Lilian
Lilian rocked Pamela in her arms. Thank God she was here. Thank God.
‘Why?’ Her daughter’s cry echoed her own thoughts, brought a twist of anguish to her guts. Why?
She’d been too greedy. After the miscarriages she should have let it be but she’d pushed. Maybe God didn’t intend for her to be a mother. But she’d gone on and on about it, talked Peter round. Not just about the adoption, either. She’d been the one tempting him to disobey the Church’s ruling on the sanctity of married life.
She looked at the clock. Nearly seven. He’d be getting up now… The room swam. She pressed her face into Pamela’s tangled hair, her tears falling quietly. Would they take Pamela away? Fear coursed through her like acid. They couldn’t. For the love of God after seven years. No. Don’t be silly.
She looked up, her face wet and itchy, Pamela still cradled in her arms, one arm going numb. She stared out of the window. Saw the sky turning pearl-grey, heard the rattle of the milk float and the chatter of a magpie. She watched nextdoor’s cat parade across the garden fence and felt her cheeks grow cold.
She hugged Pamela and brushed her dark hair back from her face and told her to fetch a hanky. When the clock struck eight she rang her sister and had her first practise at saying the words. ‘It’s bad news. Peter’s had a heart attack. He died last night.’
She had expected them to offer something, even though they hadn’t seen much of them in the last few years. Peter had been their son, after all. Pamela was their grand-daughter. So she’d expected a call or perhaps a note in the days after the funeral, discretely volunteering assistance. They knew she had nothing. The house would have to be sold and she’d have to find some sort of job, but these things took time.
The funeral had been miserable, how could it have been anything else? She had got through it like a robot. She’d taken the tranquilizers that the doctor proscribed and they’d made her feel sleepy and disconnected. She was determined to be dignified for Pamela, like Jackie Kennedy had at Jack’s funeral. Composed. Sally had helped her with all the arrangements. Thank God Sally had been there. Practical and efficient, she was the one person Lilian could confide in. She could talk to her about how terrible losing Peter really was. She told her about hearing his voice and smelling his pillow and the strange things she felt compelled to do. The bizarre aspects of grieving.
Sally took Pamela too, on the worst days when Lilian simply needed to weep and thrash about, when she needed to let herself wallow in the pain, dragging up memories to lash herself with, reciting litanies of all they would never share, getting stupid with self-pity. All the things that Lilian hid from her daughter. Sally had Ian, a four-year-old, who Pamela loved to entertain, so it was a good arrangement all round.
Alicia and Bernard Gough had attended their son’s funeral and gone back to the house afterwards. They had accepted commiserations from people and Alicia had been moved to tears several times. Pamela had been wary of them and they had made no special effort to talk to their grand-daughter as far as Lilian could see. She herself hadn’t had the strength to try and find common ground in their suffering, not that day, though she would try later when she was up to it.
The days rolled into weeks and there was no word from them. Then it was Peter’s birthday. She sat in the lounge that afternoon while Pamela was at school and sorted through photographs, careful not to wet them with her tears. She chose three that she wanted to frame for herself and Pamela: a lovely shot of Peter with Pamela at the park, the pair of them sitting on the roundabout, caught laughing at something; and a solo shot of Peter in his tuxedo at a dinner dance, handsome, his black hair gleaming with Brylcreme slapped on to try and tame it. Sally had joked about him having girl’s eyes, because of his long curling lashes. He was smiling and there was a cigarette in one hand. He was beautiful. She also selected a rare shot of the three of them. Pamela had been about five and a half, she’d lost her first teeth, two at the bottom, and her hair was tied up in bunches. They were at the front at Blackpool, Peter with a picnic basket in his hand and each of them with a cornet. She remembered the day, sunny with a stiff breeze. They’d gone back to the boarding house and Pamela had fallen asleep exhausted from a long day playing on the sands. She and Peter had made love in the cramped room, sand and suntan lotion on their skin and the taste of ice cream on their lips.
She sorted more pictures out for Alicia and Bernard. It would be nice for them to have some. She posted them first-class with a short note saying how she was missing him and how they must be too. She heard nothing.
She put the house on the market but interest was slow. A lot of people wanted something more modern – split level or at least with the living room and dining room knocked through. Then she got an offer. She began to look for places that they could afford. She hoped they could stay in the area and Pamela could continue at St John’s, but it might not be possible. Then the buyer pulled out and it was back to square one. There was nothing in the bank and the Family Allowance went nowhere. Pamela needed new shoes. She began to feel panicky. She had to manage. She had to. There was no one else now.
She dressed as neatly as she could, aware of the aura of disapproval that always seemed to emanate from Peter’s parents. She walked there. It was half an hour or so and it was a fine day, wind fluttering the first autumn leaves and the smell of wood smoke in the air. She was thirsty by the time she arrived and too warm from the walk.
She rang the front doorbell and after a moment saw the curtains in the bay window twitch. Then the door opened.
‘Lilian.’ Alicia had a tiny puzzled frown. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I wanted to have a word with you, if…’ She was tongue-tied. She had practised what she would say so often but it all ran away from her now.
‘Oh.’ Alicia stepped back and let her in. They went into the sitting room.
Alicia sat down, her feet together side by side. Lilian glanced down at her own feet, shoes dusty from the walk.
‘Things have been difficult since Peter died. Financially…’ It sounded too blunt, too direct. ‘I’m trying to sell the house, of course, but there have been holdups. I’ve come to ask whether you and Bernard might be able to help us out.’
Alicia blinked, colour flushed her neck and she patted nervously at her lip with the knuckle of one forefinger. There was an appalling silence. Lilian could smell her own body odour. She cleared her throat.
‘I’ll have to speak to Bernard,’ Alicia said.
‘Yes, thank you. I’m sorry, if there’d been any other way… It’s just these next few weeks till I sell the house and then…’ she trailed off. ‘Thank you.’
Alicia stood up and Lilian copied her. She had an urge to grab the woman, to get hold of her and shake her, shout at her. Did she mourn her son, did she cry for him in the night, did he walk through her dreams and call her name? Could she bear the thought of him in the cold ground, knowing she’d never hear his voice, watch him eat or smile?
‘Did you get the photographs?’
‘Yes,’ Alicia said, betraying nothing. And turned to show her out.0
She walked home feeling hot and humiliated. What, what had she done to deserve such… She struggled for words. She felt sick and parched. She stopped at a corner shop and bought a bottle of Coca-Cola. She drank it as she walked, trying to burp discretely when the bubbles repeated on her. It’s for Pamela, she told herself, you had to do it.
Two days later a postal order for twenty pounds arrived and a note.
Dear Lilian,
We do hope this will assist you at this difficult time.
Yours sincerely,
Alicia Gough
It would buy groceries for a few weeks and new shoes for Pamela. It was the last time she ever heard from either of them.