Astonishing Splashes of Colour Read online

  My grandmother tells me different stories every time she sees me looking at this picture. “Why, that was before she went up to university. Mr. Harrison and I wanted to remember how she looked when she had just grown up. You can see the innocence in her eyes.”

  Or: “After she was married. I remember they came to stay after their honeymoon and Guy—your father, dear—insisted on a portrait photograph. We thought it was too expensive, but he said he was paying. He insisted.”

  Why does my father not have a copy of this picture at home? Why are the wedding photograph and album the only pictures he has of my mother?

  There are photographs of my mother all over the house in Lyme Regis. At eleven, with long stick-like legs and thick dark plaits; at three, squatting on the grass picking daisies, her hair cut into a severe bob, but her eyes bright and inquisitive.

  There are photographs that my father has sent of all the grandchildren and great-grandchildren, but my grandmother has trouble remembering the names. Also, several photographs of the wedding, my mother clutching a bouquet of white lilies, two friends as bridesmaids with their fashionable hair curling round tiny hats, and my grandparents as middle-aged parents, from another era, people whom I’ve never known. I’ve sat and examined this picture many times. Do I look like her? Did she want to be my mother? Did I sit on her lap and have cuddles?

  “Why did my parents go and live in Birmingham when they both liked the sea so much?” I asked once.

  My grandmother stopped beating her cake mixture for a few seconds and looked bemused. “I don’t know,” she said. “I expect it was because he wanted to take her away from her university friends. They were a bit rowdy.”

  This answer worries me. Was she happy? Six pregnancies. Did she want us all?

  Sometimes, I think I can remember sitting on her knees, playing with her fingers as she laced them together, hearing a soft, low voice singing “A Hard Day’s Night.”

  Every now and again I determine to find out more about my mother and how she died. I’ve made lists: are there reports in old newspapers about the crash she died in? Could I find any of her old university friends, school friends? Ask my grandparents about the funeral?

  But these are big tasks and require energy and I put it off, until one day it will be too late and everyone who ever knew her will be gone. Even now, I make the lists and never do anything. There is something that makes me uneasy. I don’t know what it is.

  I lie next to James and think about it all. I’ve learned to keep it there in my mind without it becoming urgent or frustrated, but not losing it either.

  Now, hearing James breathing, feeling the space around me, the calming emptiness, I feel my body grow heavy and still and I sink finally down into sleep.

  JAMES AND I SIT in the doctor’s waiting room. I’ve been here before, many times, and I’m familiar with the posters about AIDS, breast cancer, diabetes. I know several of them by heart.

  Depression:

  Do you wake early in the morning and not get back to sleep? (Yes.)

  Do you find it difficult to eat? (No.)

  Do you find it difficult to talk to people? (It depends who they are.)

  Do you find it difficult to concentrate? (Yes.)

  Are you tired all the time? (Yes.)

  You might be depressed.

  (Yes. Right.)

  This is part of a deal with Adrian. If I don’t go to see the doctor, he won’t let me see Emily and Rosie again. Ever. He’s waiting outside in his car, expecting to take us home. The engine’s probably already running, in case I try to escape and he has to give chase.

  When I woke up on Saturday, out of a frenetic, kaleidoscope dream, James was no longer lying next to me. I lay still for a while, trying to clear my head from the dream, dazzled and confused by its complexity, but unable to remember much.

  I could hear James’s voice from the other room, talking to someone on the telephone, and I realized that his voice had been in my dream and taken it over, words coming out of his mouth visibly in multi-coloured layers.

  “Give us an hour.” I sat up to look at the alarm clock on the bedside table and was amazed to see that it said 7:15. That’s impossible, I thought. We only came to bed at 7:00. I’ve been here longer than fifteen minutes.

  James came into the room, pleased to find me awake.

  “Hello,” he said. “You’ve had a good sleep.”

  For quarter of an hour, I thought. Then I saw that he’d changed his clothes, shaved, brushed his hair, and I realized I had lost twelve hours.

  “You’d better get up,” he said. “Adrian wants us to go over to Tennyson Drive by eight.”

  “Wonderful,” I said. “You’re going to love that.” James and my father are like jigsaw pieces from two different puzzles. They look as if they’ll fit together, but they don’t.

  James sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at me.

  “What?” I said.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Of course,” I said, and swung my legs over the side of the bed so that I wasn’t facing him.

  “Only—”

  “Yes?”

  “It was a bit silly—taking the girls—”

  I turned and gave him a hug. I like him to be protective. “I know,” I said. “I didn’t think it through properly.”

  He kissed me on the tip of my nose. “Tell me next time, and then we can work on the defence together.”

  “Have I got time for a bath?”

  “Yes. Do you want me to go next door for some clean clothes?”

  I nodded and decided to wait for him to return before running the bath. He would select the right clothes for the occasion.

  “Sorry,” he said as he opened the door to go out. “I wanted Adrian to come here, but he refused. Neutral ground, he said.”

  “Not so neutral with Dad there.”

  “No.” He rolled his eyes and left.

  We were a bit late—we’d stopped to eat some beans on toast. Adrian’s car was in the drive, white and spotlessly clean, fresh from its Saturday morning polish. James and I don’t drive. We’re both too scared, but we tell everyone we believe in saving the planet.

  “Hello, Kitty,” said my father as we came in the front door. “In trouble again, I hear.”

  “Nothing too alarming,” said James.

  My father ignored him and talked to me. “Best to sort it out straight away. Adrian and Martin are in the lounge. Lesley has to stay at home with the children. I don’t know where Paul is at the moment and Suzy’s ill, so Jake is looking after her.”

  Terrific. “Have you invited all the neighbours?”

  My father looked at him askance. “I don’t think it concerns them.”

  “I hope you won’t be joining the discussion,” said James. “It’s really none of your business.” His hair was very springy that day, as if he had deliberately antagonized it. It bushed out all round his head, making him look two inches taller than he really was. But it didn’t work. My father still looked right over the top of him.

  “I’d like to help,” said my father to me as he followed us into the lounge, “but I’m too busy.”

  “That’s a relief,” said James.

  Martin was watching a football match on the television with the sound turned down. “Hello, Kitty, James,” he said without taking his eyes from the screen.

  “An urgent commission,” said my father, “for a new chain of restaurants—can’t remember the name. There’s a lot of money in it, according to Dennis.”

  “Off you go then,” said James.

  My father smiled at me. He’s very secure in his refusal to acknowledge James, even when James works so hard to shock him into a reaction. They’re like children in their rivalry. My father wants me to remain as his little girl—his last chance, I suppose, since he lost the other women in his life. And James reacts to this intrusion in his usual dogged fashion, head on, determined to resist. My father uses his silence like a weapon, hurling his arrows throu
gh the air, soundless but touched with venom. James absorbs the arrows without any discernible effort. They stand in opposite corners, counting up the score as often as possible, knowing that neither can win.

  Adrian was pacing up and down already, but not making as much noise on the threadbare, dust-clogged carpet as in James’s flat. Every now and again, Adrian’s pacing took him across the front of the television, but Martin didn’t notice. I wondered if he’d gone to sleep with his eyes open.

  “Hello,” I said to Adrian.

  He ignored me.

  “I’ll be off then,” said my father.

  “Good,” said James to my father’s back.

  Adrian started immediately. “Kitty, you must go to the doctor’s.”

  I couldn’t make the connection. Did he know something I didn’t? A lump on my breast, varicose veins, high blood pressure? Can you tell these things just by looking? “Why? I thought we were going to have a row about last night.”

  “Don’t be facetious. We don’t want to argue, but you must see that your behaviour wasn’t rational.”

  “James,” I said. “He’s telling me I’m mad. I’m not, am I?”

  “No, you’re not mad,” said James. “Of course not, and nobody is suggesting you are, but—”

  “But what?”

  “We’re worried about you,” said Adrian. “We feel you’re not quite yourself.”

  “Have you two been talking to each other?” I said.

  “Obviously,” said James, confusing me. I had expected a reasonable amount of plotting, but I thought they’d be more subtle and deny any collusion. “We spent the whole of last night together, worrying about you.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “You do realize,” said Adrian, “that I was in the middle of an important dinner and I had to leave before the main course? I drove all the way back from London, not knowing if Emily and Rosie were even alive. Obviously my family is more important to me than an award, but it’s very embarrassing. What explanation do you think I should give? My sister has behaved irresponsibly?” He paused. “I might have won an award and not been there to collect it.”

  “And did you?”

  “What?”

  “Win?”

  “No, actually. But that’s not the point.”

  He couldn’t be that upset if he’d found time to telephone and find out. I wanted to say this, but it seemed such an effort to open my mouth that I sat down instead, next to Martin, and wished I could go back to bed.

  “I think you should give Kitty some credit for looking after the girls properly,” said James. “They were never going to come to any harm.”

  “No,” I said. “That’s right.”

  “And presumably they enjoyed Peter Pan.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You must understand that Lesley was extremely upset.”

  I thought of calm, organized, reasonable Lesley, who always knows exactly what she is doing and why. I’ve never seen her upset. “It was a mistake,” I said. “It won’t happen again.”

  “No,” said Adrian, standing still at last. “It won’t happen again because Lesley doesn’t want you near the girls any more.”

  I leapt out of my chair. “That’s not fair,” I said. “They’re my nieces.”

  We stood facing each other, all of us annoyed. I looked round to see if Martin was going to join us, but he was still watching the football. He dislikes arguments. I was surprised he hadn’t left the room.

  “Well,” said Adrian, “Lesley and I have talked it over and we feel that if you are going to be allowed to see the girls again, you must try to sort out why you behaved so irrationally.”

  “See,” I said to James. “He thinks I’m mad.”

  “No, not mad,” said Adrian, “just—disturbed—”

  I would have leapt to my feet, but I was already standing.

  “I think that’s a bit strong,” said James mildly. He will never be angry when I want him to. “She planned a treat for the girls which went wrong. That’s hardly disturbed behaviour. More—foolish.”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Don’t forget she was out all night,” said Adrian.

  “She was at Jake’s,” said James.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Goal!” yelled Martin, and leapt off the sofa, his arms shooting upwards. He looked at us, standing tensely in the middle of the room, grinned sheepishly and sat down.

  “Yes,” said Adrian. “It’s the wrong word. I chose the wrong word.”

  “Well, you’re only a writer,” I said. “You can’t be expected to find the right words.”

  Nobody laughed. I sat down, folded my arms and watched the television.

  “What I mean,” said Adrian, “is that you’ve not been yourself since—since—”

  He wouldn’t say it. Nobody ever does. They come dangerously close, I’m ready for them, but then they don’t. It’s as if there is a big hole around it and everyone is afraid of falling in. They teeter on the edge briefly, then turn round and walk away.

  “Well,” said Adrian after an embarrassed pause. “We’d like you to talk to a doctor, someone who understands you. We’re worried about you, and I’m sure James would agree with us.”

  Oh no, I thought, James doesn’t agree. I looked at him, but he was composing a kind, compassionate look for me, so I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

  “You realize that certainly Emily and possibly Rosie have lost faith in you?”

  “It was a treat,” I said. “It was meant to be a surprise.”

  “I don’t know if Lesley will be able to trust you again,” said Adrian.

  So here I am, trapped, back where I was three years ago.

  “Katherine Maitland?” says the receptionist and points to the door on her left. James smiles encouragingly at me as I get up, and I try to look keen, to please him.

  Actually, I quite like Dr. Cross. She’s always calm and I sometimes take some of that calmness away with me. I just don’t want to be pushed into seeing her.

  I used to come and see her a lot once—I’m not sure why I stopped—so it’s not difficult to explain why I’m here. I tell her about Rosie and Emily, about Adrian and James, about Peter Pan. I don’t tell her about the yellow period, or the train tickets to Edinburgh.

  When I’ve finished talking, she sits for a while as if she’s thinking hard. She is a small woman, and very neat and precise in appearance. Her words are neat too, and it’s clear somehow that she knows much more than she says.

  “So,” she says after a pause. “Do you feel you acted responsibly?”

  I know her well enough to understand that she wants me to think about it. “I don’t know,” I say. “Adrian says I’m mad.”

  “And what do you think?”

  I think he might be right, but I don’t say so. “I don’t know. I suppose I was stupid.”

  How does she make me confess this? I haven’t admitted it to anyone else.

  “Do you think you might be depressed?”

  I knew she was going to say that. “I suppose I must be,” I say and start to cry.

  She waits. She doesn’t say anything. I like her stillness and eventually I stop crying. She passes me a box of tissues and I take one and blow my nose.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “How would you feel about taking antidepressants again?”

  I look at her. She doesn’t smile. She just looks at me.

  “I don’t know how I feel,” I say.

  “I think it might be a good idea to try them again,” she says.

  “OK.” I nod. I’m afraid of where I am going, and I think she knows this.

  “It’s three years now since Henry died?”

  There is no embarrassment with her. She just says it and I accept that she can say it. “Three years,” I say, “two months, and five days.”

  “And it doesn’t get any easier?”

  “No.”

  She looks down at her notes. “It doesn’t seem that
long ago.”

  “He would be going to nursery school by now. He would have friends—” I hear my voice disintegrating, so I stop for a few seconds and look out of the window. “Lots of babies survive at twenty-eight weeks. I keep seeing it on the television—in the paper. Babies everywhere survive …”

  A silence grows between us. There is something fluid and tangible about this silence. It flows through the air and seeps into me.

  Eventually she moves. “What about James? Does he talk about Henry?”

  “No,” I say. “He won’t.”

  She nods. “I’m going to give you a month’s supply of tablets. You know that they take two or three weeks to start working, so don’t expect any sudden change, and I want you to come back and see me in three weeks’ time. Make an appointment before you go. And—” she hesitates ”—do you think James would come too?”

  I am startled by this. “You want us to come together?”

  “Yes, if he’s willing. Do you mind?”

  I don’t know. “I’ll ask him,” I say.

  I go out and find James reading Woman’s Own, so I sit down next to him. “I’ve got to come back in three weeks, and she wants you to come too.”

  “Me?” He looks alarmed. “Why should I come?”

  I shrug. Isn’t it obvious? “We have to make the appointment now.”

  I wait while he goes up to the receptionist.

  “Kitty,” he says as he comes back to where I am sitting, “why do I have to go?”

  “She probably thinks you’re interested.”

  “Of course I am. But that doesn’t mean I have to go with you. You know how I feel about doctors. They remind me of my childhood.”

  “Nobody’s going to force you. It’s up to you.” I don’t want to get up and go out to Adrian in his smart car. “Why don’t we sneak out the back way?”

  “But Adrian’s waiting for us.”

  “We could phone him on his mobile when we get home.”

  James frowns. “I don’t think we should antagonize him.”

  Adrian is sitting with his windows closed, and his eyes closed, listening to Bach on his CD-player. I open the door and get into the back seat. “There,” I say. “That’s my part of the deal. Now you work on yours.”