Cath Staincliffe - Trio

‘Roger is the writer,’ Lena said.

Joan pulled a face.

‘You think it’s a problem? No good?’

Joan shrugged. ‘You’d be better off doing it yourself.’

‘No. I can sing, but writing? Pouff!’ she waved her hands in dismissal. ‘What is wrong with Roger doing it?’

‘First of all, it’ll take him forever, and then it will be…’ she leaned close and enunciated carefully, ‘dull, square, boring.’ She had heard his songs and tried to think of comments that wouldn’t get her sacked.

‘Joan, you write me a song.’

‘But I’ve never…’

‘If you don’t, I’ll have to do Roger’s. Please?’

‘He wouldn’t like it.’

‘We’ll pick a name for you, he won’t know.’ Lena was animated, her face alight with the plan. ‘What would you like to be called?’

‘I can’t…’ She protested.

‘Joan -’ Lena grabbed her hands – ‘my friend, please. Just try, promise you’ll try.’ She stared at Joan, an open look to her, eyes dancing, a smile stretching her lips. ‘Please?’

‘I’ll try. But it might be rubbish.’

‘You’ll try?’

‘Yes.’

Lena pulled her close and kissed her on both cheeks. Joan laughed with surprise.

‘And what name?’

The question blew Joan straight back to St Ann’s, to the registrar documenting the birth. And what name? Laboriously writing with a thick fountain pen. Her name and address, a careful line across the section for the father’s details, and then, pen poised, he turned his shiny round face to her and peered over his glasses. And what name? Nearly two years ago now.

‘Joan?’ Lena nudged her elbow. ‘You OK?’

‘Day dreaming,’ she said. ‘I’ll think of something.’ And she tried to force her smile into her eyes too.

Lilian

‘And this is Pamela,’ Peter announced, lifting up the carrycot. ‘Pamela Mary Gough.’

‘She’s tiny,’ his mother observed. She sounded pleasant enough but Lilian noticed that she made no move to touch her first grandchild. Frightened of waking her, or something else?

‘Why don’t you get settled and I’ll tell Bernard you’re here. Kettle’s on.’ She hurried away and Lilian took off her jacket and took it out to the pegs in the hall. She could hear Alicia calling Bernard in from the garden. He made models in his shed. Planes and boats, no – ships. He got upset if you called them boats. His fine attention to detail and his skills at his hobby went hand in hand with a complete lack of skills and gross insensitivity where people were concerned.

‘Hrrumph!’ had been his greeting when Peter first took her home. He was an electrician by trade, with his own business. Though Lilian often wondered how his customers coped with his offhand manner. The pair of them had never had a conversation. She dreaded these visits, Peter less so, though he readily acknowledged that his father was miserable company and that her family were more easy-going. ‘You and Sally are chatterboxes,’ he joked. ‘You wouldn’t notice if someone was mealy-mouthed, because you’d be talking nineteen to the dozen.’

Lilian wondered how much religion came into it. The Goughs were Protestants – Methodists, a creed that shunned pomp and circumstance, frowned on drink and, it seemed to Lilian, were uncomfortable with any emotional expression too. They could sing, though. Sang her lot out of church at the wedding. Peter had converted to become a Catholic. He’d studied and promised to follow the faith and now here she was encouraging him to go against the dogma. But the alternative was unbearable.

Peter had been an only child. His mother had never spoken about whether that was by choice. Lilian had a sister, Sally. They had quarrelled a lot as children but were close now they’d grown up and their parents were gone. Lilian had always thought three children would be a nice number. Three. Three miscarriages she’d had. And each time Peter’s father had been too stiff and awkward to even refer to it. Had hardly come near her while she was there, as though what she had was contagious.

‘It’s just his way,’ Peter defended him. ‘He doesn’t mean anything by it.’

And now there was Pamela?

Bernard appeared for lunch and the four of them settled to eat. Roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, roast potatoes, braised red cabbage, peas and carrots and thick gravy. It was seventy-eight degrees outside but the Sunday roast was made come hell or high water.

Peter talked about his promotion and the work he was doing in Sheffield. His mother chucked in the odd comment. An occasional nod or grunt from Bernard the only indication he was listening. No one mentioned Pamela. Lilian longed for her to wake up so she could tend to her and show her off. After apricot crumble and custard she helped Alicia wash up. Lilian talked about Pamela for a while – how she was a slow feeder and kept nodding off on the bottle. She had to tickle her feet to keep her awake sometimes. That she loved her bath and Peter sometimes bathed her at the weekends. But Alicia’s response was so muted Lilian felt like she was talking to herself.

When Pamela’s sudden, gutsy yell broke through the silence she put down the tea towel with relief.

Peter got his mother to warm the bottle while Lilian rocked Pamela. They had had her twelve days and every time Lilian looked at her she got a rush inside, her heart felt swollen as though it was bruised with emotion. There were moments when the child’s vulnerability appalled her. Such tiny bones, the soft dips on her head where the fontanelles were yet to join, the translucent skin on her eyelids, soft pale fingernails. If she dropped her, hurt her… the pictures frightened her. Why did she think like that? She loved Pamela. She was her mother. She would do anything to keep her safe. So why did she have these flashes, awful images like nightmares. Blood and guilt. There was something wrong with her. You couldn’t tell anyone about thoughts like that. They’d lock you up in Springfield or Prestwich, chuck away the key.

Peter handed her the bottle. The room was cool and once Pamela had started to feed it was peaceful. She looked out towards the small garden. It was full of roses. They had no lawn, only paving, between the rose beds. In the summer the roses looked showy, hot colours and big blooms. It was an adult’s garden, all those thorns. No place for a child to play. What did it matter? Pamela would never come here to stay with Granny Gough. Her throat constricted, anger and sadness together. The baby spluttered and Lilian raised her upright and patted her back. The rich burp made Lilian giggle. ‘Lovely manners,’ she whispered, and kissed the baby’s forehead. Pamela’s fist curled round a strand of her hair. She pulled back, gently loosening the grip. When she offered her the bottle again, Pamela turned away from the teat.

Perhaps Alicia was just shy? No daughter herself, years since she’s been around a baby. Not sure how to act with us?

‘Let’s go see.’

She found Peter and his mother in the dining room. He was engrossed in the paper and she was studying the crossword puzzle. Bernard would be back in his shed.

‘Hello.’ She stood beside him. He put the paper down, held his arms out to Pamela.

‘I thought you might like a hold,’ she turned to Alicia. ‘She’s happy now, had her feed.’

‘Oh, er… yes.’ Alicia looked dismayed, her mouth twitching and eyes blinking. Lilian handed her the child before she could demur, passing her the muslin square too, in case Pamela possetted.

Alicia held the child on her lap, a picture of uncomfortable tension. She didn’t attempt to communicate with the baby but spoke to Peter. ‘And you’ve got a new car?’

It took only thirty seconds for Pamela to twist and begin to whimper. Alicia looked helplessly at Lilian, who rescued her daughter.