Selma
Kent, UK
28 July 1991
When I got home at midnight after visiting Idris’s cave, the house was dark and silent. Mike’s car was in the drive so I knew he was home from the pub with Becky. I stepped inside with some trepidation but then readjusted my mind. What was wrong with taking a few hours out? I went into the kitchen and got a glass of water, drinking gulps of it down as I stared out into the garden. It was a lovely garden, one of the reasons we’d bought the house. Wide and surrounded by trees, it overlooked a field of horses at the back. I’d hoped to write my next novel looking out at that. Would it be easier in that cave with the sea as my view?
‘Where were you?’ a voice asked from the darkness. I turned to see Mike watching me from the doorway. He stepped into the kitchen, eyes accusing. He was in his pyjamas. ‘You just disappeared,’ he said, voice cold.
‘That’s allowed, isn’t it? It was only a couple of hours.’
‘Not when you have a child.’
‘You were with Becky!’
‘She was asking for you.’
I crossed my arms. ‘Don’t pull a guilt trip on me, Mike. I’m allowed to have some me time every now and again.’
‘You get me time two days a week,’ he threw back.
‘That’s work! How many times do I need to remind you?’
Mike gave me a pointed look. ‘Work? Is that what you call it?’ He grabbed some paper from the side and waved it in front of my face. ‘According to this contract, there was no two-book deal – just one. And as for that royalty cheque you promised will arrive soon, that’s bullshit too, isn’t it? I found your statement. Three hundred and two units sold. I thought you said you’d sold thousands?’
I went very still. ‘You went through my stuff.’
‘Can you blame me? You’ve been acting so weird lately.’
I put my hand to my head. I already had a tension headache and I’d only been home a few minutes. I suddenly yearned for the cave again, for the crackling fire and wistful guitar music, the talk of writing and art and ‘being in the current’ and nurturing creativity.
‘It’s just numbers,’ I said, surprising myself. ‘What does it matter?’
‘What does it matter?’ Mike said, throwing the contract at me, the paper fluttering to the floor. ‘We have a mortgage to pay, Selma. And you lied to me. Lied without batting an eyelid.’
‘Because I knew you’d go on and on.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ he said, staring up at the ceiling in exasperation. ‘You just don’t get it, do you?’
‘You don’t get it!’ I shouted back, my voice trembling. ‘You don’t get how bloody unhappy I am.’
Mike paused. ‘Unhappy?’
As he said that, I realised just how deeply unhappy I was.
‘You get everything you want,’ he said. ‘Two days of writing, that bloody view which we pay a premium for,’ he said, flinging his hand towards the window. ‘Everything you ask for.’
‘This isn’t what I asked for,’ I said miserably.
‘What do you mean by this? Me? Becky?’
‘Of course I don’t mean Becky. I adore her.’
‘Do you really? Sometimes I wonder what you love more, your daughter or your writing.’
‘How dare you say that!’
But maybe Mike was right. Wasn’t my own mother the same way? All those years I had to endure her dispassion, sitting at the kitchen table and sucking on a cigarette as I silently begged her to look at me, speak to me, anything. I’d seen the desperation on my father’s face too. The desire to bring his wife back into the here and now, to look at her family. Was Mike doing the same?
No, I wasn’t like my mother. How could I think that? I did pay attention to Becky; I talked to her, listened to her. Becky knew I adored her. She knew I was always there for cuddles, for kisses, to hold her when she hurt herself. Or when she cried out in the night, my reflexes sent me flying to Becky’s room before Mike had even registered our daughter’s cry. A world away from the way my own mother had been with me.
And the fact Mike was daring to judge me in that moment made me more angry than ever. Criticise my failure as a wife, maybe. But a mum? No.
‘Don’t ever question my love for our daughter,’ I said firmly.
Mike’s face turned stony. ‘And what about your love for me?’
My shoulders slumped. For once, I was sick of lying. ‘It’s changed for me, you’re right.’ I lifted my eyes to meet his. ‘I’m sorry, Mike.’
He held my gaze, his nostrils flaring as tears gathered in his eyes. ‘Then go,’ he hissed.
‘What?’
‘You heard me, get out. You’ve not paid towards the mortgage for the past few months. So officially, this is my house. Pack your bags and get the fuck out.’
My heart started thumping uncontrollably. ‘You can’t do that.’
‘I can and I will.’
I opened my mouth to protest again then I paused. Maybe it was time to leave, even if it was for a few days?
‘Fine,’ I said.
Surprise flickered on Mike’s face. Then he stormed into the living room, slamming the door shut behind him.
I stayed where I was for a few moments, blinking into the moonlight-flooded kitchen, my head buzzing. Then I walked upstairs, pausing on the landing as I peered towards Becky’s room. She was curled up on her side with her thumb in her mouth, something she still did when she slept. Her covers were thrown off, her face red from the night’s heat, her little legs protruding from her pink shorts.
I walked in and lay next to her, watching as she breathed. When Becky stirred slightly, I almost wanted her to wake. Maybe seeing my daughter’s pretty, innocent eyes blinking up at me might switch something in my brain, make me see reason instead of that cave, those knowing eyes of Idris’s.
I lay like that for many hours, not sleeping, just with my arms wrapped around Becky’s warm body. Mike remained downstairs, probably asleep on the sofa.
By the time sunlight started peeking through the curtains, I’d made my decision.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered to Becky, stroking her soft hair. ‘Mummy’s just trying to figure some things out and – and none of it’s your fault, okay? I love you so much and I’ll come back for you, I promise.’
I kissed her on the forehead then walked to the door. But before leaving the room, I paused. Maybe I should just take Becky with me? What could Mike say, Becky was my daughter too.
No, that wouldn’t be fair on her. I just needed a couple of days, then I’d come back for her. I wouldn’t leave her for good. Couldn’t.
I packed some items then tiptoed downstairs. I knew where I was going.
When I approached the cave a few minutes later, the rising sun spread a pink hue across the sea. I paused a moment to take it in, breathing in the beauty, the simplicity. The world was so tranquil at this time. Usually I’d still be sleeping, on the brink of being woken by Becky.
Becky.
I thought of her waking to find her mum gone and I hoped Mike would explain it in a way that wouldn’t sadden our daughter. I couldn’t bear to think he might not, too bitter and angry. No, he wasn’t like that. And anyway, hadn’t he told me to leave?
As I drew closer to the cave, I saw Idris sitting outside it, cross-legged as he watched the rising sun. Beyond him, within the cave, people lay still and quiet in their sleeping bags, eyes closed. And above, the old hotel stood white and dilapidated. How ironic that I’d dreamed of buying the place when I became a published author. Instead, I was going to live in the damp cave below it. But somehow, that seemed just as exciting to me now.
When Idris turned to look at me, suddenly it all seemed very real, the weight of my overnight bag heavy on my shoulder. He stood and walked to me, barefoot on the sand.
‘Here, let me take your bag,’ he said, putting his hand out for it.
I shrugged the bag off, handing it over to him.
‘I’ve set a bed up for you. I think you’ll like it,’ he said, as though he’d not doubted for a moment I would come.
I followed him into the cave, leaving my old life behind.