my throat again. I swallow hard to contain it.
‘It’s very kind of you to say so,’ Mrs Reiber says. ‘But I am afraid that you have had a wasted journey. I do not have a daughter.’ I stare at her and she stares back, her eyes unreadable.
‘But—’ I start, but she cuts me short.
‘And I never have had.’ She says it with such finality. And to make sure that I realize the conversation is now over, she breaks my stare and looks back out at the garden. ‘I do hope you make it home before the rain,’ she says.
I walk away from that house feeling numb. I am too miserable for words. It is raining now, that low-cloud persistent rain that looks as though it’s not much more than a heavy drizzle, but in fact gets you soaked. I do have an umbrella in my bag, but I cannot be bothered to get it out and the rain is working its way through my hair to my head, where I can feel it trickling against my scalp. My boots are killing me now, pinching and rubbing against my toes; every step is a punishment, but it’s a punishment I make myself endure. I feel I deserve it for being such a fool.
I walk to the end of the road and turn right, not really thinking which way I should be going. I have nothing particularly to do; no need to be anywhere until later this afternoon, when Jono comes home. And now I feel totally robbed of the day’s purpose. I end up at the road leading to the station, where all those lovely shops are, and I cross over and walk towards them. The Christmas lights are on, even at this time of day, inside the shop windows and outside too, draped around the lamp posts. All very tasteful, but then of course it would be, here. I am too wet to go inside the shops so I just walk slowly, and look in the windows. And once again I feel myself to be outside life, looking in. At the gift shop I stop, and I look at the beautiful jewellery and the leather bags so artfully displayed. And then I catch sight of my reflection, of my glum, distorted face and my hair stuck wetly to my head, and I am overcome with a wave of self-loathing.
Who am I to try and link my life to Vanessa’s – then, or now? I am just a middle-aged woman out of nowhere. I am what you become when you disappear.
I turn away from the shops and then cross back over the main road, and head back in the general direction of my car. And I try to walk tall, with dignity, as if I have the right to these streets, whilst inside I feel like an impostor. Niggling through my self-pity now is anger, worming its way like a thread.
Let us not forget that Vanessa’s mother never did notice me. I may have been in her house on various occasions; I may have sat on her furniture, laughed with her children, drunk the booze in her dining room, but she always walked past me as if I didn’t exist.
And she didn’t invite me to the funeral.
And that woman back there, that Mrs Reiber – she was lying. She is Vanessa’s mother. I know it. I know it in my bones.
It feels like the hugest of snubs.
I tuck the hurt up inside me where it festers and throbs like a deep, hidden boil. And I go about my life, as I always do. This is such a busy time of year and there is so much that I have to do. I make my lists. There are cards to be sent, there is food shopping to plan and buy, presents still to be bought and wrapped, as well as things for the house to be done: new napkins to be chosen and something festive for the table, the decorations to be brought down and updated where necessary, bed linen to be aired and ironed for the spare room in which Andrew’s mother will stay. All this as well as so many school things to attend to: rugby matches to pick up from, the end-of-term art exhibition, the concert, and so on. I write things on my calendar and systematically I cross them off again, as evidence of my validity. And I tell myself that I could not possibly do all this and work.
Vaguely, like whispering ghosts at the corner of my mind, I remember a time when Christmas was all
‘It’s very kind of you to say so,’ Mrs Reiber says. ‘But I am afraid that you have had a wasted journey. I do not have a daughter.’ I stare at her and she stares back, her eyes unreadable.
‘But—’ I start, but she cuts me short.
‘And I never have had.’ She says it with such finality. And to make sure that I realize the conversation is now over, she breaks my stare and looks back out at the garden. ‘I do hope you make it home before the rain,’ she says.
I walk away from that house feeling numb. I am too miserable for words. It is raining now, that low-cloud persistent rain that looks as though it’s not much more than a heavy drizzle, but in fact gets you soaked. I do have an umbrella in my bag, but I cannot be bothered to get it out and the rain is working its way through my hair to my head, where I can feel it trickling against my scalp. My boots are killing me now, pinching and rubbing against my toes; every step is a punishment, but it’s a punishment I make myself endure. I feel I deserve it for being such a fool.
I walk to the end of the road and turn right, not really thinking which way I should be going. I have nothing particularly to do; no need to be anywhere until later this afternoon, when Jono comes home. And now I feel totally robbed of the day’s purpose. I end up at the road leading to the station, where all those lovely shops are, and I cross over and walk towards them. The Christmas lights are on, even at this time of day, inside the shop windows and outside too, draped around the lamp posts. All very tasteful, but then of course it would be, here. I am too wet to go inside the shops so I just walk slowly, and look in the windows. And once again I feel myself to be outside life, looking in. At the gift shop I stop, and I look at the beautiful jewellery and the leather bags so artfully displayed. And then I catch sight of my reflection, of my glum, distorted face and my hair stuck wetly to my head, and I am overcome with a wave of self-loathing.
Who am I to try and link my life to Vanessa’s – then, or now? I am just a middle-aged woman out of nowhere. I am what you become when you disappear.
I turn away from the shops and then cross back over the main road, and head back in the general direction of my car. And I try to walk tall, with dignity, as if I have the right to these streets, whilst inside I feel like an impostor. Niggling through my self-pity now is anger, worming its way like a thread.
Let us not forget that Vanessa’s mother never did notice me. I may have been in her house on various occasions; I may have sat on her furniture, laughed with her children, drunk the booze in her dining room, but she always walked past me as if I didn’t exist.
And she didn’t invite me to the funeral.
And that woman back there, that Mrs Reiber – she was lying. She is Vanessa’s mother. I know it. I know it in my bones.
It feels like the hugest of snubs.
I tuck the hurt up inside me where it festers and throbs like a deep, hidden boil. And I go about my life, as I always do. This is such a busy time of year and there is so much that I have to do. I make my lists. There are cards to be sent, there is food shopping to plan and buy, presents still to be bought and wrapped, as well as things for the house to be done: new napkins to be chosen and something festive for the table, the decorations to be brought down and updated where necessary, bed linen to be aired and ironed for the spare room in which Andrew’s mother will stay. All this as well as so many school things to attend to: rugby matches to pick up from, the end-of-term art exhibition, the concert, and so on. I write things on my calendar and systematically I cross them off again, as evidence of my validity. And I tell myself that I could not possibly do all this and work.
Vaguely, like whispering ghosts at the corner of my mind, I remember a time when Christmas was all
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