Whatever it takes, p.22
Whatever It Takes, page 22
And, suddenly, she could not remember what it was they were waiting for.
She offered cake and poured glasses of milk, but she could see that they were not satisfied. Their excitement turned to frustration as the moments ticked by. Margaret could feel the spiky impatience in the room, needling her, but she didn’t know what they wanted from her. She began to feel upset as she remembered that people were often bothered or irritated by her nowadays, she was never certain what it was she’d done to discourage or annoy. Margaret stared at her granddaughters, wanting to please them, but not sure how to. After a while Ray had gone out of the room and then returned huffing and puffing, carrying a huge box. It was full of tree ornaments, tinsel and sparkling lights. The girls pounced on the box, like a litter of playful kittens, scrabbling to pick up one bauble after another, unwrapping them, holding them to the light, lavishing praise and whoops of pleasure on them, which Margaret realised meant that the other people in the room remembered the trinkets and valued them in some way. A way that was no longer available to her. She didn’t recognise any of them. All she saw was a haphazard box of dated junk.
‘We should throw this lot out and buy fresh,’ Margaret said firmly.
Four heads turned to her like startled synchronised swimmers. Their faces displayed a range of not especially festive emotions, from shock to outrage. ‘No way! We love your tree, Granny,’ declared Erin. ‘It’s the nicest, funnest tree ever. Anyway, this one is mine. So you can’t throw it out. You made it for me last year, look.’
Erin held out a four-inch handmade ragdoll for Margaret to inspect. The doll had clearly been modelled on the girl as it boasted raggedy, long hair, jeans covering coltish legs and a pink roll-neck jumper, pink being Erin’s favourite colour last year. This year she preferred purple. The only indication that this was a Christmas decoration was the fact that the doll wore a tiny elf-size Santa hat and was carrying a knitted gift. It was well made. Margaret recognised the stitching as her own; she had every reason to believe that she had made the doll but no memory of doing so. Margaret could remember Erin’s favourite colour but not this box of ornaments, it didn’t make sense.
Margaret tried to concentrate. She wanted to fight the black hole. Close it up, not sink into it. She’d slowly unwrapped a golden robin with a red glitter breast and a glass mince pie hung on a red string. Nothing stirred. Nothing. She felt Ray’s eyes on her. The worst of this whole business was that she knew there was something wrong. They’d told her; Ray and the doctors and Mark and Eloise had told her that she was ill. Sometimes she didn’t believe them. She felt fine. She was sure of things.
And sometimes she thought they were right. She was ill. Very, very sick.
Margaret sat in blackness. It felt like someone was gagging her and someone else had pulled a hood over her eyes as well; she was left with nothing but brutal pitch-darkness. Black holes were scattered through her head and now, also, her heart. Because it was in her head that she stored it all and it was in her heart that she was able to cherish it further. In her heart she gave facts depth and meaning, gave memories weight and order and sorted experiences into the good and the bad and the ugly. If Margaret could have remembered the baubles when they wanted her to she would’ve known for sure that she’d often anticipated, then celebrated, Christmas in the past. Without the memories, she wasn’t so sure. Had Christmas ever happened for her? Ray watched as she unwrapped a glittery, purple Cinderella-type slipper, about two inches long, not very Christmassy, but certainly glam.
‘That was the first one you bought Eloise,’ he said gruffly. Margaret looked at the sparkling ornament and fought ferociously, prayed desperately, for something to flicker, to trigger. Nothing. Emptiness, bleached blanks. The gaps pounded through her head, taunting her for lacking. Lacking.
‘Bugger!’ she’d yelled as she flung the trinket at the wall. It smashed, satisfyingly, and small shards splattered across the sitting room. The girls had looked surprised rather than afraid. ‘We should throw this lot out, and get some more!’ she’d said angrily. Better to be cross than tearful.
The hardest thing was that now, today, it was all clear. Margaret remembered it all. She could remember the ornaments charged with history and love and she could remember forgetting them and dumping them in the bin, an action fuelled by spiteful self-doubt, confusion and self-loathing. They’d since bought some tartan bows and wooden ornaments; the new ornaments taunted Margaret with their uniform cheerfulness. But then again, soon she’d forget them, too. Most likely.
Margaret and Ray had eaten mince pies at the pub as usual, washed down with mulled cider. It had been a lovely evening although Margaret hadn’t been able to remember anyone’s names, but she thought there was no point in grumbling, no point in drawing attention. She’d sat by the fire, it was electric now, not a real one. She didn’t know when they’d changed it. They went to church for the Christmas concert on the nineteenth, it was beautiful, she said some prayers. She wondered if He was listening. She didn’t know. In fact, she only knew they’d gone to church because it was in the book.
There were three of them now in their marriage: Margaret, Ray and the book. Margaret knew she was making a joke when she used that line. Someone else had once said something like it. It was a great scandal, they were very famous. Possibly Margaret Thatcher? She was not sure.
Ray had bought the book. It was a large blue thing with lines and he wrote down their life in the book. He asked Margaret to write down things too. She did so, when she remembered. It wasn’t a diary. It was a series of lists. The first list was the list of people they’d bought presents for this Christmas and what they’d bought them exactly. Margaret had always kept this sort of list so that she could avoid making the mistake of buying anyone a similar gift two years in a row and so she always bought the right sort of Brazil nuts for the vicar, he liked a particular brand. She thought most people probably had a Christmas gift list. It was not odd. It was not diseased. Then, customarily, Margaret would hide the gifts around the house, because the girls (and even Ray) were not above mooching round in the hope of discovering what they might get. She’d bring them out on Christmas Eve and wrap them as she sat in front of the fire, taking care to add big fat, exuberant ribbons. This year, Margaret had started to buy presents, as usual. She’d spotted a beautiful stationery set for Erin, covered in pictures of kittens drawn in that Manga style. Just Erin’s thing! When she’d shown her purchase to Ray, he’d looked horrified.
‘Don’t you think she’ll like it? I think it’s perfect,’ Margaret had insisted.
He went to the sideboard and slowly, reluctantly, pulled out two identical sets of stationery that she’d already purchased that week. So Ray had accompanied Margaret Christmas shopping this year, and he wrote the list, and wrapped the gifts and labelled them immediately; they didn’t hide them in the house, couldn’t risk not finding them on Christmas Eve when they needed to. They had enough on.
Ray had taken to constantly carrying around the big, blue book that held their life. Besides the gift list there were lists about who had called on the telephone and who had popped by the house. He wrote down what Margaret had eaten for breakfast, lunch and tea in case she forgot. He wrote down when she bathed and what she’d done with the morning for the same reason; did she dust, wash her hair, visit the opticians? Margaret didn’t mind, not really. At first she thought he was playing silly buggers and it was unnecessary, intrusive, but now she’d come to see that it was a help, the book. Before the book she’d done daft things like eat six eggs in a day because she fancied an egg so she’d made two boiled ones for breakfast and two poached for lunch, then two boiled ones again at tea time. She’d been very gassy that day. Ray had been out fishing with Mark. Margaret thought it was Mark or maybe it was Frank, her brother. Ray and Frank had become very close recently.
The book said they’d bought, written, addressed and posted Christmas cards, although Ray was circumspect about how many reached the correct people. Margaret got muddled with the names of some of the recipients. Was Mary’s husband called Harry or Henry? And was Wendy’s son called Fred, or was that the dog? Margaret told herself it didn’t matter; people would think she’d been on the sherry.
Margaret looked at the little girl sitting next to her trying to knit with needles almost the size of her body. Pretty little thing but she couldn’t quite place her. Maybe she was Ray’s secretary’s daughter. Margaret didn’t mind doing a bit of babysitting to help out. This child was no trouble at all.
‘I do a lovely Christmas lunch even if I say so myself,’ she told Poppy.
Poppy nodded but didn’t look up from her knitting; it wasn’t an easy skill to master and she had no room for chitchat with her granny, she had to focus.
‘Most people lack imagination when it comes to Christmas food, too hampered by tradition to think of producing something people actually want to eat, but I like to surprise every year. Last year we started with English onion soup made with sage and cheddar. Soup gets a bad press, always associated with invalids, but it can be delicious. Do you like soup?’ Poppy nodded and Margaret carried on. ‘Onions meant we had a sorbet course, next. My son, he’s about your age, skipped the starter and moved straight to the palate cleaner. Throughout January he told everyone who would listen to him that he’d had ice cream for a starter on Christmas Day.’ Margaret chuckled to herself at the memory.
Poppy wished her grandad was paying more attention and that he’d interrupt, she hated it when her granny went on like this.
‘I do like turkey, but people get a bit sick of it by the time they reach the twenty-fifth. So many opportunities to eat it before then. It’s often on the menu in restaurants in December and Ray often has it at the office do. I always try to do something different for Ray and Mark, my mother and stepfather. My mum and Edgar have come to us every year since we married and whilst they aren’t lavish with their praise, they always hand back empty plates and what bigger compliment is there?’
Poppy shrugged.
‘So, I was thinking of pheasant this year, Ray. What do you think? And maybe pork, too, with crackling and roast apples, seasoned carefully. People sometimes over-do it with the thyme and parsley.’
Ray lowered his paper and stared at Margaret. He always took his time when he answered her nowadays. He often had to climb over his impatience and suppress his disappointment until he could find a suitable response.
‘I thought we talked about Christmas lunch.’
Had they? Well, yes, Margaret imagined they had talked about Christmas lunch, but she wasn’t aware that they’d decided on anything. Or if they had, what it was, exactly. She looked at the blue book lying on the dining-room table, and considered reaching for it. She should have checked it before she’d said anything to Ray. Had they agreed a menu? Margaret tried to bluff it out. ‘I saw a recipe. Something in one of the lovely free magazines that you get with the papers on a Sunday. They suggested rum and raisin sauce rather than gravy. And sprouts, of course, but with almonds to make them a bit special and carrots baked in citrus juice, a twist on the traditional.’
‘We’re eating at Mark and Eloise’s. We’ve talked about this.’
Oh. Right. Margaret felt the blackness and the humiliation swell up all around her again. She might drown in it. Mark had a place of his own? Where? When did he leave home? She wanted to ask Ray but she sensed it would bother him. She was supposed to know. She laid her head on the sofa back and closed her eyes so that the tears couldn’t eke down her face. Margaret thought that people shouldn’t cry at Christmas, it spoilt it for everyone.
27
When Sara arrived at Eloise’s on Christmas Eve, she was greeted with the smell of mince pies and mulled wine. Eloise was especially attentive; she threw around hugs and compliments with the same extravagance as she’d thrown around the glitter and tinsel. Eloise’s home looked like a movie set version of how a house should look at Christmas; every room was drowning in garlands of holly and ivy which Eloise had picked and threaded herself. That said, the abundance and lavishness was exactly the right side of tasteful and the Christmas decorations were all white or silver which provided a stylish contrast to the fresh greenery. Sara was torn between admiring Eloise enormously and really being quite fed up with the perfection. She thought Eloise was even keener to impress than usual; a little more on edge than usual. Sara supposed she was bound to be stressed by the Christmas preparations as she was hosting lunch, but she couldn’t bring herself to feel especially sympathetic – after all, wasn’t this Eloise’s dream? Everyone’s dream? Hosting a huge family lunch on Christmas Day. There was no real reason for Eloise to get uptight. She’d offered to host.
Well, as good as.
Sara had to admit, at least to herself, that Eloise hadn’t actually invited her and Charlie to lunch. The two families usually spent Boxing Day together, but not Christmas Day; however, Sara pointed out that things had been different when they’d lived around the corner from one another. Now the Hamiltons had moved miles away Sara couldn’t really be expected to make the long journey to Dartmouth just for one day, and as Charlie was already there, it just made sense for her to join them for the entire holiday weekend. Eloise hadn’t agreed to Sara’s offer quite as enthusiastically as Sara had expected. Normally, Eloise was too polite to so much as hint at her own desires if they in any way conflicted with those of a stranger she bumped into on a street, let alone a friend. So Sara was surprised when Eloise said carefully, ‘You know we’d understand if you wanted to spend Christmas alone together. I mean, you don’t see much of each other at the moment and there won’t be much privacy at ours. You mustn’t feel you have to come. We’d understand.’
Sara and Charlie had no need for privacy at the moment. Since Charlie had vetoed the possibility of continuing with IVF Sara hadn’t had the desire to share a pizza with him, let alone share a bed. Going to bed ought to be the easiest part; wasn’t that, after all, what it was all about? But sex with Charlie seemed so dishonest at the moment. She certainly didn’t want to be alone with him for four long days. Just the two of them rattling around their home, she couldn’t think of anything more depressing. What would the point of that be, if they weren’t trying for a baby?
‘But we always spend Boxing Day at yours,’ Sara had argued.
‘Yes, I know, but I’m just saying we wouldn’t be offended if you don’t want to this year.’
‘Of course we want to, Eloise.’
‘Oh.’
‘That’s settled, then.’
‘I guess.’
Sara had heard the reluctance in Eloise’s voice, but wasn’t prepared to acknowledge it, let alone examine it. Sara needed to be in Dartmouth, around Eloise, Mark and the girls, she needed it. Sometimes she thought being with them was the only thing that kept her sane, certainly the only thing that made her happy. When she was with the girls she remembered why she put herself through the years of treatments and disappointments; with them she could clearly imagine what it might be like for her one day. It was complex, though, because whilst being with Eloise’s family gave Sara hope and pleasure, it sometimes felt like someone was pounding her with nasty, sharp stones. She pushed these emotions to the very depth of her being because few people were big enough to admit to jealousy. Jealousy was so base and pointless and dark.
Anyway, there was something else now that gave her hope and pleasure. Someone else. Sara had a plan, a direction, a resource, and that was something. The idea came to her not long after Eloise had offered to be a surrogate. Sara thought it was her only answer, the only way. She hadn’t had the time or opportunity to talk to Eloise about her plan yet. It was not something she could comfortably spill over the phone. She thought it would be easier to explain in person but now she was here, in amongst all this tinsel and goodwill, she wasn’t so sure it would be. She wasn’t certain whether Eloise would understand. Maybe she would, maybe she wouldn’t. She had a different perspective. Their paths might appear to be running alongside one another but Sara was lurching up and down brutal terrain, she had to overcome sheer hurdles and avoid falling into snake pits; Eloise was strolling through a sunlit forest, a forest that was overflowing with pots of gold, unicorns, fairies and fluffy animals.
Ultimately, as harsh as it sounded, Sara had decided that she didn’t really care if she had to sacrifice her friend’s approval or confidence over this matter, not if it came to the wire. It would be regrettable to have a secret from Eloise but worth it. Sara had a plan and that was all that counted. At last, for the first time in months and months, years, actually, she was going to be in control. She was. Not a doctor, or Charlie’s hapless sperm or God. Sara. The relief was enormous. So enormous that joy was beginning to sneak back into her life. Not in abundance, but there was a crack of light coming through the heavy dark curtains; a glimmer of hope. Her plan had given her a new whiff of possibility and a definite sense of control; she wasn’t sure if she could risk exposing these tentative buds to Eloise’s scrutiny.
It wouldn’t be easy to achieve but then anything worth having demanded a certain amount of effort. Whatever it took. She’d always said as much. Sara wasn’t rushing into this, she wasn’t mad, she realised that she needed to think about it all very, very carefully. Being in Dartmouth over Christmas would give her time to do just that before she made her final move. Because once it was done, it was done. Irreversible.
Last year Sara had missed all the parties at work because she’d been in the middle of a round of IVF. Drinking until she couldn’t walk home, let alone remember the way home, was out of the question but this year that alternative had seemed very appealing. Sara had made up for her previous abstemious behaviour and it had been like the old days. She’d been quite the party animal.
