Postcards From Berlin (19 page)

I turn it over.

“Darling, Well, it’s spring time here and the pink oleanders are out at the cafe in the Tiergarten. You’d love this city in
the spring, Trina, I know you would, you always were very artistic! Berlin is changing so fast now, it’s a different city,
my darling, not what you’d expect. They say the guidebooks are all out of date now!

“Don’t leave it too long to get in touch, my darling, my health is not what it was. Much love, as ever.”

Her writing evokes her. I see her vividly for a moment, smell her smell of Marlboros and lily of the valley, hear the faint
jangle of her gilded bracelets.

I read it through again. “You always were very artistic.” That fills me with a sour anger. What right has she to claim to
know what I’m like, to know anything about me? I put the card in the recycling bin.

I take Richard his coffee and the
Financial Times
. Sinead is up and dressed already, in jeans and a cut-off top that says in sparkly letters, “Never judge a girl by her T-shirt.”
She’s going into London with a gang of friends, to ice-skate at Queensway and eat dim sum and buy stickers and notepaper with
cartoon animals on from the shops in Chinatown.

“Cat, is my lip liner OK?”

“Of course it is. You look gorgeous.”

“I don’t. I’m really minging today.”

I put my arm round her. “Nonsense. You look like a supermodel. See you have some breakfast before you go.”

“What is it about breakfast? Daisy never eats breakfast.”

“That has nothing to do with anything,” I tell her.

Richard is still asleep, his face pressed into the pillow. The air is thick and sour, used up with our breathing. I part the
curtains a little. This morning our red-walled room oppresses me, with its darkly varnished floor, its heavy curtains patterned
with lilies: In the cool morning light it seems stagey and overdone. I have a sudden impulse to redecorate it, to paint it
white and green and fill it with light.

I put down the coffee and paper, but I don’t wake him.

When I go back to the kitchen, Sinead is perched on the table, eating a Kit Kat. I’m about to protest that this isn’t exactly
what I meant by breakfast, when I see she has the postcard in her hand.

“D’you mind if I take this, Cat? For my Weimar Republic project?”

My heart thuds, I don’t know what to say.

Anxiety darkens her face. She’s trying to read me.

“I mean — not if you want to keep it. But I thought you didn’t want it, Cat. You’d put it in the bin.”

I take a deep breath, keep my voice easy, level. “Of course you can have it.”

She’s holding it out between finger and thumb in front of her. I think for a moment that she will turn it over. My pulse skitters
off: I don’t want to have to explain.

But then the caption catches her eye.

“The personification of History. Teachers love all that stuff. It’s, like,
symbolic
.”

She finishes the Kit Kat and licks her fingers lavishly. As she goes out through the hall, she puts the postcard in her schoolbag.

Richard and Daisy both spend the morning in bed: Richard has his newspaper, Daisy has a new video game and some coloring-in
from school. She’s started on an RE worksheet, a Where’s Wally? style picture with lots of biblical figures. It says, “Jesus
is lost in Jerusalem. Can you find him?”

I go up to the attic. There’s a frame I bought on impulse passing an art shop: simple, of stained black wood. I choose one
of my pictures, selecting it almost at random. There are three children, imprisoned behind bars: They have distorted faces
and large shadowed eyes. The bars are made from a woven texture of spiky lines like briers. At the edge of the picture, the
lines are delicate, evanescing into nothing, but they’re solid, immutable, in the center, where the children are. I slip the
picture into the frame. Immediately, it looks different. The thought enters my mind that this is a good drawing, perhaps the
best I have done. I take it downstairs and hang it on the wall in the drawing room, beside the flower painting.

The phone rings and I worry automatically that it’s Sinead, that she’s stranded at a bus stop somewhere or she’s broken her
ankle skating.

“Catriona, darling.” Gina’s resonant voice. She sounds more nasal over the phone. “Nothing special,” she says. “I’m just ringing
for a chat. How are things?”

“OK.”

“And how’s my little Daisy?”

“She’s much the same. Still quite poorly.”

“Oh, dear,” says Gina. She sounds rather hurt, as though we have let her down. “I was really hoping she’d be better by now.”

“Well, we all were. It just goes on and on.”

“Is she eating any better?”

“Not really. It’s quite a struggle.”

“You ought to give her a nice English breakfast before she goes to school,” she says. “Bacon and eggs. You really should try
it. You don’t want to listen to all that nonsense about cholesterol. I’m a very great fan of bacon and eggs.”

“I don’t think she’d eat it.”

“You don’t know that unless you try, Catriona,” she says.

I feel a surge of irritation: I want to let her know how bad things are — to make her understand.

“She still retches a lot,” I tell her. “And sometimes she forgets things. That frightens me.”

“Everyone forgets things sometimes, Catriona,” she says.

“Yes. But not like this. She says she can’t remember the words for things. Really familiar things. Like the names she’s given
her cuddlies.”

Gina is brisk. “It sounds tike she knows just how to wind her mother up.”

I’ve had enough.

“I’ll get Richard for you,” I tell her.

For lunch I cook spaghetti. I make this often now, as it’s one of the few things Daisy will sometimes eat. I make a sauce
of tomatoes and onions and peppers, and sieve it thoroughly, so there won’t be bits in it. I leave out the garlic, but it
still smells good, a Tuscan smell of basil and warm olive oil.

Richard comes down. He’s showered, his hair is damp. He looks into the saucepan, raises his eyebrows.

“Spaghetti again? Pushing the envelop, are we?”

“It’s Daisy’s favorite. I’ll cook you something else.”

“No, no, that’s fine,” he says.

I call Daisy. She’s wearing some new Marks and Spencer’s dungarees that I chose because they wouldn’t press on her stomach.
I went for the six-year-old size, but they still look baggy on her. I tell myself that Marks and Spencer’s sizes are always
generous.

It feels too quiet, sitting down to lunch without Sinead. I always miss her when she’s away, out with her friends or staying
over at Sara’s. Today, I’m very aware how we depend on her — to be a little sardonic, to shift the mood.

I put out a small portion of lunch for Daisy.

“That looks delicious,” she says. But she doesn’t pick up her cutlery.

“Shall I cut up your spaghetti?”

“That’s babyish,” she says.

“There’s no one but us to see. Why not, if it makes it easier?”

She shrugs. “OK,” she says.

I cut it up into very small pieces.

She spends a long time attempting to get exactly the right bit of food on her fork: The spaghetti keeps slipping off. I try
not to watch.

Finally, she puts the fork in her mouth. She chews very slowly, puts the fork down again.

“Mum, d’you mind if I leave this?” she says. “I’m not that hungry right now.”

“Just try,” I tell her. “Just one more bite.”

I can feel how Richard is watching me. In the pale washed light that floods the kitchen, the pupils of his eyes are contracted,
just little specks of dark. He doesn’t say anything.

“
Please
, sweetheart.” Her wrist that rests on the edge of the table is so thin, sparrow thin. There’s pleading in my voice. I know
that this is pointless, that nothing will make her eat, but I can’t stop myself. “I know it’s an effort, but you’ve got to
eat something.”

“I can’t,” she says.

“Let’s think of something else, then. What about jelly? I could make you some jelly. Could you eat that, d’you think?”

“I don’t know,” she says.

I hate the way he’s looking at me, that hardened, narrow look. There’s anger in my head, a brief, searing rage. I want to
shout at him — You bloody deal with it, then. See if it’s ail so fucking easy, what I have to do.

Suddenly, I can’t bear to stay in the house. I leave my meal, push back my chair.

“Let’s go out,” I say to Daisy. My voice is bright, brittle. “You and me. While Dad does his music practice. I’ll make some
jelly and then we’ll walk to the pet shop. You could manage that, couldn’t you? And if I put the jelly in the freezer, it’ll
be exactly ready when we get back. Shall we do that?”

“Could we look at the kittens?”

“Of course we could.”

We walk there slowly through the paint-box dazzle of spring. The scents from people’s gardens brush against us. There’s a
magnolia with flowers like gentle, pale hands, cupped to hold something precious. Horses and riders from the riding school
in the park go past us, indolently slow, in the middle of the road, holding up the traffic. The horses’ luxuriant tails are
golden; they glisten in the light. The sun is warm on our skin.

The pet shop is in the main road. On the pavement outside, there are baskets heaped up with huge knuckle bones for dogs, red
and raw and savage. Daisy likes to look at these. Inside, the shop has a smell of warm straw, shot through with something
hot and wild, like the smells of zoos and circuses.

There is an African gray parrot. It has a cruel beak, but the color of its feathers is soft as smoke. It whistles its jungle
whistle and splashes drinking water out at us as we pass. And there’s an adder in a glass tank, its glossy coils heaped up
against the glass. Its discarded skin lies beside it like creased translucent paper.

“D’you think it hurts snakes when they shed their skins?” Daisy asks.

I think how it might feel, that sleek, new, slippery skin. “Maybe they’re glad to,” I tell her.

We come to the cage of kittens. They have short, dark velvet fur. Daisy is entranced. One of them comes up to her and presses
against the cage.

“That kitten really likes me,” she says.

The kitten pushes its paws through the bars. Daisy laughs. It’s her old laugh: breathy, with a catch in it. For a moment we
are happy.

We came just to look round, but we’ve spent so long here I feel we have to buy something, so we choose a book about how to
look after your cat. The boy at the till has a filthy cold; he coughs into his hands and wipes his nose on a piece of used
tissue. This alarms me: I’ve become so afraid of the simplest things, of other people’s colds and viruses, anything Daisy
might catch. My credit card won’t go through at first, and he blows on it to try and make it work. Later, when we get home,
I shall wipe it with Milton bleach.

On the way back, she slows. She’s walking in that careful way, with small deliberate steps.

“Are your legs hurting?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll just walk very slowly, then.”

Her hand is loose in mine. I see that she is limping. The afternoon starts to feel tired, oppressive, in spite of the loveliness
of the soft spring light.

“When can I have my kitten, Mum?”

“We’ll think about it.”

“You always say that,” she says.

“We need to get you well first. Before we take on looking after a kitten.”

She’s cross. She tries to kick a can on the pavement, but the movement hurts her, and she flinches. She’s suddenly near to
tears.

“If God loves you so much, why does he give you all these illnesses?” she asks.

“I don’t know, sweetheart. Nobody knows.” I put my arm round, her but she shrugs it off.

When we get home, she lies on the sofa, white and drained. I feel so guilty: I shouldn’t have taken her out, shouldn’t have
tried to behave as though everything was normal. Richard is practicing his violin. It’s music I don’t recognize. It might
be Bach — it’s often Bach — but I have no way of telling; there’s so much knowledge he has that I don’t share. The music is
pure and stern and feels like a reproach: reminding me austerely of how little I know.

I take the jelly out of the freezer. There’s a crusted rim of white ice crystals round the edge of the bowl. I spoon out some
from the middle, where it isn’t icy, and go to give it to Daisy, but she says it’s too cold; she leaves it in the bowl.

I dream I am back at The Poplars again. I can see it, sense it so vividly in the dream. I am sitting on the sofa with broken
springs, waiting for something, smelling the over-cooked cabbage and Jayes fluid. And in the dream, I feel as I did then —
constricted, as though a heavy weight is pressing on my chest.

I wake from the dream and feel the dark around me, hear Richard’s breathing and the thin chime of St. Agatha’s — four o’clock
— but the sense of pressure in my chest won’t leave me.

I lie there for what feels like a long time. I hear the birds begin, the dull, low sound of a rook, then many smaller birds,
their spiky, glittery songs. I ease myself out of bed; light is splintering round the edges of the curtains. I go quietly
downstairs.

The kitchen is bleak in the cold morning light and it smells of last night’s dinner, but through the window the sky is a color
that cannot be described or painted, a dark, lavish color, depth on depth of blue, with a narrow moon, still a crescent, and
a delicate stitching of stars.

I unlock the door, go out into the garden. The paving slabs are gritty under my bare feet. I step across the patio and down
onto the lawn. The air is like blue gauze, like a sheen of smoke over everything, and the shadow is black under the pear tree.
There are no flower scents; all the flowers are closed up, the daffodils drained of color, the tight buds on the pear tree
pale and gray: There’s just the smell of wet grass and wet earth, and the whole garden shivers with birdsong.

The grass is chilly with dew; the cold tightens my skin. I stand there for a long time. It’s all blue and cold and beautiful
and has nothing to do with people, nothing to do with me: I am a stranger in my own garden. In some unguessable way, this
soothes me.