Us (32 page)

Through the afternoon I sat by the bed and watched them sleep, Connie pale, exhausted and quite beautiful. Goodness knows why it should have come as a surprise, but I'd been shocked and stunned by the violence of the delivery room, the blood and sweat, the complete absence of delicacy. Had I found myself in that situation I'd have opted not just for gas and air, but full general anaesthetic and six months' convalescence. But nothing had ever come so naturally to Connie as giving birth, and I felt very proud. ‘You were incredible,' I'd told her when she opened her eyes.

‘Did I swear?' she said.

‘A lot. I mean, a lot.'

‘Good,' she smiled.

‘But it all seemed so natural, too. You were like some … Viking washerwoman or something.'

‘Thank you,' she said. ‘Are you pleased with her? She's very small.'

‘She's perfect. I'm delighted.'

‘Me too.'

They wanted to keep both Jane and Connie in overnight – nothing to worry about, so we didn't worry. With some reluctance on Connie's part, it was suggested that I should go home and prepare for mother and baby's return and so I took that journey, surely one of the strangest journeys a man ever makes, back to the home that was exactly how we'd left it. There was something rather ritualistic about those few hours, preparation for something monumental, as if this would be the last time I'd ever be alone in my life. Moving in a daze, I washed up and tidied things away, stocked the fridge, organised the equipment just so. I fielded texts, made reassuring phone calls, mother and baby doing well. I made the bed with fresh sheets and when everything was in place, I spoke to Connie and went to sleep …

… and was woken by a call a little after four a.m., that awful hour. No need to panic – terrible words – but Baby Jane was a little listless. She was having some difficulty breathing and had been moved to a different ward. They had administered antibiotics and were confident this would help, but would I come to the hospital straight away? Best not to drive. I stumbled into clothes and out of the house, seizing on the conversation's positive elements – no need to panic – but unable to forget the phrase ‘some difficulty breathing', because what could be more fundamental than the need to breathe? ‘Breathe' and ‘live', weren't they the same words? I ran down to Kilburn High Road, found a cab, hurled myself into it and out again, into the hospital, feet slapping on the floor as I ran to Connie's ward, saw the curtains drawn around her bed, heard her cries and I knew. I pulled the curtain to one side, saw her curled in a ball, her back to me – oh, Connie – and I knew.

Next morning they took us to a private room and let us spend some time with Jane, though I'd rather not go into that. Somehow I was able to take some photographs, some hand- and footprints too. We were advised, though this might feel strange, that we might be pleased to have them in the future, and we were. We said our goodbyes then we were sent home, never more empty-handed.

And so, just as we had informed people of the successful birth, we set about withdrawing the good news. Word spread, of course, bad news moving faster than good, and before long friends and colleagues gathered around. All were kind, their condolences sincere and well intentioned and yet I found myself becoming surly and sharp when they employed absurd euphemisms for our daughter's death. No, she had not ‘passed away'. ‘Passed over', ‘passed on', ‘departed' were equally repellent to me, and neither had we ‘lost her'; we were all too aware of where she was. That she had ‘left us' implied willingness on her part, ‘taken away' implied some purpose or destination, and so I snapped at well-meaning friends and they apologised because what else could they do? Debate the point? Of course I regret my intolerance now, because the instinct to soften the language is a decent and humane one. The term the doctor had used was ‘collapse'. The collapse had come very quickly, he said, and I could comprehend that word. But if someone had told us that she had ‘gone to a better place' then I might well have struck them. ‘Torn away' – that might have fitted better. Torn or ripped away.

Anyway, my surliness was unpleasant and unreasonable and there was, I suspect, a sense that I was ‘not taking it well'. Grief is sometimes compared to numbness, though to begin with that was very far from our experience. Numbness would have been welcome. Instead we felt flayed, tormented, furious that the world was apparently carrying on. Connie in particular was prone to terrible rage, though for the most part she kept this private or directed it at me where it could do no harm.

‘People keep telling me I'm young,' she said, in the calm after one such explosion. ‘They say that there's plenty of time and we can have another baby. But I didn't want another baby. I wanted this one.'

So we were not gracious, we were not wise. We did not learn anything. We were ugly and angry, red-eyed and snot-nosed and mad, and so we kept ourselves to ourselves. Friends wrote letters, which we read and were thankful for, and then threw away. What else were we to do? Put them on the mantelpiece, like Christmas cards? The overwrought emotionalism of some of Connie's friends was particularly hard to bear. Shall we come and see you, they asked in tearful, hugging voices. No, we're fine, we said, and resolved to let the phone ring on next time. We were dragged into the daylight for the funeral, a brief and tormenting affair – what stories could we tell, what fond anecdotes about a personality so unformed? – and it occurred to me once again that grief is as much about regret for what you've never had as sadness for what you've lost. Anyway, we got through it somehow. Connie's mother was there, a few of her close friends, my sister. My father said he would come if I wanted him there, but I did not. We returned home immediately after the ceremony, took off our funeral clothes and went to bed, and for the next week or so that was where we stayed. We would lie around and sleep during the day, eat poor meals without tasting, watch television with our eyes fixed a little to the side. By then we were numb. I've never sleepwalked, so can't confirm the similarity, but we sat and stood, walked and ate without really being alive.

Sometimes Connie would wake in the night in tears. The grief of someone we love is terrible to see but Connie's sobbing was entirely animal and abandoned, and I wanted more than anything to make it stop. So I'd hold her until she fell asleep again, or we'd give up on sleep and watch the window together – it was summer, and the days were cruelly long – and during those dawn hours I would repeat a solemn promise.

Of course the promises we make at such times are all too often nonsense; the athlete swears that he will win this race and comes in eighth, the child promises to play the piano piece perfectly and fumbles in the first bar. Hadn't I sworn, in the delivery room, that I would look after my daughter and make sure no harm ever came to her? My wife and I had exchanged vows that had been broken within six months. Be kinder, work harder, listen more, tidy up, do what's right; perpetual resolutions that always crumble when exposed to the light of day, and what was the point of one more broken vow?

Nevertheless, I made the promise to myself. I swore that to the best of my ability I would look after her from now on. I would answer the phone and I would never hang up on her. I would do everything I could to make her happy and certainly I would never, never leave her. A good husband. I would be a good husband and I would not let her down.

Time passed. I returned to work and endured the sympathy, Connie stayed at home and sank into something that we hesitated to call ‘depression', or perhaps it was simply grief. ‘Blue' was our rather winsome euphemism: she was ‘feeling blue'. I'd call her from the lab, knowing she was there and knowing that she would not pick up. On the rare occasions that she did answer, her replies would be mumbled and monosyllabic, or irritable, or angry, and I would find myself wishing that she'd let the phone go on ringing. ‘You feeling blue?' ‘Yes. A little blue.' I'd try and carry on with work, sick with anxiety, sit silent and unhearing in departmental meetings, then at night I'd climb the stairs to the flat, hear the television playing far too loud and I would hesitate, key in hand. There were times, I must confess, when I contemplated turning around, walking back downstairs and out to … anywhere, really, other than that room.

But I never did. Instead I'd take a deep breath before opening the door to find her in old clothes, eyes red, lying on the sofa. Sometimes a bottle of wine would have been opened, sometimes emptied, or I would find that some mania had seized her and that she had embarked on a purifying task – painting all the cupboards yellow, clearing out the loft – the project abandoned halfway through. I'd repair the damage as best I could, cook food, something healthy, then join her on the sofa.

Here, I wish I could transcribe some speech I made to bring her out of this awful state, something about coming back to life or learning to live again. Perhaps it would have ended with a flourish – I could have thrown open the windows, perhaps, or found some inspiration in nature. Perhaps a good enough speech might have brought about some ‘closure'. I tried to compose it, many times, lying awake at night; poetical variations on banal ideas, about optimism or seizing the day, something about the seasons. But I am not a maker of speeches, I lack the eloquence and the imagination, and after twenty years we have not come close to experiencing anything as simple and neat as closure. Even if it were available, I'm not sure if closure is something we have ever craved. Stop remembering or caring? To what end?

But I did sit and wait with her through the great unhappiness. We returned to life eventually and our marriage as I think of it now began around that time. We straightened our backs and began to leave the house, to go to films and exhibitions together. Ate dinner afterwards, began to talk once more. We didn't really laugh, not to begin with. It was enough to be able to answer the phone. Some of our more frivolous friends fell away during our seclusion, but that was all right. Other friends had started families of their own, and were wary of flaunting their good fortune. We understood, and we were happy to stay away. We would live a smaller, simpler life from now on.

Still finding herself unable to paint, Connie changed careers. The commercial gallery had never really pleased or satisfied her, and instead she began a part-time course in arts administration, which she loved. Alongside, she found work in the museum, learning the ropes of the education department, which she runs today with such success. In the autumn, a year after the day that we walked round and round the Serpentine, the two of us took a sleeper train once more to Skye, a place with no particular significance except that it was somewhere we both loved and somewhere we might have taken Jane. We woke early one morning, walked from our hotel to the shore in a steady rain, and scattered her ashes there.

The few photographs we had were placed in a drawer in our bedroom and looked at now and then. Each year we would acknowledge the anniversary of her arrival and departure, and continue to do so now. Occasionally Connie speculates on an imaginary future for our daughter – what she might have been like, her interests and talents. She does so without sentiment, mawkishness or tears. There's almost an element of bravado in it – like holding her palm over a candle flame, she does it to show how strong she has become. But I have always disliked this speculation, at least out loud. I listen, but I keep such thoughts to myself.

The following May, in a hotel on rue Jacob in Paris, our son was conceived and eighteen years later, I went to find him and to bring him home.

Though I was unlikely to find him here, in a pleasant little restaurant in the back streets of Venice. In fact, I must confess, Albie had rather slipped my mind. I was having too nice a time, shoulder to shoulder with an attractive and flirtatious Dane, both of us a little drunk now and overwhelmed by the wonderful seafood pasta, cold white wine and fresh fish, displayed to us before and after grilling, something that has already made me feel irrationally guilty …

‘Why?'

‘Because they show you this beautiful silver thing from the sea and you turn it into a pile of bones, and the head stares up at you saying, “Look, look what you've done to me!'''

‘Douglas, you are a very strange man.'

Then strawberries and some sweet, syrupy liqueur, then, with wild abandon, coffee. Coffee! At night-time on a weekday!

‘I'm going to have to walk this off, I think,' said Freja.

‘A good idea.' We paid the bill, quite reasonable for Venice, splitting it fifty-fifty. I lavishly tipped our waiter, who stood shaking our hands, nodding, nodding, standing on tiptoe to kiss Freja on the cheek, indicating in vociferous Italian that I was a very lucky man, very
fortunato
.

‘Now I think he's saying I have a very beautiful wife.'

‘I'm sure you do, it's just it is not me.'

‘I don't know how to explain that.'

‘Perhaps it's easier to let him think I am your wife,' said Freja, and so that's what we did.

We walked back to the fine wide street of Via Garibaldi, still busy with local families eating in the pavement restaurants, then turned into a tree-lined processional avenue between grand villas. We walked, and perhaps it was the wine or the beauty of the evening or the medicated plasters, but I was barely aware of the blisters on my toes or the torn skin on the soles of my feet. I told Freja about today's breakthrough and my plan to lie in wait outside the hotel tomorrow.

‘And what if he doesn't come?'

‘A free hotel in Venice without his mum and dad? I'm sure he'll come.'

‘Okay, what if he does? What then?'

We walked on.

‘I'll ask him to come for a drink. I'll apologise. I'll say we've missed him and that I hope things will be better in the future.'