Read Living with Strangers Online
Authors: Elizabeth Ellis
My pregnancy is confirmed at the end of February. Fatigue, bouts of hunger and an unfamiliar malaise prompt me to see a doctor, thinking these symptoms to be the lingering effects of food poisoning. Indirectly they are.
‘When did you say you’d been ill?’ The doctor looks at me across her desk. I’m reminded of the Crow.
‘Just before Christmas. All over Christmas in fact. I was sick for four days.’
She riffles through my notes, frowning. ‘Are you taking the Pill?’
‘Oh, yes.’ It isn’t easy to get hold of here – with Sylvie’s help I’ve managed to track down an obliging clinic.
‘And when was your last period?’
I try to remember. ‘Some time ago – before Christmas, probably.’
‘And you’ve had sex since then?’ She continues to probe, ticking boxes on a form.
I swallow hard. ‘Yes.’
Yes. Since Limoges, there has been no pattern to Jean-Luc’s visits. Erratic at best, I must now be content with even less than before, minute drops of his time, the superfluous overflow of his life. I’ve even begun to allow a flash of reason to enter my thinking. Lying ill in bed for days, my entire system drained, brings a clarity of mind; sickness purging me of more than the infection. After three days I’ve convinced myself it’s pointless. Whatever I had with Jean-Luc has run its course, I need to pick up a real life again, one that involves some element of normality – friends, an end to the interminable waiting, the furtiveness, the sliding through shadows. Yet I also know I won’t have the will to say this, to tell him not to come any more. I stare at the days and weeks ahead and cannot envisage them without him.
Then one afternoon between Christmas and New Year Jean-Luc turns up again. Oblivious to my dishevelled state, he is all concern, fetching bread and
charcuterie
while I wash and pull on some clean clothes. I still have no appetite but the bread is good and he makes me eat grated carrots – for the salts, he says. Tender ministrations that touch me – another side to him, hitherto unseen. Why now?
In spite of my weakened state, perhaps because of it, we end up in my crumpled bed and I lose myself again in the sheer folly of it all – lucidity no match for lust and for longing.
The doctor puts down her pen. ‘Have you done a pregnancy test?’
I’m not sure that I’ve understood. ‘I’m sorry?’
She speaks more slowly. ‘A pregnancy test. Have you done one?’
‘But I’m on the Pill.’
‘Yes, but you’ve been very sick. It doesn’t work if you’re sick.’
Again I swallow. ‘Is that possible – that I might be pregnant?’
‘It’s one possibility. There may be others, but let’s pursue this first – eliminate it if need be.’
I look vaguely around the room. There’s a high ceiling with ornate plasterwork above the picture rail – like my flat in Finsbury Park, like the bedroom in Jean-Luc’s house. ‘What do I do now?’ I say.
‘You go to the pharmacy and they’ll give you a container. You’ll need a twenty-four hour sample of urine. Then take it back and they’ll send it for analysis. When you have the result, come and see me again.’ She waves her pen across the bottom of the form and hands it to me with the prescription. ‘You can settle up with my receptionist.’ Then she looks at me, not unkindly. ‘See to this as soon as possible,’ she says.
A cold wind blows across the river. I walk for some time, trying to take in what the doctor has said. I know the Pill is not infallible, but in the absence of my better judgement, I’ve been too careless to bring it to mind.
I find a small pharmacy on the edge of town and hand over my prescription. The pharmacist disappears, then comes back with a large container which she puts into a carrier bag.
‘Bring it back after twenty-four hours,’ she says, ‘the analysis takes a week.’
A week. A week to wait and to wonder. More waiting – not the vagaries of Jean-Luc’s offerings, but an all too tangible reality.
Ten days later I’m again in the doctor’s consulting room.
‘Yes,’ she says reading the lab report, ‘you’re definitely pregnant. About eight weeks I should think.’
No words come to me. Time has stopped. Again I’m watching myself from above, from the ornate plaster ceiling.
‘Do you have anyone to talk to about this? A husband perhaps?’
Still no words come. There is, I realise, probably no one at all.
The doctor continues. ‘You must decide where you want to have the baby – clinic or hospital – then make an appointment for your consultations. I’ll register you as pregnant and that will entitle you to the first of your allowances. The rest are dependent on your visits to the obstetrician. This leaflet explains what you need to do.’
I take it and thank her. Nothing is going in, bureaucracy and maternity rights the least of my concerns.
*
February becomes March. I have a plentiful supply of students, but Jean-Luc has not shown up for a lesson since Christmas. He comes to the flat once or twice but stays only briefly. The lessons, he tells me, may have to finish. It’s no longer possible to be in town very often. I know then for sure that he’s cutting me loose, easing himself away, little by little. Still I try one more ploy to keep him.
‘I could do a different day, if it’s easier.’
He shakes his head. ‘I’m not sure. I’m needed in Paris during the week.’
So no evenings then, either.
Yet when the shock of my condition has settled, his absence matters less. What I wrestle with is whether or not he should know and who else, if anyone, I should share this with. Oddly, my first thought is Molly. Not the strength of her reaction – I’m well acquainted with her indifference and suspect this news will have the same effect – a dismissive
well, I’m not surprised, Madeleine, you’ve brought this upon yourself.
And Saul – what will he do? Most likely shake his head and wander back to his study. Yet some primordial force trumps all the trivial, fractious exchanges that took place before I left England. If I’m not careful, it will pull me back. I put it from my mind and turn to whatever I might have to do next.
It is Sylvie who sorts me out. Her sharp eye hasn’t failed to notice my lack of energy, my thickening waist. One lunchtime, as I’m sitting with her in a café, sipping a tisane, she says, ‘So, what will you do, Madeleine? Have you told him?’
‘Who?’
Sylvie rolls her eyes. ‘Madeleine, don’t be an idiot. Everyone here knows about you two. It’s hardly a secret.’
That’s exactly what I think it is. ‘Everyone?’
‘Oh, yes. You’ll have to tell him. He has a right to know.’
‘But what if I don’t want him to know? What if I just want to deal with this my way.’
Sylvie looks up sharply. ‘You’re not going to …?’
‘No, no, I’m not.’ It did cross my mind early on, but even without the obstacles of cost and legality, this baby is already more than a concept, a thing I need to rationalise away.
‘Then see him. Tell him. You’ll need support – financial help if nothing else. Surely he owes you that much.’
That’s beside the point. What could he do anyway? This will only change us irrevocably – I’m not sure I want that. ‘I can’t get in touch with him. I know you have his address at the centre but I can hardly write, can I?’
‘You could phone – say you need to see him.’
‘I’ve never done that. He’ll know something’s up.’
‘Well, isn’t it?’
I finish my tisane. ‘I’ll wait till he comes again. Then I’ll tell him.’
Sylvie pays the waiter. ‘Make sure you do.’
Two weeks pass before I see him. He knows, I think. There’s an uncertainty about him; he’s withdrawn, he doesn’t meet my eyes, even before I say what I need him to hear. He paces the flat, smoking fretfully.
‘You’re sure?’ he says.
‘Look at me – I’ve put on five kilos!’
‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’
‘What difference would it have made?’
‘I know people. Doctors.’
Is he really suggesting this?
He flings himself onto the couch and puts his head in his hands. ‘Let me think,’ he says, ‘work out what to do. This is so awkward.’
Awkward? For whom? My Christmas resolve filters back through dwindling layers of desire.
Then he lifts his head and sits staring past me, caught in the headlights of this particular dilemma. Is this the first time, I wonder? Has this happened to him before?
I go to sit beside him and put my hand on his arm. ‘I don’t want anything from you. I just wanted you to know, that’s all.’
He brushes me away, ‘I have to go,’ he says, stubbing out his cigarette. He stands up and before I can stop him, he’s reaching for the door, bounding down the stairs, across the courtyard and out into the empty street. I follow him, call his name, but he’s gone – finding himself no doubt with urgent business far from here, in the safe, crowded anonymity of the Parisian night.
I see him again only once, crossing the Boulevard with Alice. I know it’s Alice from the photo and from the slight possessive air with which she holds his arm – ahead by half a step. Otherwise it could so easily be my replacement – or one of them – his next conquest, his next adventure.
*
The weeks following that night are less hard than I imagined. Finally disabused, I put Jean-Luc as far from my thoughts as I can, given that I’m carrying his child. I request a change of tutor for his one-to-one, which in any case he’s rarely attended since Christmas. I avoid Tuesday afternoons at the centre and focus again on my other classes. Sylvie keeps a close eye on me, watching for signs of distress, but I don’t oblige her. As the pregnancy advances and the sickness and fatigue subside, the previous year recedes too, falling away like a silk veil dropped unceremoniously to the floor and trodden on.
I read as much as I can lay my hands on, ploughing through various handbooks that seem to offer the information I lack. I’ve no experience of this, no friends who’ve been through it, with or without a partner. Sylvie bubbles helpfully with words of encouragement, but the process is as alien to her as it is to me. I have a dim recollection of Molly, large and cumbersome, before Sophie was born, lying around uncharacteristically slothful while we all ran round for her. Again I wonder about home; does my obstinacy hinder a reunion that might provide comfort and support? Or, as I always conclude, will it simply reinforce the decision to live my life here and apart. For all its imperfections, I have made my bed.
Eventually, I write to Sophie, explaining in scant detail what’s happening, asking her, unfairly perhaps, to mention nothing to Molly and Saul. She writes back by return – excitement, shock, admiration all reaching out from the pages. It links me, as her words always do, with the home I’ve been unable to enjoy; the snug fit she’s always been whilst I stay out in the cold, a permanent sore that rubs and chaffs and never quite heals.
But tell them Maddie,
she concludes,
they might just surprise you.
Somehow I doubt that and I can’t bring myself to set it all down for them in ways that will justify what has happened – what I’ve done. I leave Sophie to deal with the knowledge, simply letting her know that it’s not a secret, that if she needs to say something it will not be a betrayal of trust. When Molly’s letter arrives a few weeks later, I know that Sophie’s been unable to contain it, that her ingenuous soul has needed to share.
May 15
th
1976
Dear Madeleine
I have hesitated to write since Sophie spoke to us last week and gave us your news – as you can imagine, it has taken your father and me some time to come to terms with it. I’m not sure how you would expect us to react, but I gather from the fact that you have told us nothing, that you are reluctant to bring this to us yourself.
I’m not going to use this letter as an excuse to upbraid you; you are intelligent enough to know that your situation is precarious at best, a disaster at worst. I cannot imagine what you have been going through, how this unfortunate situation has arisen, what on earth you will do now and however you will manage in the future. Bringing a child into the world is perhaps the single most significant thing you will ever do. It is a huge undertaking, the fact of which you are no doubt well aware. To do so on your own will bring additional hardship – not only for you but also for the child. This may be the 1970’s, Madeleine, but the attitudes of many are still locked in the past – in France, no doubt as much as here. I worry that the road you have been forced to choose will be beset with hardship for you both.
I know you have your reasons for staying away; you have made your life there and by all accounts have found work that you enjoy. I know too that when you left England, we did not part on the best of terms. I still regret being unable to help you when your life in London did not work out. In my defence, you were set on a new course, unwilling I think to listen to advice, even if we had known what to say. So now I am saying what is in my mind, as I cannot sit back and keep silent when there is so much at stake. Does the father know about his child? Have you any recourse to obtain financial support from him? Do you not think he must bear some of the responsibility – might he even want to play a part in the child’s life? These are all questions you will have asked yourself, I’m sure, but I’m concerned that you will allow your stubborn desire for independence to influence the decisions you make.
Think carefully about whether staying where you are is the best thing in the long run. I am supposing that after all this time it is unlikely you would consider coming home. I’m also unsure whether my coming to see you would help or hinder – but bear in mind what I have said here; you may need more support than you imagine and I’m not sure where that will come from.
I will wait to hear from you. Take care of yourself, Madeleine. Remember that the door here is never locked.
Yours affectionately,
Molly
The longest letter she’s ever written to me. I put it away, expecting her words to bite, the irritation to surface, but nothing does. I’m immune to what might otherwise rouse them; my energies, so controlled by raging hormones, firmly channelled elsewhere.
As Molly has surmised, I’ve already addressed many of her questions. I’ve not dwelt upon the legal status of the baby, nor what I’ll put on the birth certificate, but my concerns now revolve around two lives – most urgently, how I’m to provide for us both. I work longer hours, taking on as many students as time allows, often late into the evening. This helps in the short term, but the money will cease when the baby arrives, or when I’m no longer fit for work. I consider the advice I’ve been given – from Sylvie, from Molly. In moments of panic I’m tempted to contact Jean-Luc, to ask him for help; in moments of anger I think of the damage I could do if he refuses. Then reason returns and I realise I no longer care.
So little do I care, that weeks later, when I receive a sizeable cheque in the post, with Jean-Luc’s signature scrawled across the bottom, I’m sorely tempted to send it back. There’s no letter with it, no note; he’s simply buying me off. It surprises me that he has risked a cheque; cash in an envelope left anonymously at the school would be more in keeping. Except Sylvie would know what it was. They all would.
I’m hard put to find reasons for keeping the money. It binds me to him in a way that’s unacceptable, yet it means the difference between a breadline existence and the means to provide a little above it. I buy a small pram and put the rest away in a savings account.
*
Summer comes abruptly, hotter than the previous year. By May there are warnings of a drought, the huge open wheat fields of the Beauce turn brown before their time, stunted shoots struggle with their meagre supply of water. I struggle too in the heat, encumbered by my size. At the flat, two flights of stairs become a challenge; at work it hurts to sit or stand for any length of time. When there are no classes, I go back to my room and lie in the cool, reading or sleeping, waiting for the time to pass.
How much of my life has been spent in waiting? I waited as a child to grow up – to be reckonable, a force to be counted. Then the long years waiting for Josef to return and the constant creeping fear that he never would. There is my work – the unimpressive series of jobs I’ve turned over, which have amounted to no more than a way of marking time; then with Jean-Luc, the fragile uncertainty, constantly dangling in fitful animation. Now I wait for the next thing; this unknown soul that moves within, stirring love and fear.
By June it becomes clear that I need to leave my room in town, it simply can’t accommodate another being on a permanent basis. Neither can I imagine hauling the pram up two flights of stairs and through three doorways several times a day. I don’t expect much, but this is less than adequate and I start to look for something else. Two rooms in town would double the rent, putting them beyond my reach. I realise I need to move further out, even if travelling to work proves difficult. I have, in any case, no idea how long work will continue. Sylvie promises me extra translation that won’t require my presence at the school and I’ve been there long enough to earn some benefit – my hefty, ill-afforded contributions entitling me to some paid leave. But as always, money is an issue, even with Jean-Luc’s contribution, which I intend to avoid using if at all possible. I tell Sylvie of my plans to move.
‘But where will you go?’ she says. ‘It’s not easy finding places out of town.’
‘I’d love to stay, but it’s just not possible.’
‘We could have a look round – I’ll take you if you like. Further down the river might be better – cheaper anyway.’
But I can’t go back down the river – nowhere near Simone’s. It needs to be somewhere new. So when Sylvie drives me one hot afternoon in early June, we end up in the forest and pass through a small village, where we stop for a drink at a bar on the main street. The patron brings us Orangina and as we sit at the table on the pavement beneath a faded parasol, I see the sign on the door, tucked away among the posters for Ricard and Gauloises. They’re looking for help in the bar – a small flat is available for a suitable applicant. Unsuitable as I am, I heave myself up and go inside to find someone to speak to.
***
‘And you’ve been there ever since?’ Sophie poured the last of the soda water into her glass.
‘I moved in a week later. I’d no idea what else to do.’
‘But you liked it there? Marie-Claude and Antoine – they were good to you?’
‘It was the best decision I’ve ever made. I suppose that’s not saying much given everything that’s happened. But yes, I couldn’t have managed these last two years without them. It’s become home for me – for the two of us. They’re so good with Chloé. It was Marie-Claude who convinced me I should come home – even before I knew Papa was ill.’
‘Did they never have children of their own?’
‘No. At least not as far as I know. Marie-Claude’s quite … private. She keeps a lot to herself.’
‘Like Mum?’
‘Yes, perhaps she is. And like Molly I think there’s something she’s not telling me. But I know better than to ask – it’s nothing to do with me. She’d tell me if she needed to. That’s more than can be said for Molly.’
Sophie looked at me over her glass, then put it down gently on the table. ‘Josef?’ she said. ‘You still don’t know what happened?’
‘Do you?’
‘I’ve never asked. But like I’ve said, it’s different for me – and for Paul too. It’s never been an issue for us. Josef was just the brother that left – we never knew him – not in the way you did. I can’t imagine that – what it’s like to lose someone and not know why they had to go.’
‘It’s different now though. They want me to find Josef. They think I might know where he is, or have some clue as to where he might have gone. Perhaps I’ll even find out what happened all those years ago.’
‘And do you want to know – after so long?’
I stood up and poked the fire. A large log fell on its side, throwing up a shower of sparks. ‘Before the letters came, before I heard from Alex and then had the news about Papa, I would have said no. I thought it had gone, that it didn’t matter. So much has happened since then. But then I realised that nothing has gone away at all. I have the same anger, the same need to know why they wouldn’t talk, why I was shut out. So yes, I do want to know. I think they owe me that much.’ Yet still I lacked the courage to bring it up and I wasn’t sure where that would come from.
Sophie gathered her things and stood up too. ‘I’m so glad you’ve come,’ she said. Then she pulled on her coat, linked her arm into mine and we left, walking quickly, side by side through the cold streets.