by Susan Green
Then, according to Beatie, it was Paula who barricaded the little ones in the laundry while her mother paraded naked except for a sanitary belt and red high heels. Paula who let the ambulance men in and kept the neighbours out. She did the housework, picked up broken glass and china, fetched cups of tea and aspirin and sat beside her mother in the bed. She read Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens, her mother’s favourite, aloud, over and over.
I was appalled. ‘Why didn’t someone intervene?’
‘I didn’t know until afterwards,’ said Beatie. ‘Alec didn’t tell me.’
‘What about Paula?’
Beatie shook her head.
‘Were they ashamed of her? Was that it?’
‘Oh no, no!’ Beatie was shocked that I’d think such a thing. ‘It was loyalty. They were protecting her.’
When Anne was two, Nina went first to a locked ward and then to a private psychiatric hospital, The Avenue, in Kew. Beatie moved in and stayed with the family until I married Alec, until she thought the children were all right. She was wrong there, but how was she to know?
Nina died. Don’t laugh, but after all the drama, after the wrists and ropes and pills, she was killed by a garden rake. It must have been the shock therapy; why else would she have spent the morning plucking weeds from the hospital’s famous pom-pom dahlias? She tripped, fell backwards and hit her head on a brick border. Bleeding in the brain, dead in twenty-four hours. That week, there’d been talk about her coming home. All I can say is, thank Christ for couch grass.
Yes, I’m a bitch. I know. I’m hard on Nina. I have no sympathy for her tantrums and scenes. I hate the way she hugged Tom and Caroline to her, uniting them with her against Alec. I hate the way she led them to believe that they, and only they, were gifted and golden, funny and clever, and he was the drone who left the house each morning and plodded back each night.
Caroline said as much to me once. ‘The man in the grey suit? What would he know?’
Alec took so much of the blame on himself. He said, in his typically understated way, ‘Nina and I did not bring out the best in each other. She would have been happier with a different sort of husband.’
Stupid, stupid man! She didn’t want to be happy and she didn’t want to be safe. She wanted excitement and passion. How could he not have known?
How odd. Just now, at the thought of Nina, I became conscious of my heart. It doesn’t hurt; it’s not beating wildly; it’s just there, and it can be unpleasant, you know, to feel it pumping away, the size of two fists, tucked inside your chest. Which is where it should be, of course, rather than in your hand – à la the cliché – or, worse still, in your mouth. Which reminds me of a game we used to play. Noël Coward taught it to someone who taught it to me. You substitute dick for heart in the titles of films or songs. Go on, try one. Well, I will if you won’t. ‘I Left My Dick in San Francisco’. ‘With a Song in my Dick’. Screamingly funny, darling. Well, at the time.
Oh, all right! Yes; Nina. Who am I to say? Say what? Anything, really. I didn’t know her – or, rather, I know her only through Beatie, the filter of the children and my own jealous heart.
I suppose these days you’d say the children had been traumatised. Now, there’d be counselling and psychologists, a massive pre-emptive strike of interventions visited on the poor little pets. Then, there was nothing. We didn’t examine too closely; we wanted to believe that children just forget.
I’m not blaming Alec. He passed them on to me, and why not? I’m a woman and he naturally assumed that I was primed to mother his children. There was nothing natural about it, let me tell you. I did not take to it like a duck to water. I flailed, I floundered; for two or three years it was sink or swim, and I did a lot of sinking before I got the hang of it. I had to realise the immediacy of their needs. I had to understand that I could no longer come first in my own life. Even Alec had to wait his turn. Those four young lives, each so different, one from the other, flowed into and over mine.
I was lucky that Beatie was there to throw me a lifeline. She was ten years older than Alec, widowed, with three grown-up children. When Nina became ill, Beatie was there as needed. She found she was needed more and more often. And though Alec said he could manage, what with the housekeeper and sympathetic neighbours, when Nina at last went into hospital, Beatie told him enough was enough. Stress had not been invented then, but she could see her brother growing grey, thin, bowed. She took them on, the lot of them, and during those first bewildering weeks, she took me on too. She came every day. She showed me the contents of cupboards and attic and shed, escorted me to the shops, the doctor’s surgery, the chemist, the school and the kindergarten. She wrote lists and listened; she made tea and handed me hankies when mine were sodden with tears.
‘They’ll sort themselves out. It will turn out all right, you’ll see.’
‘It’s hard, I know. But it’s just a stage, they’ll get over it.’
‘You’ll make a success of this, I can guarantee it.’
She was wrong of course, but given her simple and kindly nature I don’t think that she could even conceive of the damage done to those four. That isn’t to say she wasn’t shrewd.
Caroline, now. Beatie told me, ‘You’re going to have problems. She blames Alec, I don’t know why, and she’s going to test you and keep on testing you . . .’ A troubled look passed over her face. ‘She can be so sweet, so loving – and then downright vindictive. Don’t take it to heart. Remember what she’s been through.’
I knew about losing your mother. I nodded. ‘The other three seem so happy.’
‘They do. They are. It’s just that Caroline and Nina were very close. You haven’t . . . well, you aren’t planning to change anything yet, are you?’
Actually, I was counting the days until I could ditch the reproduction Queen Anne, the fitted flowered Axminster, the light-defying drapes.
‘Just the bedroom for now.’
Beatie sighed. ‘Yes, I can understand that. It’s very Nina.’
Nina was rose-trellis wallpaper and lace curtains and a dressing table in a curtained alcove with three mirrors. Padded white satin coverlet. Dinky little lamps with bobble-fringe. It was rather a Rebecca situation, though in reverse I suppose; Moule Avenue is a long way from Manderley. I was no timid girl-wife either, but the ghost was there all right. When Alec and I lay in bed together, when we made love, when I watched his reflection in those damned mirrors as he dressed for work (so early!), I couldn’t help thinking, ‘This Nina did. And this. And this.’
That’s what Caroline thought too.
‘It’s not your house!’ she screamed when, six months after I arrived, I had the room done.
‘Caroline . . .’ That was Paula, with a gentle hand on her sister’s shoulder. Alec just stood there.
‘You’ve all forgotten her. How could you? How could you?’ She rounded on her siblings. ‘It’s her bedroom. Dad just slept there, it wasn’t his room, it was hers, it was hers!’
Caroline. Christ, what she put us through. Did I try to love her? Yes, I swear to you, I did. But however hard I tried, it was not enough. How could it have been?
Tom was easy to love. He was open, cheerful, affectionate. Shallow, compared to his sisters, but boys often are. They take a while to develop their depths. I thought it was all going swimmingly, but then, when he was fifteen, he began stealing from shops, from his schoolmates, from my purse and Alec’s wallet. He wouldn’t talk to us, or if he did, he lied. There were a few run-ins with the police, some terse dialogue in the lawyer’s office. And then there was that trouble with the school. We were shocked and horrified; we asked ourselves if we had neglected him in some way. I patched things up, but you know how it is, your eyes are inevitably drawn to the damaged part and it’s never the same.
Tom loved to play the victim and I’m pretty sure I got the blame for whatever went wrong. And I put up with it because I understood the bind he was in. He couldn’t blame his dead mother, and he idolised his father too much to admit that Alec h
adn’t been there at the vital moment. That Alec had, in fact, let him down. Good, kind, decent, loving father that he was, he let his children down. It happens. More often than you might think. If Tom could be honest with himself, he would admit that I loved him.
Anne. She’s my blind spot, isn’t she? But, oh, who wouldn’t have loved her? That first day, she looked me up and down, and smiled.
‘You’re pretty,’ she said.
‘So are you.’ She was beautiful, plump and firm, and glowing like a ripe nectarine.
‘You’re going to live with us now,’ she said. ‘Isn’t she, Bea?’
‘That’s right, pet. She’s going to live with you now.’
Beatie met my eyes over Anne’s head and nodded. All yours now. Over to you.
How can you? I thought. How can you bear to give her up, this little darling . . .
‘And you’ll tuck me in tonight? Every night?’
‘Yes,’ I said, and knelt down in front of her. She put her arms around my neck and, with a little sigh, rested her cheek against mine. Perfect trust. No hairline cracks, no chips or dents. As tender and breakable as a new-laid egg.
But we had a falling-out. That’s a nice way of putting it, don’t you think? As if we two were in a boat, row-row-rowing gently down the stream, and somehow one of us went over the side and the other, watching helplessly, simply glided on. Somehow, did I say? It was no accident. Anne stood up and dived. Spectacularly. It hurt, and it still hurts. Anne was my darling, Anne was mine, and I scarcely recognise this woman who comes each week to see me. Dutiful and brisk, she harries the personal carers, she quizzes the medical staff. It’s her way of showing she cares, says Paula, but when she talks to me her voice is loud and impersonal, as if I was just some old lady in a nursing home. Her visits are paid with the coin of duty, not love.
Ah, love. Paula. Darling Paula. She was here this morning, and when she thought I was asleep, she put her arms around my neck and for a few seconds laid her head against my breast. She was crying. Crying because I’m dying. Is it the normal tangled mixture of affection, resentment and frustration? I fear not. I’m afraid she loves me, pure and simple.
It’s what Paula does so well.
Nina’s illness robbed Paula of her childhood, said Beatie. ‘But she was wonderful with her. So gentle, and so responsible with the little ones. She’s always been old for her years. And now look how happy she is for you and Alec! There could have been a spot of jealousy – well, after all they went through together, with Nina’s illness – but she couldn’t be happier, could she?’
Unlike Caroline, Paula was emphatically on my side. Think of that! At twelve she already had a vocation for self-sacrifice. I sometimes thought it was too bad the Hendersons weren’t Catholic. Paula would have made a lovely nun.
I tried to reward her. Once, when she was sixteen, I took Paula and a friend (Melinda? Miranda?) to a matinee as a treat. I wasn’t thinking of my own pleasure – it was a hideous travesty of a thing called Pippin – but afterwards the three of us linked arms and walked, humming and singing, from Her Majesty’s up along Spring Street.
Outside the Windsor I said, faux spontaneous, ‘Let’s go in!’
As a surprise, I’d booked a table, and we had afternoon tea, all dainty sandwiches and petits fours and gleaming silver. The girls were in seventh heaven, and Paula’s face, flushed with pleasure, was almost pretty. Miranda/Melinda stole her boyfriend later that week, which was unfortunate but inevitable.
Paula, you see, was born to be imposed upon. She invites it. She’s so earnest, so sincere, so unfailingly, everlastingly good. The first marriage – well, you could see that would end in tears. The delectable Tony should have been what they call a ‘learning experience’, but she could never take things lightly, she had to go and marry him. Though I suppose it was worth it, for she had Sam.
And then look at what happened with that wretched Sue, who was always off screwing in Bali or Surfers! Paula works like a slave; she cares for her through chemo and radiotherapy. But does Sue discuss the sale of the business to that monster Clare? It was a fait accompli and she dies leaving Paula nothing. Nothing! There’s gratitude.
Where’s gratitude? It resides in my bosom, I assure you. That’s honest. But the truth? I want to be accurate; I want at last to be scrupulous, as my beloved Alec always was. Paula loves me. Do I love Paula? Yes. No. I admire her, for her goodness and sense of duty. I am grateful, as I have said, for her care and thoughtfulness. I am very fond of her.
Is that good enough? Please let it be good enough.
Darling Paula. That’s what I call her. That’s how I think of her. But she isn’t my darling. Darlingness isn’t earned by good deeds or penance. It comes naturally, like curly hair or double joints. You either have it, like Anne.
Or you don’t.
MISS SMARTY HAD A PARTY
Paula was at the corner and waiting for the lights before she realised where she was. Or wasn’t. How could she have turned left instead of right? She stopped to adjust the weight in her two calico bags before she retraced her steps.
She stopped again and then crossed the road well before the Kids & Co building, but there it was anyway, reflected in the shop windows; the new lettering above the door, the bright logo, the product displays in the foyer where the puppet show used to be. Now she could think only of getting home. She walked quickly, dodging the elderly shoppers and the crowd of children with their mothers wheeling bicycles and strollers on their way home from school. Outside the library, a group of tiny children clutching board games was swarming on the footpath, blocking her way. One of them turned to look at her, and Paula was reminded unpleasantly of Dimity. She was disturbed by her reaction to Anna-Mae’s daughter. What was wrong with her today? She loved children.
Suddenly, a headache. It was the violent, pounding, intolerable kind, and she turned, fumbling in her handbag for Panadol, into a little cafe. A lone waitress showed her to a seat.
‘A pot of tea, please.’
‘English Breakfast? Earl Grey?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which one?’
Why did it have to be so hard? Her head was splitting. She slopped some water from the carafe into a glass and downed two tablets.
The waitress brought her order on a tray and then went to stand expectantly behind the counter. Paula was the only customer. Two rows of empty tables; little glass vases with a single real flower in each; the cook preparing food and the waitress lingering by the espresso machine, both watching the street for trade. Waiting, waiting.
Miss Smarty had a party,
And nobody came.
Her brother had another,
And it was just the same.
It was one of her mother’s old rhymes. The sadness was overwhelming and it was all she could do to stay in her seat. She took deep breaths and small sips of tea, and by the time she had managed to fight down the urge to run away, a young couple had come in for takeaways. They were followed by a group of middle-aged women who surged through the door talking in loud, confident voices. The place suddenly felt full and alive.
The women, obviously good friends, were planning a surprise party.
‘Male stripper? What does she want a male stripper for? She’s a dyke!’
‘Well, I’d like a male stripper.’
‘Yeah, but it’s not your bloody birthday!’
They broke into raucous laughter and Paula smiled into her teacup. She felt better now, and understood why she’d felt so sick. How else would you feel when you’d just been fired?
After Sam started primary school, Paula tried emergency teaching with a view to getting back into the department. She hated it – the uncertainty, the scrambled mornings, the constant anxiety about child care – but the money was important. Then her teachers’ college friend, Sue, started Kids & Co, distributing books, art supplies, educational games and toys to kindergartens and childcare centres, and gave her a job. Sue wanted Paula to go into partnership with her, but
Paula was a single mum with no money to spare. It was a partnership anyway. They worked together seamlessly.
‘Because we’re both Virgos,’ said Sue. ‘Attention to detail, perfectionism.’
Actually, Paula was a Leo.
Then, three years ago, Sue developed cancer. She asked Paula one last time to buy into the business, but there was still no money. Less money than when she’d first asked. In fact, thanks to Dave’s framing studio, there was negative money, but Sue didn’t need to know about their debts. Eighteen months later, she sold the business. The new owner, Clare, was a short, plump brunette in her late thirties who favoured fluttery wraps and hectic make-up. Paula, on first meeting her, reserved judgement as usual, but Dave, as usual, was straight up.
‘She’s a bitch,’ he said. ‘Can’t you see that?’
She was, in fact, a bully and Paula didn’t know how to deal with her.
‘Just tell her to get fucked!’ was Dave’s helpful workplace advice, but Paula didn’t have that luxury. And anyway, she’d promised Sue that she’d help keep Kids & Co running.
Clare relied heavily on Paula for a few months.
‘I couldn’t do it without you!’ she said. Often.
Then suddenly it was all about new directions, new energy. They started to concentrate more on the consumables – disposable nappies, latex gloves, wipes, hand sanitiser – that had been a minor part of the business before. Margie, the office manager, found another job and was replaced by Viva, twenty-three, sly and slinky in tight jeans and high-heeled boots. According to Clare, she was a whiz with technology. Paula noted that she wrote the plural of computer as computer’s.
Viva advertised the books, games and toys that Paula had lovingly road-tested as SALE Savings on Deleted Line’s. They stopped stocking compostable nappies and recycled paper towels.
By the time Sue died, Clare was having long discussions with a web designer and a feng shui expert and taking Viva to lunch nearly every day. She changed the logo, the letterhead and the external signage, redecorated the two offices and the foyer. She gave Paula a new title – ‘product consultant’ – and got rid of the little red Honda Paula had been driving.
