by Rachel Joyce
‘With your aunt?’
‘Me and Darren would come too.’
Jim twists his hands. He tries to explain he would love to go for a drink with Paula and Darren but he already has a date. She makes a squashed face that suggests she is impressed. He says in a rush that his date is Eileen, because he can’t help it, he is longing to tell someone, only now she looks struck.
‘Eileen? The woman who ran you over?’
‘It was an accident.’
He laughs but Paula doesn’t. She shrugs and begins to move away. She stoops to pick up a tin can someone has dropped and says as she aims it for the bin. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’
15
The Concert
IT WAS A beautiful day for a concert. Rain had been forecast the previous night but there was not a sign of it when Byron woke at dawn. There was blue sky and a soft rose-coloured light over the moor. The meadow was already thick with clashing pockets of flowers. There were purple thistles, pink and white clover, orange trefoil, and yellow bundles of lady’s bedstraw. Unfortunately the upper lawn was also deep in grass and spotted with daisies. The roses sprawled every which way over the pagoda and swung thorny branches across the path.
Byron reassured himself that James was right, that the concert was a good idea. His mother was still sleeping. It seemed wise to leave her like that as long as possible.
He wasn’t sure how to go about cleaning a house but now that he looked, he saw something needed to be done before the guests arrived. Not knowing where to put dirty linen and dishes, he decided to stow them in the kitchen drawers where no one would notice. He retrieved the mop and a bucket and had a go at the kitchen floor. He didn’t know why there was so much water. He tried to remember how his mother did it and all he could picture was the day of the accident when she had rushed to clear the spilt milk and broken jug, and cut her hand. Diana had been right. It seemed a very long time since that morning in early June when everything began.
There was considerable difficulty with the delivery of Beverley’s organ. The van got stuck in one of the narrow steep lanes leading up to the house, and the driver had to go back to town and ring from a telephone box to ask for help.
‘I want to speak to your mother,’ he said.
Byron said she was currently inconvenienced.
‘I’m bloody inconvenienced as well,’ said the driver.
Four men carried it round to the back of the house so that they could heave it through the French windows. Their faces were red and shiny with effort. Byron didn’t know whether he was supposed to give them anything and all he could think of was fruit. They asked if he knew his alphabet and he said he did but when they asked what came after ‘s’ he got confused and said ‘r’. He noticed the way the men looked round the kitchen, and he didn’t know if it was because it looked right or because it looked wrong.
‘Does the kitchen look like a kitchen?’ he asked Lucy as he found and washed her Peter Rabbit bowl.
There was no time for her reply because he had just noticed the state of her. Her hair was tangled, her socks didn’t even match, and her dress had a big tear all the way from the pocket.
‘Lucy, when did you last have a bath?’
‘I don’t know, Byron. Nobody has run me one.’
There seemed to be so much to organize. There were no cereals in any of the boxes and so he made Lucy a sugar sandwich. Afterwards he pinned open the French windows and carried the dining-room chairs as well as the kitchen stools to the terrace to form a half-circle facing the house. The organ sat in an arc of sunlight, just inside the French windows. Lucy slipped from the breakfast bar and poised her fingers over the glossed wood lid.
‘I would like to play the organ,’ she murmured.
Byron scooped her in his arms and carried her upstairs. And while he washed her hair with Pears soap he asked if she had any idea about sewing because he didn’t seem to have enough buttons on his shirt.
When Andrea finally arrived with a tall young man in a suit, he thought for a moment that everything had gone wrong, that she had left James behind.
‘Hello, there,’ called a squeaky voice.
Byron was shocked. It was only six weeks since the end of term but James had become a different person. He was taller. His soft gold hair was completely gone. Where he had once had a flopping fringe, there was only a short crop of mouse-brown hair and below it a pale stretch of forehead bursting with pimples. On his upper lip there were tiny brushstrokes of a moustache. They shook hands and then Byron withdrew a few paces because it was like meeting someone he did not know.
‘Everything set?’ said James. He kept going to swipe his fringe and finding he hadn’t got one and rubbing his forehead instead.
‘All set,’ said Byron.
‘But where is your mother?’ said Andrea. She cast her eyes over the house as if every time she looked it turned into a different shape.
Byron said she was fetching the performer and her daughter. He omitted to mention that, due to the lack of a wristwatch, she was late.
‘Such a tragedy about her child,’ murmured Andrea. ‘James told me the whole story.’
To his surprise, all the invited guests arrived. Not only that, they had clearly dressed for the occasion. The new mother had blow-dried her hair into flicks; Deirdre Watkins had gone so far as to have a perm. She kept touching the tight curls as if they might fall out and crimping them up with her fingers.
‘Well of course it’s a look that worked for Charles the First,’ said Andrea.
There was a pause where no one knew what to say. Andrea gripped Deirdre’s arm to show she meant no harm, she was only joking. The women laughed heartily. ‘You mustn’t mind me,’ said Andrea.
They had come bearing gifts of Tupperware boxes of salad and cakes. There was coleslaw, Russian salad, devilled kidneys, cheese straws, stuffed grapes, olives, mushrooms and prunes. They produced flasks from their handbags which they poured into glasses and passed round. As the women unpacked the food on the garden table there was a high buzz of excitement. It was such a good idea to meet again, they agreed; so generous of Diana to suggest the concert. They talked as if they had been kept away from each other for years. They spoke of the summer holidays, the children, the lack of routine. They asked one another what they had heard about Jeanie’s appalling injury, as they snapped off plastic lids and set out paper plates. They asked what Byron knew about the poor little girl with the caliper. It was terrifying, they agreed, that something like that could happen to a child, simply because of a small accident. No one seemed to know about Diana’s involvement in her injury. No one mentioned Digby Road, but it would only be a matter of time before they found out, he was sure of it. He could barely move for worry.
When his mother drew up in the drive with the performer and Jeanie, Byron led a small round of applause because he wasn’t sure what else to do. Beverley and her daughter both sat in the back of the car in sunglasses. Beverley wore a new black maxi dress with a spangled motif of a rabbit that jumped slightly around her breasts. ‘I am so nervous,’ she kept saying. She lifted Jeanie out of the car and into her pushchair and the women parted as she made her way to the house. Byron asked how her leg was and Jeanie nodded to show it was still the same.
‘She may never walk again,’ said Beverley. Several of the mothers murmured their sympathy and offered their help with moving her pushchair inside the house.
‘It’s my hands,’ said Beverley. ‘I get terrible pains in my hands. Though my pain is nothing compared to hers. It’s her future that bothers me. When I think of what that poor child is going to need.’
Byron had expected Beverley to be nervous, to be sheepish with the women, especially after the coffee morning where they had talked right over her and laughed, but she was the opposite. She was in her element. She shook each of them by the hand and said how lovely it was to meet them. She took care to memorize everyone’s name, repeating it as soon as they told her.
‘And
rea, how nice. Deirdre, how nice. Sorry,’ she said to the new mother, ‘I didn’t catch your name.’
It was Diana who looked out of place. Now that he saw her in the context of the other Winston House women, he realized how far from them she had strayed. Her blue cotton dress hung from her shoulders like someone else’s and her hair was so limp round her face it looked empty of colour. She couldn’t even seem to remember what to say. One of the mothers mentioned the Olympics, and another said Olga Korbut was a darling, but his mother merely bit her lip. Then James announced, as a sort of prompt, that he had prepared a few words by way of introduction, but Beverley insisted it was Diana’s place to speak.
‘Oh no, please,’ murmured Diana. ‘I couldn’t.’
She tried to take a seat in the audience but the mothers insisted too. Just a few words, sang out Andrea. James ran to offer Diana his prepared speech.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Goodness.’
She took her place on the terrace. She stared down at the words. The piece of paper jigged in her hands.
‘Friends, mothers, children. Good afternoon.’
There were allusions to charity, music, and something else about the future. Whatever it was she was saying, she could barely be heard. She had to keep stopping sentences and starting them afresh. She plucked at the skin of her wrist and then twisted her fingers through her hair. It was as if she couldn’t even read. Unable to bear any more, Byron led another round of applause. Fortunately Lucy, who was busy scowling from her dining-room chair at Jeanie, clearly thought the concert was over and shot to her feet shouting, ‘Hurrah! Hurrah! Now can we have tea?’ It was humiliating for Lucy, not least because something funny had happened with her hair since he washed it and it looked like flat ribbons, but at least her response broke the ice and everyone stopped staring at Diana.
So this was the first shock of the afternoon; that she was so publicly not herself. The second – and this was less of a shock and more of a surprise – was that Beverley could play. She could really play. What she maybe lacked in natural talent, she had more than made up for in application. Once Diana had crept to a seat in order to watch, Beverley waited for the applause to build, and then fade into silence. She walked efficiently to her place at the centre of the stage, holding her sheet music under one arm and lifting the hem of her maxi dress with the other. She took her seat in front of the organ. She closed her eyes, she lifted her hands over the white keyboard and she began.
Beverley’s fingers ran over the notes and the coloured dials danced in front of her, like a series of small fireworks. The women sat up sharp. They nodded approvingly and exchanged glances. She followed her classical piece with a more popular film track, then she played a short piece by Bach, followed by a Carpenters medley. Byron pulled close the curtains between each piece to allow her time to compose herself and arrange her sheet music, while outside James handed out plates of refreshments to the women. The chatter was loud and there was laughter. At first Byron stood to one side while he waited for Beverley to prepare for her next piece, simply pretending he wasn’t there. She was clearly nervous. As soon as the curtains were drawn she took deep breaths, she smoothed her hair, she whispered to herself little words of encouragement. But as she grew in confidence, as the applause grew more animated and excited, she too seemed to become less isolated, more aware of herself within the context of her audience. Once he had closed the curtains at the end of her sixth piece, she glanced at him and smiled. She asked if he would make her a jug of Sunquick. And when he poured her a glass, she said, ‘What a lovely group of women.’
Glancing through a crack in the curtains, he saw James offering Jeanie a Party Ring biscuit. She sat right in the middle of the front row, with her leg buckled tight in its leather caliper. James was staring hard.
‘I’m ready for my last piece, Byron,’ called Beverley.
He gave a ‘Her herm’ for silence and pulled the curtains open.
Beverley waited. And then, instead of playing her organ, she twisted on her stool to face the audience. She opened her mouth to speak.
She began by expressing how much she wanted to thank the women. Their support meant so much. Her voice was thin and high-pitched, and Byron had to dig his nails into his palms in order not to scream. It had been a hard summer and, without Di’s kindness, she didn’t know how she would have survived. ‘Di has been here for me all the way through. She has stopped at nothing to help me. Because I must admit there were times when I’ – and here she trailed off and merely gave a brave smile. ‘This is not the time to be sad. This is a happy occasion. So my last piece is a favourite of me and Di’s. It’s by Donny Osmond. I don’t know if any of you know him?’
The new mother called out, ‘Aren’t you a bit old for Donny? What about Wayne?’ but Beverley countered with ‘Oh, Di likes them young. Don’t you, Di?’
The mothers appeared to be drinking from flasks. Everyone laughed, even Beverley.
‘Well this is for you,’ she said, ‘whatever your preference.’ Lifting her hands over the organ she encouraged the audience to sing along if they felt the inclination. ‘And why don’t you come up to the front and dance for us, Di?’
His mother blanched as if she had been hit with a stone. ‘I couldn’t. I can’t.’
Beverley stopped. She shared a confiding look with her audience. ‘True to form, she is being modest. But I have seen her dance and you’ve got to believe me. She’s the most beautiful mover. She was born to it. Weren’t you, Di? She could make a man go weak.’
‘Please no,’ murmured Diana.
But Beverley was having none of it. She walked to Diana’s chair and offered to help her. As Diana rose to her feet, Beverley removed her hands to lead another round of applause, only somehow Diana must have already been leaning on her, and she gave a small lurch forward.
‘Whoa there!’ laughed Beverley. ‘Maybe we should put down that glass, Di?’
The women laughed but Diana insisted on keeping it.
It was like watching a chained animal being brought out and poked with a stick. It should never have happened. Even as Beverley led his mother forward, Diana still tried to object, she tried to suggest she couldn’t dance, but by now the women had the bit between their teeth and they insisted. She tripped as she moved past the chairs and made her way to the front. Byron tried to get James’s attention. He tried to make frantic movements with his hands and shake his head. He tried to mouth, ‘Stop, stop,’ but James had eyes for no one except Diana. He watched her with a face so crimson he looked burnt. He barely moved. It was as if he had never seen anything so beautiful. He waited for her to dance.
Diana took up her place on the terrace, pale and small in her blue dress. She seemed to take up too little space. She still had her glass in her hand but she had clearly forgotten shoes. Behind her sat Beverley, her black hair puffed out, her hands poised over the keys of her organ. Byron could not look. The music began.
It was Beverley’s best piece. She brought in flourishes, she played a chord that was so sad she almost stopped, then she played the chorus with such enthusiasm that several of the mothers began to sing. Meanwhile, centre stage, his mother drifted up and down the terrace like a rag caught on water. She lifted her hands, she fluttered her fingers, but she kept tripping, and it was hard to tell what was dancing and what was a mistake. It was like watching something so private, so internal, it should not be watched. It was like looking right inside his mother and seeing only her terrible fragility. It was too much. As soon as the music stopped, she had the composure to stand and give a small bow, before turning to Beverley and lifting her hands in brief applause. Beverley gave a swift curtsey and ran to clutch Diana.
There was no mention of the accident. There was no mention of Digby Road. Beverley simply held tight to Diana and moved her up and down in a shared bow and it was like watching a new act, one that involved a ventriloquist and a doll.
His mother made her excuses to get away. She needed a glass of water, she sai
d, but overhearing her, Andrea offered to go to the kitchen and fetch it. Minutes later, Andrea emerged laughing good-humouredly.
‘I’ve seen some funny things, Diana, but it’s the first time I’ve opened a kitchen drawer and found socks in there.’
Byron could barely breathe. Beverley talked animatedly with the mothers while Diana removed herself to the sidelines and sat with her hands in her lap. A few of the mothers asked if she needed anything, if she felt all right, but she gazed back at them as if she didn’t understand. When Byron and James carried the chairs back to the dining room he took the opportunity to ask James what he thought, now he had seen Jeanie’s injury for himself, but James wasn’t listening. He could only talk about the success of his concert. He had no idea Diana could dance like that, he said.
Outside Beverley was sitting beside Jeanie in the middle of the mothers. She aired her views on politics, the state of the country, the prospect of strikes. She asked what they thought about Margaret Thatcher and when several women lifted their hands to their mouths and hollered, ‘Milk snatcher,’ she shook her head. ‘You mark my words, that woman’s the future,’ she said. He had never seen her so sure of herself, so animated. She told them about her father, the vicar, and how she had been brought up in a beautiful country vicarage that was really like Cranham House, when she thought about it. They exchanged telephone numbers, they suggested visits. And when one of the mothers, the new one perhaps, offered Beverley a lift and help with Jeanie’s pushchair, she said that would be so lovely, if they could spare the time.
‘It’s my hands. It’s a wonder I can play, my hands get so bad. Look at poor Di. She’s worn out.’
Everyone agreed the concert had been a tremendous success. ‘Goodbye, goodbye, Di!’ they called as they took up their empty Tupperware and headed back to their cars. As soon as they were gone, his mother poured herself a glass of water and drifted upstairs. When he checked half an hour later, she was already asleep.
