The Family Retreat, page 16
The church hall is chilly, paint peeling off the walls, and with a red bucket in the porch to catch the rainwater.
There’s a woman taking money and serving teas from a hatch by the door. She’s wearing a big wide smile and a polka dot pink hairband.
‘It’s a pound per child. That includes squash and a biscuit. And Julian will be doing yoga at ten thirty.’
The man next to her is wearing a beaded necklace and a black t-shirt with Can the Cull written across the face of a badger. ‘Namaste,’ he says, nodding as he makes the prayer sign. ‘It’s for the kids, but everyone’s welcome,’ he beams.
I fish about in my purse and put money in for all four kids. ‘It’s sorted,’ I call back to Helen, and we shuffle through.
The woman in the hairband coughs, ‘– then it’s five pence for every biscuit you have after that.’
‘Right. Great. Thanks,’ and I start to edge away but her face has locked onto mine. She does the weird smile again.
‘Sorry – is there something—?’
And then in a strange sing-songy voice, ‘I think there might be a little boy who’s had another bicky,’ and she’s nodding over towards Sam, who has his mouth full. ‘Another five pence,’ she sings. ‘Just pop it in the basket. No rush.’
I dig around in my pocket. I chuck in a fifty-pence piece. ‘Fill your boots, kids,’ I say, and to her horror, Sam comes back for another handful of jammy dodgers and custard creams. Ollie and Lexie are characteristically restrained.
The kids find two large boxes of Duplo bricks that they hive off for themselves into a corner. I am secretly relishing the possibility of ‘biscuit woman’ coming over to encourage them to share with the others, telling them the toys are here for everyone. We watch the kids reach for the blocks in fistfuls. Sam tentatively suggests a castle ‘with a red tower on each corner’. There’s a pause, as they look to Ollie.
‘Good idea,’ he says, and I can see Sam glow, as they all set about hunting around in the boxes for more red bricks. ‘And let’s make two green walls and two yellow walls.’
When we are settled on chairs with our stewed tea and biscuit, Helen mentions Gemma. ‘I’ve been thinking about your sister,’ she says.
I nod. ‘And I’ve been thinking about yours,’ I say, carefully.
‘I was thinking how difficult it must have been,’ she continues, ‘her being so ill. I mean, I don’t understand something like that. But I look at Lexie – it’s funny how differently you think about these things when you have kids of your own,’ she waves a hand in the air, ‘things they may have to deal with. Things when we were their age, we had no idea what life would bring.’ She sounds obtuse. Hard to read. ‘And obviously, I know something about the difficulties of feeling helpless. Not being able to intervene. There are similarities in our situations.’
I wait. She says nothing more.
I think about my session with Veronica, what she said about co-dependency. ‘It was very difficult not to get enmeshed,’ I say. ‘Her pain became mine. It was very hard to separate things out.’
‘Of course,’ she concurs, ‘if you love someone. It’s difficult.’
The sound of the rain drumming on the corrugated roof is strangely soothing.
After a while, I venture an observation. ‘But the big difference is that Gemma’s risk was in the past. A long time ago – and it sounds,’ I say cautiously, again the sensation of my foot inching gingerly on the cliff edge, ‘from what you were saying the other day, that Polly’s is very much in the present. It’s still alight with some degree of danger.’
She sits still.
We watch the walls rising up. Green is obviously in greater abundance than yellow, I think as I survey the completed walls. I notice that Lexie and Ruby have been assigned the job of searching through the other boxes for the required yellow bricks, while the boys do the important construction work.
‘I want to talk about it,’ she says, into the silence. ‘To speak about it out loud. But it feels –’ and she stops, twisting her fingers, ‘– such a betrayal.’
I nod.
‘To my sister –’ she says, ‘– to sit here talking to someone. Someone I barely know. A relative stranger in my life – about something so intimate. So revealing.’
I listen. And I notice she doesn’t say friend. A relative stranger, is what she calls me. And it feels right. It comes as a relief, in a way.
‘I – I promised not to tell anyone. Sworn to secrecy. She feels –’ and as she speaks, she looks down at the jammy dodger and idly picks off the grains of sugar with her finger. ‘She made me promise I wouldn’t tell anyone. She feels –’ and again, she struggles to find the right word and looks down at her lap, ‘– such humiliation.’
I nod again.
‘So, if I shared it with you, I’d be breaking a promise. And while it feels hard to break a promise, it feels harder still to watch someone you love feeling so unhappy –’ and then she drops her voice down low, ‘– and possibly come to harm.’
I feel the shift of unease. It’s not unexpected, I have been prepared for this. I already know to some degree what she is likely to tell me about Polly. I have read and been involved in enough case histories to know that while the details are different, the fear and humiliation and the paralysis at the heart of it are resoundingly similar. I understand both her nervousness and also the potential risk and danger of not sharing the information. I’m also aware that, as neighbours go, I’m the best person to share this with. But perhaps she knows this too.
‘I can probably already predict what you’re going to tell me,’ I say. ‘I worked in a busy inner London practice. I know the statistics. I know a lot about this.’ I pause. ‘But I also know it can be good to talk. Not to manage the worry all by yourself.’
But I can feel her need to talk is somehow stifled by the promise she has made. This feeling of betrayal. Which is why I say what I do. ‘Perhaps we can think of this time – these conversations – as beyond those rules,’ I suggest. ‘We’re not part of each other’s lives – we are, as you say, relative strangers. We have been drawn together by this moment in time, where we are living, for a brief period. That’s all.’
Afterwards, I wonder if any of this was necessary, if she was planning to confide in me anyway. But still, I felt she wanted to be sure of the confidentiality. That I was someone she could trust.
She looks up.
‘In two weeks, I’ll be gone,’ I say. ‘I’ll be back in my life. And you’ll be here, in yours, before you go to London. Then later on, we’ll be in different parts of the city. Our lives will be separate.’ I shrug. ‘And by that I mean, you don’t have to worry that what you tell me will contaminate you, or her life. You can choose not to see me again. Perhaps the normal rules can be suspended. Holiday rules?’ I offer. ‘And who knows? Maybe having a conversation here will make it easier for you to help her. After we’ve both gone back to our lives.’
I already feel it’s unlikely our paths would cross. Even if we were in the same part of London, I can’t imagine our lives entwining, our friendship deepening. It’s not a mean thing. It’s just what I think. It’s not that I haven’t come to like her more, but it’s the guardedness. The walls she seems to put up. She is so different from what I’m used to with my other friends.
‘Different rules,’ I say, ‘like the feeling that once you’re in an airport, en route to your holiday, everything’s free. It’s part of the holiday.’
She looks confused.
I smile. ‘Just me then.’
‘Oh – sorry. That’s a joke, right?’
But Helen is nodding, she seems to like the idea. Pressing pause on a promise she has made.
‘And you’ll keep it to yourself?’ she asks.
‘Of course,’ and I gently dip my head.
And so she starts to tell her sister’s story, and the narrative begins as they all do. ‘They were so good together at first. My sister was happy, really happy,’ she reflects.
And I keep my focus on the kids, as she talks. Lexie and Ruby running back, their skirts full of piles of yellow bricks. The boys growing the walls. It’s taking shape. The high walls of yellow and green.
As I listen, it’s a kind of monologue. As if having decided to speak about it, she’s telling the whole story. And it is entirely and depressingly predictable in its trajectory. ‘Polly had had these disastrous relationships, and when Alan came along, he seemed great. Attentive, kind, thoughtful. I mean, Polly was bowled over. Always making sure she got home OK. Hatching these innovative plans for dates. It wasn’t like he spent loads of money. It was just the way he remembered something she’d liked or wanted to do, and he kind of wove these dates around them. Once, after she’d mentioned she liked outdoor swimming, he drove her out to Hurley, a place by the river in Berkshire where they could swim. He’d packed a picnic lunch. I mean, what men pack picnic lunches with homemade tortilla? I remember how I’d laughed, that man’s a keeper, I told her.’ Then Helen pauses. ‘I feel bad, looking back. I realise I felt a little jealous. Why didn’t I have someone so attentive? Ironic, now, of course.’
She watches the children. I look too and we both linger over the sight of them. The furious building and hunting for bricks. The whole operation under the eagle-eye of captain Ollie. Lexie seems distracted by something she has unearthed in one of the boxes. A pink feathery thing that she smooths across her arm.
‘The way things are now. It seems mad to think I was jealous. Jealous of what they had.’
I nod. I’m already full of the weighty feeling of knowing what’s to come. How so many of the women describe the attentiveness. The thoughtfulness. The feeling of being the centre of the universe. Until you realised that the universe was governed by the man. That the most important bit of the universe was their place in it. They were the planet that everything else revolved around.
‘It started slowly,’ she says, ‘little things. Him being over-attentive. Him turning up at nights out she had with friends,’ she laughs. ‘It was right in that first flush of love. I missed you, he’d say, turning up unexpectedly. And at first, she and her friends thought it was sweet. Endearing.’
Biscuit woman makes an announcement about the yoga. ‘Ten minutes,’ she chirps, ‘in the book corner.’
Helen tells me Polly was working as a teacher at the time, when things started to shift. ‘Alan began checking her phone. Querying who she was with. Ringing her when she was out. At first it was nice and friendly. Then it became intrusive. Who were you with? Who was there? How much did you have to drink? Why are you wearing that skirt?’ And she stops for a moment, as if remembering. ‘Then accusing her of things she hadn’t done.’
I think fleetingly of Terri Garner. How she had talked about her partner’s sudden anger.
‘At this point she mentioned a few things to me. Not much. But just that she was finding it a bit full-on. Then she had a birthday party—’
She takes a sip of tea. We survey the work-in-progress. The three sides of the castle are now at Lexie’s waist height.
‘They’d been together about a year, and at the party – he did this poem. It was amazing. With cards and pictures and recordings of funny things. How they met. I mean,’ she says, ‘it was great. But then suddenly, it wasn’t. Like although it was about her, it was really about him, you know?’ and she looks over at me. ‘A chance for him to talk. To demonstrate how wonderful he was. It was her birthday – but ultimately, it was as if he made it about him. It was subtle. It went on and on. Verse after verse. No sense of reading the room. Or reading Polly. I remember looking over at her. I knew her so well. I saw that frozen smile. That look on her face. It was awful. It was killing her. She looked skewered, like a piece of meat. She was grinning away like a fool. Praying for it to finish. To be over. But I realised no one else saw it. Everyone else thought it was fantastic. How lucky she was to have him. What a great guy to spend so much time. So kind and thoughtful . . . charming . . . such good company. But I sensed what she did. That it was too much. That it was all about him. I saw her face in that moment. Saw him for what he was. For what he was in danger of becoming. And had a glimpse of the implications for her. That night was the first time I felt worried about her. But when I brought it up, she was irritated. We had a row. She said I was spoiling things for her. Couldn’t I just let her be happy?’
I listen as Helen talks. There are things I want to ask. But I am careful not to interrupt, so I nod from time to time. Make occasional murmurings. Small comments of agreement. But no questions. I have never heard Helen speak like this. About something so personal, and for so long. I want to keep things alive. I’m aware how quickly things could be shut down. I just listen to her monologue. But even though I am quiet, I am listening in a kind of slow-motion horror. Of course, the question I most want to ask hovers on my lips. But I stay silent. There’s something about the way she’s talking, almost trance-like about her sister, that leaves me not wanting to break the spell. I know how things work with Helen, that if you ask or pry, she shuts down clam-like, and the conversation is over.
‘That was it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing happened,’ she says. ‘She was a bit frosty with me. And then a couple of months later – she was pregnant,’ she throws her hands open, ‘and well, things changed. They moved to Nottingham. I feel it got more difficult for her to speak about things after that. Like she wanted to make it work. Try harder.’
I nod.
‘Well, you’re a GP. I’m sure you can guess where this is heading – sure you’ve come across cases like this.’
‘What happened?’ I ask softly.
‘Alan became vicious. Mainly verbally – but occasionally physically too. But it was more the mental torment, I think. It –’ she bites her lip and looks away, ‘– it took her a long time to tell me. To admit it to anyone. To admit it to herself. He calls her. Needs to know where she is all the time. It’s been bad for the last four years. But things were,’ and again, she hesitates, looking away, ‘especially difficult for her over the lockdowns,’ and I feel the goose bumps bloom across my arms. I feel her caution. Her hesitancy. Her choosing her words very carefully. ‘The kids . . . the house . . . I mean, she has no money of her own. She’s financially dependent on him. He gives her an allowance for food. But in the last few months, she’s been talking really seriously about going – about leaving him. There’s a readiness in her that I haven’t heard before. She seems to be moving to a place of action. But then that can change—’
‘In what way?’
‘She’s scared.’
‘Of him?’ and while it’s no surprise, I still feel a constriction in my throat.
‘Of course – but also,’ and she looks away, ‘I think she feels so crushed. Underconfident. He’s a powerful man. He’s been so critical, always telling her how useless she is, often calls her a “waste of space”.’ She pauses. ‘Our mother had some mental health issues in the past. He uses this. Taunts her with it. The apple never falls far from the tree, and all that. He tells her she’d never manage on her own. Tells her she’s hopeless with the kids. A terrible mother. That she’d fall apart if she was on her own. I mean, she’s gone from being head of the English department to being scared of her own shadow. Believes she’s a crap mother because he tells her she is so often.’ She shrugs. ‘She believes it. She believes she simply won’t manage.’
‘Has she talked to anyone else? A friend? Her GP?’
She shakes her head. ‘I’m the only person she talks to.’
‘You can’t do anything until she’s ready. Until she’s really ready to go. That can take a long time. I read up on it. Case studies. You can’t persuade her to go until she’s ready.’
She nods. ‘I know. I’ve tried. So many times. I know that.’
‘Does he hurt the kids?’
She looks shocked. ‘No. Of course not.’
There’s a moment. Neither of us speaks.
‘But – you know. I think that’s why she’s at a turning point. Last week she said she was worried about her eldest kid. She has three children. But now they’re all getting older – she said she can imagine they will start questioning some of his ideas. His methods.’
‘What do you mean?’ and I feel a creeping sense of unease.
She pauses. ‘Things that really aren’t normal,’ she says. ‘Things that kids might accept when they’re young. But the older they get, they might question. Answer back. Argue,’ and she looks away.
I am holding my breath.
‘What sort of things?’ I ask.
‘He has some odd ideas. She doesn’t want the kids to be influenced. Contaminated by these things.’
A beat.
‘He voted for Brexit,’ she says.
I laugh. ‘So did half the country.’
But she doesn’t smile. Her face is tight.
‘He had ideas about people. Groups of people.’ And as she speaks, I feel the pull of anxiety.
‘Ideas about the country. His sense of injustice.’ She twists the top off the jammy dodger. Two halves of a whole, sticky in her fingers. ‘He blames other people for things that have gone wrong for him.’
‘What do you mean?’
There’s a silence. Her voice drops down low. ‘Certain groups,’ she says carefully, ‘people he doesn’t think belong here.’
I take a sharp intake of breath.
‘Since he lost his job, he’s become more fervent. More obsessed. Blames other people. People he says are taking all the jobs. Last week Polly said he spends all his spare time online. Says it’s work . . .’ and she trails off.
