Her Page 2
I spent my old life meeting people’s needs, anticipating unreasonable demands and worst-case scenarios; I built a career on that sensitivity, that apprehension. It’s my particular tragedy that I’m still programmed with a desire to solve all problems, even now, when the authority I’m answerable to is a tiny illogical tyrant. Managing him, his whims and caprices, his passions and hatreds, requires every scrap of my energy, every ounce of patience. And usually even that isn’t enough.
So I open the door, and I see her, and in that moment I also see myself, my shortcomings. All the many things I now lack.
‘Nina Bremner,’ she says, holding out her hand.
‘I’m Emma. I really can’t thank you enough . . . You’re a lifesaver.’
Her hand in mine is dry and cool. I release it hurriedly.
‘Not a problem,’ she’s saying, starting to rummage vaguely in her bag. ‘It was just lying on the pavement by the postbox. Outside the greengrocers’.’
‘Oh – yes, I had that thing to post. Christ. Some days I think I’m going mad.’
‘Well, at least you’ve got a good excuse,’ she says, nodding at my belly. ‘When’s it due? I remember what that’s like.’
‘November. You’ve got children?’ I ask, and somehow I’m disappointed by this. She looks so other. I don’t want her to turn out to be like me, only better at it.
‘One. But she’s seventeen. Another species.’
‘You don’t look old enough, you must have been a child bride?’ I say, and she laughs.
Behind me, down the corridor, in the kitchen, there’s a crash. And then a roar.
‘Ah, OK, you’ve already got one. How old?’ she asks, dipping her head over her bag again. ‘Sorry, it’s here somewhere, I just . . .’
‘Two and a half. I’d better – Do you want to come in for a cup of tea?’ I don’t suppose she will. Why should she? But she seems amused. ‘Sure,’ she says. And then she’s in the hall, stepping neatly round the bulk of the all-terrain buggy, bringing a faint clinging fragrance with her, pulling the front door shut as I hurry away, towards the kitchen and Christopher, who is pinned into his highchair and surveying the mess on the floor with lordly vengeful satisfaction.
Some visitors spectate. They stand there at the edge of the room, smiling and chatting as I rush around with carrot sticks and J-cloths, and I know deep down they’re enjoying seeing me reduced to this. Of course, Nina didn’t know me before, doesn’t know the real me, but she notices what needs doing, and she does it: quietly, without ostentation or apology. While I’m flapping about, scooping houmous off the floor and wiping up the spilled milk, she fills the kettle and drops the dirty plates in the dishwasher. ‘What a pretty house,’ she says, finding mugs. ‘How long have you lived here?’
‘We bought it just after Christopher was born,’ I say. ‘We lived in Atwell Street for a bit after we got married, and it was a nice flat, but we wanted a garden. Of course there’s loads to do, we haven’t got around to any of it, we can’t really afford to do anything now. Sorry about the mess. I never seem to be able to get things straight.’ I hear myself saying these things, and I know what I sound like.
With deft small movements she lifts the kettle and pours the boiling water into cups, and as she does so the kitchen is wreathed with shimmering skeins of steam, catching on the sunlight slanting through the windows. ‘I remember what that’s like,’ she says. ‘Some days you feel like you’re running the wrong way on a conveyor belt, never getting anywhere.’
‘I never realised how much mess is involved in just living,’ I say, with a little laugh, giving Christopher a matchbox of raisins and lifting him out of the chair. ‘You know: just making him a meal is the act with a thousand consequences: all the peeling and cooking and cooling down and cutting, and then afterwards all the scraping and rinsing and wiping and sweeping. One stone, all these bloody ripples. Just the act of tidying up the chaos seems to generate more chaos. I open the cupboard to get out the mop, and when my back is turned he scatters clothes pegs all over the house, or hides the Hoover attachments in the recycling box. Or I find him wandering around clutching the bottle of bleach . . .’
I stop. I’ve said more than I meant to. It just came out in a rush. I’m glad I didn’t tell her about the line I stumbled across in a dictionary of quotations, the eighteenth-century suicide note: ‘All this buttoning and unbuttoning.’ It’s a phrase that I hear over and over, as if it’s playing on a loop, as I move through the days.
She looks at me. She looks at me as if she recognises me, the real me. It’s a shocking moment. For a second I’m scared I’m going to cry with the relief and horror of it.
‘Sit down,’ she says, pushing a chair forward a little. ‘Drink your tea.’
I stare out at the small battered rectangle of grass littered with coloured plastic, the defeated unloved shrubs, the shed door that Ben promised to fix but which for now continues to list on its hinges, a reminder of our joint paralysis. Over the overgrown hedge, the Callaghans’ washing sags on the laundry line.
Christopher is hunkered down on an upturned plant pot, eating his raisins, the ones he’s not dropping. I see him bend over, pushing through the grass, searching them out with careful fingers. I think: cat shit. But then I think: sod it. So I sit. She pulls up another chair.
‘Sorry,’ I say, and I don’t want the moment to linger, it’s too painful, so I say, ‘God, listen to me! I’m not always like this. Post-holiday crash. You know what it’s like.’ The cup, when I pick it up, is hot in my hands. The tea is too weak, but so what, there’s a novelty in not having made it myself.
When she asks me where we went, I tell her about the agriturismo near Lucca, using the approved techniques for describing summer holidays (imply it was heaven, without going into too much tedious detail; make a joke out of the noisy humourless Belgians in the next apartment, the lack of mixer taps, and the dread anticipation of the next credit-card statement).
She says she hasn’t been away. Her daughter Sophie spent most of the summer in the States with the father and the stepmother. (Not at all, it’s all very cordial.) She missed Sophie, of course, but looking on the bright side, it turned into a fairly productive summer workwise. ‘I hit a rich seam,’ she says. ‘So I stayed put, made the most of it.’ She’s a painter. Landscapes, mostly. Abstract. She has a studio in Kentish Town, in the old piano factory, and a show coming up at a gallery I’ve heard of in Fitzrovia. ‘You should come to the opening,’ she says, almost shyly. ‘If you fancy it.’
I say I’d love to, which is true. I don’t say that it’ll never happen. ‘Can’t think of anything nicer,’ I say. And now I’m seized with wistfulness, a desire that she should see me in a different context, so I add, ‘Gallery openings! That’s the sort of thing I used to do, when I worked in TV.’ And as I say it, I feel the burn of humiliation, as if I’m claiming kinship with someone I barely know, someone infinitely more glamorous and sought-after. As if I’m trying to ride on the coattails of a person I was once introduced to a long time ago. God, you sound pathetic, I think.
‘I’ll drop an invite round,’ she says. ‘It would be great if you could come.’
There’s a noise from outside: Christopher, bashing the hedge with his stick, frightening the cats. I step outside to tell him to stop while she finishes her tea, looks around for her bag. ‘I’d better get going, Sophie’s got a friend round and I said I’d make paella. Oh, I almost forgot.’ She reaches into her shopper, pulls out my wallet and pushes it over the table towards me: a shamefully practical thing in jolly patterned oilcloth, its clasp straining against an undisciplined mess of receipts and loyalty cards.
I see her out into the early evening: a clear sky, full of chance and opportunity, the people coming home from work and walking along the street, heading for a jasmine-scented pub garden or a game of tennis in the park.
Christopher’s calling for me. Has he hurt himself? It’s not always possible to tell the difference between injury and indi
gnation. I stand there in the hall, among the boots and the coats, the toys and the clothing catalogues I can’t bring myself to deal with, listening to him. There’s a broken rice cake underneath the radiator, and while I’m stooping to retrieve it I find a single red sock patterned with robots. When I pick it up it’s firm and knobbly, oddly jointed: filled with a pebble, a clump of Lego bricks and a ring of dried apple.
If she remembers, I think, I’ll bloody go.
Nina
In the end, it’s ridiculously easy. I’m coming back from a run when I see her going into the greengrocers’, manoeuvring the enormous unwieldy buggy between the straw-filled trays of plums and avocados, the sunny upturned faces of the gerberas. The greengrocer wears a patient smile as Emma moves around, blocking the aisles while she tries to interest Christopher in purple or green grapes. An elderly gentleman has to climb over the heirloom tomatoes – oh my God, the terminology – in order to reach the till.
As if anyone would steal your bloody toddler, I think. Just park him outside for a moment or two. What could possibly happen? But these women, they all live in fear of being the unlucky one. Oh, I couldn’t take the risk, they say. All that anxiety. So many things to worry about. Parabens, E-numbers, UV rays. I wonder how they stand it.
I wait under the awning, in front of the boxes of yellow and scarlet fruit, turning towards the bookshop window as she selects a lettuce and pays for it. Then there’s the business of edging the buggy out again, sending a shiver through the cherries. When the buggy bumps down onto the pavement something falls out: Christopher’s shoe, a soft little fabric sandal. As she bends to retrieve it, as I squeeze past her to pay for my apple, I find it’s the work of a moment to dip my fingers into the yawning mouth of her bag.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ says the greengrocer, putting down a pallet of lemons, and I know what he’s really saying: Sorry about that dozy mare. Outside, she’s lifting Christopher up to the postbox as he pushes some envelopes into the slot. I can see the little grimace at his weight against her bump, his unhelpful vitality.
‘That’s OK,’ I say, handing over the coins, her wallet snug between my arm and my ribcage.
At home, I spread the contents out over the kitchen table, assembling the clues. She’s Emma Nash now. She lives on Carmody Street, in the little line of workers’ cottages between the park and the main road. The usual credit cards, library passes, loyalty schemes. Receipts: organic milk from M&S, flour and cereal from Iceland. A recipe from the Guardian supplement for chicken curry. A green prescription form, scrawled over with a GP’s hurried initials, for an entry-level antidepressant. Tucked behind the book of stamps there’s a small tired-looking snapshot, a picture of a man, the husband, the Mr Nash, smiling into the sun, arms folded, leaning against a bike on a country lane. Quite attractive, I suppose.
I have a quick shower and then I make the call.
‘Is that Emma Nash? I’ve found your wallet, you dropped it on the high street.’
She gushes a bit. I’ve saved her life, she seems to be going mad, she’d forget her head if it wasn’t, etc.
‘It’s no trouble,’ I say.
She’s so relieved. She asks if I live nearby, offers to pop over once her son has finished his tea.
‘Oh, let me bring it back, it’s no problem,’ I say quickly. I’m no longer nervous; I want to get inside her house. I want to see how she lives.
I anticipate that she’ll be more flustered on her own territory, less likely to recognise me, though the chances of that are really very slim. Still, I’ve got my line ready, just in case it’s needed. ‘I’m in Pakenham Gardens,’ I say. ‘It’s only around the corner. I’ll be with you in ten.’
I put everything back in the wallet and leave the house. It’s a beautiful evening. Monica Prewitt is out in her front garden, trimming the lavender bush, filling a trug with the spent straws, and the fragrance of it drifts down the street. Someone in number 34 is practising Chopin in front of an open window, going over the same few bars, making the same mistakes: a pleasant, mildly melancholy sound. The pavements are warm and dappled with sunshine.
I slow down when I get to Carmody Street. The houses here are two-storey, rather than three-, and the façades are narrower, less ornate, set back behind cramped front gardens that barely merit the term. Not all the houses have been gentrified: several still have net curtains. One is pebble-dashed. There’s a bit of double-glazing. Some ugly leggy climber roses. The noise of the main road at the end of the street changes as the traffic lights on the roundabout click through their sequences.
Emma’s is a halfway house. There’s a potted bay tree on the front step and a powder-blue front door, but the gloss paint is chipped, and some of the slats on the plantation shutters are broken, hanging off at an angle, giving the impression of a mouthful of bad teeth. At full stretch, I think, as I unlatch the little gate and walk up the short path. Then, Here we are. Here we go.
Standing on the step, I’m aware, when I swallow, of the dryness of my throat. I run a hand through my hair, still a little damp from my shower. Then I put my finger on the bell.
There she is, standing in front of me, a distracted smile, glancing over her shoulder – waiting for the bomb to go off in the back room – while she’s talking: ‘idiotic’ and ‘feel so stupid’ and ‘incredibly kind’.
Close to, it’s quite overwhelming, the wholesome golden quality of her presence only partially dimmed by domesticity, pregnancy and the exhaustion particular to mothers of small children. The sheer height and health and strength and competence of her. I can see the dark roots of her hair and the streak of white at the temple where she has pushed it back impatiently with a floury hand. Ketchup on her jeans, the tea towel over her shoulder. She’s still beautiful.
‘Nina Bremner,’ I say, and we shake hands.
‘I’m Emma. I really can’t thank you enough . . . You’re a lifesaver.’
I say it’s not a problem, and then I open my bag, look down into it. The wallet’s right there, of course, underneath my cardigan, but I leave it, making vague noises – Oh God where is it, it’s in here somewhere – knowing she’ll have to ask me in. ‘It was just lying on the pavement by the postbox,’ I say, fumbling. ‘Outside the greengrocers’.’
‘Oh – yes, I had that thing to post. Christ. Some days I think I’m going mad.’
I look at her, smiling, nodding at her bump. ‘Well, at least you’ve got a good excuse. When’s it due?’
November, she says. When I tell her how old Sophie is, she says I must have been a child bride. And with this comment I remember her old impulsiveness, that reckless inability to pass on an opportunity to charm a stranger. It’s a character flaw, I know that now.
Behind her, in the darkness of the house, there’s the sound of the child throwing something or falling over. He calls for her. Flustered, she glances over her shoulder.
‘Sorry,’ I say, dipping my head again. ‘It’s here somewhere, I just . . .’
So she asks if I’d like to come in for a cup of tea.
Yes.
It’s all pretty much as I’d expected. The white-painted hall, the scuffed skirting and the varnished wooden boards, the buggy and small wellingtons painted with beetles tumbled against bigger ones, a hobby horse lolling out of the umbrella stand. A wad of unopened post balanced on top of the radiator. A wooden heart on a string dangling over the gilt-framed mirror. A china dish of shells and keys. A ball made from those red rubber bands postmen drop on the pavements. All the quirky bits of individuality echoing prevailing tastes. This is us. This is who we are.
Beneath the chaos of crumbs and dirty pots, the kitchen is pleasant, unremarkable: pale blue units, enamel lampshade over the wooden table, a string of fairy lights looped over the Angie Lewin print of seed heads. The door is open to the small garden. Sun lies over the tangled grass, the tossed-aside watering can, the length of yellow hose. Someone’s trying to grow some tomatoes out there, I see.
The boy, Christo
pher, has scattered the end of his tea on the floor. As his mother comes towards him he looks at her with a satisfied expression, as if he has brought some righteous punishment to bear. I hear her mutter, ‘Oh, you—’ and then she’s at the sink, running hot water into a cloth. When she’s wiping the table and the floor, I fill the kettle and switch it on, and then I collect the plates and stack them in the dishwasher. Christopher watches me without curiosity. ‘And what’s your name?’ I ask him, and then I ruffle his hair, and I have the pleasure of feeling him twist away from my hand, objecting to my gesture. ‘Oh, isn’t he a poppet? They’re so delicious when they’re this age.’
We talk a little about how long they’ve lived here. I can tell she’s half-proud, half-ashamed of the house and its humdrum dishevelment: the enamel milk pans in pink and pistachio green dangling from hooks, the chipped china jug stuffed with sweet williams on the sill, the finger paintings moored to the fridge with magnets (crowns, beach balls, tiny tins of Italian beer). The way these small choices reflect upon her.
Christopher is removed from his highchair and makes his way out into the sunshine while I pour the boiling water into mugs.
‘Sorry about the mess,’ she says. ‘I never seem to be able to get things straight.’
I say something about knowing how hard it is.
‘I never realised how much mess is involved in just living,’ she says, trying to laugh. Incredulously, as if she can’t quite believe it, as if it’s nearly a joke, she describes all the small tedious steps involved in preparing a meal for her child and serving it to him and cleaning up afterwards: ‘One stone, all these bloody ripples.’
She goes on for a little longer, the housewife’s lament, and then abruptly stops, pressing her lips together as if to keep the words back. Her cheeks are bright with the novelty, the excitement of telling someone how she really feels. Or maybe it’s shame. I watch her as she rinses the cloth in the sink, hangs it over the tap. There’s something else in her expression that I can’t quite read; it frightens me. Maybe she has caught the edge of some ancient memory. But then her face clears and I realise I’m safe. She won’t remember. It meant nothing to her, after all.