Chapter Thirty-Three

 

 

AFTER WRITHING AROUND IN EACH other’s arms all night, we awake feeling rather refreshed despite the lack of sleep. However, it’s when we make it to my mother’s – to finally face her wrath – that the dark clouds of worry and fatigue seem to return.             

It’s eleven in the morning and the kids are washed and dressed and have eaten, but when we arrive, they show us some attention but seem happy to stay in the playroom for a few minutes more.

My mum does her usual thing of offering a cup of tea, but for some reason I’m seeing past her default setting and reading something else today…

“We’re actually heading out for the day. Going to take the kids to the seaside.”

We’re standing around her kitchen and Sam looks very out of place. He is incredibly tall and I know that he could never live somewhere like my mum and dad’s old cottage, what with it being Hobbit-sized and all, like we are.

“That’s nice,” Mum says, while wringing a tea towel between two hands. I hate that I also do that when I’m stressed out.

“Where’s Dad?”

I notice her gulp before she speaks. “I don’t know.”

“What?”

“I don’t know.”

I glance at Sam, who leaves the room and heads for the playroom. Once he’s in there, the kids want to show him what they’ve been making out of bricks, Playmobil and Lego.

“What happened?” I ask gently.

“I put it to him that…” She starts off strong, but loses gusto and wipes her brow, hating the very fact that she’s having to put it into words. “…I put it to him that we’re not man and wife. We’re partners in business, in finance, but not man and wife. He asked if I wanted him to go, and for some reason, I said yes.”

I take a deep breath. “He didn’t even tell you where he was going?”

“He emptied the current account and he’s gone.”

I do the only thing I can think of, because I know words aren’t going to be much use right now. I walk forward and hug her. I hug her tight. I’ve never hugged my mother in this way before. She’s a caring woman, but she’s not a hugger. I’m a hugger. She became a bit more huggy because of me, but she’s never been able to express herself… and I think I know why.

“It’s going to be okay. Do you need money?”

“No, I’ve got a few ISAs I never told him about. Don’t worry about me. Seriously.”

I nod my head over and over, a few too many times. As I pull away, seeing no tears in her eyes – just stoic frustration that it’s come to this – I realise why I settled for an unsatisfactory marriage, too. This is the model I’ve grown up with: two people married, but not together.

“I didn’t realise it was this bad. I knew it wasn’t perfect, but I didn’t know you felt this way.”

She shakes her head. “All he cares about is golf, Liza. When he’s not playing golf, he’s in his shed. I don’t have delusions, believe me. I’m a sixty-eight-year-old woman. I don’t expect the world. However, I think I deserve a husband who actually speaks to me now and again, at least. I deserve that, don’t I?”

“Yes, you deserve that.”

“I’m his skivvy, Liza. That’s all I am. A skivvy. He doesn’t even try with the grandchildren. It didn’t bother me before, but now Gage is gone, he could try to step up to the plate and be some sort of father figure to those poor, beautiful babies…”

She finally unleashes the waterworks, but when I try to get close, she pulls away. She’s ashamed and disgusted by her own forlornness – her vulnerability and needs. She hates herself. This is why she’s remained in a marriage like this – her own self-hate.

“Okay.” I try to speak softly, after she’s got most of it out. “Let’s go out for the day, all of us. Wash your face, get your shoes and coat, and let’s go. We’re in my new car so there’s plenty of room.”

“Liza, no—”

“No, I insist. You may even enjoy yourself. Come on.”

She takes a deep breath and begrudgingly agrees.

 

 

AFTER I FIND a parking space in Scarborough, my new Range Rover growls one last time before I switch off the engine. Having sold my other car and Gage’s, I got this. It’s black and I call it the widow. At the very least, it cheers me up every time I drive it, and it’ll protect my kids if we ever have a crash.

Sam checks the well behind the handbrake and pulls out a few pound coins. “I’ll pay the meter,” he says, “won’t be a tick.”

I turn in my seat to assess the passengers. Rupert has fallen asleep with the rocking of the car. Meanwhile, my mother and Emily are still scribbling in one of Emily’s colouring books.

“Come on then, who’s ready for fun?”

Emily looks up, suddenly bemused. “Oh, we’re here! I can see the sea!”

I pop the boot and it lifts automatically. Leaving the vehicle, I round to the back and set up Rupert’s buggy. Bringing it alongside the car, I carefully deposit him in his chair. He doesn’t wake. He’s always been a great sleeper.

Mum and Emily leave the vehicle holding hands.

“Do you want a ride, Ems?” I suggest she stand on the step at the back of the buggy so she doesn’t have to walk. It’s a little bit of a walk to the front from where we’ve parked. She jumps up and when Sam returns with the parking voucher, he puts it on my dashboard and closes all the doors of the vehicle for us. I lock it up and he grabs the buggy.

“Let me,” he says.

“Okay, let me just check Rupert is comfortable first.”

I lean in and unsurprisingly, he’s still fast asleep. I wrap a blanket over him and then Sam sets off with the kids. Emily wants to go fast but Sam tells her, “Not while Rupert’s sleeping, princess. The wind will whip his little eyes. Later, though. We’ll go really fast.”

“Yayyyyy!”

I let them go on ahead while me and Mother lag behind. I catch her trying to keep it all in, her chin wobbling every now and again, then her eyes reddening. I know that she and Dad used to like coming to the coast together. I wonder what changed.

Linking my arm through hers, I ask, “Is it because of everything that’s happened lately?”

“Yes,” she sighs, “and no.”

“It’s just strange for me. I’m shocked, I’m not going to lie. I think it’s because it was always like this, wasn’t it?”

“No,” she says, “no, it wasn’t always like this.”

My father isn’t a bad man. However, Mum has done most of the work over the years. He’s either been busy frying fish or watching TV with his feet up, then more recently since retirement, potting about in his shed or down the golf course.

“We were passionate in the beginning,” she says.

I can tell the car journey has only enflamed her sadness – given her time to stew on all this.

“We were married for fifteen years before we had you, after all.”

“Yes. I know.”

She does that thing again – her little throat overwhelmed by a big gulp of sadness. “I knew it wasn’t me, the reason we couldn’t have a baby.” As soon as the words pour out, every nerve in my body is seized by disappointment and rage. “He knew I desperately wanted a child. Really, I would have had six, I really would. I hate to admit it, but when you had Emily with such ease, I was so bitterly jealous until I held her in my arms and it all faded away. It was the most horrible feeling in the world, being jealous of my own daughter, but that’s how I felt.”

I glance to my right and notice she’s not fighting her tears anymore. As they fall, the notorious winds of the North Yorkshire coastline blow them quickly down her face.

“It’s funny now I look back, you know? I had myself convinced I was happy. The years rolled by, one after the other, and I was happy with your dad, I was. Until I reached an age where I knew my dream was almost out of reach. Until there was no hope left. He was never going to get a fertility test. He was never going to suddenly get me pregnant, even though we’d been trying for fifteen years…”

I say nothing. I’m enraged, but I also want to know. I also, deep inside, understand.

“I had an affair with a man from church. A widower. He was an educated man. A Cambridge graduate. An English teacher. Scholar. He could play the piano. He could recite Shakespeare. And I loved him. I did. I really loved him.”

My chin does that ugly wobbling thing. I knew it. I always knew.

Since the funeral, when I had my outburst, I suppose Dad hasn’t been able to cope. It’s one thing having your own suspicions about your child’s parentage – it’s another when the child doesn’t believe it, either. I feel awful, but I was only saying what I felt in my heart.

“Did Dad know?” I ask, sounding hollow.

“No, he didn’t know,” she whispers. “I never, ever told him. Max, that was my lover, he took a teaching job elsewhere when I told him I wouldn’t leave John for him. Neither of us realised at the time I was carrying you. When I found out, I convinced your father it was his, that a miracle had occurred. I buried it and it almost killed me, but I buried it. I was determined to be a good wife, to do what was right, to not bring you into a world of divorce and potential disarray. Max was wonderful, but he wasn’t the settling-down type. He was forever taking jobs elsewhere, always on the move. Things may have been different if he’d known about you, but we don’t know that. I stayed with John because I trusted him, because he was my husband and that counts for something. But things between us were never the same after that. It was like he knew, but he never said a thing. Never. That’s why we’ve only ever been business partners, since I had you.”

I hand my mother some tissue out of my bag and she wipes her face.

There are two options for me right now. I could get mad and storm off, or I could just forgive her. From one imperfect woman to another, I could just forgive her.

“I stayed with Gage for the kids’ sake, but I have to say, what I feel for Sam is a million times stronger. He’s truly wonderful, Mum. I can’t put myself in your place. You’ve been with two men, both of whom you loved. Me and Gage, we never understood one another. We were children when we got together. It’s true, I may not have got with him if I hadn’t grown up feeling like some part of me was missing – that I was without not just a sibling, but a parent who understood my mind. However, it’s all gone now. It all has to die… all that hurt and pain. Because if you hadn’t had me, we wouldn’t have those kids. And I’m never going to be sorry for Rupert and Emily, are you?”

“Never,” she replies, the words shooting out of her.

“Then let’s agree that this is very painful for us both, but we shan’t let it get in the way of giving them the fun day they deserve.”

“Yes, okay.”

We catch up to Sam and the kids who have already reached their first amusements arcade. Emily shouts over her shoulder, “Mummy, Mummy! Sam won me a unicorn!” She’s standing proudly by the grabber machine, holding the teddy aloft.

I roll my eyes at Sam. “How much did you put in that thing?”

“Only a tenner.” He grins, his shoulders shaking with amusement.

I give him a kiss and he looks between me and my mother, picking up on the fact we both look rattled. I lift on tiptoes and whisper in his ear, “Tell you later.”

Rupert wakes up screaming, wondering where the heck he’s ended up. I pick him up out of his pushchair and decide, “Let’s get lunch, then.”

 

 

AFTER DROPPING MY mother home, we drive straight back to mine and put the kids in bed. They’re both pooped from a long day spent walking, eating, playing 2p slot machines, more eating and then visiting a few shops for knickknacks and treats.

I’m putting Emily in bed when she tries to tell me, “Mummy, want to watch CBeebies Bedtime.”

“Angel, you’re far too tired for that. All that fresh air, darling. It’s tiring.”

“Is Sam staying?”

“Why do you ask, darling?”

“I like him. He’s tall.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“He got me my unicorn.” She has it in a stranglehold under her arm, not willing to let it go. “And he has funny hair. It blows around in the wind.”

“Yes, it does, baby. Now, close those eyes and dream of ponies and unicorns. Okay? I’ve got to check on Rupey.”

“Love you, Mummy.”

“Love you, too.”

I can hear Sam downstairs. He’s putting the kettle on and making toast. I visit Rupert in his bedroom and find him still fast asleep. Mum gave him a bottle while we were in the car and he’s shattered, the little mite. I change his nappy while he’s still sleeping and he doesn’t budge an inch. It’s as I’m staring down at my boy that I have a feeling… It’s like Gage is with me, right in this moment, right now. It’s strange; it’s like a cool wave washing over me from head to toe. I feel like he’s smiling… like he might be okay. Maybe he’s saying this is okay. I don’t know. All I know is that he’s not sad, not anymore. I turn around and walk out of the room. I pop my head around the door of Emily’s room and find she’s already fast asleep.

I start running the bath in the main family bathroom, adding salts and whatever else I can find… a couple of bath bombs. Scarborough is lovely but too much time spent out in the elements can chill you to the bone.

I leave the bath running while I dash downstairs to find tea and toast waiting for me. Sam and I munch through it like nobody’s business before I grab my cup.

“Meet you in the bath,” I tell him.

“I’ll lock up and everything,” he says.

“Thank you.”

Once the bath is full, I light some candles and place them on the wooden bath bridge I picked up at a garden centre a few years ago. I sometimes rest my Kindle on the bath bridge and read, but I just want to lie back and relax tonight. I turn off the taps and climb in. I’d normally fill it to the top but Sam is bound to displace a lot of water if he gets in with me.

As I’m waiting for him to join me, I drink down the last of my tea and think about everything. I guess there are a few things I have in common with my mother, one of them being that we’re both passionate women hiding behind the veneer of dignity and courage, when behind the scenes we need love as much as anyone else, probably more. Hetty once called me a dark horse, capable of more than I let on. I think that also applies to my mother, more than anyone else I know in fact. Before today, I never thought her capable of having an affair, let alone lying about it for decades afterwards. I guess I never thought of her as a needy person, but clearly her needs drove her to do things you wouldn’t guess her capable of.

When Sam enters the room in just his underwear, I smile. I gaze at the most vulnerable section of his body as he takes down his boxers and climbs in behind me.

With his arms around me, I tell him everything my mother told me today.

Then I cry.

I cry for hours. I cry into his chest. I lie like a child, curled up into him, desperate and afraid. I pound my fists on the side of the bath, but he grabs me and quells me, subduing me.

We dry off and get into bed, but I’m still crying.

It’s like an endless, hollow ache inside me that I’ll never be able to fill.

Then he makes love to me, putting me back together again, when a few minutes before I felt the most hopeless of my entire life. Just like that, his touch fixes me.

Sweetly, he whispers poems and sonnets in my ears as we make love, our kisses soft and tender, our bodies warm and gentle. He kisses every inch of my body and makes me come with his tongue, then his cock. I feel like jelly after he’s done with me. I know I’m his.

“I don’t want to repeat the past,” I tell Sam, as we’re cuddling in the aftermath.

“In what way?”

“By regretting what may have been. I don’t want any regrets.”

“What are you saying?” He looks a little worried.

I lift myself up so I’m leaning over him, looking down into his eyes, my hand on his cheek. “I don’t care about marriage. I don’t care if we don’t share the same name. I just want us to live together, somewhere new we can make our own. Something that’s us, me and you. I want us to start building something better, as lovers and life partners, as people who share everything and take nothing for granted. I just want you, every day, every night. Just you and our home, a life for us all, to be happy.”

He looks so shocked, I decide I’ve said the wrong things. I begin to fear I’ve mucked it all up. Then he whispers, “Yes. To all of that. Yes.”

And then he kisses me.