Maggie Gee - Where are the Snows

We went into the Terminus with Becky in her pushchair. Madonna wanted to carry her, but I said it wasn’t practical for shopping. Madonna pushed the pushchair, and gazed under the hood.

‘You should leave Yukio,’ I said. ‘You do want a baby. I can see.’

‘Don’t pity me,’ she said. ‘Don’t patronise me.’

‘Look, I didn’t mean to… Madonna. You’re my friend. Let’s not quarrel. I was just really shocked by what you said about Dad. I didn’t realise he still felt that way about Alex. Maybe he always will. I suppose it ought to be touching in a way. I detest her, but I admire my Dad for being faithful, after a fashion…’

And I was doing it again, I can see that now, building the walls painfully back up again, trying to make everything good as new, trying to make everybody happy happy happy… Becky was beginning to wake up. The atrium was enormously high, darkness sort of loomed above the blinding lights, the echoes were like musicians tuning up. Becky’s nose began to wrinkle, her eyes opened a crack. The place always reminds me of a Paris station, except that nothing’s beautiful.

‘If I give you my card, could you go and pick up the order? I’ll stay with Becky.’

‘I’ll stay with Becky, you go and get the stuff.’ Madonna was not one for heavy duties, though she was taller and stronger than me.

‘She’s not used to you. She’ll cry. I’ll take her in with me to pick up the Personals. It’s never as bad as the computer queues.’

But today Personal Shopping was full to the brim with people like me who had left things off their list. I took one look in and decided I couldn’t fight my way in there with Becky in tow. She seemed in a good mood, though she was chewing on nothing; I gave her her teething ring. I only wanted two or three things, I knew I could be in and out in a second. I left her by the door, near a kindly-looking lady who waved at her and smiled. I dashed inside. I was down the other end when I heard a cry that I was sure was Becky’s. I fled back towards the door but the crush was appalling, there was no way out without going through the checkout, the crying had stopped but my heart still thumped and I ran through the door and found her gone.

So had the kindly-looking lady.

My body caved in, I couldn’t get my breath, but I started to screech, ‘My baby, my baby, someone’s taken my baby,’ and I started to run in stupid small half-circles, looking round the horrible atrium as if there were possibly some corner where she could have rolled by mistake, but there were only people, thousands of people, cruel, indifferent-looking people, every one of them murderers or child molesters, and I ran back into Personal, grabbed the first checkout worker by the arm and sobbed my story in his ear.

The whole apparatus came down around my head. Assistant managers and welfare workers and security officers and nosey parkers all pushed around me in the atrium. I had become an event, a disaster. I’d lost my baby, myself, my body. My stomach felt like a drum of cold metal, my chest was bursting with heavy terror. I had no idea how much time had gone by.

Then someone was pushing through the crowd towards me. ‘Susy,’ said Madonna, ‘for goodness’ sake, what happened to you? I got worried —’

In her arms she carried Becky. Red-faced, tear-stained, but quiet and asleep. She’d clearly cried herself to sleep. I began to scream again. I don’t know what I said. The crowd stayed around for a bit to listen and then drifted away, satisfied.

Madonna had collected my shopping, come over to Personal, seen Becky on her own, and picked her up. When Madonna picked her up Becky started crying, there were too many people, and Madonna decided to take her to the car. This seemed to her perfectly reasonable. In later versions she had picked Becky up because she was crying, and comforted her. In all of these versions Madonna was blameless.

‘Do you never think about anybody else?’

‘She was crying. You shouldn’t have left her on her own.’

‘I know that, I know that, for God’s sake! That doesn’t excuse what you did! I was terrified, I was dying of fear…’

‘I’m not going to get in the car with you if you’re going to go on screaming at me.’

‘I don’t want you to get in the car with us!’ I made myself breathe deeply, and the anger steadied. I wanted her to know that I meant what I said. ‘I don’t want you to come to the house any more! You’ve exploited me in any case — just stay away for a bit, Madonna.’

She stared at me, white now, unlike herself, almost frightening with her snake-like hair. She gave me a curious contorted smile, just possibly, no certainly, controlling tears. ‘It’s not your house. It’s Christopher’s house. He likes to see me. I shall come to see him. I’m in your house already, anyway. He’s not all that faithful to Alexandra, actually. Last week I offered him some photos of me to play his games with, and he accepted. I expect he uses me all the time.’

I don’t believe a word of that. She sounded fifteen years old, and about to cry, and she ran off through the car park like a teenager, her dark curls flying out behind her, head down, one hand covering her face.

I don’t care what she says. I don’t care about her.

I care about Becky, and my father. When I told Phil, he said, ‘Good riddance.’ He’s never liked Madonna. I didn’t tell him what she had said. I’ve told no one, as yet, about Alexandra’s phone call.

But now I know I must. Now I know I’ll have to tell Dad.

Partly to say thank you for getting Becky back. She’s back where I can see her, sitting on the carpet, playing with a squeaky velvet mouse, dribbling and bubbling, perfectly happy… and now she wants Mum, and she’s in my arms, her solid weight, her warmth, her smell. Being without her was like falling forever. I can’t bear to think of Dad having that pain.

To think of him longing for Alexandra, and missing her, and knowing she’s lost, thinking he’ll never see her again, thinking she’ll die without him seeing her, thinking all of the dreadful unthinkable things that I thought about Becky this afternoon, but I only suffered that for half an hour, whereas he must have lived with it for years.

At least I can tell him Alexandra’s alive. She sounded well. She was in Mexico City, but ‘coming to Europe soon’. There was something she said, some message for him, but it was vague as hell, and I can’t remember…

He’ll be crazy to know. I’ll have to remember.

Oh yes. It was just that she thought about him.

Alexandra thought about him.

How can I sleep? How can I eat? How can I ever get back to normal? I enjoyed normal, normal was good, I had made a life that was comfortable, I slept like the dead and woke feeling calm… there were sometimes bad dreams, but everyone dreams, everyone wakes up crying sometimes. I was happy, wasn’t I?

Never again.

Now I toss all night and wake in a fury. I’ve quarrelled with my daughter; I’ve annoyed Mary. My only friend is Madonna, who won’t come to the house because of Susy. Things were so peaceful — now it’s chaos, no one is speaking, even Becky is ill.

My granddaughter. I could show her to Alex… she would see at once that she’s just like me…

There I go again, madness, folly, I can think of nothing but Alexandra. She’s escaped from the screen, she’s tormenting me. I torment myself. I torment other people.

When Susy told me she had phoned, I tormented her with questions about it. Susy couldn’t recall their exact words; she couldn’t explain why Alexandra rang off; I’m sure that Susy was nasty to her, but she denies it, she would deny it, those children never appreciated her…