The Things We Never Said (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

June 1964

The ceiling is high and domed, and the white-painted brick walls make the room look stark. There’s a wireless on somewhere nearby; the newscaster’s clear voice is familiar: . . .
announced that Senator McNamara will fly to South Vietnam next week to assess the situation. Here at home, Beatles’ manager Brian Epstein has confirmed that the group’s summer tour will go ahead. The tour was in doubt after drummer Ringo collapsed during a photo shoot . . .

Brian Epstein; Ringo; she knows these names. She hears a woman’s voice, urgent. ‘Quick! Sister’s coming.’ . . .
twenty-four-year-old Beatle is suffering from tonsill . . .
then there is a click and silence. There’s something heavy covering her; she lifts her head and sees it’s a coarse, peat-coloured blanket with edges overstitched in red, and on top of that, a floral bedspread. She’s too hot, so she kicks the covers off and just lies still for a moment, looking up at the fancy plasterwork, way, way above her head. It’s very beautiful, that ceiling; like the icing on a wedding cake. There’s a fleur-de-lis pattern along the side wall, and in the centre where there should be a light, she can just make out the shapes of winged cherubs holding bunches of grapes. She drags her eyes away from the cherubs. She doesn’t remember seeing them before, and yet she knows she’s been here for a while because she’s acutely aware that time has passed, even though she has no memory of it actually doing so. It’s a bit like when you’ve had gas at the dentist’s. She turns her head to the left. There’s a huge set of doors at the end of the room, but she can’t remember what’s on the other side. She should get up and look, but she’s too tired; so tired that even to think is too great an effort. And there’s something she needs to do before . . . before what? She has thirteen . . . days? Hours? Time is going wrong.

She sinks back below the surface and dreams about two little babies, playing in the snow, but as she opens her eyes the dream fragments into a thousand pieces. Oh, why is it so hot? Perspiration prickles along her hairline and pools in the hollows of her collarbones. How can she be dreaming of snow in this heat? Even the inside of her mind is hot and scarlet and misty. She tries to think and she feels something move, something plucking at her attention, but when she tries to focus, it scuttles off into a corner and crouches there, just out of reach. This time, though, she doesn’t drift back into sleep. Instead, she lies still, flicking her gaze around the room; there are other beds, and a woman standing by the window, writing something on a clipboard. A memory flits across her mind: she sees herself writing something,
sign here; and here; good girl.
Thirteen . . . thirteen what? But it slithers away. A golden evening sunlight bathes the woman’s face. She has thick, sooty eyelashes and a lot of blonde hair under her white cap, and she’s wearing a uniform, a blue dress with a white pinafore. The word
nurse
settles in her mind; yes, the woman is a nurse.

‘Is this a . . .’ she begins, but her voice is so dry and thin from lack of use that barely a sound comes out. She tries again, this time consciously mustering what strength she can. ‘Am I in hospital?’

The woman’s head jerks up. ‘What?’

Don’t say what, say pardon,
she thinks, and wonders where the thought came from.

The nurse moves away and calls out to someone, and within a minute or so, there are two more people standing around the bed. ‘Go on,’ the nurse urges. ‘Say something.’

They are all watching her. There are two nurses now; the new one is a coloured girl, with a face as smooth and shiny as melted chocolate. The man is dressed in a tweed jacket with a saffron-yellow pullover, a white shirt and a black bow tie. He must be sweltering in those clothes. He’s older than the nurses, a big man with a mass of red-brown hair and a sprawling, copper-coloured beard, which takes up the lower half of his face and makes it seem even bigger.

‘Margaret,’ he says, his voice low and gentle, as though he’s afraid he’ll startle her. ‘Do you know where you are?’

She looks from one to another of the three faces looking down at her. Margaret; is that her name then? It doesn’t seem quite right. The nurse, the first one, leans down to her and smiles. ‘Go on, dear. Say something. Like you did just now.’

Maggie decides to risk it. She opens her mouth, wills the sound to come. ‘Have I – have I had an accident?’

There is a burst of conversation, a palpable sense of, not relief exactly, more of release, a lifting of tension. She’s not sure how she has triggered this, but they seem pleased with her.

‘Not an accident; no, no; not an accident,’ the bearded man says, taking a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and a white handkerchief from his breast pocket. ‘But you have been very poorly.’ He polishes the round lenses before putting the spectacles on, the tiny frames all but disappearing on his great bear-like face. ‘Oh yes.’ He peers through the lenses. ‘Very poorly indeed; and for quite a little while. Now, I want you to take things slowly, just one step at a time. Get a little more rest and I’ll be along to see you again in due course.’

*

It feels like hours later when the sunlight wakes her. She tries to sit up, but catches her hair, which someone has plaited, under her elbow. The plait has come almost completely undone. How did her hair get this long? She looks around her; she can see the room properly now. Hers is one of a row of beds, mostly empty, all black-framed and with pink-and-yellow flowery bedspreads. The walls are a light-brownish colour, like weak tea. Opposite, there are tall mullioned windows, flanked by wooden shutters. Despite the heat, they’re only open a few inches at the top and bottom. Dust motes dance in the scorching sunshine that penetrates the glass; a fat black bluebottle zips back and forth, crazed in the heat. At one end of the room are double doors with glass panels above, at the other, a vast fireplace with easy chairs around it. She tries to get out of bed, but a nurse hurries towards her. ‘Not yet, dear,’ the nurse says. ‘Wait until you’ve seen the doctor.’

She sees the man in the tweed jacket walking down the ward. He drags a chair over and places it next to her bed, then settles himself and smiles at her. She flops back on the pillow, exhausted with the effort of trying to get herself up. ‘This
is
a hospital, isn’t it?’ she asks.

‘Well done! Yes, this is a hospital.’ He takes a notebook from his inside pocket, flips it open and writes something quickly.

She looks down at the long, greyish nightdress she’s wearing, but doesn’t recognise it. Lying across the end of her bed, there’s a sack-coloured dressing gown, and a sudden flash of memory tells her she has worn this garment; she remembers holding the edges together because it has no belt or buttons, and walking slowly along a corridor to the lavatory, a nurse either side holding her arms. There are six lavatories in a row, but no doors. Surely she would not have used a lavatory without a door? But then she has a vivid memory of sitting on the cold china in the gloom of early morning, and looking up at the row of washroom windows, of ice on the inside of the frosted glass. And seagulls; there were seagulls screeching outside.

‘Are we by the sea?’

‘Not far from it. Brighton’s about twelve miles away. Why do you ask?’ He’s looking at her intently.

‘I heard seagulls . . .’

‘Ah! Yes, yes, indeed. They come a long way inland sometimes. Now, tell me what you thought about when you heard the seagulls.’

‘I didn’t think about anything, just . . .’ But there is a twitch in her memory. The sea; cold, cold water. Images flash up to her left and to her right, some frozen, some shimmering with movement, but they evaporate before she can grasp their meaning. ‘How long have I been here?’

‘Oh, quite a little while, I believe. Not
too
long, you know, erm . . .’ He turns towards the nurse who leans down and mutters something in his ear. ‘Ah yes,’ he nods. ‘That’s right. December, wasn’t it? Yes, yes. Not long before Christmas.’ He is still speaking to the nurse.

‘You mean . . .’ She looks at the nurse. ‘I’ve been here since . . .’ She shakes her head. No; that can’t be right. Why can’t she remember?

‘Now, Margaret,’ the man says. ‘Can you tell me what your full name is?’

The question bats her previous thought away. ‘Margaret Letitia Harrison.’ It comes out by itself. ‘Maggie,’ she adds, remembering that too. And then another name flashes into her head, and another; the two names are linked and for a moment everything sparkles and shouts; something is coming back, there is something she needs to do, and she hasn’t got long to do it. She tries to hang on so she can read the thought, but then it shrinks back and goes out like a candle.

The man smiles, nods, writes something else in the little notebook. ‘Good,’ he mutters. ‘Oh yes. Very good.’

Maggie feels a stab of irritation. ‘Are you a doctor?’

He ignores her. ‘Do you know what year this is?’

‘What year?’ she repeats. Surprised that it doesn’t come to her immediately. Her thoughts are loose and shaky, and won’t hold together. The man is waiting for an answer; so is the nurse. Perhaps they think she’s simple.

‘It’s nineteen . . .’ She pauses, then it jumps into her brain. ‘Nineteen sixty-three.’

He nods, writes it down. ‘Sixty-four, but that’s close enough. And can you tell me who the Prime Minister is?’

‘Mr Macmillan,’ she is certain this is right. ‘Harold Macmillan.’

‘Hmm.’ He writes this down, too. ‘Very close, but no.’ He frowns. ‘Macmillan resigned, you know, not long before you came to us.’ The nurse leans down and speaks into his ear again. He nods and says something back. All Maggie hears is ‘ . . .
not have been aware . . . circumstances . . . trauma . . .
’

‘What?’ She knows they’re talking about her, but none of it makes sense. ‘What are you saying—’

‘All in good time.’ He snaps his notebook shut then looks up and smiles, his eyes creasing into little slits. ‘Well now, it’s splendid to hear you talking again, I must say. I’ve no doubt you’re on the mend this time. No doubt at all.’

‘Please tell me,’ Maggie says. ‘Are you a proper doctor?’

The man chortles at this. ‘That depends on what you mean by “proper”, I suppose. Some of my colleagues might dispute the fact but yes, I am a proper doctor.’ He extends his hand and she automatically shakes it. ‘I’m Dr Carver; I’m a psychiatrist.’ He pauses. ‘Couldn’t very well have gone into surgery with a name like that, could I?’ He turns, grinning to the nurse, who smiles dutifully.

‘So you think I’m mad.’ He doesn’t answer. She looks around the room. ‘Is this . . . a . . . one of those . . .’

‘It’s a psychiatric hospital, yes. Now you mustn’t worry about that. If you’d broken your leg, you’d go to an ordinary hospital, wouldn’t you? We’re very modern in our approach here, you know. It’s not like the old days.’

‘I’m not mad,’ Maggie says. ‘I just can’t remember . . .’ She pauses, tries again, concentrates as hard as she can on the hazy images skating just outside her mind’s edge. It is as though some memory is bouncing against the perimeters, trying to find a way in.

Dr Carver is watching her intently. ‘Tell me,’ he says, ‘do you know why you’re here?’ His voice has gone soft again, and she senses he is being careful. ‘Can you remember anything about when you were first admitted? Or before you came to us?’

Again there are glimpses as she tries to force her brain to work, but the effort almost hurts. She shakes her head. ‘I can’t remember anything
.
’

‘That’s perfectly normal.’ Dr Carver gets to his feet, towers over her again. ‘It happens now and then, but it won’t last. I’ve a notion it’s the brain’s way of protecting us. Anyhow, it’s early days yet, early days indeed. Try not to think too hard.’ He taps his temple twice with his index finger. ‘Can’t force the old grey matter into action before it’s ready. Does no good, you know. No good at all.’ He starts to move away. ‘I’ll come and see you in a day or two. We’ll have a little chat.’

Maggie watches him walk down the ward as the nurse straightens the bedclothes. ‘I’m not mad, you know,’ she says. But the phrase
not right in the head
comes out of somewhere, and it’s true, something isn’t quite right in her head. There are too many spaces.

CHAPTER THREE

Jonathan feels a discernable tightening in his gut as he drives across Blackheath to his parents’ house. Even if his father isn’t thrilled, he’ll be a
bit
pleased, surely? Traffic is slow. It’s late afternoon and the light is beginning to fade as the November sky prepares to draw its blanket over the day. Out on the expanse of grassland, walkers huddle deeper into their coats against the wind; dogs chase balls and sticks; a few kids run, faces turned upwards as they pull at the strings of their kites, desperate to get the last dregs out of the afternoon. At the edge of the pond where he and Alan Harper used to fish for minnows and sticklebacks, a couple of oversized crows are shrieking at each other as they worry at a discarded burger. Blackheath: as kids, he and Alan had been beguiled by the idea that it was so-named because it was the site of a massive burial ground for victims of the Black Death, and they’d been gutted to discover that the plague story was an urban myth – the name actually came from ‘bleak heath’. And when you look at the balding, boggy grass, the grimy, defeated skyline and the traffic snaking down into the polluted bowl of Lewisham and Deptford, it is utterly appropriate.

The area near Greenwich Park is crowded with cars, lorries and trailers emblazoned with the words
Zippo’s Circus
. A small group of boys mill around, just as he and Alan had all those years ago; it was Billy Smart’s in those days. One year, he’d asked his father if he could go to the circus as a birthday treat. ‘Certainly not,’ Gerald had said. ‘Apart from anything else, it is extremely bad manners to ask for a gift.’

But the day before his birthday, he and Alan had gone up to the heath after school to hang around the trailers in the half-light, hoping for a glimpse of a clown, an acrobat or even Magnificent Marco the Human Cannonball. Rumour had it that Magnificent Marco had been injured so often he had his own bed at the hospital.

Jonathan was sleeping at Alan’s that night and he couldn’t wait, partly because Mrs Harper said she had a surprise for him, but also because she made dinners he’d never get at home, like fish fingers and chips, followed by butterscotch Instant Whip with a cherry in the middle and what she called ‘chocolate mousedirts’ sprinkled on top. As they crept from trailer to trailer, taking turns to climb on each other’s backs to peek in uncurtained windows, he thought about the cold, silent mealtimes at home, the constant smell of potatoes boiling away on the stove. Couldn’t they have chips just once?

‘Oh, buggery!’ Alan said. ‘Mum said five at the latest and it’s ten to now. Better leg it.’ They ran across the grass, past the church and down Lewisham Hill to Alan’s flats, feet pounding the pavement and breath charging white in the chill November air. As they clattered up the pissy-smelling stairs, he wondered what the surprise could be.

The tickets were on the kitchen table, propped up against the tomato ketchup. Alan’s mum was smiling.
Eat up, chop-chop, or we’ll be late and we’ll end up sitting where the elephants do their business
. Jonathan was weak with gratitude and so excited he couldn’t swallow. Mr Harper winked and ruffled his hair.
Not hungry, Tiger? Oh well. Waste not, want not.
And he scoffed the chips three at a time and everybody laughed. Jonathan pictured his father pushing equal amounts of mince, swede and potato onto his fork. Sometimes, he wished Mr Harper was his dad. Mr Harper liked the circus; Gerald said it was ‘a vulgar, gaudy spectacle full of dwarves, misfits and layabouts’, and Alan was a Guttersnipe and Mr Harper was an Oaf and a Wastrel. Jonathan didn’t know what a wastrel was, and he wasn’t going to look it up.

At the circus, they saw a lady in a ballet dancer’s dress riding a horse standing up, four men walking down a pretend staircase on their hands, and clowns with orange hair and giant bow ties turning somersaults. When some of the clowns asked for a volunteer to hold the hosepipe and help them drench the others, Jonathan stretched his hand right up so they could see him. He could hardly believe it when they picked him.

Later, after Alan’s mum kissed them goodnight, he went over it in his head. The very best bit, he decided, was after the hosepipe, when the clowns gave him a huge bag of sweets and asked where his mum and dad were and Mr and Mrs Harper shouted ‘over here’ and waved. The clowns carried him back, holding him high up on their shoulders while everybody clapped. When they put him down, everyone was smiling and proud of him. This was the best day of his whole life.

*

‘I was expecting you before now,’ his mother says as she opens the door, the hall clock chiming five behind her. He’d said late afternoon, and is about to point this out when he notices how tired she looks. ‘Sorry,’ he kisses her proffered cheek. ‘Traffic was terrible.’ As always, she’s fully made-up, but today her lipstick and face powder seem uncharacteristically noticeable and clumsily applied.

‘Father’s in the sitting room,’ she says. ‘I’ll be in when I’ve made the tea.’

It’s almost dusk, but Gerald hasn’t switched the lights on. He can see perfectly well in the remaining light, he says, and just because Jonathan deigns to visit them, he sees no reason to be extravagant with electricity. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ Jonathan snaps, flicking the switch.

‘Blasphemy, now, is it?’ Gerald makes a big deal of shielding his eyes. There’s a slight tremor to his hand, Jonathan notices. What little hair he has left seems to have yellowed even more, and there are dark, brownish crescents under his eyes. He seems particularly frail today; thinner than he was three weeks ago. ‘So,’ Jonathan says, sitting in the chair opposite; his eyes stray to the four different pill containers on the side table. He’s sure there weren’t that many last time. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘That’s your mother’s chair.’ Gerald picks up his pipe, taps it on the side of the ashtray and begins to fill the bowl with tobacco.

‘She’s making the tea. I’ll move when she comes in. I was asking how you are; you look tired.’

‘Blast!’ His father twists around in his chair. ‘Where the devil has your mother put my cigarette lighter?’ He always calls it that, even though he hasn’t smoked cigarettes for years. As he turns, he knocks his copy of
The Times
off the arm of his chair. It’s folded to the crossword page, and as Jonathan picks it up, he notices that Gerald has only filled in a couple of the clues, which is unusual; he usually has the whole thing finished by lunchtime.

‘Hang on,’ Jonathan says, ‘there it is.’ He can see the silver lighter poking out from under Gerald’s chair. He bends down to retrieve it and then hands it to his father.

‘Ah, yes.’ Gerald holds out his hand. ‘My thanks.’ There is a clunk as he puts the stem of his pipe between his teeth, holds the flame to the bowl and then sucks and puffs until the room is filled with billowing blue-grey smoke. He turns to Jonathan with the lighter still poised. ‘Well?’ he says. ‘Aren’t you having a cigarette?’

Jonathan shakes his head. ‘No, I told you last time. I’ve given up.’

Gerald takes his pipe from his mouth and holds it just an inch or two away as blue smoke curls out of the mouthpiece. ‘Given up? Don’t talk such nonsense. You’re as bad as your mother.’

‘I did tell you.’

‘Yes, but you’ve given up before and you’ve never stuck to it, have you? Why should this time be any different?’

This is it, he thinks; the perfect opportunity to explain about the baby. But he can’t come out with it now, not while his mother is still in the kitchen. ‘I’m beginning to think more about the health risks, I suppose.’

Gerald shakes his head in irritation. ‘I tell you, you’re more likely to die from worrying about what’s going to kill you than from enjoying the odd smoke.’ He sucks on the pipe again and turns to look for something on the bookshelf next to him. ‘Ah,’ he reaches for a slender red pack that lies among a stack of papers on top of the books. ‘Here we are.’ He tosses the pack – Henri Winterman’s Slim Panatellas – onto the coffee table. ‘You’ll have a cigar, though.’

Jonathan looks at the pack. It’s so tempting. But he’s smoked cigars before and kidded himself that it didn’t count. He ended up on fifteen a day at one point. ‘No,’ he shakes his head. ‘Thanks anyway, but I’d better not.’

‘Oh, come on,’ Gerald says, still looking at him. Then when Jonathan doesn’t respond, he sighs heavily, picks up the pack of cigars and throws them back on top of the books.

Jonathan sighs as well. They used to smoke together; it had never been particularly companionable, but it was one ritual they’d been able to share. It hadn’t occurred to him that Gerald might actually miss it. Maybe one cigar with his father wouldn’t be the end of the world, but before he can speak again, Gerald’s face assumes what Jonathan has come to think of as its default countenance, a mix of irritation, disdain and impatience.

‘So.’ Gerald’s voice is stony now. ‘How is your Business and Enterprise College or whatever it is they call the local comprehensive these days?’

‘School’s fine.’ Jonathan can hear the tightness in his own voice. All right, so his school is hardly Eton, but he doubts his father would be impressed even if it were. His father had been furious that he hadn’t gone into teaching straight after university, but he’d been determined to do his own thing so he’d pretended Gerald’s disapproval didn’t matter. It was only much later that he began to accept that it bothered him, it really, really bothered him. When he decided to become a teacher at the age of thirty-five, he hadn’t expected a fanfare, but nor had he expected Gerald to simply flick his newspaper and from behind it, ask if Jonathan was sure the profession would have him.

‘No problems with behaviour?’

He hesitates for a moment then shakes his head. ‘Nothing major.’ In fact, managing behaviour in his school is a constant battle, but Gerald would be contemptuous of any failure to control a class.

‘I saw some of your pupils in Lewisham the other day. Savages, most of them. The school seems rather lax on discipline.’

Discipline. For a moment, Jonathan flips back in time; he sees his father looming over him, carefully greased hair flopping forward as he brings down the cane onto Jonathan’s outstretched palm. Jonathan vows that he will never, ever, lay a finger on his own child.

His mother comes in carrying a tray, which Jonathan takes from her and sets down on the coffee table. In the interminable period it takes for Gerald to add sugar, stir, sip, and replace the cup in its saucer, Jonathan feels as he often does in this house – as though he’s ten years old again. Little has changed since then; the walls are a lighter colour but the same paintings hang from the picture rail; the curtains have a different pattern, but they’re still dark and heavy; the mantle clock, wall plates, vases and knickknacks gather dust now just as they did then. Tense Sunday afternoons; crossing the room with his father’s tea, gripping the saucer tightly and praying the cup wouldn’t rattle; Gerald’s scrutiny from over the top of his glasses. And the sounds: the gas fire, hissing and popping; the tick of the old clock; the terrifying sound of Gerald
listening
.

He puts his cup and saucer on the table.
I’ve got something to tell you.
Or straight out:
Fiona and I are having a baby.
He wishes Fiona had come with him. Maybe the baby
will
bring them closer. His father is looking at him.
Just say it.
He clears his throat, looks at his mum, then at Gerald. ‘Now that you’re both here, I have some—’

Gerald clicks his tongue irritably. ‘Have you run out of razor blades?’ His voice is prickly. ‘Or is it now acceptable for a schoolteacher to walk around looking like a vagrant?’

Jonathan stands up. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, does it really—’

‘Gerald, please,’ his mother interrupts. ‘It
is
the weekend. I think you’re being a little ungracious.’

‘There’s always something, isn’t there?’ Jonathan says. ‘We can never just have a normal, nice afternoon without you finding something to complain about.’

‘I see I’ve offended your delicate sensibilities.’ Gerald grapples behind his chair for his stick. ‘So if you’ll excuse me.’ He struggles to his feet, batting away his wife’s attempts to help him.