’t tell what’s going on these days.’
Honestly. I don’t know why he had to start talking about George. Neither of them had any idea what it was like and I could tell they were judging us even though no one would call their marriage perfect. Then Len changed the subject and said it was time for a dance. Of course Martin and Claire didn’t join us; didn’t know how, I suppose, even for the rumba, which any old fool can do.
I tried not to let them get to me. Even when Claire had recovered from her depression (of course we weren’t allowed to call it that out loud) she still spoke as if she didn’t expect anyone to be clever enough to understand her. I think she thought she felt things more deeply than anyone else but she wasn’t exactly the first person in the world to have a child.
I only hoped their marriage would survive. At least mine had, despite its troubles. No one could say I hadn’t been good to George, looking after him for all those years.
George
Sometimes the old woman came to see me. She was losing her looks but I pretended not to notice. You have to be careful with ladies. They can be touchy. She kept talking to me as if I was married to her. But if that was the case then why weren’t we in the same house? And where was my tea? I said, ‘I can’t be married to you, my wife’s much younger than you, and she’s attractive, so what are you talking about?’
Days went by and I remembered seeing the child that everyone said was Martin’s and I was confused and I couldn’t stop thinking about how no one came to visit me any more. I preferred sleeping but I couldn’t always be sure it would be all right. If I had dreams or woke up I couldn’t get back to sleep and the waking was always a disappointment. It was like when I was in the hospital and they made me sleep for weeks and weeks, before they put the electric probe in the throat to make me speak. ‘Narcoanalysis,’ the trick cyclist called it. Woken for an hour a day for a bit of soup and a wash, then the medicine and back to sleep where no one could harm me.
She’s my lady love.
She is my dove, my baby love.
She’s no girl for sitting down to dream.
She’s the only girl Laguna knows.
The jungle juice was so strong I didn’t even dream. It was so peaceful then. It was a bit like being dead, I imagine. You got sad to wake up.
Now I either liked to be asleep or fully awake. I hated the bits in between but that was the time in which I lived. The voices in my head kept coming back again like it was a dream but not like the old days when there were orders and everyone knew what was what. Now it was different.
I knew that they were doing some decorating next door and there was scaffolding. The men had a radio but I couldn’t make much sense of it. Someone was singing about going underground, and then another man with a lively voice said it was jam but I couldn’t understand. How can jam go underground? It must have been like picking the flies off the sandwiches in the trenches. My dad had told me about that.
Then there was a woman singing about Bette Davis eyes and someone else saying it was all a joke and that suicide was painless and all these voices started to come together, the songs from next door and up in the sky and in my head: The ratings are drowning … I’m watching the rivets … come on, Georgie, look lively … what are you doing, mate?
I thought I should get better. Really I should. But then why get better when I might have to go back?
Watch them drown all over again.
I don’t mind death; it’s the dying, I think: the fear of being afraid; always waiting for the surprise, things coming at me.
But I keep surviving. Nothing kills me. Ever. It’s like I’m being punished for the ratings. They keep drowning and I keep surviving.
Sometimes I hear their voices calling me from underwater. And I see their faces. I want the voices to stop but they keep coming. Even in my sleep I hear them.
You still alive, Georgie? Fancy that. Lucky old George.
Then I hear them calling me.
Come on, George.
The slightest noise affects my heart.
I know she likes me.
I know she likes me
Because she said so.
I think I’ll go for a walk, blow the cobwebs away, only this time I’ll walk as far as I can. Keep right on to the end of the road.
Straight On for the Sea.
She’s my lady love.
She is my dove, my baby love.
She’s no girl for sitting down to dream.
She’s the only girl Laguna knows.
We’ll have this big reunion under the sea. I’m sure the men are waiting.
I know she likes me.
I know she likes me
Because she said so.
All I have to do is keep walking towards the sun. Best foot forward.
She is my Lily of Laguna.
She is my lily and my rose.
Violet
They used to train them, the postmen, because they always knew. I hoped for a young one coming up to the door because they only told you good news. It was the older ones you had to watch, the ones with kind faces. You could tell before they said anything, holding the envelope and wishing they weren’t. ‘Priority,’ it said.
I was with Mother in our old house in Thames Road when the news of George came the first time. ‘Is it good or bad news?’ she asked and the postman looked embarrassed.
I couldn’t understand how you could go missing from a boat except to die in the sea. And people would know about that. I heard bits of news; that there was a hospital there, not just a military one but a big civilian one, and I thought he might have gone off with one of the nurses and started a new life. Russian children running through the woods, and him drinking vodka and pretending he never knew me.
When he came back he had horrible dreams. He cried out that he was on fire with superheated steam or that some of the ratings were drowning.