Grace, page 14
Coming from a generation of women largely expected to give up any idea of a career after marriage, Catherine had found herself divorced aged thirty-three, without useful skills or qualifications and very little confidence. Thus, she had decided to move down to Cornwall to be near her parents, who’d owned a small hotel on the seafront, which Catherine had helped them to run. The hotel had limped along for a couple of decades, buoyed by nostalgic coach tours and amateur magic shows, before finally closing in the 1990s, laden with debt. It was now flats. Catherine’s parents had bought the house she now lived in with the very small sum they’d got left over after the sale, and she remained there now, long after their deaths.
Amelia found her mother-in-law’s home incredibly depressing, but she had grown to love Falmouth, with its bustling main street, busy harbour and diverse population of arty students from Falmouth University. She loved spotting them walking by, their hair coloured pink or jet black or blue, with multiple piercings in their noses, eyes and God knows where else, wearing tiny crop tops or enormous kaftans in all the colours of the rainbow. They reminded her of herself, but in a previous life that she could barely believe had existed. She looked down now at the outfit she was wearing – high-waisted blue jeans and a blue polo neck jumper – and realised that she no longer recognised her younger self.
When she reached the baby changing room, she was relieved to find it unoccupied. She pulled the door open and shut it behind her, breathing through her mouth to avoid smelling the delightful cocktail of baby poo and wee which was emanating from a bank of overfilled nappy bins in the corner.
She pulled the portable changing mat out of the bag, threw it over the padded mat that was provided – which she was relieved to see looked at least superficially clean – and then laid Grace down on it. Her eyes began to open as she did so, and she started directly at Amelia, who had begun pulling off her dirty clothes and placing them, one by one, in tied nappy sacks. Distracted momentarily by the challenge of removing her tiny dress without redistributing poo all over her hair, it took her a while to notice that Grace was smiling. They’d had a few false alarms over the past few weeks, when she’d grimaced with wind, but this seemed like the real thing. She was beaming at Amelia, with her eyes as well as her mouth.
Amelia was stunned and felt a surge of love so strong that it felt like a physical embrace. She stopped what she was doing, leaned down and kissed Grace on the nose. Grace smiled, so Amelia did it again. And again. And then she kissed her stomach and blew a raspberry. Grace’s little legs kicked out as she did so, her arms flapping wildly. It felt to Amelia as if they were the only two people in the world. This, she thought: this is what motherhood is. This is what makes everything worthwhile.
She finished cleaning her up, snapped and buttoned her new outfit into place, and then put everything else back in the bag. There was a small sink in the corner of the room, so she held Grace over her shoulder as she washed and dried her hands.
She was about to leave when a thought occurred to her. She got out her phone.
She smiled at me! The most gorgeous thing. I don’t even feel that tired anymore! she wrote, sending the message to Rachel.
Rachel had been a pillar of strength for her in the past few weeks. She had been on the end of the phone at all times to answer queries about odd rashes, feeding issues and sleeping queries, and Amelia had relished her private chats with her in the coffee shop after baby group. She was so honest, so straightforward and so fun, and she had made all of her worries, fears and inadequacies feel normal.
As Amelia pulled the door open, her phone beeped. She slung the bag over her shoulder, kept a grip on Grace, and pulled her phone out of her pocket.
Awesome! It begins. Enjoy.
She felt a warm glow and held Grace, who had fallen back to sleep against her shoulder, more tightly. She returned to the car with a spring in her step.
‘Piers, guess what?’ she said, approaching the car. She was desperate to share her joy. Piers was standing against the car boot staring at a piece of paper.
‘What?’ he snapped, folding the paper up and putting it in his back pocket, his face one giant scowl. It must be one of the letters she’d seen on the dresser that morning, placed there by Matron. School related, maybe? He’d tell her what it was about in time. It didn’t seem like good news, anyway.
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Nothing to worry yourself about.’ She opened the passenger door and strapped Amelia into the car seat, which Piers had given a perfunctory clean with baby wipes, tell-tale traces of yellow still visible in the corners. But it would have to do, Amelia thought. They needed to get going. Piers started the car as soon as she had got in the passenger seat.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s finally get going. Should be there for a late lunch. I texted Mum. She wasn’t too upset that we’re delayed, which is good. Onwards.’
*
‘Amelia, dear,’ said Catherine, craning her leathery neck so that Amelia could lean down to kiss her cheek. ‘How lovely to see you. And this…’ she said, her eyes darting towards the car seat Amelia was holding, ‘… must be Grace?’
Amelia watched her take in Grace’s sleeping form and saw that her eyes had begun to water. ‘How wonderful. Just wonderful. Won’t you come in?’
Amelia followed her down the short stone path to her front door and into her living room. ‘Come and sit down over here, both of you. I’ll make tea.’
There was a small artificial Christmas tree in the corner of the room, next to the fireplace. It had been decorated with a string of multi-coloured lights and an assortment of garish plastic baubles which Amelia guessed must date back to the 1980s. On the mantelpiece were a few Christmas cards, showing scenes of snowy churches, choirboys in ruffles and Mary, Joseph and Jesus beneath a star. Amelia knew that churchgoing was an important part of Catherine’s life. She was glad that her mother-in-law had that sense of community around her, even if she didn’t share her religious belief. She was keenly aware that Catherine had scant communication from her busy, work-addicted son.
‘How’ve you been, then, Mum?’ said Piers, sitting down on one of Catherine’s battered cream sofas, which were topped with lace antimacassars. ‘Been busy?’
‘Oh, you know, this and that,’ said Catherine, speaking from her small galley kitchen, which was through an arched doorway off the lounge. ‘Doing the flowers. Choir practice. Going for walks. And I help Jim down the way, you know. He’s ninety. He needs lifts to the hospital sometimes.’
‘Sounds like you have lots going on then,’ said Piers.
It was incredibly clear to Amelia that the very opposite was true. They had last seen Catherine in the summer. They’d rented a large seafront apartment in Padstow, which was a considerable drive from Falmouth. It had been Piers’ choice; a treat, he had said, for them both, after everything they’d been through. They’d only been to visit Catherine a couple of times on that trip. Amelia still felt guilty about it. Piers was Catherine’s only son. How must she feel, knowing that he had come all of that way for a holiday, but not really been bothered enough to drive a tiny bit further a bit more often to see more of her?
‘Don’t worry about the tea, Catherine, come and have a cuddle of Grace,’ she said, calling out in the direction of the kitchen.
‘Hang on, just a minute, and I’ll be with you.’
Amelia felt embarrassed, just sitting there waiting, so she got up and went into the kitchen.
‘Look, let me help you,’ she said to her mother-in-law. ‘Shall I get a tray?’
‘Oh yes, thank you dear. It’s behind the toaster.’
Amelia retrieved a plastic tray decorated with poppies and put it down next to the kettle. Then she helped Catherine assemble cups, saucers, milk and sugar, and found her a tea cosy for the pot she had just made. Then she put it all on the tray and carried it back into the lounge, Catherine following behind her. As she put the tray down on a side table, she saw that Piers was now cradling Grace.
‘Now, let me see her more closely,’ said Catherine, sitting down next to her son and leaning over Grace. Amelia could see that she was soaking up every little detail with her eyes, while her hands assessed her tiny feet, her striped dress, and her wisps of brown hair.
‘She’s… beautiful,’ said Catherine, her voice reedy.
‘Isn’t she,’ said Piers. ‘She’s going to be a stunner.’
‘May I hold her?’ Catherine said, looking over at Amelia and not at Piers. Amelia smiled.
‘Of course! Just make sure that you support her head.’
‘Ah yes, it was a long time ago, but I remember,’ she said. ‘You never forget that sort of thing.’
Piers handed over Grace to his mother.
‘How old is she now?’ asked Catherine.
‘Eight weeks,’ replied Amelia.
‘And how does she sleep?’
‘She… doesn’t,’ replied Amelia, trying to make light of it. ‘She is a stinker. She sleeps for maybe an hour or so at a time.’
‘Oh, that’s so hard,’ said Catherine. ‘You can cope with almost anything when you’ve had a good sleep. But when you’re tired… that’s another thing entirely.’
Amelia nodded in agreement. She leaned over and began to pour three cups of tea, dashing milk in beforehand, as she knew Catherine expected her to do. Catherine had Irish roots, and tea was practically ceremonial in her household.
‘So when is the court case? The one where you get given her, properly, I mean?’ she asked Amelia.
‘Oh, that’s three months away, probably,’ said Piers. ‘But it might be earlier. The birth parents aren’t turning up to the contact sessions. If they don’t contest any of it – and it seems to me that they won’t – it should all be just a formality. The social workers have done their reports now, I think. They could schedule it for a couple of months’ time.’
‘I see,’ said Catherine. ‘And that would be a real relief for you, wouldn’t it?’ she said, looking over at Amelia, who thought, not for the first time, that her mother-in-law might be psychic.
‘Oh, we’re not worried,’ said Piers, idly stroking Grace’s head. ‘We know we’re a good, solid prospect: loving parents in a stable relationship with a stable income and a nice home. I’m sure the judge will see that.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Catherine, pausing to sip her tea. ‘Is she a good feeder?’
‘Yes,’ said Amelia, grateful for the change of subject. Piers’ confidence felt to her like tempting fate. ‘She guzzles. Actually, she’s due a feed about now. We last fed her in Exeter. Can I use your microwave to sterilise a bottle?’
‘Of course,’ said Catherine, getting up. ‘Come this way. Hopefully I have everything you need.’
Amelia got up and followed, leaving Piers cradling Grace. He was making cooing noises, rubbing noses with her. Amelia carried the changing bag into the kitchen, which she’d now become accustomed to packing in her sleep. It contained: three nappies, a portable changing mat, a pack of nappy sacks, nappy rash cream, baby wipes, spare dummies, a muslin, pre-portioned formula powder, a microwave steriliser and two milk bottles, with teats.
She pulled the steriliser, the bottles and the teats out of the bag, and walked over to the kettle to add a small amount of water to the base of the steriliser. Catherine watched her with interest. ‘It’s all changed so much since my day,’ she said. ‘We just boiled bottles in a saucepan. And I think I gave Piers cow’s milk from young. I always struggled with breastfeeding.’
Amelia suddenly felt her nipples twinge; muscle memory that refused to die. She needed to keep talking about something else to prevent herself going down that particular rabbit hole.
‘Right,’ said Amelia, putting the bottles in the steriliser and placing it in the microwave. ‘This needs four minutes. Can you set it going for me?’
‘Of course,’ said Catherine. ‘You just turn this dial and press…’
They were interrupted by ear-piercing screams from the lounge. Grace was bawling her eyes out.
‘Heavens!’ said Catherine. ‘She’s got a pair of lungs on her.’
‘Ha, yes,’ said Amelia. ‘That’s the noise that wakes me up several times a night. And yet Piers seems to sleep through it.’
‘He’s always been a solid sleeper,’ said Catherine, staring at the steriliser revolving inside of the microwave. ‘I suppose that might be because of boarding school. I think he had to sleep through lots of noise every night, sharing a room with eight other boys.’
Amelia thought of the boys who lived in their boarding house. The dorms were smaller now, with no more than three in each, but even then, she wondered what it must be like to have so little privacy from so young. She had gone to the local state school – being a girl, she hadn’t been eligible for a place at the college and her parents couldn’t afford the fees at the nearest private girls’ school, anyway – and she was glad. Her parents had not been overly affectionate, or particularly empathetic, come to that, but at least they had given her a room of her own to return to each night.
That room, the smallest in the house and sandwiched up against the hill that had risen behind their large Victorian villa, had been a merciful escape from the world. She had covered the walls with pictures cut out from fashion magazines and had bought an old easel from a second-hand shop. She had spent most of her free time painting and drawing on it, creating new landscapes, new rooms, new worlds in which she was entirely comfortable, and never ignored, or disappointing.
The microwave pinged and Catherine held the door open for Amelia, who was distracted by the loud cries still emanating from the lounge. She took the steriliser out of the microwave, placed it on the side and walked back through to check on Grace.
Piers was pacing backwards and forwards across the small lounge, bouncing Grace up and down with vigour. Her face was red, and so was his; it was clear from his expression that her screams were now inflicting something akin to pain.
‘She just won’t stop,’ he snapped. ‘Whatever I do. She just won’t.’
‘She’ll be hungry,’ said Catherine, suddenly surging past Amelia and lifting Grace out of her son’s arms. ‘We’ve got the bottle here, I’ll feed her. Why don’t you go for a walk, darling?’ she said, looking at a somewhat shell-shocked Piers. ‘Clear your head after the long drive? Get us fish and chips for dinner?’
Piers, whose face was still red and etched with pain, took a step towards the door.
‘That might be good, yes,’ he said, mumbling a little. ‘I’ll be back… in a bit.’
He walked towards the door, took his coat from the hook, put it on and closed the door swiftly behind him, with a click.
Then there was silence for the first time in about ten minutes. Amelia looked across at the sofa where her mother-in-law was now sitting, angling a bottle of warm milk into Grace’s grateful mouth. They were the picture of serenity. It was an extraordinary contrast with what had gone on just minutes before and it took Amelia a while to adjust.
‘Sit down, won’t you, Amelia?’ said Catherine, noting Amelia’s discomfort. ‘Take a break. I know this stage is tough.’
Amelia sat down at the other end of the sofa. She was mesmerised by the ease with which Catherine was taking care of Grace. It was like they had always known each other.
‘I blame myself,’ said Catherine.
Amelia’s head snapped up. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.
‘About Piers. His temper. I blame myself.’
Amelia was blindsided. She had never discussed Piers with his mother. It had never occurred to her that Piers had ever been angry with anyone but herself. Catherine had always seemed so proud of him.
‘I…’
‘When his father left us, you see, I didn’t fight hard enough to keep control of him, the care of him. I didn’t try hard enough to keep him at school near me, and I didn’t explain things that had happened to him properly. And then he got angry, so very, very angry about it all… And I think he has never stopped being angry since,’ she said.
Amelia’s first instinct was to defend her husband – he was usually thoughtful, gentlemanly, generous. And after all, the drive down had been hellish for them both. But she examined her mother-in-law carefully. Although Catherine’s words were profound, her face was calm, as if she had come to terms with what she was saying years ago. She seemed to be speaking the truth, or at least, her version of it, anyway.
‘I had hoped that after he and Lesley… well… I had hoped he had recovered a bit. After meeting you.’
For the second time in recent weeks, the spectre of Lesley loomed large for Amelia. Piers had always shut down all lines of enquiry, but now, she wanted answers. She seized the chance.
‘Were you close to him? Sebastian, I mean?’ she asked Catherine.
‘Oh yes. I looked after him when he was tiny. I even babysat him for weekends. He was a lovely little chap.’
Amelia looked closely at Catherine and could see that her eyes were threatening tears.
‘I’m so sorry, Catherine,’ she said.
‘Not your fault at all,’ she replied. ‘In any way.’
They sat in silence, the only sounds Grace’s rhythmic drinking and the distant calls of seagulls.
‘Do you keep in touch with Lesley?’ Amelia asked, emboldened by Catherine’s shocking admission.
‘Only via email, and Christmas cards,’ Catherine replied, quickly.
‘But you must miss…’
‘Yes, I miss Sebby, yes,’ replied Catherine. ‘Very much. But Piers was so angry after he and Lesley parted, and he would see me still seeing him as a betrayal. And I have let him down enough, I think.’
Amelia was stunned. She had never heard anyone describe Piers as anything other than charismatic; capable; clever; an excellent leader. He didn’t seem the sort of man who’d ever been let down.
‘You haven’t let him down,’ said Amelia, automatically. ‘You have been a wonderful mother to him…’
