Losing Me (22 page)

Stan comes into the hallway but barely notices Barbara because his anxiety is so bad that he’s on the verge of being sick. Rose stops fussing for a moment and tells Barbara that the car will be here any minute. She should go and retrieve her bouquet from the kitchen sink.

The doorbell rings. In walks Betty—pretty in peach lace. She takes one look at Barbara and gasps. “Oh, sweetheart. You look stunning. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful bride. Goodness. I think I’m going to cry.” Barbara takes pleasure in Betty’s words but doesn’t feel deserving of them. At the same time, she feels a sudden and acute sadness. It will take her years to work out why.

•   •   •

Back home, Barbara was unpacking her precious Conran lamp and fretting about Jean when the phone rang.

“Barbara, it’s Jack Dolan.”

He said he was sorry to disturb her, but he wanted to ask her a small favor. Freddie had his dyslexia assessment in a few days, and since Sally and Jeremy were away again, he would be taking him. “Apparently they send a written report afterwards. Sally has asked me to take a look at it and then give her a call, but I’m worried it might be all double Dutch to me. I was wondering if you would mind going through it with me.”

Barbara said she’d be more than happy to take a look at the report.

“You sure it wouldn’t be putting you out?”

“Not at all. I’ve been thinking a lot about Freddie. I’d be interested to hear somebody else’s opinion. By the way, how does he feel about being assessed?”

“I had to persuade Sally to be straight with him about it. Eventually she sat him down and explained why we were worried about him, but it didn’t go down well. Before he’s even been assessed, he’s decided he’s thick and good for nothing.”

Barbara asked if Freddie’s behavior had changed towards his mother.

“Afraid not. Sally and Jeremy are still neglecting him and spoiling him. Poor chap’s all over the place—doesn’t know where he is.”

“I’m so sorry he’s going through all this. Say hi to him for me and tell him I’m thinking of him.”

“Will do.”

Jack said he would call her as soon as the report arrived.

•   •   •

By the end of the week Barbara had made up her mind. She was ready to have “the conversation” with her mother. Jean was right: so long as she took it gently and didn’t go on the attack, all would be well. She was due to visit Rose on Saturday with a load of shopping. The supermarket delivery had been a disaster—tasteless apples, brown bananas, Edam that was too cheesy and the wrong brand of water biscuits.

The first thing she noticed when she arrived was that Rose’s ankle seemed to be much better. Her walking wasn’t quite back to normal, but the swelling had gone down and she was able to put much more weight on it. So much so that as Barbara came in, her mother insisted on taking one of the plastic carriers from her. “Terry’s wife the nurse says another few days and I should be completely back on my feet.”

Barbara unpacked the shopping and handed the items to her mother.

“What’s this you’ve got me?” Rose said. “I asked for ‘light’ butter, not ‘lightest.’ It’s full of water. Tastes of nothing. And where are my apricot yogurts? Don’t say you forgot my yogurts.”

Barbara offered to pop to the corner shop, but Rose put on her martyred voice and said she would manage. Barbara consoled herself with the thought that by next week her mother would be doing her own shopping again.

When they’d finished putting away the groceries, Barbara suggested they have a cup of tea.

“Would you mind making it?” Rose said. “I think I need to sit down again and rest my ankle.” Rose headed towards the living room. “Oh, and a chocolate digestive would be nice.”

“Coming up.” Barbara flicked the switch on the kettle and went to the fridge to get milk. As she leaned in, she saw four cartons of apricot yogurt. Rose still hadn’t got through the ones from last week.

Barbara placed the tray of tea and biscuits on the coffee table.

“Would you mind closing that window?” Rose said with a shiver. “It’s making a draft.” Barbara went over to the window and pulled it shut. On the ledge below was a photograph of Stan in army uniform. She picked it up. “I’d forgotten how handsome Dad was when he was young.”

“He was such a catch,” Rose said, picking up her cup of tea. “I talk to him every day, you know. Tell him bits and pieces about what’s been going on.”

Barbara put the photograph back and came and sat in the armchair. “So when you were first married, what was it like?”

“Wonderful,” Rose said with a faraway look. “We were so happy.” Her fingers started playing with the hem of her cardigan. “In the early days, your dad got a bit low from time to time, but I thought that with time it would pass. I remember how we used to cuddle up on the settee and talk about all our plans for the future.”

“Was I planned?”

“Of course you were. We were so excited. Your dad went straight out and bought a book of baby names. I started knitting, but I wasn’t very good. I finished one bootee. I think I’ve still got it somewhere.”

Her mother had kept one of her bootees. She never knew that.

“So how did you feel when I was born?”

Rose’s face became a smile. “You were such a bonny little thing. Over eight pounds. All the nurses made a fuss of you.”

“And you loved me?”

“What sort of a question is that? Of course I did.”

So her mother hadn’t turned away from her as an infant. That was something. Barbara’s heart pounded as she prepared to say what she’d come to say. “The thing is, growing up I never felt you loved me.”

Rose didn’t react. There wasn’t a hint of surprise on her face. It was the oddest thing. Barbara got the feeling that her mother had been expecting to hear these words one day. Maybe she’d prepared herself.

“It was terrible for me, living with your father. After he got ill, he couldn’t love me.” She sat there unable to make eye contact with Barbara, a guilty but nonetheless fragile, vulnerable defendant pleading her case. “What I mean to say is . . .”

“He couldn’t make love?”

She nodded. “I lived almost my entire married life without affection, without the touch of a man. How do you think it was for me? I took refuge in buying clothes—making sure I always looked good. I had to keep proving to myself that I was still attractive.”

Barbara moved to the sofa and sat down next to her mother. “I can’t imagine what that must have been like.” Rose started to cry. Barbara put her arm around her mother’s shoulder. “You didn’t deserve that.”

“No, I didn’t. These days they call it post-traumatic stress. When it happens to people now, doctors can help them. They get therapy. Your dad got nothing.”

“I know, Mum. It was so bloody cruel. If help had been available back then, your life would have been different, too. I get that. I do understand. But I was just a child. I needed to be loved.”

“I did my best.” Her mother’s words were cold, matter-of-fact. She took a tissue from her cardigan pocket. “What’s done is done. Why are you raking over the past?”

“Because I need you to understand that even though you didn’t mean to hurt me, you did. I’m still hurting. You were so angry and frustrated about what was happening to Dad that you took it out on me.”

“Why are you picking on me? What about your dad? Didn’t he hurt you? The man couldn’t leave the house.”

•   •   •

Barbara is nearly eleven. She’s in her final year at primary school. Auditions are being held for the end-of-year play—
Toad of Toad Hall
. She’s a shy kid, but inside, extrovert Barbara is already straining to get out. Secretly she fantasizes about one day becoming a famous pop singer or actress. She’d give anything to have a part in the school play. The auditions for Mr. Toad—an aristocratic, pompous buffoon who causes mayhem wherever he goes—are held one playtime. The usual live wires and show-offs go along. Barbara stays in the playground, dithering. What she knows, that nobody else does, is that she can do a perfect impersonation of an English upper-class accent. But does she dare do it in public? Heart racing and feeling sick, she heads off to the staff room and gets in line. Finally her name is called. She goes in. Mrs. Dean, the deputy head, hands her a script and asks her to read Mr. Toad’s opening lines. To get into character, she puffs out her nonexistent stomach and arranges her features to look jovial. “Hello, you fellows! This is splendid. Hello, old Badger. Dear old Ratty . . . How are you?. . .”

Mrs. Dean is visibly shocked. “Goodness, Barbara. That was excellent. Why on earth have you been hiding your light under a bushel for so long?”

Barbara doesn’t know what a bushel is and is too scared to ask. She gets the part.

On the big night, Mrs. Connell, the art teacher who’s made most of the scenery, smothers Barbara’s face in emerald grease paint. She gets to wear a red frock coat, an oversized bow tie, and a gold top hat. But the best bit is the toad paunch that she wears under her costume. It’s made from a cushion. Mrs. Connell has attached long tapes, which Barbara ties around her middle.

At the end of the show there’s a huge round of applause just for Barbara. Rose, who’s not known for lavish praise, is quick to tell her how well she’s done and marvels at how she managed to learn all those lines. Stan, who’s going through a particularly bad patch with his nerves, isn’t there. Barbara had begged him to come.
Toad of Toad Hall
was funny. It would make him laugh. Take him out of himself. He was her dad. He had to be there. She wanted him to take a photograph of her in her costume. Rose was hopeless with cameras—even their Instamatic. Barbara’s sense of achievement is muted by her father’s absence. Her self-confidence improves a bit, but not much. Overall, she still feels pretty worthless.

•   •   •

“Of course he hurt me. I’m not sure I ever forgave him for not turning up to see me in
Toad of Toad
Hall
, but at least I got some affection from him. He cuddled me. You almost never cuddled me.”

“I don’t remember,” Rose said. “It was a long time ago. But why are you dwelling on all this? It does you no good. You should be looking forward, not back.” She paused. “And anyway, I did show you affection. I used to make a unicorn horn with your hair when you were in the bath and I’d joke about how cabbages would grow behind your ears if you didn’t wash them properly.”

“You’re right. You did, but that was the extent of it. . . . The thing is, I know I should be looking forward, but first I need you to understand that because of the way you were with me, I always felt like this naughty little girl. Even now, no matter what I do for you, I can’t get anything right. Why is that?”

Rose shrugged. “Like I say—I did my best. I still do. If that’s not good enough . . .”

She sounded like Frank.

“After everything I did for him, your father refused to go to the hospital. He chose to die rather than stay with me. How could he do that to me?” She wiped her nose with the tissue.

“Mum, we’ve been over this a hundred times. Dad was mentally ill. He couldn’t help it.”

“Maybe not, but I’ve had to live with what he did. It’s strange—I’ve often thought about Hitler’s henchmen murdering all those poor wretched people in the concentration camps. But it didn’t end there. The lives of those who survived were destroyed, too. Then there were the survivors’ children who suffered. But what about the lives of the soldiers who went in and rescued them? Your father never recovered from the horror he saw. Hitler killed your father just like he killed those people in the camps. He may have died decades after the camps were liberated, but it was still murder. I had to watch him suffer, and nobody could do anything.”

“I understand all that. You both went through hell. But you dragged me along, too.”

“You don’t know how lucky you are. You’ve got Frank, your kids, your grandchildren, your friends. You’ve had a career. What did I have? Tell me that.”

Barbara sat next to her mother, a little girl hungry for a scrap of love or affection. But it seemed that no matter what she said, how much she kicked and screamed, her mother was still refusing to provide it.

She laid her head on her mother’s shoulder. Now she was crying—for Rose, for herself, for the whole bloody mess. “I’m sorry, Mum. I’m truly sorry for everything you went through.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “But I just wish you’d been able to show me that you loved me, that’s all.”

“If you’d walked in my shoes, you would understand.”

Barbara was getting nowhere. It wasn’t hard to work out why. If Rose dared to acknowledge how cruel she’d been to Barbara, the guilt would consume and overwhelm her. At her age, it might even finish her off. She had to keep it at bay at all costs.

Barbara sat up and looked hard at Rose. “You didn’t even tell me I looked beautiful on my wedding day.” There, she’d actually said it. After all these years of holding back, she’d come out with it.

“Of course I did! That’s a terrible thing to say. What sort of a mother doesn’t tell her daughter how beautiful she looks on her wedding day?”

Barbara decided to let it go. She’d said enough. Having promised to go easy on her mother, she’d gone too far.

“I’m sorry,” Barbara said. “Forget it. Maybe I’m wrong.” She took a breath. “Mum, do you love me?”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake. Of course I do. All mothers love their children. Now, can we please stop this? It’s doing neither of us any good. Enough now.”

Rose picked up the TV remote and hit the “on” button. Green baize and a triangle of red snooker balls filled the screen. They were done. The conversation was over. Barbara said she should probably get going.

•   •   •

Half an hour later Barbara was sitting in Jean’s kitchen. Ken had gone to see Arsenal play Fulham. Afterwards he was going out for a drink and a curry with the lads, so he wouldn’t be back until late. Since it was past five and the sun was officially over the yardarm, Jean opened a bottle of wine and a jumbo pack of Doritos.

“I went too far. I really upset her,” Barbara said, sliding her hand into the Doritos pack for the fourth or fifth time. “I should have left well alone. Now I feel like this great big bully. What was I doing, tormenting an eighty-three-year-old woman?”