Read Online Postcards From Berlin by Margaret Leroy - Free Book Online
Authors: Margaret Leroy
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really hear what I was saying. I keep worrying I handled it all wrong — you know, said the wrong thing or something. D’you
think sometimes I don’t express myself right — d’you think I’m not assertive enough, perhaps?”
I want him, need him, to say, Of course not, of course you didn’t handle it wrong — it’s nothing to do with you.
“Darling, you do rather brood on things,” he says.
He’s standing just outside the circle of light from the lamp. Half his face is in shadow and I can’t see what he’s thinking.
“And then she launched into this thing about how it was all psychological,” I tell him.
There’s a little pause.
“Well, maybe there’s something in that,” he says then.
For a moment I can’t speak. The smoky smell of the flowers he’s brought clogs up my throat.
“But how can there be?”
“Look, darling,” he says, “you do worry a lot. Maybe that affects Daisy in some way.”
“I’m worrying because she’s ill. How could that make her ill? I don’t understand. Is that so bad, to worry?”
“Well, I guess it’s not ideal,” he says. “But with your background, it’s maybe not so surprising.”
I hear a sound of splintering in my head. There’s a sense of shock between us. He shouldn’t have said this; we both know that.
But instead of taking it back, he tries to explain.
“You know, all those things you went through. It’s bound to affect you.…”
He turns a little away from me. I see his face in the mirror, but his reflected image is strange to me, reversed and subtly
wrong. The darkness reaches out to me from the corners of the room.
“You’re a bit of a perfectionist,” he says. “We both know that. You want everything to be just right; you can’t just go with
the flow. That’s understandable. It’s perhaps one of the effects of …” His voice tails off.
“One of the effects of what?” My voice is small in the stillness.
“Darling,” he says. “You know I think you’re a wonderful mother. No one could care for those girls better than you. But maybe
sometimes you try almost too hard.”
His eyes are narrow; for a moment he looks at me as though I am a stranger.
“How can you try too hard?” I ask.
“All I mean is — of course it’s a worrying situation. But you get worried perhaps a bit more than you need to. And maybe in
some ways that makes things worse. Maybe you expect things to go wrong.”
There’s a sense of pressure in my chest, like something pushing into me, making it hard to breathe.
“I just don’t see how that could make Daisy ill,” I say.
He hears the catch in my voice. He comes to sit beside me.
“Cat,” he says, “now don’t go getting upset.”
He ruffles my hair, as though I am a child. His hand on me soothes me, as he knows it will.
“What about the hospital?” he asks.
“We’re getting the referral.”
“Well, that’s all that matters, really,” he says.
“What if she puts it in the letter — that she thinks it’s psychological? They won’t take Daisy seriously. If they think that,
no one’ll bother to try and find out what’s wrong.”
“Of course she won’t put it in the letter,” he says. “I mean, these are the experts, aren’t they? She’ll leave them to make
up their own minds. None of this adds up to anything,” he says, and puts his arm around me.
Yet still I feel that something has been broken.
Chapter 9
T HERE’S A ROAD I WON’T GO DOWN . Poplar Avenue. A harmless name, a name like any other. There’s a house in that road, a wide-fronted house set well back
from the street. There are rooms in that house with doors with panels of glass, panels that once were covered with brown paper.
Richard started to drive down Poplar Avenue once, by mistake, when we were coming home from Gina and Adrian’s and a car crash
in the one-way system had caused a massive tail-back. He turned round when he realized: He knows; I’ve told him some of
think sometimes I don’t express myself right — d’you think I’m not assertive enough, perhaps?”
I want him, need him, to say, Of course not, of course you didn’t handle it wrong — it’s nothing to do with you.
“Darling, you do rather brood on things,” he says.
He’s standing just outside the circle of light from the lamp. Half his face is in shadow and I can’t see what he’s thinking.
“And then she launched into this thing about how it was all psychological,” I tell him.
There’s a little pause.
“Well, maybe there’s something in that,” he says then.
For a moment I can’t speak. The smoky smell of the flowers he’s brought clogs up my throat.
“But how can there be?”
“Look, darling,” he says, “you do worry a lot. Maybe that affects Daisy in some way.”
“I’m worrying because she’s ill. How could that make her ill? I don’t understand. Is that so bad, to worry?”
“Well, I guess it’s not ideal,” he says. “But with your background, it’s maybe not so surprising.”
I hear a sound of splintering in my head. There’s a sense of shock between us. He shouldn’t have said this; we both know that.
But instead of taking it back, he tries to explain.
“You know, all those things you went through. It’s bound to affect you.…”
He turns a little away from me. I see his face in the mirror, but his reflected image is strange to me, reversed and subtly
wrong. The darkness reaches out to me from the corners of the room.
“You’re a bit of a perfectionist,” he says. “We both know that. You want everything to be just right; you can’t just go with
the flow. That’s understandable. It’s perhaps one of the effects of …” His voice tails off.
“One of the effects of what?” My voice is small in the stillness.
“Darling,” he says. “You know I think you’re a wonderful mother. No one could care for those girls better than you. But maybe
sometimes you try almost too hard.”
His eyes are narrow; for a moment he looks at me as though I am a stranger.
“How can you try too hard?” I ask.
“All I mean is — of course it’s a worrying situation. But you get worried perhaps a bit more than you need to. And maybe in
some ways that makes things worse. Maybe you expect things to go wrong.”
There’s a sense of pressure in my chest, like something pushing into me, making it hard to breathe.
“I just don’t see how that could make Daisy ill,” I say.
He hears the catch in my voice. He comes to sit beside me.
“Cat,” he says, “now don’t go getting upset.”
He ruffles my hair, as though I am a child. His hand on me soothes me, as he knows it will.
“What about the hospital?” he asks.
“We’re getting the referral.”
“Well, that’s all that matters, really,” he says.
“What if she puts it in the letter — that she thinks it’s psychological? They won’t take Daisy seriously. If they think that,
no one’ll bother to try and find out what’s wrong.”
“Of course she won’t put it in the letter,” he says. “I mean, these are the experts, aren’t they? She’ll leave them to make
up their own minds. None of this adds up to anything,” he says, and puts his arm around me.
Yet still I feel that something has been broken.
Chapter 9
T HERE’S A ROAD I WON’T GO DOWN . Poplar Avenue. A harmless name, a name like any other. There’s a house in that road, a wide-fronted house set well back
from the street. There are rooms in that house with doors with panels of glass, panels that once were covered with brown paper.
Richard started to drive down Poplar Avenue once, by mistake, when we were coming home from Gina and Adrian’s and a car crash
in the one-way system had caused a massive tail-back. He turned round when he realized: He knows; I’ve told him some of
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