The Widow

Chapter 19

Saturday, 21 April 2007

The Widow

GLEN’S MUM AND DAD came round the weekend after he was sacked. We hadn’t seen them for a while and they stood at the door while the press tried to talk to them and took their pictures. George was furious and started swearing at them and Mary was in tears when I opened the door. I hugged her in the hall and led her through to the kitchen.

George and Glen went into the living room. We sat at the table and Mary carried on crying.

‘What’s going on, Jean? How could anyone think my Glen could do such a thing? He couldn’t have done something so wicked. He was a lovely little boy. So sweet, so clever.’

I tried to calm her down and explain, but she kept talking over me, saying ‘Not my Glen’ over and over. In the end, I made a cup of tea to give myself something to do and took a tray through to the men.

There was a terrible atmosphere – George was standing in front of the fireplace staring at Glen, all red in the face. Glen was sitting in his armchair, looking at his hands.

‘How’re you doing, George?’ I asked as I passed him a tea.

‘I’d be a damned sight better if this idiot hadn’t got himself involved with the police. Thanks, Jean. We’ve had the press knocking and on the phone morning, noon and night. We’ve had to take the phone off the hook to get some peace. Your sister’s had the same, Glen. It’s a bloody nightmare.’

Glen said nothing. Perhaps everything had been said before I came in.

But I couldn’t let it go. I said, ‘It’s a nightmare for Glen, too, George. For all of us. He’s done nothing and he’s lost his job. It isn’t fair.’

Mary and George left soon afterwards.

‘Good riddance,’ Glen said afterwards, but I was never sure if he meant it. It was his mum and dad, after all.

My mum and dad came next. I told Dad on the phone to go to Lisa’s next door so they wouldn’t be bothered by the reporters and could come through the gate between the gardens. Poor Mum, she opened the back door and came tumbling in as if a dog was after her.

She’s lovely, my mum, but she finds it hard to cope with things. Ordinary things. Like catching the right bus to the doctor’s or meeting new people. Dad is very good about it, really. He doesn’t fuss about her ‘little panics’ as they call them. He just sits her down and strokes her hand and talks to her softly until she feels better. They really love each other – always have. And they love me, but Mum needs all Dad’s attention.

‘Anyway, you’ve got Glen,’ she used to say.

When she sat down in the kitchen, all pale and breathless, Dad sat with her and held her hand. ‘It’s all right, Evelyn,’ he said.

‘I just need a minute, Frank.’

‘Your mother just needs a bit of reassurance, Jean,’ Dad had told me when I first tried to suggest they talk to the doctor. So I reassured her as well.

‘Everything’s going to be fine, Mum. It’ll all get sorted out, you’ll see. It’s a horrible mistake. Glen has told them where he was and what he was doing and the police will put it right.’

She looked at me hard, as though she was testing me. ‘Are you sure, Jean?’

I was.

After that, they didn’t visit. I used to go and see them.

‘It’s too much for your mum to come over,’ Dad said on the phone. I’d do her hair every week. She used to enjoy going to the hairdresser’s ‘for an outing’ once a month, but she went out less and less after Glen’s arrest. It wasn’t his fault, but some days I found it hard to even like him.

Like the day he told me he’d seen my scrapbooks. It was a couple of days after he was released on bail. He’d known when he got home, but he waited. I knew he was building up to something. I could tell.

And when he found me looking at a picture of a baby in a magazine, he exploded.

My love of babies was obsessive, he said. He was angry when he said it. It was because they’d found my books at the back of the airing cupboard where I kept them, behind the water tank. They were only pictures. What harm was there in that?

He was shouting at me. He didn’t shout very often, he usually just closed down and stopped talking when he got mad. Didn’t like to show his feelings, really. We’d sit and watch a film together and I’d be bawling my eyes out and he’d just sit there. I thought he was so strong at first, that it was manly, but I don’t know now. Perhaps he just doesn’t feel things the way other people do.

But that day, he shouted. There were three little scrapbooks, each one filled with pictures I had cut out of the magazines at work, newspapers and birthday cards. I wrote ‘My Babies’ on the cover of each book, because they were. So many babies. I had my favourites, of course. There was Becky, with her striped Babygro and matching headband, and Theo, a chubby toddler with a smile that made me shiver.

My babies.

I suppose I knew Glen would see it as a dig at him, at him being infertile, that’s why I hid them, but I couldn’t stop myself.

‘You’re sick!’ he shouted at me.

He made me feel ashamed. Perhaps I was sick.

The thing was that he wouldn’t talk to me about what he called ‘our problem’.

It wasn’t meant to be a problem. It’s just that having a baby was all I wanted to do in my life. Lisa next door felt the same.

She moved next door with her bloke, Andy, a couple of months after us. She was nice – not too nosey, but interested in me. She was pregnant when they moved in and Glen and I were trying, so we had loads to talk about, lots of plans to make – how we’d bring up our babies, what colour to do the nurseries, names, local schools, E numbers. All those things.

She didn’t look like me, Lisa. She had short black hair all spiked up with bleached white tips and three earrings in one ear. She looked like one of the models in the big photos in the salon. Beautiful, really. But Glen wasn’t sure about her.

‘Doesn’t look like our sort of person, Jeanie. Looks a bit of a flake. Why do you keep inviting her round?’

I think he was a bit jealous of sharing me, and he and Andy had nothing in common. Andy was a scaffolder, always away somewhere. He went to Italy once. Anyway he went off with a woman he met on his travels and Lisa was left on her own, struggling by on benefits while she tried to get anything out of him for the children.

Lisa was lonely and we got on like a house on fire, so I went round to hers mostly, to save disturbing Glen.

I used to tell her the stories I heard at the salon and she’d laugh her head off. She loved a good gossip and a cup of coffee. She said it was an escape from the kids. She had two by then – a boy and a girl, Kane and Daisy – while I continued to wait for my turn.

After our second wedding anniversary, I went to the doctor’s on my own to talk about why I couldn’t get pregnant.

‘You’re very young, Mrs Taylor,’ Dr Williams said. ‘Relax and try not to think about it. That’s the best thing to do.’

I tried. But after another year without a baby, I persuaded Glen to come with me. I told him there must be something wrong with me and he agreed to come, to support me.

Dr Williams listened and nodded and smiled. ‘Let’s do some tests,’ he said, and our treks to the hospital began.

They did me first. I was willing to do anything to get pregnant and I put up with the speculums, the examinations, the ultrasounds, the endless prodding.

‘Tubes as clean as a whistle,’ the gynaecologist said at the end of the tests. ‘Everything healthy.’

Glen went next. I don’t think he wanted to, but I’d been through it all and he couldn’t really back out. It was awful, he said. They made him feel like a piece of meat. Samples, plastic cups, old torn porn magazines. All that. I tried to make it better by saying how grateful I was, but it didn’t work. Then we waited.

He had almost a zero sperm count. And that was the end of it. Poor Glen. He was devastated at first. He felt he’d be seen as a failure, less of a man, and was so blinded by that that perhaps he couldn’t see what it meant for me. No babies. No one to call me Mummy, no life as a mother, no grandchildren. He tried to comfort me at the beginning when I cried, but I think he got bored with it and then hardened to it after a while. He said it was for my own good. That I had to move on.

Lisa was brilliant about it and I tried not to hate her luck because I liked her, but it was hard. And she knew how hard it was for me, so she said I could be the kids’ ‘other mother’ – I think it was a joke but I gave her a hug and tried not to cry. I was part of their lives and they became part of mine.

I persuaded Glen to make a gate between the back gardens for them to come in and out and I bought a paddling pool one summer. Glen was nice with them, but he didn’t get involved like I did, really. He’d watch them through the window sometimes and wave. He didn’t try to stop them coming round and sometimes, when Lisa had a date – she went on those websites to try to find the perfect man – they stayed in the spare room, sleeping top to tail. I would do fish fingers and peas and tomato sauce for dinner and watch a Disney DVD with them.

Then when they settled down in bed, I’d sit watching them go to sleep. Drinking them in. Glen didn’t like that. Said I was acting creepy. But every moment with them was special. Even changing their nappies when they were little. As they got older they called me ‘geegee’ because they couldn’t get their tongue round ‘Jean’ and would fling themselves at my legs when they came round so I had to walk with one on each of my feet. ‘My sweet peas’, I called them. And they’d laugh.

Glen would go up to his study when our games got too wild – ‘too much noise’, he’d say – but I didn’t mind. I preferred having them to myself.

I even thought about giving up my job and looking after them full-time so Lisa could go out to work, but Glen put his foot down.

‘We need your money, Jean. And they’re not our kids.’

And he stopped apologizing for being infertile and started saying, ‘At least we have each other, Jean. We’re lucky really.’

I tried to feel lucky, but I didn’t.

I’ve always believed in luck. I love the fact that people can change their lives instantly. Look at Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? And the Lottery. One minute an ordinary woman on the street. Next, a millionaire. I buy a ticket every week and can while away a morning fantasizing about winning. I know what I’d do. I’d buy a big house at the seaside – somewhere sunny, maybe abroad – and adopt orphans. Glen doesn’t really figure in my plans – he wouldn’t approve and I don’t want those pursed lips wrecking my daydreams. Glen stays as part of my reality.

The thing is that the two of us wasn’t enough for me, but he was hurt that I needed anyone but him. That was probably why he wouldn’t consider adoption – ‘I’m not having someone prying into our lives. No one’s business but ours, Jeanie’ – let alone something as ‘extreme’ as artificial insemination or surrogacy. Lisa and I had discussed it one evening over a bottle of wine and it all sounded possible. I tried to introduce it casually into a conversation with Glen.

‘Disgusting ideas, if you ask me,’ he said. End of discussion.

So I stopped crying in front of him, but every time a friend or relative said they were pregnant it was like having my heart ripped out. My dreams were filled with babies, lost babies, endless searches for them, and sometimes I’d wake up still feeling the weight of a baby in my arms.

I began to dread sleep and was losing weight. I went back to the doctor and he gave me tablets to make me feel better. I didn’t tell Glen. I didn’t want him to be ashamed of me.

And I began my collection, quietly tearing out the pictures and slipping them in my handbag. Then, when there were too many, I started sticking them in my books. I’d wait until I was alone and get them out and sit on the floor, stroking each picture and saying their name. I could spend hours like that, pretending they were mine.

The police said Glen did the same thing on his computer.

He told me the day he shouted at me about the scrapbooks that I drove him to look for porn on the computer. It was a wicked thing to say, but he was so angry it just came out.

He said I’d shut him out because of my obsession with having a baby. That he’d had to look for comfort elsewhere.

‘It’s just porn,’ he said to me when he realized he’d gone too far. When he saw my face. ‘All blokes like a bit of porn, don’t they, Jeanie? It doesn’t do any harm to anyone. Just a bit of fun.’

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know all blokes liked porn. The subject had never come up in the salon.

When I cried, he told me it wasn’t his fault. He’d been drawn into online porn by the internet – they shouldn’t allow these things on the web. It was a trap for innocent men. He’d become addicted to it – ‘it’s a medical condition, Jeanie, an addiction’ – he couldn’t help himself, but he’d never looked at children. Those images just ended up on his computer – like a virus.

I didn’t want to think about it any more. It was too hard to keep everything apart in my head. My Glen and this other man the police talked about. I needed to keep things straight.

I wanted to believe him. I loved Glen. He was my world. I was his, he said. We were each other’s.

And the idea of me being guilty of pushing him to look at those horrible photos grew in my head, crowding out the questions about Glen. Of course, I didn’t find out about his ‘addiction’ until after the police came knocking on our door that Easter Saturday, and then it was too late to say or do anything.

I had to keep his secrets as well as mine.