SOULLESS…
Claudia Williams came home that afternoon with her hair freshly trimmed and her nails gleaming. At 68 years old, she saw no reason age should get in the way of a little pampering, and so, with a certain British resolve, she visited her stylist as religiously as some go to church. Claudia always made a point of keeping her head and hands in orderthese humble rituals lifted her spirits and fortified her against the general absurdities of life.
Claudia, someone called round for you, announced her husband, George. She said she was a relative. I told her youd be back later. She promised shed pop by again.
Relative? Claudia said, rolling her eyes so hard she saw last Tuesday. Ive run out of relatives, havent I? Probably one of those distant connections, seventh cousin thrice removed, wholl almost certainly want something. You shouldve said Id moved to Timbuktu!
Now, come onno need for fibs, George chided, slightly wounded. Im pretty sure shes family; shes tall, dignified, reminded me of your dear old mother. Proper sort, well-dressed. Doubt shes here to scrounge off us.
About forty minutes later, the doorbell chimed. Claudia went herself. The woman on the step really did resemble Claudias late mother: expensive coat, smart boots, gloves, and in her ears, discreet diamond studssomething Claudia could spot at fifty paces.
She ushered her in to the dining table, already cosily set for tea.
Lets settle names, since were apparently family. Im Claudia, no need for formalities. My husbands George. So, how exactly are we related? queried Claudia, keeping a polite distance in case the woman turned out to be flogging commemorative teaspoons.
The guest hesitated, cheeks pinkening. Im Caroline… Caroline Vincent, she offered. Theres not much between usage-wise, I mean. Turned 50 on 12th June. That date doesnt mean anything to you?
Claudia went pale.
Ah, I see you do remember, Caroline said gently. Yes, Im your daughter. But please, dont fret. I dont want anything from you. I just wanted to see my birth motherhad to know. Spent my life wondering why Mum never seemed to love me. Shes been gone eight years now. Only Dad ever cared, and he only told me about you right before he passedjust two months ago. Asked me to forgive him, if I could, Caroline said, nerves threatening her composure.
George, still clutching his mug, was baffled. You have a daughter?
Apparently so, Claudia replied. Ill tell you the whole tale later.
So, youre my daughter? Claudia snapped, almost businesslike. Lovely. Youve seen me now. If you expect me to weep and beg your forgiveness, dont. Its not my fault. I hope your dad explained it all. And if youve arrived to awaken my maternal instinctsbad luck! Not even a thimbleful. Sorry.
Caroline fidgeted with her teaspoon. Would it be alright if I visited again? I live nearbyin a big two-storey house. You & George can come over. Just so you can let it settle that I exist. I brought photosgrandson, great-granddaughter, if youd like a look?
No. Dont want to. Dont come again. Forget me. Goodbye, Claudia replied, slicing the moment with a very British efficiency.
George, apologetic, called a taxi for Caroline and saw her off. When he returned, Claudia had cleared away the tea things and was already glued to a quiz show.
Youre something else! You should have led battalions in the war. Do you honestly feel nothing? George wondered aloud. I always suspected youd a heart of stone, but not quite this chilly.
We met when I was 28, right? Claudia intoned, eyes fixed on Countdown. Before that, darling, whatever heart or soul I had had already been trampled.
I was just a village lass, desperate to escape to the city. Thats why I outshone everyone and nabbed the only spot at university. At 17, I met Bill. Old enough to have a mortgage, but I loved him utterly. For a girl from a council estate, my first years in the city were like finding Narnia behind the wardrobe. My grant barely paid toast. I was constantly hungryso his invites for café dinners and ice-cream felt like royal banquets.
He promised nothing, but I believed love would win out and hed marry me. The night he invited me to his cottage, I thought the plot had reached its happy chapter. After that, we were regulars at his cottage. I soon realised I was, as my mum would have said, in the family way. Told him. He couldnt have been more delighted.
Soon as morning sickness set in, I asked when wed tie the knot. Already 18, eligible for a marriage licence. ‘Did I ever say Id marry you?’ Bill replied, matter-of-fact. ‘No, and I wont. In fact, Im already married.’
‘What about the baby? What about me?’ I whispered.
‘You? Youll be fine,’ he said. You could pose for Health & Safety posters. Take some academic leave at uni. Stay with usmy wife and I. Shes much older, cant have kids, desperate for one. After you give birth, well take the child. How all thats sorted out isn’t your concern. Im no slouchIve got friends in the council, and my wife runs the A&E. So, nothing for you to worry about. Well even pay you.’
Surrogacy wasnt a thing back then. I mustve been the only surrogate mother in the county, unwittingly. What else was I supposed to do? Go home and shame the family?
So, I lived in their big house till the birth. Bills wife never so much as poked her head in. Maybe threatened Id snatch his affections. Had the girl at home, with a midwifethe whole nine yards. Didnt breastfeed; the baby was whisked away instantly. Never saw her again. Week later they bundled me off gently, Bill pressed some notes into my hand.
Went back to uni, then straight into factory work, got a room in staff halls. Started as a supervisor, worked up to senior inspector. Plenty of mates, but no marriage offers till you turned up. I was 28, thought, why not? Best decisionor at least, the least-bad.
You know the rest. Weve done alright: swapped cars three times, house bursting with stuff, nice little holiday place. Went abroad every year. Factory survived the ’90s since our tractor gadgets were made nowhere else; the rest of the workforces jobs were a mystery. Still ringed by barbed wire and watchtowers to this day. Got our early retirement and all. No kids, and couldnt care less. Have you seen the youth these days? Claudia concluded, voice barely above a child’s whisper.
We havent done alright, not by my books, George retorted. I have loved you, tried my whole life to thaw your icicles, but there wasnt a chance. Fine about the kids, but younever a paw for a kitten, never a belly rub for a stray dog. Not even when my sister begged for her daughter to crash a week, you barred her. Today, your own daughter turned up, and you… Your own child. If it wasnt too late, Id divorce you, I swear. Chilling to be near youproper frostbite!
Claudia, for the first time in decades, felt a flicker of alarm; George had never spoken to her so sharply.
Her perfectly ordered life had been ruffled by this daughter.
George moved out to the holiday cottage. Nowadays, he lives there with three rescued dogs and more cats than Claudia could count. He rarely pops home, having become a friend to Caroline and her brood, doting on the great-granddaughter.
Always was a soft touch, always will be. Let him crack on, Claudia reckoned.
Despite everything, Claudia never once felt the urge to get to know her daughter, grandson, or great-granddaughter better.
She takes herself off for solo seaside holidays, lounges in deckchairs, soaks up sun, and feels utterly splendid.
