by Jojo Moyes
‘You look nice,’ he had said, watching her over the green tea. And she had been able to forgive him the use of such a vapid word.
At ten fifteen, as they walked through a balmy, bustling Leicester Square, he had told her that they were not returning to Dere Hampton that night. ‘Why?’ she had said, shouting to be heard, as the Hare Krishnas skipped gamely past with their tambourines. ‘Where are we going?’
‘A surprise,’ he said. ‘Because we’re doing better financially. Because you work so hard. And because my wife deserves a treat.’ And he had walked her to a discreetly luxurious hotel in Covent Garden, where the very window-boxes spoke of good taste and the kind of attention that would guarantee a good night’s stay, even if Suzanna had not already been brimming with pleasure at the way her evening was turning out. And in their room was an overnight bag that he had apparently packed that morning and spirited away. He had only forgotten her moisturiser.
Passion, in marriage, ebbed and flowed. Everyone said it. If, for a change, she gave him her full attention, if she tried to push aside all the things that annoyed her, that persisted in creeping in and polluting her finer feelings, if she tried to focus on the things that were good, then it wasn’t impossible that they could recover it. ‘I love you,’ she had said, and felt a huge relief that, even after everything, she still meant it.
He had held her tightly then and, unusually for him, stayed silent.
At eleven fifteen, as they sipped room-service champagne, he had turned to face her, the coverlet slipping down his bare skin. It was pale, she noted. Their first year without a foreign holiday. In fifteen months he was going to be forty, he said.
And?
He had always wanted to be a dad before he was forty.
She said nothing.
And, he was thinking, if it took an average eighteen months to get pregnant, shouldn’t they start trying now? Just to give themselves a little extra chance? He just wanted to be a dad, he said quietly. To have a family of his own. He had put down his glass, held her face between two warm hands, looking a little apprehensive, as if he were aware that broaching it like this might breach the terms of their deal, that he might fracture the fragile peace that had made the evening magical.
But then he hadn’t known he was asking her something she had already decided. She had said nothing, but lay back, placing her own glass on the opposite table.
‘You don’t have to be afraid,’ he said, softly.
In the blur of the champagne, she felt a little like a landed fish. Breathing, gasping, but somehow, finally, accepting of her fate.
Vivi walked up the hallway, puffing under the combined and unevenly distributed weight of her carrier-bags, musing that her son was never in when she needed him. Reaching the kitchen, she allowed them to drop and held up her hands in the fading light to examine the red welts the handles had carved into her fleshy palms.
Normally she wouldn’t have visited the supermarket at this time of the week, but Vivi had felt obliged to replace the food she had that morning ejected from Rosemary’s fridge. It had become an almost twice-weekly event. On this occasion, she had also braved the upper cupboards, finding in them not just several cans of luncheon meat that were almost three years out of date but, more worryingly, among the crockery, several plates that appeared to have been placed back in the stack without having passed through the dishwasher. Vivi had soaked the plates in bleach for half an hour, just to be on the safe side. Then, fearful of what might be mouldering unseen, she had climbed on to a chair and scrubbed out all four cupboards before replacing their contents.
All this had meant that she had had to cancel her weekly helping session with the ladies from Riding for the Disabled up at Walstock, but they had been very nice about it. Lynn Gardner, who ran the scheme, had just put her father in a home, and Vivi, still traumatised by her morning’s travails, had taken the rare step of confessing the reason why she had felt unable to come.
‘Oh, Gawd, poor you. Better check the drawer under the oven. The one you heat plates in,’ she had boomed down the telephone. ‘We found a bucketload of maggots in ours. He’d been putting dirty crockery in there as if it were the dishwasher.’
Vivi glanced at the oven in horror.
‘You getting the sleepwalking?’
‘What?’
‘Oh, they start rambling around the house at night. Quite unnerving, I can tell you. We had Daddy on pills in the end – I was so worried that he’d find his way outside and end up in with the sheep.’
The men had failed to move their empty tea mugs from the table to the sink, so Vivi, who no longer sighed in resignation at the sight of them, did it for them. She swept up the crumby souvenirs of their lunch, stuck the plates in the dishwasher, and tidied scattered papers into piles. When she was unpacking the groceries on the kitchen table, she made out Rosemary’s imperious tones in the drawing room, where she was in muffled conversation with Douglas. She was far too opinionated, too vital, Vivi thought, to resemble Lynn’s father, a ghostly wraith, silently roaming in his pyjamas, and Vivi was briefly unsure whether this made her glad, or something else. She considered popping her head round the door to say hello, but realised, guiltily, that she would rather have the extra five minutes by herself. She glanced up at the clock and noted, with a small stab of pleasure, that she could still catch the last few minutes of The Archers. ‘We’ll just enjoy a bit of peace, won’t we, Mungo?’
The terrier, hearing its name, trembled in stillness as it gazed intently at her, waiting in a state of permanent anticipation for some culinary scrap to fall.
‘No luck, darling boy,’ said Vivi, placing the various meat products in the freezer. ‘I happen to know you’ve had yours.’
She laid several lamb chops on a tray, carefully trimming the fat from Rosemary’s. Rosemary did complain about untrimmed meat. Then she put the new potatoes to boil with a few mint leaves, and began to make a salad. They would probably remark that supper was on the light side, but she had bought a summer pudding to compensate. If she removed it from its packaging Rosemary wouldn’t comment on the superiority of home-made.
When The Archers finished, Vivi stood for a moment, gazing out of the window as she had while she listened. The kitchen garden was at its best at this time of year, the herbs sending dusty waves of fragrance into the house, the lavender, campanula and lobelia bulging from the old raised-brick beds, the creepers and climbers, dead brown skeletons in winter, now a riot of vigorous green. Rosemary had built this garden when she was first married: it was one of the few things for which Vivi felt uncomplicatedly grateful to her. For a while, she had thought Suzanna would take an interest in it: she had the same eye as Rosemary, a skill at arranging things so they were at their most beautiful.
She was inhaling the scent of the evening primrose and listening to the lazy drone of the bees when she detected that, over the gentle sounds of approaching evening, Rosemary’s voice had taken on an unusually combative note. Douglas’s was softer, as if he were reasoning with her. Vivi wondered, in vague discomfort, whether it was her they were discussing. Perhaps Rosemary had taken offence at the wholesale cleansing of her shelves. Or perhaps she had still not been forgiven for the aborted visit of the Incontinence Lady.
She turned from the window and placed the chops on top of the Aga. She rubbed her hands on her apron and, with a heavy heart, walked towards the door.
‘I can’t believe you’re even considering it.’
Rosemary was seated on the nursing chair, even though she often had trouble getting out of it. Her hands were folded stiffly in her lap, and her face, set in anger, was turned away from her son as if she was refusing physically to acknowledge what he had to say. As she closed the door behind her, Vivi noted that her mother-in-law had buttoned her blouse lopsidedly, and was grieved that she could not mention it.
Douglas was standing by the piano, a tumbler of whisky in his hand. To the left of him, the grandfather clock that had been in the family since Cyril Fair
ley-Hulme’s birth, offered up a discreetly regular quarter-chime. ‘I have given this plenty of thought, Mother.’
‘That may well be, Douglas, but I’ve said this to you before, you do not necessarily know what’s best for this estate.’
A faint smile played about his lips. ‘The last time we had this conversation, Mother, I was twenty-seven years old.’
‘I’m well aware of that. And you had a head full of foolish ideas then too.’
I just don’t think it makes financial sense for Ben to inherit the entire estate. It’s not just about tradition, it’s about finance.’
‘Would somebody like to fill me in as to what’s going on?’ Vivi’s gaze flicked from her husband to her mother-in-law, who was still gazing mulishly towards the french windows. She tried to smile, but stopped when she realised no one else was.
‘I had a few ideas I thought I should discuss with Mother—’
‘And while I’m alive, Douglas, and I have a say in the running of this estate, then things will stay exactly as they are.’
‘I’m only suggesting that some—’
‘I know very well what you’re suggesting. You’ve said it enough times. And I’m telling you the answer is no.’
‘The answer to what?’ Vivi moved closer to her husband.
‘I refuse even to discuss this further, Douglas. You know very well your father had firm views on these things.’
‘And I’m sure Father would not have wanted to see anyone in this family made unhappy by—’
‘No. No, I will not have it.’ Rosemary placed her hands on her knees. ‘Now, Vivi, when is supper? I thought we were eating at seven thirty, and I’m sure it’s past that already.’
‘Will one of you please tell me what you are discussing?’
Douglas placed his glass on the top of the piano. ‘I had some thoughts. About changing my will. About perhaps setting up some sort of trust that gives the children equal say in the running of the estate. Perhaps even before my death. But . . .’ his voice lowered ‘. . . Mother is unhappy about the idea of it.’
‘Equal say? For all three?’ Vivi stared at her husband.
‘Will someone help me up? I can never get out of this ridiculous chair.’
Douglas shrugged, his weathered face offering Vivi a complicit exasperation. ‘I tried. I can’t say I’ve felt entirely happy about how things are.’
‘You tried?’
Rosemary struggled to lift herself from the chair, her weight resting on bony arms. Then she fell back and let out a grunt of irritation. ‘Do you have to ignore me? Douglas? I need your arm. Your arm.’
‘Does that mean you’re just going to give in?’
‘It’s not giving in, old thing. I just don’t want to make things worse than they already are.’ Douglas moved towards his mother and placed his arm under hers to elevate her.
‘How can they be worse than they already are?’
‘It’s Mother’s decision too, Vee. We all live here.’
Rosemary, on her feet, tried, with some effort, to straighten herself. ‘Your dog,’ she announced, looking directly at Vivi, ‘has been on my bed. I’ve found hairs.’
‘You have to remember to keep your door shut, Rosemary,’ she said quietly, still staring at Douglas. ‘But that would solve everything, darling. Suzanna would be so much happier. All she needs is to feel equal. She doesn’t actually want to run the thing. And the others wouldn’t mind – I don’t think they’ve ever been comfortable with the plans.’
‘I know, but—’
‘Enough,’ said Rosemary, making her way towards the door. ‘Enough. I would like my supper now. I do not want to discuss this matter any further.’
Douglas reached out a hand to Vivi’s arm. His touch felt light, insubstantial. ‘Sorry, old thing. I tried.’
As Rosemary passed her, Vivi found her breath had become tight in her chest. She watched Douglas turn to open the door for his mother and recognised that, as far as they were both concerned, the conversation was already over, the issue closed. Suddenly she heard her voice, loud enough to make Rosemary turn in her tracks, and uncharacteristically angry. ‘Well, I hope you’ll both be terribly pleased with yourselves,’ she said, ‘when you’ve alienated the poor girl completely.’
It was several seconds before her words registered with them.
‘What?’ said Rosemary, who was clutching Douglas’s arm.
‘Well, we’ve never told her the truth, have we? Don’t look at me like that. No one’s told her the truth about her mother. And then we wonder why she’s grown up confused and resentful.’ Finally she had their full attention. ‘I’ve had just about enough – of all of it. Douglas, either you make her your heir or introduce some kind of equal trust, or you tell her the truth about her mother, including what we don’t know.’ She was breathing hard, then muttered almost to herself, ‘There. I’ve said it.’
A brief silence followed. Then Rosemary lifted her head and began to speak, as if to someone mentally impaired: ‘Vivi,’ she said, deliberately, ‘this is not what this family does—’
‘Rosemary,’ Vivi interrupted, ‘in case it has escaped your notice, I am this family. I am the person who makes the meals, who irons the clothes, who keeps the house clean, and who has done for the last thirty or so years. I am the bloody family.’
Douglas’s mouth had opened fractionally. But she didn’t care. It was as if a kind of madness had infected her. ‘That’s right. I am the person who washes your dirty smalls, who is the butt of everyone else’s bad moods, who cleans up after everyone else’s pets, the person who does their best to try to hold the whole bloody thing together. I am this family. I may have been Douglas’s second choice, but that doesn’t mean I’m second best—’
‘No one ever said you—’
‘And I deserve an opinion. I – too – deserve – an – opinion.’ Her breath came in gasps, tears pricking her eyes. ‘Now, Suzanna is my daughter, as much as she is anybody’s, and I am sick, sick, I tell you, of having this family, my family, divided over something as trivial as a house and a few acres of bloody land. It’s unimportant. Yes, Rosemary, compared to my children’s happiness, to my happiness, it really is unimportant. So there, Douglas, I’ve said it. You make Suzanna an equal heir, or you tell her the bloody truth.’ She reached behind her to untie her apron strings, wrenched it over her head and tossed it on to the arm of the sofa.
‘And don’t call me “old thing”,’ she said, to her husband. ‘I really, really don’t like it.’ Then, under the stunned gaze of her husband and mother-in-law, Vivi Fairley-Hulme walked past the kitchen, where Rosemary’s elderly cat was making a youthful stab at the lamb chops, and out into the evening sun.
Fourteen
The Day My Mum Got Angel’s Nails
My mum’s nails were really short. She never bit them – she said that when she used to do cleaning she dipped her hands in bleach too many times and they never grew strong after that. Even though she’d rub cream into them every night, the white bits never really got past the end of her finger. They used to break all the time, and when they did she’d swear and then say, ‘Oops! Don’t tell your dad I said that.’ And I never did.
Sometimes, if I had been good, she would sit down with me and take my hand like they do in the shop and smooth cream into it, then rub a file on my nails. It made me giggle because it was all tickly. Then she would let me choose one of her bottles of polish and she would paint it on really carefully so that there were no smudges. When you do that, you mustn’t pick anything up for ages because if you do you get digs in the colour, and she used to make me a drink and put a straw in it so that I could flap my hands around to dry them.
We always had to take it off again before school, but she used to let me keep it on overnight, or sometimes on a weekend. When I was in bed I used to hold my hands up and wave my fingers about because they looked so pretty, even in the dark.
The day before my mum died she booked an appointment to have some na
ils stuck on her fingers. She showed me them in a magazine – they were really long, and they had white tips that didn’t show the dirt, because your real nails stay underneath. She said she’d always fancied having long nails, and now she was earning a bit of money she was going to treat herself. She wasn’t bothered about clothes, she said, or shoes, or fancy haircuts. But beautiful nails was the one thing she really, really wanted. She was going to let me come with her after school. I’m quite good, you see. I can sit and read and be quiet, and I promised I wouldn’t make a noise in the salon, and she said she knew, because I was her petal.
When my grandma got me from school and told me my mum had died I didn’t cry because I didn’t believe it. I thought they had got it wrong, because my mum had dropped me at drama club and she said after she picked me up she was going to get chips and we were going to have a late tea together. Then when the teacher got upset and cried I knew it wasn’t a joke. Later on, when my grandma was holding me, I asked her what we were going to do about Mum’s appointment. It might sound funny, but I felt worried that she was never going to go, and I knew it was something she really wanted.
Grandma looked at me for a long time, and I thought she was going to cry because her eyes went all watery. Then she held both my hands and said, ‘Do you know what? We’re going to make sure your mum gets her nails because, that way, she’ll look just fine when she gets to heaven.’
I didn’t look at my mum in her coffin on the day of the funeral even though Grandma said she looked lovely, just like she was sleeping. I asked her if someone had given her long nails, and she said that a nice lady from the salon had and that they were very beautiful, and that afterwards, if I looked up in the sky at night, I’d probably see them twinkling. I didn’t say anything, but I thought that at least if Mum didn’t know anyone she could wave her hand, like I used to in bed, and people wouldn’t have to know she used to be a cleaner.
