Beauty's Story Read online

  These strange manifestations first happened at last year’s New Year’s Eve party when Rob announced their desire to start trying for a baby. All of a sudden I felt as though I was going to be sick and my tummy tumbled in waves of slush. But for the glass of wine, I don’t know what would have happened.

  Maybe nothing. As nothing has happened since Frankie. Theo says it’s for lack of trying. Mel says my body needs to rest anyway. And I say – nothing. I don’t even feel up to seeing my GP just yet…

  I step out and head for my lunch meeting with Daisy – I love Wednesdays.

  She’s already at our Renee’s rendezvous, uncharacteristically early, her mug looking like it needs refilling, her face all flushed. She lights up my world with her cutest smile, but I can see that her eyes aren’t smiling.

  “What’s up, baby girl?” Although she’s only about a couple of months younger than me, I see Daisy as my ‘baby sister’ and Mel’s ‘baby’. Her parents are both Mel’s godparents and mine, and her grandparents used to be neighbours of my maternal grandparents – the white wing of my family tree. Both our families have shared many happy and sad moments through the years.

  “Chiquitita, tell me what’s wrong,” I intone.

  She chuckles, “Now I know why you weren’t called Harmony.”

  “Okay, Andrew Lloyd Webber, you’re not getting off that easily. Really, what’s up?”

  “Beauty, I had my period this morning.”

  “Oh.”

  “Exactly.”

  We order our usuals from the All Day Breakfast section. They make the greatest scrambled eggs ever, Renee’s, what with cream, butter and a pinch of black pepper added to the mix before it’s cooked, not afterwards, on the hob. And certainly not the reheated from frozen gunge that I had the misfortune of eating at one of the so-called top restaurants in the city. Since that experience, I always ask how it’s made before I order scrambled eggs.

  “So tell me, Daisy, what exactly is going on?”

  Trying to steady her voice, she says, “Nothing. Precisely nothing. That’s the problem.”

  She goes on to tell me all about how they’d decided to leave starting a family until they’d established the business. Now that was on an even keel, Rob was running it nicely. And although she was still full time for now, she would scale back her hours over time to accommodate her needs and the baby’s.

  “Everything has gone according to plan, so I am not unduly stressed.”

  “Apart from the stress of waiting to get pregnant?”

  “Precisely.”

  “What can I say? You know my story… don’t give up hope, and try and relax… that’s what I’ve been told, and that’s all I can give to you… keep hoping…”

  As we disengage from the firm hug, I notice the anguish has drained from her face.

  “How’s Rob?”

  “You know, Beauty, but for him, I’d be lost. Period. He rolls with my every mood and tumbles with my every scrape. I am so grateful for him, don’t know what I would do or be without him – such a wonderful man…”

  I silently agree with Daisy. She is lucky in Rob.

  “Here I am carrying on about myself. What about you, how are you bearing up?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know that I am. Since the last time, I haven’t even missed a period again… and sometimes I wonder if I ever will.”

  And I was surprised to hear myself say this out loud to another living soul…

  March 2001

  Melody

  I don’t know why people complain about Mondays. If I could opt to take any two days off, it would be Wednesday and Saturday. If there was any day when I would curse myself for getting off track on my Access to Medicine course, it would be a Saturday. If there was any day when I would curse Nick for luring me off my planned course of action and then bleeding me dry and leaving me on the kerb, it would be a Wednesday. These are days to phone in sick – terrible days to get out of bed – I could scratch them from my calendar and just sleep through. These were the days when my singing in the shower was more like a dirge.

  It was only meant to have been temporary. Finding my feet, it was the first proper job I had with a contract and everything. The part-time flexible pay-as-you-go hours were good for me then. I have sometimes built up to 40 hours a week with the optional overtime. After all these years though, I am still just a checkout girl.

  Yes, I’ve been employee of the month once – that was when I’d threatened to go to the employment tribunal with indecent assault charges against the night supervisor. I was pleased at the time that management took my complaint seriously, ensured Mr Lust disappeared and my payoff was a plaque displayed in the shop for the whole of that month. I’ve often wondered what would have happened if I’d pursued the matter further. Would I have received a handsome compensation package? Would that have motivated me to have followed another course in my life? Maybe. Maybe not. I still had the children to think about. And I’m glad I did. Think about them, that is.

  They’ve turned out okay, more than okay. They get on very well together. Do their chores, homework and are pretty much self-sufficient. There’s nothing like Joshua and Ashleigh Iroro to bring the sunlight back into my life.

  My heart aches for Beauty – three miscarriages in six years and then nothing. And for Daisy whose light seems to be going out. I should pray more. I should go to church more. Oh God! Please forgive me for only thinking about you when I need something. At least this time it’s because of other people – Amen.

  While we are on the subject – can you please send me somebody who would stay, who would want to spend the rest of their life with me, who would want to share mine? Do I have to always be the spare wheel at social functions? I’m tired of being paired up with strangers – am I really that bad that nobody wants to be with me? Not that I blame anyone – even I don’t always want to be with myself.

  What will I do when the children grow up and leave home? What will I do when my fingers get curled up from arthritis and I can’t scan items at the till anymore? Will I end my days cooking meals for one? Or worse still, reheating ready-to-eat meals for one? What if I suffer from osteoporosis and I sustain a fall? What if I die in my sleep, how long will I lie rotting away before somebody notices?

  Oh dear. This is depressing. And I’m not at work yet. How am I going to survive this day? I know – I flick open my mobile phone and make straight for the gallery full of snapshots of Ash’s first day at ballet class… Josh’s first fencing match… more recent photos at Ash’s 11th birthday last August and Josh’s 13th in September. I am smiling and weeping at the same time – who said teenagers had to be monsters? If only Nick could see him now… if only he’d stayed…

  I resolved, once again, that it doesn’t matter about my mistakes of yesterday or my fears for tomorrow. Today I have the best children in the world. And I will allow my heart to be glad.

  March 2001

  Ashleigh (aged 11)

  School today is just pants.

  I was so looking forward to starting secondary school last September. I’d once again be in the same school as Josh; I’d bin my jumper and put on blazers, blouses and blue miniskirts (that are meant to be knee length – Mum mustn’t find out!).

  St Katherine’s High! I got into St Katherine’s High!

  What a waste of time.

  I remember my first day just like yesterday. Tuesday 5th September 2000. Mum had ironed my blouse. My pleated skirt and navy blazer were hanging proudly on the door of my box-bedroom. My black Clarks were smiling at me on the floor and my Nike backpack was simply telling me to ‘Just do it’! It’s a slightly longer walk than to my primary school, but hey, who cares? I’d be walking to school once again with Josh.

  I would walk to the ends of the earth with Josh.

  Mum sees us to the door, then goes back inside to get ready for work. Josh and I race down the five flights of stairs, so happy we aren’t too high up the tower block because those lifts always stank of wee. And Mo
nday mornings there’s usually vomit mixed in as well.

  We turn left off St Katherine’s Court, go past St Katherine’s Point and then right on to St Katherine’s Road, as if going towards Stratford.

  Soon we are rounding the corner from the newsagent’s. Then Josh slows and whispers, “Ash, I’m going to have to make a dash for it.”

  “Hunh?”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t walk into school with you.”

  “Because…?” I’m cocking my ear, stifling a giggle.

  “I can’t tell you just now, but I swear, one day you’ll understand.”

  And he shoots off. Just like that.

  I can’t remember the rest of the day except that I managed to fight back the tears – no use introducing myself as ‘cry baby’. I faintly remember some of the other children on purpose brushing past me on the way to the dining hall for lunch. That’s about it really. No biggie. The only disaster was being in the same school as Josh and not knowing it.

  Anyway, I’m used to the routine now. We leave the flat together, chat and carry on until we get near the newsagent’s, then Josh makes a dash for it.

  Today, though, I really wish he would walk with me into school. It is my class recitation event at whole school assembly. Every week since October, a class from each year group has taken the assembly. They each came up with different bits for the show. Today is class 7D’s turn. We (actually, ‘they’ – I just went along with it) had decided on a recitation marathon. Each of us is to come up with a story, song, poem, monologue, a drama piece, a work of art or something that had to do with uncertainty. Although each person was to do it alone, if it was a piece of dialogue, then two or three could do it together. They could even sing a duet if they wanted. All they needed to do was sell it to Mr Baker, our form tutor.

  I knew that nobody would want to work with me. And I didn’t really want to work with anyone – except Josh, who is not in my class anyway and wouldn’t walk with me to school. So I didn’t bother with the drama. I just went to Aunty Beauty at the library and she helped me come up with something.

  So. Here we are today. The day. I’ve re-read the piece to myself like a hundred times now and practised speaking it out in front of the mirror, just like Aunty Beauty said:

  To be, or not to be: that is the question:

  Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer

  The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,

  Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

  And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;

  No more; and by a sleep to say we end

  The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks

  That flesh is heir to, ‘tis a consummation

  Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;

  To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;

  For in that sleep of death what dreams may come

  When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

  Must give us pause: there’s the respect

  That makes calamity of so long life…

  I’m glad Aunty Beauty encouraged me not to do the whole thing, because now I’m really scared. Even though I can say it in my sleep.

  Mum’s still in bed having had a late night shift. Josh’s had his Weetabix and is waiting for me, trying to be patient. Whistling. Tapping his foot. He wouldn’t leave without me but would whine if we left later than 7.35 as it would mean he had to run faster and further to catch up with his friends. Why he needs me for cover, heaven only knows. Mum completely trusts him. She practically handed over my upbringing to him.

  Pass the parcel is my best party game. Dad passes me to Mum. Mum passes me to Josh. And Josh passes me to… myself. Pretty neat eh? Now that would have been a better monologue to recite today. I would not have been afraid of forgetting my lines.

  Because. This is my life: Eleven. Alone. Unknown.

  CHAPTER 3

  April 2001

  Beauty

  I remember the first time he called me ‘useless’. At least, the first time when it didn’t come across as a joke. That’s when I should have left him… But – probably he was right. Just maybe he was. For here I am, sitting, paralysed on the sofa, having received news that my dad’s in hospital. With a stroke.

  I was pregnant with Alex then. We agreed to not ask the sex so as to be genuinely surprised on arrival day. We’d just moved from the crummy little rented flat to a threebed terraced house on St Martin’s Lane, not too far from Green Street. Theo had recently completed his training and was busy settling into work. So the task of buying furniture for the home fell on my shoulders. I didn’t mind really – I could shop for England.

  Of course, as we needed to be careful with money, a lot of the big ticket items – especially impersonal ones – we were going to buy second-hand. I had window-shopped for so many as I either walked to work or to Mel’s so that when the time was right, I knew which electronic shop to go to, to pick our maiden TV set from – well, it got delivered actually. After they’d come, set it up and gone, I sat staring at the box from a combination of fatigue and excitement, looking forward to Theo’s return.

  He wasn’t pleased. I could tell from the way his jaws set, his fingers clenched and his eyes slit as he flicked the remote control from one channel to another, that he was seething. But I couldn’t tell why. Unable to draw him out, I concluded that it must have something to do with work, and he’d share it in his own time. Aunty Mary’s words sprang to me as if on cue, “The way to a man’s heart is his stomach.”

  Pulling myself together, I went about making dinner for us – well, really more for him as it was his favourite: pounded yam with egusi soup. The soup was already portioned in the freezer so all I had to do with that was reheat it in the microwave. He had complained about this previously but he’s come to accept that cooking traditional soups from scratch on a daily basis was a pipe dream in which I wasn’t going to indulge.

  The pounded yam, however, is a different story entirely. It’s hit and miss for me, getting the consistency right, but I’ve been lucky these past few months that it’s come out firm but not hard, and almost always completely lump-free. Tonight, it had just a few very tiny lumps scattered here and there. He’s had it that way before so I was quite surprised when he scraped back his chair from the table and stomped to the sink to wash his hands.

  “What’s the matter, love?”

  “What’s not the matter? How useless can you be?” He punctuated each syllable with a bang on the work surface.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Look, I work hard all day. Come home to a TV that has no Teletext.”

  “Of course it has Teletext – it said so in the shop.”

  “Well, I’ve checked it inside and out – it has no Teletext and that is one function that is important to me in a television set. My wife, an educated woman, a librarian for that matter, could not manage to get that right.”

  Speechless, I rummaged through my handbag to find the ticket that had the list of features which had earlier advertised the colour television set. Staring at me in black and white was my error. It listed FST which I must have read as TXT. He was right. I missed it.

  “I’m sorry, love, it was an error.”

  “Of course you’ll say so. What I just don’t understand is how stupid you can be sometimes.”

  “Theo, I said I was sorry. It could have happened to anyone, no need to make it personal.”

  “I’m not making it personal, just pointing out the facts. Intelligence is not common sense, and you are obviously lacking in that department. Can’t buy a TV right, can’t make a meal right. Good-for-nothing useless woman…”

  By this time I was upstairs, in bed, and of course, in a flood of tears. But the ranting continued. How Mel could make pounded yam, after all, she was half-caste like me, so why couldn’t I? How Daisy managed the finances and purchases in their home, and she’d have known what TV to buy. Why didn’t such wisdom rub off on me? Stupid and useless, that’s
why. Born throw-way spoilt brat… and on and on he went…

  I couldn’t contain the sobs that wracked my bosom as I wailed into the pillow which I held against my face. Eventually, as if from a distance, I heard the slamming, and soon enough, the screeching of the tyres. And then the silence. But I couldn’t stop the weeping, not even in my fitful sleep.

  I awoke on Sunday near noon needing to use the loo. As I stirred, I felt wet and I winced – when did I last bed wet? This couldn’t be happening again! What will Theo say? I flew to the bathroom only to find I was bleeding. Unable to reach Theo, I got the ambulance which raced me to Newham General. Too late.

  Alex was my second bereavement that I am aware of. Charlie was the first. (And I can’t stop crying now.) Mum died due to complications following my birth. I never met her. Now Dad is sick in hospital. And there is nothing I can do. And, not for the first time in my life, I feel completely, utterly useless.

  Dad was gutted at Mum’s death. He cut short his studies at King’s College London. He was a third-year medical student. He allowed Nan and Grandpa to look after us all in Hackney for three months while he sorted travel documents for Mel and me. I had my first solids from the hands of my Aunty Mary.

  And now he lies in hospital because of a stroke. And I don’t know what to do. And the tears won’t stop rolling down my polka-dotted olive cheeks.

  April 2001

  Melody

  My children cannot see me fall apart. I did that once and it nearly cost me both of them. Looking back, it wasn’t because Nick had disappeared (though that didn’t help). I think it’s because Ash was such an image of Beauty at her birth that I couldn’t stand to hold her without cringing on the inside. She took me right back to when Beauty was born.

  Mum lost a lot of blood. The medics didn’t realise early enough that Beauty was presenting breech. By the time they did, they reckoned it would be faster and safer to continue with the natural birth. Two hours later, Beauty had torn her way out… Mum was apparently too exhausted to fight, and Dad’s light went out with her.