Julia had not yet given her prepared speech. There had been so much she’d wanted to say in this hour—to Gwen, to Dr. Frankel, perhaps also to herself. But something passed across Gwen’s face that made her suddenly ask, “Would you prefer to talk to Dr. Frankel alone? I can wait outside?”
Gwen glanced up and met her mother’s eyes for a moment. She nodded.
Julia stood. “Okay,” she said, brightly. To Dr. Frankel, in her thoughts she whispered, She’s a baby, and then one final time, Please. She slipped out.
• • •
UP FITZJOHN’S AVENUE on a late-spring afternoon, beneath the heavy spreading sycamores and horse chestnuts, several academies are spaced at regular intervals; this is where north London’s most privileged three-year-olds learn to read and write, are taught computer code and Mandarin in striped winter caps, or, in summer, beneath ribboned straw hats. Today the little girls were in deep blue gingham dresses, woolen cardigans, and navy elastic purse belts; the boys, in miniature blazers and gray tailored trousers. Many emerged skipping, as yet unencumbered by their parents’ weighty expectations. The pavements thronged with mothers and nannies. Where Gwen and Julia crossed, two black Range Rovers and a black Jeep were double-parked, badly, the traffic crawling up the hill behind this presidential convoy in their variously armored vehicles. And babies were everywhere. In buggies and in slings, or toddling on reins attached to tiny backpacks, greeting older siblings at the school gates. Julia averted her eyes from this sea of tiny creatures, but as they walked she reached for Gwen’s arm. This school uniform was royal blue. At primary school Gwen’s had been red, almost, but not quite, as bright as her hair.
• • •
THEY WERE TOILING UP the hill toward the art supply shop. Gwen had not known if her mother would agree to this extension of their outing, but she did not feel ready to go straight home, where nowadays they could never be alone. It had been Dr. Frankel who’d suggested (in desperation, Gwen felt, after several other conversational dead ends) that mother and daughter spend more time together on activities that made them happy, and there was nowhere that brought Gwen as much joy as this paradise of pristine dyes and clay, and the promise of future projects. She did not know with any certainty which activities made her mother happy. Maybe playing the piano? A knot tightened in her stomach. Until recently, she had always believed that Julia’s happiness lay simply in spending time with her, regardless of what they did—certainly that was what she’d always said. But in the last few days, Julia could barely look at her.
The remainder of the therapy session had not been an enormous success. Initially she’d felt her mother’s presence hampered her ability to defend herself with any eloquence, but after Julia had gone Gwen felt a sudden tender homesickness, and a longing to rush out to the waiting room and beg forgiveness for dismissing her. She hadn’t wanted Julia herself to go away, only Julia’s disapproval and disappointment. After that, guilt had stifled her and made her feel hot and snappish, and she had shut down the rest of Dr. Frankel’s valiant approaches. She had not deserved the professional kindness palpable in that room.
Now mother and daughter walked up the hill in silence. As they crossed Prince Arthur Road, Julia reached out for her and they walked the rest of the way arm in arm, and though neither spoke, Gwen began to feel a slight easing of the pressure in her chest. She shuffled a little, shortening her gait to keep pace. On the threshold of the shop they separated. Gwen held the door open, shy, chivalrous. They made their way through Painting and Drawing, over to the temple’s inner sanctum, Casting and Modeling.
“So what are we looking for?”
Gwen shrugged. “Dunno. Just browsing.” She frowned over a package of “skin tones” polymer clay with professional interest. She had been mixing her own flesh tones for years—this overpriced multipack was for amateurs. But next to it stood a tray of wire-tipped modeling tools with sleek wooden handles, and on one of these she pounced, turning it over and over between her fingers as if rolling a cigar. It was sixteen pounds, an enormous sum. But it was double ended and one tip, the needle, would be useful every day. Future promise lay in all these wares, the world a bit less lonely when she could sculpt and share it. She fished in the pocket of her cardigan for her purse.
“Mum.”
“Yes?”
“Do you still hate me?”
Julia looked stricken and Gwen felt fractionally heartened. Hope unfurled and blossomed when her mother reached to stroke her cheek.
“I could never hate you, my darling; you’re the most precious thing in my world. You know that.”
Gwen nodded uncertainly, the cuticle of her little finger between her front teeth. After a moment she fingered a packet of frog-green modeling clay. “I’m going to use this to make that massive green cactus thing in her office. I mean, that was so weird. It was like this giant looming thing.”
Julia smiled. “It was rather phallic.”
Gwen began to giggle. “And it had massive spikes!”
“I wonder what a Freudian would make of that.”
Laughter overtook them both, drawing looks of disapproval from the checkout girl. Julia covered her mouth, then turned away. A sob rose in her chest and she swallowed it down. Enough. For healing and for sanity, all that would have to end. She wiped her eyes, took a breath, and turned back, resolute. Gwen’s giggles petered out, uncertain.
Julia took Gwen’s hand between her own. She raised it to her lips and kissed her daughter’s dry knuckles, above the mulberry-colored hearts and black stars that Gwen had idly inked upon the back of each finger.
“My darling, what do you really want? What does your gut tell you?”
Gwen looked down at her mother and blinked, steadily. She said, no longer confrontational, but as calmly as she knew how, “I have to keep my baby,” and her all-powerful condemning possessive made possible no other answer. Julia put her arms around her hunched, gangling little girl.
part three
32.
Iris swept Gwen and Katy upstairs into her bedroom, where the beveled-glass doors of the empty, lilac-papered wardrobes gaped open and the windows were now uncurtained. Bonfire heaps of clothing lay on the bed, on the floor, on the armchair, and on one bedside table stood a tower of small white boxes ominously printed in red with the words MOTH KILLER. Each pile had been labeled with torn sheets of lined paper on which Iris had written queries and imperatives such as “Charity?” “Keep!” “Do Not Throw!” “Maybe for summer?” “Gwendolen?” in her tense, listing copperplate.
“You may take anything except from that chair; those I still wear. And if you would like anything from that heap by the wall, then please show me first; there are a few pieces for your mother; the trousers would be far too short for you in any case. I can’t wait to see the back of it all. I feel freer and freer as this exercise advances, I ought to have moved years ago.” She swept her arms out wide, a conductor acknowledging her orchestra. “Anything you don’t want just pop into that empty box over there to take to Norwood, with a few sachets of the moth murderer. I’m scrupulous but it would be mortifying to infect the charity shop.”
Gwen looked over at the cartons uncertainly. On each was printed a red bull’s-eye and a rigid insect, various legs radiating in odd directions as it suffered electrocution or rigor mortis. “I don’t think I should touch moth-murdering stuff, Granny, it might be toxic.”
“As you wish,” said Iris, tightly. She turned to Katy. “The world seems filled with gestational hazards these days. When I was pregnant with Gwen’s father I was desperate to go to Vietnam and everyone was terribly difficult about it, worrying about stress and helicopters and gas, and nonsense like that. I’d never actually been a foreign correspondent; in truth I don’t really know what came over me but I was suddenly longing to go and it was still early days but it was clear that that was where the action was, especially after the Gulf of Tonkin. Of course the pap
er wouldn’t have it. I told them, my husband is my obstetrician and he says there’s no reason why not, women have babies in Vietnam, one’s brain still functions after all, but then they gave me my column and that suited me far better in any case. And Philip Alden was awfully good about my wanting to go but of course men are always happier to have one stay at home, whatever they say.”
Katy tucked her hair behind her ears, smiling in admiration and with an evident fear that she might be required to respond intelligently about Vietnam, or pregnancy, or men. “Yes,” she said, dark eyes blinking. “Gosh. You were so brave.”
“Women must be brave, Katy darling, if we are to achieve anything at all. Cowardice and skinlessness are the enemies of female success. If one cares at all what others think, one’s done for. In any case, there will be crumpets in the bread bin when you pause. Assuming,” this to Gwen, “that your mother hasn’t done another wonderfully officious sweep around my kitchen and packed the bread bin. When you have a cache call me up.”
Alone in the bedroom, the girls exchanged incredulous glances. Iris had always had exquisite taste, even in the days in which she and Philip had been supporting his parents as well as managing their own mortgage, and she had kept almost everything. Already Gwen could see two BIBA dresses, one in burgundy, the other lilac jersey, and, from a still earlier era, a yellow poplin blouse with an oversized Peter Pan collar. A vision of her future self arose—she could become stylish and eclectic and enviable, and could sashay to school next year in lace and silks. By then she would have an unimaginable new life, and a new, more sophisticated wardrobe seemed only fitting.
They began clearing the bed. Ruthlessly they discarded cotton shirts and office slacks. Then Gwen unearthed a boxy sweater in pale peach mohair and moments later Katy held up a slippery fuchsia blouse which Gwen, who did not wear pink, said she should keep.
“So how long will you be able to wear normal clothes?” Katy asked, folding the blouse with care. Gwen had confided in her only a week ago, swearing her to secrecy, and they had talked exclusively and exhaustively of the pregnancy ever since.
“Dunno, forever probably, because I’m so insanely tall. I don’t want to tell anyone at school till the end of term. My mum will tell the teachers then, and start planning next year and stuff.”
“Is there anything at all yet? Like, a minibump?”
Gwen lifted up her sweater and Katy peered speculatively.
“Nothing, you’re still superskinny. It’s just so crazy. I think it will feel more real once you look pregnant. Is Nathan getting excited?”
“It’s a bit early for all that,” said Gwen, suddenly vexed. She pulled down her sweater and returned her attention to the bed. This was a provocation from Katy, she felt, who was well aware that excitement had been thin on the ground in the Alden-Fuller household. In any case, how could anyone be expected to get excited about something more than half a year away? She dropped a belt into a pile of rejects.
“I’ll take that if you don’t like it.”
Gwen handed her the belt, and then returned in silence to her own heap. Katy’s questions always pertained to Nathan—how did he feel, what did he want, would he “stand by” her—closed-minded Katy had instantly reverted to the language of another century. Gwen had had to explain that pregnancy happened to two people, it was not for a woman to be “stood by” or otherwise, and that she and Nathan were in total accord. This last may have been a slight exaggeration for he had so far resisted her attempts to bring him round to the idea of fatherhood, even in the abstract. The last few times they’d talked he’d grown panicked, twice had cried, and each time, to comfort and convince him, she assumed a depth of conviction she did not feel. But unlike the parents he never seemed angry, nor did he seem to blame her. Something had befallen them both, and he said he believed she was trying to make the best of it, even if his best and hers were not (yet?) in concert. He was still her boyfriend. Relations between them improved when she realized that all he wanted was to discuss it as little as possible; if she adhered to that stipulation, everything continued between them, if not exactly, then almost as before. That morning she had taken time away from her own work to bake raspberry and white chocolate muffins that might fuel his; he had eaten three and lifted her heart by declaring them (and herself, she inferred, by proxy) “awesome, thanks.” When he was home he no longer chided her nor even seemed to notice if she played with her phone or doodled blog designs on the corners of her notes and this, conversely, encouraged her to focus in order to win back his notice. At first his disengagement had unsteadied her but she knew him, and knew how it would be. He would be incredible, once it became necessary for him to be incredible. The male instinct was to deal with what lay immediately ahead; he had exams and university decisions and these were all-consuming. Nine months of pregnancy would take them to Christmas; it was now only May. Katy had sworn secrecy and support and undying friendship, but today she was filled with irrelevant, childish questions, and Gwen had begun to wish she had not told her.
“It is actually ages, isn’t it? I guess you found out majorly early.” Katy was twirling a glossy lock of dark hair round and round the end of her nose, thinking. Then she ventured, “Aren’t you scared? You must be, a bit.”
“I’m really not. I’m just excited to meet my baby.”
An opportunity offered, and rejected. Katy recognized the lie, for behind her eyes Gwen saw a willing empathy shut down; instead, disappointment that she, long-trusted, wasn’t to be trusted now. Katy would have said, “I know,” she would have stroked Gwen’s hair and said again, stoutly, You’ll be wonderful, you’re doing the right thing. It’s natural to have wobbles, it doesn’t mean you’re making the wrong choice. No one else would offer this reassurance. But how could Gwen confess that she struggled to focus upon what would inevitably follow this pregnancy? It was there in her peripheral vision, but when she turned her head it slipped away like a phantom and her mind would skip elsewhere, distracted, relieved. Far easier to daydream about how her classmates might react upon finding out, about how she might look by late summer, a neat, startling bump, a badge of distinction; a commanding unequivocal sign of adult womanhood. It was the pregnancy for which she had fought. What must come next—a baby, motherhood—was hazier, and harder to comprehend. Ludicrous, even. But to admit fear was to admit doubt, and if she admitted her doubts aloud, she knew, her outward conviction might crumble.
Katy held up a polka-dotted handkerchief, a peace offering. “This is megacute; maybe you could put this on the baby’s head, like a bandana. It’s all just so crazy. You have to tell me everything. I want to know every single thing.”
“Then stop talking so seriously about everything,” said Gwen crossly. But then she relented and said, “Obviously I’ll tell you everything. But you’ll see, so you’ll know it all anyway.”
“I told you I’ll come every day on my way home, I’ll be, like, the fun auntie. And I want to come with you when you have scans, and help you buy things and get ready and everything.”
“I feel sick again, I’m sitting down. You can hold stuff up and show me.” Gwen sank heavily into the armchair, on top of an untouched pile of coats. It helped to imagine a future with Katy always there, involved. With her friend by her side it would be far less frightening to do whatever needed doing.
They worked on, exclaiming intermittently about gems found and horrors unearthed. At the back of a wardrobe Gwen spotted a small, scratched leather suitcase and she humped this onto the duvet. Katy was holding up a pair of white silk trousers when Iris herself appeared and took these from her reverentially. She wore a misty-eyed expression, as if an old lover’s photograph had slipped from the pages of a battered paperback.
“I bought those on holiday in Nice one summer. I’ll keep them, I might wear those again. Ah, I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each, though they’re not flannel, thank God, they’re Pierre Cardin. Where on earth di
d you find that case? You’ve no reason to concern yourself with that,” she snapped, laying down the trousers, but Gwen, who considered her grandmother’s presence to be sufficient permission, had already clicked open the thick brass buckle. The lid of the suitcase flopped back to reveal its torn and faded paisley-print lining, and six neat stacks of pressed and folded baby clothes.
“Granny!” Gwen breathed. “Were those Dad’s? Oh, please can I have them?”
“Absolutely not,” said Iris, firmly, but was met by imploring looks from both girls, and a quivering lower lip from her granddaughter.
“No. Oh—fine. But I’d like to be clear that this does not constitute endorsement. Katy, I have not yet heard your opinion on the matter but I shall tell you for the record that I believe continuing with this pregnancy to be an act of self-sabotaging imbecility on my granddaughter’s behalf, as she well knows. You may keep them if you insist. Lord knows what’s in there. Your father’s baby clothes, a baby blanket, and if I recall, an elaborately hideous collection of rather itchy cardigans knitted by Philip Alden’s mother, who had, as you will soon see, a great deal too much time on her hands.” She turned to go. “I sincerely hope if they do anything, they drive home a little reality. Those are clothes for a human, not a plaything. I am displeased.”
It was Katy who a moment later was wiping away tears and this decided Gwen’s own course of emotional action, till then uncertain. She had many precious artifacts, but it had been so long since she’d unearthed something new of her father’s. A lump had risen in her own throat, but when she saw Katy crying she said firmly, “Don’t be silly.” Her father as an infant had not yet been her father; these were adorable but did not represent a person she could reasonably miss. She put her arm around her friend and realized, with a pounding heart, that it was possibly her first spontaneously maternal gesture.
The Awkward Age Page 19