continued.
“Even if oil and vinegar were effi cacious contraceptives — which they are not, by the way — a douche is completely useless much more than five minutes after intercourse.”
“I don’t care. I wasn’t using it for that. I just wanted to be clean. Like you said.”
“I see. Fine. Whatever you wish. Now, are you going to drink this, or are we going to argue, deny, and play with reality for the rest of the night? Because neither of us is leaving this room until you’ve drunk it, Maggie. Depend upon that.”
“I won’t drink it. You can’t make me. I’ll have the baby. It’s mine. I’ll have it. I’ll love it. I will.”
“You don’t know the first thing about loving anyone.”
“I do!”
“Really? Then what does it mean to make a promise to someone you love? Is it just words? Is it something you say to get you through the moment? Something without meaning mouthed to soothe feelings? Something to get what you want?”
Maggie felt tears building behind her eyes, in her nose. Everything on the work top — a dented toaster, four metal canisters, a mortar and pestle, seven glass jars — shimmered as she began to cry.
“You made a promise to me, Maggie. We had an agreement. Shall I recall it for you?”
Maggie grabbed on to the kitchen sink’s tap and shoved it back and forth, having no purpose for doing so other than experiencing the certainty of contact with something that she could control. Punkin leapt to the work top and approached her. He wove in and out of the bottles and jars, pausing to sniff at some crumbs on the toaster. He gave a plaintive mew and rubbed against her arm. She reached for him blindly and lowered her face to the back of his neck. He smelled of wet hay. His fur adhered to the trail her tears were making on her cheeks.
“If we didn’t leave the village, if I agreed that we wouldn’t move on this time, you’d see I never regretted it. You’d make me proud. Do you remember that? Do you remember giving me your solemn word? You were sitting at this very table last August, crying and pleading to stay in Winslough. ‘Just this once, Mummy. Please don’t let’s move again. I’ve got such good mates here, special mates, Mummy. I want to finish school. I’ll do anything. Please. Let’s just stay.’”
“It was the truth. My mates. Josie and Pam.”
“It was a variation on truth, less than a half-truth if you will. Which is no doubt why within the next two months you were having it off on the floor in Cotes Hall with a fi fteen-year-old farmboy and God knows who else.”
“That isn’t true!”
“Which part, Maggie? Having it off with Nick? Or pulling down your knickers for any one of his randy little mates who wanted to give you a poke?”
“I hate you!”
“Yes. Ever since this started, you’ve been making that clear. And I’m sorry about that. Because I don’t hate you.”
“You’re doing the same.” Maggie swung back to her mother. “You preach about being good and not having babies and all the time you’re doing no better than me. You do it with Mr. Shepherd. Everyone knows.”
“Which is what this is all about, isn’t it? You’re thirteen years old. During your entire life I’ve never taken a lover. And you’re bound and determined that I won’t take one now. I’m to go on living solely for you, just as you’re used to. Right?”
“No.”
“And if you have to get pregnant to keep me in line, then that’s just fi ne.”
“No!”
“Because what is a baby after all, Maggie? Just something you can use to get what you want. You want Nick tied to you? Fine, give him sex. You want Mummy preoccupied with your concerns? Good. Get yourself pregnant. You want everyone to notice how special you are? Open your legs for any bloke who sniffs you up. You want —”
Maggie grabbed up the vinegar and hurled the bottle to the floor where it exploded against the tile. Glass shards shot the length of the room. At once the air was eye-stingingly sour. Punkin hissed, backing into the canisters, his fur on end and his tail a plume.
“I’ll love my baby,” she cried. “I’ll love it and take care of it and it’ll love me. That’s what babies do. That’s all babies do. They love their mummies and their mummies love them.”
Juliet Spence ran her eyes over the mess on the floor. Against the tiles — which were cream coloured — the vinegar looked like diluted blood.
“It’s genetic.” She sounded worn out. “My God in heaven, it’s inbred at your core.” She pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sank onto it. She cupped her hands round the mug of tea. “Babies aren’t love machines,” she said to the mug. “They don’t know how to love. They don’t know what love is. They only have needs. Hunger, thirst, sleep, and wet nappies. And that’s the end of it.”
“It’s not,” Maggie said. “They love you. They make you feel good inside. They belong to you. One hundred percent. You can hold them and sleep with them and cuddle them close. And when they get big—”
“They break you in pieces. One way or another. It comes down to that.”
Maggie rubbed the back of her wrist across her wet cheeks. “You just don’t want me to have something to love. That’s what it is. You can have Mr. Shepherd. That’s fi ne and good for you. But I’m not supposed to have anything at all.”
“Do you really believe that? You don’t think you have me?”
“You’re not enough, Mummy.”
“I see.”
Maggie picked up the cat and cradled it against her. She saw defeat and sorrow in her mother’s posture: slumped into the seat with her long legs outstretched. She didn’t care. She pressed the advantage. What did it matter? Mummy could get comfort from Mr. Shepherd if she felt hurt. “I want to know about Daddy.”
Her mother said nothing. She merely turned the mug in her hands. On the table lay a packet of snapshots that they’d taken over Christmas, and she reached for this. The holiday had fallen before the inquest, and they’d worked hard at good spirits and happiness, trying to forget what frightening possibilities the future held for them both if Juliet stood trial. She fl ipped through the pictures, all of the two of them. It had always been that way, years and years of the two of them, a relationship that had brooked no interference from any third party.
Maggie watched her mother. She waited for an answer. She’d been waiting like this for all of her life, afraid to demand, afraid to push, overcome with guilt and apologies if her mother’s reaction verged upon tears. But not tonight.
“I want to know about Daddy,” she repeated.
Her mother said nothing.
“He isn’t dead, is he? He’s never been dead. He’s been looking for me. That’s why we’ve kept on the move.”
“No.”
“Because he wants me. He loves me. He wonders where I am. He thinks about me all the time. Doesn’t he?”
“This is fantasy, Maggie.”
“Doesn’t he, Mummy? I want to know.”
“What?”
“Who he is. What he does. What he looks like. Why we’re not with him. Why we’ve never been with him.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“I look like him, don’t I? Because I don’t look like you.”
“This sort of discussion won’t do anything to make you miss having a father.”
“Yes it will. It
“You can’t. He’s gone.”
“He isn’t.”
“Maggie, he is. And I won’t talk about it. I won’t make up a story. I won’t tell you lies. He’s gone from both our lives. He’s always been gone. Right from the fi rst.”
