by Gerda Pearce
Nick is still on his haunches before her, his one hand stroking her forearm. Viv feels herself start to tremble. “I told myself it was the right thing to do. I could not have left Jonnie if I had that child.”
“Vivienne,” he says, and now she cannot mistake it for the wind. “It’s me, Nick.”
Confused, she looks directly into his eyes for the first time.
“You called me Father just then,” he says, “Are you all right?”
She stares at him then nods briefly, looks down at her twisted hands. The upstairs window bangs again.
“Let me get that window,” says Nick, standing.
Viv stares into the fire while he goes upstairs. He switches on the lights in the hall as he exits, and the room lightens. She hears his footsteps above her in the spare room. Gin’s room, she thinks. Maybe we have invoked Simon’s ghost. It is an uncharacteristic thought and she is frightened by the notion. Had she really called Nick Father? The idea unsettles her further. Begging for absolution.
She shakes herself, gets up, smoothes her T-shirt, switches on the table lamp to avoid the brightness of the main lights. Then she goes into the kitchen to splash warm water on her burning eyes. Her body feels hollowed out. Reaching for the kettle, she changes her mind and opens the cupboard, searching instead for wine. Nick returns to find her battling with the corkscrew. He takes it from her. Viv gets glasses from the cabinet. Mutely they return to the couch. He pours full glasses for them both, hands her one. He takes a large gulp of his and leans towards the fire.
“I’m sorry, Vivienne,” he says.
She does not know how to respond. Instead she looks into the flames. He sits back, turning to look at her. Viv sips at the dry Shiraz. Its strength cleanses her tongue, washes her arid throat.
“I’m sorry too,” she says at length. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I knew him. I just never thought it was… relevant, you know. It was long ago. I never saw him after that.”
He nods briefly. Viv drains her glass. Nick fills it again almost immediately.
“I often wonder about the child, whether it was a girl, or a boy… what he or she would have looked like.” And Jonnie had always wanted another child. Her hands start to tremble, and her wine glass wobbles. She steadies herself and takes another sip of Shiraz. “I’m sorry,” she says again, and does not know what she is apologising for.
Nick puts his arm around her. His free hand takes her glass from her and puts it on the table. His voice is serious. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so angry. I had no right. I judged you – and Gold – too quickly.” His hand reaches up to touch her face. “I let my feelings for you interfere.”
She blinks at him. My feelings for you.
Her heart thuds erratically. She feels unsteady, almost seasick.
This time, when Nick Retief leans forward to kiss her, she does not pull away.
30. VIVIENNE
She hears the front door slam.
“Mom, what are you doing still in bed?” Kayleigh leans into the open door of the bedroom.
Viv peers over the edge of the duvet in confusion, looks at the clock. Past midday. It had been a late night.
She kept her eyes closed as he kissed her. She didn’t want to watch him watching her. She didn’t want to see his thoughts express upon his face. His tongue, tentative at first, deepened with her response. She tasted the wine in his mouth. He leaned into her, pushing her back until they were lying side by side on the long couch. His lips moved to her neck, to the hollow of her throat. Where her heart pulsed. His hair brushed against her cheek as he did so, and she smelled the clean citrus scent of his shampoo. Still she kept her eyes tightly shut. She willed away an involuntary picture of Gabe, touching her as Nick did, his hand reaching down to stroke her thigh. She felt herself freeze, remembering pain. The last time she’d had sex, Jonnie pulling at her hair, and the bruises she’d been left with.
“Mom, it’s afternoon already!” repeats her daughter. Then, with concern, “you’re not ill, are you?”
She felt his hair graze her cheek again as he lifted his head. She knew he was looking at her. But she could not open her eyes. They felt red-rimmed and sore. His fingers touched her face.
“Vivienne,” he asked softly, “what’s wrong?”
She could not answer. She might choke, or sob out loud. She wanted him, she wanted Nick, she wanted this man inside her. But all she could think about was how he would hurt her.
Viv sits up, a hand to her forehead. “No, I’m fine.”
“So this is what you do on the weekends we’re with Dad.” Kayleigh’s voice is half-serious, relieved.
“Actually, what are you doing here?” They were not due back till Monday.
There was no sound but the sporadic shift of the fire, and the low keen of the wind outside.
“I won’t hurt you,” he had said.
Slowly, she had opened her eyes.
Viv looks at her bedside table for her cigarettes. They lie next to the packet of condoms she and Nick had finally, mercifully, found. Oh, God, oh God, don’t let Kayleigh see, she pleads.
But Kayleigh has moved into the hall, calling back, “Oh, Dad’s taking us to his club. You know, the one with the tennis courts and the outdoor heated pool. So we just came to fetch our racquets and our cossies.” Her voice trails off and Viv can hear wardrobe doors slamming.
Nick had showered this morning, his goodbye kiss lingering, intimate. She had curled up again and slept. Without dreams. Until now. Viv stretches her legs and then jumps up, starts to pull the duvet from the bed. The action knocks both the condom packet and her cigarettes to the floor.
“Hello, Viv, you look good.” Jonnie’s voice behind her, smooth as silk.
She whips around, one hand trying to cover her nakedness, the other reaching for her robe. He stands in the doorway.
“What are you doing here?” She struggles into her robe, hoping her voice is stronger than it sounds. Damn him. He is not allowed in the house. She stands back, taking in his presence. Her body always betrays her at the sight of Jonnie, the heat that rises from the initial tug in the pit of her belly, followed by her effort to repress it. Then the anger, first at him, then at herself.
He is dressed casually, an open-necked shirt and jeans hugging his swimmer’s physique, the broad chest and shoulders tapering to narrow hips and muscular legs. A thin smile lingers on his mouth, a line of teeth showing white against his copper skin. His eyes sweep over her, that possessive look she had learned to detest.
“Thought I’d just pop in to say goodbye. I leave in a couple of weeks.” He strolls into the room, laconic. “You remember – London?”
Involuntarily, she retreats, clutches at the front of her gown. Not soon enough, she thinks. Jonnie turns towards her and as he does, his foot kicks against the packets on the floor. They both look down. Viv shrinks inside.
He looks up at her. “Having fun, I see,” but his tone does not match the lightness of the comment.
Viv backs away further until she is against the wall and immediately regrets it. He moves to stand in front of her, puts an arm beside her. No route to the door. She resists the urge to close her eyes and scream.
“We used to have fun,” he says, quietly. His eyes slide down her body. He puts his head close to hers. “So how about it, Viv? For old times’ sake. And we don’t need condoms, do we?” He slides a finger down the silk collar of her robe.
Viv finds her voice and rasps. “No, Jonnie. We didn’t have fun. What we had was abuse.” He stands immobile against her. An old fear frissons through her. This time she cannot help but tense, waiting for the sting of the first slap.
Instead he breathes, “Viv.” She feels her gown fall open as his hand reaches inside. She bites at her lip, starts to push at him, when he says, “You know I still love you.”
His voice is so full of longing and regret that Viv herself feels a mix of yearning and sorrow. The emotion of last night returns. He sounds so like the Jonnie
she fell in love with that for a moment her body relaxes. In her hesitation, she feels him press his body against hers.
“Mom, have you seen my –” Viv’s eyes flutter open to see Abbie’s shocked blue stare, followed by the flick of her blonde hair as she flees.
“Jonnie, get off me!”
She pushes at him and his laugh is short, derisive as he moves aside, letting her pass. The Jonnie she knows best. Viv rushes out the bedroom. She finds her eldest daughter in the sunroom at the front of the house. Abbie sits huddled in the wicker armchair, knees hugged to her chest, blonde hair hanging across her face. She looks so much like Gin, thinks Viv distractedly.
“Abbie…” Viv walks towards her and touches her arm.
Abbie leaps up. “Don’t touch me!” She springs across the room.
“Abbie…” Viv sighs.
“You slept with that policeman, didn’t you?” interrupts Abbie, still shouting. “I know you did. Your clothes are all over the floor.”
Viv stares at her, feels heat rush to her skin. This she had not expected.
“And he’s, like, young enough to be your son!”
“Abbie! That’s not true!”
Abbie is pacing in front of her now. “And then,” she fumes acidly, “as if that’s not enough –” She stops for a moment, looks at Viv, her eyes accusing. “The very next day you go and throw yourself at Dad.”
Viv is aghast. She had thought to have to explain. That she is unhurt despite Jonnie’s molestation. Sluggishly it dawns on her that all Abbie would have seen was her mother, naked under an open robe, eyes closed, pressed up against Jonnie. This is worse, infinitely worse. And Jonnie will be no help, she knows; he will say nothing to Abbie.
Abbie rages on apparently emboldened by her mother’s silence. “Have you no shame?” She comes up close now.
Viv can see spittle at the side of her mouth. They stare at each other, strangers.
Then Abbie leans forward. Her voice, when she speaks, has quieted, but the venom of the single word will stay with Viv forever. “Whore.”
Without thinking, Viv’s hand comes up. She slaps Abbie across the face.
Abbie’s eyes fill with tears of shock and pain.
Viv recoils, her hands fly to her mouth.
Kayleigh’s voice penetrates through from the hall, as they stare at each other in mutual horror. “Come on, Abbie! Where are you? Dad’s already waiting in the car! Bye, Ma!”
Viv reaches her hand out again towards Abbie, starts to apologise in a voice strangled with dismay and despair. “Abbie, I’m sorry.”
But her daughter turns and runs from the sunroom.
Viv does not follow, stands and stares out at the cloudless Cape day.
The mountain is painted in green.
She hears the front door slam.
31. GIN
Winter descends once more. A chilly October, a fateful October. Leaves falling red, like blood. Gin walks the wet mile down the Portobello Road, named for an ancient sea victory, past pashminas and porcelain, saucepans and silverware, cheap tin trays. The Spanish store is past the bridge, she has a yen for olives grown under the Mediterranean sun, for biscotti baked in clay ovens. The market is crowded and her progress is slow.
She is barely past the flower stall, run by the elderly Lithuanians, when the crowds overwhelm her suddenly. Friday at its worst, a group of Arab women, ubiquitous trolleys, there is an argument of high unintelligible shrieks. One woman pushes another, who spits out what sounds to Gin like a garbled curse. The crowd parts obligingly. In this movement, one of the women appears to lurch at Gin, and she stumbles back, boots finding no hold on the wet road, her leg betraying her. Perhaps her inattentiveness, the numbness, is to blame. Her hand in instinct stretches out towards her perceived assailant, but only dizziness assaults her. Gin is fragmentedly aware of bright eyes behind a heavy veil, staring down at her. She is down on the cold hard pavement, and there is a new pain, unfamiliar.
“Please,” she says, to no one. Oh, God. She feels a wetness between her thighs. It must be time. She looks down. Her jeans are soaked. Red. So much red. “Please,” she says again, “I need an ambulance. I’m bleeding.”
The noise of the crowd intensifies, the flower seller bends over her, two hairdressers rush out of the salon alongside the stall. The crowd gathers. But Gin is falling further, consciousness slipping. Afterwards she will remember only a scent of jasmine, and a siren, sounding through pain, and into oblivion.
They hand her a tiny bundle that is her daughter. For a moment, Gin finds it hard to breathe, hard to swallow. Simon’s daughter. The father she will never know. The child he will never know. The daughter he never had.
I’m sorry, she thinks, and doesn’t know whether she addresses her child or Simon. I’m sorry you won’t know each other.
There is nothing of me in this child, thinks Gin. She is pure Simon. She looks up with eyes the colour of her father’s, and the same intensity of gaze. Skin a smooth olive, and a head already thick with black curls. Fists clenched, already fighting. Maybe this is good, thinks Gin. Her daughter may face so much alone.
She strokes the sooty hair. I don’t know what to call you, little one. Exhaustion washes over her.
An image forms. Her grandmother, her mother’s mother. Ellen, fair Ellen, as fair as this child is dark. Ellen, whom everyone said she, Gin, resembled.
You look like your father. You have his looks. From me, you will have your name. Ellie.
She takes her home, and mother and daughter stare at each other warily. They are surrounded by a chaos of colour, the bright yellow cot Michael had bought, the baby mobile slung with painted wooden animals – a zebra, a giraffe, a lion. So she knows she’s from Africa, he said. Why, wonders Gin, with all this brightness, does it all feel so bleak?
Gin goes through the motions of motherhood, the newly learned tasks of feeding, and changing, and cleaning, and doing it all again. Her life quickly falls into a routine based around this needy newcomer. She misses Viv most now, Viv’s warmth, Viv’s expertise, her seemingly natural maternal instinct. She remembers Viv’s confidence with Abbie. She rings her once, twice, but there is no reply. Gin doesn’t know what to say to the machine, so she rings off with no message. Viv would tell her the same as the midwife. Ellie is what the midwife calls a good baby. Gin supposes it is an enviable thing, the lack of crying, the relatively undisturbed nights, but she finds her daughter, this familiar stranger, unnervingly quiet. Is there something wrong with her, she wonders, or just something wrong with me? Do all mothers feel this way? Did her own mother feel this about her, about Gabe? She finds it hard to relate to this silent little child with Simon’s eyes. Seeing Ellie, seeing Simon’s eyes and face, she expected it to be simple, for a bond to form naturally. Instead, all Simon’s daughter does is remind Gin daily of his death.
She phones Michael one lonely, quiet night. She tries to tell him how she feels, her worries, but he dismisses her concerns.
“Gin, relax, she’s fine. Stop worrying.” He starts to talk excitedly about his preparations for the course, how good it is to be home again.
He doesn’t understand, she thinks. I am alone and no one can help me.
He phones the following week and leaves a message. She listens to his voice. It sounds five thousand miles away. She deletes the message and does not phone him back.
A month after her birth, Ellie fits. Vomits and seizes, her little body alternately limp and rigid. St Mary’s hospital is closer, supposes Gin, but whatever the reason – roadworks, bed space, urgency – the ambulance goes to Hammersmith hospital instead. The same hospital they had taken her after her fall, the same hospital Ellie was born in. Inside the white cell of the ambulance, Gin lets the paramedics intervene. How young they seem. They are efficient and soothing, eliciting information from her she otherwise could not have articulated. Again, she finds herself beholden to this country, its systems, structures, people. An hour later, only an hour, Ellie lies flaccid and pale in the br
ightly-lit Neonatal Unit, four floors above the traffic of west London.
Ellie has settled now into an imposturous sleep. With each fresh ripple that had passed through her daughter’s limbs, Gin had felt a wave of guilt. Others are in control, in charge of Ellie’s care. Strangers. She sees blame in the no-nonsense attitude of the nurses. They ignore her while they set up Ellie’s drip, turn their backs while filling in her chart. They know I do not love this child, thinks Gin. They know I am a bad mother. She searches the small face for its former liveliness. Those all-seeing eyes are closed from drip-fed drugs. The house officer is apologetic. His registrar is not answering his bleep. Gin must please leave her child, go home, wait. The nurses, infinitely better equipped than she, will look after Ellie. Please, she must not worry, come back in the morning. Ellie has the best of care. Nonetheless, a fitful night follows, till muffled traffic louder than the song of birds wakes her before dawn. Gin walks to the hospital to fill the time, yet still she has to wait.
Halfway to a comfortable consultancy elsewhere, the paediatric registrar had obviously mastered the art of hardening his feelings to protect his sleep. Ellie’s blood culture is clean, he tells Gin. With no obvious infection, he will call Neurology to consult. He is already onto the next cot, the next infant who lies isolated by illness.
Neurology will want her child to have an EEG. Ellie’s brainwaves must be tracked, monitored, inked by a needle onto feinted paper. Magnificent steel machinery will dwarf her daughter. Soft cool gel will attach electrodes to her fragile new skin, to tiny temples still blue-veined and transparent.
And then they must wait again. She and a listless Ellie must wait in the terrible silence of limbo, invaded by the ignorant noise of a busy ward. Every footfall is harsh, each beep of a machine, the radio too loud, a nurse’s laugh, staccato and histrionic.