‘This “empty nest syndrome”,’ Jaqueline did the air quotes. ‘It is – how do you say – self-absorbed, self-indulgent, yes?’
‘So anyway,’ said Richard, grimacing slightly at his wife’s efforts to sabotage his plan of buttering me up. ‘Yes, so I thought a bit of boisterous behaviour, a bit of noise – it would make the house feel homely again, in Layla’s absence.’ He gestured to Hugo who looked as though he’d never done anything boisterous in his entire life. ‘And it would be a huge help for us. Magdalena has annual leave booked. She’s off to Spain to see family. And obviously we can’t really ask Mum. Never know where she’s going to be nowadays. Or who she’s going to be with.’
Jaqueline smiled at this. ‘Your grandmother,’ she said, leaning over to Layla with a conspiratorial air. ‘She is living her best life. Yes?’
Layla laughed. ‘She sure is. Although it sounds as though Maurice’s chest pain has put an end to the Marrakesh trip.’
I could tell from Richard’s face that he had not heard about either Marrakesh or Maurice’s chest pain. In fact, he didn’t really look as though he’d heard of Maurice. He was clearly ten steps behind me in terms of information on Mum’s dating life. And by ten steps I meant ten men.
‘Well,’ I said, steering the conversation to the matter at hand – which appeared to be my brother strong-arming me into aweek of childcare under the guise of preventing my spiral into loneliness and isolation, while his wife just insulted me in her usual fashion. ‘I’d be very happy to have them. Just let me know the dates.’
I hunkered down against the table trying to catch the eyes of my nephews, who were concentrating on their plates of saffron-infused quail eggs. ‘We’ll think of some cool things to do, okay boys? When you come to stay.’
I received two tentative smiles for my efforts.
‘Great, that’s a plan then,’ said Richard, returning to his velouté with an air of relief. ‘I thought it would work out well. And I’m sure we can fit around your timings.’ He polished off the last flake of ash-coloured pastry. ‘After all, it’s not like you go out to work or even do much outside the house is it, Hattie. From what Mum says, you’re always at home.’ He smiled magnanimously, as if he’d just paid me the most enormous compliment. ‘And with Layla gone…’
‘What? With Layla gone, my days of leaving the house, or having any sort of meaningful existence are pretty much over?’
And everyone laughed nervously.
Chapter Four
The night before
So, the moment has almost arrived. I have spent the past few days wandering about in a haze of anticipatory grief, a sob painfully and permanently trapped in my throat. Every time I catch sight of a family photograph, every glimpse of her coat, her shoes, her jewellery, the general detritus of Layla, I well up. It’s not sustainable, this situation of knowing the end is near and being entirely unable to appreciate the last remaining moments because I am so sad. It’s ghastly. Almost as though I’d have preferred to go through life childless if it meant not having my daughter ripped away from me.
Joe tells me I’m being melodramatic. And I guess that last paragraph does sound like something a borderline hysteric might write. But it’s hard to convey how physically painful this sensation of impending loss is. The nausea. The gnawing, churning, roiling feeling in my stomach. I wonder if it’ll give me a gastric ulcer. They’re sometimes caused by stress aren’t they? And isn’t this an extreme example of emotional stress? Is having an ulcer like having a tapeworm? Might it stop me putting on weight?
Perhaps I’ll just fade away like a side character in a Victorian novel. Draw all the drapes and take to my bed, eschewing all sustenance until I am so painfully thin that Joe has to consult an apothecary.Please, feed my wife, she’s skin and bone.All of my friends will say,God she looks so thin. And so chic. Have you seen her cheekbones?I get lost in this daydream for a few moments and it provides a little distraction from the pain. Because surely there must be an upside somewhere? Or maybeI didn’t read the contract carefully enough when, after years of trying, that little blue line finally appeared on the stick.
When you start on this great and noble journey of motherhood you are vaguely aware that, at some point, this tiny baby will become a fully grown adult human being, and that a marker of your success as a mother will be how successfully this new person navigates the world as a grown-up. But in those posseting days of milky madness, when the fug of constant feeds and endless nappies leads to a sensation that time has been suspended and normal rules of day and night no longer apply, in those bleary moments the very idea that this squalling, red-faced little angel will become an actual functional person, seems laughable. Add to that the notion that this person might eventually leave home, and to your hormone addled brain it sounds frankly deranged. How is it even possible they will one day no longer need you? Look! Seehow muchthey need you now! Even the process of staying alive is beyond their capabilities. Without you to feed them, clothe them, keep them warm and safe from harm they’d die! And yes, you know from the widening relationship with your own parents that eventually there will be a separation, an assertion of independence, but this is different. You were a child of the Seventies; your mother barely knew where you were most of the time. Off with the boys on their Raleigh Choppers, playing on building sites, smoking behind bike-sheds by the age of eleven. You practically raised yourself! Whereas this baby…yourbaby, well, she’s going to need you forever. She’s a part of you, she’s your life’s work.
It’s conflicting to say the least. And I try, I really have been trying, to keep this conflict inside my own head and not let it squeak out of my mouth or seep out of my eyes when I’ve been with Layla these past few days. She knows I’m sad, but she also thinks I’m excited and happy for her. And I am! I have to keep reminding myself – I am happy. So terribly, terribly, awfullyhappy and excited. The best plan seems to be a vow of silence. I’ve taken to not actually speaking to preserve the illusion of functioning as normal. It’s easier for everyone this way. Earlier today when I asked if she had packed enough warm clothes, my voice broke on the words ‘woolly jumper’ and never really regained its full strength. So, silence it is. I just pointed to various garments and numbly added items to boxes and carrier bags until Joe got back from work and we could start loading up the car.
He was also uncharacteristically sombre as we undertook the Jenga challenge of packing one eighteen-year-old girl’s belongings, old and new, into a hatchback while still leaving enough room for three people to squeeze in. We’d all agreed that the best plan was to pack the car tonight to save time in the morning ahead of the long drive (Layla didn’t really have anything worth stealing so the security hazard seemed minimal). Then we were going to have Layla’s favourite dinner, watch a favourite film on the television (really ramping up the nostalgia just in case anyone was in danger of missing the significance of the moment) and aim for an early night.
‘At least she’ll have something squashy to lean against if she wants a sleep on the way up,’ Joe said, forcing the last bin liner of clothes onto the rear seats and taking a step back to check that the precarious structure would hold.
‘I think the yucca plant poking her in the eye might put paid to that notion,’ I said, offering up the offending item.
Joe considered it, chin in his hand. ‘Does she really need a pot-plant that size?’ he said eventually. ‘I mean, I know she loves Sideshow Bob but he’s not terribly portable – what’s going to happen over the holidays with nobody watering him?’
‘I’ll let you have that conversation with her,’ I said. ‘But I think she’d probably argue that any plant will be better off being neglected for a few weeks in a hall of residence than itwould being neglected full-time if she leaves it with me. And I don’t want to be responsible for the death of Sideshow Bob. I’ve already had to agree to contacting her immediately if one of the cats so much as sneezes in a worrying way. She’d be after daily photographs of Bob if he was left behind.’
He gave me a fond look. ‘I can’t imagine you complaining about having to contact her every day,’ he said. ‘Even if it is just for a horticultural update. Have you two had a chat about how regularly we expect her to be in touch?’
‘Not directly,’ I said. ‘It all felt a bit final.’
‘Are you just avoiding thinking about anything beyond tomorrow night?’ he said, putting an arm around my shoulders as we went back towards the house.
I nodded sadly.
‘Well, I’ll speak to her while you’re getting the popcorn and snacks,’ he said. ‘I think we should suggest that she calls us at least once a week to begin with.’
‘Once a week?’ I stopped in my tracks. ‘But…’
‘As a minimum,’ he said gently. ‘I know you’re going to want to speak to her all the time, Hattie. But we don’t want her feeling like she has to commit to a certain number of phone calls or messages – she should be out enjoying herself, not feeling guilty because she thinks we’re waiting at the end of the phone.’
