Page 35 of The Pieces of Us

The fragrant production circle at our kitchen table is working flat out.

The sooner we meet our quota, the sooner we have the luxury of free time – a rarity in this diligent home.

Reenie and Aoife want to go to play with Laura from round the corner, because she has an actual tree house in her back garden.

I want to shut my bedroom door and listen to ABBA and drown out the sound of Sandra begging me to curl her hair.

‘Why am I always in charge of rice?’ Sandra grumbles.

‘I’ll do it,’ Aoife pipes up. She digs her hand into the bowl of uncooked rice, letting the grains trickle between her fingers.

‘Everyone just stick to their own task, please,’ Mam says firmly.

‘Here, you can help me cut the cotton.’ I put my arms round Aoife’s waist and draw her on to my lap, avoiding eye contact with my mother. I let my sister curl her small fingers round the handles of the dressmaking scissors and place my own on top of them, holding them tightly in place.

‘We cut along Mam’s chalk line, see?’ Together, taking our time, we slice through the fabric.

I turn the piece over and add it to the pile; we’ve chosen a festive print with holly and red berries on an ivory background.

In a couple of weeks all our friends, relatives and neighbours will have a lavender-scented drawer sachet.

‘We should be using a more Christmassy scent,’ Sandra says. ‘Frankincense or myrrh. Like in the Bible.’

‘Well, it’s always lavender,’ Mam replies. ‘It’s a family tradition. I used to make these with my mother when I was a girl.’ She takes a square of muslin from the pile and within seconds she and her Singer – her prized possession – have created a neat drawstring pouch.

Reenie has the best job – mixing the rice, Epsom salts, dried lavender buds and lavender oil, then spooning it into the pouch. Mam says it’s because she has the steadiest hand, but the rest of us know it’s pure favouritism.

‘Almost there, girls.’ Mam casts her eye over the table and nods approvingly. ‘My hard workers. We do make a good team. More rice in the bowl please, Sandra.’

Our reward is a scented sachet of our own to replace last year’s dried-out handiwork. I can think of several more favourable expressions of gratitude. Sandra tucks hers under her pillow, claiming it helps her fall asleep. I bury mine at the bottom of my underwear drawer.

As we reach the end of the session, the basket in front of us piled high with pouches, Reenie and Aoife wander off and Mam doesn’t bother trying to coax them back.

‘You can go too, Sandra,’ she says over the chuka , chuka , chuka of her needle punching the fabric.

Sandra doesn’t have to be told twice. She bolts from the table and clatters up the stairs to her bedroom.

I’m not excused. As the eldest, I must stay until the bitter end. I load a spoon with the lavender mixture, dump it into a pouch with a little less care than I know Mam would like.

‘How are you feeling, Beth?’ It sounds like she’s trying to make her voice nonchalant; it doesn’t work.

‘About what?’ I gather up the mess I’ve made on the tablecloth and squeeze it into a pouch.

‘Are you feeling well?’ she asks tightly.

I shrug. ‘I suppose.’

‘We’ll need to start preparing for the move soon.’

‘We?’

She stops sewing and looks at me, notices the rice grains and lavender buds on the tablecloth. She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment.

‘Well, I’m not really part of this, am I?’ I hiss at her. ‘None of this is my decision. You’ll just decide everything and I’ll be expected to go along with it, as usual.’

Mam sighs. ‘None of this is my decision either, Beth. Do you think I would choose this for you? That your father would?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ I mutter. ‘He doesn’t talk to me. Barely even looks at me. I think he’s going to ignore me for the rest of his life.’

‘It’s very difficult for him. Very difficult indeed.’

‘It’s not exactly easy for me. Have you ever thought about that?’ I bite my lip. The smell of the lavender, always distinct, is making me feel nauseous.

‘Yes, I’m aware of that,’ Mam says. ‘But I’d like you to take some responsibility for this … situation. You have absolutely no reason to be angry with your father or me.’

‘And you have all the reasons in the world to be angry with me.’

‘We’re not angry with you, Beth.’

‘Of course you are.’ I dig my nails into the pouch. In my head I see the mixture hitting my mother’s face, covering her cheeks, her nose, her chin.

‘No, Beth. Not angry. Just disappointed,’ she says.

‘That’s worse,’ I tell her.

Her mouth stays closed, her lips unyielding.

‘What’s this place like, anyway? How can they call it a mother and baby home when they snatch the babies from their mothers?’

Mam sighs. ‘That’s not what happens, Beth.’

I challenge her with a glare and cold, hard silence. But my mother comes from tough stock. She looks back at me until I look away.

‘You’ll see,’ she says. ‘And you’ll understand, when you’re older, why this is the right thing to do.’

‘Where will my baby go? How do you know she’ll be looked after?’

Mam raises her eyebrows. ‘ She? ’

I rub my belly. ‘It’s a girl. I can feel it.’

Finally she’s speechless. She can’t say anything, because she’s told us all that every time she was pregnant she knew what she was having – she just knew. And she was right every time.

Girl or boy, I don’t want a baby. But I don’t want to go to the mother and baby home, either.

I don’t want to give birth, there or anywhere else.

I don’t want to give away my baby. I can feel saliva pooling in my mouth, then the muscles below my neck contracting until bile is rising in my throat and I’m not sure I’m going to make it to the toilet in time.

The solitude and the cool, smooth porcelain against my forehead brings temporary relief, but I can still smell lavender and there’s something else that’s sending my abdomen into violent spasms.

A memory: pressure on my shoulders, sharpness beneath my back, cold air on my exposed breasts.

The sound of my own voice, quiet at first, then gradually became louder.

‘No. No. No .’ An explosion of liquid pain between my legs and a complete absence of light because my eyes were squeezed shut.

They stayed that way until the door closed with a thud behind Mr Dunlop’s confident footsteps.