Libby did not believe that, though it was kind of him to say so, and it would not have persuaded her if she had. ‘I can’t marry you,’ she said to him. ‘I’m crazy. Everybody knows that. Don’t you know that?’
‘I have a duty to our child.’ The words were resolute, but clearly he was appalled to be saying ‘our’ to her about anything, let alone a child, and already grateful that he would not be bound to say it much longer.
‘I’ll do what’s right,’ Libby promised. ‘Send money.’
‘Kill the child.’
It was not, of course, William Bradley who suggested such a thing. There was an actual voice but no visible source for it, and, more than hearing it, Libby felt the voice in her hollow bones. There was a bittersweet fragrance, too, that clung to the skin between the bones of her fingers as they stretched around the baby’s tiny neck. She clenched her fists in refusal. ‘No.’
‘What sort of life will this child have?’ She had to admit it was a reasonable question. ‘You sent young Mr Bradley away. You’re crazy. You said so yourself. You barely managed to raise Frances, and look at her.’
‘I won’t do it.’
‘It would be easier on everybody. On you, too.’
‘No.’ Libby took a deep, steadying, bittersweet breath, and freed her hands from her baby’s throat to push his voice and his insinuating odour away.
On that melancholy golden October afternoon in 1942 — soon to be grey and doleful November, another season altogether — Aunt Maureen asserted, as though satisfied that she’d worked it all out in her head, that Frances had died soon after Libby because she hadn’t known how to live without her mother. ‘A grown woman, you’d have thought she was an orphan,’ which prompted Cecelia to ask about Frances’s father. Who was he? What had happened to him? It amazed her that she’d apparently never wondered about him before; she thought that could not be true, but she had no memory either of her own curiosity in this regard or of any answers forthcoming or withheld.
It also caused her to think about her own father, but her thoughts, having nothing much to snag on to, didn’t stay long with him. Cecelia believed her relationship with her father to be uncomplicated. Easily, they loved each other. She supposed they could be considered neither close nor distant. He mourned her mother now, as did she, but simply, cleanly.
‘I don’t know,’ Aunt Maureen said evenly. ‘As far as I could ever tell, almost nobody in the family knew who Frances’s father was. Including Frances. Papa didn’t know.’
The funeral procession below them gave the strong overall impression of coming closer, while its component parts — dark figures except for one swatch of pink; dark motion — appeared no bigger or clearer than ever. Distracted by this contradictory perspective, Cecelia at first merely nodded in response to the last statement. Then, suddenly disoriented among the tangles of the family tree, she chanced a quick look at her aunt. Aunt Maureen was watching her, and, when Cecelia’s glance swung her way, she nodded emphatically.
‘But I believe it was Uncle Clyde. Our father’s brother. I believe he was Frances’s father. Libby and Helen always behaved strangely when his name came up, and he never came to our house, although I heard he used to live there. Libby was fourteen when Frances was born.’
Cecelia pulled her gaze away, not wanting to stare. For a while when she was the age Aunt Maureen was now, she would find herself flashing back to this moment, this secret told first and smallest among many, as a point at which her life had veered off one course and on to another. Eventually, though, she would cease thinking of life in terms of courses and veerings at all.
‘Our mother had died giving birth to me.’ Self-consciously, Cecelia waited for some sort of signal as to what her reaction ought to be. This she’d known already, presumably from her mother, although she remembered no time or place she’d been told, no specific conversation, no gift or complaint or instructive intent personally to her.
It was the first time, though, that Aunt Maureen, the infant in question, had spoken of it to her, and she fretted that she should offer reassurance or condolence. There was no hint of a request for such a thing; she’d not have guessed at any particular emotional underlay at all if Aunt Maureen hadn’t added, in the same flat declarative tone, ‘It wasn’t uncommon in those days, you know, for women to die in childbirth.’
‘I know,’ Cecelia breathed.
Aunt Maureen nodded, allowed her sweater to fall loose, then pulled it around her again. ‘Libby raised us both. Frances and me. We grew up more like sisters than aunt and niece. Dad worked a lot to support us and most of the rest of his time he spent looking for a suitable stepmother, which he never found. Helen went off and had adventures. And misadventures.’ Aunt Maureen gave a quick smile, then repeated, ‘Libby raised us.’
‘My mother never talked much about her past,’ Cecelia ventured. It was a sad thing to admit. ‘She almost never told me stories.’
There was something ominous about the pledge. Hastily, Cecelia asked, ‘Was Aunt Libby a good mother?’ It was, truly, something she wanted to know, but the fact that it was also a diversionary tactic made her feel dishonest. Perhaps, then, self-justification was the source of her upsurge of interest in Aunt Maureen’s childhood. ‘What was it like,’ she asked, too eagerly, ‘growing up with your sister for a mother and your cousin for a sister and your father never home? Was it confusing? Was it awful?’
‘Libby,’ said Aunt Maureen grimly, ‘did the best she could. She could have said no.’
In the silence that followed, the funeral ascended the hill, though the perspective was still skewed. The hearse in the lead had its headlights on. Two figures, the one in pink and one of the handful of dark-dressed ones, had broken away from the formal procession leaving it paltry indeed, and, as Aunt Maureen resumed talking, Cecelia watched them against the mown gold and brown cemetery grass. Shadows fell everywhere, and in the thin low light theirs were indistinguishable. They seemed, she saw with something like shock, to be cavorting, and they were holding hands.
Libby said, ‘Papa,’ and couldn’t believe what she was about to do. How could she tell him? How could she speak of such things to her father?
Maybe she would not. Maybe she didn’t have to. Almost, she looked away and pretended she hadn’t spoken. Most likely, her father wouldn’t have pressed, wouldn’t have even noticed or would have been glad for one less thing to worry about.
But she thought of Helen, and her fists clenched in her lap. She thought of Maureen, who wouldn’t even remember their mother; Maureen, whom Mama had said to take care of. She made herself say again, ‘Papa. I have to talk to you.’
He was on his way out, not an unusual circumstance. He had on his big grey coat and was fitting his grey hat over his bald spot, rolling the rim just so, the tiny maroon feather slightly off to the right. He glanced down at her. ‘Not now, Libby. I’m late.’
‘When? I
‘Later.’
Later, then, very late, she was waiting for him when he came home. She’d fallen asleep at the kitchen table. She woke up, abruptly and fully, at the click of the door and his quiet despairing sigh before he came in and saw her there. ‘Papa. Please. I have to tell you something.’
When he took off his hat, his head was so bare she had to look away. When he took off his coat, she saw that his shoulders were shaking. ‘I’m exhausted, Libby. Not tonight.’
He was already out of the room, and she was hearing his dogged, hasty footsteps rounding the corner of the living room towards the stairs, when she said, just loud enough for him to hear if he would, ‘Uncle Clyde touches me.’ The footsteps didn’t stop immediately, but they did stop. ‘He touches Helen, too. Next he’ll start on Maureen, because we’ll be too old.’
Her father came back, a large sad man, and Libby was so sorry and ashamed, but her little sister Maureen hadn’t done anything wrong, had she? If Uncle Clyde started on her, would it be her fault? It would be Libby’s fault if she didn’t tell.
Her sad father with his sad footsteps and his uncovered head came back into the kitchen, and Libby could hardly breathe in the face of his sadness, to which she was adding. He pulled out the chair opposite her, scraping its two back legs across the old wooden floor, and heavily lowered himself into it. She locked her gaze on him and said what she had to say, every dirty word.
