Wronged Sons, The (13 page)

I downed half a bottle of red for Dutch courage before I grabbed the material I’d bought from the market. Then I picked up my pinking shears and rustled up school shirts and trousers for James and Robbie.

Each bouncing bobbin, each foot on the pedal and each rattle of the machine’s engine brought that day back to me. Since you’d vanished, I’d tried my best to put it out of my mind as best I could. Because if I’d spent as much time thinking about the both of you as I’d liked, it would have been the end of me.

But our children needed me in the world more than I did. So I held my pain deep down and ploughed on. By the time I finished I was three sheets to the wind, but I’d done it.

Word of mouth soon spread amongst the school-gate mums that I could save them a small fortune by making their kids’ clothes too. And by the end of term, half the children running around the playground were dressed in something I’d sewn.

When my friends asked if I’d make clothes for them too, a light bulb switched on in my head. It could be the answer to my financial woes, so I gave it a bash. They arrived on my doorstep with armfuls of fabrics and torn out cuttings of outfits they’d seen in magazines and hoped I could copy. On instinct I found I could replicate even really tricky designs without much of a problem. And it gave me the confidence to suggest my own twists and ideas.

The supermarket students, who didn’t earn enough to buy what they saw pop stars like Madonna and Whitney Houston wearing on Top Of The Pops, began spending some of their wages on things I’d create for them for their favourite nightclubs. Even Selena, who’s circumstances meant a social life was a no-no until Daniel was older, took advantage of having a friend who could whip up a shoulder padded jacket in an evening.

It wasn’t long before all my nights found me holed up in the dining room and hunched over a sewing machine with only a couple of bottles of wine to keep me company. I didn’t have time to stop and think how my eighteen-hour days might be affecting my health.

October 28, 6.25pm

It hurt like someone was kicking me in the stomach over and over again. Even lifting my arm to stack the last box of cornflakes on the supermarket shelf winded me.

The pain in my stomach had ached on and off for most of the day. But the cramps were much worse than my usual time of the month and eventually I had to admit something was wrong. I struggled to catch my breath as I left the pallet of boxes in the aisle, headed to a toilet cubicle to unbutton my dungarees and examined what was making my groin feel damp. I panicked when I saw brownish spotting in the front of my knickers.

I clocked-off and slipped out of the warehouse doors, clenched my tummy and half-walked, half-stumbled a mile and a half to the doctor’s surgery. The cramps began coming thick and fast as I waited for Dr Willows, and almost as soon as I lay on her bed, I felt a popping inside me. Then I leaked more blood as she helped me to the toilet. And when the pain became too intense, I fainted.

“You’re having a miscarriage, Catherine,” Dr Willows explained slowly when I woke up. “The pains you’re feeling are contractions in the uterus. They’re dilating your cervix to get the foetus out. There’s nothing we can do but let your body do what it has to do.”

I struggled to get a grip on what she was saying. How could I be pregnant? Was my motherly instinct now so rotten that the only time I felt my baby inside me was when it was dying?

“But I’ve been having my periods,” I argued.

“It can still happen, I’m afraid.”

“How far gone am I?”

“I can only hazard a guess, but probably about five months.”

I remembered the night we’d last made love. It was the weekend before you disappeared and once again, I’d instigated it. Neither of us said it but we both knew we were still going through the motions. I’d convinced myself that if we both kept trying to make an effort, we would, in time, feel like us again. It never crossed my mind it would be the last time or that it’d leave me pregnant.

Dr. Willows lead me to the nurse’s room and I lay on my side until the pain eased. She gave me a handful of sanitary towels, a bottle of painkillers and offered me a lift home. I turned it down.

It’s hard to explain, but instead of feeling emotional like any ordinary mother would have after miscarrying, an eerie feeling of detachment came across me. It was like the trauma of what had just happened belonged to someone else, not me.

So calmly, I lifted myself up and left the surgery. I walked slowly back to the supermarket and clocked back in, and continued where I’d left off. And as I priced up a new pallet of lemonade bottles, my colleagues had no idea I’d left the aisle as two people and come back as one. Or that I’d just killed my second child within a year.

*

I put Emily to bed and asked James and Robbie to fend for themselves, blaming a tummy ache on my need to hide myself away in the bedroom.

I’d still yet to shed one single, solitary tear. I shut my eyes tight and dug my fingernails deep into my palm to force them out but still I felt nothing. I thought of a life without Billy and without you but that didn’t work either. I was numb. I wondered if I’d shed so many tears in my lifetime that I’d now run out.

I rubbed my belly where my child had been hiding and wondered how I could have lost so much control of my life. I blamed losing it on the stress of worrying about you, the kids, our finances… and maybe even the bottle of wine that lay under the blanket next to me. I decided I was hopeless and defective and that your baby had had a narrow escape with me as its mother. No wonder it wanted to die – it probably had an inkling of what was to come.

My head throbbed so I reached over to the bedside table and took a third pain killer from Dr Willows’ packet and washed it down with a swig of wine, straight from the bottle. I hesitated, and then took a fourth pill. And a fifth. Then a sixth, seventh, eighth and ninth. But before I swallowed my tenth, I wretched, then vomited across the floor.

Resting in a puddle of alcohol and bile lay all nine tablets. I couldn’t even kill myself properly.

December 7, 1.15am

“Bloody thing!” I shouted as I caught my finger in the sewing machine needle for the second time in as many minutes. It was either exhaustion or one too many drinks that blurred my vision. Regardless, I sucked my finger to stem the bleeding and headed for the kitchen to find another sticking plaster.

“Sod you,” I muttered to Mrs Kelly’s unfinished skirt on the dining room table. I’d go back to it later when it had learned its lesson. I wrapped the band-aid around my finger and thought back to when I was a child and I’d lose myself in my mum’s fashion magazines and a world of women draped in beautiful fabrics.

She was an unsung seamstress with aspirations of grandeur. I’d sit transfixed as she assembled beautiful dresses and coats from nothing. She’d get lost in a place a long way from the one she’d found herself stuck in with my dad and I. She once admitted her teenage dream had been to work for one of the great Parisian fashion houses; hand-stitching stunning haute couture creations until her fingers numbed.

“That would have given me greater pleasure than anything else life has thrown my way,” she said wistfully, then gave me a disappointed sideways glance to emphasise her point

My mother was fascinated by the work of couture aristocrat Hubert de Givenchy and his muse Audrey Hepburn. She would copy his refined, immaculate designs in her own way. Unfortunately she had little interest in sharing any of her skills with me.

I’d begged her to teach me what she knew, but she’d ignore me. It was like she was afraid she’d lose her gift if she passed it on to someone else – even her only child. But as long as I kept quiet and didn’t ask questions, I was allowed to watch her work from the other side of the room.

Even as a little girl, I never quite understood why my parents bothered to start a family, whether it was just the done thing in those days or because I was an unfortunate accident. Either way, they didn’t really need me. I was never physically neglected, but my mum wasn’t shy in reminding me of my place in her pecking order.

“You’re a guest in this family,” she once barked without provocation, “and don’t forget it.”

Despite being aware of her many faults, it was calming watching beautiful clothes come from a cold heart. Sometimes I’d wait until she left the house, then sneak into her wardrobe and shut the doors so I could have them all to myself. I’d close my eyes and smell them or try and identify the materials by the muffled sounds they made when I rubbed them between my fingers.

I remembered a gift I’d made for her when I was nine. I saved up my pocket money to buy four yards of ivory cream polyester fabric, and every night after school, I ran to my room and hand-sewed a blouse ready for her birthday. Even then, I knew it was crude, but I hoped she’d be proud of what I’d learned and then add her own spit and polish to it. As she unwrapped the string and paper, she gave me a half-baked ‘thank you’ but never tried it on for size, even to be polite.

A few days later, she asked me polish the fireguard so I went to the cupboard under the kitchen sink for a tin of Brasso. Inside lay the tatters of my blouse, cut into strips to use as dusters. It was a cruel lesson.

You can either learn from your parents’ mistakes or repeat them and use them as an excuse for your own behaviour. I vowed never to blame her for my failings. And from then on, everything I made was in spite of her, and without the need of her approval.

My mum’s dresses lead long but lonely lives. Once complete, they wouldn’t be shown off at parties or to her friends; instead, they would hang in protective bags for only her to enjoy.

Dad worshipped the ground she laid fabric on. And his obsession with keeping her happy overshadowed everything else in his life, including me. I envied my friends when they admitted they were daddy’s girls. I was nobody’s girl until I met you. But dad knew her calling gave her a happiness he couldn’t match. And that was why he was so desperate to rescue her dresses the night a fire tore through our home.

As our car turned the corner and into the driveway, Mum screamed at the bright orange flames bursting through the windows and lapping at the gutters. We hadn’t even stopped when she leaped out and ran howling towards the front door with the key gripped in her hand.

“Helena,” screamed my father, running after her. “Come back!” but by the time he’d reached the front door, she was lost inside, a thick plume of black smoke billowing behind her.

He threw his coat over his head and followed her inside while I stayed in the car, numb and terrified. He disappeared into a crimson and mauve cloud that crackled as the heat met the air. It was the last I ever saw of them.

A fireman told me later they were found lying beside each other by the embers of her wardrobe. I liked to think she was able to hold at least one of her precious things before she died, and that she’d clutched it to her chest, trying to give it life before the smoke took hers. I hoped it gave her the comfort she couldn’t find in me.

Caroline’s parents took in an orphan the very next day and gave her the family she’d never known.

Christmas Day, 8am

Our house had never been so silent on a Christmas morning. In past years, I’d watch as a flurry of wrapping paper spun through the air like stray fireworks on bonfire night. And I’d cover my ears at the deafening squeals of the kids.

They’d normally wake us up around four o’clock in the morning, prodding our arms and anxiously whispering ‘has he been yet?’ And with no hope of settling them back to sleep, we’d give in to the inevitable and follow them downstairs. We’d switch on the Christmas tree lights and take as much pleasure watching them tear open their presents, as we’d had in buying them.

But that year, eight o’clock arrived and the house was firework free. In all honesty, I’d dreaded the moment they’d wake up and not just because you weren’t there, but because I was ashamed of how pitiful the gifts waiting for them were. I knew it, and soon they would too.

It was the best I could do, as my choice was simple but bloody unfair – piles of presents or an empty dinner table for most of January. Nevertheless, I got them up one by one myself and tried to spur them into action.

“Have we been naughty?” asked James, when he saw there were only two boxes waiting for him to open.

I sighed. But without admitting Father Christmas was a big fat fib and what lay before them was all mummy could afford, there wasn’t much I could say to convince them they weren’t being punished.

“Of course not darling,” I replied, “Santa just didn’t have much room on his sleigh this year.” It fell on deaf ears.

All day I tried my hardest to encourage them to wear those flimsy, colourful Christmas cracker hats and play with the crappy plastic toys inside. I even delayed dinner so James could watch the Top Of The Pops Christmas special. Robbie said very little, and lay on his bed in his room stroking Oscar instead. Nothing I did lifted their spirits.

What should have been a day of celebration was missing its heart. Instead of the beautiful madness of six, it had withered to one drunken grown-up desperately pretending the Christmas chicken was really a small turkey. Even a second bottle of wine failed to bring me festive cheer. The third failed too.

I kept the phone in my apron pocket for most of the day in the hope that if you were still alive, by some miraculous turn of events, you’d call. But of course you didn’t.

Suddenly, there came a knock at the door and my heart jumped. Before I could say a word, the children leaped from their chairs and ran towards it.

“Daddy!” squealed Emily as her little legs buckled beneath her in the scramble. For a second, I thought they were right and chased after them, praying for the kind of miracle you see in Christmas films. But as the door opened, Roger, Steven, Caroline and Annie stood there, not you.

Their arms were full of gifts, but not even Santa could give us the only thing we all really wanted.