Unbecoming (14 page)

‘A different one.’

‘Fetch it from where?’

‘Home, I suppose.’

The girl asked Mary questions she didn’t know the answer to, like,
Why didn’t you get it the first time?
And,
What’s in it anyway?

The girl said, ‘So, let me get this right. You want to go back to your old house again?’

Mary nodded. That was exactly it. A day trip, that’s what she wanted! ‘Yes please.’

The girl thought about it. She made it look difficult. She made it look as if she would say no. She bit her bottom lip and looked over to the gate. ‘Mum won’t want us going that far.’

‘Let’s not tell her.’

‘We might have to bring Chris. He’s got PE tomorrow, so he’ll try and pull a sickie and Mum’s bound to let him.’

‘The more the merrier.’

‘He might blab. He hates breaking rules.’

‘We’ll bribe him. Boys are easily bribed.’

The girl smiled. She was extraordinary when she smiled – something knowing and a little bit dangerous flickered in her eyes. ‘I think you might be a bad influence on me, Mary.’

‘We’re the same, you and me,’ Mary told her, stroking the girl’s arm. ‘Somewhat foolish and somewhat brave.’

‘Brave? I don’t think so.’

‘What did you say your name was again?’

‘Katie.’

‘Well, Katie, you definitely remind me of me. I was younger than you when I fell in love for the first time. Night after night, when my sister was asleep, I climbed out of my bedroom window to meet him – out into the dark, running down the street holding my shoes.’ She smiled at the memory, so vivid she could see the swirl of her skirt as she ran, could almost smell the Arpege she’d sprayed at her throat. ‘Robert borrowed a car and we drove to all sorts of
places – supper at a hotel, or a dance hall. Sometimes we just went to his caravan. I thought I could get away with anything.’

‘And could you?’

Memories flickered. Her father looking right through her as if she were a ghost, as if he’d decided she no longer existed. Pat being forced to translate every damn thing he had to say. The baby crying on and on.

‘No, actually. It turned out that I couldn’t.’

The girl eyed her for a moment too long. Perhaps Mary shouldn’t have said anything – she didn’t want to scare the child.

‘OK,’ the girl said eventually. ‘Let’s do it.’

‘Mum’s going to kill us.’

Katie turned from the departures board to scowl at her brother. ‘Not if you don’t tell her.’

Chris bit his lip, like he might not be able to stop words tumbling out of him. ‘It’s a crime scene. It’s probably illegal.’

‘How can it be a crime scene if there wasn’t a crime?’

‘It’s a death scene then.’

Katie flicked a glance at Mary, sitting on the bench halfway up the platform – her eyes shut, her face turned to the sun like a flower. She didn’t appear to have heard. Katie lowered her voice. ‘Is it Jack you’re worried about?’

Chris shrugged, scuffing his shoe in the dust.

‘Because there’s no such thing as zombies.’

He looked unconvinced. ‘How come she sees him everywhere?’

‘Because she misses him.’ Katie cupped his cheek with the palm of her hand so he’d be forced to look at her. ‘Don’t you sometimes see Dad about the place?’

‘He’s not one of the undead!’

‘He’s not in your school canteen either.’

Chris yanked his face away from her. ‘You don’t know that!’

‘What I
do
know is that mooning about Dad all the time is going
to piss Mum off a lot more than us going on a little day trip, so how about we agree to keep some secrets?’

He knew it was blackmail by the scowl he gave her. ‘Mum told me to text if I felt better.’

‘You weren’t sick in the first place!’ Christ! It was hard enough to do daring stuff without Chris undermining her. ‘Send her a text saying you’re out of bed and doing your homework, then turn your phone off. It’s going to be fine. We’ll be back before you know it.’

‘And what if we meet any weirdos?’

‘Then you’ll fit right in.’ He rolled his eyes at her and she laughed. ‘Nothing bad’s going to happen, Chris. What else can go wrong? Dad’s buggered off, Mum’s a dictator, Mary’s forgetting everything she ever knew and you and me are freaks. It can’t get any worse!’

She had to stay strong. This new confidence of hers was tidal – coming in waves of strength this morning, but bound to retreat later, leaving her breathless with anxiety all over again. She didn’t want to be afraid any more. She grabbed her brother’s arm and linked her own through it.

‘This suitcase is really important to her. Imagine what might be in it – maybe thousands of pounds!’ She cast a last glance at the departures board as she steered him to Mary. Two minutes to go. ‘Finding it might change all our lives. Mum could leave her crappy job and buy a massive house somewhere and we’d go to new schools and have exotic holidays and get new wardrobes and new friends and amazing new lives.’

Chris looked doubtful. ‘What about Dad?’

‘He’d leave his girlfriend and come and live in our mansion, of course. Everything would be fantastic.’ Chris began to look convinced and she squeezed his arm. ‘How can it be wrong to take Mary to her
own
home to look for her
own
suitcase? I would’ve told Mum we were coming if she wasn’t so stressed.’

‘If the suitcase has got good stuff in it, can we tell her? She won’t be mad at us then, will she?’

‘She’ll be ecstatic. We’ll be heroes.’

Maybe it was the simple fact of moving at speed, but once they were settled on the train, Mary was the most content Katie had seen her. She gazed out at the retreating fields and sighed with happiness as they were replaced by row upon row of terraced houses, their back gardens sloping down to the railway track. Squat industrial buildings replaced the houses, followed by a series of bridges straddling a dual carriageway.

‘Would you just look at all those cars!’ Mary said. ‘All off somewhere or other.’

Katie smiled. ‘It’s good to keep moving, isn’t it?’

‘Sit in a chair too long, my girl, and you might never get up again.’

‘I was actually thinking of becoming a nomad. I might never go home.’

Mary whooped with laughter. ‘That’s the spirit!’

Chris pressed his leg more firmly against Katie’s, which meant he disagreed with the entire conversation, but at least he was keeping quiet about it.

Katie tried to imagine staying on the train to the end of the line. The sky would stretch itself out and the horizon would expand and they’d end up somewhere totally new. They could reinvent themselves, have adventure after adventure …

Perhaps it was being on a train, but Mary thought the memory game might be getting harder. Today’s category was babies and Mary wanted to think of the sleepy weight of her daughter, of that place at the top of her skull that smelled of newness, of her wise little face and her arms like sea anemones and her toes and fingers like tiny prawns.

But Pat and Dad kept getting in the way.

Here is her father growing colder, whittling Mary down with his silence and his little notes:

When are you leaving?

You can’t stay here.

I don’t want you under my roof
.

Here is Pat, with her lists and plans, determined to find a solution. Poor Pat. She’d even gone to the yard to see if she could procure Robert’s address, but all she discovered was what Mary already new – that he’d broken his contract with the railway and gone back to his wife.

‘So, there we are,’ Pat says. ‘He’s got off scot-free, hasn’t he?’

Two days after Caroline was born, Mary still hasn't stopped shaking. Even when she's wrapped up in bed with the electric heater on she shivers.

‘It's the shock,' Pat says.

She brings Mary soup and sweet tea, rubs her back with menthol, gives her a hot pad for her feet and a smelling bottle to clear her head and takes the baby away for hours on end so Mary can rest.

‘Maybe I'll feel better when my milk comes in,' Mary says.

But the milk doesn't come in. Not really. Not enough so the baby will ever stop rooting for more. It's as if Mary's cold in her bones, as if the very centre of her has become open to the elements.

‘It'll have to be a bottle,' Pat says.

But Mary doesn't want that. She's made a promise to love this child. She hauls herself out of bed and puts a dressing gown over her nightie, a hat on her head and socks and slippers on her feet. She builds a nest of pillows in the armchair next to the heater and sits in it, wraps a blanket round her shoulders and tries once again to feed her daughter.

Outside the window, the sky is skittish with cloud and the cherry tree is bursting with blossom. Every time the wind picks up, petals flutter to the grass and Mary thinks of weddings. It doesn't help.

Her milk, what there is of it, is thin and pale and it's only minutes
before Caroline whimpers in frustration. Mary scoops her up and holds her close.

‘I'm sorry,' she says. ‘I'm so sorry.'

The baby snuffles at her neck, but there's no satisfaction there and soon the child is wailing. Pat comes in to see what the fuss is about.

‘Move the pillow,' she says, ‘and change the position of your arm. You can't expect her to feed lying on a slope.'

‘She sounds so lonely,' Mary says. ‘Look how her jaw shudders.'

‘She's hungry, that's all.'

Pat shuts the curtains so the sun won't get in the baby's eyes and turns off the heater in case it's sucking oxygen from the child's system. She gets a glass of hot cordial for Mary and sits on the edge of the bed and sighs as the baby desperately roots about.

‘I can't bear it that she's starving,' Mary says. ‘Tell me what to do.'

‘Let me give her a bottle, that's what. I've done this before, remember? Hush now, hush, little one,' Pat croons. ‘Don't cry, there's nothing to be sad about.'

But there is. This baby's mother is useless. Mary knows it. And now the child knows it too.

At night, Pat insists Caroline sleeps in the box room next to an open window. ‘She doesn't want to be breathing in your stale air now, does she? And that back room's further from Dad, so he'll be less disturbed.'

But how do you check your baby's still breathing if she's all the way across the landing? And if she wakes in the night, shouldn't you go to her, rather than let her cry herself back to sleep?

‘If you stop lifting her up and fussing her,' Pat says, ‘she'll soon be feeding and sleeping at entirely predictable times.'

‘How do you know all this?' Mary asks.

Pat merely scowls. ‘Better to put a fence at the top of a cliff than station an ambulance at the bottom.'

‘What does that mean?'

‘It means that regularity of feeding, sleeping and bowel movements is best for a child.'

Now that Pat gives Caroline bottles, Mary resolves to help with other things instead. She watches her sister, eager to be as competent: the towel across the lap, the water at elbow temperature in a bowl, the cotton wool and baby powder. Pat demonstrates folding the nappy, how to tuck your fingers inside when using the safety pin so the baby doesn't get jabbed, how to tie the crossover vest with its ribbons, how to ease a nightie over the baby's head.

‘I love you very much,' Mary tells Caroline as she struggles with socks and bootees. Because if she keeps saying it out loud, she might become a good enough mother to deserve such a lovely daughter.

But every day brings an increasing fear. Because what if Pat's right and Mary will never manage? And what if Dad really isn't going to ever speak to her again? Every time she walks into a room, he walks straight out. Every time she says anything, he pretends not to hear. What sort of atmosphere is that for a child? ‘You,' she tells her baby daughter, ‘you deserve better than this.'

Every time she cradles Caroline, Mary can't help thinking, if I'm left alone with you for long enough, I'll do something wrong. I might accidentally drop you on your head or tangle you in cot sheets and suffocate you. And as you get bigger there are more ways to hurt you. I might give you the wrong medicine or let you run out into the road. And I have no idea what babies eat, so you'll probably starve and I can't knit or sew, so you're bound to get
chills. Left to my own devices, you'll be lucky to make it to your first birthday.

Then Mary feels terrible for thinking such horror, and holds her daughter tight and plants kisses all over her soft sad face.

She tries to tell herself that it isn't her fault. She goes over and over it. ‘Listen,' she says to herself. ‘It's simple. Not every woman is motherly. Some of us just don't have it.'

She tries to make up stories with happy endings, ones where she and Caroline live in London together and Mary is an actress and Caroline has all the children's roles, like Perdita in
A Winter's Tale
or Wendy in
Peter Pan
. But then Mary remembers that Perdita is brought up by a shepherd and Wendy flies away through a window and both end up motherless. Not even her fantasies come good.

Every morning, Pat makes up a bottle, feeds the baby in the kitchen, then puts her down for a nap. Pat makes Dad his breakfast, hands him his packed lunch and waves him off to work. Pat's started knitting again. She's bought pink wool and is making a matinee jacket, whatever that is. Mary can hear the needles from all the way upstairs. Clickety-click, clickety-click. Pat says there's nothing for Mary to do, except stay in bed and try to decide what the rest of her life might be like. But Mary can't get past the idea of taking her child and moving to London. Whenever she mentions this to Pat, she looks appalled, comes back at Mary with tales of mothers thrown out of boarding houses, of landlords taking advantage when they discover there's no husband, of women living in the streets, of babies getting tuberculosis or being bitten by rats.

Every possibility is taken away. Mary has no money, no prospect of work and nowhere to live. As Pat keeps telling her, ‘You've really gone and done it now.'

One morning, Pat orders Mary to come downstairs and sit at the
kitchen table. A paper and pen is produced. Pat's going to sort things out once and for all. This situation can't go on. She writes down Mary's options. These include getting the baby adopted (immediately crossed out, because hasn't there been enough loss in this family?), feigning the death of Mary's made-up husband in a car accident (crossed out because no one will believe it), Mary wearing a ring and pretending her husband works abroad (ditto), the entire family moving away and starting all over again (Daddy's too old and would never agree), Mary and the child staying locked in the house for ever (cruel to the child and at some point the neighbours will notice).

‘Well,' Pat says, pushing the paper away, ‘that leaves us with finding this baby a father.'

Mary sinks her head into her hands, fighting back the nausea that overwhelms her. ‘Robert's got a wife.'

‘I'm aware of that.'

‘So what are you suggesting?'

Pat taps the pen against the table. ‘How long since you last saw him?'

Mary's throat hurts. She wipes her eyes and looks at her sister. ‘Four months.'

‘And did you go with anyone else? I mean, you are sure he's the father? There couldn't have been a mistake?'

Pat says
mistake
as if she's swearing. It makes Mary smile, despite the threatening tears. ‘I'm sure.'

‘Well, we need to find a new man, then. One who won't mind taking on a child.'

Mary's heart sinks. What ridiculousness is this?

‘Men have urges,' Pat says. ‘Women have longings. It's a dangerous combination. Much better to put all that aside and sort this out in a practical way.' She taps the table three times and Mary
thinks of a magician conjuring a rabbit. ‘What about Lionel Dudley?' Pat writes his name on the paper. ‘His mother's just died, so he owns that nice little house now. Daddy always speaks very highly of him. He dresses well. He's clean and quiet and must earn at least ten pounds a week. I imagine he even has prospects for promotion, despite his age.'

‘What are you talking about?'

‘Daddy's colleague from work.'

‘What's he got to do with anything?'

‘He might like a ready-made family. He needs a woman to keep that house for him now his mother's gone.'

Mary blinks at her sister. Doesn't she understand men at all? ‘I don't think it's a wife that man's after. Don't worry, I'll bring my daughter up on my own.'

Pat glares at her. ‘And where exactly will you do that?'

‘I'll think of somewhere.'

‘I will not stand by and see this family's reputation in tatters while you brazen it out with a baby and no ring on your finger!'

‘Oh, don't worry about your precious reputation, Pat. I'll go to London.'

‘You think anyone will rent you a room? And how will you pay for it? You'll be on the streets before you know it.'

Mary finds it hard to breathe suddenly. The room begins to slowly spin. ‘I can't marry a man I don't love and that's the end of it. I refuse to spend my life in misery.'

‘
Your
life!' Pat's voice is shrill. ‘Never mind
your
life. You're giving no attention to the child. You of all people should know what it's like to grow up with a parent missing. But at least yours was decently buried and not married to somebody else!'

‘Don't bring Mum into this.'

‘Then don't talk to me about misery!' Pat stands up and jabs a
furious finger at Mary. ‘I gave up everything for you – grammar school, college, all of it. The reason I don't have a husband or family of my own is because of you!'

‘Well, if you want a husband so much, why don't
you
marry Lionel and keep his little house nice? I'm sure you'll suit each other perfectly. Very convenient for both of you.'

There's silence. Mary's words echo. The kitchen reverberates with them.