Weird Sister (11 page)

Agnes is new to Warboys, Karen reflects on this that night after the wedding. She tries to imagine what it must feel like to leave the place you know – your home, your country – and go live elsewhere. She wouldn’t have the courage. She doesn’t know how Agnes has the courage. And why, Karen asks herself, why did you come here? What have you left behind?

And then there is Jenny. Karen worries about Jenny. She has always been a little bit unstable, changeable, like a weathervane. Graeme and Robert put it down to the fact that she lost their mother at birth. They do what they can for her but when she was a child they were young men getting on with their lives. Martin did his best for the first few years, until he was no longer able. The Throckmortons are like other people in this regard; they accept their fate and get on with life. There is – has always been – a certain amount of muddling through. Karen has tried to mother Jenny, but Jenny resists, they have never got along particularly well even though Karen has been around all of Jenny’s short life. ‘Jenny,’ Karen asks from time to time, ‘is everything all right?’ ‘Yes,’ the girl replies, turning away. She is very close to her brother Graeme and Karen works hard to avoid feeling jealousy. She is not completely successful. And mothering Jenny is complicated by the difficulties she and Graeme had in conceiving their own child.

As soon as Graeme was on full salary with the police force he and Karen got married. Karen quit her job, it was what they had agreed she should do. Stay home and take care of Jenny, keep house for Graeme and Robert and their father. Have a family. But it didn’t happen the way they planned. They abandoned contraceptives on their wedding night but months passed and nothing transpired. After five years sex had become well-timed and perfunctory; another year and, despite Graeme’s reluctance to involve outsiders, Karen went to the doctor. She embarked on a series of tests that she found degrading and embarrassing; she persisted, there was no alternative. After some months they established that there was absolutely nothing wrong with her, she ovulated regularly, her tubes were clear, everything was the right way up and in its proper place. The GP said Graeme should come and see him; he’d been suggesting that all along, but Karen knew her husband wouldn’t agree so she hadn’t bothered asking. But now she was gripped by sadness and desperation; she was only twenty-six and she wanted a baby. She wanted a baby in a way that made her ache. And she’d been told there was no reason why she couldn’t have one. Her desire overruled her reluctance. She told Graeme he had to go and see the doctor or there was no point in having sex ever again.

Graeme made an appointment, and cancelled it, made another and cancelled that as well. He knew what he was going to be told. One morning after he’d left Karen weeping in the bathroom as she discovered she was menstruating yet again, he drove to London instead of going in to work. He went to a private clinic he’d seen advertised in a magazine and paid for tests. A week later he received a phonecall while on his lunchbreak. He stood at the payphone next to the toilet and insisted on being given the result there and then; the nurse in London informed him that his sperm count was very low. ‘How low?’ Too low. He did not allow the expression on his face to change. He said, ‘Thank you,’ and hung up the phone. Later that shift, while making an arrest outside a pub – drunken brawlers – he kicked one of the suspects in the groin. He later claimed the man had been resisting arrest.

It took him six months to tell Karen about the test. During that time he had three affairs with women in Peterborough – a police constable, a secretary who used to work with Karen, and a barmaid from a pub he frequented. With all three women he refused to use contraception and all three allowed him because, for a moment, they fancied having his baby. Karen knew that Graeme was not faithful, although he never confessed and she had never found any evidence. But sometimes, late at night, she thought she deserved to be barren, he deserved it, it was their punishment.

‘I think we should go private,’ Karen said, one evening. ‘I think I should try IVF. I don’t want to wait for the NHS.’

‘How much will it cost?’ Graeme asked. Their room was dark. The wind made the bones of the house creak.

‘I don’t know. Two or three thousand each time.’

‘Each time?’

‘It can take several goes.’

They couldn’t afford it. There was no way they could afford it on his salary.

‘It’s my fault,’ Graeme said. ‘It’s down to me.’

Karen thought he was talking about the money. ‘I’ll ask my dad. Maybe he’ll lend us something.’

‘I don’t mean that it’s –’ He shifted in the bed, moving as far away from Karen as possible. ‘I haven’t got enough.’

‘He’ll lend us, I’ve never asked –’

‘No,’ his voice was raised, angry. He sighed, heavy, sinking down into the bed. ‘I haven’t got enough sperm. They’re dead. There’s nothing they can do for me.’

After that, they were silent. Karen had known this must be the case, but she had never allowed herself to think about it before. It was unthinkable. Graeme couldn’t do it, he couldn’t give her a baby. She knew what he was feeling and there was nothing she could do about it, nothing she could say.

They lay in bed for a long time without touching. Graeme could feel Karen holding her body rigid. After another long while he thought of reaching out for her but by then she was asleep. He heard her breath grow even and deep. He got up, went downstairs and drank all the beer in the fridge. In the morning Karen found him lying asleep on the floor under the kitchen table. She bundled him upstairs and called in sick for him before anyone else got up.

They spent the next week considering their options. Not together, not in deep and confidential discussions, not trying to make each other laugh, not holding each other’s hands, but separately, on their own as they went about their duties, hers in the home, his at work. If they couldn’t speak to each other, there could be no one else for them to talk to either, and so they kept it to themselves. The options were clear. They could divorce, Karen could find someone else, and Graeme, well, there were plenty of single mothers out there looking for a likely candidate. They could foster, maybe adopt a child, they were young enough, they would probably meet the criteria. They could forget it and Karen could find a job and they could live out their childless lives in the Throckmorton house.

No. None of this was right.

They could use donated sperm. Karen could go down to London and visit a sperm bank, such places existed. But then their children would be strangers to Graeme, the offspring of anonymous men. Graeme wouldn’t agree to that.

They came up with the same plan at the same time, the same night as they lay together in bed. They hadn’t had sex for months and nor had they spoken about what they had both come to think of as The Problem. From the outside their marriage could look loveless; Graeme treated Karen with an off-hand disdain that other people found painful to observe. And there were his affairs, everyone knew about his affairs. But despite appearances, despite daily realities, there was a way in which Graeme and Karen knew each other thoroughly, completely – and if that’s not love, Karen said to herself, what is?

‘Robert.’ Graeme spoke first.

‘Robert,’ Karen answered.

They were silent again for some time.

‘Do you think he’ll agree?’ asked Karen.

‘He will,’ said Graeme. ‘I’ll make him.’

Robert

The morning after the wedding I woke to the sound of Andrew and Karen whispering on the landing outside our bedroom. Agnes was sound asleep. I felt exhausted, hungover, and too happy for words. I looked over at my wife.

Suddenly I remembered. I hadn’t told Agnes about the boys. I guess Andrew had come upstairs to wake us and Karen had caught him before he could get into our room. Andrew woke me most mornings, he woke everyone most mornings, he was our human alarm clock. Four years old and raring to go first thing. I would have to tell Agnes the truth.

I could hear Karen trying to persuade the child to leave us alone. Very intelligent, I thought, for him to remember which room Agnes and I had moved into. Eventually she managed to get him to go downstairs with her. God knows what she had to promise in exchange.

Andrew and Francis don’t know that I’m their biological father. Graeme and Karen did not plan to tell them, they didn’t think it necessary. As far as I was concerned, Graeme and Karen were the boys’ parents and I was their doting uncle. Andrew is a little toughie, he looks more like Graeme than me anyway, and Francis is the image of Karen, the image of Karen transmigrated into a little boy. For me, they are Graeme’s boys.

There was nothing I could do about my oversight. I had married Agnes and I had forgotten to tell her about the boys. As the enormity of my mistake began to sink in, the warmth and cosiness of my marriage bed dissipated. When Agnes woke up I would have to tell her. I had no idea how she would respond. How could I forget, how could I not have considered that she might find it difficult to accept this particular information about my family?

I lay awake for ages, rehearsing the speech I would make. There was no good way of telling her.

Eventually she began to stir, pressing her body against mine. She opened her green eyes, smiled and stretched, and moved close to kiss me. But I couldn’t let her kiss me, I had to tell her, I had to tell the truth and let her respond. By now I felt sure that ours would be the very briefest of marriages. She would despise me for not telling her this most basic of truths.

‘Good morning husband,’ she said, but not even that could make me smile. ‘What’s wrong?’ She could read me so well already.

‘I –’ I started and stopped. I couldn’t work out how to tell her. She looked at me, more awake and alert. ‘Graeme –’ I began again, then paused. ‘Graeme can’t have children,’ I said. ‘So the boys, well, biologically they are mine. I was the donor.’

Agnes’s green eyes widened slightly, so I assumed she was shocked.

‘I know, I know, I should have told you. I should have told you before we were married. But I never think about it. I didn’t sleep with Karen, I simply handed . . . it . . . over. I’m not their father, you see, Graeme is. We decided –’

‘What a gift,’ she said, interrupting me. ‘What an amazing gift you have given your brother and his wife.’

I couldn’t believe she understood so completely. I thought back to when Graeme had asked if I would do this thing. He was very matter of fact and blunt, as always. ‘Karen and I need some assistance,’ he said. He had never asked me for a favour and it was only later, as I thought about it, that I could see how much it must have cost him, what a humiliating and pathetic request he was making. I agreed immediately, I didn’t have to think about it. I did it for Karen as much as for my brother, I knew her life at home with us would have no meaning otherwise.

‘I had a feeling,’ said Agnes, ‘about the situation. I had a feeling about those boys.’ She snuggled up next to me and moved her hand along my chest. ‘You are so good,’ she said, ‘you are such a good man.’ She brought her face to mine and began to kiss me.

‘We haven’t discussed –’ I said ‘– we haven’t talked about whether or not we’ll have kids –’

‘Shh,’ Agnes said, ‘shh.’ And she ran her hand up the inside of my thigh. I turned to her thinking my wife is not only a sexmachine, she’s also a saint.

It was awful when we found out what had happened to the Black Hat. Agnes and I stayed in bed for a while after we woke up – as I said, for us bed was a glorious place. When we went down for breakfast it was nearly lunch and Jim Drury had already been by to pick up the glasses and dishes we had used for the party.

‘Lucky for them to have left that stuff here,’ Graeme informed us. ‘Otherwise they’d have lost everything.’

Jenny had promised to make Agnes and me breakfast and she was already at it. Otherwise we would have gone round to the Black Hat right away. Later, after we’d eaten, Agnes was reluctant to go for some reason.

‘I know honey,’ I said, an American endearment for my American wife, ‘it’ll be terrible to see the pub – and Jim and Lolita – in such a state.’

‘It’s not that,’ said Agnes – and I thought this was odd even at the time, this proves I wasn’t completely blind to some of the strangeness of her ways – ‘I live here now. I don’t live there anymore.’

Jenny turned at the sink and looked at Agnes.

‘But it’s our pub,’ I said, thinking, another cultural difference? ‘Our local.’

‘Oh,’ said Agnes flatly. ‘Okay.’

At the Black Hat it was business as usual. The debris – chairs and tables beyond mending – was pushed into a corner near the fire. The alcohol had been mopped up and drained away, leaving a sticky tide-mark. ‘It’s a wonder – a shame – they didn’t drop a match and incinerate themselves,’ said Lolita. Most of the glass had been swept away, the torn curtains taken down, a ruined bench stripped of its upholstery. Geoff Henderson was at work behind the bar and Jim and Lolita were bumping into each other – they hadn’t bothered going to bed. Jim greeted us, but his warmth didn’t disguise the strain. He took Agnes by the arm. I was surprised to see her body stiffen. She frowned.

Jim didn’t notice. ‘Well dear,’ he said, ‘you were a lovely bride. I’d walk you down the aisle any day.’ He smiled and winked at me. I was pleased by his magnanimity, given the situation. Agnes didn’t respond.

‘Thanks Jim,’ I said, ‘thanks for –’

‘It was a great idea for you and Lolita to close the pub,’ Agnes interrupted. ‘Don’t you think?’

‘Well, I –’ Jim reddened and I saw he couldn’t help but glance around at the ruined room.

‘If you hadn’t closed the pub it wouldn’t have been nearly such a wonderful day. Isn’t that right, Robert?’

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to contradict my wife on the first day of our marriage. And she was right in a way, of course, but with what Jim was going through her comments were, well, inappropriate. I searched for words. Jim began to draw away.

And then her face softened, in fact her whole body softened, and she leaned into Jim and her voice took on that husky tone we men loved, and she said, ‘You can give me away any time you want, Jim. I’m yours for the giving.’ And she kissed him on the cheek. He blushed and smiled and all was forgiven, forgotten, and he ushered us over to Geoff who poured our drinks. Whisky for Agnes, a pint of bitter for me. ‘Here’s to the happy couple,’ Geoff raised his glass in a toast.