‘Never mind, Gran. It’ll come to you, I expect.’
‘It’s all right, I won’t play,’ Reuben said, though Hilly could tell his fingers were itching with Gershwin. He didn’t have a piano at home, only an electronic keyboard which he said wasn’t the same at all. ‘Let’s hope she won’t take offence if you do.’
But Heidigran fell asleep in her chair, leaving her tea to go cold; she did not stir throughout the lesson, nor afterwards when Hilly and Reuben went outside to sit on the grass, nor when Reuben left for his concert rehearsal. She did not wake until Rose came in from the gym; then she blinked a few times, fixed a disapproving stare on Hilly, and told her: ‘You shouldn’t associate with that young man, you know. It’ll get you into trouble.’
‘Oh? What young man’s this?’ Rose teased, unlacing her trainers.
‘What on earth do you mean, Gran?’ said Hilly, thinking for a second that Heidigran was confusing her with Zoë. ‘Oh – you mean Reuben again?’
‘Did you know she’s had a young man here while you’ve been out at work?’ Heidigran said waspishly to Rose.
‘Has Reuben been round? Sorry I missed him,’ said Rose, who was fond of Reuben.
‘Gran, he’s my friend, has been for years and years—’
‘You shouldn’t let her,’ Heidigran told Rose. ‘Jewish, isn’t he?’
Hilly caught her breath. She saw her mother’s expression as she looked up guardedly: not so much surprised as resigned.
It was Hilly who answered: ‘No, Gran. Reuben isn’t Jewish. What if he was?’
‘Tell her, Rose,’ said Heidigran sharply. ‘You should have put a stop to this long ago.’
‘Mum, Reuben’s Hilly’s best friend. We all know him well. He’s not going to make trouble! As Hilly says, he isn’t Jewish, and if he was, it wouldn’t make the slightest difference. I really don’t see why you’ve suddenly taken against him.’
‘He’s got a Jewish name,’ Heidigran said, sounding like Zoë in a sulk.
‘Lots of names sound Jewish,’ said Hilly. ‘Gran, you mustn’t say things like this!’
‘I know what I know,’ Heidigran said obstinately. She looked at Rose, and a cunning look came over her face. ‘And so do you. What about that woman Gavin had his fling with, that tarty piece? He was all set to leave you and move in with her, at one time. She was Jewish, wasn’t she? What was her name—?’
‘Who? What woman?’ cried Hilly. ‘Mum, what’s she talking about?’
‘Nothing,’ said her mother, too quickly. ‘She’s getting confused, that’s all. Mum, I think we’d better change the subject. Let me put the TV on for you – one of your videos – d’you want to choose one? Hilly, take no notice.’
‘S. I know it began with S.’ Heidigran, once her mind latched onto something, would not be diverted. ‘Sophie, Sonia – Stella! That was it, Stella!’
Rose had her back to them, turning on the TV, looking for a video. ‘How about this one – The Camomile Lawn? Do you want your knitting?’
‘Yes please, dear,’ Heidigran said, as if her last remarks were quite forgotten. ‘I’ll be needing more wool. Can you get it for me tomorrow?’ she asked Hilly.
Hilly hadn’t moved. ‘Mum!’ she appealed.
‘Forget it. It’s nothing,’ her mother said, not meeting her eye as she went through to the kitchen. Hilly followed, closing the door behind her.
‘What did she mean? Mum! It’s not nothing, is it? I can tell by your face!’
Her mother was busying herself in the bottom of the cupboard, banging saucepans about. ‘It’s only something that happened years and years ago. I’m not dragging it up now. What kind of pasta would you like?’
‘Stuff the pasta! I want to know. Dad had an affair, is that what Gran’s saying?’
Rose straightened, holding the largest saucepan. ‘Hilly, can you please stop this? Just forget it. I promise you, it would be much better left. And it really doesn’t matter.’
‘Then why are you so uptight?’
‘I’m not!’
‘Yes, you are. Look at you – you’re shaking!’
Rose filled the kettle, taking slow, deep breaths to calm herself. ‘I’m angry with her,’ she said after a few moments. ‘With Mum. Her selective memory is turning out to be a bit awkward. There was no need for you to know. But since you must know, I want you to promise not to tell Zoë. I don’t want an even bigger upset.’
‘OK, I promise. But tell Zoë what?’ Hilly prompted.
Her mother looked straight at her. ‘Yes, your father did have an affair. Yes, he did almost leave us. You were three at the time, and Zoë was two.’ She huffed a laugh. ‘This is going to sound like the plot of Brookside or something. Stella was someone he met through work – a sales rep. I suppose I’d let myself get completely wrapped up with you two – I was exhausted half the time, my life revolving round playgroup and meals and keeping you amused. He’d come home and there’d be toys all over the floor and I’d have baby food down my jumper and fall asleep as soon as I’d got the two of you settled for the night. Stella was younger, glamorous, more fun. He was – tempted, I suppose.’
‘Dad!’
‘It happens,’ Rose said curtly.
‘Yes, I know, but – to Dad! He was really going to abandon you, with us kids to look after!’ The idea dizzied her; she clutched at the worktop for support. But Dad loves us, she wanted to say. I know he does. All of us, all three! There must be some mistake. ‘And you took him back! Why?’
‘Because I love him,’ her mother said simply. ‘Because I was faced with a choice – have him back and get over it, or struggle as a single parent. I chose him. And when it came down to it, he couldn’t bear to leave you and Zoë. He thinks the world of you, Hilly, both of you – you know he does.’
Not enough, Hilly thought, with a sense of something hardening inside her. ‘He was going to abandon us!’
‘But he didn’t. Thinking about something isn’t the same as actually doing it.’
‘How did you find out?’ Hilly said in a flat voice. ‘How does Heidigran know?’
‘Oh, he told me.’ Rose reached for a packet of spaghetti. ‘Unburdened himself. It didn’t suit him, being devious. And your gran – she saw them together in a restaurant, and, being Heidigran, told me as soon as she could, and I – I told her all the rest. I don’t know about Stella being Jewish, whether she was or wasn’t. That was the last thing that bothered me at the time. I don’t know why Heidigran got hold of that idea. Or why she’s suddenly got this thing about Reuben.’
‘Did he love her – Stella?’ Hilly said. The name had meant nothing five minutes ago; now she could hardly bring herself to say it. ‘Or was it just sex?’
‘I don’t know.’ Rose reached for a packet of spaghetti. ‘Which would be better? Which would be worse? To give him his due, there’s never been anyone else.’
‘I should hope not!’
‘Hilly – look, I know I can’t tell you to forget all about it, but we’re over it. Have been for years. We’re fine, Dad and me – you know that. I don’t want it to change the way you feel about Dad! We’re adults. These things happen.’
But, Hilly thought, how can it not change things? She said, ‘OK, Mum. I’ll try.’ She stepped out into the garden and felt herself trembling on the edge of tears. The garden smelled of cut grass; beyond the block of shadow cast by the house, the sunlight was still warm. Hilly went to the end, where a peachy-coloured rose grew over the fence; she leaned close, smelling its musky scent. The pressure in her nose and behind her eyes made her want to find a corner and have a good blub, but she’d have to go back indoors sooner or later, and her mother would know. So would Heidigran, if she were in a mood to notice.
The rose needed dead-heading; she crumpled a withered bloom in her fingers, scattering petals to the ground. Dad would be home from the shop, any minute now, and Mum was cooking spaghetti, and they’d all be expected to sit down and have a Happy Family meal. Happy Family was what she
had thought they were, give or take the odd outbreak of sisterly sparring. Her parents loved each other, anyone could see that: she thought of them holding hands as they walked down the street, Dad kissing Mum when he got in from work, their cuddles on the sofa that so offended Zoë. Everyone else’s parents had problems or had separated or found new partners – Tessa’s, Reuben’s – but the security of her own family was something Hilly had always taken for granted. They’ll never split up, not my Mum and Dad. They’re constant. They wouldn’t even think of—
But now Dad had been proved not constant. He was fickle. Disloyal. A seducer. An adulterer. He was not the person she had always known. The roses blurred in front of her; she found a tissue in her jeans pocket. Who am I crying for? she wondered. For Mum, for myself, for the Dad I thought he was? What am I going to say … how am I going to look at him?
She went back indoors. ‘Mum, I’m going round to Reuben’s, OK? I don’t want anything to eat.’
‘Oh, Hilly—’
Only when she was some way down the street did Hilly remember that Reuben had gone to his rehearsal; how long ago had that been? She had lost all sense of time. She hesitated for a moment at the street corner. A motorbike was turning left into her road; she saw the rider looking at her, then pulling over to the kerb. He pulled off his helmet and tucked it under one arm, then ruffled his hair with his free hand, grinning at her. ‘Thought it was you!’
Grant. Zoë’s obnoxious boyfriend, in leather biker gear, sleekly black. ‘You OK?’ He was looking at her expectantly.
She was surprised he’d bothered to stop. He was the last person she felt like making conversation with, and would have thought the feeling was mutual. His manner was as matey as if they’d parted on the best of terms last weekend.
‘Fine, thanks,’ Hilly said, aware that she must look anything but fine, in her tear-streaked agitation – much as she’d appeared last time, in fact. How pathetic he must think her! – not, she amended quickly, that she gave a toss what he thought.
‘Where you off to, then?’
As if it was any of his business! ‘Out,’ Hilly said, unsmiling. ‘You?’
‘On my way to see Zoë. But I’ll give you a lift, first, if you want. Wherever you’re going.’
Could he be serious? He sat loosely astride the big, powerful machine, letting the engine idle. It was all black and gleaming chrome, polished to a high shine. She hesitated, and knew that he had seen her hesitate. He really expected her to climb on behind him, put herself in his power?
‘No, thanks.’
‘Go on!’ He gestured with his head; turned his hand on the accelerator and made the engine roar throatily. ‘Hop on behind.’
‘I said no. Thanks.’
He smiled. ‘Whatever.’ Hilly saw what he was up to, now: he was the sort of boy who was so confident of his power to charm that he had to test it on every female he met. And, while she was thinking this, she found herself mesmerized by the glare of his attention; she looked at his tousled fair hair, at his attractively crooked teeth, most of all at his eyes, such a penetrating blue, with their level, steady gaze. She could not be sure she wasn’t blushing.
‘Zoë’s not allowed on motorbikes,’ she said, turning away.
Grant replaced his helmet, revved the engine and pulled out from the kerb. ‘Zoë’s not allowed to do lots of things. Doesn’t seem to stop her. You want to ease up a bit, let yourself have some fun.’
‘I’m not sure,’ she said over her shoulder, walking on, ‘whether your idea of fun would be the same as mine.’
He laughed; it seemed impossible to offend him. ‘Catch you later!’ he called, accelerating away.
It was Reuben’s mother who opened the door to Hilly.
‘Hi, is Reuben here?’ Hilly asked, before registering the boom of orchestral music from above that confirmed he was.
‘Communing with Rachmaninov,’ said his mum. ‘Go on up.’
Hilly recognized the second piano concerto – Rach Two, as Reuben called it. It was his favourite, his personal Everest; his ambition was to play it at the Festival Hall. She went up. Reuben was sprawled on his bed, listening with eyes closed, absorbing himself in the music in a way Hilly envied. When he heard her come in, he gave a not-quite-in-this-world smile and put out an arm to welcome her, not speaking. She kicked off her shoes and sat on the bed beside him, immediately comforted by his presence, and by the familiar rhythms of the Rachmaninov, which surrounded her so powerfully from strategically placed speakers that she felt it pulsing through her.
This bedroom was as familiar to Hilly as her own – more so, since she’d been dislodged. She knew Reuben’s posters, his curtains, his shelf crammed with music scores, his mess, his habit of stuffing everything under his desk instead of tidying up. She knew that he had a stash of music manuscripts – his piano compositions – in his sock drawer. She knew that his ancient portable TV set had to be thumped on top when it went fuzzy. She knew that his bed had a wonky leg that needed jolting back into position every so often, especially when two people sat on it, or, on cold winter evenings, in it, huddling together under the duvet.
‘Hey,’ Reuben had said once, ‘I can truthfully say that I’ve been to bed with a girl, if ever I need a cover-up!’
‘And,’ Hilly said, ‘you’re the only boy I’ve ever been in bed with. The only one I’m likely to, as far as I can see.’ It was nice being on or in bed with Reuben: warm, companionable, easy. If she closed her eyes, and Reuben wasn’t talking, she could pretend that the body snuggled close to hers wasn’t his but Someone’s – but that was OK, because she guessed that Reuben pretended too. She could make her heart beat faster and her skin tingle just by imagining herself and Someone together. But Someone remained obstinately faceless, even if she could go as far as imagining a body, and her own body’s responses.
Now her father had spoiled even the secret indulgence of imagining. She could only see him adulterously coupled with Stella, who in her imagination had become a sultry temptress, perfumed and voluptuous. Stella had lured Dad away and mesmerized him with sex. How could he be so easily led – a grown man, a father? How could he push his wife and his daughters out of his thoughts when he was in bed with Stella? How could anyone be trusted, if feelings could be so quickly switched from one person to another?
The slow movement was making her sniffy again. Noticing, Reuben asked what was wrong; she told him. It wasn’t really breaking her promise: Mum had said not to tell Zoë, but had not specified Reuben. Hilly had no secrets from Reuben, her best listener, consoler, adviser, hugger and cheerer.
‘He’s still your dad,’ Reuben said, when she had finished, and lapsed into sorry sniffing. ‘And if he and your mum have got over it, years ago, you’d better not stir things up. It’s not as if he’s a serial bimbo-chaser, is it? Anyone can make a mistake.’
‘You’re right – in theory. But I can’t pretend not to know! How am I going to speak to him normally? And as if that’s not enough,’ she added, ‘I’ve got a racist for a grandmother! Zoë says she’s a Nazi, and I thought she was being stupid – but she’s got a point. Heidigran’s got this stupid thing about Jews being dangerous to know, like she’s back in Germany in the Hitler time, or something.’
‘I can’t get this straight,’ Reuben said. ‘She was born in Germany, and stayed there all through the war, right—’
Hilly nodded. ‘Cologne, yes.’
‘– but came over here when it was all over? Why here of all places, when her parents had been bombed by our lot? You’d have thought England was the last place a German would want to come. To the enemy.’
‘Mm, but she was an orphan – she wouldn’t have had much choice. There couldn’t have been any German relations who could take her. She came to live with friends of the family – I’ve no idea how they were friends. Besides, she was only about twelve or thirteen.’
‘Too young to be a Nazi, then!’
‘Yes, but maybe her parents were Nazis, or at least anti-Jewi
sh, and brought her up to think the same? She never talks about her life in Germany.’
‘That’s not surprising, if her parents were killed.’
‘I’ve tried,’ Hilly said, ‘when we did it in history. I had a go at a proper interview with her, recording it, but she’d hardly tell me anything. Only the things I already knew from lessons and TV. It was all so long ago. Another life. That’s all she’ll say.’
‘What about this Rachel she was on about? Rachel could be a Jewish name. I bet Rachel was her best friend, and when all the bad stuff started her parents made her give Rachel up.’
‘Hmm. Could be. I don’t suppose we’ll ever find out, the way her memory is. Things pop up, then disappear again. And she gets the most peculiar ideas, like suddenly deciding you’re Jewish after she’s known you for – what? Ten years?’
‘Tell her my folks are from Cornwall, with a bit of Welsh and Irish thrown in. No Jewish that I know of,’ Reuben said. He listened intently to the music. ‘Just a minute.’ He turned up the volume, then leaned back against the wall with his eyes closed; Hilly knew better than to talk through the climax to the concerto, the cadenza, which showed off the pianist’s virtuosity. Reuben’s fingers twitched, and Hilly imagined him, wild-haired and passionate, playing a Steinway in the Festival Hall. He was lost in the music, his absorption carrying Hilly too with the great rolling swell and fall of the orchestra. They both sat in silence after the last notes had faded.
When a respectful few moments had passed, Reuben glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got to go out.’
‘Oh?’ Hilly said, guessing that he meant to Settlers, the coffee bar in town where Saeed worked four nights a week.
Reuben smiled.
‘Don’t let me stand in the way of young love.’ She got to her feet and reached for her jacket.
‘Come with me!’ said Reuben, catching her arm. ‘I can talk to you while Si’s dashing about.’
‘What, play gooseberry while you gaze into each other’s eyes? No thanks.’
Sisterland Page 6
