Free The Private Parts of Women by Lesley Glaister Page B

so quiet. I held my breath and listened – I could hear nothing. And the sound of nothing was terrible in my ears because it should have been a treat. For Christ’s sake, that is what I wanted, that is what this is all about, or part of it, me being here. And then when I was awake I found I was heartbroken, really as if there were deep fissures in my heart that ached and welled blood in all the wrong directions. And the morning I left home came pressing in on me and that is why I went to the station and went anywhere that was further away from home, and the train to Blackpool was the first one going north that came.
    Now I won’t sleep and that morning will come back. You can only stall memory, not staunch it.
    Billie woke us up as usual. Richard fetched her from her cot, took off her wet nappy, put on a dry one, gave her a bottle and brought her back to bed with us. She snuggled between us, sucking noisily on her rubber teat. She felt like a live toy in her zip-up fluffy-yellow sleep-suit with its cold plastic footsoles. I kept my eyes closed when I felt her face close to mine. She kept saying ‘Dadababa,’ and blowing splashy raspberries, her new favourite noise and then laughing. I turned away from her and hid my face under the quilt.
    â€˜Shhhh,’ Richard said. ‘Let Mummy sleep.’ He pulled Billie away on to his side of the bed but she wanted to play, so eventually he got up with her and went out, closing the door behind him leaving me in peace. I opened my eyes a crack and looked at the clock. Five past six. I had another hour, I was just drifting off when Robin opened the door and came in.
    â€˜Mummy?’
    â€˜Go away.’
    â€˜But Mummy, I need a carrot for my snowman. He do need a nose don’t he?’
    â€˜Has it snowed then?’ I asked from under the quilt, my interest snagged.
    â€˜No, but it is winter, isn’t it?’
    â€˜Go away,’ I said. I had hardly ever said that to him before. I did not shout it. I lay with my head covered. I heard him sigh, a terribly adult sigh and the door closed behind him with a disappointed click. And then I could not get back to sleep. I was wide awake and filled with guilt. He is only four. He is a lovely boy, my first child, my truest love. And I told him to go away and suddenly it was terrible that he had obeyed me, with that resigned sigh. Why had he not refused to go, climbed into bed with me, plagued me with his icy sharp toes and his questions?
    I could hear them in the kitchen if I strained my ears. The low grumble of the radio spilling news, Richard’s calm deep voice, the sounds of spoons in bowls, Billie’s occasional shriek, the upward swing of Robin’s questions. At seven o’clock, I knew, Richard would bring me a cup of tea. He would put it down quietly beside the bed, bend over, find my face amongst the quilt and my tangled hair, kiss me and say, ‘Tea, darling.’ Knowing this made me start to cry and then I found I could not stop.
    My dad used to bring me tea every morning. His dressing-gown cord would be tied as neatly round his stout middle as string round a parcel. He’d put it down quietly but he wouldn’t say a word. He brought my mum and me tea in bed every morning and even poured Bonny a bowl of tea to lap with her morning Bonio. Remembering that increased my tears and as I lay sobbing I floated above myself amazed. I could not imagine where all the tears were coming from. It was as if there was a reservoir that I should have drawn on in the past. If I’d known, if I’d shed the tears gradually over the years, perhaps it wouldn’t have burst like that. Perhaps I wouldn’t be here. How can I know?
    Richard came in with my tea.
    â€˜Oh darling,’ he said when he saw that I was crying, for there was no hiding it. The tears leapt from my eyes and my throat was hollowed with sobs. ‘Whatever is it? Oh sweetheart.’ He tried to hold me but I