Chapter 3
3
GEMMA
I’d been with Jack for four years; I’d met him at work, where he’d been a manager in the personnel department, before moving to a better job in a different company. For at least half the time I’d known him, he’d talked constantly about the idea of emigrating to Australia. I could understand it: his parents, followed by his older sister and her husband, and just a few months ago by his younger brother, had all gone out there to live and yes, from what he told me, they all seemed to be doing well. I’d never met any of his family – apart from the brother, they’d all been in Australia since long before Jack and I got together – and he didn’t seem to communicate with them a lot. He wasn’t the type of guy to chat to them on video calls, introducing me and showing off our baby girl. In fact, I often used to berate him about it.
‘Surely you’ve sent your parents some pictures of Poppy?’ I’d say. ‘She’s their grandchild! They must be devastated that they haven’t met her yet!’
‘They’re not like that,’ he’d say with a shrug.
I couldn’t understand it. My own parents were both fanatical about their granddaughter. They’d been divorced for about ten years, but Mum only lived a few miles away, and came to see me and Poppy all the time. Dad had moved up to Manchester, but he called and messaged regularly, and loved to chat to Poppy on video calls. But in the end, I just had to accept that every family was different, that perhaps Jack would become closer to his parents and siblings if we finally did decide to move out to Australia ourselves, and that this was one reason why I really ought to consider the idea.
I didn’t want to consider it. I didn’t want to be separated from my own parents. Being an only child, I was acutely aware of how much it would hurt them both if Poppy and I went off to the other side of the world. But at the same time, I was tempted by the prospect of the better lifestyle Jack kept describing, the better opportunities for us, and more importantly, for Poppy. And then, one day when I was talking to Mum about it, she surprised me by announcing that if Jack and I decided to go, she’d follow us.
‘You would?’ I said, shocked. Mum had seemed so settled since the divorce, so independent, enjoying her part-time career that fitted so conveniently around her time with me and Poppy, and never seeming to have any interest in looking for another man. I’d never in a million years have imagined her, now in her sixties, wanting to uproot herself again and move across the world.
‘Of course I would,’ she said calmly. ‘You and Poppy are the most important things in my life. Nothing else matters. I wouldn’t want to live here without you.’
It was only then that I told Jack I’d go. And in no time at all, the plans were made. He’d go ahead of me, get a job and find a home for us all.
And… then he disappeared.
When I got home from work, on the day of his brother’s message, the temptation to simply throw myself on the bed and give in to utter despair was still so strong I literally had to grit my teeth to make myself behave normally, like nothing was wrong, like it was an ordinary day. I’d picked Poppy up from the nursery and asked her about her day, admiring her splodgy paintings and encouraging her little smatterings of chat, her attempts to tell me what she’d done, watching her face light up when I reminded her the next day would be Wednesday – a Mummy Day. I chatted to her as brightly as I could manage while I prepared her tea, and made a supreme, almost super-human effort to enjoy bath time and story time.
As soon as she was asleep, I fell apart again.
Thank God, I didn’t have to go into the office for the next few days. From Wednesday to Friday, I was self-employed, working in a completely different field from my accounting job in town – designing websites and writing copy. I’d been building this work up gradually since Poppy was born, and although some days were busier than others, it was still normally slow enough for me to be able to look after her myself on Wednesdays and Thursdays, working during periods when she was napping, or playing quietly, or in the evenings after she was in bed. But on Fridays, Mum usually had Poppy for me, giving me a whole day to catch up on everything.
That week, though, I made an excuse to keep Poppy at home with me. Fortunately I didn’t have too much work on, anyway, and I knew that if I were to be face-to-face with Mum, I’d blurt everything out. And I couldn’t. Not yet. Mum already knew I’d been worried that I hadn’t heard from Jack recently; I’d told her this much, but had played it down, going along with her supposition that he must have been frantically busy, I hadn’t told her how long his lack of communication had gone on, or even that I’d been to the police. Telling her that would have meant admitting I’d been more than just a bit puzzled, a bit concerned. And now I knew the truth, I had to try to come to terms with it all myself first before I could face her.
‘Oh, darling, I’m so sorry to hear Poppy isn’t well,’ Mum said when I called her – making me feel even worse. What kind of mother pretends her child is ill? What if God, or the devil or someone, was listening to me and decided to make her really ill to teach me a lesson? ‘I’d still be happy to look after her, though?—’
‘No, Mum, that wouldn’t be fair, in case it’s something infectious. There are all sorts of bugs going around at the nursery.’ That much was true – it was always true. ‘If she has got something nasty, I’ve probably already caught it from her, so we’ll keep ourselves away from everyone else till after the weekend. Don’t worry, we’ll be fine.’
I don’t know how I managed to lie so convincingly. The truth was I still doubted I’d ever be fine at all, and I was in fact desperate to just throw myself into my mum’s arms and tell her everything. Why didn’t I? I can only say that the loss of control it would lead to actually scared me. It would be too easy to never recover from it – to completely collapse, to let her take care of me, treat me like a child, try to spare me all the pain, all the anxiety and problems that were to come. And I knew, despite the state I was in, that I couldn’t let that happen. I knew I had to get through it… somehow.
So Poppy and I spent the next few days at home on our own, only going out for necessary trips to the shops, for little walks to the seafront, and short periods on the beach with her bucket and spade during times when I knew it would be quiet. And I spent a lot of time looking at the sea and thinking how easy it would be – if I didn’t have Poppy – to just wade into the waves, out of my depth, and let myself sink.
‘Mummy come in?’ Poppy asked as we stood at the water’s edge, looking at me with her head on one side and her hand held out for me to hold, to run and splash in the shallows like we often did, getting her used to the feel of the sea water on her bare feet, splashing her little legs, making her squeal.
I shook my head. ‘Not today, Poppy. Let’s go home now, it looks like it might rain.’
There was a brilliant blue sky above us, the sun already warming up for a fine summer day. But Poppy seemed to accept Mummy wasn’t really feeling like a paddle. She’d sensed my mood and had been quiet and unusually placid during the past few days. She was two and a half, turning three that October, and could often be a handful, with a fiery, determined nature to match her beautiful red hair. I loved her with a passion I’d never expected to feel when I agreed, a little nervously, relatively soon after getting together with Jack, that it’d be a good idea to try for a baby. It was his idea , I recalled angrily as we started to walk home from the beach. His idea, to have this child that he’d somehow managed to just leave behind like a piece of forgotten luggage, like a discarded wrapper, like a… like a… used condom!
I think that realisation helped me a little. It was probably the moment that my anger at what Jack had done began to completely overtake the hurt and devastation. How dare he ? How DARE he do this, not just to me, but to his child ? From then on, every time I started to cry, to feel bereft, hurt, lost, sorry for myself, I reminded myself that I’d get over him – he wasn’t worth my tears. But I’d never forgive him.
It became even easier to feel that anger as the days went by and the practical and financial reality of my situation sank in. Jack had paid his share of the mortgage, utility bills and so on, into my account before he left for Australia – to cover the first six months that he was gone. We were sure it wouldn’t even be that long before I joined him. He earned more than me and paid the larger share of all the bills, so now he’d gone, it was only a matter of time before that money ran out. Not only that, but because of his cowardly disappearing act, and his brother’s equally cowardly refusal to reveal his whereabouts, I wasn’t going to get any child maintenance out of him. I was on my own. Up the creek without the proverbial paddle.
‘What the hell am I supposed to do?’ I muttered to myself, looking at a spreadsheet I’d made of my income and outgoings which frightened me so much I almost erased it all straight away.
‘Mummy play with me?’ Poppy said, getting up from arranging her teddies on the floor and pulling at my hand.
‘In a minute, sweetheart,’ I said distractedly.
‘Play now , Mummy,’ she insisted, tugging at me again.
I turned to smile at her, even though the smile hurt my face. ‘You’re a bossy-boots, that’s what you are!’ I teased, reaching out to tickle her tummy and make her laugh. ‘All right, Mummy will play. Shall we get your tea set and pretend the teddies are having a picnic?’
‘Poppy do it.’ She ran to the toy box in the corner of the room and delved inside for the little plastic cups and plates. ‘Mummy sit down.’
I knew when to obey orders. I sat cross-legged on the carpet – the giant at the party, between Big Teddy and White Bunny – and held out my miniature pink teacup for the imaginary tea Poppy poured into it, and ate my imaginary sandwich with as much pretend enthusiasm as I could manage in the circumstances.
And the day slowly slid away. And I pretended to forget about the spreadsheet, the mortgage repayments, the bills, for another day. But the anger at Jack remained. And it grew, and it festered, and it hardened, until I felt as if my heart was turning to stone. A heart made of stone can’t hurt, I told myself. It was easier than being flesh and blood and feeling like I’d been ripped apart. I was going to be the Stone Woman; that was how I’d get through this. I hoped.