Part 5. The Mother-Shaped Portion Of Space – 1979.

 

The Best Stories Are About A Man


Liam didn’t ring. Or was he ringing when she was at work? Greta bought an Ansaphone. On hands and knees she backed out of the corner after plugging it in behind the settee. She bumped into her coffee table. A stack of magazines and papers toppled to the floor slithering in all directions. And there were the wedding dresses she had cut out. Fanned on her carpet the images demonstrated beauty in her shabby room; the sumptuous light in each photograph like an antidote to her custodial rented interior. It would be easy to feel mocked and yet she couldn’t throw them away because they were a message to her, even though it was she who had assembled them. They symbolized her mythical search for Deborah. It was just a matter of time. Time had begun to resemble a place to Greta and her own trajectory towards Deborah had a shape in her mind. It was a slingshot trajectory. Ahead in time was Deborah. Here, further towards the past in her own present stood Greta and in between was the way; curving out to the moon and back in the blackness of the universe and lit by the wedding gowns; magnolias of light with dark intervals between.

February passed, then March and Liam never rang. That was that. But she didn’t believe it – couldn’t believe it; was bitterly disappointed. She had Rhonda, she had the reassuring routine of work. She fought to make that a sufficient solace for her grief at the way she had been abandoned. Sue the dancer lent her books: John Updike, Flannery O’Connor, Elizabeth Bishop’s poems, a biography of Jonathan Swift. April passed and then, in May, Clare invited her down to Devon for the weekend.

As well as the new baby, Greta found that the family had acquired aWelsh border collie. Clare’s little boy, Luke, squatted by Greta on the stone flagged floor as they patted the dog. “She’s called Jazzy,” he said in his gruff little voice.

“Jazzy,” said Greta and the dog cast herself down and rolled on her back.

“I’ve trained her myself,” said Clare, “she’s amazing.”

“She won’t come upstairs,” declared Francesca, Clare’s dark-haired seven-year-old, “…not even if I call her.” She added, wistfully.

In Clare’s manorial kitchen a birthday tea was laid on the massive oak table; ham sandwiches, a wooden salad bowl with lettuce, tomato and slices of hardboiled egg; sausages on sticks, a dish of jelly and custard and a birthday cake delectably cascading with melted chocolate. “Do you like the writing on the cake? Mummy did it,” Francesca pointed.

“Happy Birthday Greta,” read Greta, out loud.

“And she let me and Luke put the silver balls on but they sank in.”

“It’s gorgeous,” Greta assured her, “so many candles!” She looked at Clare who was beaming at her over baby Alice’s head. A teething Alice gnawed her mother’s fingers. Greta was touched at the trouble Clare had gone to. Her actual birthday had passed unremarked on a cold day in March. But here and now, warm sunshine poured into the room. On the recessed window-ledge stood a jug of columbines and buttercups. A cracker lay on each plate.

Francesca picked up Greta’s present and waggled it. “Don’t forget to open this,” she said.

They sat down to eat as Greta unwrapped the present; a pair of pink, plastic sunglasses. “Thank you,” she said, putting them on. Her fingers became sticky with icing. The dog sat by her, chin on her thigh; gobbling up the bits she gave it.

“Mum, Greta’s feeding the dog at the table,” said Francesca.

“I know, but we can’t tell her off today because it’s her official birthday tea and she’s a guest, so I’ll tell her off tomorrow,” replied Clare, grinning at Greta. They toasted her in fizzy orange.

“These crackers have girl’s things in them,” said Luke in disgust, holding up a miniature toy lipstick.

Later, sipping coffee, Greta sat at the table with the dog lying on the flagstones at her feet and watched Clare, who had set the dishwasher going and was now at the sink. “What a beautiful dish,” Greta said.

Clare held it up; foam glistened. “Dartington Glass. We should take you; you can watch the glassblowers. It’s only about twelve miles from here.”

Greta got up in a qualm of agitation, “what about Mrs Thatcher,” she gushed, “did you vote for her?” and she began to dry one of the matching sundae glasses.

Clare put a wet forefinger on the furrow between Greta’s eyebrows. “Away with that little Greta-frown of worry. It’s your birthday.” She removed the tea towel from Greta’s hand and sat her back down. “There. Pat Jazzy if you want something to do. And no – I didn’t vote for Mrs Thatcher. Nor did Ray. Everyone in North Devon is reeling in shock from all this Jeremy Thorpe scandal so we voted Labour.”

Greta wanted to tell Clare about Liam. Was longing just to say his name. In one of the distant bathrooms Ray was bathing the children. From the hallway a clock chimed seven. Clare spoke. “There’s something I need to tell you; now that little ears aren’t listening.”

“Oh?”

“Alma’s left Mick and she and the boys are staying in Barnstaple with her parents.”

“Oh my God. Poor Alma!”

“I know. But she’s coming here tonight, to see us. She’ll be here any minute.”

“Why has she left him?” In her mind Greta saw again the shabby house, the contented children.

“I don’t know. I only found out a few days ago.”

“How come you’re really energetic,” said Greta, “but you’ve got three kids and Alma’s exhausted all the time and she’s only got two?”

“It’s the cleaning.” Clare leaned against the sink and put a dollop of handcream on.

“It didn’t look clean.”

“Not her house; she goes out cleaning.” She rubbed the cream in briskly.

“What? But she’s an actress, a philosophy graduate.”

“I know.”

“Why doesn’t Mick do something?”

“She thought that it was a temporary state of affairs; that he’d get work again and then they’d be off benefits for good.”

“She’s not on benefit!”

“Bloody hell Greta, of course she is. He doesn’t earn anything,” said Clare, sitting down at the table with her.

“When you were a social worker, did you ever have cases of children who’d been…” Greta allowed her voice to sink lower… “subjected to incest?”

“Yes.”

“You’re the last person I’d think of working in that context.”

“Why?”

“Well when I think of you… when I first met you… you’re so delicate. Don’t you remember how you cried, that time in the cinema?”

“Well I’m a toughie now,” said Clare, although to Greta, she looked as gentle as ever, with her smooth flow of brown hair and arching eyebrows.

“Has she left Mick for good?” Greta touched her bare toes against Jazzy’s warm furry back.

“She says she’s just got out of the house for a bit. I think she may have told him a few home truths.”

“I bet it’s got something to do with Col,” said Greta; “she disappeared with Col at Camilla’s wedding. It was when we…”

“I thought you got drunk,” interrupted Clare.

“I did, but I still noticed…”

“She’s here,” said Clare. A car engine was audible; tyres scrunched the gravel in the yard. They made for the front door and flung it open.

Alma stopped her rusty Cortina level with a stone trough dripping with aubretia and struggled out across the passenger seat, “the driver’s door doesn’t open,” she called, holding her arms towards them. It was a shock to see how much weight she had lost since Camilla’s wedding. She looked haggard.

“Boys?” said Clare.

“They’re fine with Grandma so I’m free.” Alma put an arm round each neck and looked from one to the other. “God; all three of us are together again.” There were tears in her eyes and she laughed. In an instant, wild, they grabbed one of her hands each, put their other arms round her waist and carried her preposterously towards the house, laughing and squealing. Jazzy leapt and panted; fur standing out with excitement. Her yelping barks mingled with their commotion and the pigeons took off from the roof in an explosive flypast, racing away towards the woods.

Clare fetched white wine in a cooler and glasses on a tray. Jazzy wove around them as they settled themselves on sofas either side of the stone fireplace in the beamed lounge. “Where are the children?” asked Alma.

“Ray’s putting them to bed,” said Clare, “the baby’s been asleep for an hour already. She’s an angel.”

“Hello Alma,” Ray came in and kissed Alma’s cheek, “I’ll leave you girls to it. I’m off to play squash.”

“See you later,” said Clare. She poured wine and sat by Greta. The dog lay down on the Kashmir rug at her feet.

“You two look like an interview panel,” said Alma, raising her glass in salute.

“Well we are,” said Greta, “we’re dying to know what happened to you at Camilla’s wedding.”

“How’s Mick getting on?” said Clare hurriedly, as if Greta had spoken out of turn.

“He’s OK.”

“Your boys must miss him,” said Greta, feeling awkward. From outside the pigeons cooed.

“As far as they’re concerned we’re just visiting Grandma,” said Alma. “We phone him every day, or he phones us. Ben tells him all the things he’s done each day and Andrew holds up the toy in his hand and tells Mick about it as if Mick can see it down the telephone. But talk about something sophisticated and intellectual,” she cried, “and not connected at all to people whose voices are at knee level and who say bum poo willy and need help wiping their bottoms.” Her hands waved. The excitable movement roused Jazzy who went over in a doggy bustle.

“OK. So did you have it off with Two Balls at Camilla’s wedding?”

“Greta!” Clare remonstrated, “Poor Mick,” she went on, “but he must be realising by now that he ought to be getting out and… well… I don’t mean this nastily, but earning a living and keeping his family.”

“Maybe it’s my fault,” said Alma.

“How could it be your fault?” Greta exploded.

“I could have told him to do something about it sooner,” said Alma. “Maybe I’ve made him think that I prefer it if he’s in the house all the time; or maybe…” she stopped. There was a silence. After a drink of her wine, Alma, her hand tangling and untangling itself in Jazzy’s ruff, sighed. “Maybe it’s got something to do with sex,” she said. “I can’t bear him touching me.”

There was an onyx ashtray on the side table next to Greta and she wondered if they were allowed to smoke. “Do you sleep with him?” she said.

“Of course I do, I feel sorry for him some of the time and anyway we haven’t got a spare room and even if we had I wouldn’t move into it. I’m not trying to say he’s repulsive. I’ve just gone off sex with him. It’s not like he deserves it or anything. I… grit my teeth.” The clock struck the half-hour. Alma sighed again. “He doesn’t deserve that.”

“No,” said Clare, “but you don’t deserve it either. No one does. I don’t think you should feel bad about not wanting him to touch you. It isn’t your fault. What about the rest of the time,” she demanded, “when you don’t feel sorry for him?”

“I feel furious with him, I could kill him,” said Alma.

“Here’s to anger,” Clare held up her glass.

“So you don’t love Mick any more?” Greta was dying for a cigarette.

“I don’t fancy him at all.”

“So you love him but you don’t fancy him?”

“I don’t know, sometimes I hate him. He just doesn’t do anything these days. He’d have to be like he used to be, when I did fancy him – oh I don’t know.”

“I’ve been trying to write a play about sex,” Greta said; after a silence. “Clare; do you remember me telling you?”

Clare shook her head.

“Last summer? We were having steak in that restaurant?” persisted Greta. Clare bent down, fussing with her skirt, sweeping her hand over her shin, grasping filaments of dog hair off the fabric. “Well anyway,” continued Greta, “I didn’t actually tell you the reason why I was writing about that.”

“Didn’t you?”

“No; but it was to do with the fact that I’d… that… I didn’t have such a thing as a libido any more. And I knew that the reason was to do with things that had happened to me and not my fault and I wondered how many more people like me there were.” She swallowed wine. There was a piano at one end of the room with music open on the stand. Greta imagined the children practising; Clare serenely supervising their safe existence.

“Actually I do remember,” said Clare. “And I changed the subject.”

“I thought it was me who changed the subject.” Greta frowned.

“No, I did,” said Clare, “and the reason is that the same thing has happened to me.” They looked at her astounded; their embodiment of uncomplicated, youthful love, their icon of tenderness. Clare was an eternal Juliet; they had reunited her with Ray themselves all those years ago. Greta took her feet out of her shoes and curled her legs up under her on the cushions. Clare talked about having Francesca; about how it wasn’t always plain sailing, that babies still get stuck; can still have the cord wrapped round their necks, that mothers can still die in labour; about how close she came. Whether it was the wine or just the sudden introduction of a surprise revelation Greta didn’t know; but a disembodied giddiness was affecting her, a sense that something inside her had loosened and was spiralling up, ready to come out like steam when it reached an opening.

“Clare was in labour thirty-five hours with Francesca,” said Alma.

“Thirty-eight,” Clare corrected. “ I felt as if I was doing a consumer test of every obstetric technique known to man; starting with natural childbirth and beanbags and progressing to crochet hooks up the fanny to break the waters and then on to foetal heartbeat monitoring, oxytocin, gas and air, vomiting and pethidine. Then it was into day two and…oh God… I had one drip for rehydration, another one for the epidural, I had catheterisation to empty my bladder, an oxygen mask, in-utero blood sampling from Francesca’s head, then a pubic shave in preparation for emergency caesarean, a high speed dash to the operating table, a massive episiotomy and a ventouse suction extraction. Then I was sewn up and had to wait ages for my legs to start working again. Having so many stitches down there means that when sensation does come back into your bottom half you wish it hadn’t. But it was worth it. The people at the hospital were fantastic. I’d have been dead without them and so would Francesca; no Luke, no Alice.”

Alma went over to the window and sat in the recess squinting against the setting sun. “So you still fancy Ray?” she said.

“In a theoretical way perhaps,” said Clare, “but I can’t feel a thing because… I don’t know… something has turned my switch off. My theory is that it was the episiotomy. I can go through the motions but I can’t feel anything. I’m getting resigned to it.” There was a silence. “I’m not exactly bothered,” she said.

Greta didn’t believe her.

“Not that I think it’s OK,” Clare added, “what can I do? If you’re not angry and you love someone, you can perform an act with them. It’s consent that’s necessary, not sexual arousal. It’s like there are two boxes to tick: essential and desirable. Consent is essential, arousal is desirable. As long as you can tick one of them… Am I talking rubbish?”

“Well do I still love Mick if I don’t fancy him?” said Alma, “I mean is that it? Are none of us going to feel sexually aroused, ever again?”

Greta thought with longing, of Liam.

From outside came the distant sound of cows lowing. Alma opened the window. A breeze lifted the curtain.

“Find a man you’re not angry with. Maybe you’d fancy him,” said Clare.

“Which brings us to the million dollar question...”

“Shut up Greta!”

“Shit, Clare, you are tough these days.”

“It’s what having children does to you,” said Alma, closing the window again and, along with Clare, dissolving into laughter.

“You’re both terrifying,” said Greta, “I need Jazzy for protection.” She appealed to the dog, bending towards her, calling her name. The dog rose and moved round Clare’s knees and aligned her muzzle to fit into Greta’s imploring hands.

“And in any case Greta, the million dollar question is what about your play?” declaimed Alma forcefully. “It seems to me, you have to write it. It’s a crucial subject.” She came over and knelt on the rug, fussing with Jazzy’s ears as she spoke, smiling at Greta. Their hands met in the dog’s fur. “Is it making progress?”

“Not exactly.” Greta picked up her wine again, leaning back into the cushions, letting the other two talk. And as she did so, words came into her head as clearly as if a voice was speaking them. The best stories are about a man. I can see him. He is fourteen and walks between the tenements down the cobbled hill carrying a suitcase. His face is without expression; pale cheeks, red child’s lips. His knuckles are hidden by his coat sleeves. No one was there to say goodbye. He left the children’s home. He was on his own. Say nothing. ou’ll nae speak aboot it … Greta felt the urge to write it down but she snapped her attention back to Clare and Alma.

“…perhaps it’s both,” Clare was saying, “you love Mick and you’re angry with him. I think anger rules out love so that’s why you can’t feel the love. You probably still could fancy him. The thing is, he has to do something to stop you being angry...” She paused, frustration on her face, “is this utter crap I’m spouting?”

“No, I think that’s true,” said Greta, “because Alma’s right to be angry, Mick’s doing something that ought to make her angry, he isn’t earning any money so he’s letting her down.”

“And the children, he’s letting them down,” said Clare.

“So Alma; did you have it off with Two Balls?” said Greta. This time the question provoked laughter and Clare got up and re-filled their glasses. The wine gleamed like cut pineapple.

Alma hid her face. “OK,” she said, “You knew you were onto something didn’t you! Well, no I didn’t. But I’ll admit …”

“Wait,” commanded Clare, “this bottle’s empty, I’m going to get another one. Don’t start again until I come back.” She went out, Jazzy at her heels.