The Things We Know Now Read online

  Rebecca

  THEY WERE HERE YESTERDAY, both of them. My father was his usual public, charming self. Ella was polite and understated and took care, I think, to stay out of my way. I saw little of her, which is just as well. Cecilia’s absence at Ian’s christening party was enormous enough all by itself. I did not need any additional reminders of my loss. My first child, after so many painful false starts. Her first grandchild. I would have given anything for her to be there.

  My father and Ella left, along with all the older guests, at around seven o’clock, once the cake and the champagne were done. I didn’t try to stop any of them.

  I stood at the door and waved and smiled as they all drove away. By then, I was gritting my teeth, and not for the first time that day, at yet another one of Adam’s recurring absences. He seemed to have developed the ability to vanish at crucial moments. When he reappeared, just as I’d closed the front door, I said nothing. I felt we’d had enough spats for one day. And I particularly didn’t want one in front of my sisters. But I was tempted.

  ‘All the old farts gone?’ he said, as he walked back into the living room. I followed, irritated at his false cheerfulness.

  ‘Yeah, it’s safe to go back in the water,’ Sophie said and we all laughed. I sank into the sofa, glad to kick off my shoes and relax with her and Frances. Suddenly, I wanted Adam not to be there with us: I couldn’t guarantee not to lose my temper.

  ‘Why don’t you guys head off for a pint, if you’d like? I’m sure you’ve had enough of babies for one day.’ I kept my tone casual. Adam’s face brightened at once. He looked enquiringly at the other two.

  Martin stood up at once. ‘Sounds good to me,’ he said, glancing over at Frances. ‘Okay with you?’

  ‘Sure, but I’d like to be on the road by nine. Early start tomorrow.’

  Martin nodded. ‘Not a problem.’

  ‘Have fun,’ Sophie said, and Pete stooped to kiss her.

  Right then, the easy affection between them made me ache.

  The three of us sisters settled in and talked about the day. We avoided anything contentious – we’d got good at that. When Ian woke, I fed him and then we passed him around among us like a parcel. My sisters are going to be great aunties. They almost fought each other to wind the baby, to change him, to bath him.

  And we are all agreed: my son is a delight. The only pity is that my sisters and l live too far away from each other. I’m beginning to see the advantages of being within walking distance.

  I am besotted with Ian – we both are, Adam and I. I am relieved at my husband’s reaction. During the last few weeks of my pregnancy, I felt that an increasing distance had opened up between us. I can always read his moods; I usually know what he is thinking. I felt that he was not excited enough by our baby’s arrival. I said nothing about it, though, not then. I had enough to contend with. But I did afterwards, as soon as I felt I could, certainly within the first week.

  Adam looked at me in surprise when I brought it up. ‘I was just nervous coming up to the birth. What did you expect?’ Then he smiled. ‘Sorry – that didn’t come out right.’ He patted my hand and immediately, I felt myself ignite. I have always hated that gesture. It is patronizing in the extreme. I opened my mouth to reply and Ian began to wail. I decided not to pursue the conversation. The baby’s cry was just one more interruption. What’s one more among so many? Besides, I was probably just over-sensitive since the birth. I’d been warned by the midwife – but gently – about feeling hormonal, and I must have been. I was crying at the drop of a hat: me – who hated seeing tears of any kind, either mine or those of others.

  I walked away from Adam and went to pick up my son. We’d kept his cradle on show downstairs, ever since my father had delivered it. I’d decided to leave it there until after the christening. I wanted people to see it: it was beautiful, and I have to admit it was a generous gift – that, and the significant cheque that came with it.

  But its presence made me feel . . . I don’t know. Perhaps resentful is too strong a word. But part of me felt that I was being bought off. I could sense my father’s expectations of me on the afternoon that he delivered it; I could see the hope in his eyes. It seemed to flutter there, every time he looked at me.

  After my father left that day, I spoke to Adam about my ambivalence. It was not the first time we’d had such a conversation. In fact, we had had it more and more often as the date of the baby’s arrival approached. I think I was trying to find a way to absorb all my new realities – Ella among them – and talking was the only way I knew how to do it. Recently, Adam had not been all that receptive; I’d seen his vagueness, noted it for later. But this time, his reply stunned me.

  ‘Get over it,’ he said, cracking open a beer. He had his back to me, but I could see that he began to drink from the can. He had to know how much I hated that. The curtness of his tone, however, made me forget all about the beer. I was furious. He had dismissed me like this once before – on the day of the wedding party. ‘Move on,’ he’d said. Time to let go. But at least on that occasion, he had looked at me, engaged with me. This time, he didn’t even face me. It was as though I was no longer there.

  We had quite the row, I can tell you.

  Afterwards, I did not feel that the issue – and perhaps there was more than one – had been resolved. There was an uneasy truce between us for several days. Then lack of sleep and soreness and just plain bone-weariness made any further connection between us impossible.

  But I have not forgotten. Nor have I forgotten his behaviour yesterday at the christening party, when he thought I wasn’t watching.

  In the six weeks since Ian’s birth, I have never known such chaos. The physical chaos is only part of it. I can turn a blind eye for days on end to the mountains of washing and ironing, the baby paraphernalia strewn everywhere, the hasty plates and mugs that litter the living room. Anna will come twice a week, as usual, and magic everything back into its proper place. That is not what concerns me.

  What does concern me is my own lack of internal equilibrium. I feel as though something fundamental has ceased to be calibrated properly. I feel off-balance, no longer sure of foot – metaphorically, of course – even when surrounded by the familiar. It disturbs me. And I have no one to ask. No one I know has a baby.

  Adam’s cold injunction to ‘Get over it’ – whatever ‘it’ was – was the first time since Ian’s birth that that lack of equilibrium had finally found a focus. There was relief in the anger that followed, a sort of cleansing fury. One thing became clear when the rage-fuelled fog lifted: Adam may be attentive to his son – during his own waking hours, anyway – but he is certainly not attentive to me.

  There were perhaps fifty or so people here yesterday at the party – not all at once, but drifting in and out all day. The doorbell rang constantly. Plates needed to be replenished, drinks refreshed, seating arranged and rearranged. But more often than not, whenever I looked for Adam, he wasn’t there.

  He reappeared for the cake and champagne. I made sure we were in the kitchen together for a moment, gathering together the champagne flutes. ‘Where have you been?’ I spoke as quietly as I could. I was aware that there were too many ears about.

  ‘Hmmm?’ he said, reaching up to the highest shelf of the cupboard. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

  That’s a tactic of his: that faux-absent-minded ‘Sorry, what did you say?’ I know it well. He does it to infuriate me.

  ‘Adam – I’m run off my feet. Where have you been?’

  He looked at me, his face a mask of innocence. ‘Looking after our guests, of course. As you say, we’re run off our feet.’ He turned on his heel and walked off into the living room, carrying maybe three or four glasses.

  I bit back my reply. It would have to wait until later.

  But I watched him closely. He seemed to skulk in the empty corners of the room. Or he’d disappear to answer the door and not reappear for ages. I had to go looking for him when some of our guests wanted to ta
ke photographs.

  And I spotted him, at least twice, leaving the room with his mobile phone in his hand.

  My blood ran cold. There is no other way to describe it. Everyone that was important to us, for one reason or another, was in this room, here, now. Who else could be calling, or texting, on a day like this?

  I kept moving about the room, filling glasses, making sure everyone was looked after. It was a relief, finally, to take Ian up to the bedroom again for his four o’clock feed.

  As I sat with him, his small body tucked close to mine, I suddenly thought of that awful Christmas Eve, all those years ago. I could feel tears gather and I forced them back. I could see the tree, the failed lights, my mother on her knees, sobbing.

  And I wondered, for the first time, whether I had married a man just like my father.

  Patrick

  THE 3RD OF FEBRUARY, 1995 is another day I will never forget. Ella’s calmness. Me, like a headless chicken – her words. The anxious journey to the hospital.

  The routine busyness at first. And then, activity all around my wife late that morning; activity that suddenly became urgent. People began to move swiftly, purposefully. They bundled me out of the delivery room.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I said, immediately panicked. The young nurse ushered me towards the door. ‘What is it? What’s happening?’ She saw the alarm on my face and she took pity on me.

  ‘The cord is wrapped around the baby’s neck,’ she said, glancing back over her shoulder. ‘It’ll be fine, don’t worry, but the doctor has to intervene quickly. Now go – I’ll call you just as soon as you can see Mrs Grant.’

  I prayed. Please, God, I said, not this. Anything but this. Take me if you must, but leave her the child. I have never prayed so compulsively, so fervently, so sincerely, either before or since. I paced. I sat. I clenched my fists to calm my hands, to control their sweaty trembling. I swung around each time I heard the door behind me opening.

  Finally, after a lifetime, the young nurse who had ushered me to the door now emerged from behind it, smiling.

  ‘Everything is fine,’ she said. ‘Congratulations, Mr Grant. You can go to your . . .’

  I didn’t wait to hear any more. I ran. Ella was safe. The child was safe. I no longer cared if the baby was a boy or a girl. Up until that morning, I’d nursed a small, secret, selfish longing for a son – although I had never confessed as much to Ella. We’d discussed preferences, many times during those long, expectant months, a kind of meandering, languorous conversation that always looped us back to the same starting place: we didn’t mind, either way. ‘As long as the baby is well,’ Ella would say. That was as close as either of us could come to confronting the unthinkable. We hadn’t wanted to know the sex of our child in advance; we’d resisted others’ urgings to find out. To me, it felt like tempting fate. I was glad Ella felt the same way.

  ‘I want it to be a surprise,’ she’d said. ‘I want everything to wait until the baby is here.’ The only decisions we had made were the names: Daniel for a boy, after Ella’s father; Deirdre for a girl, after her mother. I was perfectly content with that. Indeed, I had encouraged it. When I finally exploded into the room where my wife and child lay, I thanked God that he had listened to me, that he had allowed me to keep both of them.

  It is not easy to describe that moment, the moment in which I first met Daniel. When I burst through the door, Ella was already sitting up, the tiny bundle nestled against her in the bed. Her face was streaked, tired, radiant. She held out one hand to me. I bent and kissed her. We held onto each other for a long time.

  ‘Thank God you’re safe,’ I said. I was trembling, and I was also conscious that I’d been perspiring profusely. ‘I’ve been out of my mind with worry.’ But it was as though Ella hadn’t heard. Her focus was on me, on my face, my eyes. She never averted her gaze from mine.

  ‘It’s a boy,’ she said, softly. ‘Come here and meet your son.’ She pulled back the fine wool blanket and for a moment all I saw was a small pink face. Squashed, unremarkable in its babyness. And then it hit me: this baby was mine. I had a son at last. Tears came and I could do nothing to stop them. I was embarrassed at this show of emotion in front of my wife, this time, but I couldn’t help myself. In that small and overheated room, there were too many of us. Cecilia. Rebecca. Frances. Sophie. Ian. And now, us.

  Above all, us: Ella, Daniel, me.

  ‘Hold him.’ Ella handed me the white bundle and I sat, overcome, into the plastic armchair beside the bed. She smiled at me. I could see how exhausted she was. Tiny red veins had exploded in the whites of her eyes: starbursts of remembered pain. I was about to speak, to say how awful it must have been for her, but she stroked the baby’s forehead and said: ‘It was touch and go for a while, but he made it.’ Then, very softly: ‘I think you’re right, you know. There must be someone out there listening, after all. Someone who looked after us.’

  The baby’s lips made small, searching movements. The restless, snuckling noises brought me back some thirty years – to Cecilia, to Rebecca: just like this. As I had done with each of the girls when they were born, I sought one of my son’s hands and held it in mine. Babies’ fingernails have never ceased to delight me.

  When I could speak, I said: ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

  Ella was smiling at both of us now. Her face was a mix of pride and utter devotion. I could do nothing but look at her, filled with equal parts fear and gratitude. She waved one hand in the air, dismissing my unspoken questions for now. ‘I’m fine. I’m fine. We’ll talk about all that another time.’ She gestured towards the baby. ‘Just enjoy him, Patrick. He’s perfect.’

  The wave of feeling as I held my new son was like an assault. I felt proud, humbled, sorrowful – choked with a sense of all the love and loss that can inhabit one man’s life. ‘He’s beautiful,’ I said. ‘Just like his mother.’ I stroked his soft cheek.

  Ella sighed, leaning back into her pillows. ‘I can’t believe we’ve been so lucky.’ She closed her eyes.

  I sat for an hour or so as Ella dozed and Daniel slept. I watched both of them: how alike they seemed to me, how vulnerable their faces in the dimming afternoon light. I allowed myself to become sentimental. I vowed tearfully, silently, that I’d always look after them both, that I’d do whatever it took to protect them.

  On that day, in that small hospital room, I knew that I had arrived at the centre of my own universe. I remembered some lines by John Donne from the poem ‘The Good Morrow’. Donne was the only poet whose words had ever resonated with me. It was as though I’d learned them off by heart all those years ago in preparation for this day.

  And now good morrow to our waking soules,

  Which watch not one another out of feare;

  For love, all love of other sights controules,

  And makes one little roome, an every where.

  Ella and Daniel were able to come home with me the following day.

  For the next few weeks, the house was a blur of people coming and going. I have never seen such a variety of soft toys: birds, teddies, monkeys. And cards, full of love and good wishes. Frances and Sophie were constant visitors. They came, not to sit, but to make themselves useful to Ella. Rebecca came just the once. She came armed with her sisters, one on each side. At that time, I think I no longer cared about her hostility. Ella and I had a new universe and Rebecca scarcely orbited it. On the afternoon in question, my eldest daughter was polite and appropriate and the visit passed off tolerably well. Frances and Sophie saw to that.

  I think that both my younger daughters were surprised to find how house-trained I now was. Surprised and pleased. I caught them a couple of times, looking at each other, when I called them into the conservatory for lunch: a simple soup that I’d made from scratch, sprinkled with herbs from the garden. Or poached fish with some of the spectacular salads that Ella had taught me to make – with rocket and nettle and chard and things I’d never heard of in my other life.

  I minded everybody. I to
ok delight in everybody’s company. I lived in a benign, forgiving world. And I could feel the edges of myself softening. It was as though a whole fund of wisdom, of tolerance, of understanding had been unleashed within me, a serenity to accompany the gift of late fatherhood.

  Daniel slept well, fed well, thrived well: everything was in accordance with the textbooks that Ella had stacked all around her. During those early months, our lives acquired new and unexpected dimensions. A sense of wonder, of pride, of – and this was a strange thing for a man in his mid-fifties to feel at last – belonging.

  Those are now the days and weeks I look back on most: the time against which the rest of my life is measured. It is only now that I have felt able to do so. Until recently, the all-pervasive loss of Daniel had clouded all those earlier, happier times. At least now I begin to feel that I may be able to inhabit those times again. I have also begun to wonder whether there is a compensatory scale in the universe, after all. Perhaps we have to pay back, in full, for such happinesses as we receive, no matter how ordinary or extraordinary they feel at the time.

  And it is also from the memory of those days that my most persistent question to myself now arises. It is from that point that I keep on asking the same things, over and over again, to the extent that I almost drive myself mad. What, starting from then, would I, should I, could I have done differently? Would I – would we – have been able to ensure a different outcome, had we behaved otherwise?

  At what point did we become blind? Did we perhaps cease to see our son?

  I still have no answers, but there continues to be a clear, painful comfort in asking the questions.

  Rebecca

  ELLA, PREGNANT.

  At least my father told me himself. He didn’t wait for me to find out through Frances or Sophie. I suppose I should be grateful for that. Grateful that I didn’t have to discover it as a result of someone else’s careless comment, someone else’s casually malicious observation.