Уильям Николсон - Motherland

She doesn’t tell Louisa the worst of it, which is that sometimes she sits in a chair for an hour or more, seized by a strange heavy torpor, doing nothing. She feels tired all the time these days. Her mind goes blank, and she can’t think what she’s meant to be doing. Then Pamela will appear, demanding to be fed or entertained, and so she’ll stir herself; but even as she boils an egg, and toasts a slice of bread, she has this numb feeling that it’s all pointless and going nowhere.

She can’t share this with Louisa because Louisa believes having a baby will solve all her problems. She can’t tell her that there are times when Pamela makes her want to scream. Of course she adores her daughter and would die for her if need be, but what’s proving harder is the enterprise of living for her. It turns out a child is not enough. But not enough for what?

She wishes Larry were here. She could talk to Larry about all this. That’s what’s so good about people with faith, even if you don’t share their faith. They know what you mean when you talk about meaning. They understand that there has to be some sort of greater purpose. She’s never forgotten how he said to her, the very first time they met, ‘Don’t you want to do something noble and fine with your life?’

Sometimes, sitting doing nothing in the kitchen chair, Kitty thinks ahead to the time when Pamela will be grown-up, and will no longer need her. She asks herself, What will I do then?

I’ll have Ed, of course.

Then her mind slides away from these thoughts, not liking where they lead her, and her head fills with grey vapour like a cloud.

Hugo comes, more than is justified by the demands of the business. He sits with her, and plays with Pammy, and acts the part of the dear old family friend, except for the looks he gives her. She reprimands him, always in light, easy terms, as if he’s an over-eager child.

‘That’s enough, Hugo. Stop it.’

Then when she’s expecting him one day and he doesn’t come, she finds she misses his attentions. That frightens her.

She has a dream. In her dream she’s wearing a bathing costume and all the boys are looking at her. She feels youthful and desirable. She’s on a beach, and the waves that come rolling in are frothing and churning on the shore. The ocean beyond is infinitely big. She starts to run, and runs over the sand and the pebbles towards the sea. She runs faster and faster, filled with gladness, because she knows she’s going to hurl herself into those great crashing waves. The waves are going to embrace her and sweep her away.

She wakes before she reaches the water, but her heart is thundering, and her whole body is glowing. It’s not a death dream at all, this isn’t a desire to drown. It’s a longing to use all of herself, to hold nothing back, to experience an overwhelming desire. And instead of the explosive urgency of her dream, all she feels in her waking life is fatigue.

‘You know what I think we should do for Easter?’ she tells Pamela. ‘I think we should go and visit Grandma and Grandpa.’

Pamela thinks about this.

‘I am affronted,’ she says.

Kitty’s parents always make a great fuss of Pamela, and there’s nothing the little girl appreciates as much as attention. As for Kitty herself, she’s aware that she doesn’t visit her parents nearly as much as they’d like. Her mother has a way of getting on the wrong side of her, and so Kitty always ends up behaving badly, and being what her mother calls ‘moody’. Still, they didn’t visit at Christmas time, and tired and restless as she is, Kitty would rather go than stay.

‘Hello, little stranger,’ says Mrs Teale to Pamela. ‘I expect you’ve entirely forgotten who I am.’

‘You’re Grandma,’ says Pamela.

‘Guess what I’ve got for the most beautiful little girl in the world?’

‘A present,’ says Pamela.

‘I wonder whether you want it now, or whether you’d rather keep it for Easter Day?’

‘Now,’ says Pamela.

Kitty follows this exchange with helpless irritation. It’s been a long slow journey and all she wants is a comfortable chair and a cup of tea. Why must her mother go in for this ludicrous arch teasing tone of voice, as if she and Pamela are engaged in some conspiracy?

The present is a small chocolate egg, wrapped in silver paper. Pamela unwraps it at once and puts it whole into her mouth.

‘Who’s a hungry girl?’ says Mrs Teale.

‘Say thank you, Pammy,’ says Kitty.

‘Thank you,’ says the child, her mouth full.

Mrs Teale turns to her daughter.

‘No handsome young husband, then?’

Kitty wants to scream. She’s been in the house five minutes and already her mother has managed to enrage her.

‘I told you, Mummy. Ed’s in France.’

‘Well, I don’t know, darling. No one ever tells me anything. It would just be nice if he visited us once in a while. Michael was saying only the other day that he’s never heard the story of how he got his Victoria Cross.’

‘You know Ed doesn’t like to talk about that.’

‘I can’t think why not. You’d think he’d be proud. Did I tell you Robert Reynolds has been made a canon of Wells? He still asks after you, you know?’

‘I thought he was married.’

‘Is he?’ says Mrs Teale vaguely. ‘Maybe he is. I can’t keep up these days. We all thought Harold would marry the Stanley girl, but he says it’s off, and there was never anything in it in the first place. I don’t understand young people. It seems you can go about together and it all means nothing at all. Pamela is looking a bit peaky, isn’t she? We’ll do our best to feed her up and give her lots of good country air.’

‘We live in the country too, Mummy.’

‘Somehow I never think of Sussex as being the real country. I suppose because it’s on the way to France.’

Kitty’s father’s return puts a stop to the stream of barbed prattle that issues from her mother’s mouth. In his presence she becomes timid, clumsy, awkward. Michael Teale, by contrast, is all smiles and hugs.

‘My two best girls!’ he cries. ‘My word, Pamela! You smell chocolatey enough to eat.’ And turning to Kitty, ‘Guess who’s been filling my ear with your praises? Jonathan Saxon!’

‘Dear Mr Saxon,’ says Kitty. ‘Is he still bossing the poor little choirboys about?’

‘He asked me to ask you if you’d sing in the abbey on Sunday. You know he always says you were the best soprano he ever had.’

Kitty hasn’t sung in public for years, and she was never properly trained. But this request pleases her more than she would have expected.

‘Oh, I couldn’t,’ she says. ‘I’m far too rusty.’

‘Well, you tell Jonathan yourself. All I can say is, he seems dead set on it.’

When Mrs Teale hears of the proposal she manages to turn it around and make it a source of disappointment.

‘Oh, do sing, darling. It’s such a waste, the way you do nothing with your beautiful voice.’

‘I’ve no intention of making a fool of myself in front of a full congregation,’ says Kitty sharply.

‘You could sing “Little Brown Jug”,’ says Pamela.

Mr Saxon calls round to make his request in person. Charmed by the sweet old gentleman’s pink smiling face and flattered by his praise, Kitty agrees to sing, on condition that they can go through the piece at least once beforehand. He wants her to sing César Franck’s Panis Angelicus .

Pamela’s greatest pleasure on these visits is playing with the dolls her own mother played with when she was little. This notion, that her mother was a little girl once, both puzzles and fascinates her. She wants to know the names of every doll, and which ones were her mother’s special favourites, and what they all did together. Then once told she repeats the pattern as faithfully as she can.