Authors: Wendy Perriam
Maria could barely digest this new proposal which, anyway, was surely premature. The pregnancy was very new and fragile. However tragic the thought, there was a chance that Amy could lose the baby, considering her age and hectic lifestyle. Once she had passed the twelve-week stage, things would be more stable, of course. But even then, the idea of moving to London seemed too radical to contemplate when her mind was still besieged by the churning mix of grief, remorse, relief and regret that had
dogged her since her mother’s death. Besides, the thought of leaving behind not just her friends but the only home she had ever known was daunting in the extreme. And suppose Amy
was
just ‘using’ her?
On the other hand, she craved the same close bond as had existed between Hanna and Amy; a bond certain to develop if she was in charge of the baby. And it would save her precious grandchild from some bungling, inept minder. In any case, didn’t she owe it to her daughter to make some recompense for her own inadequacies during the first two shaming years?
‘Maybe I’ve sprung this on you too soon, Mum. But, d’you know, the more I think about it, the more I feel it might benefit us all. I mean, do you really want to vegetate up here until you’re as old as Grandma, but with no one to look after you?’
Maria bristled at that ‘vegetate’. She had never vegetated in her life and didn’t intend to now. In fact, considering she was free of ties for the first time in a decade, wasn’t this the perfect chance to do some serious painting and start building up a substantial body of work? Anyway, she couldn’t imagine her daughter looking after her. Amy would always be busy, even twenty or thirty years hence.
She sat in silence, torn two ways: her selfish side wanted time for herself, after her long stint as a carer, while another, equally compelling side longed to be totally involved with the baby, from the moment of its birth.
‘And, if you did decide to come and live with us, don’t worry about us being in each other’s hair. The top floor of our house is more or less
self-contained
. It used to be the attic, which makes it sound all small and poky, but actually it’s very light and bright, and there’s a fantastic view across the rooftops.’
‘But what about
this
place?’ Maria felt she was being moved, lock, stock and barrel, before she’d had time to catch her breath.
‘Best sell it, Mum. It’s so remote.’
‘But I have to get probate first, which could take five or six months. Anyway, no buyer would consider it in its present shabby state. And even if I spruced it up, I can’t be showing people round if I’m three hundred miles away in London.’
‘Mum, you need to use professionals, which is far less hassle, anyway. Just get a good solicitor and a decent local estate agent and they’ll handle the whole thing.’
Maria gave a noncommittal shrug. Amy was so persuasive, she could talk a tortoise into surrendering its shell. Indeed, her daughter’s voice had taken on an authoritative tone, as if she were exhorting one of her clients to follow some recommended course.
‘Listen, Mum, I’ve got a good idea – why not give it a trial run? Come for just three months and regard it as more a visit than a total long-term commitment – and see how it works out. And if the arrangement doesn’t suit you, then I’ll investigate the situation with au pairs and local
childminders
.’
Maria tried to get to grips with what this might entail. ‘But if it was just a trial, I’d need to come to London really soon. Otherwise, if I did decide against it, it would mean letting you down pretty late on in your pregnancy, when it might be much more difficult to make alternative arrangements, and when you’ll be feeling tireder anyway.’
‘Great! The sooner the better.’
Maria shook her head with a certain irritation. ‘Amy,’ she said, more sternly than she’d intended, ‘I’m not free to just drop everything – and it’s far too late to discuss all this, in any case. We need to go to bed.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘No “yes buts”. Hugo’s been waiting ages and, if you don’t need rest, your baby certainly does.’ She laid a gentle hand on her daughter’s still-flat stomach. ‘I’m absolutely thrilled to bits that I’m going to be a grandma. It’s the best news in the world – don’t doubt that for a second – and, of course, I’ll help you any way I can. But let’s leave the actual decisions of exactly when and how I help for just a little bit longer.’
‘But, Mum, don’t you think—’
Maria rose from the sofa and, having coaxed Amy to her feet, steered her gently towards the door. ‘Not another word, OK?’
Once alone, she made no move to go to bed herself, knowing that, with all the ramifications of the pregnancy seething in her mind, she was unlikely to get to sleep. How could she sell the cottage, as if it were nothing but bricks and mortar, rather than her mother’s lifelong home? Or move to London, when she was so firmly rooted here?
Yet, whatever she decided, the dizzyingly exciting prospect of being a grandmother was still worth celebrating, so she poured herself another
half-glass
of wine and drank a toast to that fragile, precious foetus.
M
ARIA GAZED OUT
at the rooftops, surprised to see a faint glow in the sky, despite it being only 5 a.m. At home, it would be inky-dark but, here in London, presumably, the sheer volume of street-lamps would always mitigate so intense and deep-dyed a black. And the array of roofs and
chimneypots
provided a jolting contrast to her usual view of rolling fields and undulating hills.
She jumped at the sound of a siren, followed by the vroom of a police car speeding past the house. How did Amy and Hugo
sleep
, especially with the intrusive noise of the planes that had started droning over as early as
half-past
four? And an hour before, she had been woken by a crowd of drunken revellers staggering home after a Saturday night on the town. She had groped her way to the window again and watched their unsteady progress as they lurched along the street, spilling shouts and laughter in their wake.
She let the curtain fall and ventured into her tiny mini-kitchen; filled the squat red kettle; fetched milk from the bijou fridge. Ironic that she should miss her morning ritual of making tea for Hanna, changing her
incontinence
pad, and struggling to wash and dress her. But, in truth, she felt a little purposeless, with the long day stretching ahead and no role for her to play as yet. Perhaps she could cook Sunday lunch and insist her daughter rested, after the sudden scare last week that had brought her rushing down to help.
Except Amy didn’t
need
help. ‘I’m fine now, Mum. It was only the weeniest bit of bleeding – a false alarm, the hospital said, and I was discharged within a few hours. Still, I’m so relieved you’ve come, then if there’s any further problem you’re right here on the spot. Oh, I know it’s a lot earlier than we planned, but that’s all to the good, because it’ll give you more time to adjust.’
So, there was no going back, apparently. She was now the full-time,
live-in
granny, but four months before the date agreed and with no baby to look after.
With a shrug, she took her tea to the window and scanned the vista beyond the road, in an attempt to get her bearings. Having arrived only late last night, she hadn’t much idea, yet, of where Victoria might be, or even which was north and which was south. She winced as another plane roared over, seemingly all but skimming the roof, but however great the noise outside, there wasn’t a sound from within the house. Amy loved her Sunday lie-ins, so she wouldn’t be up for another five hours – a long time to wait for breakfast. As yet, her little food-cupboard was unstocked with
provisions
, apart from tea and milk, but Amy had told her to help herself from the oversized fridge downstairs.
Throwing on her dressing gown, she tiptoed down the narrow attic
staircase
, pausing a moment outside the master bedroom and imagining Amy and Hugo curled companionably together. She had never shared a bed, apart from that one brief period with Silas, which, even at the time, had seemed miraculous. To be that
close
to someone; share their smells, their fidgets, listen to their breathing; to wake, frightened, from a nightmare and find a reassuring presence to dissipate the fear and, if they were wakeful, too, to chat with them in the middle of the night; to reach out for them, embrace them.
She walked softly on, down the grander staircase and into the
sitting-room
. What had struck her last night was its stylishness – combined with its complete unsuitability for children. The two pristine-white sofas would be marked by grubby fingers; the expensive white silk cushions used as Frisbees; the precious ornaments and fragile lamps in constant danger from curious little hands. And was that highly polished dark-oak floor the most comfortable of surfaces for a baby learning to crawl?
She shifted her gaze to the two pictures on the wall, which appeared to have been chosen to blend with the colour scheme rather than for any intrinsic merit. Considering Silas’s talents and her own artistic bent, she had expected Amy to grow up to be some kind of artist – a poet, painter or rock guitarist, not an executive-search consultant – but then Amy differed from her and Silas in almost every way.
Sweltering in the over-heated house, she loosened the belt of her dressing gown. The cottage would be perishing cold this early in the morning, the first week of February, and she would be bundled up in several woolly sweaters.
Creeping on to the kitchen – almost twice the size of her sitting-room at home – she again marvelled at its almost clinical neatness. No clutter on the worktops, or dirty dishes in the sink; the gadgets spanking new; the oven never used, by the looks of it. Well, she would put that right today; fill the
room with homely smells of roast beef and apple pie. For now, though, she must content herself with a bowl of cereal.
Except there didn’t appear to be any, or anything in the way of bread. Having searched the cupboards, she tried the fridge instead, but none of its contents seemed remotely suitable for breakfast: Camembert, smoked salmon, a bag of ready-washed rocket salad, a selection of stuffed olives and two bottles of Chardonnay. She pounced on a single yogurt, half-hidden at the back. She would replace it as soon as Sainsbury’s opened – in fact, do a full-scale shop. She had come down here to help, so, even if she couldn’t persuade her daughter to rest, at least she could take on the major chores.
‘Hi, Mum! Sleep well?’
‘Yes,’ she lied, admiring Amy’s slinky black-lace peignoir. Thank God she was now dressed herself, rather than wandering round in a hefty, hairy dressing gown. ‘Can I get you some breakfast, darling?’
‘No, thanks. We don’t eat breakfast.’
‘But surely now you’re pregnant…?’
‘Mum, don’t fuss, OK?’
Deflated, she said nothing. When
she
was pregnant, she’d had to eat a couple of biscuits the minute she woke up, just to prevent her vomiting, and even then she had suffered extremes of nausea the whole of the first trimester. And at fourteen weeks, two bouts of glandular fever had left her so low in mind and body, her initial resolve to return to a Whitechapel bedsit and make it as a single mum had been swallowed up in a tide of despair. But Amy, thank God, was never ill; hadn’t experienced even a twinge of morning sickness and, apart from that slight show of blood, claimed to barely notice she was pregnant.
‘Well, how about a nice pot of tea?’
‘Mum, there’s no need to wait on us. Hugo and I are so used to doing our own thing, we don’t expect room service!’
Maria decided to make herself scarce. ‘I thought I’d have a little recce, to get to know the area. So, if there’s any shopping you want ….’
‘Don’t worry, we’re eating out today.’
Well, so much for her cosy Sunday lunch. ‘In that case, I might go further afield – take myself to Tate Modern, perhaps.’
‘No, we’re going to a lunch party and you’re invited as well. Sorry – I forgot to tell you last night. Nicholas and Chloe said they wanted you to come.’
‘But won’t I be in the way?’
‘Far from it. Chloe said she can’t wait to meet you. She’s pregnant too, you see, and madly jealous because she’s going bananas trying to find a nanny – or at least one who won’t break the bank or run off with Nicholas! But if she tries to poach you, beware, Mum!
She’s
expecting twins. And, by the way—’
She broke off as her mobile rang. ‘Stephen? … it’s OK, I can talk…. Oh, I see. I’m extremely sorry to hear that.’
Having seen Amy’s look of despondency, Maria prayed that nothing dire had happened. She wasn’t to know, however, since her daughter told the caller that she was moving to another room, to ensure total privacy. And, as she made her way towards her mini-office, Hugo drifted in, looking equally snazzy in a striped silk dressing gown.
‘Morning,’ he yawned, pouring himself some orange juice, before filling the coffee percolator.
Maria itched to do it for him, but that, too, might be classed as ‘fussing’. Besides, she always felt slightly daunted by her son-in-law. When Amy first announced she was in love with an engineer, Maria had imagined a
down-to
-earth mechanic and was thus unprepared for the suave, well-spoken Cambridge graduate, already working as project manager on a huge, upmarket shopping mall. Even now, she hardly knew him, apart from his outward shell. His confidence and competence were so different from her own self-doubt; his unqualified success a reproach to her hapless early life.
Apart from his one-word greeting, he hadn’t spoken another syllable and she feared he might resent her presence in the house, especially on his precious Sunday off. Yet it was he, in fact, who had phoned her after Amy’s mini-crisis and begged her to come immediately. Like Amy, he was busy, though, and, indeed his mobile was now shrilling, too, so she tactfully retreated to what Amy called ‘the granny-flat’. If she had nothing else to do, at least she could pass the time trying to find a suitable outfit for a stylish London lunch party.
‘Delicious chicken,’ Maria enthused. ‘You must let me have the recipe.’
‘Ask Waitrose,’ Chloe laughed. ‘I never cook – can’t see the point, with their “Gourmet Entertaining” range. All you have to do is heat it up – which even I can manage!’
‘So that paté wasn’t yours?’
‘God, no! I wouldn’t have a clue as to how to make a paté. All three courses are courtesy of Waitrose. Though I sometimes ring the changes by buying M&S. They’re pretty good as well.’
Good, maybe, Maria thought, but much more economical to buy a whole chicken, make the casserole from scratch – and several other meals as well – and have the liver, giblets and carcass to use for a nourishing soup.
‘So how does it feel,’ asked Julian, the tall, distinguished-looking barrister, sitting on her right, ‘to be here in the capital, rather than in a village in the wilds?’
‘Well, I haven’t seen much of it yet – although we came here today on the underground and I was amazed by how crowded it was. When I lived in London in the sixties, the tube was almost empty on a Sunday. I was also struck by all the different nationalities and hearing every language under the sun. That’s another big change from forty years ago.’
‘Still, I envy you being around then,’ Deborah chipped in – an elegant and ultra-skinny female, who looked as if she might snap in half. ‘Or weren’t the Swinging Sixties quite as swinging as they say?’
‘I think it depended on who and where you were. I happened to be at art school, so my friends were pretty bohemian.’ She wouldn’t admit what an outsider she had felt – a devout Catholic and a country cousin, with only mediocre talent and none of her fellow students’ vaunting ambition and self-belief. In truth, she had been out of tune with almost every aspect of the sixties. Drug-taking, mini-skirts, sexual licence, student protests and the hippy quest for freedom – all went against her Church’s stress on chastity, obedience, modest dress and self-abnegation.
‘And do you work as an artist now?’ Nicholas enquired. ‘Actually, we’re looking for a painting for our sitting-room, so if you have anything we could see …’
If only, Maria thought. She had sold nothing since two tiny watercolours, way back in 1968, and had painted depressingly little during most of her adult life. For many of those years, she had, in fact, worked in galleries, but more as a glorified sales assistant than as a dealer in fine art. And such jobs had been hard to find in rural Northumberland. Even those galleries that did exist only managed to survive by making frames and selling art
materials
.
‘I’m sorry, no,’ she said, embarrassed at being the centre of attention and even by her voice. The others’ Oxbridge accents made her own Northumbrian burr seem somehow more pronounced.
Fortunately, Chloe changed the subject and began extolling some fantastic day-spa she’d discovered near Sloane Square. ‘Amy, if you feel in need of a boost, book yourself in for a “pamper-day”. I had one last week and it was total and utter bliss! It started with a mud treatment. Mud draws out all the impurities in the skin, you see …’
A pity she hadn’t known, Maria reflected, then she could have utilized the facilities of the deplorably muddy lane beyond the cottage. Judging by the pre-lunch conversation, these modish thirty-and-forty-somethings all tended to favour a hedonistic lifestyle – although it had struck her as
peculiar
that, while they had no time to cook, ‘me-time’ was apparently no problem. Fiona met her personal trainer for daily sessions in the gym, Caroline ‘couldn’t survive’ without her weekly facials, and even Alexander had actually admitted to having Botox treatments. And, as for manicures and nail extensions, they were clearly
de rigueur.
‘I’ve been using our local nail-bar,’ Deborah observed, returning to the subject. ‘But I’m not exactly thrilled with it, so maybe I’ll change to your place.’
Maria studied Deborah’s nails: super-scarlet, super-long. Wasn’t it just a tad absurd to waste an hour or more varnishing or extending ten outgrowths of dead keratin?
‘Yes, I highly recommend it. In fact, I intend to be a regular now, and in just a few years’ time, we’ll be going
en famille.
You see, they already do men’s grooming days and they’re about to introduce these special
pamper-packages
tailored to the under-fives.’
Maria found it hard to countenance that tiny tots at playschool were in desperate need of body-wraps or pedicures. She knew her mother would be horrified by these lives of high consumption and high debt. Economy had always been Hanna’s watchword, since, if you did have money to spare, your duty as a Christian was to give it away to those in greater need. She would scrape out the last morsel from every can and carton; fry left-over Christmas pudding in slices, long after Christmas Day; iron the Christmas wrapping-paper so it could be reused the following year; save scraps of soap, to be melted down into a serviceable new bar. And, because she and Hanna shared a home, she herself had adopted similar practices. Now, she worried that perhaps Amy had resented such a frugal way of existence and that her present pursuit of wealth and power was simply an overreaction. Although, in all other ways, of course, she and Hanna had showered ‘their’ child with love. Indeed, ironical as it might seem, it was
she
who had made her daughter confident, ambitious and with a deep sense of inner worth, so determined had she been to compensate for those first two years of neglect.