The Godmother (37 page)

Marguerite leaned closer towards me. “And don't you just love a pet project.”

I opened my mouth to retaliate, but Marguerite held up her manicured hand. “I'm going to let this pass, on the understanding that you may be suffering from some kind of shock. But mark my words, Tessa King, you're not going to win this one. You think I'm the only one they'll turn the microscope on? Do you? You think you are so fit to be a parent? A girl who can't even keep a job down without creating some kind of sexual scandal? How many other
marriages have you wrecked, I wonder? I shouldn't think it would be hard to find out. What will the courts think of all those men, coming and going in the night? The booze. The parties. Not a great deal.” She looked me up and down with disdain. “You can't even look after yourself.”

I wanted to rise up out of the sofa and hit her, but it would only serve her more. She could say what she liked. It was her way. But finally this wasn't about me; it was about Helen. She couldn't defend herself when she was alive, but I was going to make damn sure she was defended now.

“I'm going to go now,” said Marguerite. “I will let you ponder upon my words, and when you've come to your senses, you can call me. Failing that, my lawyer will contact you as he will Neil's family.”

“Neil's family?”

“Yes, Tessa.”

“What do they want?”

“I've no idea. Until the police told me, I wasn't even sure that his parents were alive. But they are, so even if they weren't particularly important to Neil himself, I will see that their wishes are considered. There's a brother, too. A builder in Norfolk, I gather.”

“And what about your daughter's wishes. Are you even going to ask me what they were?”

“Tessa, you have always been very loyal to Helen and whatever you may think, I appreciate that. But you have to realize that Helen said one thing to you, another to me, and probably something entirely different to her husband. You couldn't possibly know her wishes.”

“Why's that?” I asked belligerently.

“Because she didn't know them herself. I may not be the perfect mother, but I did try to instill some sense of purpose in my daughter, but she refused to learn. I would have been happy for her to just be a mother and wife, if she'd been happy. But she wasn't. She liked to blame me for everything, but you don't get to gad around for thirty-five years and then suddenly ask to be taken seriously.”

I was emotionally exhausted. It made me less cautious. “I think she just wanted to be loved. By you, if you want the truth.”

“The truth, Tessa? You have that unique ability to see the truth, do you? Tessa King—the Oracle?”

“Didn't take a genius to work it out.”

“Oh, Tessa, when are you going to learn that there are no simple answers in this life. I loved her, she knew that, but she drove me mad.” Her voice cracked a little, but she quickly composed herself. “She did nothing with the gifts she was born with. Was I wrong to expect more from her? Does that make me so terrible? I have no doubt your parents ask just as much from you, probably more.”

“My parents didn't get divorced.”

Marguerite shook her head at me. “That barely deserves a response, but yes, I made a mistake marrying Helen's father. Our cultures were too different. Should I have stayed and lived a half-life? Would that have made me a better mother? Living to a fraction of my capacity?”

I couldn't answer. I didn't want Marguerite becoming too human.

“Don't look for simple answers, there aren't any.” She rose out of the chair, and stood in front of me. “The trustees have frozen funds for the time being, just to make sure nothing untoward goes on. Since you're determined to make sure the twins stay here, then you'll have to stay here too. Keep the nanny if you wish, but she is a hundred pounds a day, so you may want to reconsider. You know where I am.”

Marguerite collected her hat and coat from the banister. I heard her heels clip the marble floor.

“Do you care at all that your daughter is dead?” I shouted from the sofa.

The heels stopped. Only for a fraction. Then I heard the door slam. That was her answer. The flashing lights of the cameras firing off sparked through the muslin drape. The grieving mother. Poor, poor Helen, to have been born into her care when there were so many others who could have done a better job. I climbed the stairs and crept into the twins' room. I lay on the floor between their cots, stared at the luminous galaxy on the ceiling and listened to their snuffling, grunting baby breathing.

All you'd have to do is find them a happy home
, Helen had said.

That was it, then. I had to find my godsons a happy home. Easy. Who was I trying to kid? If the last few weeks had taught me anything, it was that happy homes were hard to find. Life on the other side of the fence wasn't as blissful as I'd thought.

I woke up in the middle of the night with a sore neck. It took me a moment to figure out where I was. The luminous stars had faded, I was in pitch-black. I couldn't hear anything. I felt the carpet I was lying on, then found Peter Rabbit. I sat up in the dark. I was in the nursery, so why couldn't I hear anything? I crawled towards the bar of pale light under the door and eased myself up. I found the light and slowly switched on the dimmer. Two babies lay, spreadeagled in their sleeping bags, in the middle of their enormous cots. I'd never known babies lie so still. I crept over and placed my hand on Tommy's chest. I felt nothing through the quilted blue gingham. I pressed slightly harder. Suddenly he flinched. It startled me. His arms and legs shot up. He grunted, then his limbs lowered slowly back down again, and he resumed his restful sleep. My watch said 4:02. So I was right, it hadn't been the twins keeping Helen up all night.

I crept back out of the bedroom, left the door ajar and went downstairs to the spare room I'd slept in on Saturday night. I couldn't really sleep. I kept hearing the twins crying out, so I'd climb back up the stairs, peer into the cots, only to see two babies sound asleep. My ears were playing tricks on me. Fran told me she still occasionally hears a baby crying in the house. Two nights sleeping in the same house as the twins and I already had baby tinnitus. Eventually, the nanny came out of her room, closed the twins' door and told me to stop worrying. Poor woman looked terrified. I didn't blame her.

Of course, it was really my brain that was keeping me awake. Memories kept coming back to me. Memories of Helen, happy and carefree. Of the ridiculous things she made me do. Dangerous and wild at times. We hitchhiked to Oxford once, gatecrashed an Oxford University May ball and ended up jumping on the bouncy castle with the band. A totally unheard of Jamiroquai. She took me to Cuba for a week when I was broke and another badly chosen boy had let me down. It was Helen who'd told me I picked badly on purpose. I didn't believe her, but she'd been right all along. She'd never forgotten what I had told her floating down the Mekong River. She alone had tried to pull me out of my “comfort circle,” as she called it. Nick and Fran, Ben and Sasha, Claudia and Al, and I would go with her—Cuba, Las Vegas, skiing, hiking, yoga retreats were all her doing, but I always returned to my friends. To Ben. And then she met Neil and, bit by bit, the Helen I knew began to change. All
this time I'd been worried about Helen selling herself short, becoming invisible, but the person who'd really been living a half-life was me.

At seven the twins woke up. A blessed relief, I was going mad lying there. I got dressed and went up to the nursery. I leaned over each cot and smiled down. I got two gummy grins back. Was it my imagination, or were these kids getting more attractive? I was halfway through changing Bobby, when the nanny came in.

“I can do that,” she said.

“Don't worry, nearly done.”

I explained to her who I was and apologized for creeping around the house.

“So, if you are the twins' guardian, does that mean I'm working for you or their grandmother?”

“Everything is a bit up in the air at the moment,” I replied, “but you'll be paid.”

She looked back at the babies, satisfied that she'd be looked after at least. “Poor little things,” she said.

I brushed a tear away. I didn't want the boys seeing any sad faces. I didn't want them to be disorientated, or hurt. I wanted them to think nothing was wrong. Trouble was, Helen fed them herself, so that was going to be hard.

“I'll need your help feeding them.”

“Sure,” she said. She went over to the cupboard and took out two cartons of readymade milk.

“Shouldn't we use the breast milk? Won't it be less stressful for them?”

“What breast milk?”

I pointed to the cupboard. “There is a freezer behind there, packed full of the stuff.” She looked confused.

I understood her confusion. “It's a clever design,” I said, hoping to reassure her.

“I know there is a fridge there, but there's no breast milk in it.”

There was, she'd been looking in the wrong place. I'd seen it myself. I'd used it. Well, I hadn't, because it had curdled, but that was my fault. I'd heated it up wrong. “You do this,” I said. “I'll find it.”

The nanny took over changing Bobby and I opened the freezer door. It
was empty except for some ice-cube trays. I closed the door again. That was weird. I opened it a second time, just to make sure. Then I looked in the fridge. That was empty too. Where had all the milk gone? There had been row upon row of it. We could have fed the boys on Helen's milk for a month. I didn't understand.

“Mrs. Williams told me to use these.” She showed me the cartons before deftly decanting them into waiting bottles. “It is expensive doing it this way, but they have benefits. The twins aren't used to warm milk, which makes feeding in a hurry much easier.”

“Isn't breast milk warm?”

“Yes.”

“They didn't have to get used to the difference?”

“Difference between what?”

“Breast milk and that—” I pointed at the cartons. I was beginning to recognize the expression on her face. Was I losing my grip on reality?

“Wasn't Helen feeding them herself?”

“No.”

That didn't make sense either, though I had told her myself to quit.

“I think she stopped breastfeeding some time ago, but I don't know the details. I was going to talk to Mrs. Williams when she returned. I don't think this brand of milk suits Tommy. He drinks more but is then very sick, which is why he weighs considerably less than his brother. I would like to try him on a formula for hungrier babies; it should keep him happier for longer. If that doesn't work, we could try goat's milk.”

“How long have you been working here?” I asked.

“Since Monday night. It took me a couple of days to figure out what was wrong with Tommy.”

“And everything was OK?”

She didn't answer.

“You can tell me, what harm can it do now? I know Neil wasn't very easy. I was here Monday morning myself. There was a bit of a scene.”

“I don't think the problem was with Mr. Williams.”

“Oh.”

“Really, I don't know the details. Personally, I didn't notice anything.”

“Anything about what?”

“Well, um, they did warn me that Mrs. Williams had a small problem—”

“She didn't go by that name. She was called Helen Zhao, OK?” The woman nodded. “And for your information, it was Mr. Williams who had the problem, not Helen, I assure you.”

She held up her hands. “Sadly, I didn't get to know them. I really wouldn't like to say.”

I was perplexed, but since she'd been around for such a short time, I didn't continue the conversation. Instead, I quietly fed my orphaned godson and saw Helen in his eyes for the first time. I put Tommy over my shoulder to wind him and was rewarded with a waterfall of puke down my back. I gave him back to the far more competent nanny.

“Get the new milk,” I said bossily, and left the nursery. Had that been my first parental decision?

I stood in Helen's bedroom and looked around at the immaculate dressing table, the silk cushions and vast bedspread. I opened the closet; there was row upon row of designer outfits, all the “must-have” pieces, accessories, handbags and shoes. I ran my fingers along them. I wanted to find her smell, something I could hold on to, but everything was clean and in bags. There was no trace of her at all. I thought about my friend. She was lying in a bag too. The Helen I'd known was gone. Long gone. I stared into the vast wardrobe.

“What's going on, Helen?” I asked her clothes. Strangely enough, it was her clothes that gave me my first answer. I was covered in puke. I felt strange wearing her clothes, but I needed something to borrow while I put my stuff through the washing machine. Helen was much smaller than me, but there were some items of hers that I did suit, and had always coveted. Her vast collection of Maharishi trousers, for example. I found a pair and put them on. Then I saw the jumper she'd been wearing that day in the kitchen when I'd come over to visit. It was only a few weeks ago, but my God, it seemed like years. The jumper was folded on the top shelf. I heard her voice again.
Consider it yours
. Here was a piece of Helen I could keep. As I pulled it down, a large plastic see-through ziplock bag fell on my head. I picked it up. It was from the Portland Hospital. It had a medicine helpline number on it and Helen's name and her room number at the private hospital. I glanced at the contents. Inside were flattened packs of some hefty-looking medication. Codrydamol.
Dicloflenac. Zanax. Diazapam. Vicadin. Volderol. They were all empty. Helen had had a long and complicated Caesarean and her scar had got infected. I remembered visiting her in the hospital and she was panicking then about taking medication and breastfeeding but the maternity staff had reassured her that it would be fine. Some even recommended she wash them down with a nice red wine. I looked briefly at the packets. From the amount in the bag, it looked like she'd been taking them for some time. I threw the ziplock bag in the bin, pulled the jumper on, and went downstairs.