fear.
But the words won’t come. Even when she knows she is safe, even when she wants to not feel quite so alone, the words are never there.
W hen Grace’s father, Albert, met her mother, Sally, Sally seemed like the most glamorous, exciting woman in the world. She had more energy than anyone he had ever come across before, met every day with a new adventure, was filled with ideas that made him feel alive in a way he never had before.
Their courtship was a whirlwind. Sally brought up marriage after three weeks; instead of thinking it was a terrible idea, Albert, who had never fallen so hard or so fast, immediately proposed.
They eloped, took the train to Gretna Green and were married. Everyone presumed Sally was pregnant, but she didn’t become pregnant until six months later, and everything changed once Grace was born.
The doctors said it was postpartum depression. Sally stayed in bed for the best part of a year. She would barely speak, cried every day, and Albert, desperate for his wife to come back, took care of her and the baby as best he could, terrified this depression wouldn’t pass.
One day, Sally bounced out of bed, fully made up, bright, shining.
Back.
There was a buzzing edge to her as she left the house that morning, returning later that night with armfuls of bags stuffed with baby clothes and toys.
There was nothing that the baby Grace needed, but Albert understood Sally would want to buy her things, given that she had lost the best part of the last year. The shopping would pass, he thought, along with other behaviour he hadn’t noticed before. She would drink every day, often staggering up to bed, entirely drunk. When sober, she was distracted to the point where she could barely focus.
It didn’t seem to pass.
Out of nowhere, a temper appeared. If he did something ‘wrong’, not as she wanted, or if the baby cried, Sally would whirl into the room, screaming in fury. After a while, she would go back to some semblance of normal, but normal never lasted long. At any point she could either return to being wired or go back to bed. Flat. Tired. Teary.
In those days, in England, people didn’t believe in doctors unless you were truly at death’s door, and certainly not in
psychiatrists.
If something didn’t seem quite right, you would generally try to sweep it under the table, pretending that nothing was wrong until it passed.
Manic depression was something that happened to other people. No one knew much about it; certainly no one talked about it in anything other than a shocked whisper.
Grace grew up with the knowledge that her father was the only one on whom she could rely. There were times when her mother was normal, but it could change at any time. She learned to walk on eggshells in her house, to relinquish her childhood, to try and take care of herself, and her parents, as best she could.
She tried to cook by watching
The Galloping Gourmet
on television, and Delia Smith on
Swap Shop.
For Christmas her father bought her cookbooks, which were quickly decorated with grease and gravy as Grace attempted to re-create Smith’s recipes, many of which – including the cottage pie and apple crumble – she still uses today. Cooking was all a bit hit or miss until she met Lydia, her university roommate’s mother, who really taught her how to cook.
Lydia became Grace’s substitute mother, her roommate, Catherine, her sister, and the two noisy twin brothers, Patrick and Robert, not so much her brothers as the most important male figures in her life.
Robert was her secret love and Patrick her confidant. They provided her with a stability and a consistency that had been entirely missing from her own family.
At Lydia’s house, Grace was not only allowed to be a child, she was celebrated, even when she did something wrong. Not that Grace was a child who often misbehaved, but Patrick, two years older than her, led her into all kinds of trouble. When Patrick ‘borrowed’ his father’s car without
But the words won’t come. Even when she knows she is safe, even when she wants to not feel quite so alone, the words are never there.
W hen Grace’s father, Albert, met her mother, Sally, Sally seemed like the most glamorous, exciting woman in the world. She had more energy than anyone he had ever come across before, met every day with a new adventure, was filled with ideas that made him feel alive in a way he never had before.
Their courtship was a whirlwind. Sally brought up marriage after three weeks; instead of thinking it was a terrible idea, Albert, who had never fallen so hard or so fast, immediately proposed.
They eloped, took the train to Gretna Green and were married. Everyone presumed Sally was pregnant, but she didn’t become pregnant until six months later, and everything changed once Grace was born.
The doctors said it was postpartum depression. Sally stayed in bed for the best part of a year. She would barely speak, cried every day, and Albert, desperate for his wife to come back, took care of her and the baby as best he could, terrified this depression wouldn’t pass.
One day, Sally bounced out of bed, fully made up, bright, shining.
Back.
There was a buzzing edge to her as she left the house that morning, returning later that night with armfuls of bags stuffed with baby clothes and toys.
There was nothing that the baby Grace needed, but Albert understood Sally would want to buy her things, given that she had lost the best part of the last year. The shopping would pass, he thought, along with other behaviour he hadn’t noticed before. She would drink every day, often staggering up to bed, entirely drunk. When sober, she was distracted to the point where she could barely focus.
It didn’t seem to pass.
Out of nowhere, a temper appeared. If he did something ‘wrong’, not as she wanted, or if the baby cried, Sally would whirl into the room, screaming in fury. After a while, she would go back to some semblance of normal, but normal never lasted long. At any point she could either return to being wired or go back to bed. Flat. Tired. Teary.
In those days, in England, people didn’t believe in doctors unless you were truly at death’s door, and certainly not in
psychiatrists.
If something didn’t seem quite right, you would generally try to sweep it under the table, pretending that nothing was wrong until it passed.
Manic depression was something that happened to other people. No one knew much about it; certainly no one talked about it in anything other than a shocked whisper.
Grace grew up with the knowledge that her father was the only one on whom she could rely. There were times when her mother was normal, but it could change at any time. She learned to walk on eggshells in her house, to relinquish her childhood, to try and take care of herself, and her parents, as best she could.
She tried to cook by watching
The Galloping Gourmet
on television, and Delia Smith on
Swap Shop.
For Christmas her father bought her cookbooks, which were quickly decorated with grease and gravy as Grace attempted to re-create Smith’s recipes, many of which – including the cottage pie and apple crumble – she still uses today. Cooking was all a bit hit or miss until she met Lydia, her university roommate’s mother, who really taught her how to cook.
Lydia became Grace’s substitute mother, her roommate, Catherine, her sister, and the two noisy twin brothers, Patrick and Robert, not so much her brothers as the most important male figures in her life.
Robert was her secret love and Patrick her confidant. They provided her with a stability and a consistency that had been entirely missing from her own family.
At Lydia’s house, Grace was not only allowed to be a child, she was celebrated, even when she did something wrong. Not that Grace was a child who often misbehaved, but Patrick, two years older than her, led her into all kinds of trouble. When Patrick ‘borrowed’ his father’s car without
Similar Books
