You have to do it, she told herself. Just go and look inside the medicine cabinet. Don’t be such a mouse—it will only take a minute.
Marion crept forwards and then slid through the doorway. In the corner of her eye she caught sight of something dark in the middle of the bathtub. A huge spider? Dust? She did not dare look at it directly. She approached the cabinet and saw a rust stain snaking towards the plug hole of the small washbasin below. Her reflection appeared in the mottled glass mirror, and for a terrifying instant she mistook it for Mother’s dead, bloated face. Snapping open the doors of the cabinet, she found no pills, only discolored eau de toilette and bottles of cough linctus. Her bravery unrewarded, Marion left the en suite, closing the door firmly behind her.
Mother must have hidden her store of pills somewhere else. She got down on her knees and began pulling out boxes from underneath the huge bed. Most of them contained material, thick velvet, lace, and heavy-glazed cloth that made her nostalgic for the warehouse. There was a box containing odds and ends, little broken ornaments, used batteries, a china parrot with its beak missing.
In her search she came across a whole family of egg-shaped Weebles, a toy supermarket cash register, and a tiny pink kitchen with fake tins of food, little cardboard packets, and plastic vegetables that went in the cupboards. Looking at these old toys filled her with sweet sadness; they had provided small islands of joy in an otherwise unhappy childhood. Would she ever feel so good about anything again? When she was dead, a stranger would come into the house and take all these things and throw them on a rubbish dump. She had once hoped that Lydia might take them for her children, but of course, no one would want them now. Even that nasty old woman in the charity shop would think they were scruffy, germ-ridden things, “not fit for a modern child.”
She found suitcases full of photograph albums. Inside one of those albums, alongside the many stuffy portraits of her parents at formal functions, there was a black-and-white snap of her and John, dough-faced toddlers perched on top of donkeys, both of them dressed in military-style coats looking serious and determined, like tiny generals about to lead a cavalry charge. Then she found a picture of herself and dear Aunt Agnes standing on Northport Pier. Marion remembered her aunt asking a perfect stranger to take the picture. She had just gone right up to him and given him the camera. Mother would never have done something like that. A warmth surrounded her heart. Yes, I was happy then, she told herself, I can remember. I loved Agnes, and we had many wonderful times together.
Outside there was a rumble of thunder. Mother used to say it was God moving the furniture. Rain began sloshing against the windows, not in individual drops but as if it were pouring from a burst pipe. Lit by flashes of lightning, the trees that lined Grange Road looked like giant green beasts swinging their furry bodies from side to side.
Perhaps she would rest for a while until she could think of another place to look for the pills. It occurred to her they might have expired anyway after such a long time and she would have to think up another method of doing away with herself. Without bothering to replace all the boxes she had dragged out, she went back to her own room and got into bed, then lay for hours listening to the storm. She pulled all her animals close, but they just felt like bits of fake fur stuffed with rags and offered no comfort. Then, through the wind and rain, she heard something that sent a wave of shock through her whole body. Could it be the sound of a baby crying?
It was so faint, it was hard to tell if she was imagining it or not. Her mother’s baby brother had died in this house, was it his ghost? She got out of bed and opened the door to listen. Yes, she could distinctly hear crying coming from downstairs. A baby crying.
Standing in her nightgown, clammy with sweat and the pulse in her neck throbbing, Marion strained to listen.
Her mind began to race. Could it really be possible? A baby born in this old house? It seemed impossible to believe. Was that what John had been doing all that time? Helping the mother to give birth? A new life couldn’t survive down in that cold, damp cellar for long. It needed warmth and fresh air. The child would have to be brought up into the house.
She pictured herself holding the baby, smelling its warm soft head. Tiny fingers glowing with pink light. The baby smiling at her, learning to recognize her face. A brand-new person who would know her as Auntie Marion. Someone to play with and tell stories to.
They would put the child in the spare room next to hers. That room had a nice big window overlooking the garden and got lots of sun in the morning. It would have to be decorated, of course. She would be able to read the child all of her Beatrix Potter stories and let her play with all her toys. She felt sure it would be a girl, and she would call her Agnes after her aunt.
Marion would give herself entirely to Little Agnes. She would be the center of her world. She would cook good food for her, proper healthy food, not junk. She would buy her pretty little dresses. Perhaps they wouldn’t send Agnes to school; instead, John could teach her at home. He was an excellent teacher, after all, and then they wouldn’t have to worry about her being bullied by other children.
They would play games together in the garden and go for picnics on the beach. It would be like when Lydia was small, only Agnes would never leave her. How happy they would be together. This was what she had been waiting for her whole life, something that would belong entirely to her.
Throughout the night she would creep downstairs and listen at the cellar door, but she didn’t hear the baby cry again. She began to worry that Agnes might need a doctor, and that would require an explanation as to where the child came from. Perhaps they could say they had found it left on the doorstep, but then the baby would be taken away by social services and that would be heartbreaking.
If she pretended that she had given birth to it, would anyone know? Would they examine her medically? Didn’t women sometimes have children in their fifties? She knew for certain that she would never let anyone take the child away. She would protect it with her own life if she had to. Of course she would have to forgive John for that awful business with Lydia. He would need her to help him with the baby.
A baby, just saying the word in her head made her feel light with happiness. A new life meant hope for the future, a reason for her to go on living, someone to love and care for—someone who would love her in return. It would be hard work, but she was sure she could do it. Marion went back up the stairs and lay down on her bed; she had been awake all night, so she should get some rest. Later there would be so much to do. While the storm raged outside, Marion, lulled by warm, comforting thoughts, drifted off to sleep.