The M Word

by Eileen Wharton

  Yours forever,

  Alice

  Letter number thirty-two

  May 1968

  Dear Bertie,

  My heart is broken. This is the darkest day of my life to date. Darker than the day I lost my brother and my parents in the London air raid, darker than the day I was forced to marry the beast or than the day I lost you. Robert has taken against our baby boy. He calls him ugly and a monster. He says he won’t have him in the house. He says I must change their names. The girl must be called Roberta, for him, and the boy must be “got rid of”. I have begged and pleaded. I was sure he would change his mind but to no avail. He says he will find someone to take him. If you get this in time, I want you to come for him. Look after him for me. You must come quickly before he has chance to find someone to take him.

  Yours,

  Alice

  I unfold a sheet of brown paper and realise on it is a family tree. I work out from the names that it’s my mother’s family. Under my father’s name is Felicity, but our mother’s name isn’t there. Under our mother’s name is my name and the name Michael, but my father’s name isn’t there. The name Bertram Stonehouse is next to Mother’s and above mine.

  I have a twin brother!

  Letter number thirty-three

  Dear Mr Gallbreath,

  My husband and I are free to speak with you about the adoption this coming Saturday. If you could confirm a time and meeting place that would be convenient to you, we will certainly be there.

  Yours sincerely,

  Mrs Oliver Rowbotham

  Letter number thirty-four

  July 1968

  Bertie,

  You are too late. My heart is broken. It cannot be fixed this time. I am trying hard to forgive you for this. You may not have received my letter. They came and took Michael from me. Plucked him from my arms as I screamed. Robert called me hysterical and hit me with a horsewhip when they had gone. He cannot hurt me any more than the pain of losing my son. Nothing can hurt more than this. Nothing. Roberta cried all night. It’s as though she realises she has lost her brother. I can sympathise with her, but it is nothing compared to the pain of losing a son. I have decided I will love no one else. Love only ever ends in pain. This will be my final communication to you. I wish you more happiness than I will ever experience, though that is not necessarily much.

  Alice

  I used to read novels where characters said they were reeling. I had no idea what this meant until now. I read all the letters again. I’m shaking. I sit. My mouth’s open. I only realise this when my tongue goes dry and feels cold. Who knows how long I sit here like this. Mother always used to say that everything looks better in the morning, so I’m going to bed in the hope that this is true.

  #doesntlookbetter

  Still reeling. Staying in bed.

  Letter number thirty-five

  15th June, 1972

  Bertie,

  It’s a physical pain I live with every day. A dark tunnel I’m in with no light at the end. I feel it closing in on me. My arms ache for Michael. Roberta grows steadily. I feed her, I clean her, I clothe her, but I cannot love her. I cannot love. I will not love again. Love is pain. He has brought the child of an affair to live with us. I know not what happened to the mother. I know better than to ask questions. She is called Felicity, and I feel ashamed to say I hate the child.

  Alice

  #sickasachip

  I feel sick. I drink some ginger tea, which is supposed to settle your stomach, but I throw it back up. I only just manage to make it to the bathroom in time. My head hurts, and my chest is tight. I’m going back to bed.

  I once read on one of those psychobabble websites that you can only hold one thought in your head at a time and that you’re responsible for what that thought is. I’ve decided this is not true. My head abounds with a menagerie of thoughts, and I can’t get it to be still. Where do I start? What do I do? Felicity isn’t really my sister. Not my full sister. Not my biological sister at all. And I have a twin. A twin brother. What happened to him?

  Letter number 36

  June 1975

  Bertie,

  I am still in the tunnel. He is a brute. His dinner must be on the table and the correct temperature for him coming through the door. His pipe must be prepared, and his slippers warmed by the fire. He must have his newspaper. Everything must be perfect for him. Everything is terrible for me. How can I bear forty years of this? I know I said I would communicate no more, but who else do I have to tell?

  He has taken to drinking on Friday afternoons when he receives his pay packet. He rolls home, bounces off the door frame and staggers into the kitchen. He throws looks of hatred in my direction. I’m not quite sure what I have done to attract his hatred. I do as I am bid, all day, every day. Perhaps it is because he knows that I do not love him. I do not love anyone or anything. Myself included.

  It usually begins by my being pinned to a wall or door by the throat and ends with me picking myself up off the floor and wiping blood from the tiles. God help me if Roberta cries and wakes him as he snoozes by the fire.

  I dread going to bed. I try my hardest not to wake him. I make myself as light as air as I perch on the edge of the bed and try not to roll in his direction. If I wake him, I will have to endure the monstrous act. This, more than anything else, kills my spirit and drowns my hopes.

  His daughter is a mean-spirited little thing. She pinches Roberta whenever I’m not looking. I have to have eyes in the back of my head.

  I wish I had the courage to kill him. I’ve been reading about a local woman called Mary Ann Cotton. She poisoned a number of husbands and their children. She used arsenic, which was, in those times, used to clean mattresses to kill bugs. No one suspected her because it was quite normal for women to purchase arsenic. In the book, she is painted as wicked, but who knows what indignities and atrocities she had to endure at the hands of her husband? Arsenic isn’t something a housewife would buy today, but antifreeze is. Rat poison is. I have suffered more than anyone ever should.

  Alice

  Letter number thirty-seven

  Dear Bertie,

  He is dead at last. I have become every inch the grieving widow. They all sympathise. Even the Mister and Missus called and offered their condolences. I offered them tea. Were you not betrothed to another, we could have now been together at last. My whole adult life has been a living hell, thanks to him. I wish you health, wealth and happiness as I have always done. I couldn’t bring myself to give away the child, so I must bring her up as my own, and one day, I might learn not to hate her.

  Yours,

  Alice

  Letter number thirty-eight

  Dear Bertie,

  I’ve just heard the news of your death. I don’t think I have any feelings left to be hurt. It was merely like the end of another chapter. The closing of a door. May you be in heaven half an hour before the devil knows you are dead.

  Yours,

  Alice

  So, my father is dead. I will never have the chance to meet him. Perhaps my brother is still alive, though. I reread Mother’s last letter. It’s a letter to me.

  Letter number thirty-nine

  Dear Roberta,

  Now you know my story. What I suffered, what I withstood, what I did and what I became. Try not to judge me too harshly. Remember the quote about walking in another’s shoes. I bore so much, but when I saw the same disdain in his eyes directed towards you, I could not rest. How long would it have been before he turned his violence on you? As soon as you could speak, you would oppose him. Robert Gallbreath was not a man who would stand disagreements. I have presented as a very selfish woman, but that came later. You must understand that my only wish was to protect you. He always sided with Felicity. Even when she was very wrong. Especially when she was very wrong. He used you to hurt me.

  I know that you’ve been affected. I wasn’t a loving mother. I had no love left to give. All I had was pain. You may do what you wish with the informa
tion you have. I hope that you use it to form a bond with your children and try to love them as I should have loved you. By the time I realised what I had done, it was too late. The wall was there, and I couldn’t break it down. Find Michael. Your other half. He might help to complete you in the same way that my twin completed me. I became half a person when I lost him.

  Yours,

  Mother

  #headinthesand

  This can’t be true. Maybe it is some kind of cruel, sick joke. Mother’s last jibe. Yet, it explains her coldness. I can’t believe how much she lost. The pain she must have withstood.

  There have been in the past, many times, when in temper, I could have cheerfully choked Knobhead. I could have run him over in my car, thrown rocks at him, stabbed him with my fork because of the hurt he caused me, but I can’t imagine what my mother must have gone through. No wonder she was so cold and hard. This is way too heavy for me to deal with right now. I need to forget about it. Put it away and deal with it later. Maybe.

  15

  #audaciousex

  I have fifteen missed calls and three texts saying, ‘CALL ME’ in capitals from Mick. He must really want me to remove the photo of my kids from the office. I can understand why. They’re not the most aesthetically pleasing individuals.

  I’m sitting eating Haagen-Dazs in the middle of the day and thinking about cracking open a bottle of Shiraz when the doorbell dings. There’s supposed to be a dong, but it’s malfunctioning. Story of my life. I open the door and see the person I least expect to see.

  He stands there in all his creased Calvin Klein glory. Knobhead. My ex-husband. I just stare at him. ‘Hi, Roberta. Can I come in?’ I’m still staring. ‘Please, Roberta, I don’t want to talk on the doorstep.’

  ‘I don’t really want to talk at all,’ I manage.

  ‘Roberta, have a heart.’

  ‘Are you kidding me?’

  ‘Please.’ He looks like he’s going to cry, so I open the door and walk back into the house. He follows me like a puppy that has been repeatedly kicked and is expecting another. Don’t tempt me.

  ‘Can I sit down?’

  ‘I dunno, can you?’

  He sits. He looks at me and shakes his head, then, to my horror, he bursts into tears. There’s a whole garbled spiel, and I don’t understand a word of it. Against my better judgement, I offer him a cup of tea and ask him to tell me slowly.

  He sips at the scalding brew and starts to tell me again, swiping tears from his red eyes.

  ‘I should never have done it. Left you, I mean. I should never have cheated on you with Terri-Ann…’

  ‘…from Thomas Cook. Bit late to be thinking about that now… It’s been sixteen years.’

  ‘I know, I know, I’m a fool.’

  ‘You won’t get any argument from me.’

  ‘The thing is, she led me astray with her see-through tops and crotchless panties.’

  ‘Oh, so, it’s her fault for being desirable as opposed to me who is–’

  ‘No, no, you misunderstand. My head was turned by her, and we weren’t…well…you know–’

  ‘Having sex? Making love? Oh, yes, we weren’t. Remind me, why was that now? Oh, because I was going through the whole sexual harassment thing at work. Pardon me for not giving you your quota of blow jobs during what was an extremely difficult time for me.’

  ‘Sorry, this isn’t coming out very well.’

  ‘Again, no argument.’

  ‘I realise now what a mistake it was.’

  ‘So, you realise now, after you break my heart, upset the children, ruin my finances, marry another woman, and she bears your child. How old is Ruby again?’

  ‘I love Ruby, but Terri-Ann…she can be so–’

  ‘It’s always someone else’s fault, isn’t it? It was my fault you cheated with Terri-Ann from Thomas Cook because I wasn’t fulfilling your needs. What’s wrong? Has she stopped putting out?’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t call her that. She hasn’t worked for them for years. She’s manager at Lunn Poly now.’

  ‘Why don’t you get away, then?’

  ‘Don’t be like that, Roberta.’

  ‘What do you want, Andy?’

  ‘I want us to try again.’ Speechless. Me. Dumbstruck. ‘I know it could work. I’m not the man I was. I’ve changed.’

  ‘Unless you’ve changed into another person entirely, then I’m not interested.’

  ‘Just think about it. Promise me, you’ll just think about it.’

  ‘And what about Terri-Ann from…whatever travel agents she’s working for at the mo?’

  ‘She’s history.’

  It dawns on me. ‘She’s kicked you out, hasn’t she? You’ve got nowhere to go, have you? That’s why you came around here, isn’t it? You stinking, low-life, dirty, fuck-ugly douche bag.’ Every insult is accompanied by a slap to the upper body and face. He cowers like the cowardly twat he is. ‘Get out of my home.’

  ‘Technically, it’s my house too. Remember, I still paid the mortgage up until the kids moved out, and the deed of trust states I have a share.’

  ‘It’s a very small share.’

  ‘But I could force a sale. Unless, of course, you’d like to buy me out.’

  ‘You piece of shit.’ Another blow.

  ‘Come on, Roberta, be reasonable. I just need a place to stay until I get myself sorted. I promise you I’ll be out of your hair in a couple of months.’

  ‘Your promises are like dried dog shit. You’ll be gone in two weeks, or you’ll have my Kurt Geigers up your jacksie.’

  ‘Deal.’

  I first met him in a bar. He was the ex of a new friend. She warned me to stay away from him, that he was a “user” and “a player”, but I wouldn’t hear of it. I thought it was sour grapes. She didn’t want him, she was already married to Colm Finnegan, but she didn’t want anyone else to have him. She didn’t want him to be happy.

  He was witty and charming. He was all those clichés. Tall, dark and handsome. Mother hated him, of course, but Mother hated everyone. Including me. He came and picked me up on his motorbike one day and took me to the seaside for fish and chips. He made my heart race and my legs go weak.

  We pulled up outside the chippy, he took off his helmet and shook his shoulder-length curly hair free, his eyes twinkled, and I wanted him to kiss me more than I’d ever wanted anything. Instead, he wiped my cheek and said, ‘Cod or haddock, Robbie-erta?’ I wasn’t hungry, I was horny.

  ‘Just a cola for me,’ I said.

  As we snaked our way to the front of the queue, the smell tantalized my nostrils, and I found I was hungry after all. Too stubborn to say, I was relieved when he ignored my wish for no food and bought me cod and chips. We ate them on the sea front as the sun set, and the waves crashed against the shore. I had never been so happy. We fed the seagulls with the leftovers and dipped our toes in the freezing water. Full and happy, we ran hand in hand to the amusements and fed two pence pieces into the noisy machines. We left laughing and skipping back to the bike. By the time he dropped me at my door, I was desperate for him to kiss me. He patted my head like I was some kind of cute puppy, blew me a kiss and rode off into the night.

  The next time he picked me up, we went to the pictures to see Octopussy. Mother would have killed me if she’d known I was riding pillion. I could just imagine her slapping me around the head and screaming, ‘I didn’t bring you up for fifteen years to have you killed on the back of a motorbike.’ I sneaked out and had him pick me up two streets away so the nosy neighbours wouldn’t report back.

  I don’t remember much about the film as I spent the whole time holding my breath, the sexual tension was so strong. I’d decided if he hadn’t kissed me by the end of this date, I would kiss him. My hands shook at the thought, and my stomach churned.

  When he dropped me that night, he insisted on walking me to my door in case something terrible happened to me. I pulled him into the garages on the estate and stuck the lips on him. When we came up for air,
he was smiling.

  ‘Steady on, Robbie-erta. I’m not that kind of guy.’ We spent the next hour and twenty minutes playing tonsil tennis. I was late home, and Mother beat me with her shoe, but I didn’t care. I was floating on air. He started picking me up regularly. I never knew when he was coming. I spent a year in a permanent state of expectation. When he didn’t come, I was crushed, and when he did, I was the happiest girl in the world.

  He proposed on Christmas morning when I was sixteen. I wore the ring for four months before I dared to tell Mother. She said, ‘You better not be pregnant, my girl, or I’ll leather ye.’ I wasn’t pregnant, but soon after we were married, my periods stopped, and I realised I was to be a mother before my seventeenth birthday.

  Everything was fine. Two more children followed. I was a good and loving mother, he was a doting father, and then, he changed. I can almost pinpoint the exact time. He became sarcastic and never missed an opportunity to put me down. We stopped having sex because I was having a really difficult time. I was being sexually harassed at work. Why couldn’t he at least try to understand what I was going through? I was a young, sweet, innocent little thing, and I’d been working for Toodles for a few weeks when Gavin Coombes, the manager, started to come and stand behind me, telling me what a good job I was doing of typing the memos and filing the paperwork. I smiled and thanked him. Little did I realise he would see this as encouragement to go further. The next time, he put his hand on my shoulder, and then, it was close to my breast. I wriggled away because it made me uncomfortable. I didn’t tell anyone because I thought it was my fault. I thought I must have encouraged him somehow. He stood behind me one day massaging my shoulders, and I told him to stop.

  ‘Come on now, you know you like it,’ was his response.