Well? Evie said, What do you think?
Francine’s opinion was not often sought, especially where a new man was concerned and she didn’t have a lot to go on. Mark had scarcely spoken since arriving and was already on his third beer. He seems… nice.
Nice!
Evie, I’ve only just met him – what do you want me to say?
Francine could see William and Andy in the garden, poking coals on the barbecue. Mark hung around with them, scuffing up bits from the patio with his foot. Evie hitched herself onto the worktop next to the sink, helped herself to a tomato and gazed out of the window. The look in her eye, the intensity of sparkle, had never been there before.
Where did you meet him?
On a delivery, Evie said. I had a wedding last month the other side of Newmarket. He was there doing the garden, sorting out the borders. Turns out we went to the same college but he was two years ahead so he’d left by the time I started.
And you just got talking?
I was in the marquee, trying to decide where to put the main displays. The bride kept changing her mind so I had to decide for her. Anyway, Mark came in looking for his partner. For some reason I asked him what he thought and he said cut flowers weren’t his thing but then he said: over there, in the corner – more background, more depth. They’ll be lost otherwise.
And that was it?
Yup. Oh, and he wasn’t wearing a shirt. That didn’t influence me at all. Smiling, she took another tomato and continued staring wistfully through the kitchen window.
Francine put the salad in the spinner and turned the handle. And that’s his job, is it? Gardening?
Yes. Defensive, Evie said, He has his own business, you know. Landscaping. He does the lot – patios, pergolas, water features, as well as plants. She jumped down from the worktop, helped herself to more red wine and made for the door, the confiding moment gone.
Sometimes you sound just like Grandma Rhona, she said. Is he suitable? she emphasised the word – a perfect emulation of Rhona’s cultured tones. You’ll be asking next what his father does.
In spite of the late summer warmth and the flow of alcohol, the meal had been an awkward affair, attempts to open a conversation with Mark met with scant response. Evie sat very close, her hand in his, and answered for him, while Joanna talked enough for everyone. In the years since, the situation had never really changed. Taciturn at best, Mark still seemed to offer so little and their relationship, like so much about Evie, remained an enigma.
Now, as Francine followed him out to the van, she hoped he would talk on the journey. It would be a long, long hour otherwise.
On the motorway, spray churned up from the trucks in front of them. Francine tried to keep an even speed, winding in and out of the middle lane. So far, Mark was not offering much. He took out a packet of tobacco and began rolling a cigarette.
‘Do you mind?’ he asked, lighting up.
Francine did mind, but shook her head. A blast of air thundered in as he opened the window and smoke chased out.
‘Why the hell didn’t she tell me about her mother?’ he said, staring half turned through the side window.
‘She didn’t mean to keep it from you. I just think she wanted to get her own head around it first. You know how she was struggling with the baby too.’
‘Yeah. About that.’
‘Her mother or the baby?’
‘The baby. She never wanted kids.’
‘Really?’
‘Something to do with her mother I guess – her leaving.’ Mark was silent for a while, then he said, ‘You know she nearly had an abortion? After she found out she was pregnant, she wanted to get rid of it.’
Francine gripped the steering wheel and lurched into the slow lane, narrowly missing a motorbike. ‘But she changed her mind?’
‘I managed to persuade her, though it was tempting to let her go through with it. The timing sucked – a kid was the last thing we needed. Garden makeovers have peaked, business is down, people are cutting back, unless you’re like Joanna, of course. She never stops. Not that any of her work comes my way.’
Francine recalled Joanna edging round the issue once, how it was best kept outside the family, how she was not sure he had quite the right…approach.
‘Then there was the loan,’ Mark continued. ‘She took out thousands. Does Cambridge really need a flower farm? I had a massive go at her, that can’t have helped. I didn’t know what the hell was going on – neither did she, I think. And there I was, telling her the future was crazy – a hopeless risk. It’s no wonder she wasn’t the same.’
Mark threw his cigarette out and closed the window. He rooted around for his tobacco, then put it away and carried on, years of silence it seemed, unleashed by the motion of the van, the wet night, the crisis.
‘Sometimes I wonder if I really know her at all. After Edward came home, she’d just leave him in his cot, wouldn’t talk to anyone. She seemed defenceless, in a way. Needy. She asked me stuff but I didn’t have a clue. I couldn’t help her. There were friends, people we’ve met recently, but she didn’t want to see them – kept putting them off. Weird thing though, whenever the health visitor came, she’d get it together, all sorted, totally in control. Then after she’d gone, it stopped – she went back to lying around again. I’d come home and she’d still be where I left her, nothing done, Edward crying in his cot, wet and hungry. She refused to feed him too.’
Itching with shame, Francine recalled again Evie’s listless torpor the day she visited with William. Why on earth had they not done more?
Mark fell silent for a while. Pulled tight, waiting to snap, his right leg moved up and down rapidly, as if pumping up a tyre. ‘There’s a lot more going on than she knows,’ he said. ‘Things I haven’t told her. Financial stuff.’
‘You mean you’re in debt?’
‘Big time. We’re talking thousands – tens of thousands. It’ll take us years to get out of it. Especially now. We can’t even make the interest payments.’
‘And Evie doesn’t know this?’
‘Somewhere in her head she must know. But it’s all been a mess this past year. She had such a rough time with the birth and then Edward was ill. I was working all hours and kind of switched off. Left her to it.’
‘I think we’re all guilty of that, Mark. But why didn’t you say something? Let us know what was going on?’
He flared now, ‘How the fuck could I do that? You know what she’s like.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Francine said, ‘it’s not your fault.’
‘Too right it’s not,’ he turned back to the window.
‘But there’s no point laying blame. We’re on the same side here.’
‘Yeah, I guess.’ Mark fell silent again, the heavy familiar shut out.
Crawling now, the evening traffic heavy in both directions, they passed the Stadium at Stratford, edged onto the Mile End Road and into Whitechapel.
‘Shall I drop you off? It might take a while to park.’
‘Could do. Might be best.’
Francine pulled in at the main entrance to the hospital. Mark jumped out, grabbed his bag from the back of the van and disappeared inside. Then she drove off to find the hotel car park.
Thirty-Seven
In the hospital coffee shop, I’m treated again to the clatter and thump of the closing ritual. This twilight world I inhabit: stark lighting, packaged food, tired humanity. Edward, oblivious, lies sleeping.
Francine has sent a text to say they’re on their way. Relieved, I leave the coffee shop and head for the main entrance. I feared Mark might not come at all. There are seats by the door where I can wait for him, but as I turn the corner, Mark is already there, sitting with his head bowed, elbows on his knees.
I sit down beside him, study the side of his neck, the tattoo snaking up to his hairline. He turns sideways to loo
k at me. I ask him if he’s been here long, he shakes his head.
‘You didn’t text me?’
‘I’ve been texting since Monday night,’ he says.
‘I know. I’m sorry,’ I touch his arm. ‘I didn’t know what to say – where to start.’
‘You never do, do you?’ His voice is quiet, weary.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say again. ‘Are you hungry? Have you eaten?’
‘Not since lunch. We finished early – I had pie and chips in the pub.’
‘There’s an Italian down the road. We could stop off, if you like?’
‘What about…?’ Mark nods towards the pram.
‘Francine’s offered to take him tonight. She thought we might need some space.’
‘How is he?’
‘He’s fine, look,’ I pull back the covers.
Mark crouches beside the pram and gazes down at my sleeping son. Our sleeping son. He puts a finger to Edward’s cheek, his hand ingrained and scarred, huge against Edward’s minute perfection. He looks up then and smiles, the flash that transforms him, and I remember why I fell in love.
Mark takes the pram as we leave the hospital and I link my arm around his as we walk, the touch warm, encouraging. In the hotel room later, after Francine has taken Edward, we sit side by side on the bed. I turn to him in the hope that we can heal this rift, that whatever has broken might now be fixed. I put my hand to his face and he moves towards me but then drops his eyes and gently takes my hand away.
Then like a slap he says, ‘I can’t do this.’
‘Mark, what? What is it?’
He shakes his head slowly but says nothing more.
‘I know I should have let you know about Helena,’ I pause, ‘but it was so sudden and everything else was such a mess.’
‘It’s not that.’
‘Then what?’
‘It’s not you. I’m sorry.’
I hear the cliché, fall prey again to darker thoughts. ‘There’s someone else, isn’t there,’ I say. It’s not a question, just a simple fact. Obvious really – explains it all.
Mark’s head shoots up. ‘No! Nothing like that.’
‘So what is going on? Why are we like this? We’ve had months of it, ever since Edward came. Before that, even. I know we didn’t plan it but he’s here now and I’ve tried – I’ve really tried with him but you –’
‘–didn’t help?’ Mark rubs his forehead, ‘I know, and I’m sorry, but I just didn’t get what was happening to you. It scared the shit out of me. No one tells you these things. I should have done something, I know that now, but you were so… so locked up in it all. I couldn’t get near you.’
‘You didn’t try! I know I was a complete wreck.’ I look down at my hands, the chapped fingers, the broken skin. ‘But I just thought you couldn’t bear to look at me.’
Mark stands up and goes to the window, ‘There was that, I have to be honest. I’m not proud of it, but maybe in some weird way I blamed Edward for what it did to you – the pain, the mess…’
I pull my feet onto the bed, fold myself up, remembering the birth and how Mark saw more than he should. The image of what childbirth has done to me will be a tough one to put aside. Some men can deal with it, it isn’t Mark’s fault that he can’t.
‘I thought the best thing to do was work,’ he says. ‘I couldn’t let it all go under.’
‘I understand that.’
He’s about to say something else but stops. ‘I guess I let you go under instead.’
‘It doesn’t matter now. I should have told you about Helena.’
‘No one else knows? Joanna? Your Dad?’
I shake my head.
‘Are you going to tell them?’
‘I think Francine’s phoning Dad tomorrow morning.’
‘And what about Joanna?’
‘I’ve no idea. I can’t imagine what she’ll think, how she’ll take it.’
Mark gives a rueful nod, ‘Oh, I can.’
‘She’ll have to know, sooner or later.’
‘Well, good luck with that.’ Mark stands up. ‘I’m going to grab a shower.’
I don’t ask if he wants company.
The following morning, I send a text to Francine and head back to the hospital. Mark has agreed to meet me there after he’s found something decent to eat. Last night I hoped for more with him, now the ground we have to cover seems endless as ever.
There’s no light this morning. Cars, trucks and vans plough through the wet street as I walk to the hospital. An ambulance turns into A and E, its siren blaring. I buy a coffee and take the lift to the ICU. Helena’s condition has changed little, though one of the tubes has gone and she has more colour in her face. I see the thread veins on her cheeks, around her nose, and wonder again about the drinking, the anti-depressants.
‘Hi,’ I say, and take her hand.
Helena looks up at me and pats the bed. ‘Good to see you,’ she says. ‘Did you sleep?’
‘A bit. Mark’s here. Francine went to fetch him.’
‘See? Told you it would be alright.’
I bite my lip. ‘I’m not so sure. Nothing’s really sorted.’
‘But you’re talking?’
I nod. In the soft light, Helena moves her hand to cover mine. ‘It’s a start,’ she says, ‘be patient.’
A nurse comes in, picks up the chart hooked on the end of the bed and checks the monitors. She adjusts the drip, clicks her biro, then smiles and leaves without a word. I ask Helena if she’ll see the doctor today.
‘What day is it?’
‘I think it’s Saturday.’ I too have lost track of time.
‘Maybe not then. It’s always someone different anyway. They ask me the same questions and write it all down – every time.’
‘They’re just being careful. Perhaps they’ll move you onto the ward. Would that be better?’
‘Maybe. But I rather like it here, it’s quiet.’
Helena closes her eyes, appears to drift, I suspect there’s more than saline in the drip. But moments later her eyes open and she tugs my hand.
‘I need to see your father – I need to see William.’
‘You want to see Dad?’
Helena nods.
I take my hand away, try to process what this means. Telling him is one thing but having him here? There’s no way that will work, not yet, it’s all too soon, I’m not ready. ‘But, why? Why now, after all this time?’
‘That’s just it. I’ve had a lot of time to think, lying here. I need to talk to him, to say things. We never had a chance before – she was always in the way.’
‘Who – Francine?’
‘No, not Francine, that was later. I mean your grandmother. Rhona.’
‘I don’t understand. Grandma took care of us after you left.’
‘Yes, she did. And before that, when I was ill. But we always had a problem – she never liked me, I was never what she had in mind for your father. She’d have liked an academic, someone she could relate to – not the daughter of a used car salesman. Marrying away from home was how she put it. I tried my best but it never quite worked. Then when Joanna came and I coped so badly, she didn’t help, she just took over.’
I recall the tall figure of my grandmother, looming over me, keeping me busy. And finding my father sometimes, hunched at the kitchen table, my grandmother’s harsh voice repellent, filling the room with ice. There’s so much I still don’t understand.
‘Did Grandma send you away?’
Helena sighs, moves her head from side to side on the pillow, more tears fall. ‘You know why I went. You saw what happened, you understand how bad it can get and why I had to go.’
Again, I try to uncover the whole story. I’m not convinced it was her choice to stay away. ‘And later? You never wanted to come back?’
‘You must know by now that I did. I just wasn’t allowed to.’
This doesn’t make sense. ‘Not allowed to? You mean, because of what happened?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘Like a restraining order?’
Helena shakes her head. ‘Not exactly, nothing legally binding.’
‘But why?’
‘Let’s just say I don’t think your father would have taken things so far on his own. Your grandmother had other ideas – she must have realised how bad things were. For two pins she’d have had me sectioned.’
I stare at my mother, this tiny, wounded figure lost among the machines. I see her in bed all those years ago and my guilt spills onto the bedclothes.
‘It was my fault, wasn’t it?’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to tell them. I was angry, I remember. It just came out.’
Helena scrabbles for my hand and holds it tightly. ‘No,’ she says, her voice stronger, urgent, ‘it was never your fault. You have to let that go. You saved Joanna’s life that day. After that, there was no way I could stay. I had to leave and start again. But you never left me – you and Joanna. Not for a moment – every moment of every day. I just didn’t deserve you.’
‘But you were ill, Helena. I understand that now. You could have had help. Dad should have done something!’
‘I think you understand how hard that is for some men. What was Mark doing while you were struggling, mmm? Where has he been?’
She has a point. Even Helena doesn’t know how close to the edge I came three days ago. The wheel turns, history repeats.
‘I’m not sure what Dad will make of it all, how he’ll react. He’s not…, he doesn’t cope well with change. Was he always like that?’
Helena lies back and closes her eyes again, ‘It was all a bit much for him, I think. I’m not saying he didn’t want children, he just never thought about it until you’d arrived. By then of course it was too late. He did his best in some ways but he was happier in his own abstracted world, dealing with the past, making sense of things in retrospect.’
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