I looked away, p.23
I Looked Away, page 23
And then it happened.
A thin reed of a cry, so high-pitched that I look around for the bird that must somehow have flown into the room. Then another, slightly lustier. And again. ‘Is our baby all right?’ shouted my husband. ‘Will someone please tell us what’s going on.’
‘We’ve cleared some mucus,’ said the midwife reassuringly. ‘She’s fine now.’ Then she placed a small slithery body into my arms. A wrinkled, bald face stared up at me, its mouth open, clearly furious at having been ripped from my womb to face this uncertain, unreliable world outside. I didn’t ask for you, either, I thought. But then, as I looked down into my daughter’s eyes, I felt an unexpected tugging from inside, coupled with a flash of recognition.
‘She looks just like you,’ breathed Roger, stroking her tiny cheek with his thick, stubby index finger. He’s calmer now. Completely different.
‘No,’ I wanted to say. ‘She looks a bit like …’
But I couldn’t even bear to say the name in my head.
Taking a deep breath, I tried to steady myself. ‘Like you,’ I say. ‘She has your nose.’
Gently he put his arm around me and pulled me towards him, the baby still in my arms. ‘I love you so much, my darling. We’re a proper family now.’
When I look back, I don’t know how we managed, especially in a rural area like ours. Today there is so much more help for young mothers. They have baby groups to go to; nurseries where they can drop off their children and go back to work; there are WhatsApp and Facebook groups to seek advice from.
Amy was a chesty baby, always prone to coughs and colds. She also got croup, which terrified me with that harsh dog-like sound. I was constantly on alert. Every noise she made reverberated around my head and set my heart leaping.
‘Just fill the kettle and sit in the kitchen with the steam,’ the health visitor advised. But it didn’t always work. Even when she was well, the responsibility was overwhelming. ‘I’m not fit to look after you,’ I would whisper to Amy when we were on our own. Her blue eyes would fix on me – she was focusing now – as if she agreed.
Roger, on the other hand, had far more confidence, even though he had had no experience of babies either. ‘You just need to read about it,’ he informed me, handing over the latest of the childcare books he kept buying. He tapped the cover, showing a beaming mother, father and child. ‘It’s all in here. Rather like a car manual. You simply have to look it up.’
As if on cue, Amy began to yell in my arms.
‘Give her to me,’ said Roger, his voice softening. Gladly, I handed her over. He cradled her against his chest. Instantly, she stopped crying. ‘See?’ he said triumphantly. ‘Babies like to feel secure. They can pick up on your worries. Just relax, Ellie.’
But I couldn’t. Nor could I tell him why.
Roger seemed to take pride in the fact that he was better at calming Amy than I was. It made me feel even less confident and, when he was at work, I honestly felt I couldn’t cope. One day, when he was at the university, Amy was so sick that the vomit flew out almost to the other side of the room. In a panic, I ran to my neighbour.
‘Babies are often sick, especially when they’ve had enough,’ Jean said reassuringly, taking Amy from me and holding her against her shoulder, gently patting her back. ‘But she seems perfectly happy now. Leave it a couple of hours and then try another. She’ll soon let you know when she’s hungry.’
‘How?’
‘By crying.’
‘But she does that anyway!’
Jean gave me a quick hug. ‘It’s very hard when you’re a new mum but you’ll soon learn. We all make mistakes.’
Hadn’t I already made enough of those?
It was a great comfort to me when Jean started to come over regularly after that, especially as Roger was always at work. He needed to continue teaching during the Easter and summer vacations, often helping overseas students or those who had theses to finish. I knew it wasn’t just my imagination that he was starting to spend more and more time away from home. But after a while, I found I didn’t care. When he was back, all he seemed interested in was our daughter, with whom he was almost besotted. I got the feeling that he relished having the upper hand when it came to bringing her up. And he didn’t like it when I said Jean was good at calming Amy too.
‘Has that woman been round again?’ he’d ask if he returned to find two coffee mugs in the sink.
‘I’m grateful for her company,’ I’d tell him.
‘Just don’t let her get too close. I don’t want some nosy neighbour knowing all our business.’
My husband carried on with his constant disapproval of my new friend, almost as if he was jealous of her. One weekend, when Amy was about three months old, I got the courage to answer back. ‘She’s not nosy, and besides, I don’t have anyone else to talk to. There aren’t any other women in the village with children of Amy’s age. I don’t drive and the buses are irregular. Anyway, you’re never here.’
‘That’s because I’m trying to support my family.’ His voice raised in anger and woke Amy, who’d been dozing in her carrycot.
‘Now look what you’ve done.’
Even as I yelled back, I was aware that we were both tetchy from lack of sleep and – on my part – fear. What if I did something wrong? Supposing I dropped her by accident? What if she stopped breathing?
‘I’m just scared,’ I said, bursting into tears. ‘Having a baby is such a responsibility. I’m sorry.’
Instantly his arms were around me, stroking my back. ‘I know,’ he soothed. ‘I understand.’
His mouth was on mine. His hands were now feeling my breasts, swollen with milk. Then they went lower. Gently I pushed him away. ‘Not now, Roger. It’s only the afternoon.’
‘What does that matter?’ he murmured, pulling me down onto the sofa.
‘Amy …’
‘She’s gone back to sleep.’
Panic was beginning to mount inside. When I’d been pregnant, I’d managed – with a few exceptions – to keep Roger at bay by telling him that sex might cause a miscarriage or that it was too uncomfortable. But now I’d just had my three-month check, and the doctor had informed me, with a broad grin on his face, that it was ‘perfectly acceptable to resume marital relations now’.
The truth was that I didn’t want to. I was too exhausted looking after Amy.
But Roger wasn’t giving up. ‘I need you.’ His voice was thick. Husky. He was pulling off my pants. ‘No, please,’ I said. ‘I’m not ready.’
‘Come on, Ellie. It’s been too long.’
Later, as I lay there, I consoled myself by saying that a man like Roger needed to fulfil his needs. I owed him after everything he had done.
For some weeks after that, Roger’s behaviour towards me was much kinder. He even told Jean that she didn’t need to ‘rush off’ when he came home early and found us having a cup of tea together with Amy bouncing on her knee. His arrival had taken me aback. I’d been so busy that I hadn’t had time to hide another letter I’d started to write that morning, which was still out on the table. Luckily I managed to pick it up surreptitiously while Roger was making small talk with Jean and throw it on the coal fire in the sitting room next door. (I’d wanted to use some of my money to install central heating but Roger said it was better to invest it.)
I watched as the page curled up and then wilted as the flames devoured it.
46
Jo
Days and then weeks go by. It’s hard to keep up when you’re on the road. But according to Steve, it’s November already. For the first time I can remember, I feel safe. Content.
How stupid of me.
‘We’re lucky with the weather,’ says Steve one morning, looking up at the clear sky from his usual crouching position on the pavement.
‘It must be crap when the rain washes your work away,’ I reply, pulling my now-grubby turquoise fleece around me. It might be dry but it’s bloody cold.
‘Or,’ he says, as he draws the apricot outline of a sunset, ‘you can see it as an opportunity to start again when it’s dry.’ He sits back on his haunches, surveying his new picture. ‘The great thing about street art is that you don’t have to pay for a fresh canvas every time. There’s always a pavement. And if the cops come along, well, I just move on without any hassle. Sometimes, though, they want to talk about my work. Never judge a book by its cover. That’s my motto.’
This man is amazing. He’s not just talented. He sees life differently. He’s nice to everyone but he’s no wet blanket. And something draws me to him that I can’t explain.
Not long after that, Cassie (as the bakery woman told Steve to call her) knocks on our door. She has a problem, she says, with the waste pipe under her kitchen sink. Would he mind coming to look at it?
When he’s gone, I wash out my knickers and put them on the radiator to dry. Steve has bought me some fleecy pyjamas from the market (‘Like I said before, you’ve earned it’), so I pull them on and go straight to bed on my side. I’ve got used to our arrangement now. Sometimes, though, our legs brush in the night. The touch makes me ache with a longing that I haven’t had for donkeys’ years.
I drift off but the next thing I hear is shouting down below followed by Steve’s footsteps pounding up the stairs.
‘What’s going on?’ I murmur sleepily.
‘You were right.’
Steve is sitting next to me. He’s put the light on and I can see shock on his face. ‘Cassie made a pass at me.’
I rub my eyes. ‘Of course she bloody did. I told you before. It’s obvious she’s got the hots for you.’
He looks upset. ‘I suppose I thought … that is … well, after my fiancée walked out on me, I decided I didn’t want anything to do with love again. But now, well …’
‘So you do fancy Cassie?’ I burst out.
‘No.’ He takes my hands. ‘Don’t you get it, Jo? It’s you I want.’
I go hot and cold like my body is burning. ‘I’m too old for this.’
He is lacing his fingers with mine. ‘Age doesn’t matter, although I don’t think there’s much of a difference between us.’
If he thinks I’m giving him my date of birth, he’s mistaken. I can’t help thinking that the fewer facts I give him, the safer I will be.
‘The point is that I can feel this connection between us.’ He is looking straight at me. ‘And I think you can feel it too.’
Why can’t I lie like I usually do? Instead, I say nothing.
His hands are stroking my back. Every bone in my body is on fire. I keep looking into his eyes as he slowly takes off my top. I want this.
When we finish, I lie in the crook of his arm. ‘You’re beautiful, Jo,’ he says dreamily.
I snort. ‘Don’t be daft.’
He strokes my shaved head. ‘I mean it. I love the fact you don’t try to be anything else but yourself.’
‘I used to have hair down to my waist,’ I mumble. ‘But it was easier this way.’
‘Suits you.’ He’s running a finger along my cheekbone now. ‘It brings out the structure of your face.’
Embarrassed, I change the subject. ‘Cassie won’t like this,’ I say.
‘She already knows.’
I lean on one shoulder. Now it’s my turn to trace his jawline. The stubble feels rough. I like it. I have a flash of a smooth-shaven cheek and push it away.
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s why we had an argument. I said I wasn’t interested in anyone else apart from you.’
My whole body feels alive with joy.
‘Then she said we had to leave, first thing in the morning.’
I jump out of bed. ‘Let’s do it now. We can go before the morning.’
‘I was thinking we should move on to Boscastle anyway.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘A few miles further up the coast.’ Steve is laughing. He makes me feel like we’re runaway lovers.
I’m out of bed, getting my stuff together. ‘Then what are we waiting for?’
We catch a bus. He pays. It makes me feel guilty after everything else he’s forked out for. We’ve slept together now. It’s different. So, as we sit, arm in arm like a pair of teenagers, on the back seat, I tell Steve about the money I’ve still got from the Americans.
‘I probably should have told you before,’ I say. ‘But …’
I stop, not wanting to admit that I’d saved it for emergencies rather than go halves on the food he’d been buying from his street art.
‘But what?’ he says.
‘Nothing.’
‘OK.’ He shrugs like it’s no big deal. Other blokes would have pushed it.
‘Where are we going to sleep tonight?’ I ask, wanting to change the subject.
‘Something will come up.’ He begins to whistle cheerfully while staring out of the window at the fields and the odd small village with a shop.
‘How can you be so certain?’
‘It’s the way life goes. If you give to people, you get back. Goodness creates goodness.’
That unease crawls through me again. I turn away and focus on the fields rushing by.
Boscastle is a pretty village with loads of tea shops and a bridge. We set up on a pavement away from the river bank. Steve starts to draw a map with the bridge and the church and all the other stuff. People stop to stare and ask questions like they always do. We make twenty quid in the first hour. Then this bloke hangs around for a bit. He’s got beads in his hair and his jeans have those fancy slashes across the knee. He makes me feel nervous. But then I see it’s Steve he’s interested in.
‘I run a small craft studio near here. Can you do this kind of work on paper? I might be able to sell it.’
‘Thanks, mate. We only use the pavement because we’re travelling at the moment. But we’re flattered all the same. Isn’t that right, Jo?’ He gives my shoulders a quick squeeze as if I am a real artist like him.
We find a bus shelter to sleep in that night. It’s warmer when there are two of you to cuddle up. When we wake, there’s a couple of bananas on the ground and two bottles of water. People sometimes do this. Like Steve says, there really are some good ones out there.
I speak too soon. There’s a cop coming up. ‘I’ll have to move you on,’ she says, all full of herself in her uniform.
‘Why?’ I sit up angrily. ‘We’re not doing any harm …’
Steve puts a hand on my arm. ‘Of course, officer,’ he says. ‘We understand.’
We pick up our stuff – Steve wanted to buy me a rucksack instead of my plastic bags but I wouldn’t let him – and get moving. ‘I liked it here,’ I said.
‘Me too. But we’ll find somewhere else. Might as well get the first bus and see where it goes.’
Then the bloke with the ripped jeans comes past, walking a dog. ‘Off already?’ he asks.
Steve shrugs. ‘We were told to move on.’
‘Find your breakfast all right?’
‘So you left us those bananas?’ Steve shakes his hand. ‘Thanks, mate. Really good of you.’
The bloke seems to think for a minute. ‘How would you like to mind my studio? I’ve got to go away for a month and I don’t want to leave it empty. You could work there and sell your own stuff. I’ve got materials you can use.’
He glances at me. ‘There’s a small bedroom at the back that you and your girlfriend can sleep in, if you’re happy to manage the shop.’
I get a warm thrill passing through me at the ‘girlfriend’ bit.
‘But you don’t know us,’ says Steve.
‘I can tell an honest face. Anyway, I like to help artists out and – well, I’ve got a brother who lives your kind of life.’ A shadow of sadness crosses his face. ‘You’ll be doing me a favour, because it means I won’t be losing business.’
‘If you put it that way,’ says Steve, ‘we’d be happy to help out. Wouldn’t we, Jo?’
It seems too good to be true.
Soon it’s December. There are lights all over the town and a buzz of excitement. People are buying loads of Steve’s sketches for presents. We’ve decorated the shop with tinsel. I pretend it’s ours. I dare to feel happy.
‘Take some time off,’ Steve tells me early one morning. ‘Explore the village a bit.’
I’ve been wanting to go into the Boscastle witchcraft museum for ages. It sort of pulls me to it.
So I pay my entrance, using the coins Steve has given me. But from the minute I go in, I feel uneasy. Times have changed, I keep telling myself, as I read about all the women who were pushed under water until they drowned just because they cured folk with herbs.
When I come out, I sit on a bench to have a bit of a think before going back to the studio. Someone has left a newspaper there. It flutters in the breeze. A page flips over. And that’s when I see it. The search is still on for …
Below is a photograph of a woman and a man. Not old but not young either. He has his arm wrapped round her shoulders, tight, as if he wants to hold her there for ever. She’s got this stiff smile on her face like she’s pretending for the camera.
I try to read the words but they’re dancing in front of my eyes. I go cold all over.
Quickly, I walk back, my chest thudding. Steve is sketching in charcoal. ‘Makes a change from chalk,’ he says.
He glances up and gives me a warm smile. I can’t look at that kind face any more. Instead, I run upstairs, get my stuff and shove it all into my plastic bags.
‘Where are you going?’ he says when I come down.
I make my voice sound hard. ‘I’m leaving.’
‘Why?’ He drops his charcoal.
I can’t tell him the truth – that I’ve got this black sinking feeling that says I’ve got to leave him, though I don’t know why. Then I think back to how Steve had told me about his fiancée telling him he was boring and how hurt he’d been.
I bite my lip. ‘I’m sorry, Steve. But I don’t think we’re right for each other after all. You’re … well, you’re boring. I need more thrills.’
He looks like I’ve just ripped his heart out.
