The Things We Never Said by Susan Elliot Wright

that; I know we’ve never discussed that sort of thing but you’ve been married, what, eight years? I suppose I thought you’d decided not to have children. One doesn’t like to ask.’ She takes a long draw on her cigarette. ‘Jonathan, I’m thrilled you’re going to have a baby, I really am. And I’ll do my best to be what a . . . what a real grandma should be.’
    ‘Well, thank you,’ he says, but she still seems agitated.
    ‘There are some things I need to talk to you about; things I should have told you before, probably. Your news . . .’ She smiles at him. ‘Your wonderful news – put me in mind of something that happened long before you came along.’ She pauses. ‘I had a baby, you see, a little boy who died soon after he was born. We called him Gerald, after your father and his father. He only lived for two hours; such a tiny little scrap. Your father was heartbroken.’
    ‘Mum,’ he says gently. ‘I didn’t know—’
    ‘Oh, there’s a lot you don’t know.’ She takes a gulp from a cup of what looks like cold tea. ‘They wouldn’t let me hold him; they didn’t in those days. Just took him away and told me to try again while there was still time.’ She keeps her head lowered as she fumbles in her bag for a handkerchief and blows her nose, then she takes a deep, shaky breath. ‘It changed Gerald a great deal, you know.’
    Jonathan tries to think of something to say but nothing comes, so he just listens.
    ‘You had to get on with life in those days. It took me a while, though. I barely got out of my chair at first, so your father had to look after me as well as the house. He was very attentive; even read to me to try and take me out of myself. But he wasn’t as strong as people thought. Once I started to get back to normal, he went downhill; couldn’t sleep, couldn’t read; he even stopped listening to the wireless. Sometimes he’d sit in that chair for hours, just staring at the wall.’
    Jonathan tries to picture them, grief-stricken, bewildered, trying to come to terms with the loss of their baby. Why hasn’t she told him this before?
    ‘I wanted another baby so much. I thought it might make things better, but . . .’
    He leans forward. ‘But what?’ he asks softly.
    ‘You see, your father didn’t . . . I mean he wouldn’t . . .’
    ‘He didn’t want another child?’ Things are beginning to make sense now.
    ‘It wasn’t that, exactly. It was . . . oh dear, this is terribly difficult.’ She stubs out her cigarette and reaches for another.
    Part of him wants to press her, to ask her exactly how his father had reacted when he knew she was pregnant again. Had he been angry? Had he continued to be angry after the birth? Another part of him doesn’t want to know. His mother’s hand is shaking even more now. She seems to have second thoughts about the cigarette and tries unsuccessfully to get it back in the pack.
    ‘Mum, look, don’t talk about it any more now, not if you don’t want to.’
    She reaches for the handkerchief again. ‘No, no, I must.’
    He waits. But she’s pressing the handkerchief to her lips, trying unsuccessfully to compose herself. How much longer can he sit here watching an old lady’s distress? ‘Mum, don’t.’ He rests his hand on her arm. ‘It’ll keep.’
    *
    That evening, he lies in the bath while the water cools around him. He thinks about his parents, going about their daily tasks despite their grief for the child who hadn’t even lived a day; his mother cooking, shopping, struggling to contain her sadness. How the hell do you cope with the death of a child? It’s something he can’t even contemplate. He slides down, dropping his shoulders under the water to soak away the tension. Downstairs, Fiona has put on a CD – Elgar, because it’s good for the baby apparently – and he’s neither particularly listening to nor ignoring the music when he suddenly becomes intensely aware of it, moved by the deep, rich tone of some notes, the