Maggie Gee - The White Family

He struggled. Now words had to be said, for May loved words. She needed them. When things had gone wrong in their life over the years, she had sometimes looked at him — ‘Say something, Alfred’ — with the eyes of someone staring out at the desert, hoping against hope that something would come, but all too often he had left her thirsty, hating himself and pitying her. Then the only thing he could do was be angry — ‘Talking won’t mend it,’ he would snap at her. So how was she to guess he would have loved to talk if the words hadn’t locked themselves away? That was why she needed the other Alfred, he thought to himself, her secret lover — and he smiled at her with old affection, and gave up the thing he could never quite say.

‘You should have been married to Alfred Tennyson. What good have I ever been to you? You deserve better, with your books and your poems.’ But it wasn’t enough. She didn’t smile back, and her big blue eyes were full of pain, not so different, he thought, from when she was a girl, their rounded lids, their funny pale lashes. A surge of emotion lifted him up. ‘You’re … a good wife, May. A lovely wife. No one could have been a better wife.’

He had never said such a thing before. To his slight alarm, she turned her face so it couldn’t be seen from the ward around them, turned her face against his neck, and leaned against him, she was quite a weight, she felt bigger than he was, now he was brought low, and the tears ran down and soaked his pyjamas.

The fear left him, then. For she must really love him, a thing he had known for over forty years, but always needed to know again. He realized she would never leave him. He’d thought all their life that she might leave him, because he’d gone bald, because he wasn’t handsome, because he had never got the Park Keeper’s lodge where they’d dreamed of living when they first got married, because he lost his temper with the kids (and all right it sometimes went further than that, but he wasn’t a brute, there were far worse than him), because she was pretty (though she wasn’t vain and didn’t often make the most of herself), because she was sensitive and a lady, not by birth but in every sense that mattered, because she was educated and refined, because he farted whenever she cooked cabbage, because she had to wash his underpants. And now he saw that she would not leave him, would never leave him, now, till he died, and with that knowledge a great fear was conquered, a fear as strong as the fear of death, and for a few brief moments he felt safe and warm, for a few brief moments they were both quite happy, each clutching the gift that the other had given.

I’ve been a good wife, after all.

If I die first, I shan’t be alone .

After a few moments, May sat up and blew her nose, briskly, modestly, still turned away from the sight of the ward.

‘We’ve been through a lot, together, Alfred,’ she said, and her voice was firmer now, the old crisp May, putting strength into his bones, fire in his belly. ‘We’ve been through a lot, and we’ll come through this. Together we’re … unbeatable.’ Her voice went funny when she said ‘unbeatable’, but then she managed to smile at him, as if life was a joke, it’s all right, Alfred , as if they could laugh at it together.

‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘That’s right, my duck ….’ He patted her hand. It would all pan out.

‘Are you going to tell the children?’ she asked. ‘We don’t want to upset them, do we?’

‘Maybe not Dirk. Dirk’s too young.’

‘He’s not as young as we think, you know. But I don’t see the point of upsetting them yet. It might all come to nothing, Alfred.’

‘Do you think the doctors are making it up?’ He dropped her hand, suddenly annoyed. Sometimes her mouth was not connected to her brain. ‘The children have a right to know. For instance, Darren might decide to stop home. He might even bring my grandsons to see me —’

‘— not forgetting your granddaughter,’ May put in, correcting him in the way he hated.

‘Of course I haven’t forgotten her. “Grandsons” obviously included Felicity.’

For a second he could see she was ready to bicker, but then her softer side prevailed. ‘It would be nice to see them, wouldn’t it? Better than photographs at Christmas.’

‘He does his best,’ Alfred said staunchly. ‘The pressures of fame —’

‘Extraordinary, isn’t it?’ May said, softly. ‘That one of our children is actually famous.’ Their hands sneaked across the blanket again and held each other, held and squeezed.

‘When you think how poor we were. We didn’t do badly with those kids. You were always a good manager.’

‘I taught them to read,’ May said, pleased. ‘All three of them could read before they went to school, though I had the devil of a job with Dirk. I helped all three of them with their homework.’

‘So did I,’ said Alfred, untruthfully, and waited for her to contradict him, but she looked at him indulgently, said nothing, and so he was able to continue, ashamed, ‘Although it was mostly you, I admit.’

‘There’s Thomas,’ she hissed, ‘coming back again. He’s a good boy. Let him have a word.’

‘We’ve had our chat,’ Alfred said, briskly. ‘I feel a lot better for it, duck.’

‘Would you like a paper? I’ll get you one. I’ll go and have a cup of tea while you two talk.’

And things seemed almost normal again, hearing her comfortable, ordinary voice talking of comfortable, ordinary things, and the stone in his heart was manageable. Thank you, May, he said to himself, watching her familiar figure tack off down the ward like a brave little tug boat, her thick grey hair, her rounded back, her determined set against the tide of blue nurses, thank you, God, for a wife like May .

May managed to keep the smile on her face until she was halfway down the stairs. If she showed her grief, the whole ward would know … Perhaps the rumour was already out. She knew how hospitals preyed on death. When she had gone for her hysterectomy after the problems that followed Dirk’s birth, there was always whispering, when people were goners –

( Alfred’s a goner . No, not possible.)

— the ones whose cancer had gone too far, the ones whose operations had gone badly –

(They won’t even operate. He does deserve that. He deserves a chance, but he isn’t going to get it. Because we’re too old, so they think we’re no good.)

Her face twitched and writhed with the urge to weep, but she forced the tears back, made herself smile.

( Alfred is dying . No, never.)

For May had always tried to be brave. She wasn’t self-pitying, or self-indulgent … They made her wince still, the cruel long words her father had used against her mother, her father who had educated himself enough to use long words like wooden paddles … Mum who had no learning at all. She washed for thirteen children by hand …

( Alfred, Alfred. I’ll be alone … Alfred, my darling. Alfred, duck .)

I was the youngest. Then the only one left. How can they be gone, my big laughing sisters?

( Just me and Alfred. Alfred and me. I suppose we thought we would go on forever .)

( Without Alfred I — No, don’t think it.)

I mustn’t complain, I’ve been very lucky.

My father criticized. My clothes, my hair. ‘You’re a pretty girl. Why must you look so scruffy? Can’t you make something of yourself?’ I didn’t know how to answer him. I suppose my mother never taught me to dress. She didn’t give a moment’s thought to her looks. How could she, poor woman, with thirteen children? And I’ve never known how to get myself up. I try for Alfred, but I never get it right. Except when Shirley buys me something.