‘You’re not in touch? You must have some contact details?’
Maybe we’ll all laugh about it together one day.
‘I didn’t keep her,’ I whisper. He grabs my coat and pulls me to him.
‘What?’ he says.
‘You all right, darlin’?’ Trish appears beside us, a red bobble hat on her head and a concerned look on her face.
‘We’re good thanks,’ Dan snaps.
‘Don’t look like it,’ Trish says.
Dan tightens his grip on my coat. ‘We’re having a private conversation.’
‘Not any more,’ says Trish, who has switched into vigilante mode.
My hands are sweating, my heart hammers at my chest. Biology is taking over, priming me to get away. I claw his hands from my coat.
‘Is that what she’s talking about in the card?’ Dan says, taking hold of my wrists. ‘What exactly did you do to her?’
‘That’s enough.’ Trish’s wiry arms shoot out and shove him. ‘Back off.’
Caught by surprise, he lets me go and steps away. ‘Don’t you dare touch me,’ he snarls at Trish.
Trish steps in and pushes him again. ‘You shouldn’t have fuckin’ touched her then, should ya, mate?’
The diversion is a small one, but it gives me time to turn and run.
‘Go, girl,’ yells Trish.
Biology carries me away from the block and out on to Lever Street. Hurtling across the road, I dodge an oncoming cab. When I reach the other side, I sprint through a complex of two-storey apartment blocks and back onto Goswell Road.
I glance behind me. Dan is nowhere to be seen.
53
Tuesday, 29 December 2015
I don’t stop running until I reach City Road. The traffic beside me slows on the approach to the Old Street roundabout.
Chest burning, I steal deep gulps of air. I grab both ends of my coat’s wide belt and pull them tight, tighter than they need to be. Tight enough to sever the connection between the top and bottom of my body.
A familiar numbness settles over me. When I realised she was still with me, this numbness helped me cope. In order to survive the remaining months of my pregnancy, I grew skilled at divorcing mind and body, drifting through most of the days on automatic.
Now I drift along the noisy street, aware that the buried fault line has torn apart for good and anything could emerge. I see the midwife’s face, plump and serious. She had huge round glasses and straight dark hair parted in the centre. I see the wrinkled body of my baby, smeared with blood and mucus. I see the midwife wrapping her in a green towel and carrying her out of the delivery room.
Is my daughter watching me now? She could be among the people pushing past me. She could be anywhere.
A Travelodge beckons from the opposite side of the road. A modern, anonymous building. I cross at the next set of lights and enter through the automatic doors into the lobby. A young man with a blond crew-cut sits behind the reception desk. Thick neck, his white shirt straining against his muscled arms and chest.
‘I need a room,’ I say.
‘Let me check for availability,’ he says, in an Eastern European accent I cannot place. He consults his computer screen and offers me a double. I hand over my credit card, and the transaction takes place in a blur.
The third-floor room has blue carpets, blue curtains and a blue bedspread on the small double bed. I drop my bag on the floor, unbutton my coat and let that fall too. After removing my boots, my grey jeans and my black jumper, I trail naked through to the cramped bathroom.
Stepping into the narrow shower cubicle, I turn the temperature dial as hot as it will go. Scalding water pummels the tight muscles between my shoulder blades. A small bottle of shampoo sits on the soap tray. I squeeze a globule into my hand and lather and rinse my hair. Froth slides down my skin and seethes in the plughole. I work more shampoo into my armpits and between my legs. History nibbles at my fingertips, memories of what my body has endured.
I turn off the shower and dry myself, the thin towel rough as a cat’s tongue against my skin. I wrap it round me and sit on the end of the bed. My arms throb with exhaustion, as if they have been holding a heavy object at bay for some time.
How have I hidden her for so long? She feels more inevitable than shocking. It is as though she has been close by all this time but in a different room, her whereabouts temporarily forgotten.
I would describe it as knowing and not knowing at the same time.
That same doctor also told me painful memories couldn’t be edited out, yet I have done a good job of it for twenty years. Even when some chapters of our story were dragged to the surface, she still remained submerged.
I pull on my pants and jumper and curl up on top of the bed. My thoughts assemble into some sort of order. Dan. What will he do? Wait for me again at the flat? Go to the police out of concern for his family’s safety?
The day the consultant confirmed my ongoing pregnancy, I almost told Dan the truth. After leaving the hospital, I went home and opened a bottle of red wine. At that moment, I didn’t care what damage I might cause my stowaway. When sufficiently drunk, I walked to Stella’s house, intending to scream my misfortune in the street until Dan listened. But the dark house showed no signs of life, and I couldn’t see Stella’s car in the street. I climbed over her fence and into the back garden and used a stone sculpture of a fish to shatter the glass panel on the back door. Once inside the kitchen, I smashed the two matching espresso cups I found on the kitchen table and selected a Sabatier knife from the set next to the Aga. Their bedroom was on the top floor. I slashed their duvet and shredded their white linen sheet. I was just getting stuck into the pillows when they returned and caught me. Dan told Stella to wait downstairs while he sorted me out.
He ordered me to give him the knife. I obeyed him, as always.
‘Stella doesn’t know I was pregnant, does she?’ I said. He shook his head.
‘Leave now,’ he said, ‘and I won’t call the police.’
‘I have to tell you something.’ I braced myself for the big reveal, but a sudden darting movement in my belly stopped me. It came again, stronger this time. It was her, moving around inside me, trying to make her presence felt.
‘I’m with Stella,’ he said, ‘nothing you can say will change that.’
I held a mangled pillow over my stomach, as if to protect our child from his callousness. Telling him would open me up to his judgement, whatever decision I made. This matter concerned her and I alone.
A few minutes later, thanks to Stella, the police arrived. She was fuming when Dan told them the situation was in hand. After they left, he escorted me downstairs while Stella shouted something at me in French.
‘Leave us alone,’ he said, before shutting the front door. ‘It’s over.’
Not for me. That night, I crawled into bed with her fluttering inside me, and I knew the second termination would never take place. My daughter’s survival didn’t reveal to me an innate longing to be a mother. I didn’t see her presence as a miracle, a sign from God, as my own mother would have. I continued with the pregnancy because we had battled, my daughter and I, and she had won. My freedom the spoils of her victory. Most of all, I continued with the pregnancy because I was scared and ashamed. My mother’s prophecy had come true, and I had been punished. I thought worse would happen if I tried the same again.
Now she has come back for me. Perhaps I always knew she would.
I’m lucky I’m still alive.
There’s no way she could have discovered the truth about her past. Could she?
I have to find her and face her. How did she find me? She must have accessed her original birth certificate and traced me from my name. I shiver as a realisation hits me. Dan’s name is not on her birth certificate; I claimed not to know the identity of my baby’s father.
How did she know about him?
She must have seen us together. She must have been following me for some time, existing in the shadows of my life as she did once be
fore. I think of the cards and the mug, and it all makes sense. Did she take the photographs of John and I too? A form of revenge?
The fish hook niggles deep inside. I remember Emma with my photo album, fixated on the picture of Dan. I’m sure I’ve seen that blond guy on the tele.
An idea comes to me. An idea so absurd I have to put my hand over my mouth to trap the laughter. An idea I now realise has been with me for some time.
Emma is my daughter.
54
Wednesday, 13 September 1995
Royal Edinburgh Hospital
I’m leaving the day after tomorrow. I’m no longer classed as a danger to myself or others and am free to return to my life.
Our story is almost over. It is not a story I want to read again, so I’ll destroy this diary as soon as I get out. Writing it has helped me though. My head feels emptier already, as though what I’ve put on the page might stay on the page. It has to be this way if I don’t want to end up here again. Bits of the episode are returning to me now. That lost day resurrecting itself. The thought of being so out of control again terrifies me.
Earlier, Simon said that while the possibility of a relapse did exist, he felt confident I’d experienced an isolated psychotic episode triggered by guilt about the abortion.
He thinks he has established a narrative of events. I prefer his version. It cuts out the difficult part. It cuts out her.
It is a narrative I can just about live with.
55
Wednesday, 30 December 2015
Not even 9 a.m. and Birch Grove was already in chaos. Mrs Palethorpe died in her sleep last night, a heart attack Vera said, although no one had confirmed that yet. Everyone agreed it was a good death. Best way to go. She wouldn’t have known a thing.
She could have timed it better though. Our low staff levels meant I had to run around like a nutter trying to do the morning tea trolley and get the residents up and dressed. Kegs had rung yesterday evening and begged me to cover again, so I’d travelled back from London last night to start at seven this morning.
‘Morning, Len,’ I said, as I entered his room, cup of milky instant coffee in hand. ‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Slept like shit,’ he whined from the bathroom. ‘This dump is noisy at night.’
Emma would have giggled and hit back with a cheery retort, but I was getting tired of Emma. Tired of stinky old people and their moaning and illness and death.
The room reeked of urine and cigarettes.
‘Have you been smoking out of your window again?’ I asked.
‘Stop nagging,’ he said, ‘you’re worse than my bloody wife, God rest her soul.’
I placed his coffee on the bedside table, almost tripping over the pile of old newspapers on the floor by his bed. Kit-Kat wrappers peeked out from under his pillow. Not even Memory could keep up with his mess.
‘You really are revolting,’ I said.
‘What?’ he shouted. Through the open bathroom door, I saw him standing in front of the toilet, pyjama bottoms round his ankles. His arse was a sack of droopy skin, his veiny legs almost translucent. Emma would have displayed compassion for Len and stoicism about the fate that awaits us all, but I just felt like throwing up.
He shuffled out of the bathroom. ‘Pull my keks up for us.’ I held my breath as I bent down and hoisted his pyjama bottoms over his rancid, withered cock. ‘It won’t hurt ya,’ he said. ‘Bloody thing’s useless now.’
He insisted on putting on his dressing gown and asked me to pass him his walking frame.
‘I’m going down the TV room,’ he said. ‘You can bring my coffee there.’
‘Go fuck yourself, Len.’
He threw back his head and cackled. ‘That’s the spirit, girl,’ he said, as he shuffled out of the room.
***
The stupid tea trolley squeaked as I pushed it along the corridor. I hated it now. This morning, I’d scalded my right hand while filling the coffee flask. I hated the stupid enamel cups too, and I hated laying them out on the trolley—saucer, cup, saucer, cup, saucer, cup—so boring.
Vera bustled towards me with the medicine trolley.
‘Coming through,’ she said, forcing me to pull over. As she passed, I informed her Len had been smoking in his room again. She groaned. ‘I’ll deal with him later. I’m chasing my tail this morning.’
Whatever.
I put my irritation with the tea duties aside as I prepared my grandmother’s morning cuppa. She deserved the best. Dash of milk, half a sugar.
‘Hi, Grandma,’ I said, slipping into her still, quiet room. My arrival brought a faint smile to her face.
‘Hello,’ she said in a raspy voice. Each time she inhaled, I detected a faint, gurgling sound. Kegs told me he doubted she’d pull through this time, although he didn’t know how long she might cling on for.
‘It’s me, Grandma.’ I propped her up and lifted the cup to her lips, but she refused to drink. After fetching a straw from the trolley I had more success, encouraging her to take several quick sips before she gave up. ‘Good girl,’ I said.
Two coarse, white whiskers poked out of her chin. Chiskers, as Surinder called them. I took my scissors from my tunic pocket and snipped the hairs off. Couldn’t have my grandmother looking undignified, no matter how poor her health.
I kissed her cheek. ‘We might not have long together, you and I.’
‘Grace,’ she said.
‘I haven’t heard from her since Christmas Day.’ I’d expected an e-mail at least. An apology for her behaviour but then again, she and Emma hadn’t parted on the best of terms. By now she would know the photos were missing from her bag. What if she suspected Emma of stealing them? And what if she’d found out about me contacting my father? She’d be furious. I’d have to come clean soon and explain everything. Perhaps Emma should get her back on side before I revealed myself? Might make her a bit more receptive.
‘Sorry,’ my grandmother whispered. The depth of sadness in her eyes startled me.
‘Bless your heart,’ I said, ‘you’ve got nothing to apologise for.’ A single tear ran down the side of her face. ‘Don’t cry,’ I said, ‘please don’t cry.’
‘Grace,’ she said, ‘sorry.’
‘Quite right. She’s the one who should be sorry.’ She should too, but my feelings for her changed by the hour. Hate to love and back again. It was so confusing.
‘Only trying to help,’ said my grandmother before a coughing fit took over.
‘You are a great help,’ I said. ‘What would I do without you?’
***
With the tea round almost done, I tried to bypass the TV room, but Len called out for coffee when he saw me. I almost told him to get stuffed, but Memory was in there, wiping down vacant chairs so I had to go in.
Afterwards, as I wheeled the trolley through reception, the undertakers arrived—two lean men in grey suits with their temporary coffin. Kegs escorted them along the corridor to the staircase.
It was almost 9.30 a.m. In the kitchen, I decided to dump the trolley and clean it up later. Unsure if my grandmother had eaten much breakfast, I pinched her a strawberry yoghurt and stuck it in my tunic pocket, intending to pop back to her room and see if I could tempt her.
‘Do you have an appointment?’ Brenda asked me, as I walked past her desk.
‘Yes,’ I said, with a mock air of mystery, ‘an appointment with destiny.’
‘You’re not on the list,’ she said.
The main door opened, and John Palethorpe marched in with his wife by his side. True, she looked pretty sour, no comforting arm around her husband in his hour of need, but at least she was there. A good sign, surely? Adversity bringing them closer. I’d have to tell my mother. One less thing for us to worry about.
Leaving them to their grief, I sauntered back to my grandmother’s room. Her corridor was deserted, the few available staff no doubt fussing round the Palethorpes and paying their respects to the coffin as it left the building.
I not
iced the smell as soon as I reached her door. The scent of Bonfire Night, tinged with something more acrid and synthetic. I followed the smell to Len’s room and watched as a lick of smoke shimmied out of the gap beneath his door.
56
Wednesday, 30 December 2015
I wake fully clothed on top of a hard bed. Where am I? The open curtains reveal a blank, white sky. Stiff and cold, I sit up and pull the blue bedspread around me. As I orientate myself, the previous day’s events filter through my groggy head.
Snatching up my phone from the bedside table, I check the time. 10.15 a.m. already. Thoughts of Emma kept me awake for hours last night. I convinced myself sleep would never come, but I must have crashed out around four this morning.
I check my e-mails, hoping to hear back from Dan. At around 2 a.m., I sent a brief message to his work address. I’m dealing with it. I’ll be in touch. No reply as yet, but hopefully he’ll see the message soon and it will keep him at bay for a while.
I think of Emma again, hoping sleep might have given me a fresh perspective. Last night, I considered my theory about her from all angles. She told me she never knew her mother and she made efforts to befriend me and get close to me. Or was it the other way round? None of it makes any sense, but I can’t deny my attraction to her. Have I imagined the closeness that has developed between us? Have I used her as a substitute for the daughter I couldn’t bear to remember?
I call Birch Grove, to check on my mother and also to see if I can get more information about Emma from Kegs. He must know something about her background. Some fact that might eliminate her from my enquiries.
No one picks up. I try again, with the same result. I leave a message for Kegs, asking him to call me back.
If only I had someone to talk to about this.
Fiona Braithwaite. Her name comes first and then I picture her. A small woman in her late-thirties with red hair and a silver nose stud. Could I contact her?
I look her up online, aware she might have retired by now or moved jobs or left the country. The first page of search results brings numerous Fiona Braithwaites, none of them relevant. Halfway through the second page, I see a listing that makes my stomach turn.
She Chose Me Page 21