July #2
We were also lucky with the weather. The sun was still shining, but now its rays were being filtered through a light breeze.
After unpacking the few bits we’d brought with us, we decided to get out and explore the grounds.
Our room overlooked the back garden, which sloped down towards an oblong pond that the receptionist told us was home to two swans and their cygnets.
Beyond that, a public footpath stretched across a grass field and into a wood.
Even with the breeze it was hot, and we didn’t have any water with us, so as soon as we reached the treeline we doubled back and headed to the walled garden instead.
It was neat and orderly, with gravel paths wending in between raised beds of vegetables, herbs, edible flowers.
My mother marvelled at the globe artichokes and announced that she, too, would introduce a signage system in her patch at home – by which she meant she would buy some little white labels to stick beside different types of produce.
While we were there, a young male chef arrived, ready to pick greenery for the evening’s menu.
He was wearing a white apron and carrying a shallow wicker basket that made me think of period dramas, with their ribbons and bonnets.
Noticing that my mother was tailing him, he asked if she would be interested in hearing about what was in season.
She nodded eagerly. As the pair of them moved from bed to bed, I sat down on a wooden bench painted pebble grey.
I closed my eyes and soaked up the earthy floral scent of the lavender sprouting beside me in a large terracotta pot.
The sound of my mother’s voice reminded me of a time when I used to fall asleep feeling the weight of her sitting beside me on the mattress and listening to her telling me a bedtime story fresh from her head.
One thing our London flat was missing was a bath, so whenever I stayed somewhere that did have a tub, I would make the most of it by soaking for up to an hour, sometimes more than once.
That night, after tipping in a generous glug of bubble bath, I lowered myself in and stayed there until my skin began to wrinkle like the overripe pears that dropped from the branches of the tree outside the back door in Norfolk.
I looked down at my body, its edges blurred and softened by the water, and wondered if it was a glimpse of what was to come.
I decided in the bath that I would talk to my mother about the egg freezing over dinner.
She woke from her nap feeling fully rested and hummed as she picked out her outfit for the evening, a pair of straight black trousers and a long silvery top that was strangely sparkly for her.
She nodded approvingly at my own choice of a simple cream dress and cherry-red pumps, and happily hooked her arm through mine as we made our way downstairs to the restaurant.
When she ordered the green beans, anchovy, mustard and quail egg starter, I decided to hold fire on my news until the main course.
The dining room was filled with a mix of overnight guests and locals, and I soon realised that you could spot one from the other by the presence or absence of a room key on a heavy metal fob.
To our left was another mother and daughter who could have been us about a decade ago.
They, too, looked strikingly similar, with fine high foreheads and bow-shaped lips.
I overheard them discussing wedding plans, and the prospect of having it here.
I wondered how old the girl was, and how much time would pass after the nuptials before she would begin to contemplate motherhood.
Then I shook my head in a hopeless attempt to loosen the links my mind kept insisting on making.
‘How was everything for you, ladies?’
I hadn’t noticed the waiter standing by my side.
‘Lovely, thank you,’ said my mother, parroting something the chef had said about the first of the green beans. ‘Do tell him I send my compliments.’
He smiled and cleared our plates, the china clinking.
I drank some wine.
Right on cue, a second waiter came to refill both our glasses from the bottle of white chilling in a silver bucket at the table’s edge.
‘Thank you,’ I said, before turning to my mother, who was buttering the second half of her bread roll, which to her delight was stuffed with salty black olives. Before I could change my mind, I opened my mouth and pushed out the words : ‘Mum, I have something to tell you.’
She stopped buttering and turned to me, too, a smile playing on her lips. ‘You’re not …?’ She didn’t finish the sentence, but she didn’t have to.
‘No, I’m not,’ I said, smiling, warily, ‘although it is related.’
She tore off a piece of bread and popped it in her mouth, chewing as she waited.
‘Mum, I’ve decided to freeze my eggs.’
I paused, gauging her reaction.
She continued chewing.
‘You know what that means, don’t you?’
She rolled her eyes, just like she’d done in the car, and swallowed. ‘Yes, Cathy, I know what it means to freeze your eggs.’
‘So, what do you think?’
‘What does Noah think?’
Noah. I swallowed down the knot twisting in my throat and said, confidently, ‘He thinks it’s my body and I can do what I want.’
She waited, and so did I.
Then, a little less confident : ‘He says he won’t change his mind about having children, and that he doesn’t want to be involved.’
Her face softened. She held out her hand.
I took it, and instantly regretted it. I knew what she was going to say before she said it – maybe because, ever since Robyn had asked the question, a small, sequestered part of me had considered it myself. Still, I wasn’t anywhere near ready to hear it spoken aloud.
‘You’re going to have to leave him.’
My stomach dropped, the way it does when you drive too fast over a hill.
I laughed, instinctively. It was either that or cry.
I could feel tears prickling in my eyes and I squeezed out a smile as I repeated what she’d said to me earlier that morning, in relation to the barricade of display cushions : ‘Mum, don’t be so dramatic. ’
‘But what’s the point in doing this then, darling, if he won’t change his mind?’
I took a breath and recited to her the same thing I’d said to Noah : ‘It’s not that I necessarily see a baby in my future, it’s just that the picture of my future is hazier than before.
’ I waited for her to say something, and when she didn’t, I kept talking.
‘I want to have the option,’ I said, my voice a little shaky now, ‘in case I do decide that I want to have a baby later. I want it to still be possible.’
At some point during my monologue our mains arrived.
As the waiter placed two pieces of salmon in front of us, all pink flesh and crispy skin, along with an assortment of sides, I wetted my mouth, suddenly dry, with wine.
As he walked away, I went to continue, but my mother got there first, saying again what she’d said before :
‘Cathy, you’re going to have to leave him.’
‘But Mum—’ the shaking was becoming audible ‘—you’re not listening to me.’
‘I’m listening.’ She said it gently, but firmly. ‘You don’t know if you want to have a baby, but you want to have the option. And with Noah, there is no option.’
I hadn’t realised, but my hand was still in hers.
‘Cathy.’
‘Please.’ At this point my voice broke, and I paused. ‘Please, I can’t.’
‘But—’
‘I can’t.’ Slowly, I slipped my hand away, and I picked up my knife and fork.
The next morning, I woke to the sound of birdsong, and my mother snoring.
She’d done so throughout the night, stopping every now and then, abruptly, prompting me to lean over and check she was still breathing.
I reached for my phone on the bedside table to see if I had any messages from Noah, and when there were none felt an emptiness inside me, as though I’d gone without dinner.
I climbed out of bed, pulled on yesterday’s clothes, and left a note on the hotel’s branded notepad :
Gone for breakfast. See you downstairs. C x
I was on my second round of the complimentary breakfast buffet – a blueberry muffin and a couple of mini pastries followed a bowl of creamy yoghurt, homemade granola and fresh fruit – when she arrived. She strolled over and sat down and smiled, then she said, ‘Oh, this looks nice!’
I smiled back, or at least I tried to. My lips felt faulty.
After our conversation the night before, we’d tiptoed around the subject, talking about the food on our plates and whether we might want to watch some TV before going to bed.
In the end, we went straight to sleep, or at least my mother did – I lay there, trying to make out pieces of furniture in the dark, and the feelings clattering around in my mind.
I must have drifted off eventually, and I woke up ready to talk.
Again, though, I felt a knot in my throat. I tried to dislodge it with a swig of iced water, which had been laced with fussily peeled ribbons of cucumber.
A chirpy waitress appeared and asked my mother what she would like to drink, then invited her to help herself to the buffet and let her know if she wanted anything hot from the kitchen.
My mother pushed herself up and out of her chair and shuffled towards the display of freshly baked goods. She walked from one end of the long, thin table to the other, slowly, considering her options, then retraced her steps.
My water glass was empty when she sat back down beside me and began tucking into the first of three plates. Still, the knot remained. When I couldn’t ignore it any longer, I said, in as steady a voice as I could muster, ‘Mum, I think we need to talk.’
She looked up from her mini-Danish and I noticed that she hadn’t yet applied her make-up. ‘What is it?’ Her eyelashes, usually thick and dark, looked delicate and oddly pale. Her cheeks were a shade lighter than usual too, and her lips were dry and a little cracked in the middle.