handwritingon the back:
Isle of Wight, August ’61.
They’d been to see Eden Kane singing the night before, she recalls, and were both a bit hung over. Stopping off for a lunchtime hair of the dog, they’d befriended a Cockney in RAF uniform who’d agreed to take their picture. As they posed for the camera he’d said, ‘Say
dick cheese
,’ which had made Pete crack up with the laughter the photograph captured.
She barely recognises the nineteen-year-old girl sitting beside him. Fresh-faced and smiling and glowing with love.
I look happy,
she thinks, trying to recall how that felt. When her love for Pete was untarnished; before the first blow; back when she would tell him she wanted to crawl inside him she couldn’t get close enough, when she could still feel sheltered in his arms.
Poor cow.
The trilling of her mobile cuts into her thoughts. It’s her youngest, Jason. She takes a deep breath and answers. ‘Hello, love, how are you?’ she says, forcing a lightness into her voice.
‘Fine, how are you? I just had a call from Dad.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘He said you’ve been acting a bit strange.’
‘No more than usual,’ she says, trying to chuckle but instead producing a coughing fit. When it’s over she says, ‘What exactly has he been saying?’
‘Just that you weren’t your usual self.’
‘What
is
my usual self? And how would he know? He hardly sees me any more.’
‘What does that mean?’
Aware of anger rising, she moderates her tone. ‘Just because you spend your life with someone, it doesn’t mean you know who they are.’
‘You’re not making any sense.’
‘Yes, I am. You’re not listening.’
‘I’m trying to understand.’
‘Well, beyond being a mother and a wife, who am I? Who am I to you?’
Taking his silence for an answer, she says, ‘
Exactly.
You don’t know. And Gordon doesn’t know, either. I’m not even sure
I
know, any more. I thought I did, but not now.’
‘Why? What’s happened?’
‘Life happened,’ she says. ‘
My
life. Only I feel like it happened without me, and I want it back so I can do it differently.’
‘You’re talking as if your life’s over.’
‘Maybe it is. I feel like it is. Or maybe it never even started.’
Maybe
, she thinks,
maybe, maybe,
the word ringing in her head like a leper’s bell, with the bluntness of language hitting against the fine grain of experience.
‘Do you want me to come down?’ he says. ‘I can take a couple of days off work, or come at the weekend.’
‘There’s no need, love, I’m fine. You’ve no reason to worry. I promise.’
From outside she hears the rise and fall of a passing conversation. Then silence.
Say something,
she thinks, but nothing comes. She considers, momentarily, whetherto tell him what is really going on, but before she can he says, ‘Maybe you should see a doctor, Mum.’
‘Don’t you bloody start!’ She hadn’t meant to snap at him, and says in a calmer voice, ‘I don’t need a doctor.’
‘It might help, if you’re not feeling well. You know – you don’t want to end up… like before,’ he says.
Mad like before? Stripping off and eating soil?
‘Gordon had no right to go worrying you like that,’ she says, before changing the subject and asking about work. He hangs up, promising to ring again later. She thinks about his life, wondering if he is happy. Of her three children, he’s always seemed the most content. He never complains about his job, or at least not to her, but she has no idea if he likes or loathes being a PE teacher. Is there a girlfriend on the go? She doesn’t know. Whenever she asks he gets annoyed. She wishes he’d let her in more.
She dials Gordon’s number, and when he answers she says, with barely contained rage,
‘What the bloody hell have you been telling Jason?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Well, you must’ve said something, because he’s just been on the phone suggesting I need to see a doctor.’
‘I thought they should know,
Isle of Wight, August ’61.
They’d been to see Eden Kane singing the night before, she recalls, and were both a bit hung over. Stopping off for a lunchtime hair of the dog, they’d befriended a Cockney in RAF uniform who’d agreed to take their picture. As they posed for the camera he’d said, ‘Say
dick cheese
,’ which had made Pete crack up with the laughter the photograph captured.
She barely recognises the nineteen-year-old girl sitting beside him. Fresh-faced and smiling and glowing with love.
I look happy,
she thinks, trying to recall how that felt. When her love for Pete was untarnished; before the first blow; back when she would tell him she wanted to crawl inside him she couldn’t get close enough, when she could still feel sheltered in his arms.
Poor cow.
The trilling of her mobile cuts into her thoughts. It’s her youngest, Jason. She takes a deep breath and answers. ‘Hello, love, how are you?’ she says, forcing a lightness into her voice.
‘Fine, how are you? I just had a call from Dad.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘He said you’ve been acting a bit strange.’
‘No more than usual,’ she says, trying to chuckle but instead producing a coughing fit. When it’s over she says, ‘What exactly has he been saying?’
‘Just that you weren’t your usual self.’
‘What
is
my usual self? And how would he know? He hardly sees me any more.’
‘What does that mean?’
Aware of anger rising, she moderates her tone. ‘Just because you spend your life with someone, it doesn’t mean you know who they are.’
‘You’re not making any sense.’
‘Yes, I am. You’re not listening.’
‘I’m trying to understand.’
‘Well, beyond being a mother and a wife, who am I? Who am I to you?’
Taking his silence for an answer, she says, ‘
Exactly.
You don’t know. And Gordon doesn’t know, either. I’m not even sure
I
know, any more. I thought I did, but not now.’
‘Why? What’s happened?’
‘Life happened,’ she says. ‘
My
life. Only I feel like it happened without me, and I want it back so I can do it differently.’
‘You’re talking as if your life’s over.’
‘Maybe it is. I feel like it is. Or maybe it never even started.’
Maybe
, she thinks,
maybe, maybe,
the word ringing in her head like a leper’s bell, with the bluntness of language hitting against the fine grain of experience.
‘Do you want me to come down?’ he says. ‘I can take a couple of days off work, or come at the weekend.’
‘There’s no need, love, I’m fine. You’ve no reason to worry. I promise.’
From outside she hears the rise and fall of a passing conversation. Then silence.
Say something,
she thinks, but nothing comes. She considers, momentarily, whetherto tell him what is really going on, but before she can he says, ‘Maybe you should see a doctor, Mum.’
‘Don’t you bloody start!’ She hadn’t meant to snap at him, and says in a calmer voice, ‘I don’t need a doctor.’
‘It might help, if you’re not feeling well. You know – you don’t want to end up… like before,’ he says.
Mad like before? Stripping off and eating soil?
‘Gordon had no right to go worrying you like that,’ she says, before changing the subject and asking about work. He hangs up, promising to ring again later. She thinks about his life, wondering if he is happy. Of her three children, he’s always seemed the most content. He never complains about his job, or at least not to her, but she has no idea if he likes or loathes being a PE teacher. Is there a girlfriend on the go? She doesn’t know. Whenever she asks he gets annoyed. She wishes he’d let her in more.
She dials Gordon’s number, and when he answers she says, with barely contained rage,
‘What the bloody hell have you been telling Jason?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Well, you must’ve said something, because he’s just been on the phone suggesting I need to see a doctor.’
‘I thought they should know,
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