My Daughter, My Mother (13 page)

With a surge of resentment she saw how much her life was under his control.

The doorbell made her jump violently. Cursing, she pulled the pan off the heat. Outside seemed very bright when she opened the door. On the step was a young woman, smartly dressed in a navy trouser suit. It took her a second to recognize that it was her sister.

‘Karen?’ Immediately she was panic-stricken. ‘Why’re you here – what’s happened?’

Karen held up a hand to stop her. ‘Nothing, don’t worry. I just wanted to talk to you.’

As she turned to lead Karen into the house, Joanne registered that her sister looked pale and strained.

‘I was just doing our tea – sorry about the smell.’

‘No, it’s nice.’ Karen sniffed. ‘I s’pose you’re quite a good cook now.’

Joanne chuckled. She realized suddenly that she and Karen were having to find a new way of being sisters, as adults. Everything was shifting. ‘I wouldn’t exactly say that. Cuppa tea?’

‘Oh God, yes please.’

Leaving the food to simmer, Joanne carried mugs in to join Karen, who was playing with Amy.

‘Usually I’d be bathing her,’ Joanne said. ‘But she can stay up a bit later. It’s Friday.’ Stirring her tea, she said, ‘It’s nice to see you.’ She realized she felt pleased, honoured almost, that Karen had deigned to come. She only worked over in Perry Barr, but she never normally bothered to call by.

Karen tilted her head as if to acknowledge that she should visit more often.

‘Dave not back yet?’

‘No, any minute though.’

‘Thing is, Jo – I wanted to talk to you about Mom.’

‘I thought she was on the mend?’

Joanne had seen her every weekend. They took Amy over on a Saturday or Sunday. Her mother had seemed to her to be more or less back to normal.

Karen looked troubled. ‘I don’t know. I mean, I really
don’t know
.’ After hesitating a moment she went on, ‘Thing is, I feel a bit bad about this, but I was talking to someone at work about it. It just came up – she was talking about someone she knew who had been addicted to Valium. So I asked her a bit about it, and she said how hard it had been for this person ever to come off it after they’d been taking it so long, and how all the problems she’d had, which had put her onto it in the first place, had all sort of come back – as if the drug had just covered it up. And it had been horrible: she’d felt really ill and everything.’

‘I thought the idea was that they’d get her off it really slowly. I mean, she just stopped overnight, didn’t she? That must’ve given a terrible shock to her system – like coming off anything: heroin or whatever . . .’

‘I know, there’s that. She’ll have to get off it somehow. But it was just that what that lady said made me think. For a start, how do we know what “normal” is for Mom? How does
she
know? If she’s been on that stuff all my life and most of yours, we don’t know what she’d be like without it. And the awful thing is . . .’

Tears filled Karen’s eyes and she rummaged in her pocket for a tissue to wipe them away.

‘She’s always been there, physically at least – but in another way she hasn’t – at all. What I suddenly thought is: how much do we know about Mom anyway? I mean my friend Josie’s mom talks a lot about when she was a little girl, stories about her family and the things they all got up to. When’s Mom ever talked about anything like that?’

Joanne considered this. It was true, but she was so used to it that she’d never questioned it. ‘I thought all her family were dead – or miles away somewhere. Hasn’t she got those nieces. Susan? She gets cards from a Susan. And Heather’s the one is Australia. I think they’re sisters . . .’ She frowned. ‘We’ve never met them, though, have we? D’you remember meeting them?’

‘No. I’ve never met anyone – there was only Auntie Joan, Dad’s family.’

‘Didn’t she tell us . . .’ Joanne was struggling to recall now. ‘She worked in factories, didn’t she? In town somewhere.’

‘And what about the war? Everyone else is always on about that, but I’ve never heard her mention it.’

‘Have you tried asking Dad?’

‘Well, sort of.’ Karen sounded a bit impatient. ‘But you know what he’s like. Like blood out of a stone. You wonder if he’s even asked her himself.’

Joanne couldn’t help laughing. ‘Bless him. Look, I’ll be over tomorrow with Amy. Are you going to be around? Maybe we could take her out somewhere, just for a cup of tea in the High Street or something – see if we can get her talking a bit?’

Karen’s face fell. ‘I’m really sorry. I said I’d help Josie tomorrow. She’s decorating that new flat to move into . . .’

‘Okay. Well, I’ll take her anyway, if she’ll come.’ Joanne jumped up. ‘Let me just check on the tea . . .’ She went and stirred the liver and turned it off. Going back to Karen, she said lightly, ‘Drop in when you like, won’t you? Work’s not far.’

Karen looked up from watching Amy. ‘All right. I will when I can.’

And the sisters exchanged a smile.

Margaret had been back to the hairdresser’s and her hair was tightly permed. She seemed to be having quite a good day. But when Joanne suggested a little trip out, she shook her head.

‘Oh no, I don’t think so, love. Let’s sit in the garden. Amy can play – and what’s the sense in paying for a cup of tea when I can make you one here?’

‘All right then, it was just a thought,’ Joanne said.

Her dad was bumbling about in the garden: a long strip, walled on one side, fenced on the other. He was sorting out raspberry canes at the bottom. Amy was carrying a red bucket about, as usual putting in anything she could find: stones and petals and sycamore aeroplanes.

Joanne made tea for everyone and carried it out on a tray. She took her dad a mug down the garden. He had his sleeves rolled up and bits of stuff in his hair and there were beads of perspiration on his forehead.

‘Everything all right, Dad?’

‘Oh yes, ta, love. I won’t mow the grass till later, when you’ve gone. You go and keep your mother company.’

They sat with their mugs of tea and some Mr Kipling’s fruit pies. Joanne broke off a bit to give to Amy. She didn’t know how to start the conversation with her mother. Margaret was very touchy these days – even more so than usual.

‘You starting to feel a bit better, Mom?’

‘Better than what?’ Margaret asked sourly.

‘Well, you know – I mean since you’ve been in hospital?’

Margaret turned away to put down her plate with its little silver pie-case on it. She finished her mouthful. Joanne thought she wasn’t going to answer, but after a sip of tea she announced, ‘They gave me those pills – all that time ago – because I was a bit low after having Karen.’ Her voice was very bitter. ‘And instead of making me better, they gave me an illness: a worse one. That wasn’t what I wanted. I never asked for this. That doctor did this to me without a thought.’

‘Oh, Mom,’ Joanne said. She wasn’t sure what else she could possibly say. Amy trotted up to them then, pointing at the silver pie-cases.

‘D’you want those in your bucket, bab?’ Margaret handed them to her. ‘There yer go, you take them for a ride.’

Joanne had had what she thought was a brainwave on the bus on the way over. She’d remembered the book that Dave’s mom had been telling her about.

‘Oh yes, Mom – I meant to ask you . . . Wendy was on about this book she’s found about Birmingham and the war: the Blitz and everything. She said you could have it to look at, if you like. She could remember bits and pieces, although she was quite young then. It was ever so interesting when she talked to us about it: her and her mom sitting in the cupboard under the stairs. It sounded like hell, really, with the bombs dropping and everything. And I suddenly felt bad because I’ve never known much about it, and I don’t remember you ever telling us about the war . . . I know you’re a bit younger than her, but you must remember some of it? The bombs and that? What did your mom do?’

Margaret had pulled her lips into a tight line. Once again, for no reason Joanne could understand, she seemed to be seething with emotion. What was the right thing to say?

‘Will you tell me what you can remember – about Birmingham in the war?’

‘No,’ Margaret said. ‘I won’t. Because I wasn’t in Birmingham through the war. I wasn’t here, so I never knew anything about it. They sent us away, and by the time I came back, it was more or less over. So it’s no good asking me, is it?’

She stood up, mug in hand and disappeared into the house.

Sixteen

Worcestershire, December 1939

Margaret sat with the patchwork blanket round her, hugging her knees. Against her back was the hard leg of the workbench.

It was dark and bitterly cold outside. The ground had frozen before sundown and in the bright mornings the trees were encased in glittering ice. But now it was night, a freezing eternity in front of Margaret before there was hope of the sun coming up.

She pressed her forehead against her knees, her teeth chattering and her whole body shaking. Little sounds came from her, trailing off into wordless whimpering that no one could hear: ‘Mo-m, mer . . . mer . . . mer, Mom . . . mer . . . mer . . . meeer . . . Eeeer.’

The first time Nora Paige threw Margaret into the shed, after she had trespassed in Ernest’s room, it had not been anything like as wintry. It had still been afternoon when the woman had dragged her by the hair, shrieking insults. Margaret spun into the murky shed, hearing the key being turned.

‘You can stay in there. And don’t touch anything!’ Nora Paige’s barmy voice hissed through the wall. Margaret heard her moving away.

It was a sunny afternoon and she was not afraid. Not yet. In fact she was curious. She had never been in the shed before, although she had seen Mrs Paige go into it to fetch the rake and fork, which she would bring out and rest across the old wheelbarrow. Margaret had tried to peer through the window once, when she was alone outside, but it was too high. Now she had a good look round. The only thing that made her shudder were the thick, dusty cobwebs in the corners of the windows. She was sure she saw a movement in one of them and dragged her gaze away.

In the darkest corner, against the back wall, was a jumble of planks standing on their ends, some decaying logs and rusty tins. Near the door were the gardening tools and wheelbarrow and beyond, leaning against the wall, was a man’s bicycle, black and heavy, the chain dried up and the frame and handlebars corroded by rust. Under the window on the other side was the workbench, and this looked by far the most interesting thing to explore. Each side of the window, on the wall, were fixed a host of tools: saws and spanners, chisels and screwdrivers, all brown and shrouded in cobwebs. There was a vice fixed to the edge of the bench and she spent minutes rotating the handle, loosening and tightening it.

She found a galvanized pail and turned it upside down, standing on it so that she could explore all the things on the bench. There were more tools, and a collection of St Julien Tobacco tins, which rattled promisingly as she picked them up. She spent some time shaking them, making different sounds as if they were maracas. They were hard to open and she didn’t manage with all of them. When she removed the lids, inside she saw collections of screws and nails and nuts of different sizes. She took some of them down onto the floor to play with.

Soon she’d had enough of that and sat staring. Eerie shadows appeared. The sun went down and no one came.

Margaret’s bladder grew tight and heavy and she relieved herself in one of the buckets and placed it far away from her. She sat on the earth floor, leaning against the leg of the bench. A terrible loneliness welled up in her and she started to cry, with her face against her knees. After a while she stopped crying, but still no one came.

The darkness thickened and she grew more frightened. The only light was from a husk of moon. There were rustling sounds. She knew it was the spiders and rats. Goosepimples of cold and fear came up all over her. How big were they? They swelled in her mind and she sat as still as she could, a scream locked in her throat.

A light came, bobbing across the garden. The key turned. Nora Paige’s face was made up of odd blocks of shadow in the glow from the hurricane lamp. She threw the patchwork blanket through the door, and Margaret felt it slither down her shins.

‘I’ve given Seamus your supper. Ernest and I didn’t consider that you deserved it tonight. And you’ll be staying here. We felt you should be punished.’

‘I want to come in . . . Don’t make me stay here!’ Margaret begged. But the door was already closing again.

At first she just sat, paralysed by terror. Every sound made her heart pound. There were scuttlings across the roof, whether of mice or birds or something more sinister she didn’t know. And it was cold: no snow or frost, but cold enough.

Eventually she wrapped the blanket right round her, and lay down, her head resting on her arm. The ground was so hard and cold. Through the night she slept and woke, longing for a drink of water. At last the sun came up.

Nora Paige appeared early in sludge-brown clothing, fed Margaret a meagre helping of salt porridge and made sure she was ready when Miss Cooper arrived.

‘If you tell anyone about your punishment, you’ll be in here every night, d’you understand? No sly words to the teachers. Not a one. Or remember where you’ll have to sleep.’

That day it was such a relief to be in the warm room at the back of the vicarage that, almost immediately, Margaret slumped forward on her arms at the table and fell asleep. No one woke her.

Twice more she had been banished to the shed, before this, the coldest night of the year so far. Nora Paige was eager to punish her for the least thing: lifting her plate to her face, desperate for the last lick of gravy, had been one offence. And she was giving Margaret less and less to eat in any case. Her stomach ached for food.

‘Are you feeling all right, Margaret?’ Miss Cooper asked her, more and more often it seemed. And their hostess, the birdlike vicar’s wife, Mrs Bodley-Fisher, also showed concern.

‘The child doesn’t seem to be quite all there, does she?’ Margaret heard her murmur to Miss Cooper. ‘Is this what she’s like normally, poor little soul?’