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She washed her hands and moved away from the stove.
‘That smells great,’ Alain said. ‘Let me guess, tomato mince?’
May blushed.
‘I’m going to learn some new recipes,’ she said. ‘I’m working on it.’
Cooking did not come naturally to May, but she had bought some old recipe books at a jumble sale and she was trying. Her mother had gone for the easy stuff, baked beans, fish fingers, frozen peas, and that had always been good enough for May until now. Now she had a husband and a baby on the way, and she wanted to do it well.
Alain put both arms around her and lifted her slightly off her feet.
‘No need,’ he said, ‘men can cook too, you know. I’m going to cook every night when this little one is born.’ He dropped to his knees and kissed May’s pregnant stomach.
‘Hello, little tiny,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘Any chance of some kicking for your old dad?’
‘He’s been quiet today,’ said May, ‘probably waiting for you to come home.’
‘He?’ said Alain. ‘He? Isn’t that a bit sexist? If she’s a she, she’ll be listening and she’ll think we want a boy.’ He stood and kissed May on the side of her neck. ‘I’m happy with anything,’ he said, ‘boy, girl, alien, I’m just so happy that he, she, or it, is there.’
May was happier than she had been for ages, possibly forever. It had all been so quick, meeting Alain, marrying him and getting pregnant, only not in that order, and sometimes she still had to pinch herself to make sure it was real.
‘So, the good news things in order. First, it’s Mastermind on TV tonight and we can watch it together, score sheets and everything. I read in the Radio Times that one of the contestants is going to answer questions on the poems of T.S. Eliot for their special subject. I bet we know all of the answers between us.’
May smiled. It still seemed amazing that Alain liked the same sort of things that she did, and that he understood her so well, so intimately. May and her mother used to watch Mastermind together, especially when she was ill.
‘Did I tell you,’ May asked, ‘about the last time Mum and I watched Mastermind?’
‘You did,’ said Alain, ‘but I’d love to hear it again.’
‘Really?’ said May. She was worried that she was boring him. It still seemed inexplicable to her that someone like Alain would look at her twice, let alone marry her. He was six years her junior for a start, handsome, funny and clever. He knew about politics and poetry and he could play the guitar and sing like Paul Simon. Everyone who met him loved him. Her mum would have loved him too, she was sure of that.
‘Really,’ said Alain. ‘Come on, you sit down and I’ll take over the cooking. I’ll tell you my other piece of news later – it’s worth the wait.’
‘No,’ said May, ‘no, go on, I want to hear it now, right now.’
She put the memory of her mother out of her head. Sorry, Mum, she thought. I’m not ignoring you, but I’m moving on. It’s OK, she could imagine her poor old mum saying back, smiling even though she’d been dismissed, go on, you have a good time.
‘Are you OK, merry May?’ Alain said. ‘It must be so difficult for you, I’m sorry if I forget that sometimes. I read an article the other day about grieving, and it said that it’s even more difficult to grieve when you’re pregnant, because everything is invested in the future, all your hopes and dreams, but that’s hard when the loss is still there to make you sad. I think that’s what it meant, anyway.’
Fancy that, May thought, reading articles for her sake, how lovely. Alain lit a cigarette. May decided not to mention again how much she hated the smoke now that she was pregnant.
‘So, here’s my good news. I’ve got a job! I’ve got a job, just when we were starting to panic, a real job with real money and everything. And a flat! We won’t have to live with Love’s Young Dream upstairs any more, it’ll be just us: me, you and Jiminy Cricket in there.’ Alain patted May gently on her bump, and looked at her. She could tell he was keen to see her reaction.
‘Al,’ May said, ‘Al, I can’t believe it. Where? Teaching? How come there’s a flat? I don’t understand.’
‘OK, OK, well, I haven’t only been applying for teaching jobs. There’s nothing around now, term has started and there are loads of good teachers without jobs, we both know that. I didn’t want to tell you, because I wasn’t sure if it would come to anything and I didn’t want to get your hopes up. But my dear May, my merry May, I got out my special skill, my superpower, and it’s going to save us.’
May wondered for a split second whether Alain had been drinking. She didn’t know what he was talking about. They were both teachers, newly qualified, in fact they’d met in college only nine months ago. He’d never mentioned applying for other jobs or having a special skill and May realised again how little they knew about each other, how quickly everything had happened.
‘You don’t know,’ said Alain, clapping his hand to his head in a pantomime gesture. ‘Perhaps I never told you about my superpower. You’re going to be so surprised.’
Alain rubbed his hands together. May waited.
‘I can speak Welsh, that’s my hidden talent, my special thing. I can’t believe I didn’t tell you before, but I guess I didn’t?’
‘Really?’ said May. ‘Proper Welsh? But you come from Sevenoaks, we went to see your nan there.’
May was surprised. Surely it would have come up before, a whole language? She wanted to believe him, but it seemed so strange. They had talked about languages, and swapped stories of German and French exchange visits, and he had never mentioned this hidden talent.
‘So the lady isn’t buying it. Have I ever lied to you? So disbelieving for one so young. Well, maybe not so young, but…’
May felt unreasonably upset. She hated any mention of her age, absolutely hated it, and now she felt stupid as well. Of course it was true that he spoke Welsh, why would he lie to her?
‘Oh May, I didn’t mean to upset you, I was just joshing, come here.’ Alain sat down at the kitchen table and pulled May on to his knee.
She wished that she wasn’t so emotional, so girly, so weak. She hadn’t been like this before she got pregnant, she was sure she had been tougher. Why couldn’t she just ask him why he had hidden it from her?
‘Oh lovely girl,’ Alain said, followed by something in a lilting language that May presumed must be Welsh. ‘See, I can still do it! I was at university in Wales, you know that, a little college in Lampeter, and Welsh was on offer to all the students there. There weren’t many English students, in fact hardly any, I don’t know quite how I ended up there but I did and I took the Welsh option and I loved it. And now I’ve got a job from it and it’s such a good start for us. It’s with the Welsh Film Board. I bet you never even knew there was such a thing, did you? Go on, admit it. But there is, and I’m going to be one of their translators. They have a small team, you see, who translate the major new releases into Welsh. They either oversee the dubbing process, or they write subtitles. It’s a dream of a job and that’s not even the best bit.’
Alain turned to May. She could see the excitement shining in his eyes.
‘What is the best bit?’ May asked. It must be a pregnancy thing, she thought, some altered reality thing that made her feel as though she was playing along, as if none of it was true.
‘I’m glad you asked that,’ Alain said, ‘very glad indeed. It’s as though you could read my mind, thank you, missus, lady with the lump, you’re a picture of beauty even when you’re stirring the mince. I’ll tell you, seeing as you asked so very nicely. There’s a flat with it, that’s the best thing. Look, I’ve got all the details here.’
Alain reached into the bag by his side and pulled out a sheaf of papers and photographs. May stood up, conscious of how heavy she must feel on his lap. He handed her the papers and May gasped. The pictures were amazing. May could see a large house with a long driveway set amongst trees. She had been so worried about where they would live when the baby was born. The panic she felt had increased with every week of her pregnancy, until it was there all the time like a malevolent parrot attached to her shoulder. May felt the weight of it lessen.
‘That’s it, merry May, that’s the Welsh Film Board house. And our flat is inside, imagine! There’s a Land Rover that everyone can use to get to the end of the driveway, and from there it’s only a few minutes into Bangor, it will be such a great place for the baby to grow up, May, imagine.’
Wales. May had spent a seaside holiday in Wales once, in a caravan. She had always wanted to go back. Just the word conjured up pictures of sunny beaches and picturesque hills. Compared to Hull, it sounded like paradise. She looked again at the trees and the big, friendly-looking house.
‘Will it matter,’ she said, ‘that I don’t speak Welsh? I mean, if everyone else does.’ May trailed off, painfully aware of how boring she must sound. She wasn’t good at languages, Alain knew that.
‘I’ll learn, of course,’ she said, trying to sound more together, less pathetic, ‘I’ll pick it up, I’m sure.’
‘Oh darling, you will, you will, and we can bring the baby up to be bilingual, maybe call her Myfanwy or Glendower.’
That’s going a bit far, thought May, I’m not sure about that at all. She would have liked to say something about the names they had already chosen, but Alain was so excited and really, he was right, it was a great opportunity. A flat in a big house, with trees and grounds and space for the baby, no housemates. May could hardly eat for excitement. It was going to be OK.
Later that evening, after Mastermind, May snuggled up to Alain on the rickety sofa. He was knitting, following a pattern he’d made himself.
‘I love you because you knit, do you know that?’ she said. It was true. May adored the fact that he knitted, loved the way his mouth pursed as he was tackling a difficult part of a pattern. The little creatures Alain had knitted for the baby marched across the mantelpiece in a line. There was Pooh, Christopher Robin, Eeyore, Tigger, four hedgehogs and a family of dogs with sticking up ears.
‘The baby will love them, and I love them,’ she said. ‘Tell me a story.’
‘Ah, well, Eeyore, there, he loves babies. Not to eat, you understand, he loves to wash them and feed them and generally look after them. It’s his thing, his private passion.’
‘Like speaking Welsh,’ May said.
‘Yes,’ said Alain, ‘exactly like that. Only more difficult to follow through, because at least a person can speak Welsh in their head, or to a wall or a dog. But looking after babies, well, you need a baby for that. Eeyore tried to get his hands on one, but no one would trust him. “You’re too damn miserable,” they said, “it’ll rub off on the baby.” One of his friends, I think it was Tigger, bought him a doll, a little woolly baby he could practise on. Do you think that worked?’
‘No,’ said May, ‘I think Eeyore would have wanted the real thing.’
‘Spot on,’ said Alain. ‘You couldn’t pull the wool over Eeyore’s eyes, if you’ll pardon the pun. He was so sad. All the creatures with babies kept away from him; they still saw him on adult occasions, obviously, nights out, that kind of thing, but at home he was alone, and he longed for a baby and a family of his own.’
‘Didn’t he want a wife as well?’ said May.
‘I’m not sure about that,’ Alain said. ‘I think he thought he wasn’t good enough, wasn’t worthy of a wife. He had terrible depression, you see, and I think he thought that only the love of a baby would cure it. Hang on, I’ve got to concentrate here, this bit is fiddly. It’s the tail.’
‘Let me see,’ said May. ‘Oh look, it’s a tiny Eeyore, I didn’t realise, it’s so sweet, is it his baby?’
‘It is,’ said Alain. ‘I thought I’d give him what he wants.’
I’m happy, May thought, he’s a sweet man. It’s normal to have little niggles.
‘Do you think it will always be good?’ May said. ‘I mean us, our relationship, will we always be happy like this?’
She stretched out and patted Alain’s head.
‘No,’ Alain said and for a moment May’s stomach clenched, ‘it’ll be better, I promise, even better than this. We’re never going to need anyone else.’
May wondered for a moment about friends. Surely we’ll need other people sometimes, she thought, friends with babies, that sort of thing.
‘Just us, merry May,’ Alain said.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_91ea2905-37f1-538c-9a6b-e1293c0998a9)
October 2017
Lewisham
The door across the corridor has been closed for days. Whoever he is, he likes his privacy, that’s clear, although sometimes I get this prickly feeling. In the back of my neck, as if I’m being watched. I look out when I can but there’s nothing much to see from my room except passing ghouls leaning on sticks or walking frames or being pushed like babies. There are trolleys, of course, and if I could talk I’d try some conversation openers about them. Trolley dolly, I could say, or, have you got any gin on there? I used to know a whole song about hostess trolleys but I can’t get it out, even when I try really hard, one word at a time. I wouldn’t mind how it sounded if I could just say something. I read about someone once, had a stroke and when they started speaking again, they had a Russian accent. I’d even be happy with a Hull one.
It was an odd place, Hull. Always an ill wind blowing. An east wind off the sea. I’m glad I’ve ended up here. The Thames, that’s my idea of a river, you can keep the Humber. Maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner, I try to sing when they bring the lunch. It’s a small token of identity but that Kelly, I really do not like her, she holds my good hand down where I’m trying to make it conduct the imaginary band, and stuffs a spoonful of soup in my mouth. I hate soup. Food is food and drink is drink and let’s not get the two things mixed up, that’s what I say. What I used to say.
Jenny understands me sometimes. She’s the only one who does, and she doesn’t seem to mind about the spit thing. She leans in close, listens hard and then answers me. I’ve never been so glad to see her as I am these days. She comes most evenings, after work. She’s a teacher, my Jenny, like I was. It must be genetic, I tell her, only that always makes her frown and I think it’s because she doesn’t like being compared to me. I can’t blame her.
We’re doing an autumn display for the assembly hall, she said last night, leaves hanging from coloured hoops and some big firework paintings.
She used to love fireworks when she was little, my Jenny. All the kiddies did. The smell of burning and the excitement, choosing all the little fireworks one by one and imagining what they would be like on the night. All fakery, all up in smoke but she liked it.
Bonfire? I tried to say, then just, fire?
I’m sure she understood. I’m sure she knew that I was asking to go to see some fireworks, in my chair. I saw the shadow pass across her face and I read what was behind it. Please don’t ask me to do more than I can do, it said. I wished I could say more, maybe beg her to take me. She would probably have given in in the end, she’s weak like that, but I wasn’t going to get carried away. Not for a stupid firework display, with its oohs and aahs and heads pointed at the sky till the necks hurt. I’m glad when Jenny goes home.
Hull Fair was always on in October. It probably still is. Such a big thing, loads of streets shut off and all the children bundled into their coats for the first time that year and eating candy floss. I went with Alain. We didn’t have many dates before I got pregnant but for a little while afterwards we had some lovely ones. He used to say he was carrying the courtship into the marriage, or some such nonsense. I ate burnt cinder toffee, I remember the taste even now. I’d been sick a lot in the pregnancy, and I couldn’t keep much down at all, but that toffee, it tasted like something magic. Angel food, as long as angels don’t have teeth. He won me a Womble, Alain did, throwing darts at a target. He always had good aim, Alain, and I was as pleased as a child with it. I hadn’t ever done anything like that before, been to the fair with a boy. A man. I was as giddy as a girl.
I was older than Alain, but much less experienced. I’d spent most of my teens and twenties being the kind of girl that was asked along by other girls as a last resort. The kind of girl who went home on her own at the end of every evening out, unless one of her friends was extremely unlucky. A fat girl, if I am completely honest. A fat jolly girl with loads of pals and three similar navy blue dresses, worn in rotation. I see the fat girls now and they wear anything they like, bright pink leggings, crop tops, miniskirts, shorts. I don’t know what I think about that, but I do know it wasn’t a thing that could have been done in the early seventies. Fat girls bought their clothes from the fuller figure range at Arding and Hobbs, Clapham Junction, or Binns in Hull. There were Peter Pan collars and ruches and tucks that were supposed to hide the fat, only they didn’t.
I did have a boyfriend once. Brendan. He was a bit like me, awkward and tubby so everyone thought it was the best match, the cutest thing but he got handsome, almost overnight. That’s how I remember it, one moment he was like me, waistband straining and T-shirt too tight, and the next he was slim and tanned and could take his pick. He chose Cherry, picked her right away and I didn’t blame him at all. It made sense to me.
I stopped being a fat girl in 1976. Summer 1976 to be exact, when I started my teacher training year and everyone was singing ‘Dancing Queen’. It wasn’t my sort of music, but I used to put it on the record player every morning anyway, and I’d dance along to get my metabolism going. I was still doing it when I met Alain that Christmas, only I never told him. I was as slim as all the other young women by then, and I could see in the mirror that I was looking OK, but I couldn’t believe he chose me. He could have had anyone.
I’ve put the song into my head now, like a fool. I try drumming it out with my good hand on the tray over my bed, that always used to get rid of it. I’m hoping to send the blasted song packing but instead I’ve knocked over the cold soup that was sitting on my tray. It’s splashed all over the floor, the bed and even up the wall a little.
Kelly comes in. What have we got here, she says, what’s this? She pulls the bed covers back more roughly than she needs to and I don’t have time to make sure I’m decent underneath. What would happen if we all threw things we didn’t like, huh? Who would do the cleaning up then? I didn’t, I try to say, it was just that Abba song, that was all, I needed a drum roll but my hand wouldn’t do it.
We don’t need all that slobbering now do we she says, if you can’t speak properly best say nothing.
By the time she’s cleaned me up and settled me back into my chair we’ve used up at least half an hour. Even better, the head honcho, or shift supervisor or whatever they’re called, she comes in and has a bit of a go at Kelly.
Why are you doing that on your own, she says, you should have called for help.
I didn’t want to take anyone away from their own jobs, Kelly says, but head honcho sees right through that.
It’s not your decision, she says, it’s policy and that’s what we do here. She has a sniff in her tone that you could hear from across the river. But she’s good with the patients, or inmates, or whatever it is we are. It’s all, are you OK Mrs Beecham and I try to say, Ms, but she takes it as a yes.
Splendid, she says, splendid, shall I get the girls to bring you some more soup? I shake my head at that one, don’t even try to speak.
Fair enough, she says, let Kelly here know if you want anything else, won’t you.
She isn’t keen on that at all, Kelly, but she doesn’t dare to be rough any more. She has a killer look when she puts the blanket round my knees, but it only makes me laugh. I’ve seen worse than that, I want to tell her, I don’t scare so easily, not these days. You could probably get an axe murderer in here wielding his weapon and I wouldn’t flinch. The old me, the fat sad little me that I was in my young life, she was scared of everything. Everything.
Jenny comes later, after school like she usually does.
I hear there was a problem, Mum, she says, a problem with the soup.
Soup, I try to say.
For a moment I’ve forgotten and I have no idea what she’s talking about.
I forget where I am and think of soup, trickling down the walls, hot soup tipped over my head. Trying to wash the pieces out of my hair later.
No, I try to say, no no.
It’s OK Mum, it doesn’t matter, Jenny says and I’m back in the room, remembering the drum roll and the spilled soup. It’s such a relief to know that no one threw it at me, I’m not in danger, it’s all OK. I start to cry.
Mum I’ll tell them, Jenny says, I’ll tell them you don’t like it, don’t worry, it’s OK.
She looks worried but I can’t stop crying.
I don’t like it here, it’s all wrong. No one can understand me and I can feel the prickly feeling again, that tingle as though I’m being watched. I think it’s the man in the room across the corridor, I’m sure it is. I can’t tell Jenny, it would upset her but I’m sure I can see him out of the corner of my eye. He probably just sits there, watching, I wouldn’t be surprised.
Can I come home with you, I want to say to Jenny, I don’t like it here.
I can’t get anything out now except stupid crying, but I’m sure she understands me. She looks away.
Please, I try to say, and I hate myself for doing it. I know she can’t look after me, not with the toilet in her house being upstairs and anyway there’s her ex-husband, she shares the house with him, I can’t go there. I know all of that but I don’t seem to be able to stop myself.
