Something I'm Not (24 page)

‘And I knew then that their deaths were my punishment for— you know—'

‘For what? For getting pregnant?'

‘I was raped, Amber!' she cries. ‘Raped in a place I'd been forbidden to go to. How could that
not
be my fault?'

My muscles tighten and I hear a rushing sound in my ears. The walls of the room appear to contract around us and dilate again, in constant waves of horror and messy understanding. It quite chokes me, this pain of remembered pain. And, almost blindly, I reach out to grab at the rigid balls of Mother's clenched fists.

‘God sees everything,' Mother cries, yanking her hands away. ‘How often have I told you that? God saw me that day and sought to punish me.'

I am shaking my head.

‘When the matron at the home told me about my parents, I didn't speak for a week. And then the baby started coming. I knew it was too early, but there was nothing I could do. I gave birth to her all on my own. My own, my little baby. I never got to hear her cry.'

And suddenly Mother creases over and howls into her lap, slashing my wrists with hot tears. Occasionally, phrases seep out from under her hair, wretched spasms of rage and loss, about her parents, and being forbidden from holding her daughter before she died. But most of the time she simply repeats one word over and over again:
June. June. June.

*

‘I suppose now you've heard all that, you'll want to sever connections,' my mother says, once she has composed herself and tucked the handkerchief back up her sleeve. I am not thinking that at all, but she is already on to her next point. ‘I'm sure I made mistakes. But you'd do well to remember, Amber, that in a family there's always a parent who gets it wrong and a parent who stands by and allows it to happen.'

I dig my nails into my hand and will myself not to retaliate. For I realise that marriage, parenthood, divorce, widowhood: none of these has defined her as much as her wartime losses. And that I am as much to blame as she is for our dreadful relationship. Change, if it comes at all, will be partial, and will require a dropping of guards on both sides.

‘I like the name,' I say lamely, trying to be generous and finding it awkward. And suddenly I remember Mother's botched efforts to bake a cake every year in June, and my eyes fill with tears. I wipe them away with my sleeve.

‘Do you?' says Mother, smiling. ‘I've always loved it. My Junie. In naming her, I made her mine. Without a name it was as if she'd never existed. The home didn't offer baptisms for bastard babies, let alone dead ones. The wardens considered such quaint practices superfluous. There wasn't even a funeral.'

‘And I thought the gravestone was nice.' This isn't quite true. It certainly isn't what I would have chosen, but then I've never needed to make such a choice. Mother did. And I can see that this makes it the right one.

‘Did you?' says Mother, suddenly wistful. ‘It's not the real grave, of course. I read about it in a magazine. About the importance of having somewhere to go to focus one's grief. So I chose a cemetery near Clapham, where she was conceived.' She turns to look at me, her living daughter. ‘There hasn't been a day when I don't think about her, want to reach out for her. And now there's a grave for me to visit. Something of hers, with her name on it.'

‘Ah, Hope. There you are.'

We both turn in the direction of the door, where a porter's presence fills the frame.

‘Your car's here. I'm to take your things.'

I rarely think of Mother as having a first name. In fact, I realise now, I rarely think of her as a proper person at all. She is ‘Mother', a label laden with bad memories and contemptible connotations. Long ago she was born, and given a name. And yet, over time, as more and more things slipped from her grasp, it was as though Hope took it upon herself to shed her own name, sliding into a black hole of hopelessness, and effacing all her attachments. Now, for the first time, I think I might have to try to integrate, in my own mind, the two women into the one person.

And I am reminded of the stained-glass triptych in Dylan's church, its three separate windows telling one story. I stood before them when I took my marriage vows; they gazed down upon me during my rampage; would gaze on me still, were I ever to return and kneel before them, seeking forgiveness from their bright chips of dazzling colour. And the thought of them, of their glory, of their unspoken benevolence, overwhelms me with conflicting feelings of longing and trepidation.

*

Little of consequence is said in the lift. Outside, the autumn breeze has died down. Neither of us tries to account for what, if anything, has taken place. I think we both know it's too early to say.

Yet, in the car park, as the porter strains to heave the oxygen tank into the boot of the car, we both make tentative suggestions as to possible future meetings, in an attempt to dilute the imminent ending. I look at her, in her plain oatmeal suit, and I see an old woman who has been lonely for most of her life, and whose daughters couldn't change that.

‘Have a safe journey,' I call out, as the driver starts the engine.

Suddenly Hope winds down the window and reaches out to grab my arm.

‘The ring.'

I frown as Hope's bony fingers dig into my flesh. ‘What?'

‘The ring. I threw it away. I'm sorry.'

‘What ring?'

‘The amber ring. I threw it away when your father left. My mother's ring – the one you're named after.' She is having to shout above the noise of the car. ‘So I have nothing to leave you. Forgive me.'

I stand still, not knowing quite what to say to this; I didn't even know she had the ring. Mother's expression is impossible to read. If it ever
had
been. A discarded plastic cup turns a small pirouette and bumps into my shoe. And as I glance down to kick it aside, I sense the car pull slowly away, and my mother's withered fingers loosen their grip, stroking my wrist as they do so before fluttering softly, swiftly, out of reach.

Chapter Thirty-two

N
EARLY EVERY SEAT
in the church hall is filled. There is a low buzz in the room. Peeping through the side of the velvet curtain, I can see people chatting, reading the programme, unwrapping sweets. Nicole and Dominic walk down the aisle. They've spotted some friends and have stopped to talk. Nicole absently strokes her gently swelling stomach; Dominic is looking around for somewhere to sit. Matt, sitting next to Audrey, raises an arm and waves, to indicate the seats he's been keeping for them. In the third row I see Vasant, whispering to a lady in a sari, presumably his wife. I am relieved to see the audience looking relaxed, but this doesn't stop me feeling faintly sick. I glance at my watch.

I turn and cast a quick eye over the table of props in the wings: a black shoe and a tin of polish, a box of brownies, a cocktail glass. All perfect. But the cake! Where is Amy's cake for the first scene? Panic swoops into my stomach.

I squeeze myself round the table and sprint past the flaps to the back of the stage. Sixth-formers from the school where Dylan is a governor are repositioning a sofa in the middle of the stage. In the corridor, above the sound of Jenny warming up her voice, I hear footsteps and heavy breathing. Serena appears, half hidden by two tiers of wooden cake complete with a circle of fake candles on top.

‘Sorry,' she says, handing me the cake, and bending over with a stitch. The cake is as heavy and as awkward to hold as it looks. ‘Harry left it at school. The woodwork teacher says if it's not right he'll make a smaller one for tomorrow.'

‘And where's Harry?' I say.

‘In the loo, gargling with TCP. He's picked up a bug from the girls – they've all got colds.'

‘I can't do up my cuffs,' yells Dylan, rushing up to us and holding out his arms. ‘Can one of you do up my cuffs?'

Serena obliges, and murmurs words of calm.

‘Beginners, please. Three minutes,' says Julian walking past, followed by the ten members of the church orchestra. He's made them all wear black tie. I want to kiss him.

‘Oh, God,' groans Dylan, ‘that's all of us. And my mother's not even here yet.'

My jaw clenches. ‘Your mother's not here?' I say. I drag my hands through my hair, forgetting that part of my costume includes a short bridal veil. Hairgrips clatter to the floor.

‘Joke!' trills Dylan. ‘I'll go and get everyone on stage.'

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Some people have dreams that they are about to sit a maths exam; others, that they're in an interview, naked. My one recurring dream is that I am on stage and haven't learned my lines, and must keep slipping into the wings to re-read the script.

Jenny is first up from the parish hall kitchen, which is doubling as the female changing room. For the first time in months she has a sparkle in her eyes. She helps me re-pin my veil, and I give her a quick hug; her floral perfume is warm and soothing. Clive leads out the men – variously, they are tugging at jacket sleeves or massaging throats. The orchestra is tuning up.

Finally Dylan reappears, his mother on his arm. His curls are slicked down with gel, his freckles evened out under make-up. Pamela is dressed in a 1960s maxi dress in orange and brown. She looks terrific, and she knows it.

We shuffle along the corridor and take our places in the wings. There are lots of winks, and thumbs-up signs, and instructions to break a leg.

‘God, I'm nervous,' whispers Serena.

None of us are able to keep still.

Standing in the opposite wings, Dylan's churchwarden waves at me. In return, I give him the nod to raise the curtain. Harry brings out a pocket flute and plays one long, soft note. We all try to hold it in our heads. As the velvet rises, the noises from the audience subside as they offer up to us their collective goodwill.

Dylan, as the lead character, Bobby, walks to the middle of the stage. He goes to his answer machine, hits ‘play', and listens as our pre-recorded voices ring out with messages of friendship. Julian brings in the bass player, two violins, and plays some chords of his own on the piano. Then silence. Off stage,
a cappella
– using Harry's note – we start intoning Bobby's name in harmony, building to a crescendo of multi-part harmonies. Then, one by one, we join Dylan on stage. In my hands I carry the enormous cake. I feel alive. We are ready.

Chapter Thirty-three

E
'
N UNTO ETERNITY.

The restaurant surfaces are smooth and shiny. The sound of clinking glasses bounces off the black marble and chrome. The hands of our fellow diners flash with signet rings, or chunky jewels; there's a lot of hairspray in the air. I've scrutinised everybody. Matt and I are waiting for Dylan, who is forty minutes late. I twist my napkin into a tight coil and loop it round my finger. The waiter meets Matt's request for more olive bread.

‘Stop worrying,' says Matt, reaching across the table to cover my hand.

‘But suppose something's gone wrong. This could destroy him.'

Last month's dreaded meeting with the Bishop had an unexpected outcome. Far from heralding the end of Dylan's career, it had sparked a certain renaissance. Having refused to play the sacrificial lamb, he had found himself anointed a disciple. For it came to pass that the man and the office were at war. In public, the Bishop sided with the conservatives and emphasised church orthodoxy. Privately, he and his wife held more liberal views. It was time, he told Dylan, to throw off the chasuble of hypocrisy; to sweep away the age of ‘Don't ask, don't tell', and usher in a new era of tolerance. Dylan had been appointed his spokesman, and today was his first engagement: to speak in a televised debate on gay adoption.

Who'd have thought it? Growing up, I planned things meticulously: I skipped in multiples of four, later tens; I avoided cracks on the pavement; I handed in my homework on time. In southern Africa, in the face of racial tension, poverty and crime, everyone has always talked of ‘making a plan'. It means the opposite of how I lived; it means being spontaneous, going with the flow. Matt's motto is that life works out – but not necessarily in the way you expect.

‘Thank God,' cries Matt, rising from his chair. ‘It's the Pol Roger Padre!'

‘Pol Rogers all round – my treasurer tells me we made nearly three thousand pounds with the show last week! My mother says it was her face on the posters that did it,' Dylan adds, sinking into his chair. ‘Hey! You've gone brown,' he says, stroking my hair.

‘Chestnut, please! It's my natural colour. Tell us about the debate,' I say, hurriedly. ‘How did it go? We were so worried.'

‘That's the royal “we”, you understand,' grins Matt.

‘Well, the gloves are off !' says Dylan, demanding a large gin and tonic. ‘Today's the day we of the broad Anglican Church stood up to be counted.'

‘Came out of the closet, you mean,' says Matt.

‘Shouldn't you be at work?' says Dylan, scanning the menu.

‘Oh, but I am,' laughs Matt. ‘You're my Care in the Community project for today.'

‘I'm flattered!' Dylan stretches and touches a waiter lightly on the arm. ‘Excuse me. What's the soup today?'

‘Radish and artichoke. Don't even go there.'

Dylan looks at us and pulls a face. ‘Now – where was I?'

‘You stood up to be counted,' I repeat.

‘Ah, yes,' he says, breaking bread. ‘We've had amazing publicity. And people on the street holding placards supporting gay clergy. Someone threw an egg, but it missed me.' Dylan pops a bread cube into his mouth. ‘Nerve-racking, but exciting. It's probably a bit like discovering you're pregnant!' he laughs.

Matt and I steal a glance.

‘But I'm doing my bit. And, God willing, it will be so e'n unto eternity—'

‘Toad in the hole?' announces a waiter, with disdain.