‘Not necessarily…’
‘Fine, but…’
‘I know; you’d love her to get into the university here but that was never likely to happen – partly because she is unlikely to get the grades but mainly because she doesn’t want it. It’s all too close to home for her.’
‘Edward is furious with her for getting pregnant – though he hasn’t said anything to her.’
‘He has a point. There’s no excuse for a girl of her age and intelligence.’
‘I did, and I was a lot older than her. Our family are highly fertile – miss the pill for a couple of days and that’s it.’
Dorrie smiled. ‘I suppose if that wasn’t the case you might not have had Izzy… Anyway, how’s the novel going?’
‘Badly. What am I doing, peeping about under the feet of the giants of Russian literature?’
‘You mustn’t…’
‘It’s OK, I haven’t given up – but every time I try to work out what my characters might think or do, there’s Bezukhov, or Levin, or Pushkin’s Tatyana, answering for me.’
‘You’ll get there,’ said Dorrie, rising from the table and giving Marianne a long hug. ‘Keep at it – and speak to that daughter of yours!’
That night, as Marianne drifted into sleep, she found herself back in South America. It was the holiday she had taken with Edward to celebrate their return to Cambridge before he started at Addenbrooke’s. Izzy is with them – how old is she? Perhaps ten or eleven. Those last years of innocence before the teenage battles begin. They are visiting the multiple waterfalls at Iguazu and paddling a canoe at the bottom of one of the falls. A rainbow arches over their heads – an almost tangible roof of colour which seems to Marianne a sign of divine approbation: your lives are in my protection. Izzy’s blue eyes sparkle with wonder and Marianne feels a happiness which is painful in its intensity.
Edward smiles at her across the boat – the noise of the water is too loud for conversation – and she wonders again how she ended up with a man so kind and gentle: no virtue exhibitionist, but a truly good man. How weak it sounds to be labelled good; history swallows good men without trace. But to be good is surely the summation of all virtues; who would you rather have as a husband, she thinks, some artistic genius like Picasso – or a Burns or Byron? Surely not – Edward is a good man and I am a fortunate woman.
The following morning, being a Saturday, Marianne resolved to have a serious talk to her daughter. She listened periodically outside Izzy’s door; when she heard noises suggesting that Izzy was awake, she went in and sat on the edge of her bed. ‘How are you feeling, darling?’ she asked.
‘What’s this all about?’
‘I want to know if you’ve thought about it – I mean, what you’re going to do?’
Izzy rolled her eyes and looked askance at her mother but said nothing.
Marianne sighed. ‘About the fact that you are pregnant.’
‘I didn’t know I had to do anything. It just happens, doesn’t it? You know, the baby grows inside you – then it comes out.’
‘So does this mean that you’ve decided to have the child?’
‘Oh, I see, you’ve come to tell me to have an abortion, is that it?’
‘I haven’t come to tell you anything. I just want you to know that I’ll help you in whatever choice you make.’
‘You’d prefer that I get rid of it, wouldn’t you? I’ve rather spoilt your and Dad’s idea of a perfect daughter.’
‘Izzy, don’t play games. It’s your decision, of course, and you must think through the consequences carefully. But if you’ve decided to have the child, Dad and I will give you all the support we can.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m not going to kill it if that’s what you want to know.’
Marianne paused to consider this statement and compose her thoughts. ‘That’s fine, darling – I’m glad,’ and she leant across to give Izzy a kiss on the forehead. ‘I think that’s brave but I think it’s a good decision. You’re going to have to be much more careful, though, with your health – cut out the alcohol and smoking, all kinds of smoking. What does Andy think? I mean, Andy is the father, I suppose?’
‘You suppose? Do you think I shag every boy I meet?’
‘Izzy, just tell me how Andy feels about becoming a father?’
‘Actually, Andy’s cool about it.’
‘Well, that’s good. Now come downstairs and have some breakfast, and we’ll talk about a few practical things.’
Two hours later, when Edward returned to the house, he looked enquiringly at Marianne.
‘She’s going to have it,’ Marianne said.
‘Is she…’ and for a few seconds Edward was silent, looking past Marianne, up the stairs, as if searching for inspiration. Then a smile spread slowly across his face. ‘Do you know, I’m pleased. I didn’t think I would be, but I am. Just think, Marianne, us as grandparents, a small baby in the house – it’s really rather wonderful.’
Marianne threw her arms around his neck. ‘I’m so pleased you think like that, Ed, because I do too.’
Marianne looked across to a photograph of Izzy, taken in Moscow during that winter – her blonde curls just showing under the little fur hat, her vivid blue eyes shining out – she could easily have passed for a Russian girl – that little girl now soon to become a mother herself. Marianne felt a great swelling of optimism and hope for the future. Tears began to prick her eyes. ‘We’ll make it work, Ed,’ she said. ‘With Izzy. Together, we’ll make it all work.’
12
Marianne began to hang decorations on the tree.
‘You look as if you are actually enjoying the whole palaver of Christmas,’ said Dorrie, watching from the comfort of an armchair.
‘That’s because I am. This will be the first Christmas we’ve spent here in five years.’
It had become a routine for her and her sister Claire to go with their families to visit their parents in Vermont, but this year, with Edward’s father unwell, they were staying in Cambridge and her parents were coming over to visit them. Her mother was especially looking forward to seeing Callum again – now an eighteen-month-old toddler.
Marianne also had much in her own life to give her satisfaction. She had been thrilled to find a publisher for the novel over which she had struggled for so long, and most of the reviews had been complimentary; equally important in terms of her academic career, she had just been awarded a research fellowship at recently established Robinson College to work on the dissemination of the Russian romantic poets into Europe through English and French translations. It was a project she had long wanted to embark on; the next few years promised to be busy.
‘I’m just popping up to check on Callum. Help yourself to another drink if you want.’
‘Thanks, but I must be going in a minute,’ said Dorrie, draining the last of her whisky.
Marianne went upstairs and put her nose into the spare room to check that Callum was still asleep. She gazed at his chubby face. She didn’t see much resemblance to Izzy, but then Callum was also different in temperament; far easier and more placid than Izzy had been at the same age – her daughter was fortunate. The birth of Callum, and the year Izzy had spent at home while Marianne helped her look after her child, had ended the stand-off between mother and daughter. Izzy seemed to have grown out of her need to fight with her parents and now appeared genuinely grateful for their support. Finally, her child had become the friend she always imagined.
‘Are you getting Izzy home for the weekend?’ asked Dorrie, getting up from her armchair when Marianne returned to the living room.
‘I certainly hope so. She’s gone to London to join Andy at a gig this evening, but she should be here tomorrow – perhaps even tonight.’