The Cactus

by Sarah Haywood

I wouldn’t tell anyone at the office of my mother’s death. I could imagine the orgy of fussing and sighing, the clammy embraces and the expressions of sorrow for the loss of someone they’d never met and didn’t even know existed. Not really my sort of thing.

As I left the office building and was assaulted once more by the heat radiating up from the paving slabs, I was pleased with the front I’d managed to put up all day, despite the constant onslaught from my colleagues. No one would ever have guessed. But, then again, I have no difficulty concealing my feelings from others. You’ll see—it’s a talent I have.

In contrast, as my taxi pulled away from New Street station and headed toward Blackthorn Road, I felt the disquiet I’ve always experienced on returning there. Perhaps that feeling derives from my almost pathological phobia of suburban life, of its seductive insularity and mesmerizing obsession with the mundane.

I have the terrifying sensation that my carefully constructed life in London is simply the dream of an unhappy girl, a dream from which I’m about to be woken.

Now he was upright, I couldn’t help noticing how ridiculously tall he was. Some people might find such height attractive, but, as far as I’m concerned, anything over six feet is excessive and smacks of attention-seeking.

Edward was put out by Uncle Harold’s lack of bonhomie and removed his arm.

Uncle Harold, who was used to dealing with obstreperous underlings, endeavored to take charge of the situation, but was regaled by Edward with a barrage of obscenities.

By now the miniature vivarium in my abdomen was becoming a distraction and annoyance to me.

Her arms were as strong as navvies’, which I assumed was from the manual labor involved in ministering to small children.

I’d come up with some novel ways of improving personal efficiency and thus increasing individual targets. I was sure my colleagues would be pleased.

Aunt Sylvia asking her gofer to tell me that she was really, really sorry but she was completely up to her neck in it, and that she’d definitely give me a buzz later. Her avowals, however, were as false as her nails, her eyelashes and the dazzling blue of her eyes.

My relatives weren’t yet there; it was evidently too early in the day for them to face the arduous task of being pampered.

Crossing the room, I noted that the men reclining on the loungers were as portly and hirsute as the women were skinny and hairless. All looked equally vacuous.

He would have worried that his febrile eagerness would show on his face, which might cause our mother to hesitate and question what she was about to do.

My primary defense strategy was to avoid making friends so that nobody would be tempted to call at my house and encounter my father. I achieved this by refusing to join in with playground games, turning down invitations to other children’s houses and parties, and generally keeping to myself. My second defense strategy was to avoid going anywhere in public with my father. Unfortunately, that wasn’t always possible.

I did contemplate feigning a chronic ongoing illness, but I knew I couldn’t stay off school forever. And anyway, I told myself, I was tough, already proficient at detaching myself from what was going on around me and stifling any emotional reaction to it.

I ask if we can go rock-pooling at the local beach.

I was feeling frustrated by the lack of useful information I’d so far managed to winkle out.

The equally malodorous goblin-like creature on my left was Billy, Rob’s assistant and general dogsbody.

“The lovely Susan,” he said, carefully folding over the corner of a page, an uncharacteristic act that made me wince.

I don’t like to be caught off guard. The sole purpose of meeting Richard had been to bestow my munificence; to magnanimously confer on him what I’d decided it was morally right to confer.

I was rather reserved in those days, and found her effusive bonhomie both infuriating (it felt like being battered by a tsunami of affability) and oddly soothing (I had no need to watch what I said, or even, for that matter, to say anything at all).

Even though we both lived in London, I’d managed to limit our rendezvous to once every two or three years, aided and abetted by the busyness of her life.

“Honestly, though, motherhood’s a doddle. I don’t know what all the fuss is about. Just grab the nearest nanny and Bob’s your uncle. Or your childminder.”

So what brings you blinking out into the daylight? I haven’t seen you for donkeys.”

I wouldn’t have described him as a friend at that time. I didn’t need or want friends. He was just someone who happened to be going the same way as me, and who shared some of my interests. I tolerated him but was careful not to let him get too close, and I made it quite clear that he wouldn’t be welcome to call at the family home.

Now I’m parentless, rootless, adrift with no anchor. No, I retract that. I have no idea why such weak-minded thoughts have started to form in my head. As you’re aware, I’ve always been the author of my own destiny. We can choose how to define ourselves, and I define myself as an autonomous and resourceful woman. What I lack in terms of family and other close personal relationships is more than compensated for by my rich inner life, which is infinitely more constant and dependable.

His attitude toward Edward and me, on the occasions when he was sober, appeared to be satisfaction that he’d fathered offspring, mixed with annoyance at the practicalities of interacting with us.

“Anyone would be devastated if their partner ran off with someone else, leaving them with a newborn baby and a demanding toddler, whether they were male, female, feminist or otherwise.” “I wouldn’t be. I’ve organized my life very carefully so that no one could ever cause that kind of devastation. Because I’m not reliant on anyone emotionally or financially, I can’t be hurt. That’s how a feminist is—iron-willed, Teflon-coated, in total control of every aspect of her life.”

“As far as I’m concerned you don’t have to be all, or even any, of those things to call yourself a feminist. What it boils down to is knowing that women are equal to men, and living that knowledge. It’s about ensuring that that equality is recognized in the home, in the workplace, in public life. And it’s about acknowledging that we all—women and men—are strong sometimes, weak sometimes, coolheaded sometimes, emotional sometimes, right sometimes, wrong sometimes. Locking away your feelings and vulnerabilities has got nothing at all to do with it. That’s something else entirely.”

“Maybe. You know, we mightn’t always agree with each other, but I like the fact that you have opinions on things. At least you can be bothered.”

the cactus had evolved spikes, rather than leaves, in order to reduce the surface area through which it could lose water, while still providing some shade for the main body of the plant, often little more than a modified stem; many people, he said, wrongly assumed that spikes served only to ward off predators. He also remarked on the cactus’s thick waxy skin, its well-developed root system and its broad, succulent trunk, all of which facilitated the storage of moisture or the minimization of its loss.

I wasn’t convinced; without my routines I feel like a dinghy cut free of its moorings.

As if to display her credentials she described, in gruesome and intricate detail, the births of her own two children. It was like listening to a war veteran recounting his part in a particularly hard-won battle. I’ve always known I’m perfectly capable of enduring labor and childbirth without someone to hold my hand, metaphorically or otherwise, but, to my surprise, I found it reassuring to think of Kate being there.

I can’t remember the last time I cried. In fact, now that I come to think of it, I have no recollection of ever having done so, although I suppose I must have, as a small child. It’s strange how something you never planned or desired can have such an effect on you.

If it had just been my own health at issue I’d have said the medical profession was making a lot of unnecessary fuss, and discharged myself. But my desire to escape had to be balanced against other considerations, and those considerations weighed more heavily. A stay in the hospital was what it had to be.

There was something about the sisterly atmosphere in that ward—diverse types of women going through different kinds of adversity, but leveled by what our bodies were doing to us—which made me feel I had nothing to hide.

“If you have sole charge of your own destiny no one can let you down.” “Yeah, but we’re about to become mothers, touch wood. We’re stepping onto an emotional roller coaster. We’ll never have complete control of our own lives again. But sometimes you have to lose something to gain something.”

Telling Kate, however, I felt—not guilty, exactly—maybe a little shamefaced. I was starting to wonder if, perhaps, the rational decision isn’t always the best decision.

I experienced a jolt of recognition; it was nothing to do with his appearance—it was something else. The sensation was a little like opening your front door after a long period away; a feeling both that you’re reencountering something familiar and that you’re seeing it anew.

Utterly ridiculous, I know. I feel pitiful even recounting this. I have no idea what on earth we must have looked like: a small, heavily pregnant, immaculately turned-out woman, and a tall, floppy-haired workwear-clad man. My brain had clearly left my head.

The sky was steel gray, and there was a fine drizzle; the sort that seems little more than mist but drenches you in seconds.

“I’m here when you feel ready to open up,” he said. He might have a long wait.

I already felt under siege, bombarded, almost overwhelmed by wave after wave of assault on my psyche. I wasn’t sure how much more I could take.

I also had a large cardboard box under my arm into which were packed my cacti. I didn’t trust any of my colleagues to look after them; no doubt they would drench them, completely disregarding the fact that such plants have evolved to thrive in arid conditions.

It was as if I’d played a seven-letter word in Scrabble, only to find that my opponent can not only do the same, but can use a triple-word-score square.

And does the truth make me feel free? It does not. I feel imprisoned by it, defined by it. I was never who I believed I was; far from being the protagonist in my own story I’ve simply been a minor character in someone else’s.

Sometimes, though, self-preservation causes us to look away.

“That’s not the way I see things. But we’ll never know. I don’t always find it easy to work out people’s motivations.” “Join the club.”

In the distance, I can hear a woman screaming, and another making mooing noises. I have no intention of behaving in such a manner. I’ve always been very good with pain.