Unbecoming (32 page)

‘What the hell are you doing here?'

Mary opens her eyes and there's Caroline, standing at the end of the sofa glaring down at her. Is this a dream?

‘Where's Steve?'

‘You're back.' Mary struggles to sit. ‘I can't believe it. Did you just get off the plane? Goodness, you're brown.'

‘I asked where Steve is.'

‘Um, let me think … He's on a trip, just some overnight thing. I can't remember where now. Colchester, is it? Chichester? Back tomorrow. Does he know you're here?'

‘Where are my children?'

‘Upstairs. I put them to bed. Sorry, I must've fallen asleep.' She runs a hand through her hair. It takes a while to wake up to reality these days. Sometimes if feels as if she's waking up through mist. But this is definitely her daughter. She's becoming more vivid by the second.

Caroline says, ‘Are you drunk?'

‘Of course not. I was just having a little rest.' Words too take a while to grapple with. She wants to say something profound, but all she can think of is the kettle. ‘Shall I make some tea?'

‘No, you need to leave.'

‘Now?' Mary feels vulnerable sitting there in just her T-shirt and
shorts, half asleep, like she's done something wrong, like she's been caught in flagrante. She shakes that thought away. Ridiculous. She's got nothing to feel guilty about. ‘It's the middle of the night.'

‘It's half past nine. Trains will be running for hours.'

‘Please, Caroline, don't do this. Steve wrote to me. I was happy to help.'

‘I bet you were.'

‘He didn't want to leave the children with strangers.'

‘You are a stranger.'

‘No, no … I was, but I'm not any more.'

Caroline gives Mary a long look. Mary returns her gaze, but it makes her feel uncomfortable. She should say something, but she doesn't know what.

‘I'm going upstairs to see my children,' Caroline says. ‘Please pack your bags.'

Mary puts the kettle on. She thinks about phoning Steve, but decides against it. He'll be home tomorrow, and perhaps if she and Caroline have space to talk tonight, they might resolve things. How wonderful that would be. Katie would love it. For a brief minute, Mary allows a narrative to unfold in her head – one where Caroline is grateful, where Mary lives close by and comes round every day to look after the children while Caroline's at work.

Mary closes her eyes, aware of a dark space in her head that seems to be expanding. It's fear, panic, something of that nature. She rubs the back of her neck to ease the pounding. Caroline is here and she isn't ready yet.

She can't bear to lose the girl.

Mary gives up on the tea and opens a bottle of wine instead. She gets two glasses and a bowl of olives and spreads some cheese and crackers on a plate and arranges everything on the kitchen table. She opens the back door. She feels as if a wild creature has
come into the house – a she-wolf looking for her cubs and she needs to give her an escape route, to show she's on her side and means no harm.

She drinks a glass of wine and feels more like herself. She eats three olives and half a cracker. She worries Caroline has fallen asleep, thinks perhaps she should go and check, but stops herself. If she goes upstairs, Caroline might remind her to pack her bags. She's on her second glass of wine when Caroline finally comes down. She stands in the kitchen doorway looking at all the things Mary has put on the table. She shifts from one foot to the other.

‘Chris has grown,' she whispers. ‘I hardly recognize him.'

Mary pours her a glass of wine and slides it towards her.

Caroline doesn't move. ‘Can you believe I left them? I walked out the door and I went to the airport and I got on a plane and left my children behind.'

‘You had your reasons.'

Caroline flicks her a look. ‘Where does Katie think I was?'

‘Steve told her you were on holiday.'

‘Without her? Is that the best he could come up with?'

‘She didn't need a grand explanation. Children are very forgiving.'

‘Is that right?' The way Caroline clenches her jaw reminds Mary of the times she'd watched her sleeping all those years ago. That little Caroline used to have a recurring nightmare about falling planes.

‘Are you hungry?' Mary asks. ‘Why don't you come and sit down. There's cheese and crackers if you fancy it.'

Caroline shakes her head. ‘Why are you even here? What are you doing in my house offering me food? You know nothing about domesticity. You can't even boil an egg. What was Steve thinking of, getting in touch with you?'

‘He thought I might know where you were.'

‘As if I'd tell
you
anything!'

‘He thought your leaving had something to do with the past, so he wrote to me.'

‘And then what? You inveigled your way into my home?'

‘I phoned him, we got talking. He was struggling on his own and asked if I could lend a hand. I said yes because I wanted to help you.'

‘Don't pretend you did this for me,' Caroline hisses. ‘Not on my account. I didn't ask you to come and I had no idea Steve would be so stupid.'

‘I don't expect you to be grateful,' Mary whispers, ‘but there's no need to be cruel.'

‘Cruel?' Caroline leans on the doorframe and narrows her eyes. ‘Exactly how close have you and my husband become?'

‘Don't be silly.'

‘I wouldn't put anything past you.'

‘Well, put that past me, because that's you being angry and has no basis in reality. You think Steve would look at an old woman like me? You think either of us would do that to you?'

Maybe it's raising her voice. Maybe it's the certainty with which she says it, but Caroline seems to lose her fire. She sort of crumples. Her shoulders sag first, and then she looks suddenly pale. She walks over to the table, kicks off her sandals and pulls out the chair. ‘I'm sorry, that last remark was out of order. I'm tired. I don't know what I'm saying.' She picks up the glass and takes several long gulps.

Somewhere outside, not far away, a fox barks. It sounds eerie, painful.

Caroline says, ‘I rang Steve yesterday. It was the first time we'd spoken since I left. Did he tell you?'

Mary shakes her head. Quiet, quiet.

‘I had this fantasy he'd have taken time off work, that over these last weeks he'd been caring for the kids himself. I thought he'd finally understand something about my life.' She chews on her lip, another gesture from childhood. ‘But he got you to come and look after them instead.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘When he told me you were here, I went nuts and slammed the phone down. I thought he'd know I'd come straight back. I thought he'd ask you to leave.' Caroline pours herself more wine, then curls her hands tightly round the glass. ‘I have no idea what to do now.' Her hands are shaking. She can't stop, not even when Mary puts her own hand on top of them.

‘You don't have to do anything. Just sit here. Eat if you're hungry, talk if you want to. I'll leave tomorrow if that's what you want.' Mary butters some crackers so that things will seem ordinary, so that Caroline won't feel watched. She cuts an edge off the cheese.

Caroline leans her head to one side and gives Mary the strangest of looks, as if she's weighing something up. She says, ‘Have you found Chris a handful?'

Mary feels a soft wave of sorrow flood her body. ‘He's a beautiful child, but I see how he could wear you down.'

‘He doesn't sleep much, does he?'

‘No.' Mary smiles, wants her daughter to know she understands. The boy wakes several times a night. He also has to be coaxed to eat, can't bear to be left alone, cries at nothing.

‘An undiagnosed disorder,' Caroline says.

‘Yes, Steve told me. I wish I'd known.'

‘And what would you have done?'

‘Anything you asked of me.'

Silence. Mary thinks Caroline is about to dispute this, and for a
second she wishes she'd kept quiet. A retrospective offer to help sounds just like a lie.

Caroline says, ‘Steve thought I was too old to have a second baby. Anyone over thirty-five is technically an “older mother”, did you know?' She laughs, a soft sound. ‘I was way beyond that when I had Katie and Chris came along nearly three years later, totally unplanned. I was so proud to be fertile in my mid-forties. It was like it closed the age gap between me and Steve, made us the same.' She leans her head against the back of the chair. ‘It sounds ridiculous now.'

‘No,' Mary says, ‘it doesn't. It sounds perfectly understandable.'

‘We had all the tests and they came back clear, but he had a seizure thirty minutes after he was born, and he kept having them for weeks. No one could tell us why. He had feeding and weight problems, he cried for hours on end. He was so different from Katie, absent somehow. And I could tell Steve blamed me. He's never said anything, but I feel it. He kept asking me stuff about those boys who died, your mother's sons, you know?'

Mary nods. Of course she knows.

‘I told the doctors about that, but they didn't think it was significant. Anyway, Steve had been so hands-on with Katie, and it was like he couldn't bear to be Chris's father. He started staying at work later and later, and even when he was home he always seemed to be creeping towards the door.'

‘I'm sorry,' Mary says. ‘I had no idea.'

Caroline tops both glasses up. ‘We appear to be getting drunk together.'

The fox barks again, further away now, a few gardens along. Cold air shivers its way into the kitchen.

Caroline picks up her wine glass and knocks half of it back. ‘I was very depressed, very lonely and I blamed Chris. I wanted to
shake him into making sense. It was like there was something wrong with his wiring and if only I could find a way to make him work, to rejig him, we could all go back to normal. I didn't ever hurt him, of course I didn't, but I got close a couple of times and it scared me so much. I felt such a bloody failure.' She closes her eyes briefly, as if she can hardly bear the thought. Mary feels her own eyes smart with tears. Caroline swigs the rest of her wine down. ‘So, one morning, when Steve was at the park with the kids, I wrote a note and left it on the bedside table. It was like a dream, watching myself get in a cab and go to the airport. I kept thinking I was going to turn round and come home, but I didn't. I phoned Steve when I landed, so he wouldn't think I'd been murdered and he went absolutely nuts. He called me selfish, stupid, pathetic – all sorts. I figured the only way to survive was not to speak to him for a while, so I just sent postcards.' Caroline looks at Mary, amazed. ‘I went to Spain and left my family behind. How did that happen?'

‘Let me help you.'

‘Don't be ridiculous.'

‘I mean it. I've been here for weeks now, we've established routines and the children know me. You can take more time for yourself. Let me keep looking after them.'

Caroline shakes her head, bats Mary's hand away. ‘There's something else.' Her voice sounds strained, as if it's going to hurt to say these words out loud. ‘Something else for Steve to hate me for.'

And Mary knows then. She recognizes the weary guilt. ‘You met someone?'

‘Is it that obvious?' Caroline rubs her hands over her eyes as if trying to erase the memory. ‘I'm such an idiot.'

‘Are you still seeing him?'

‘No, of course not! It was a few nights, that's all.' Caroline smiles – a tiny shadow of a smile. ‘He was only twenty-five. He was the
waiter at the hotel.' She slaps her forehead with the palm of her hand. ‘Juan, the waiter!'

Mary laughs. She can't help it. It's such a wonderful cliché and she loves how life does that sometimes.

Caroline begins to chuckle too. ‘I sound like I'm describing a very bad film, don't I?'

She gets up for another bottle of wine. They really are going to get drunk. Mary wonders if that's a good idea. There's a line they might tip over and where they are now – quietly laughing together – well, this is how special it gets. She doesn't want it to change.

Caroline sits down, opens the wine and slops some into both glasses. ‘I felt more alive than I have for years. But every single morning when Juan left for work, I realized I hadn't thought about my husband or kids all night.' Her smile dies at the corners. She takes a slug of wine, slaps the glass back down. ‘What does that say about me?'

Here we go
, Mary thinks.

‘Does it make me the same as you?'

How can she tell her daughter that disappearing for weeks is perhaps the most honest thing she's ever done? Foolish perhaps, definitely selfish, but certainly the most eloquent. For once in her life, Caroline has said,
I can't manage
, and it's such a relief.

‘Perhaps,' Mary says, ‘it makes you someone who needed a little time for themselves.'

‘Is that what you needed when you dumped me with Pat? Nine years for yourself?'

‘That's not fair.'

‘No, it wasn't.' Caroline sighs and turns away. ‘It must be strange to be you, to never think about other people, to always put yourself first.'

‘I always wanted to be your mother, Caroline. I want to be a grandmother too.'

‘I've often thought,' Caroline goes on, ‘that you got pregnant on purpose. You knew your dad would throw you out, knew Pat would offer to look after me, knew you'd finally get the freedom you wanted. Sometimes I think you sacrificed me so you could have the life you dreamed of.'

‘That's not how it was.'

‘Wasn't it? Are you sure?'

‘Let's not do this,' Mary says. ‘Let's not rake over the past. Why don't we think about what's going to happen tomorrow when Steve gets home? How are you going to tell him?'