Helena nods. ‘And other days – what happens then?’
‘I can’t bear to be in the house if he’s crying. I have to go away from him.’
‘You mean you leave him? Leave him alone in the house?’
I look down at my hands, the fingers twisting, the knuckles white. ‘I did,’ I say, ‘a couple of times. I thought it was best. I thought I’d hurt him if I stayed.’ My shoulders begin to shake. ‘On other days, I can’t leave the house at all. Helena what’s wrong with me? Why is it like this? Why can’t I love him?’
Helena leaves the ironing and comes to put a hand beneath my chin. ‘Oh, believe me, Evie, you do love him. Too much. It’s all there, underneath, you just don’t know it yet. And I’ll stay here with you until you do. Just for a while, until things are sorted and you’re better. Weeks, or months, however long it takes.’
‘Until the wind changes?’ I smile in spite of myself.
‘I won’t let you down,’ Helena says, ‘and I won’t leave – not this time. I understand, Evie. I said it will all be alright, I also know it’s not that simple. What’s happening won’t be waved away with coffee and a chat. I came to help, a simple arrangement no-one needs to know about.’
I look at her and slowly facts begin to filter, memories to surface. ‘This is what happened to you isn’t it? This is why you did what you did – and why you left us.’
‘Yes,’ she says, ‘it is. It’s what reduced a bright intelligent woman to a snivelling wreck who refused to get out of bed. And that’s why I’m here now. It mustn’t happen again.’
‘But what if I don’t get better?’
‘It’s true there are no guarantees but you need to have help – someone who understands what you’re going through.’
‘You didn’t have help, did you? No-one understood, not Dad, not Grandma.’
Helena goes back to the ironing board and picks out a pillow case from the basket. ‘There was someone,’ she says. ‘A young doctor. She tried, but your grandmother didn’t take kindly to interference and I was too comatose to object. Do you remember her?’
I recall a string of people in and out at that time, starchy women with uniforms and loud voices. I also remember that one of them was different. She was small and quiet and asked if I helped my mother with the baby. I told her I didn’t see her much, that I wasn’t allowed to. The doctor had put a hand on my shoulder and told me my mother was very tired, that it was quite hard work having a baby and she needed a rest now.
Will she get better soon? I asked.
Oh, yes. She’ll be better soon. Then Grandma Rhona came out of the kitchen and told me that the doctor was very busy and I shouldn’t get in her way.
The doctor kept a hand on my shoulder and didn’t seem in a hurry to leave. Grandma Rhona wiped her hands on her apron, opened the front door and thanked the doctor for coming. Then the door closed and I was left in the hall, wondering why I’d just been told off.
The next time the doctor came, Grandma Rhona was out shopping and for once, had left me alone with my mother. I went upstairs and stood on the landing in the doorway of her room. My mother appeared to be sleeping, propped up with pillows, but when I crept closer, she opened her eyes. She looked different – thinner. She didn’t smile, though her sleepy look changed and she held out her hand. I climbed onto the bed, took off my shoes, and for a few blissful moments, she pulled me into the bedclothes and stroked my hair. I stayed there, breathing in the warmth of her, not daring to move.
But then the doorbell rang. My mother jumped, jolting me away. Where’s Grandma? she asked, her eyes restless. I told her Grandma had gone shopping.
My mother clutched the bedclothes to her throat. I don’t want to answer that, she said and her eyes flicked around the room as if trying to spot something lurking in a corner.
I told her I would answer it and my mother said not to bother, whoever it was would come back later but I leapt across the room, down the stairs and opened the door. On the other side was the doctor. I told her my mother was in bed, that she didn’t want to get up.
And is your Grandma not here?
Grandma’s gone out with the baby and Daddy’s at work.
The doctor asked if she could come in for a minute, that she needed to have a chat with my mother and would that be alright. She closed the door, ran up the stairs and I followed, but when she reached my mother’s bedroom, she turned and asked me to wait outside. The doctor pulled my mother’s door to and I could hear only muffled snatches, odd words that reached me across the landing. I went to sit on my wobbly chair-bed in the small space left for me to sleep in. I had no idea how long I would have to sleep in the box room, how long Grandma Rhona would stay. I thought it probably had something to do with the baby and my mother and how much longer she was going to stay in bed.
When my mother’s door opened again and the doctor came out, I caught a glimpse of the room. The bed was empty now, the bedclothes piled in a heap and my mother stood in her dressing gown staring out of the window.
Your mother’s a bit better now, the doctor said, smiling again. I think you’re helping to cheer her up.
I couldn’t understand why my mother would need cheering up if she was just tired. The doctor waited with me in the living room until Grandma Rhona returned and my mother came downstairs for the first time since forever. Later, in the next bad time, after my mother had left for good, the doctor still came to see us. She helped to make sense of it all, not hushing it up like Grandma Rhona did, or looking sad all the time like my father. She tried to keep my mother alive and present by recalling these scenes, reminding me of what had happened after the baby was born. But I did not remember. My mother began to fade from my memory, just as surely as she was fading away in her room.
Eighteen
William buttoned his raincoat and set off up the road towards town. He passed the smart new retirement buildings wedged in at the end of his road. An Age-Exclusive Development the hoarding announced. God help me, William thought. I’d rather go under a train.
Early drizzle had turned to heavy rain; water streamed down the gutters gathering autumn debris and choking the drains. He hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella, he hadn’t brought his phone either. He found it hard to accept the need to be contactable anywhere, night or day, joining the irritating throng that wandered around shouting into thin air like demented souls. In any case, it was unlikely Francine would ring. The longer she stayed away, he found, the less he wanted to speak to her, the less he felt able to express. That was the purpose of this particular wet journey: he was heading for the library and, he hoped, some inspiration.
It was market day. In the old square, regardless of weather or season, a sucession of traders turned up before dawn, week after week, as they had done for centuries. Livestock had gradually given way to cheap foreign imports, but fresh produce thrived, brought in from the fertile Fenlands to the east, and the gentle Northamptonshire slopes to the north and west. There was a growing number of ‘alternative’ stalls too, selling home-made produce: jam, biscuits, candles, cakes, lace and toiletries – these guaranteed to be chemical free. Could you have toiletries that were not made up of chemical components William wondered. Might as well wash yourself in plain water. But then, what was water if not a combination of hydrogen and oxygen? There were times when William found modern life quite ridiculous. He tried not to voice his gripes and concerns, particularly in front of his daughters, but invariably failed.
For some obscure reason, the powers-that-be had seen fit to site the public library in an old primary school a good twenty minutes’ walk from the town centre. Classic Victorian, redbrick, high windows. Whenever William came here he felt like an infant again, surprised to see full-sized chairs, and the overhead gas heaters replaced by wall radiators that did at least heat the whole room and not just the rafters. He stood in the doorway dripping onto the mat, then took off his coat
and hung it on a peg by the cloakroom door. He wiped some of the rain from his face and neck with a handkerchief before stuffing it back in his pocket.
‘Hi, William. How are you?’
This was Kirsty. She seemed to be the only staff member ever available. Her badge said Library Assistant, at least that’s what William had thought the first time he met her but the badge was pinned rather low down on her chest and William hadn’t wanted to stare at it too long. Quite why she felt entitled to call him by his first name was another mystery, part of this headlong hurtle into social anarchy, but she was pleasant enough, and viewed him no doubt as just a bumbling elder coming in to pass the time. At the moment, this was not so far from the truth.
‘I’m well, thank you Kirsty. And you?’
‘I’m fine. Quiet today though.’
William scanned the local history section and noted with some satisfaction that neither of his recent publications were on the shelves.
‘Think your books are still out, William,’ Kirsty called across the room. ‘Popular, aren’t they?’
She sounded surprised. But then, William had been surprised too – by his late success, his defection from academia to the relatively grubby world of commercial publishing. A freak chance, a combination of luck and good timing. His golden ticket had been The Decline and Rise of Britain’s Waterways, a lengthy text that meandered much as the waterways did. William still gave the Canal lectures sometimes, the talks for a local history group that had sparked it all off: someone in the audience who knew someone. Of minority interest but happily coinciding with a television series on a similar theme. His expertise was sought, he joined the panel of advisers and the book, rebranded to link with the series, had sold well. He became something of a local celebrity, much against his wishes. But the girls had loved it, Francine’s business picked up, connections were made. Then, just as rapidly, it all died down, leaving William relieved but financially somewhat better off. To his secret satisfaction, William had, in this small brush with fame, amounted to more than his mother could possibly have predicted.
After the book, William chose to leave the school, seeing retirement as a time to spend on his own pursuits: reading, walking, writing. But he’d soon realised that without labels and purpose and routine, retirement had chafed. Was that perhaps what Francine had noticed? Was it then that she’d turned from him simply because he’d ceased to have a purpose? Did she grow bored because he was bored – or more likely, just boring?
William took out his notebook and began to draft a letter. This was what he’d come here to do. Away from the familiarity of home, he’d come to this quiet anonymous place to try and write a letter to his wife. However, after an hour or two of drafted sentences and screwed up balls of paper littering the table where he sat, he had to concede defeat. Kirsty offered to bring him a bin but rather than leave incriminating morsels of his anxious soul, he gathered them all up, fetched his coat and put them in his pocket.
‘See you later William,’ Kirsty called from her desk, flicking up the screen of her phone with one hand and holding a large sandwich in the other.
‘Goodbye, Kirsty. Have a good afternoon.’
Kirsty raised her sandwich hand without taking her eyes from the screen.
The rain had eased now. William took the long route round the outskirts of town. He didn’t often walk beyond the confines of his small home patch in the centre. The buildings here were from a different era, late Victorian, early 20th century: white painted balustrades across red brick façades, a flourish of mock Tudor, slate roofs. Quite why he’d stayed so long in his own little stone terrace was a mystery, even to him. Inertia perhaps, like so much else. They could have afforded something different, something more grand, especially after the book success. Yet somehow they never got round to it. Perhaps too, he could not bring himself to draw a line conclusively across the past, and the nugget of hope he harboured still, would be lost forever.
Back at home, William made a cheese and pickle sandwich and took it into the sitting room. He lit the fire, burnt the papers from his coat pocket and went upstairs to change his wet trousers. Standing in his socks and pants, he caught sight of himself in the long bedroom mirror. It was always a shock, as if his father were standing in the room with him. But unlike his father, William’s body had not aged well. Inevitable, if his mother’s predictions were anything to go by.
You really should do some sport William, tone yourself up a bit. This at fifteen when all he wanted to do was lie under a tree reading a book.
It’s surely not that difficult, is it? All laid on for you at school? Why don’t you take advantage? Look at Edward, how fit he is!
And William would sigh and turn over onto his back. Yes, Mother, I’ll do more next term, I’ll take up cricket.
And Rhona would humph and walk away. Of course, next term arrived and nothing changed, William didn’t take up cricket and Rhona continued to nag, in her letters and in the weekly phone call. Take no notice Lad, his father would say, it’s just her way. Misses you that’s all. Unlikely, William thought and would retreat further into his books. And later, when Edward’s thirst for sport took him with a group of friends to a rocky outcrop above the River Wye and made the fateful dive that broke his neck on unseen boulders, William retreated further into his books and further from any expectation of affection from his mother. He would never be missed. Neither parent recovered from the loss, as was only to be expected and William bore his abrupt only-child status, and his own grief, alone and largely ignored.
William pulled on a dry pair of trousers and went downstairs. Perhaps he would phone Francine after all, but not now, not today. For the rest of the afternoon and much of the evening, he read the paper, attempted to finish his talk for the History Society and wandered around the house nibbling cream crackers. At ten o’clock he made cocoa and went to bed.
Nineteen
Little by little Helena’s presence is changing me, bringing me up from a dark place. In the mirror I still look gaunt, grey circles beneath my eyes, but I no longer look ill. Some days I can almost believe things are normal. The whole house is a transformation, though Mark hasn’t said anything yet. Perhaps he thinks I’m coping again, not before time.
Helena arrives every day at ten. There’s less to do now the place is tidy; she brings a heap of food and we spend time cooking and filling the freezer. We also fill in some blanks. I find out she has never remarried, there are no half-sibling surprises. She says there’s no way she could risk that again. She tells me about the out-of-work months and the time she took travelling, quiet explorations to remote corners, far from the back-packing rank and file. I learn that the small legacy left by her mother enabled her to buy the flat. I also learn about Jack.
‘He’s a friend,’ she says, ‘a builder.’ Beneath her foundation she blushes. She’s sixty-two, it’s rather sweet.
‘I’ve known him a long time. Years ago, his company did some work on the flat, laying floors, fitting the kitchen and so on. It was a small job but it took forever. I thought he was just a perfectionist until I worked out the delay was deliberate. He wasn’t coming back to check out the workmanship, he was checking me out instead.’
Suddenly Helena stops, conscious she might have said too much. This, after all, is the woman who deserted my father as well as me. But I feel nothing except a growing desire to know everything about her, to fill in all the blanks.
‘He hasn’t moved in yet?’ I tease.
‘I think he wants to – he’s been angling to for years. But I don’t think so somehow. He built himself a lovely place over in St. Albans. Why would he want to leave it?’
‘Just because he built it doesn’t mean he has to stay there.’
‘My flat’s too small anyway,’ she says. ‘It wouldn’t work.’ I’ve unsettled her, the subject’s closed and she goes back to the ironing.
But one afternoon I begin to doubt
the wisdom of what we’re doing and to wonder how far I’ve actually come. Helena suggests I might like to go out and spend time in my workshop. The mere thought fills me with horror.
‘What will I do with Edward while I’m in there? I can’t take him with me. I mean, the workshop – it’s not safe, is it?’
‘I’ll look after Edward,’ she says, ‘you look after yourself.’
I shake my head. ‘That might be okay for now but what about later – when you’re not here?’
‘Don’t get ahead of yourself – one thing at a time. You’ll manage.’ Helena tries to reassure but it feels too brisk.
In the kitchen I stand clutching the edge of the sink. Helena follows and watches me from the doorway. ‘I’m here now,’ she says, ‘we can do this together. Besides, it will do you good – work can be a great therapy you know. Go on, just try it. You don’t need to be out there long.’
But she’s pushed me too hard. ‘I can’t!’ I yell, spinning round. ‘You don’t understand! It’s all a complete mess – I can’t think straight, my head’s still full of crap. I’m exhausted, I feel dirty. All the time. Unclean. Mark thinks I’m gross and won’t come near me. I mean, it’s no wonder he’s gone to work up in Yorkshire, is it? Why is everything so difficult? I’ve only had a baby for God’s sake! It wasn’t like this for Joanna, she sailed through it all – both times.’
Helena waits while I finish spewing out my frustration, then says quietly: ‘I know that some women find it simple. But I didn’t. Evie, I do understand, I know what you’re going through – not coping, not being in control.’
I tip my head back and take a long, deep breath. ‘It’s not fair, is it?’
‘No, Evie, it’s not fair, but that’s how it is. And you’re not alone. Thousands of women go through this.’
‘So why didn’t I know about it? I was so unprepared.’
‘There is help out there, you know – forums, chat rooms – a lot of information. I’ve had a look.’
The Place Where Love Should Be Page 8