The Art of Baking Blind (35 page)

Frances is nervous.

‘Vicki? Darling?'

‘Mum … What is it?'

Her bowels do a flip as the words every parent dreads filter down the mouthpiece.

‘There's nothing to worry about – but Alfie's in hospital. He's broken his arm and they need to operate.'

*   *   *

It takes nearly two hours to drive from south-west London to north Oxford during the Friday night rush hour yet it feels much longer, the traffic crawling out of London, belching exhaust and aggressive rhythm and bass. Vicki is fraught by the time she hurtles into the reception of the Radcliffe's Accident and Emergency, having tried to park in a disabled bay – and been upbraided for it.

‘But it's my baby … my son, he's in hospital.' And she had burst into tears on an unimpressed parking attendant.

‘Yes – so's everyone's,' he had said.

A&E is experiencing a relative quiet before the storm of an early summer's Friday night: a mere fifteen patients are clustered in the waiting area, the backs of their thighs sticking to the plastic chairs, their faces reddening in the artificial heat. An overweight man in his mid-fifties clutches his heart, his eyes bulging in panic; a handful of students – the casualties of Friday afternoon sporting disasters – slump, bloodied and muddied. One has a bandage seeped in blood wrapped around his head; another stares at a swollen ankle; a third – whisked behind curtains – is fitting on a trolley, his neck held in a brace.

To Vicki, white-faced and frantic, the atmosphere is surreal – then nightmarish. Boredom coexists with panic; menace with mundanity.

She manages to get out her son's name then races to the paediatric ward where she knows Greg and Frances should be with Alfie. The corridors, decked with cheerful art, seem endless: a labyrinth keeping her from her baby.

Alfie's bed is empty but Frances is beside it, browsing through a copy of the
London Review of Books.

‘Muuumm.' Vicki's voice emerges as a wail. ‘Where is he? Where's Alfie?'

Frances gets up, and goes as if to hug her.

‘Where is he?' She bats her mother's arms away like a furious child. ‘What have they done with him?'

‘They haven't done anything with him.' Her mother's voice, firm and more than a touch exasperated, forces Vicki to pull herself together. ‘He's just in the anaesthetics room being given the anaesthetic. Greg's with him. Then they're going to take him into theatre, Greg will come back, and they'll bleep us when he's in recovery.'

‘What? They can't take him without me seeing him, without me giving him a cuddle!' Vicki is stunned at the surgeon's audacity and confounded by her mother's mastery of hospital jargon.

‘They had a slot in theatre and Greg was here. He said you knew this might happen and you'd understand?'

‘Yes, yes. He said that on the phone but I didn't think they'd do it. I thought they'd wait for me.'

‘They wanted to do what was best for Alfie. I managed to get the paediatric orthopaedic consultant to do it, not the registrar. I know his wife from the Bodleian, volunteering, so I pushed for him to do it before he left for the weekend.'

‘Oh.' She is stunned by the extent of her mother's influence. Then chastened. That's me told. Frances has managed to achieve far more for Alfie than she has in her directionless panicking.

‘I need to see him.' She berates herself for standing there and turns and runs from the ward, through the maze of curtained beds holding sick children, along the corridor with its outdated animal frieze.

‘Are you OK, dear?' It is a middle-aged sister. Buxom, implacable, authoritative in her navy uniform.

‘Alfie Marchant. My son. He's having his anaesthetic. I need to get to him.' She cannot suppress her mounting frustration.

The nurse shakes her head slowly, as if Vicki has a learning disability or is mad. ‘He'll have had his anaesthetic by now and be in theatre. You won't be allowed in. Any minute now your husband' – she raises her voice as if querying whether they are together; Vicki nods frenetically, urging her to speak more quickly – ‘will be on his way back and you can wait to be bleeped.'

The nurse smiles, offering condescension and caffeine. ‘Why don't you come back to the ward and wait until you can see Alfie in the recovery room. Would you like a nice cup of tea? No? Are you sure?

‘Oh, look. There's Alfie's grandmother – your mother? You can sit and have a nice chat.'

*   *   *

‘So why did you do it, Mum?' Vicki, bereft of her child, assailed by guilt, is looking for someone to blame. Her voice is tight with anger.

‘Why did you let him play on a trampoline with older children when you know that's how fractures happen? And why weren't you there to look after him?'

‘I was only in the next-door garden. I'd hardly neglected him!' Frances begins to excuse herself then spots the look of venom on her daughter's face and appears to think better of it. She takes her time; smooths an invisible wrinkle from her skirt.

‘I wasn't aware that you didn't want him to go on a trampoline with older children and I assumed – and perhaps I was wrong – that he was being properly supervised. Alfie was desperate to play with other children and so I thought I was being kind.'

Vicki, imagining a dig at Alfie's lack of a sibling as a playmate, is stunned. ‘Kind? In what way is it kind to fob him off on your neighbour's children – children he doesn't know?'

Frances bridles. ‘I understand that you're upset but I really don't think it's fair to accuse me of “fobbing him off”. That's a bit like the pot calling the kettle black, Vicki.'

‘I was asking for your support, Mum, for your help. It was one day. I know no one else thinks it's important but this competition means so much to me. And tomorrow's the final. I thought you of all people would understand that I wanted to do well.'

‘Oh, Vicki.' Frances softens. ‘Of course you'll do well. Why wouldn't you?'

Her daughter gives a bark of incredulity. ‘Well, why would I? There's absolutely no guarantee I will and on what basis can you say that? You know nothing about my ability in this sphere, you've shown no interest. Your confidence is groundless.'

She pauses, appalled by her mother's assumed authority, then starts up again.

‘I've never really achieved enough, have I? Never done as well as you wanted. Never “fulfilled my potential”. But this is something I thought I was really good at. And I thought you might recognise that – and support me in it. I thought, for once, you might understand me.'

She waits, wanting a reaction. None is forthcoming.

‘Of course, it's all immaterial now,' she goes on, aware as she does so that she is venting all her anger. ‘I'll have to drop out. So your childcare was in vain.'

‘Why will you have to drop out?'

Vicki stares at her in horror.

‘Because the final's tomorrow and my child is in hospital,' she spells it out. ‘He's undergoing surgery. How on earth could I leave him? And, if I did, what sort of mother would that make me?'

Frances is silent, her fingers still smoothing the fabric of her skirt, ironing out the non-existent wrinkle. When she looks up, her face is calm, her gaze clear.

‘A perfectly normal one,' she says. ‘One who is trying to manage a family and some kind of potential career. One who's just been unfortunate in experiencing bad timing.'

Vicki snorts, loudly and derisively. ‘You can say that again.'

‘Well, that's what it is, isn't it? Alfie isn't in a life-threatening situation. Yes, he'll be uncomfortable tomorrow but he'll have Greg and me here. If you leave him for a day, he won't suffer because of it. If it's important to you to do this final – and I'm sorry I didn't appreciate its full significance to you – then of course you must do it. Perhaps you need to stop beating yourself up and accept that it's OK – that it's acceptable – to put yourself first, for a change?'

‘Well, that's the difference between you and me, isn't it?' Vicki hisses, suddenly realising she should lower her voice though the ward is, briefly, empty. ‘You're happy to put yourself first; I always feel I should put my child first, even when I'm not doing so. As far as I'm concerned, that's the point of being a mother – though you've never seen it that way.'

She watches, appalled at the strength of her anger, as two spots form on her mother's cheeks. What have I done? she thinks. Then, simultaneously: well, perhaps I should be completely honest. Go for the nuclear option. Let her see my pain.

‘I didn't put my baby first once before, Mum, did I? I got rid of it because it was inconvenient. Because, at eighteen, you advised me to have an abortion: told me I should think about my education; that I was too young to have a baby.

‘Each month I don't get pregnant, I think I'm being punished for that decision. Punished for my selfishness. And each month it reminds that, with Alfie, I must never, ever put him last in any way.'

Frances takes her time to answer, as if unsure how to soothe a fourteen-year-old pain she must have hoped had eased to a sad recollection.

‘Is that what this is all about – this desire to be a perfect mother? Oh, Vicki.' She moves to put her arm around her but Vicki shrugs it away.

‘You were so young. Eighteen but a very young eighteen-year-old. Yes, I wanted what I thought was best for you – but you had so much potential and you were so terrified at the thought of motherhood. I remember you saying: “A baby's just going to get in the way.”'

‘I don't think that now – now I can't have another one,' Vicki blurts out.

‘I know,' Frances tries to reassure her. ‘But your … infertility' – she hesitates over the word – ‘has absolutely nothing to do with having an abortion. You know that, don't you? You don't need to heap on all this blame.'

Vicki shakes her head. ‘It doesn't feel like that. It feels like I have a second chance – a chance to make everything perfect for Alfie.'

‘You don't need to be perfect, you need to be
happy.
' Frances reaches for her hands but Vicki snatches them away. ‘You ask what the point of being a mother is, and surely it's to be a good and happy role model? One who's fulfilled and not resentful in any way?'

Vicki remains silent and begins to bite at a cuticle; eyes down; refusing to look at Frances.

Her mother pauses, as if aware of the need to tread cautiously.

‘I know I'm hardly the best person to lecture you on being a good mother but I've only ever wanted what's best for you. And, if you don't mind me saying, motherhood doesn't seem to leave you entirely satisfied, my darling.'

Vicki draws herself up, self-righteousness flowing through her veins; anger surging through her. And then she begins to cry. Hot tears streak down her cheeks: tears of sorrow, guilt and frustration. For she cannot think of an appropriate reply.

*   *   *

Her baby boy is groggy when Vicki and Greg are led into the recovery room. His peaches and cream complexion is now milk white with dark smudges under his eyes. Vicki touches his small, gowned body in its alien hospital garb. His limbs feel slight through the softened cotton, fragile compared to the bulky white cast encasing his right arm.

‘Little man,' she coos. A sob catches in her throat and she leans against Greg. ‘My poor little man.'

It is not until around midnight that he stirs himself and she sees a little of her true Alfie. By this time, she is ensconced in a camp bed in his room, twisting under the regulation sheet and blanket, her hips too wide for its narrow confines. Greg is propped in the blue plastic armchair beside the bed, his tie and top button loosened, his body slackened in sleep. She feels a rush of tenderness towards them. Father and son look disarmingly similar.

‘Mummy.'

In an instant, she is at his side, stumbling to the bed in her rumpled top, socks and M&S knickers.

‘Little Alf.'

He opens his eyes wide, scared by the unfamiliar surroundings.

‘My arm hurts.'

She feels as if her heart will break.

‘I know, darling, I know, darling. Mummy'll make it better.'

She calls for a nurse; smooths his forehead; plants a kiss.

Later, after the nurse has dispensed more diamorphine, and Alfie, and Greg, have fallen back into a deeper slumber, she switches her phone on surreptitiously.

She had phoned Jenny earlier, in the lull when Alfie was sleeping, her mother had returned home, and Greg was on a hunt for coffee and sandwiches.

Her words had tumbled out in a flood, a jumbled explanation as to why she was pulling out of the final that had cascaded over guilt, self-pity and distress.

Jenny had surprised her with her response. ‘Well, couldn't you still take part?'

‘Jenny!' She had been appalled. ‘You sound just like my mother! Of course I couldn't. What kind of mother would that make me?'

Her friend had paused and when she spoke, her voice was more than usually gentle. ‘Don't be too hard on yourself, Vicki. You sound like a perfectly normal mother to me.

‘I sacrificed everything I wanted to do for years and look where that got me: home alone – my children having fled the nest, and my husband … well … rather distant. You were the one who told me it was a waste of time feeling guilty, don't you remember? Would it be so terrible if you did what you wanted?'

Vicki had been silenced; unable to give an articulate response but aware she needed to do so.

‘Well – Karen gave up the competition for
her
son.'

‘But you're not Karen. She did that because she felt, for some reason, she had to make amends.'

‘Well, Kathleen Eaden would never have left a child.' Vicki had reached for irrational sentiment. ‘She wouldn't have been like me: indecisive and selfish. She would have known what to do: she would have withdrawn from the competition with dignity.'