By 1969 Marion had two kids, Stefano and Marelena, and one on the way, Selena. The third pregnancy was tougher than the others. She spent many days in bed before and after the birth. When she came to and some weeks had passed, she noticed a removal truck parked outside. The corporates had sold to a Dutch family. Once more No. 10 had slipped out of reach.
It was after Selena was born, with the recommendations of the fatherly family doctor pressing in on him, that Max ventured to suggest Marion stay home; dared ask, his tone sounding so close to insistence. Marion said no – out of the question. For one thing, she had argued, I’m already doing more than my share. It was true that the thing Marion understood the least about her husband took him away more frequently than she’d initially anticipated. And she was surprised to learn she was the kind of woman who actually wanted her husband around on weekends. Maybe not so much because she missed him, but more because she needed him to be there. She found parenting hard and she wanted him to struggle along with her. The trade-off – the money and the immense comfort his job bought them – did not make up for his long absences.
Annoyingly, however, when Max was home, Marion couldn’t help noticing the ease with which he loved their children and how they all loved him back. She envied Max his tidy life, his crisp suits and business trips. How much less complicated things were for him. He didn’t seem to hear the manipulation in Marelena’s cry, the need to be stoic and wait it out. Stefano was wetting the bed; this was brushed aside. Selena’s nose was rather large, but Max found that comical. (Although he was slightly put out when he saw Marion leafing through his family albums. She pointed at his great-aunt’s nose – aha, she said, triumphant.) But, mostly these details didn’t matter for Max. Instead of husband and father, Marion had landed herself a gust of wind. A pleasant one when present, a well-loved one, but insubstantial, itinerant.
And there were other things. The fine lines of life, the careful negotiations. Once, Agnes had asked if she could bring her young toddler with her to work; the crèche she normally left her at was closed for a period and would it be okay? Marion had said no, but Agnes had cried and the baby (was it Stefano or Marelena?) had cried too – they were very attached to Agnes. And Marion had capitulated but then fretted for days. Max was away and she’d phoned him.
‘What exactly are you worried about?’
‘I just … don’t you understand? Must I explain everything?’
Despite Marion’s quiet resentment, they seldom actually fought.
‘I’m not trying to argue. Look, how can I help?’
‘I just feel that … having another … a young child around … it would distract her, I’m sure. From her work.’
Marion felt the sting of embarrassment; she couldn’t say it out loud – she didn’t want her kids to play with the black child. She didn’t want them touching. But she couldn’t say it because if she said it, then it would really be there and she wouldn’t be able to just ignore it, which was infinitely easier and, thus far, largely possible.
‘Just tell her no then,’ Max said. He was probably sitting on the edge of some hotel bed, his legs crossed. ‘Tell her you’ve realised that it won’t be a good thing after all.’
His tone was calm, he plotted out the solution as if he had more where that came from. He wasn’t someone with a whole life that he needed to constantly keep in line. His life’s borders seemed to police themselves.
Marion fought with herself, in her head. The reason she hadn’t wanted Agnes to bring her child to work was because the child would be a distraction – that was the reason. And the reason she suggested Agnes did not wash her clothes in with the family’s load was because this seemed sensible, to keep things separate. Why complicate the washing? She explained it as slowly as possible to Agnes, but checked for several weeks after to make sure she was following her instructions. And the reason (it was Marelena who asked) that Agnes had a bruise on her head was because black people were dangerous and the police had thought Agnes was one of those black people. No, Agnes was not dangerous. Yes, most black people were dangerous and they were causing trouble. No, Agnes was not causing trouble. No, it wasn’t unfair. It was in fact very fair. Life was fair.