Maggie Gee - Where are the Snows

I felt humiliation. Never before. It had never happened. In all our years together, never before. It was because I was old. He didn’t want me. How could I expect anyone to want me? This was my punishment, not to be wanted, for all the times I had had what I wanted.

We didn’t speak of it. We had grown formal. We remembered the things we should have asked each other.

I asked him if he was living with Mary. He said he was very fond of Mary. I asked him again if he was living with her; I remarked how much I had always liked her, ‘although she was so very sensible’. He said he loved and respected her. I kept the scalding tears at bay. So what was he doing here with me? Why had he bothered to look for me, just to tell me he loved Mary Brown…? My back began to hurt again. I asked after Susy, not listening to the answer.

He asked me about Benjamin. He asked me if it was true I had a daughter, and if so, where had I left her? His voice was cold, as if I might have forgotten her, left her on her own in some distant hotel. I answered as briefly as I could; I dared not reveal my suffering, if I’d told him the truth I should have sobbed; I told him the adoption had gone wrong.

I drank the champagne, looking at my glass. It tasted sour, and I was cold, the air-conditioning was turned up too high. I buttoned my blouse up to the neck. I slipped on my shoes, and thought about dying. Suddenly I recognised his look. He was smiling and staring at the ground, a wooden smile that meant enormous misery. I’d known that smile since I was twenty-three.

Of course, it was he who was humiliated. He thought he was too old for me. I got up; went over; stroked his cheek; laid my hand along his cheek-bone.

‘I’m sorry, Alex. I do want you. Terribly.’

I knelt at his feet. I had done him wrong. In our life together I had done him great wrong. I knelt at his feet to show I was sorry. And then I told him. There was nothing to hide. I didn’t weep; it was a present for him. I always like to give people presents. I gave him my need, my frailty. I gave him the fact that I would die.

It was he who wept. It was he who knelt. It was he who took my glass away. Christopher took me in his arms, he lay on me gently, he loosened our clothes, we pulled our clothes from our ageing limbs, he kissed my arms, he kissed my breasts, weeping and gasping he entered me, entered our home, this dying body.

I left her in Paris, very reluctantly. I came back to London to make arrangements. She longed to ‘go home’. And didn’t know what it meant, but perhaps the house in Islington. No, she wouldn’t come with me now. She was afraid of Susy, afraid of the past. ‘I’m terrified of how she’ll look at me. You go on ahead and prepare the ground. Tell her I’ve changed. Tell her… everything.’ She was adamant; I flew home alone, trying to decide where we should go.

The basement wouldn’t do for the two of us and all the equipment she might need later if — whenever — if —… I still couldn’t quite believe what must happen. All the equipment she might need. Susy and Phil lived on four floors with Becky. They would have to draw in their horns severely.

In Paris this seemed completely reasonable, but on the London flight I began to have doubts. Susy disliked her step-mother. Phil disliked any kind of change. One of the floors upstairs had been converted into a gym for him. They liked their space; they’d grown used to it, and it was my fault they’d grown used to it. I had offered it them without conditions.

But surely they would see this was life and death. Surely Susy would forgive her now. But the past had claws. Susy was in its grip.

‘She got round you, didn’t she?’

‘What do you mean, “got round me”?’

‘You were always a sucker for that woman. Never mind your responsibilities here —’

‘What do you mean, responsibilities? At thirty-nine years old you are not a responsibility, and I’m sure that Alex will love the baby…’

‘Goo goo goo over babies, is it? That’s the line she’s shooting you… She’s a liar, she always was. Every word she speaks is a lie. If you bring her back she’ll hurt you again —’

‘She’s dying , Susy. You’re out of date. You’re imagining someone completely different. She’s old now. She looks ill. She’s beautiful to me, but she looks very ill. I have to look after her.’

‘And how about Mary? You just dump her, do you? Mary was a mother to me. And she’s been so good to you, Daddy. Now you toss her aside like a — used dishcloth —’

‘Susy! That’s enough rubbish! Mary knew I was going to look for Alex. It was Mary who told me she was there. She’s a strong person. She’s not a doormat. She’s strong enough to take care of herself —’

‘So why haven’t you telephoned her? Why haven’t you seen her since you came back? You phoned Madonna, but not her. I found Madonna’s message on the answerphone, purring like a disgusting little kitten —’

‘For God’s sake, Susy. Madonna’s not important. She cheers me up, that’s why I rang her. It’s difficult with Mary, of course it is. I’ll ring her now. You’re right about that.’

Mary was grave, but friendly. Could I come to see her? There was a pause. ‘If you like,’ she said, equably enough. ‘Do you want to?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then come’ — much warmer.

She looked serene, healthy, lovely. She looked so well compared to Alex. She looked younger than her. Once she’d looked older. She was wearing an old blue cotton dress with a plain round neck that showed off her skin. She took me into the drawing-room, perhaps the grandest of her rooms, perhaps we were to say something momentous, but I just felt tired, and sorry, and sad, and I wished we could go upstairs and make love, without having to talk, or explain, or grieve.

‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘tell me everything,’ and I felt a rush of tenderness, for Alex never asked me to tell her everything, Alex was usually talking herself.

I began to explain. Nothing came out right. My collar hurt me. I loosened it. ‘I couldn’t have a drink, could I, Mary. A large whisky. That’s so kind —’Yet her face, as she handed the drink to me, was a little severe, not entirely kind, and she was right, I never usually drank before lunch. I wished she would get drunk with me. Suddenly nothing seemed serious, my whole story seemed a fabrication, Alex’s illness, her reappearance, even the grand choices I had to make — I wished it were last year again, and we were walking in Regent’s Park.

But Mary was serious enough. ‘So you’re going to bring her back here. You’ve decided.’

‘Isn’t it the right thing to do?’

‘It’s your decision, not mine. Remember you’re making the decision.’ There was a long pause; she looked out of the window, calm blue eyes on the distant blue. ‘But yes, I suppose you’re right. It is the right thing to do. That’s probably not why you’re doing it, though.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You love her, don’t you? You’ve always been in love with her.’

‘Well — but I love you too, Mary —’

‘In a different way. I know. Just as long as you know that this is your choice. I won’t be waiting on her death. I’m proud enough not to do that.’

‘There you are, you’re strong. You’re such a strong person. I know you’ll be able to look after yourself. Whereas Alex can’t, she needs me —’

She held my eyes, her mouth a little narrow, her firm jaw set more decidedly than usual. ‘It’s a pity, isn’t it, that I’m so strong. It’s a pity that I’ve taken care of you. Because in the end that’s not what you want. You want someone demanding and a little crazy. I’m too good for you, aren’t I…? Men don’t like that. But I’ll survive.’ She stood up, gracefully. Could it be over? Was she telling me to go? I felt confusedly I ought to say more, I hadn’t even finished my whisky — But she was walking towards the door. I swigged the rest of my whisky, indignant. But also ashamed, and very small. She was better than me. She had told me so. Perhaps she was relieved I had chosen Alexandra (but as I padded through the hall I saw it on the table, a bottle of champagne still in its paper, and I knew she had bought it just in case, part of her had gambled, part of her had lost).