Mad Worlds (12 page)

Tapping. On the front door. This early?

Heather's un-set alarm clock registered 12 noon. She must have got to sleep at last – a deep sleep. Heather leapt out of bed and glanced in the crib. Becky was asleep. There was that
tap-tap-tap
again. A creaking sound – the letterbox resisting an attempt to open it – and a voice, distorted and faint, saying, “Heather?”

She grabbed her dressing gown and scrambled downstairs. John? Newman? Not the postie? He'd have banged loudly – and he didn't call her Heather.

“Who is it?” She stood in the hallway, putting on her gown.

The letterbox creaked open. “It's me, m'dear. Elsie.”

Had something happened to Mattie? She sprang to open the door. “Sorry Elsie. I overslept. Come in.”

“I won't, m'dear. I've got a lass standing in at the shop. I wanted to check you were all right. Your bedroom curtains aren't drawn back.”

“Thanks Elsie. I'm fine. How's Mattie?”

“He's determined to stay up, so he's in the back-shop – he doesn't like his bed – but he's coughing and sneezing and not himself.”

“I'm sorry.”

Elsie's face crinkled. “It's better you don't come over for a few days, m'dear. Becky – nor you – mustn't catch what he's got. Place'll be alive with germs. I might be getting a touch of it.” Were those tears in Elsie's eyes?

“That makes sense to me, Elsie. Thanks for caring about us so much.”

“It's all right, m'dear. I'd better get back.”

“Tell Mattie I'm asking after him,” she shouted to the retreating figure.

That ruled out the shop phone. But she must contact her parents. She'd get Becky dressed and go to the public phone-box.

*

Trekking to the nearest phone-box – a mile away, and some of the journey uphill – was the harder for having to push Becky's pram. The last time Heather went there – months ago (alone, with John baby-sitting), to ring her parents – the walk was okay.

The problem then was two teenage girls ignoring an angry queue. An elderly man at the front of the queue rapped on one of the glass panes and yelled, “Get a move on.” One teen opened the door and screamed, “You dirty old man.” The man flushed deep red and hung back.

She gave up and went away then. This time she must phone.

Now she could see the box. There was a woman in it. Green coat, grey-haired, standing erect, back turned.

She stopped a few feet short.

Moments later, the woman emerged, smiling. “Hello, Mrs Chisholm.”

Mrs Allen, from number 86. “Hello, Mrs Allen. A nice day.”

Mrs Allen looked into the pram and whispered, “Your Becky's asleep – so peaceful.” It was pleasing that the elderly neighbour she'd rarely even seen remembered Becky's name. “Look,” Mrs Allen continued, “I'm not in a hurry. I'd be happy to wait outside with Becky while you make your call.”

A welcome offer. Leaving Becky in the pram outside the phone-box wouldn't be ideal. “Thanks, yes.”

She went in, dialled her parents, and got an immediate response. Father. She pressed button A and heard the money drop. “Father, I'm ringing from a phone-box, so must be quick. Could Becky and I come again for a few days please?”

Silence. Maybe it wasn't okay. “Yes, Heather. When?”

“Would today be possible?”

“Yes. I could collect you in an hour or two.”

“Thanks, Father. I'll be ready.”

She re-joined Mrs Allen and Becky (who was still dozing). “Thanks, Mrs Allen. I'm Heather.”

“I'm Moira. I'll walk with you – if you're going home.”

“Yes, good. I'd love to hear more about you and your husband.” She didn't want to tell her neighbour John was in the loony bin.

Moira talked readily about herself and her family. “We've been here thirty years – we're Brummies.” That explained her accent. “We were in our thirties when we married and moved here… We've one son, in London – we rarely see him… We're retired civil servants – I was Ministry of Labour, Joey Social Security.”

Especially interesting. They might know about employment rights and benefits. They rounded into Green Drive. “I'm talking too much. You must be bored,” said Moira.

“No – I'm interested in what you're telling me.” Though preoccupied with getting home – and a need to be ready for her parents – she'd been listening. Moira was friendly, and could maybe be trusted. Elsie and Mattie apart, she lacked friends here.

They were nearing number 86. “Will you come in for a drink, Heather?” The older woman was looking at her.

“Thanks, I'd love to, but I can't.” She explained about her parents coming.

They were outside number 86. Moira touched her on the sleeve and they both stopped. “Look, Heather, I know it's been hard for you, with your husband away and ill. I was in Mattie's shop when you had a problem the other week. If there's any way Joey and I can help you, please don't shy off asking.”

Moira sounded genuine, like she cared. “Thanks Moira.” She paused, fighting back tears. “You know John's in hospital?”

“Yes, and I guess it's Springwell? I saw the DAO outside the house. It's a place any of us can go if we're too stressed and need treatment.”

Heather nodded. “I'll see you after I'm home again.” She wheeled the pram home. A new friend, who spoke positively about Springwell and recognised Sam!

Becky was still asleep. Good. She set about packing. Must greet the car from the pavement, otherwise Mother would come straight into the house.

When the Riley drew up, Father was alone. He wouldn't have come in anyway.

From the back seat, Heather asked, “How're you keeping, Father?”

“Fine.” His stock reply. He'd surely lost some weight, but seemed fit enough.

“And Mother?”

“She's got a headache. She's resting.” Father sounded casual about Mother's suffering. Yet they'd always seemed devoted to each other.

For the rest of the journey they didn't speak. She was occupied cooing and singing to Becky. When they got there, Mother was still in bed.

Father shouted “Heather's here.” He turned to Heather. “Do go up.”

She lifted Becky and went up to the darkened bedroom. Mother lay propped up by a pillow. “Heather darling, and little Becky, how lovely to see you. But don't come near in case it's a bug.”

“It's good to see you too, Mother. I'm sorry you're not well.”

“Oh, I should be better by tomorrow. I'll stay here tonight.”

“Sounds wise.” A bit of role reversal – felt okay. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, my hero looks after me well. I'll say goodnight.”

“Goodnight Mother. I hope you're better by tomorrow.” Going downstairs, she wondered. It wasn't a work day for Mother, so what was this headache about? A bug?

“Poached egg on toast for tea, Heather?” Father shouted from the kitchen.

“Yes Father.” She got Becky's tea ready.

Tea passed without conversation. Becky needed her attention, and Father sat eating in silence. Between spoonfuls for Becky, Heather devoured the poached egg on toast. Father had never been into cooking, but this was nice.

After the meal, Heather tapped into Father's financial expertise. “Standing orders don't cost you. Tell your bank manager about your situation. He should advise. And let us know if you need money. We're still not badly off.”

“Thanks. But you said –”

“We've stopped going abroad.” He smiled. “Travel's getting wearisome.”

They were communicating pretty well, and here was an opening. “You know, I've never heard from you and Mother about your early days together.”

“Another time, Heather.” He yawned and rose. “I said I'd join your mother, and I must catch up on my sleep.”

As she took her sleeping child upstairs, she had no inkling of how memorable and disturbing the morrow would be.

Heather awoke to the smell of frying. It was eight-fifteen and time to rise. She donned her dressing gown, peeped into Becky's crib, then went downstairs.

“Darling.” Mother, smartly dressed and transformed, stood beaming. “What will you have for breakfast?”

“Fried eggs please, Mother. It's good to see you up.”

“I feel better. Whatever it was, I've shaken it off.”

Mother rarely smiled like this. “Wonderful, Mother.” She smiled back.

“How did you sleep, darling?”

“Well, thanks. Becky's still teething, but slept most of the time.”

“Good. You had quite a scream when you were teething!” Mother laughed. “But you were a lovely baby, and much admired.”

Mother was in top form. And Father sounded okay too, as he shouted from the kitchen, “Breakfast's ready.”

“I'll get Becky down, Mother.” She dashed upstairs and was greeted by a wail as she picked up her half-awake child. A cuddle, a nappy change and a clean pink dress later, she and Becky were down for breakfast.

“May I, Heather?” Mother took the spoon and, cooing gently, started feeding Becky the gooey stuff from the jar. This was a side to Mother she'd rarely glimpsed.

“Will you come to church with us, Heather?” Father asked.

It was Sunday. “I don't think so. Do women still have to wear hats?”

“I wear one,” said Mother. “But you're younger, and nobody would think you lacked respect if you didn't.”

She hadn't been to church for years. Now agnostic, she'd been baptised and, in her teens, confirmed in the Church of England. Maybe she should go and pray for John. Did that nurse hint at needing the Almighty's help? “Well,” she hesitated.

“Oh do come, darling. Our friends would love to see you again – and our lovely grandchild.”

That settled it. “Thanks, but no. I'm tired – might fall asleep and snore through the sermon.” Mother's friends would cluster around and Mrs Snape would no doubt ask, in that loud posh voice, where her husband was. ‘He's in the asylum, Mrs Snape, and I got him in there'. No, she would stay put.

Her parents didn't offer to take Becky. Too rusty on nappy-changing?

*

That evening, with Becky upstairs, she joined her parents in the living room for a post-meal cup of tea. Mother and Father huddled together on the settee, looking toward her as she sank into the armchair.

It was unusual to see them sitting like this, holding hands. Nice. Also, she and they were bonding (Bowlby's term) as fellow adults.

Father coughed. His expression had changed – he looked edgy. And Mother looked serious, almost stern. “Heather, there's something we need to tell you,” Father began. He was holding Mother's hand, and she too was nodding. Their expressions vied in glumness. What catastrophe was this?

“Please understand that this is very difficult for us.” Mother was pleading?

God, let them get a move on. “Yes. So?”

“I'll cut to the chase.” A favourite saying of Father's in the old days. “You had an older brother who died before you were born.”

The ‘terrible thing' Granny mentioned all these years ago! “An older brother?”

Mother was almost shouting, pleading, as she told Heather for the first time. “Our Edward – we named him after the King.” She was sobbing into a handkerchief supplied by Father, who put an arm round her.

Heather waited. This wasn't real. She couldn't find words.

Father continued with the revelation, in a low controlled voice she hadn't heard before. “Born in 1910, Edward was a fine outstanding scholar, about to study Classics at Oxford. Then –” He faltered, then regained control. “He was killed in a motorbike accident in the summer of 1928.” The control went, and Father too was weeping, his chest heaving, all the while cuddling his sobbing wife.

A brother who died five years before she was born. Tragic. Why hadn't they told her? How hadn't she known? Eyes blurred, she remained silent, an intruder into private raw grief. She should leave the room, and she felt like fleeing. But she sat immobile, except for her face working to control the tears. She was a part of this grieving – for
her
brother, whose very existence she'd never been told about.

After a time – it felt like hours, but was probably only minutes – her parents regained some composure.

“Edward dying seemed like the end –” Mother choked off, dabbing her face with a large handkerchief.

“But life went on.” Father's voice was cracking. “We tried to escape the torture by moving far from Edinburgh. I got the manager's job here in Aversham, and your granny moved in with us. Nobody here knew us or what had happened.”

“We were devastated, darling. My head hasn't felt right since,” Mother said.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

Father replied. “It was years before you came along. We, and Granny, thought it best not to say anything when you were little. I'd thrown myself into work and taken on a lot in this community; your mother was on a five-and-a-half day week.”

They'd tried to forget, to escape their misery by blotting out his memory and not talking about him. “He was
my
brother. Why didn't you tell me?”

“We're so sorry, darling.” Mother looked gaunt, exhausted.

“Maybe someday you can understand and forgive us,” Father added.

There would be no answers tonight – maybe not ever. She'd had enough. She raised herself unsteadily. “I need my bed. Good night.” She turned, ran up to the bedroom, where Becky lay sleeping, and quietly, firmly, closed the door.

Aspirins – one, two, three, stop. Maybe this would soften the raging within. She stretched out on the bed, banged her forehead against the pillow, then twisted to lie on her back, staring at the ceiling with unseeing eyes – until, mercifully, Becky's crying brought her back to the here and now.