by Diana Finley
‘Thank you, Marie. You are so good to me. So full of love and kindness. Nothing is ever too much trouble for you, my dear. You know I have always said you would have made an excellent nurse.’
Most of all I hate to hear Erna speak of her own death, which she does ever more frequently as the years pass by. She is forever assuring me that I will never need to worry about my own well-being in the future; that I will be ‘well taken care of’ when she is gone.
‘Sure, don’t speak to me of you not being here, Erna. I can’t bear to think about it. No, I refuse to give it a single thought just now, for the idea fills me with sadness and emptiness. You were ever so generous to me and Barry all those years ago – and so you have been ever since. I couldn’t have done without you then, no I absolutely couldn’t. But I can’t do without you now either, believe me. It’s not the money that I want, dear Erna, it’s you! You and your friendship.’
‘Bless you, Marie, I don’t want to make you sad, but we must be realistic and practical. I am a very old woman. None of us lives for ever – you know that. You are very precious to me, and I simply want you to know that you will never be left without means to support yourself in comfort when I am no longer here.’
Erna Goldstein is indeed very old. The year itself is a constant reminder. As she’s always telling me, she is as old as the century. Having been born in the year 1900, each of her birthdays corresponds to the year! She takes a delight in this idea, whereas I feel terrified; I feel there is no escaping a growing, frightening awareness of just how old she is getting, and of a future without her, which I can’t bear to contemplate.
What with my anxieties about Barry, and my increasing worries about Erna, it is a great joy when a much happier event brings warmth and excitement to our lives, brings us all together in fact, and allows me to file the ‘drug problem’ away somewhere in the recesses of my brain, for a while at least.
Unexpectedly, Barry suddenly introduces a beautiful, charming, lovely young French woman – Anaïs – into our lives. I can see she is very special to him as soon as I see them together, more than special in fact. That brings such great pleasure and hope to me. I love the girl from the moment I set eyes on her.
Anaïs tells me she had come to England to be an au pair a few years previously. She’d liked England so much she had stayed and eventually trained as a teacher. She taught French, which she greatly enjoyed, though she says English children are very naughty! Parents and teachers are much stricter in France, she tells me, but she smiles when she says it; she’s clearly fond of children, even naughty ones. My heart soars with hope at that thought.
For a while our lives become calmer and closer. Anaïs likes me, I can tell. She likes coming to see me – and Erna – at home. Barry has always been polite and warm with Erna of course. He respected her as well as being very fond of her – but the new relationship with Anaïs seems to make him easier with me too. The change in Barry is as clear as day. He no longer maintains a cold distance from me. He’s back to calling me Mum and talking to me. He tells me Anaïs had fiercely reproached him for the way he was treating me. He should mend the relationship, she told him, build bridges. It was clear to her that I love my son; he must surely see that too. What joy to have Barry restored to me.
He adores Anaïs. It’s obvious by the way he looks at her. He’s started to look better in himself too – he’s put on a bit of weight and got some colour in his cheeks at last. It’s such a pleasure for me to see. She softens him.
One evening, the young couple come for supper at Erna’s instigation. I leave Erna, Barry and Anaïs talking, while I go to prepare the main course in the kitchen. A few minutes later Barry comes out to see me.
‘D’you need any help, Mum?’
‘Well thank you, son. You could just chop some of that lettuce and add it to the salad bowl over there, please.’
As he gets busy with the salad, I stop what I’m doing and study his face for a moment. The strained look I have grown so used to seems to have evaporated.
‘What?’ he asks, with a careful, sidelong smile at me.
‘Nothing, my darling, nothing at all. I’m just happy to see you looking so much better. That’s all. It’s amazing what a good woman can do for a man, don’t you think?’
‘Now who could you possibly be thinking of?’
‘I think we both know that, don’t we?’ I say. I give him a hug. For once, he doesn’t stiffen or resist. He kisses the top of my head.
We carry on with our preparations in silence for a few minutes. Then he draws a deep breath, straightens up and looks at me. ‘She’s the light of my life, Mum. I feel very lucky to have found her.’
‘You are lucky, son …’ I say carefully, watching him, judging the situation. It’s now or never. I have to confront him, get it out in the open.
‘So … so maybe now you can finally deal with the drug problem, can you? Go on one of these “rehab” courses? Before they do some real lasting damage …’
I hear Barry’s sudden intake of breath. The knife he’s been holding clatters onto the table. Colour drains from his face. He stares at me. In that moment I realise he has no idea that I’m aware of his drug use.
‘What do you … I mean …? When …?’
‘I’m not completely stupid, Barry, though you might think it, nor am I blind. I’m your mother. I’ve known for some time. I’m worried about you, and if Anaïs knew, she would be worried too – that’s if she’s prepared to take the risk of staying with you at all.’
He picks up the salad knife and looks down, the knife slack in his hand. He appears deep in thought.
‘I’m really hoping you and Anaïs might stay together,’ I continue, ‘get married perhaps … maybe even have children in time. I can tell how much she means to you. But … but Barry, would she want a … junkie as a husband, as the father of her children?’
His expression changes instantly and he glares at me through screwed-up eyes.
‘For Christ’s sake, Mum, shhhh!’ he hisses, looking round at the door. ‘I’m not a fucking junkie … I just … you know … use a few recreational drugs, just to relax me. You know nothing about it … I mean … everyone takes them sometimes these days. It’s just London life.’
‘You watch your mouth! And don’t talk to me like I’m an imbecile. I know the difference between an occasional … joint … and taking hard drugs regularly … injecting them even, Barry.’
He stares at me in surprise, maybe even with a new respect. There’s a pause, each of us with our thoughts. After a minute or two, he begins more quietly, ‘Well, I’m definitely going to cut down on them. I am, Mum. I was planning to already. Anaïs really matters to me; she matters such a lot. I’m not going to do anything that risks our relationship.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. But never mind cutting down, son, cut them out! If you need help doing that, then make sure you get it. I understand there are experts and clinics who could support you. But whatever you do – cut – them – out!’
Barry glances furtively at the kitchen door again. ‘OK, OK … you’re right. Of course I will. I’ll look into rehab. Don’t say any more about it … but you don’t need to worry … I promise. Don’t say a word to Anaïs about this, Mum, please. And, don’t mention it to Auntie Erna, will you?’
***
I know Barry tried. Perhaps he succeeded, for a time. He and Anaïs marry at Lewisham registry office just a few months after our discussion. It’s a very quiet ceremony, as they wanted, only Erna Goldstein and me to witness it. Erna, bless her, has given them a wedding present of another generous contribution to his flat in Putney, although with Barry’s large salary, I’m not sure he really needs help. Erna also insists on them having a further money gift, for them to use for a holiday or honeymoon.
After the very simple marriage celebration, they decide to go on honeymoon to France. Sadly, Anaïs’s mother died of cancer when Anaïs was still at school, but this visit is her chance to introduce Barry to her father
, and other family members, as well as having a few days to themselves in the warmth of the Mediterranean.
The new apartment is now their shared home – Barry left Keith behind in the rented flat. I don’t know how he disposed of the drugs and equipment. Maybe Keith took them over. I don’t want to know anything more about it.
***
Things go very well during those early days. Anaïs brings us all such joy. She delights me and Erna, with her warm smile and the way she tosses her lovely dark auburn mane when she laughs – which she does a lot! Barry seems a changed man. It’s such a relief to me. He can hardly take his eyes – or his hands – off Anaïs. He’s more relaxed than I ever remember him being before, and there’s a softer, kinder side to him that he’s never shown before, except perhaps to his Auntie Erna.
I thought I couldn’t have been happier, when, about a year after they married, Barry and Anaïs come to tell us they’re expecting a child! I’d noticed Anaïs’s stomach had become a tiny bit more rounded recently, but hadn’t dared to hope. The two of them hold hands and giggle like excited teenagers when they tell us the news. I’m in tears of joy – I’m going to be a grandmother! Erna hugs me, and them. She insists we open a bottle of the expensive sparkling wine she keeps for really special occasions.
‘Well, if this isn’t the most special of occasions, I don’t know what is!’ she says, full of smiles and delight.
I notice Anaïs only drinks about a thimbleful for a toast, the good girl, already thinking of the welfare of the baby she’s carrying. She has a sweet way of stroking her growing belly, as if caressing the child itself, calming it and sending it off to sleep. I know she’s going to make a wonderful mother. I can tell.
What a happy, thrilling evening for us all. I think my heart will burst with pleasure.
The only shadow clouding my happiness is thoughts of my missing boy, my dearest Donal. Somehow our family joy over the forthcoming child only emphasises the empty chair at the table. That’s how I think of Donal; an ever-present part of our family, yet absent, missing.
Where is Donal? If only I could hold him, hug him, and tell him how much I love him too. If only we could make our family truly complete.
***
Just as my head is full of thoughts of my missing son, there’s a new excitement, a new revelation. A letter from my sister Bridie arrives! I’ve thought so often of Ma and Da and all the family back in Ireland. I knew Da was unlikely to soften his attitude to his ‘shameful daughter’, but I’d hoped the rest of the family would have been more tolerant, more understanding. Yet, though I’ve written regularly to Ma and my sister Bridie over the years, I’ve never heard a word back. I think they must have all forgotten about me, erased me from their lives. It pained me greatly. Wouldn’t Ma be missing me, and the grandsons she’s never seen? If it hadn’t been for Erna Goldstein, I think I’d have died from missing my ma. Yes, even with all the support and kindness – and love – Erna has given me, I long to see Ma – and my little sisters.
Bridie’s letter is a huge shock. Da has just died, she writes. After I left Ireland, and he learned the reason why, he wouldn’t have my name mentioned in the house. He told Ma and my sisters he’d found out that I’d emigrated and had left no address. Wasn’t that just wicked of him? There was no way to contact me, he told them.
Long after, when Da died and the family went through his papers, they were shocked to find every single letter I’d written over the years, dozens of them, hidden away in his desk drawer. It broke their hearts.
They all loved me, and longed to see me. When would I come to see them all in Ireland? Bridie wrote. I certainly hope to. Maybe after the new baby arrives, that visit is something to consider.
What with Bridie’s letter, and the arrival of Anaïs in our lives, and the imminent birth of a grandchild, the next few months are such an exciting time. Much as I adore my boys, there’s a part of me that remembers the pleasure of having sisters, and how I enjoyed looking after them, playing with them, and making pretty clothes for them. Never having had a daughter – I’ve sometimes missed having another girl or woman who could share some of the more ‘feminine’ interests with me. Anaïs now fills that ‘daughter-shaped’ space in my life perfectly, although I don’t know that I’ve even been aware of it being an empty space before.
She works part-time at a nearby school and tells me amusing stories about what the children get up to, and what she’s been doing with them. Soon, I know most of their names and personalities. Sometimes we go out for a cup of tea or coffee together, or shopping – especially with the baby on the way. Both of us enjoy looking at all the maternity and baby things: clothes, toys and equipment. It thrills me that she asks my opinion about what are the best and most necessary things to buy, as if I’m the expert! I had nothing for my own babies when they were tiny, not even proper nappies.
Anaïs is delighted when I show her two pretty cot duvet covers and pillow cases I’ve sewn for the coming baby, one for summer in a fine, flimsy material and one for winter in a warmer, brushed fabric.
‘Oh, Marie!’ She hugs me. ‘They are so beautiful! And all those tiny clothes you have sewn and knitted already! What a lucky baby to have such a clever grand-mère! What a lucky girl I am to have such a kind, thoughtful mother-in-law. Oh, I hate these words, don’t you, Marie, “mother-in-law”? It sounds so formal and cold, when you are a lovely mother to me, a real mother!’
My heart is fit to burst with joy at hearing these words. They bring tears to my eyes. Anaïs is such a warm and affectionate girl, and I have come to love her dearly.
***
Three months later, we three are all in the delivery room at the local hospital: Anaïs on the bed, Barry one side of her, holding her hand and encouraging her with every contraction, every push, me on the other side offering what words of wisdom I can as I bathe her brow with a cool sponge. I push away all thoughts of my own confinement all those years ago.
After eight hours of struggle, to all our joy, a perfect baby girl is born. I don’t know who shed more tears, Barry or me – but of course they are tears of happiness. They call their little daughter Nina. A beautiful name for a beautiful child.
Chapter 23
2000
Marie
‘I’m so sorry,’ the doctor tells me in a hushed tone, ‘but she may not live more than a few hours. I’m afraid she won’t last the night.’
I myself won’t speak those words aloud at all, as if saying them is confirmation of the reality; that my employer and dear friend Erna Goldstein is dying. The district nurse is very caring. He offers to remain with me during the night.
‘Thank you,’ I say, ‘but I can manage. I will look after her. I always have.’
I show the doctor and the nurse out. They write down a number and tell me to telephone at any time if I need them.
I’m terrified. How can I possibly manage without Erna? How can I live without her? I cannot imagine life without Erna. Although I am now a mature woman of forty-six, it feels as if I am losing an adored grandmother and much-loved close friend all at the same time – yes, and even a mother, having missed my own mother for so many years.
I won’t leave Erna’s side. Sylvia has been staying for the last few days. She offers to help, to relieve me, to allow me to rest. I’m glad of her company in the house, but I let no one else care for Erna, not even Sylvia. I want to be alone with her.
Most of that night she sleeps, her breathing an irregular groaning sound. I sit on a chair resting my head beside her on the bed. Every now and then her eyelids flutter open for a moment, and very weakly, she mutters something like, ‘Oh … hello, my dearest, I’ll be with you in a minute …’
Could she mean me, or is she thinking of her beloved husband and her boy, Aron? Is she anticipating that she will be joining them shortly? If joining them means leaving me, I don’t want it. I want her to love me enough to stay with me.
There is little I can do for her, but I make sure she knows I am with
her all the time, that she is never alone. Every now and then I moisten her lips with a small sponge soaked in cool, fresh water. Then I stroke her hair and her face gently. I hold her hand and kiss it.
In the bleak, early hours of the morning, her breathing slows further and becomes even more laboured. Very carefully, I lie down next to her and gently put my arm around her. I whisper softly in her ear, ‘I love you, I love you, dearest Erna, I’ll always love you,’ over and over again. Perhaps these little attentions bring greater comfort for me than for her, but she gives a peaceful little smile, which I know is for me, even though her eyes remain closed.
In the end, the pauses between each of her breaths become agonisingly long, until at last, terrifyingly, silence fills the room. I press her arm and even shake her a little.
‘No! Don’t stop! Don’t stop … Erna … Erna … please breathe again, please, oh please,’ I urge her.
But no more breaths come. Silence surrounds me. I know she is gone.
I sit for some time, a terrible emptiness enveloping me – I don’t know how long. Gradually the empty nothingness inside me fills up with an awful, unbearable sadness. It pours into me like a stream filling a pond and I begin to cry, the sobs coming from deep within me, shaking me, racking my whole torso, until I feel my ribs will break. I rock backwards and forwards like a madwoman, moving in time to my own hoarse moaning and sobbing. I am mad – mad with grief. All of a sudden I hear my voice, as if it comes from another body, crying out in great anguish.
‘Donal! Donal! Oh my boy, my beloved son, please, please come back to me … I need you. I need you so much.’
The funeral takes place almost immediately. It’s the Jewish way as I know, and Erna left strict instructions. The rituals mattered to her as she got older, although she had not been a frequent attender at the synagogue. The burial is a sad affair; cold, dull, drizzly weather matching the mood of the occasion. At the graveside Barry stands on my right side, Anaïs on my left, with tiny baby Nina – who has brought me infinite joy at this time of sadness – strapped firmly to her chest, warm inside her coat – just as Barry had once been clasped to my chest all those years ago, on the verge of destitution until I found Sylvia, after which Erna finally became our saviour, our rescuer.