Children used to do things without the need for discussion or safety measures, Helena thought. They went swimming in quarries, climbing into derelict buildings, racing on motorbikes along disused railway lines. All these things Steffie had done, and more. None of it had happened following discussion; most of it without Helena’s prior knowledge.
It was the same when Steffie had gone to university. Steffie was interviewed by Manchester University, and then off she went.
Helena had driven her to Manchester at the start of term, had taken Steffie for lunch in a place that she would never be able to find again in a million years.
Fish pizza, they had eaten. She could remember that.
And that was it. Occasionally, Steffie came home on the train, mostly to use the washing machine and to get a good night’s sleep. But otherwise, she had left home.
Not like now. Helena had noticed that the local university was advertising a spa hotel on campus so that you could spend as much time with your student offspring as you wished, even though they were supposed to be away from home, spreading their wings.
That sort of thing seemed to be encouraged from an early age now: parental participation. Steffie was forever going in to school for information days and meetings. It was well meant, in theory. Everyone wanted to be involved in their children’s lives, especially their education; and it was a proven fact that children fared better at school when their parents gave a hoot about their advancement. But still, from an onlooker’s point of view, Helena worried about the pressure that modern life put on Steffie.
Gone were the days when you dropped your child off at the school gate and that was the only point of contact.
Steffie often looked tired, Helena thought. When she wasn’t running the shop, she was organising play dates, going to PTA meetings, taking Jemima to dance class, helping with her homework.
Whenever Helena dared mention that Steffie’s load seemed heavy, Steffie always replied the same way: It’s just what needs doing, Mum.
Still, it was an awful lot to juggle. Helena helped out as much as she could – as much as she was allowed to. But Steffie often resisted help, prided herself on getting it all done, even though she looked weary and had little time for herself, aside from ‘Pilates’.
Helena knew it wasn’t Pilates – knew Yvonne’s sister very well, who had blurted out clumsily in the Co-op last month that she had spotted Steffie in Yvonne’s counselling offices. ‘It’s a small town,’ the sister had said with an apologetic shrug.
Helena wasn’t sure why Steffie couldn’t tell her about the counselling. Yet if she were to guess, she would say that it was because the issue with Greg was too sensitive, too painful.
They were clearly still fond of each other – maybe even still in love – but fate had treated them poorly. It was heartbreaking to see. Yet Helena had not given up hope of a reunion.
Greg was a good man. But he had slipped.
‘Slipped’ was a silly way to put it, she felt. It implied that an accident was involved – that someone had oiled the soles of their feet, or in this case, their belt buckles. And yet sometimes it was easier to see it as a slip, rather than a plunge.
Helena should know. Her husband had slipped too, with his secretary. But she wasn’t about to tell Steffie. Steffie had adored her father. There was no sense in ever changing that.
So she indulged Steffie by playing along with the Pilates cover, and often found herself wondering how much Steffie would tell Yvonne about the past.
Steffie wouldn’t be able to say everything. There wouldn’t be full disclosure. There would be little mental drawers left closed. Even if she tried to open them, they would grate, get stuck.
Poor Steffie.
And before long Jemima would be packing her bags for Usherwood. At the raw age of eleven, she would be leaving home, stepping into the unknown.
It had been hard enough for Helena when Steffie had left aged eighteen for Manchester.
Helena would have loved to cling. A widow by then, who else did she have in her life but her lovely little Steffie? Steffie in her blue wool coat with the acorn buttons; Steffie with her Snoopy apron on, helping make egg soldiers for supper; Steffie with her hair in ringlets bringing Helena a cup of tea in bed.
Sweet little Steffie. Helena had a lifetime of mental snapshots, of moments, of aromas, of songs, of tastes. To this day, she could smell gingerbread, Earl Grey, summer rain, old books, and recall a Steffie moment with the click of her fingers.
And just as fast, it was gone.
You could try to hang on, with photographs, videos; maybe even by literally hanging on and never letting them go. The system certainly seemed to be aiding and abetting that now.
It wasn’t like that in the eighties, especially not where students were concerned. Parents hadn’t been involved in student life, were embarrassing appendages. There were no university spa hotels encouraging them to linger then. The very thought of it would have been absurd, awkward – like the time Neil Kinnock was in a pop video, or Bill Clinton played saxophone.
The whole point had been for Steffie to leave home and face a series of initiation tests – coping with over-zealous drunken boys or exam pressure. Helena had tried not to picture details.
And that was part of learning to let go, Helena felt: teaching yourself to look away, not to see the details any more. For the more you saw, the more you drew closer; the more you knew, the more you understood; the more you clung.
There came a point where you couldn’t be that involved any more, when you watched, even advised, but didn’t control.
She hadn’t ever visited Steffie in Manchester, aside from at the end of term to collect her. They had relied on weekly payphone calls to communicate, enduring the brutal sound of the pips going before they had a chance to say goodbye. And she had written to Steffie every fortnight without fail.
Letters, phone calls. They were the lifelines then – reliant on money not running out during the call, on postal vans not breaking down.
So Jemima would be leaving home, but communications were far more advanced. And Steffie and Greg would be able to visit her on weekends – would be actively encouraged to.
But still she felt for Steffie, that she was surrendering her daughter too soon; for it was a surrender of sorts, a relinquishing of duties.
It wouldn’t be easy, especially not since they had been living so closely together in that apartment. Helena had offered to have them at her cottage, but Steffie hadn’t wanted to do that – had wanted moving out of The Fishing Lodge to be impermanent, unworkable in the long run.
There was some logic in that, Helena supposed.
Yet the two of them had lived for a long year cooped up in the flat, knowing each other’s every thought and move.
And if the trick to letting go was not seeing the details, then Steffie’s living arrangements wouldn’t have done her any favours come September.
Helena sighed, drew down the metal shutters at the front of Steffie’s shop. Steffie was currently at a Roman exhibition at school. Tomorrow, there was an achievement assembly in the afternoon. There was always something.
And then in September … it would suddenly go quiet.
Helena put up her umbrella. It was raining lightly. She glanced back at the shop to check it was secure, and then drew her coat tighter around her and set off home.
As she walked, she thought of a niggling secret she was harbouring. It wasn’t anything huge, illicit. It was just that she couldn’t tell it to anyone for fear of seeming disloyal or critical.
She wasn’t a pessimist, wasn’t overly cautious or nervous. But she had a bad feeling about all this.
It wasn’t just the stress of being in a competitive arena at such a young age, although she wasn’t a fan of that. It wasn’t just that Jemima was leaving home so early in life, although again it wouldn’t have been her first choice for her granddaughter.
It was something else.
She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. The only way to describe it was an uncomfortable feeling of doubt.
It was hard to ignore it, no matter how much she tried. There were few things as unsettling, as maggoty, as doubt. Questions kept wriggling inside her – questions that no mortal could hope to answer. Because that would mean that they could see the future, whereas Helena could not; could only feel doubt.
*
‘So something that I’d like to talk about today, Steffie, is why things broke down between you and Greg in the first place.’
Steffie nodded, gripped the tissue ball in her hand.
‘Can you pinpoint when things began to deteriorate?’ Yvonne said. She was wearing a tropical-looking blouse and floaty trousers, despite the frost outside. She looked warmer than usual – the fan on her desk had broken, so she had cranked the window open. ‘Tell me if you get cold, by the way.’
Steffie glanced at the window, at the shutters that were fluttering intermittently. It was an unremarkable day – rainless, light on traffic. Occasionally a car passed, parked in the high street below, wheels crunching, doors slamming, and Steffie remembered that there was life beyond. That was how quiet and still it was.
‘Things broke down after the affair,’ Steffie said.
‘Yes,’ said Yvonne. ‘But before that.’
‘I don’t remember,’ said Steffie.
She didn’t want to be difficult, obstructive, but she didn’t like where this conversation was headed.
Sometimes, it was a game of tennis in here.
Yvonne smiled. ‘I think you can do better than that,’ she said.
‘I’m not sure that I can,’ Steffie said.
There was a silence. Steffie missed the fan – its distracting whirring sound, the way it shifted the energy in the room, refreshed it.
Instead, everything was still. And she hated that. Because when it was still, she could see the dust.
‘What are you doing with your hands, Steffie?’ Yvonne said.
‘Hey?’ said Steffie.
‘Your hands.’
Steffie looked down. She was still clenching the tissue ball – was holding it with both hands, pressing it.
‘Are you angry?’
‘No.’ Steffie dropped the ball on to her lap.
‘What might you be angry about?’
Steffie shook her head. ‘Nothing that I can think of.’
‘About Olivia?’
‘Well, no one would feel good about that, would they?’
Yvonne didn’t reply, was gazing at Steffie.
‘Are you going to get your fan fixed?’ Steffie asked.
‘Does it matter?’ Yvonne asked.
‘Not really,’ Steffie said.
This was weird.
The unspoken rule here was that Yvonne chatted things through with Steffie, who felt better afterwards. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Yvonne hadn’t cleaned her desk or her keyboard recently. There was a dark blue lamp on the desk with a shade that was layered with dust. It made Steffie shudder. She straightened her back, felt her pulse quicken defensively.
‘Sometimes marriages unravel when children come along,’ Yvonne said. ‘Parenting can put untold pressures on previously perfect relationships …’ Yvonne cocked her head. ‘Shall we talk about that?’
‘Yes,’ Steffie said, fixing her eye on the wall clock. If she really stared at it, time might speed up.
And it did. She managed to get through the session without saying very much at all.
Yvonne glanced at her watch. ‘Well, I’m afraid we’re out of time. But perhaps before we meet again you might like to reflect on the things we’ve discussed and see if you can come up with some answers to share with me, hmm?’
Steffie didn’t answer. She had no intention of reflecting or coming up with answers. She was too busy watching the dust cloud behind Yvonne’s head that had suddenly appeared as the sun streamed in.
‘See you next week,’ Steffie said, grabbing her bag and heading out.
‘There’s no need to be afraid, Steffie,’ Yvonne called after her.
Steffie halted, turned.
‘I’m not the enemy,’ Yvonne went on, smiling. ‘I’m here to help.’
‘Of course,’ Steffie said, returning the smile. ‘Thank you.’
It was a shame, Steffie thought, as she returned to the Silver Tree. She had liked Yvonne, would miss her. She was a wonderful listener and made great coffee.
But Steffie could never go there again.