WINE WITH AUDREY

Mrs Macfarlane had been back at work a month. It had been a struggle to re-adjust, but she understood purposeful routine was necessary. She worked part-time at the florist on the high street and was finding a certain comfort to be found here, amongst the flowers and plants. She was surrounded by rich colour and heady scents which were soothing to potter amongst and inhale. She had returned to work sooner than (some) expected but valued this job as it allowed her to be creative. She was happy interacting with customers, selecting suitable blooms, creating bespoke bouquets, and twirling candy-coloured ribbons. There was joy to be found in a florist, an occasional wreath, yes, but lots of wedding flowers and new baby bouquets. Things to celebrate. She’d always demonstrated artistic flair, but the hectic routines of family life meant professional creative dreams had been pushed to the side. But, it was fine. She had very much wanted to be a wife and mother, after all.

An early (and substantial) side note: Mrs Macfarlane knows nothing of this, but years later it will be here, in this florist, that she meets the only man who ever threatens her marriage. He will enter the shop to buy a bouquet for an ailing mother. She will find half an hour’s immense enjoyment in an otherwise empty shop making floral recommendations, a little flushed from his obvious enchantment. Yes, a drink in a wine bar will follow, and a dinner date, too. She will enjoy the excitement of a clandestine liaison. Future self will indulge in a wash and blow-dry and buy a new golden tube of lipstick. Her current husband will continue to be a kind, somewhat unobservant man, eternally occupied with historical research. It will be unlikely that he notices any subtle change in her appearance. In six or seven years she will find she needs this momentary distraction. There will be an unconscious requirement to feel seen. Menopause (and all its charms) is at present crouching in the shadows. Biding time and waiting to lock eyes.

However, when it does eventually present itself, she won’t pursue this future dalliance beyond dinner. It will simply provide a transitory antidote to the loneliness that will continue to cloud her: teeny molecules of melancholy lingering invisibly over her head. But! Years later still (and after her husband sadly passes away), you will be amazed to know that the ‘flower shop gentleman’ will appear once again! By perfect chance. He will wine and dine this attractive new widow and take her to New York and she will pose for an early morning photograph in front of that famous Fifth Avenue window. Coffee and pastry in hand. Like Audrey. Her namesake.

A story to be shared on another occasion, if it has piqued your interest.

Back to the present.

Ah, the children. Audrey Macfarlane is an excellent mother and has dedicated herself to providing all the love and care she has to offer. As the firstborn was placed in her arms, she found herself overcome; astounded by the little life she and her husband had created. Her baby boy had been born in the hospital, without complication. It was glorious, early spring and she hovered over him in wonder as he slept, a perfect porcelain child bathed in shafts of lemon-y sun. Those magical early days of motherhood: breathing in that baby smell, amazement at little fingers and toes, stroking tufty shocks of dark hair.

Dominic had been an easy child, content to follow her from room to room and sit on her knee for stories and cuddles for what had seemed like years. However, adolescence had upset the harmony and he had evolved to be self-absorbed and distant, preferring the company of his games console. His mother found it hard to accept that her son no longer needed her in quite the same way. However, he still expected/accepted all maternal perks: efficient laundry, home-cooked meals, and regular access to the bank of ‘behind-dad’s-back’. She told herself it was normal; she must not be needy.

Now, Jennie was Mrs Macfarlane’s delight; 5 years younger than her brother and a darling little girl. Her mother had agonised over whether it was possible to love another child with the same ferocity. But, she found herself enchanted on a loop all over again.

She'd been convinced it would be another boy -hadn’t picked any girl's names, even! She found herself cherishing every moment. Another beautiful baby who settled into family and routine with ‘not so much as a blink’. Baby Jennie was so ‘good’ that once, her mother forgot all about her and retired to bed. Mrs Macfarlane awoke in a blind panic at two in the morning: Jennie was sitting in her little bouncy chair alone in the lounge, little eyes wide open in the darkness. Not a bother on her.

A girly girl in every respect, Jennie was dancing as soon as she could walk. The moment she was old enough, she was enrolled in ballet class and mother and daughter threw themselves into this shared hobby. Mrs Macfarlane somewhat vicariously. It was a monthly treat to go shopping at a specialist dance shop in the city. Whilst Jennie skipped about the store and charmed shop assistants and customers alike, Mrs Macfarlane replenished little tights of the palest rose, bought petite wool wrap tops and diminutive satin ballet shoes onto which she would stitch baby pink ribbons bought from the haberdashers on the local high street. She encouraged her daughter into pint-sized tutus reserved for twirling around the house. A palette of delicate candyfloss colours perfectly becoming of a little fairy. And this is what the name Jennie means: white fairy. Mrs Macfarlane had not chosen this with any foresight, however, it could not have been more perfect.

Mr Macfarlane worked hard to keep everyone in comfort and tutu, and his wife took pride in running the house and children like clockwork. Oh, she knew what bills to settle, when larger school shoes were required, and haircuts were overdue. She enjoyed planning weekly meals and selecting wholesome ingredients. Her husband kept a healthy balance in the household account and left her to make decisions regarding the children and manage the money as she saw fit.

It was a habit after work to make a refreshing cup of Earl Grey, pad up the immaculate cream stairs and call out to her daughter. A golden hour spent together before the evening meal demanded preparation. First, she would look in on her son and enquire about his day. Her presence was not wanted, and she left him to it. Took no offence.

Jennie, however, was hungry for her mother’s company and met her with the widest and prettiest of smiles. Mrs Macfarlane was happy to engage in whatever enthusiastic activity Jennie wanted in the cosy little bedroom. A little girl's dream, all carefully curated by an adoring mother. A low white wooden bed. Matching duvet and curtains scattered with tiny rosebuds. A wardrobe full of adorable outfits hanging on little satin hangers, each one decorated with a tiny bow. Mrs Macfarlane never tired of peeking in to marvel at the contents. Even though she knew exactly what was in there: pretty pastel dresses with lacey collars, pinafores with pockets, soft sherbet-y jumpers and cardigans. She would flick through the hangers and awaken sweet wafts of fabric softener.

Mrs Macfarlane loved doing laundry. There was something so satisfying about the cleansing and maintaining of clothes. She was ‘mistress of the stain’. There was nothing she couldn’t remove. She enjoyed ironing and folding neatly -made the time to hang and put away carefully. She took pleasure in organising her daughter's little items; everything neatly arranged in a child-size chest of drawers. She did the same for her son and her husband of course, but it simply wasn’t as rewarding, and mostly went unnoticed by the recipients of such careful laundering. She considered her maternal skills a talent. This was her calling. She refused to give rise to occasional inklings that she’d ‘wasted’ her university education. Absolutely not. Motherhood was a job of the utmost importance -if not the most important.

And this is why Mrs Macfarlane had made a decision.

It was too late to have another child naturally, however, they could offer a child in need a secure and loving home. Preferably another little girl. A playmate- a sister!

She made an informal appointment to visit her husband's study and pitch her idea. These days, the study had become his hiding place. Mr Macfarlane listened to his wife patiently from behind a desk littered with books and journals. A historical documentary about Ancient Greece was playing on the study VCR and he turned the sound down respectfully. He sensed his full attention was required because his wife appeared a little manic; she hadn’t seemed to notice that a substantial amount of hair had escaped her usually neat chignon. 

Despite a poker face, Mrs Macfarlane could tell her husband was surprised at the content of her well-rehearsed/carefully considered presentation. She noted the almost undetectable rise of a greying eyebrow: he would never have anticipated such a life-altering family request. It was somewhat extreme after recent events, and this is why she had done her homework. He would not need to challenge her with obvious questions and concerns because she had thought everything through...and she laid it out flawlessly. Mr Macfarlane had enough emotional intelligence to understand this was not a whim; that it was born from her desire to do something positive for a child who would benefit from all their family had to offer.

Mr Macfarlane had to admit the idea was admirable; a testament to her kind and giving nature. He studied his wife's face. He was fifteen years her senior, and she was still as beautiful as the day he had married her, albeit a little shot-through with recent events. This was a big decision, but he trusted that she wanted to pursue it for the right reasons. They could afford it. So, yes, she had his blessing to look into it if that’s what she wanted. He tentatively suggested a foster placement, rather than an adoption. Did she not think that was safer? If everything went well for both parties, then perhaps they could look to permanently adopt the child in the future? If indeed that was an option. A pause.

Mrs Macfarlane blinked. He attempted a little joke: what about a cat instead?

It cheered him to hear her laugh. Yes! A couple of rescue kittens. But not instead...as well.

He was in fact more perceptive than his wife conceded and had noted some unconscious adjustments to her evening routine. After clearing away dinner, as there was no longer a demand for baths and bedtime stories, she would sink into the sofa and seek solo comfort in her favourite movie.

‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’ -this was wine with Audrey time.

She kept the sound low (knew the dialogue by heart) and cradled a large glass of red wine. He noticed she was oblivious if he travelled from study to kitchen for an evening cup of tea; appeared to be staring through the screen, completely lost in thought. Once, he saw her whispering (the dialogue?) under her breath.

It was important to him that she was happy.

Mrs Macfarlane flung herself into making enquiries about the fostering process. She didn’t share her plans with the children, it was far too soon. A renewed sense of vigour further elevated her practical motherly deposits. She would escape to Jennie’s room in that precious hour before preparing dinner, and throw herself into animated play hopeful that her daughter might soon have a ‘sister’ to share everything. Mother and daughter hosted teddy tea parties with a miniature china tea set and (real) custard creams. Drew felt tip pictures together. Dress-up routines were fully indulged and they invented fantastical fairy-tale scenarios to perform to an appreciative dolly audience. They cuddled up on the bed getting lost in ‘Charlotte’s Webb’ or ‘The Secret Garden’. Whichever book took their fancy.

After, in full fancy dress, Jennie would trail after her mother and help peel vegetables, measure out rice, or make pastry for a juicy deep-filled pie. She would sit on a breakfast stool wearing a little apron to protect her costume and drink juice with a stripy straw. Mrs Macfarlane would chat. Dominic might appear for a can of coke or a pre-dinner snack: ‘Don’t spoil your appetite!’ He would briefly observe the scene before returning upstairs as quickly as he had arrived. His mother was embarrassing.

One Friday, a treat: her husband called from work to say he’d pick up fish and chips for dinner. No need to cook. Playtime extended! Mrs Macfarlane agreed it was a great idea -but she found such stodge hard to comfortably digest; she would make herself something simple, later. Mr Macfarlane returned with two neat packages of warm delicious-smelling fish and chips. The kitchen was empty. He removed his overcoat and scarf and dropped his briefcase into the study; sat in his chair for a moment and organised some papers he intended to work through later that evening. Glanced at the photograph of his beloved little daughter on the bookshelf. She was sporting a cagoule and laughing as the wind whipped her dark hair. She looked so vibrant and healthy. He was jogged from his memories by a delicious whiff of dinner and his stomach growled:

‘Dom! Fish and chips!’ he called up the stairs. A few moments later, his son appeared in the doorway wearing nothing but tracksuit bottoms.

‘Aren’t you cold?’

‘Nah.’

‘You could at least wear a shirt at the table. It’s good manners.’

The Macfarlane males began the meal in silence.

‘Where’s your mother?’

‘Upstairs.’

‘What’s she up to?’

‘In Jennie’s room.’

‘I see.’

Bare-chested Dominic raised both eyebrows. His father read the para language.

‘Leave her be. She’s organising for your new sibling.’ (News since shared).

‘Is he going in that room, then?’

‘She. Keep up. And no. The box room.’

‘She fucking talks to herself, you know.’

‘Please refrain from that language, Dominic...I talk to myself. It’s normal.’

‘It’s weird.’

Mr Macfarlane felt suddenly protective of his wife:

‘We’ve all been through a lot. I ask you to be understanding. And kind.’

‘She’s always in Jennie’s room. There was glitter all over the carpet the other day, crayons and toys all over the place.’

Mr Macfarlane stopped chewing and looked sharply at his son.

Dominic slid his plate into the sink -no thought of the dishwasher, and retreated upstairs to the ZX Spectrum. His father tidied the kitchen, flicked on the kettle and made a cup of Earl Grey. Instead of heading back to the study as planned, he carefully carried the tea upstairs and tapped on his daughter’s bedroom door. No invitation to enter was forthcoming. The sidelight bathed the room in a cosy glow. Jennie’s toys were strewn about, and yes, sparkles of glitter caught his eye as he scanned the cream carpet. His wife was lying on the small bed, facing the wall.

‘Audrey. I’ve brought you a nice cup of tea...but, now I think about it, it’s not too early for a glass of wine.                 Join me?’

Mrs Macfarlane turned:

‘Tea? Oh, thank you. But, yes… I think wine! What time is it?’

‘It’s gone six.’ He perched awkwardly on the little bed.

‘Well in that case, most definitely a glass of wine.’

Her cheeks were wet. He’d found it all just as crippling, but he hid it well.

‘What have you been up to in here?’

She swung her legs around to sit by his side, suddenly animated:

‘Oh, well. I’ve been busy! Sorting through stuff. There are some lovely bits I want to share with the new child…and I didn’t tell you… I constructed a little flat-pack bookshelf for the box room. I’m quite impressed with myself.’

Mr Macfarlane studied his wife’s face. Her hair was a little scruffy, and her eyelashes were wet. She still had her lipstick on. He took her hand and examined her fingers; the bright red nail polish she favoured. Her wedding band twinkled.

She smiled brightly at him, but couldn’t disguise a tiny chin wobble. With thumb and forefinger, he gently shook her chin and then softly brushed the tears from her cheeks.

‘You’re doing so well.’

‘Trying.’

‘I… want to support you better...we need to support each other.’

‘Yes.’

He patted her hand. Gently from the doorway:

‘I’ll pour you a glass… follow me down?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘I’ve got a good Châteauneuf in the study. It was a gift, let’s open that.’ She nodded enthusiastically.

‘I’m looking forward to our new arrival. You’ll be a wonderful mother to this child too.’

‘I’ll do all I can.’

‘And you understand, don’t you?

‘What?’

‘You understand that we can’t simply replace one child with another?’

‘Yes.’

He believed her.

‘Lots to look forward to, yes? Don’t be long, I’ll meet you in the lounge.’

‘Oh?’

‘I thought we might watch ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s…’ his eyes twinkled. Left the door ajar.

Mrs Macfarlane took a deep breath and patted her chignon. Took in the beautiful room she had created for her daughter.

Her dead daughter.

Idly wondered if the wardrobe would fit in the box room? She’d look forward to spoiling this new little girl with pretty outfits.

She rose and smoothed her skirt, glanced down as the light caught a multitude of fairy playtime sparkles scattered all over the carpet. She’d hoover tomorrow.

She snapped off the sidelight and walked to the door in her stocking feet. A last glance:

 I miss you. So very deeply.



Softly, she closed the door. Sleep well white fairy.

And with that, she padded down the stairs to spend an evening with her husband and drink wine…

with Audrey.