waiting and the waiting for the thing to come and it never did come and now, twenty-four years later, she’s still waiting for it to come and it’s so close she can taste it on the back of her tongue.
This was the story she wrote over and over again. She’d write it and then she’d tear the pages from the notepad, screw them into a ball and toss them in a bin, into the sea, into a dank lightwell. She’d burn them or soak them or tear them into shreds. But she needed to write it down to make it into a story instead of the truth about her life.
And all the time the truth jangled at her nerves, squeezed at her stomach muscles, played drums on her heart, taunted her in her dreams, sickened her when she awoke and stopped her from sleeping when she closed her eyes at night.
She’d always known that the only thing that would bring her back to London, to this place where so many terrible things had happened, was the baby.
But where is she? She’s been here, that much is clear. There is evidence around the house of recent activity. There are drinks in the fridge, used glasses in the sink, the hole in the back door.
Now she just has to wait for the baby to come back.
43
CHELSEA, 1992
The next thing that happened was that my mother fell pregnant.
Well, clearly it wasn’t my father’s baby. My father could barely get out of his chair. And the announcement, when it came, was curiously unsurprising. Because by this stage it had already become hideously clear to me that my mother was obsessed with David.
I’d seen her the night he first arrived, pulling back from him, and I’d known then that it was because she was attracted to him. And I’d seen that initial attraction turn to infatuation as my father grew weaker and David’s influence grew stronger. I could see that my mother was under David’s spell entirely, that she was willing to sacrifice everything for David and his approval, including her family.
But lately I’d noticed other things too.
I heard doors opening and closing late at night. I saw a flush upon my mother’s neck, felt loaded moments, heard things whispered urgently, smelled his smell on her hair. I saw Birdie regard my mother watchfully, saw David’s eyes upon parts of mother’s body that should be no concern of his. Whatever was happening between my mother and David was feral and alive and was spreading into every corner of the house.
The announcement was made as all announcements were made, over the dinner table. David made the announcement of course, and as he made it he sat between Birdie and my mother holding one of their hands each. You could almost see the proud swell of the blood under his epidermis. He was so pleased with himself. What a guy. Two birds on the go and now a bun in the oven. What. A. Guy.
My sister immediately burst into tears and Clemency ran from the table and could be heard throwing up in the toilet by the back door.
I stared at my mother in utter horror. While I wasn’t entirely surprised by the development, I was surprised that she had allowed it to be announced so publicly, so happily. I could not believe that she hadn’t felt that maybe a quiet tête-à-tête in a dark corner might not have been a better way to break such news to her children. Was she not embarrassed? Was she not ashamed?
It appeared not. She grabbed my sister’s hand and said, ‘Darling, you always wanted a little brother or sister.’
‘Yes. But not like this! Not like this!’
So dramatic, my little sister. But on this occasion I couldn’t say I blamed her.
‘What about Dad?’ I piped up hopelessly.
‘Dad knows,’ she said, now clutching my hand and squeezing that too. ‘Dad understands. Dad wants me to be happy.’
David sat between Birdie and my mother watching us carefully. I could tell he was simply humouring our mother by allowing her to comfort us. I could tell he did not care one iota what we thought about him and his repulsive act of penetrating and impregnating our mother. He cared nothing about anything other than himself.
I looked at Birdie. She looked oddly triumphant, as if this was the result of some great masterplan of hers.
‘I’m not able to bear children,’ she said, as though reading my mind.