Whatever it takes, p.10
Whatever It Takes, page 10
‘I’m not stopping long. I know you’re busy.’ Margaret often started her conversations with her son with some sort of veiled apology for her presence. She was acutely aware that he was often occupied with work. Indeed, that was why she was here today. ‘I was at Eloise’s when you rang and said you wouldn’t be able to get home for lunch because you had so much to get through, so I thought I’d bring you a sandwich.’
Mark beamed. ‘Cheers, Mum. You’re the best.’ He held out his hand greedily. There was no ceremony between them. She’d been feeding him all his life and neither of them would expect a show of excessive manners. ‘To be honest, I could’ve got home but I want to break the habit.’
Margaret looked confused so Mark clarified. ‘When we first arrived it was a novelty that I could get home for a bowl of soup or similar every lunchtime, especially after years in London where we regularly endured twelve-hour stretches without seeing one another, but I’m not sure it’s good for Eloise.’
‘What do you mean? I’m sure she’s delighted to see you. And a hot meal in the middle of the day is a good thing.’
‘She ought to be meeting friends for lunch. We’ve been here nearly two months now. But as she knows I’m going to be about every lunchtime she doesn’t make any other arrangements.’
‘I’m not sure she has friends to meet for lunch yet,’ pointed out Margaret.
‘I’m know, so I’m making her go cold turkey. Tough love and all that.’
‘Perhaps I should set up something with Maureen’s daughter,’ Margaret suggested tentatively.
‘Good idea.’
‘You don’t think she’s too old for pre-arranged play dates?’
‘As long as she doesn’t see it as that.’
‘Anyway, she won’t be meeting anyone for lunch today. Her friend Sara called this morning, in a terrible state. Eloise is driving back to London as we speak.’
‘Yes, I got her message. Thanks for saying you and Dad will collect the girls from school.’
‘It’s no problem. We’re happy to help. We can give them their tea.’
Mark nodded, but didn’t add anything more. His reluctance to elaborate on the subject was quite telling. He disapproved. Margaret knew he didn’t disapprove of her picking up the girls so she assumed he disapproved of Eloise dashing to London. He opened the Tupperware tub and hungrily released the sandwiches that Margaret had carefully wrapped in greaseproof paper. ‘You’ve been a marvel, Mum. Eloise is always going on about how lucky we are that we have you. She really appreciates all you’re doing to help her – us – to settle in.’ Margaret blushed with pleasure. She was glad Eloise had appreciated her efforts. She was ecstatic that Mark had. It had been a careful balancing act; she wanted to do everything. If she could, she’d take the girls to school every day, clean Eloise’s house, fill the freezer with home-cooked food and babysit every night. But Margaret was aware that everything was too much. Eloise needed something, not everything. The problem was, or rather the issue was, because it was not a problem – at least, it shouldn’t be – that love knew no bounds. Margaret loved Mark and his family without limits or conditions. Everything was natural.
Mark looked at the ham sandwiches. ‘You’ve cut off the crusts,’ he said, not bothering to hide his bewilderment.
Margaret followed her son’s gaze as it rested on the carefully prepared packed lunch. He looked quizzical and she wondered why. She’d gone to lengths to prepare his very favourite: ham sandwiches (without crusts), a carton of Ribena, a packet of Walkers salt and vinegar crisps (he actually preferred tomato flavour but they were a devil to get hold of and therefore only a very rare treat), a liquorice wheel (with a blue sweet in the centre – not pink!) and a sliced apple. He hated it when his apple went brown, so after slicing it she put it together again and wrapped it in cling film. Mark grinned. ‘I think you’ve mixed it up with one of the kids’ lunches, haven’t you?’
Margaret looked at her son and then back at the lunch. His confusion was contagious. She suddenly felt dizzy and wondered what he was talking about. Which kids? What was wrong with the lunch? Why was he grinning? What was amusing? They stared at each other for a long minute and in the end Mark shrugged and started to tuck into the goodies. Margaret continued to stare at him. Something was wrong. She didn’t know what, but she could feel it. Recently, over the last couple of months or so, there’d been a smudge at the side of her head. Inside her head. No one else could see it. That’s what was wrong, the smudge. A patch that was covering something up. Something that she should’ve known and should’ve remembered and should just be.
But wasn’t.
Margaret felt breathless and panicked. Which kids was Mark talking about? What was he doing sitting at his daddy’s desk? He shouldn’t be there. He might spill his Ribena on the important papers and Ray would be cross. She didn’t want to upset Mark though. Not when things were going so nicely. Suddenly, she knew what she could do.
‘Let’s go and get an ice cream,’ she suggested.
Mark stopped chewing on the sandwich and once again threw out a quizzical look. ‘An ice cream?’
‘We can get a wafer sandwich from Mr Simmons as a special treat.’
‘Mum, Mr Simmons closed down his shop about twenty-five years ago. He’s dead, isn’t he? What are you on about?’ Mark’s look of confusion dissolved into one of concern. ‘Are you OK, Mum? Do you want a glass of water? Should I call Dad?’
Margaret pushed past the smudge; it took a lot of effort. ‘I’m fine, dear. Of course I know Mr Simmons is closed down. I was just joking about the ice cream.’ She giggled nervously.
Mark was visibly relieved. ‘You got me. Listen, I’m really sorry. It’s great that you’ve stopped by but I probably should get on.’
Margaret stood up and started to make her way out of the office. She didn’t want to leave Mark here as she couldn’t imagine Ray would be pleased. She could only hope Mark wouldn’t touch any of the important papers and mess anything up. He must be doing some work experience or something. She couldn’t remember that being arranged. That damned black smudge blurred so much. Mark got up and came around the enormous desk towards her. He kissed his mother on the cheek as he walked her to the door.
‘You won’t mention to Eloise that I could have made it home for lunch, will you?’ Mark smiled winningly at his mum.
‘No, I won’t mention it to Eloise,’ said Margaret reassuringly.
She really couldn’t have if she’d wanted to because she hadn’t got a clue who Eloise was.
OCTOBER
10
Charlie was extremely keen to accept Eloise’s offer to refit her bathrooms and kitchen. The next local job he’d had lined up in London had fallen through and he needed the money. Sara saw his delight and urgency and assumed that he was desperate to get away from her. She didn’t blame him but she almost hated him because he could get away from her, whereas she was stuck inside her increasingly gloomy mind and inside her stupid, betraying, useless body.
Sara was appreciative that Eloise still called every day and patiently listened as she moaned, cried, ranted and regretted but it was obvious that even Eloise, usually so eloquent and comforting, didn’t know what to say in the face of Sara’s overwhelming grief. She opted to say little and Sara was grateful. Sara couldn’t stand the people who told her that ‘at least you know you can get pregnant’ (Charlie’s mother and two colleagues), or that ‘you can always have another go’ (many of her casual friends and her brother), or ‘at least you weren’t further on’ (her sister-in-law all the way from Australia sent that tiding of comfort – and Charlie had agreed with her). Yes, even him. Sara couldn’t believe the insensitivity. Were these people insane? At times she thought she hated them all. Including Charlie.
Was hate too strong a word? She couldn’t possibly mean she hated him, could she? Because, after all, he was her husband and the man she was trying to have a baby with. But the cold fury she felt towards him was pretty similar to hate.
Something terrible had happened to Sara. Something else that was terrible. Recently, she had started to wonder whether she had married the wrong man. The question had exploded in her head not long after she lost the baby and now it stubbornly lingered there, day in, day out. No matter what she did to try to douse out the thought, it burned. Would another man have been able to successfully impregnate her? Was Charlie worth the loss and lack?
It was not long after she’d said as much to Eloise that El had suggested Charlie could come and do her bathrooms and kitchen. Eloise had tried to do the socially polite thing of making out that he’d be doing her a huge favour because she couldn’t find anyone to do the work in Dartmouth but Sara knew there must be plumbers closer by, so all she could think was that Eloise also believed that Sara and Charlie could do with some time apart. Charlie was to stay with Eloise, Mark and the girls through the week and then return home to London at the weekends, or Sara could join them all at the weekends – once she was feeling a bit more robust.
‘So that’s everything,’ said Charlie, as he slammed the door on his van. The familiar slide and clunk sound rang out through the empty London street. He was using his fake cheery voice again, the voice he used whenever he spoke to Sara nowadays; it was a bit like the sort of voice dentists used when they spoke to kids – no one was convinced, the big prick was still going to hurt. His cheerful tone did nothing to budge the October gloom. In fact, the tone of voice irritated Sara, but then pretty much everything irritated her at the moment. No one warned you that besides leaving you feeling lonely, gutted and listless, grief also made you mean.
Charlie pulled his wife into a hug and she allowed it; it was some small comfort to feel his solid, warm bulk. She felt fragile, like blown glass that just might shatter at any moment. As she lifted her arms, her coat swung open, revealing her grubby pyjamas. It was only 6 a.m., and Charlie was trying to get ahead of the morning rush hour. Normally she would have still been in bed and it had taken a superhuman effort to get to the front door to wave him off. She knew she smelt; a tangy smell of stale sweat. She was not being as responsible as she should be with regard to bathing. It was an effort. Getting up in the morning was an effort, lifting the spoon to her mouth so that she could eat her cornflakes was an effort, going to work, catching the Tube, completing audits were all an effort. She’d somehow managed to do most of the above by operating on automatic pilot, but getting her coat dry-cleaned was a step too far.
Charlie tried to kiss her goodbye but she moved her face so that his smacker ended up on her cheek. She was aware that she hadn’t cleaned her teeth yet but she wasn’t sure she’d have kissed him even if she’d had Hollywood pearls as teeth. She was tired and all she wanted was for him to leave so that she could go back to bed. Of course she couldn’t go back to bed, she needed to get on with her day. Another day that now required so much exertion and was devoid of hope. She didn’t have a space for Charlie.
‘Call me if you need anything.’
‘OK.’
‘Or if you get, you know, lonely.’
She nodded and didn’t bother to tell him that since she’d lost the baby she’d felt so desperately alone that even when he was in the same room as she was, same bed as her, even inside her, she still felt lonely. All she could say was, ‘Drive carefully. Call me when you get there.’
11
Ray and Margaret slid uncomfortably into the doctor’s waiting room. Margaret discreetly wiped a plastic chair with a handkerchief before she sat down. She didn’t settle right back into the chair but perched uneasily on the edge. She’d been brought up in an era when they’d told young girls they could get pregnant by sitting on loo seats and whilst she’d never quite believed that, she’d never quite disbelieved it either. She had the deepest respect for germs.
So had Ray. He’d never been keen on doctors’ waiting rooms. He avoided them like the plague, in fact he thought they were where someone was most likely to catch the plague. However, despite his dislike of doctors’ waiting rooms, he’d been the one who had made today’s appointment. Ray didn’t take a seat. Boys had never been told they’d get pregnant by sitting on loo seats, obviously. His inability to relax stemmed from something different.
He glanced suspiciously at a young mum with a toddler and a baby who were squirming in the seats opposite. Both the baby and toddler were suffering from severe colds, slimy snot shone around their noses and the dried type was evident on their scalps, their trousers, sweatshirts and their mother’s coat. He thought he could see it on the wall behind where they were sitting as well, but it was hard to tell because the wall was painted snot colour. It was very depressing, someone ought to have considered that. He found himself staring at the grubby children, although it was the last thing on earth he wanted to do. He desperately cast around for something else to look at.
Margaret picked up an ancient copy of Reader’s Digest and began to leaf through it with the air of someone who had the hope but not the conviction that something would catch her eye. ‘I thought we got these on subscription. I haven’t seen this copy before. Is our edition late?’ she asked Ray.
‘We haven’t ever subscribed to Reader’s Digest, that was your mother,’ he stated neutrally, then he added slightly more darkly, ‘Sick people have touched that.’
Margaret dropped the booklet instantly. ‘We shouldn’t be here,’ she said crossly. Margaret resented Ray bossing her around. He shouldn’t make doctor’s appointments; that was her job. He took the car to the vet’s and the cat to the garage. Those were men’s jobs. Appointments at the doctor’s and arranging dinner parties ought to be left to the women. This was all a waste of everyone’s time; he was getting worked up pointlessly. He seemed really worried about her, which was sweet but unnecessary. He kept saying that he was concerned she was overdoing things.
She was sure they used to get the Reader’s Digest.
Ray pulled out a Sudoku quiz book and a pen from the large pocket on his raincoat. He liked to do a Sudoku every day, he’d read somewhere that doing so kept one’s mind young, and he took a long walk every day too, because that was supposed to help in the same way. He glanced at his wife and felt a wave of uncomfortable nausea. Fear. He wanted to be wrong.
Margaret had never got on with Sudoku. She used to do crosswords but she didn’t bother with them nowadays. She said it was because she had far more on her plate, now that Mark, Eloise and the girls lived nearby, but she’d stopped doing them over two years ago and the family had only moved to Dartmouth a few months ago.
Margaret had dressed up to come to the doctor’s. She was brought up to do so. After all, the dear man had trained for many years to become a doctor and that should be respected. He certainly didn’t want to have to look at more dirty or badly presented bits of people than was entirely crucial. Not that she was expecting any sort of an examination. Just a chat, Ray had said. Ask for a tonic. She had to admit that she did feel a bit out of sorts, a bit run down. The smudge was a nuisance. Maybe she had been overdoing it and that was why she’d become a bit slapdash and tetchy of late. But it was not something she needed to see a doctor about.
She’d put on her red trousers. Well, they weren’t red exactly. How should she describe them? Pink? Brown? What was that colour in between? Never mind. She was also wearing her new pull-on. Pull-up. Pull-over. Goodness, she must be nervous about seeing the doctor because all her words were getting muddled.
‘The doctor won’t be long,’ said the receptionist, directing her comment to the elderly couple and ignoring the harassed-looking mother with the snotty children.
‘Were you next? We don’t want to jump the queue,’ Margaret said to the mum.
‘We’re being squeezed in. Probably go in after you.’
Margaret noticed Ray nodding, satisfied with that answer. He then turned to look out the window. There wasn’t much to see, just the place where they parked vehicles. The vehicle park. But he was making a point, he didn’t want to chat with the young mum. Men didn’t strike up conversations much, thought Margaret. Mind you, when Ray had been young he’d had plenty to say for himself. Wasn’t backward at coming forward and chatting up young girls then. Until he met Margaret, that was. He hadn’t done any chatting up since, she was confident about that. He was not that sort. Thank God. And as he wasn’t that sort she could forgive a bit of scowling and muttering when she ‘chattered on’, as he put it.
‘Nasty colds, by the look of it,’ Margaret commented.
The girl nodded. ‘I’ve tried Calpol but they’re still whiny. Tom said he has a headache.’
Margaret sucked her teeth and made a sympathetic tutting sound (quite different from Ray’s simultaneous tutting sound which definitely suggested impatience rather than sympathy). ‘Headache, that’s nasty.’
‘It’s wearing,’ admitted the mum. She looked frazzled. She added, ‘Do you think it’s, like, bad, as a parent, to welcome the times when Calpol is needed? On the one hand it means your kids are suffering, on the other it means you have a decent crack at getting five consecutive hours of sleep.’
Margaret laughed, deciding it was best to assume she was joking. The young mum smiled too, relieved that the older woman wasn’t reaching for her mobile in order to call the social services. She bent forward and kissed her toddler. He pushed her away. Absorbed in a little yellow truck and a masticated bread stick, there was no room for her in his world.
‘He wants me to stop kissing him.’ There was sadness in her eyes. ‘He’s only a baby.’
‘It’s far too early to let go,’ said Margaret sympathetically.
‘Stop kissing him!’ The mum shook her head in bewilderment. ‘I laboured thirty-seven and a half hours to bring him into this world. He owes me the occasional cheek offered up without too much reluctance.’
