My Daughter, My Mother (24 page)

There she was with her long honey-coloured hair, a big daisy clipped in on one side, and cut-off denim shorts, looking like a Flower Power teenager in her early forties. And Brian, in what now looked like a custard-coloured shirt (Joanne remembered it had been bright yellow at the time), with his cheerful smile, very like Dave, but smaller and stockier.

Joanne’s eyes slid over everyone, stopping at Dave and herself. Dave had been seventeen, she sixteen. Even though he was no longer training, he still had his clean-cut footballer looks, a royal-blue shirt with a collar. She was grinning broadly, in a cream sundress (hadn’t it been cheesecloth?), her hair flicked away on each side.

She moved the album up close, homing in on Dave’s face. He was smiling too. Did he look older suddenly than in the months before? Harder, sadder? After it happened, he hadn’t told her, not for a fortnight. He’d disappeared, wouldn’t even come to the door. It was Wendy who told her what was wrong. She came out and spoke to Joanne a couple of times.

‘He says he’ll phone you,’ she told her. Once, Joanne could see she’d been crying. She was holding a dishcloth and twisting it tight. ‘It’s not you, love. The bottom’s dropped out of his world. He won’t say a word . . .’ She moved back, closing the door. ‘Just give him a bit of time, love. ‘

She remembered the agony of waiting, of feeling shut out, wanting to throw her arms round Dave, tell him she didn’t mind if he wasn’t a great footballer, she loved him anyway and always would. She was cut up for him, knowing what it had meant. She prepared herself to give comfort. She expected tears, sulks, operatic emotions. When he did finally get back to her, he shrugged it off.

‘Oh, well, that’s how it goes in football,’ he said. ‘I gave it my best and it wasn’t good enough. But at least I did give it my best.’

He said it in a stiff way, as if it was something he’d read somewhere.

There were a few more family groups, then nothing. In the summer of 1979 Brian Marshall had died suddenly at the garage, of a heart attack. He didn’t even make it to the hospital. By then Dave was working with him, though he wasn’t there when it happened. Joanne knew Dave had adored his dad, and how proud Brian had been of his son’s football achievements. But he’d been sensible about it. Brian had been able to offer him something else to do.
Never mind, son, you know you can come and work with me – you’ve always been good with your hands . . .

But when Brian died, Dave hadn’t reacted much, either. He stood dry-eyed at the funeral, shrugged off her attempts to mother him. Wendy was the one who sucked in everyone’s sympathy. Dave kept it all inside.

Frowning, she closed the blue album and opened the white one: their wedding pictures, taken at Birmingham Registry Office less than two years ago on a balmy September day. The colours of these pictures were bright and distinct. She had been five months pregnant with Amy, holding her bunch of roses and pinks over her stomach, even though the pregnancy was no secret. The dress was another cream one, short and stylish. She hadn’t wanted a long, fancy thing with lace and veils. As usual she was smiling. She was good at that, at looking the way she was supposed to.

Dave, in his suit, was as smart and neat as ever.

There was Dad, skinny and somehow dishevelled, even when he was doing his best to scrub up; and Mom in a suit the colour of raspberry yoghurt, hair tightly permed. Mom stared back at the camera with what passed for a smile, but now Joanne could see the effort, the blank, closed look. Karen had worn a pink summer suit, which clashed horribly with Wendy’s full red-and-orange garb with paisley patterns and silver thread running through it. She was not long back from three months in India, and everything she wore then seemed to gleam and jangle. Her wrists were loaded with bangles. Looking at it, Joanne could hear the tinkly sounds: there had even been little bells at the ends of the cords tied at her neck.

But it was Dave’s face she pored over, tutting in frustration. Photographs told you so much, yet so little. There he was, staring at the camera, smart, handsome. Did she imagine that he looked ill at ease, that the smile was forced? But it was he who had most wanted to get married. Joanne hadn’t been too fussed, but he had almost steam-rollered her into it.

‘We’ve got a babby on the way. We can’t go on playing at it,’ he’d insisted. ‘It’s time we did it right – a proper wedding and a home of our own.’

There were a few more pictures: Amy, newborn, her tiny form swathed in soft white wool; Joanne looking hollow-eyed, but smiling as ever; and Dave’s enigmatic stare. She looked for a long time at the last one. He had suggested that they go and have a studio picture taken of the three of them.

‘First proper family photo,’ he said.

The background was all soft-focus. Joanne, in a pink dress, had been arranged on a backless chair with Amy in her arms, Dave behind, leaning over in a solicitous way, both of them looking up into the lens. It made them appear eager and very young. She felt a pang looking at it. She stroked her finger over Dave’s cheek, suddenly full of tenderness.

‘What’s the matter?’ she whispered. ‘What’s happened to you?’

Even though she was full of memories of the Dave she knew he really was, she was still anxious about him coming home. She cooked a meal she knew he especially liked – chicken in a mushroom sauce – and made sure the house was tidy and Amy bathed and ready for bed.

When she heard his key she jumped violently, but went to greet him with a smile. He turned from shutting the door and for a split second stared blankly at her, almost as if he had never seen her before. Then, as if deciding something, he smiled back, but even in her relief she could see that it was a stiff, strange smile that did not light his eyes.

‘All right?’ she said, finding herself gabbling. ‘It must’ve been really hot at work. I’ve got tea ready – I thought maybe we could have it outside, once I’ve got Amy settled?’

‘All right,’ he said.

He went to wash. Joanne put Amy to bed, taking her to say goodnight to him first.

‘G’night, babby.’ He kissed the top of her head and she giggled.

So far so good. He did not seem obviously angry. They talked about the day as they ate. She made a point of telling him about the picnic in the park to show she wasn’t keeping secrets. Dave made no comment. He listened carefully as she talked. Almost too carefully. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but although everything seemed fine, she became even more uneasy. Something about his quiet calm felt ominous, as if underneath it something else was lurking. She told herself she was imagining it.

As they got into bed she leaned over to kiss him and he kissed her back woodenly.

‘Dave? Is everything all right?’

He stared hard at her. ‘Yeah, why?’

‘I don’t know – you just seem a bit . . . sort of distant.’

He gave her an odd, intense look. ‘You tell me,’ he said.

He just kept looking at her until she was thoroughly unnerved, her heartbeat picking up again as if she was racked with guilt, when she had nothing to be guilty about. She tried to laugh, to break the tension, though she was now completely unsettled. ‘I don’t get you,’ she said. ‘Nothing’s up.’

‘Good,’ he said abruptly, turning on his side. ‘That’s all right then.’

Twenty-Nine

Joanne slept very badly and woke next morning with a knot of tension in her stomach. Miraculously Amy was not yet awake, but Dave was in the bathroom. She heard the sound of the toilet flushing, his electric razor, the splash of water.

She lay pretending to doze as he came back in to get dressed. After a few moments she thought she heard him move stealthily round to her side of the bed. The room went very quiet, but she could sense his breathing nearby. Confused, she opened her eyes and her whole body jolted. He was very close, leaning over her. Her body went limp, as if her bones had been replaced with liquid.

‘What’re you
doing
?’

She tried to sound calm, but her voice spun up high. He must have heard her fear. He stood, staring down in a weird, intense way, before finally straightening up. He had on a pair of navy pyjama trousers and a white T-shirt. As ever he looked spruce, even in his night things, almost like a soldier.

‘Dave?’ She lifted herself up on one elbow, trying to laugh it off.

‘D’you want a cuppa tea?’

‘Tea? Well, yeah. Thanks.’ She found herself talking in that light, almost cajoling, nothing’s wrong voice. ‘Amy seems to be giving me a lie-in today.’

He went downstairs and Joanne lay back, letting out a gush of breath.
What the hell is he playing at?
She was trembling. But she didn’t want to think any further.

Dave came back with two mugs, set one down beside her, then sat on the edge of the bed.

‘Aren’t you having breakfast?’ she asked. ‘You’re not even dressed – you’ll be late.

‘In a bit.’

She sat up, one arm round her bent knees, the other holding the mug. The tea was sweet and she was glad of it, feeling she needed something to give her strength.

‘So – you won’t be going out today, will you?’

It felt like an order. Joanne pretended to consider this. ‘Er, not much. I’ll have to go up the shops, pick up a few things. But apart from that, no, I don’t think so.’

One of these days, she thought, I must invite Sooky round. She realized with a pang that she didn’t even have her friend’s phone number. How could she have been so stupid as to forget to ask?

‘Just the shops then.’

‘Yes, but I don’t think I’ve got any money. Have you got any?’

Dave looked back at her and an odd, mocking expression came over his face. ‘You gonna beg me?’

‘What d’you mean?’ she said, irritation overcoming her uneasiness.

‘Nothing. Only, I’m the one earning the money. So you ought to ask me . . .’

‘Well, I am asking you. That’s exactly what I was doing. But if it’s a bother, I’ll go to the bank . . .’

‘What?’ His look was insolent now. ‘And get out
my
money?’

It was her turn to stare. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘Well, I don’t notice
you
earning any money. It’s my wages in the bank. So you’re living off
my
money.’

Furiously Joanne pushed herself upright.

‘What d’you want, Dave? Me to go out to work again? What – go back to W.H. Smith, and you stop at home and mind Amy? We’ve got a child now, in case you hadn’t noticed. And you’re the one who said you didn’t want me working. To be honest, much as I love Amy, some days I’d quite
like
to be at work. Some days it’d be a lot easier than looking after her, and not so lonely. You can’t have it both ways: you said you wanted to be the one to earn the money.’

He stared down at the duvet, pale blue with flowers on.

‘And anyway . . .’ She’d got going now and out it came. ‘I’ve been thinking. I left school without even finishing my A-levels. One of these days I want to go back and do them – maybe do more: college even. I could get a much better-paid job then.’

‘Don’t be stupid!’

He laughed in a sneering way. Getting up, he went round the bed and pulled off his pyjamas, stretching his strong, naked body as if to show it off, thrusting his hips forward in a way that also implied a threat. Then he quickly began to dress.

‘You – at college! You’re too old! And anyway you’ve been at home too long. I’m not having you going off, tiring yourself out.’ He looked across at her as he buttoned his shirt. ‘You wouldn’t have anything left for Amy – and what about if we have another babby, eh? What then?’ All this was said in a mocking, I-know-what’s-best-for-you tone.

Before she could reply he left the room and came back a moment later holding a ten-pound note.

‘Here, for the shopping.’

Joanne was boiling inside.
Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do!
she wanted to shriek at him. God, just like Mom! Whatever she’d done, however hard she worked at school, Margaret had greeted any new idea with a blank, unimpressed ‘What d’you want to do that for?’
Because I don’t want to spend my life staring at the bloody wall, like you, like a zombie . . .
The number of times she’d wanted to say that, or something like it. And Dad wasn’t much better; he just said, ‘All right, bab,’ whatever you suggested. But that wasn’t the same as taking an interest. That was what Dave had offered her when they were young: energy, vitality, zip.

She was still seething with anger by the time he left. He put his head round the door.

‘I’m off.’ The intense look was back again, as if he was trying to nail her down with his eyes. ‘I might pop in later, we’ll see. Amy’s awake, by the way.’

‘Right,’ she said coldly. ‘Bye.’

But she didn’t move straight away. She thought back to when she and Dave were first together. For him, the meaning of life had been football. He had left school at sixteen.

‘What d’you want to stay on for?’ he’d said, as if she was mad. ‘There’s the real world out here. You don’t want to be stuck in the classroom. Tell ’em to stuff it.’

And she’d been so besotted with him, so young and stupid, as she now saw it. She’d trotted after him like a little dog, thinking he was right about everything, that he had the world to win for both of them.

Amy was chattering to herself in the other room. It wouldn’t be long before she cried out.

‘I’ll bloody show you – all of you,’ Joanne said, climbing out of bed. ‘I’ll go back to college, I’ll make something of myself . . .’

Then she sat, despondent. How did she think she was going to do that? All the voices dragged her down. ‘A-levels? What the hell for?’ And there was Amy. She was her life now. And Dave. It was all right for Sooky. She was divorced and had a ready-made babysitter, living with her mom. Her spirits sank. Not much chance for her.

She knew she was going to spend the day catching up. It wasn’t as hot as yesterday, but fine enough for another lot of washing. Once she and Amy had had breakfast, she put her in the buggy.

‘Come with Mommy up to the shops? We’ll get some bananas – you like those, don’t you?’