Trio - [94]

Joan

Morphine played strange tricks on her, mixing up the sounds and pictures so that the seagulls’ shrieks became the cries of a child and the shush of waves on the beach a woman’s breath.

Rachel, Penny’s daughter, came in with the baby, already a toddler, and for a moment she saw Penny with a child in her arms. So alike. Mother and daughter. And now three generations in the same house. The child was a boy. Tiny, with caramel skin, crinkly black hair and shiny brown eyes. Complete contrast to Rachel and Penny with their straw-like hair, pale skin, apple cheeks. She wondered how it would be to raise a child so different from yourself. Not to see yourself reflected in the plane of a cheek or the shape of the mouth or the curve of the wrist. Would it be easier, would you allow the child to be more of themselves and less some minor version of you? Would you find yourself in them in other ways: their temperament or gestures, the way they laughed or their footsteps, their talents and dislikes?

When she had first seen her own baby, she had been shocked. A living child. Her very existence was incredible. Unreal. Joan had never been able to see beyond the pregnancy. That was where it all would end, she imagined. But this; this tangible, human creature… she had never really bargained for this. Or the appalling slew of emotions that assailed her.

She’s me, she’d thought. And immediately dismissed the bizarre notion, but it lingered like a smell. She could not face the child. Literally. She had to handle her to feed and change her but she avoided looking at her. She did not trust herself to meet those eyes, to gaze at that face. To admit those feelings. The memory brought anxiety and she turned away from it.

It was good that Rachel would be here with Penny in the coming months and what a perfect place for the boy. Room to play, the beach on the doorstep.

Rachel had gone. Joan had slept maybe. She wasn’t sure. There was a tune in her head. A lovely tune, haunting. A bit like Acker Bilk’s ‘Stranger On The Shore’ – the yearning, that opening sequence that went straight to the solar plexus. She listened to it fade. They came like that sometimes, so intense. Unbidden. Usually the tune but sometimes the lyric. ‘Spring Lament’ had been like that. A gift. Maybe a burden. Too close for comfort. It’s May again, blossoms, swaying in the rain again, another year and still I dream. And the bluebells make me blue, wonder where are you? She had written it down and the process had drained her. It became a favourite with the jazz singers; the syncopation and the key changes a challenge for interpretation.

She shifted her weight in the bed and felt pain stirring again. She closed her eyes, hoping to escape into sleep for just a few more minutes.

Pamela

Her stomach went into free fall when she got the message to ring the researcher. She made a coffee and got pen and paper ready before returning the phone.

‘I’m afraid I’ve some sad news,’ the man said. ‘I managed to trace your mother, she was living in Scarborough but I’m afraid she died last year. I’m very sorry.’

They all leave, they all go. Last year. Only last year.

‘I’ve written a summary of what I’ve been able to establish, I’ll fax that to you?’

‘Thank you.’

‘There is something else, Pamela. Joan had a close friend, they shared the house for many years. I’ve had a word with her and she asked me to tell you that she would be very happy if you wanted to get in touch. She has some things, things of Joan’s that she’d like you to have.’

He continued to talk but she couldn’t concentrate. She felt as though someone had thumped her very hard, knocked the stuffing out of her. She managed to remain civil and conclude the call. Then she remained sitting, stunned. The coffee cooling and the room darkening. She sat and let the thoughts shuffle round, slow and painful, and a part of her observed how numb she felt and she wanted to stay like that, not to feel the full impact of the news

A couple of months later, having spoken to Penny on the phone, she made the journey to Scarborough, the seaside town perched on the East Yorkshire coast.

‘Come in. I’ve made soup and sandwiches,’ Penny greeted her. ‘You must have been travelling for hours. The bathroom’s upstairs, first on the right, if you want to freshen up.’

‘I will, thank you. It’s a beautiful house.’ She took in the stripped wooden banisters, the large airy hallway with its abstract rugs and warm terracotta walls.

‘It is, it was in quite a state when Joan bought it, but she completely refurbished it. The kitchen’s through here when you want me.’

‘Thanks.’ She was relieved that Penny had already referred to Joan and so easily. Upstairs she practiced a smile in the mirror. She had butterflies in her stomach. Would she be able to eat?

The kitchen was warm, the savoury smell of soup and the yeasty scent of warm bread made her mouth water.

Penny had set the table for two, a white linen cloth, a small vase with freesias in it. Simple. Beautiful.

‘It’s only vegetable, I didn’t know if you were a vegetarian.’