Friday reading

A letter comes at last for Deb, and a touching gift, in this week's chapter of Family Lines

When I say it’s early morning here I mean 4.30 a.m. early. Pearl is sleeping after her feed. The soft rhythm of her breath is soothing and in this half-light I feel as though I am the only one awake in the world. Then the birds start up and dawn steps slowly over the rooftops and my heart rises inside my chest as if to welcome a secret lover, or protector who looks in on me and the sleeping angel at my side.

I can think better at this hour than later in the day when the world outside is busy and the radio is going and I’m going from feeds to nappy changes to laundry to snatched cups of coffee half eaten sandwiches, trying, or pretending, to be back to normal. I don’t believe there’s any going back to the way I was before Pearl. Nothing can ever be the same again now that she is here, another being, another presence in the world, with her story waiting to be revealed. But what am I saying? You must know all this already. You know it twice over.

  Whichever way I turn my head now I seem to be looking over or around her. She is always there in the centre of the picture. Maybe she was there all along, waiting for me to find her, beckoning me on. A friend told us of an Indian tradition that the mother and baby stay in the house for the first six weeks of the baby’s life, to give her time to adjust to the shock of leaving the womb. Well, I tried it. For almost three weeks until I thought my head would explode.

  At first I went out on my own, just down the street, then into the park, leaving Pearl with Rose. Only for fifteen or twenty minutes you understand. If the weather was nice I might sit on a bench for a few minutes letting the sunlight douse my pores, and warm my aching body. The weird part was that, although I was content and grateful for the pause, I kept hearing Pearl cry. I glanced around wondering if Rose had brought her out in the sling to join us.

But no. I came home to find Rose walking back and forth across the room, singing (she has a better voice than me!) to Pearl. As soon as I approached she cried, smelling the milk and when I took her into my arms again I felt as though her small body was welded to mine. I would shush and jog her, apologising for being gone twenty minutes. Mad isn’t it, how quickly these tiny defenceless creatures assert their rule over us?

  These days we’re out and about all the time, in the park, up and down the street and visiting friends. Big relief for me. And Miss Pearl seems to enjoy the outings, especially the admiration she wins from strangers in the park and the shops. Suddenly everyone here is my friend. They were always polite but distant – in that reserved English way. I’ve come to realise it’s not coldness but a fear of trespassing on other people’s privacy. Pearly girl brings out their smiles and warmth, and kindness. Once a week I meet up with a few new mothers to stroll by the lake, have a coffee and share our nipple and nappy tales!

I think that being in the house all day every day was beginning to bring back the way I began to feel trapped at the Guiding Light Mission. Panic attacks I suppose you’d call them. Like that morning I imagined the man with the hat was my father come to claim me. The trembling continued for a few hours after he had left and I struggled to breathe. As soon as lunch was over I escaped to my room and lay on the bed waiting for those waves to shudder through my body, which they eventually did, leaving me weak as a kitten. The next time I saw the man I felt nothing. He was a stranger again, who tipped his hat to me and bestowed a quick neutral smile.

  When Colley returned I almost hugged him, even though he didn’t come bearing a letter, only the usual boxes of veg. He was my lifeline to the outside world, and the possibility of escape. Maybe a week after he came back from holiday he brought me a letter. It was registered which had caused him a bit of bother because he had to sign for it. He told me he was all for helping me but he couldn’t be a postman for ever. His wife would think he was having an affair or som’at.

 I bowed my head, mumbling that’s ok. I’ll work something out.

 There’s nothing to stop you walking out that door, whenever you want to, he said.

 Where will I go? I flashed. I have no money. They took everything from me except my clothes.

  Go to the police, he said.

  I shook my head. They’ll send me home. Holding up the letter, I said, My friend will help me, I know she will.

  Orright, he said. Just don’t expect too much of other people.

  As I made to move back into the kitchen he stopped me saying, Wait, I almost forgot to give you this. With a sheepish look he handed me a pen decorated in black and red with the three-legged symbol of the Isle of Man. For writing your letters.

  Thank you, thank you, I said, marvelling that he would have thought of me on his holidays. I love it. Really, thank you.

  Ah stop, he said, getting embarrassed. It’s nowt but a souvenir. Good luck to you, Deborah.

  It was the first time he had said my name. I blushed and tucked the pen with the precious letter into my pocket.

The reason for the registered letter was that Rose had enclosed money. Enough for my train fare to London where she would meet me. She gave me her uncle’s phone number to ring when I arrived at Euston Station. I was to travel without delay. Like Colley, she said I could walk out the door of the mission and no one could stop me. I decided to wait until the evening prayer meeting when there were people coming and going and I could slip out with the crowd of visitors. I tucked the envelope into my bra for fear of anyone coming into my room – we knew that Pilar sometimes went through our belongings to make sure we weren’t up to any tricks – packed my few clothes and, shortly before the prayer meeting, took my bag from my room and hid it in the hall where the visitors left their bags and coats.

Throughout the prayer meeting I was itchy as a bag of fleas. If anyone brushed past me or spoke to me I jumped. One of the other girls noticed and darted quizzical looks at me, mouthing What’s up? I just shook my head and tried to sit still. I thought Jonah would never shut up that night with his big voice and his made up parables mostly about himself. We had heard them all before.

I wondered how the visitors put up with hearing the same old same old every week too. After all they were paying for the privilege. He made sure to tell them how important the work of the mission was and how every penny they contributed brought them closer to God. Sure thing. Or ‘thang’, as he said. I think they must have been so browbeaten and weary after listening to him that they would have paid anything to get out of the place. But then a lot of them trooped back the next night or the following week. Hypnotised or guilty or desperate.

  In the kerfuffle in the hall while people chatted and hugged and pulled on coats and hats I wriggled between them, tearing off my little white veil, winkling my bag from under a bench and then . . . and then . . . hesitating on the threshold. I gulped in the damp night air which rushed through me and made my head spin. I remained standing, trying to get my balance and telling my feet to move forward, to take the first step down to the path that led to the street. The trembling started again and I was panting. I couldn’t do it. I shut my eyes and urged my feet to move. One step, I told myself, one and one and one . . .  

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