Nest of Sorrows (10 page)

‘A bit. It all seems so . . . so final.’

‘No such thing, my dear. Marriage is like a handker-chief; once it gets too stained, you throw it away. Divorce is quite common these days, you know. Mind, it does seem strange to be talking of separation with you standing here in your wedding dress. It’s only the change in lifestyle that’s frightening you. Look. What are we used to, eh? A squashed-up little house in the thinnest of thin streets. And see what you’ve got now? Awesome, isn’t it? When I went home last hols with Liz Beresford-Smythe, I was completely overcome. There they were with stables and servants, a grand big mansion in the middle of Hampshire. Out of my depth, I was. And that’s where you are now. You’ll get used to it.’

‘Will I?’

‘Yes. Didn’t you always say that heaven was a proper bathroom with taps? And here you are with a full dining room suite and a real kitchen – what more do you want?’

Kate sucked in her cheeks before replying, ‘I always wanted roses round the door. A little country cottage . . .’

‘And Mike?’

‘Dear God! How did you know about that?’

‘You talk in your sleep.’

‘Do I? Oh heck, I’ll have to stay awake all night.’

Judith’s grip tightened. ‘So, it’s just been sex with Geoff, has it? And you felt you had to marry him because he’d deflowered you. Oh, Kate! What am I going to do with you at all?’

‘It isn’t just sex. I love him. And . . . and I didn’t want to live at home. It was all right for you, you were forgiven for being a girl. And you didn’t ruin my mother’s chances of giving him a son, did you? But me? I’ve been treated like a dishrag all along . . .’

‘Dear God, Kate! Dad loves you more than anything in this world. I can tell from the way he looks at you . . .’

‘Rubbish.’ Kate pulled herself away from her sister’s arm. ‘You were the pretty one. You were the one with the nice clothes and the Sunday outings.’

‘I was a doll. A doll for dressing up. I wasn’t expected to have a brain. He thought I’d get married and have all his grandsons. But here we are, both arse over tip, eh? And you are the one with the brains, Kate. That’s always annoyed both of them, that you never tried at school. If I’d done as little work as you did, I’d have finished up spinning cotton. Cheer up, though. This is supposed to be the happiest day of your life. And on Monday, you’re off to London and Paris – plenty to look forward to.’

Kate nodded grimly. ‘Including morning sickness and no job.’

‘Stop it! Stop it this minute! There’s no point in going into any situation with an attitude that’s less than positive. If you want to run, run now.’

‘Where to?’

‘What a terrible reason for staying. What a terrible reason to get married in the first place. Won’t you ever grow up, Kate?’

The younger girl’s chin jutted forward fiercely. ‘I expect I shall. In my own time. It has to be in my own time.’

Judith sighed. ‘Your own time is over, for a while, at least.’

‘I shall make my own time, when I’m ready . . .’

The honeymoon was a hilarious mixture of success and disaster. After London, they stayed at the Henri Quatre, a small hotel in the middle of Paris. Kate didn’t like crossing the Channel, French food, French wine, French people or the French language. Geoff hated the lumpy bed, the view from their window – which consisted of a high brick wall and a row of dustbins – and the food. They ate copious amounts of croissants in bed, thereby creating more lumps and crumbs, and drank expensive cups of coffee in the cafés along the Champs-Elysées.

But they both loved Paris. Because of currency restrictions, they had to do everything on the cheap, yet Kate was drawn repeatedly to the Latin Quarter and the Left Bank. Once she had spent most of their allowance on paintings, she had to concede that they must, in future, visit places that were virtually free. So they strolled daily down the Champs to the Eiffel Tower, saw a lot of Napoleon’s famous Arc, and even found a back-street church where lay a glass tomb enclosing a perfectly preserved but very dead nun who awaited canonization.

Towards the end of their fortnight, Kate began to get sick in the mornings, thereby confirming the suspicion she had expressed only to her sister. ‘I’m sick,’ she told him one breakfast time.

‘Homesick?’

‘No. Pregnant-sick.’

He paused fractionally. ‘Good. Proves we can get something right, eh?’

She turned and looked at his head on the pillow next to hers. He seemed complacent, and it suddenly struck her that she was just a part of his plan – no kiss, no cuddle, no ‘thanks for being the bearer of such news’. ‘Shouldn’t we sing the “Marseillaise” or something?’ she asked.

He yawned and stretched. ‘No, “Land of Hope and Glory”. That’s no French citizen, is it?’

‘Conceived about six weeks ago, I’d say. On the floorboards of our new house.’

‘English, then. Fancy a croissant?’

‘Stop it!’

‘Mind if I pop out for something to eat, then?’

‘Not at all.’

She lay there while he performed his fussy toilet. He was a fussy man, an old man . . . Swiftly, she jumped from the bed and vomited noisily into the washbasin, rinsing away the stains in the bowl immediately.

After that, he didn’t touch her until long after they were home. That she should vomit and spoil his breakfast was a shame; that she should continue sick for a further four months was an absolute nuisance.

Melanie was born in the spring of 1955. Right from the start, she was a screamer and Kate seemed to have little say in her upbringing. Dora became an almost permanent fixture at the house, declaring herself to be indispensable now that Kate had the little one as well as the house to look after.

The young mother found herself spending a great deal of time with Rachel, going up to Maybank Street whenever the opportunity presented itself. Peter accepted Melanie well enough, though Kate felt that he was merely trying to disguise yet another generation of disappointment. It was during the first year of Melanie’s life that Kate really began to know her own mother, to see the character behind the two-dimensional figure that had occupied her life thus far.

‘It’s not easy, Katherine. There’s nowt easy about being a mother. For a kick-off, that child is your guilt from now on; it should be printed on nappies and bottles, “Beware of the guilt”. If she cries, it’s your fault. If she doesn’t walk and talk when she should, then that’s your fault and all. And if she turns out a monkey for toilet training, your failure will be at the front of your mind. So ignore it all. Ignore that blessed Dora woman for a start, don’t let her tell you how to bring Melanie up.’

‘That’s not easy. She’s like one of the house fittings, and Geoff seems to like having her there.’

Rachel nodded wisely. ‘Aye, best of both worlds, eh? Wife and mother, everybody there to run after him. You want to get rid of her before she digs her heels in.’

‘How?’

‘Just tell her to go. Better still, tell her when she can come. Ask her to tea Wednesdays and Saturdays, go out other days.’

‘I do go out. My legs are worn out with pram pushing. And there’s no-one to visit. You’re at work most of the time . . .’

‘Where are your friends?’

Kate laughed mirthlessly. ‘Friends? They’re all Geoff’s friends. We play bridge, that’s all. I’ve no-one from childhood because . . . well . . . I never brought anybody home, did I? Not with Dad’s moods. The college lot are all over the country. No. There’s only Geoff’s crowd.’

‘Then get to work. Give Dora a full-time job – that’s what she wants any road. Do your probationary year and let Dora mind the kiddy. After that, you could happen go to university and do a degree.’

‘No. I’m a mother now. No time for study.’

‘What about the teaching?’

‘I’ll think about it.’

The discussions were endless.

Sometimes Dora pretended to see Kate’s viewpoint – or perhaps the woman was simply planning her way into the house. Because if Kate went to work, then Dora would be required on a more or less permanent basis. ‘Look, son,’ she would say in something that imitated a reasonable tone, ‘Kate’s had her training, she should perhaps get some experience.’

‘No.’ His face always went purple during these arguments. ‘She doesn’t need to work.’

‘That’s true.’ Dora’s eyes would settle on her daughter-in-law. ‘There’s no shortage of money, dear. Let’s have another cup of tea, then we can talk about it . . .’

‘The ‘talking about it’ went on forever.

In the brief privacy of their bedroom, Kate tackled her husband. ‘If I have to stay here for one more day with your mother, I think I shall go mad. She’s taken over everything, including our daughter. I’m no more than an ornament, might as well be working and doing something useful at least.’

‘Look.’ His voice held that patient note, a note she found difficult to tolerate. ‘I’m general manager now. Whoever heard of a top man’s wife working? There’ll be a seat on the board for me eventually. I tell you now, Kate, that I will be managing director in Trafford Park before long. How will it look if my wife’s out doing a job?’

‘Intelligent,’ she snapped viciously. ‘How would it look if your wife left you?’

‘What?’ Though the voice was quiet, his eyes bulged ominously and a large vein throbbed in his neck. ‘Are you threatening . . . ?’

‘Yes. Yes I bloody well am! This is no life for me, Geoff. At least if I do my probationary year, I’ll know whether or not I’m going to make a teacher. And another thing, look how much older than me you are. If you died, how would I support my daughter?’

‘On insurance,’ he snarled. ‘So, you either teach or you leave me. Is that it?’

‘Quite possibly.’

He sighed heavily. ‘If I tell Mother to stay away, will you . . . ?’

‘No. It won’t make any difference. I am twenty-two years old and I have never worked in my life. Anyway, your mother would die if she couldn’t come here, she lives for you. I may dislike the woman, but I should hate to take responsibility for her early demise.’

He flung himself on to the bed, the soft lower lip thrust out petulantly. ‘I want you to see a psychiatrist.’

‘What? Bloody what?’

‘You need help, Kate. There’s a theory now that new mothers are often a bit . . . well . . . unhinged for a while. If this post-natal thing is left untreated, it can go on for years.’

She sank down on to the dressing stool. ‘Good God! If anyone needs a mind doctor, it’s that mother of yours. Try two for the price of one, Geoff, because you’ll need help for your Oedipus complex. I have never known a man cling so fiercely to his mam. I suppose it’s all her fault, somewhere back in the dim and distant past. But never mind all that. Kate’s the one dancing to a different drummer, eh? Kate’s the one not doing as she’s told.’

‘I’ve booked you an appointment,’ he went on smoothly. ‘Next Monday afternoon. Private, of course.’

‘Of course. Well, I’ll keep that appointment. I’ll ask the doctor how he’d go on if he had to live with a hypochondriac and a mother’s boy who’s thirty-five years old. Yes, I’ll keep your bloody appointment for you. And on Tuesday, I have an interview. Try to stop me going for it and I’ll be out of this house before you can shout “Mother”. I’m going to be my own woman with my own job. Even if I hate the work, I’ll damned well stick to it. And don’t be thinking you can lumber me with any more babies – I’ve seen our family doctor about that, there are things women can use now, you know.’

‘See?’ He raised arms and shoulders in an ‘I told you so’ gesture. ‘You’re all worked up again. That’s why I want you to see a psychiatrist, because you’re always getting worked up. There is no shame in requiring this type of treatment, Kate.’

She jumped up and hurled a pot of face-cream at him, narrowly missing the side of his head with the large white jar. It smashed on the headboard, spreading glass and contents all over pillows and cover. ‘Bastard!’ she screamed as she sank back on to the stool. ‘Why did I marry you? Why?’

He was already out of the bed and tidying up the mess.

‘Look at you, Geoff. You don’t care about anything real. I don’t think you’ve ever once looked at a sunset or at a bird’s feather and wondered about beauty. No music moves you, no sound, no sight! All you care about is winning the rubber and keeping up with the rest of the management team. I have married a very old man. Fourteen years between us? It might as well be forty. Look at you. LOOK AT YOURSELF!’

‘And you look at yourself, screaming like a Fleetwood fishwife. You are not normal, Kate. This is not your fault . . .’

‘Stop being so patient with me. Stop treating me like a child. I got away from home so that I could stop being a child!’

‘Then there’s your answer.’ He wiped the wall with a soiled pillowcase. ‘That’s why you married me. To escape from your father. To get away from him, you would have married anyone who offered security.’

The silence was filled only by the sound of her laboured breathing. He changed the bed swiftly, taking clean linen from the ottoman at the foot of the bed. ‘Right,’ he said finally. ‘You can get in now.’

‘No.’

‘Then where will you sleep?’

‘In the spare room. Where your mother usually sleeps.’

‘You will sleep here in your own bed!’ At last, some sign of anger.

‘Make me! Go on, make me! Force me to go to bed with a man who comes home smelling of another woman’s perfume. What’s the matter? Didn’t you think I knew? I’ve always known, it’s in your chin, Geoff. Anyone with a chin as weak as that will never resist temptation. And there’s always been a rather seamy side to your nature, hasn’t there?’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I will have my own way, Geoff. Perhaps this makes me an un-nice person, but for the first time in my life, I will have my way.’

‘Go to hell, then.’ He got into bed and switched off the lights.

Kate turned and sat for a long time staring at her dim reflection in the dressing table mirror. When at last she spoke, it was almost in a whisper. ‘Our marriage was a mistake, Geoff. Almost from the first day, I knew that. It’s not your fault, love. I was young and stupid and I got sex all mixed up with real affection, didn’t know the difference. And I’m changing, changing all the time. When we got married, I wasn’t grown-up. I’m still not an adult, not a fully-fledged one. I think women get more growing years than men do. Even people of the same age have trouble because the woman carries on altering. I remember reading about this in a psychology book at college. On her wedding day, a woman sees what she’s getting. A man doesn’t. It’s not that we’re cleverer – nothing as easy as that. It’s because we never stop changing. A man doesn’t see what he’s getting. That’s why there’s truth in that old adage, look at her mother if you want to see how she’ll turn out. I’m sorry. I am so very, very sorry . . .’