by Isabel Wolff
I didn’t, but I didn’t want Louis to look like Ruth. I opened the Hamley’s bag I’d been carrying and handed Dad a big white bear with a blue ribbon round its neck.
‘Thank you.’ He jiggled the teddy in front of Louis. ‘Isn’t this lovely, baby? Oh look, Phoebe, he’s smiling at it.’
I stroked the baby’s plump little legs. ‘Don’t you think Louis should be wearing more than just a nappy, Dad?’
‘Oh yes,’ he said vaguely. ‘I was just changing him when you arrived. Now where did I put his clothes? Ah. Here we go.’ I watched, appalled, as Dad clamped a surprised-looking Louis to his chest with his left arm then somehow slotted his limbs into a stripy blue sleep-suit. Having done that, he then wrestled him into his stainless-steel high chair, getting two legs jammed down one hole so that Louis was stuck, rigid, in a bob-sleighing position. Dad then went to the gleaming American fridge and took out an assortment of small jars.
‘Let’s see …’ he said, unscrewing the first. ‘I’m getting him on to solids,’ he explained over his shoulder. ‘We’ll try this one, shall we, Louis?’ Louis opened his mouth wide, like a baby bird, and Dad began to spoon the contents of the jar into it. ‘What a good boy. Well done, my little boy. Oh …’ Louis had pebble-dashed Dad with beige mush.
‘I don’t think he likes it,’ I said as Dad wiped what I now knew to be organic chicken and lentil casserole off his glasses.
‘Sometimes he does.’ Dad grabbed a J-cloth and wiped Louis’ chin. ‘He’s in a funny mood today – probably because his mum’s away again. We’ll try this one now, shall we, Louis?’
‘Aren’t you supposed to heat it up, Dad?’
‘Oh, he doesn’t mind it straight from the fridge.’ Dad opened the second jar. ‘Moroccan lamb with apricots and couscous – yum.’ Louis opened his tiny mouth again and Dad posted a few teaspoons into it. ‘Oh, he likes this,’ Dad said triumphantly. ‘Definitely.’
Suddenly Louis extruded his tongue, like a Maori, expelling the Moroccan lamb in an orange slick that now flowed down his front like lava.
‘You should have put a bib on him,’ I pointed out as Dad scraped the ejecta off Louis’ chest. ‘No, Dad. Don’t put it back in.’ On the table was a leaflet called ‘Weaning Success’.
‘I’m not much good at this,’ Dad said miserably. He scraped the rejected jar into the gleaming chrome bin. ‘It was so much easier when I could just give him a bottle.’
‘I’d help you, Dad, but I’m clueless myself – for obvious reasons. But why do you have to do so much childcare?’
‘Well… because Ruth’s away again,’ he said wearily. ‘She’s very busy at the moment, and the thing is, I want to do it. Firstly, there’s no point paying a nanny now that’ – Dad flinched – ‘I’m not working. Plus, when you were a baby I was away so much that I missed out on fatherhood.’
‘You were away a lot,’ I agreed. ‘All those field-trips and excavations. I always seemed to be waving goodbye to you,’ I added ruefully.
‘I know, darling,’ he sighed. ‘And I’m very sorry for it. So now, with this little chap’ – he stroked Louis’ head – ‘I feel I’ve been given the chance to be more of a hands-on father.’ Louis looked as though he’d prefer Dad to be hands off.
Suddenly the telephone rang. ‘Sorry, darling,’ Dad said. ‘That’ll be Radio Lincoln. I’m doing a telephone interview with them.’
‘Radio Lincoln?’
Dad shrugged. ‘It’s better than Radio Silence.’
As Dad did the interview, the phone clamped to his ear with his right hand while he posted more goo into Louis with his left, I reflected on his calamitous professional fall. Only a year ago Dad was still the widely respected Professor of Comparative Archaeology at Queen Mary’s College, London. Then came The Big Dig, and in the wake of the humiliating media coverage – the Daily Mail dubbed him ‘The Big Pig’ – Dad was asked to take early retirement with immediate effect. He’d had five years lopped off his career, had taken a big cut in his pension, and, despite six weeks of prime-time exposure on Sunday night, his burgeoning TV career had ground to a halt.
‘Well, when we ask what archaeology is,’ Dad said as he shovelled mango and lychee purée into Louis, ‘we might say that it’s the study of artefacts and habitation – the discovery of “lost” civilisations even, using the increasingly sophisticated means that we now have of interpreting past societies, the most important of which is of course carbon dating. However, when we say “civilisation” we should be aware that that is of course a modern definition imposed upon the past from a Western intellectual perspective …’ He grabbed a grubby muslin. ‘Sorry, should I take that again? You did say it’s prerecorded, didn’t you? Oh, I’m so sorry …’
On TV Dad had come across very well, largely because he’d had a scriptwriter to render his more erudite phrases into homely ones. If it hadn’t been for the media fuss about Ruth’s pregnancy, perhaps he’d have got more presenting work, but all he’d been offered since the series ended was Ready, Steady, Cook! Ruth’s career, on the other hand, had flourished. She’d been promoted to executive producer and was producing a major profile of Colonel Gaddafi, for which she was even now flying to Tripoli.
Suddenly we heard the front door fly open.
‘Can you believe it?’ I heard Ruth yell. ‘Effing terrorists closing down Heathrow again! Except that it wasn’t terrorists, was it? No! Of course not’ – she sounded almost disappointed. ‘Just some loony trying to thumb a lift to Tenerife on the tarmac. Terminal Three’s been shut down – it took two hours for me and the crew to get out. I’m going to try and get us all on a flight tomorrow – Christ, what a mess you’ve made in here, darling. And don’t put carrier bags on the table’ – she removed the Hamley’s bag – ‘they carry bacteria, and no toys in here, please, it’s a kitchen not a playroom – and do please keep the cupboard doors shut as I can’t stand seeing them open like that – oh.’ She’d suddenly noticed me, sitting behind the door.
‘Hello, Ruth,’ I said calmly. ‘I’ve come to see my father.’ I looked at Dad. He was frantically tidying up. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Not in the least,’ she replied airily. ‘Make yourself at home.’ That would be hard here, I was tempted to say.
‘Phoebe brought Louis that lovely teddy bear,’ Dad said.
‘Thank you,’ said Ruth. ‘That’s very kind.’ She kissed Louis on the head, ignoring his outstretched arms, then went upstairs. Louis threw back his head and started wailing.
‘Sorry, Phoebe.’ Dad gave me a baleful smile. ‘Could we make another date soon?’
The next morning, as I walked up to Village Vintage, I thought about Dad and about how he seemed to have stumbled into an affair with no idea of the turmoil that might follow. It was Mum’s belief that he’d never strayed before, despite the opportunities he must have had over the years with attractive archaeology students hanging on his every word as they’d huddled over the dust together, delightedly scraping up bits of the Phoenicians or the Mesopotamians or the Mayans or whoever it was. The ineptitude with which Dad had handled his relationship with Ruth suggested that he was hardly an experienced adulterer.
After he’d left home, Dad had written to me. In his letter he’d said that he still loved Mum, but that once Ruth was pregnant he’d felt he had to stay with her. Then he’d added that he was genuinely fond of Ruth and that I needed to understand that. I couldn’t understand it. I still can’t.
I could perfectly well see why Ruth would be attracted to my father, despite the twenty-four-year age gap. Dad was one of those tall, handsome, craggy-looking men who’d somehow grown into their faces, added to which he was intelligent, easy-going and kind. But what did he see in Ruth? She wasn’t soft or pretty like my mother had been. She was as hard as a plank – with about as much sensitivity. The trauma of seeing Dad move his things out of the marital home had been made infinitely worse by the fact that a heavily pregnant Ruth was seen waiting for him, outside, in her car.
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br /> Mum and I had sat there that night, trying not to look at the yawning spaces on the shelves where Dad’s books and treasures had been. His most prized artefact, a small bronze of an Aztec woman giving birth – presented to him by the Mexican government – was no longer on the kitchen mantelpiece. Given the circumstances, Mum said she wouldn’t miss it.
‘If only it wasn’t for the baby,’ she’d wept. ‘I don’t want to be mean about a poor little baby that hasn’t even been born yet – but I can’t help wishing that this particular baby had never happened, because if it hadn’t then I could have forgiven and forgotten – instead of which I’m now going to be spending the rest of my life on my own!’
With a sinking heart I’d realised that I was going to be spending the rest of her life cheering her up.
I’d tried to persuade Dad not to leave Mum. I’d pointed out that at her age it wasn’t fair.
‘I feel awful about it,’ he’d said over the phone. ‘But I’ve got myself into this … situation, Phoebe, and I feel I have to do the right thing.’
‘Why is leaving your wife of thirty-eight years the right thing?’
‘Why is not being there for my child the right thing?’
‘You weren’t there for me, Dad.’
‘I know – and that has a bearing on my decision now.’ I heard him sigh. ‘Perhaps it’s because I’ve spent my whole life poring over the distant past, and now, with this baby, I’m being offered a piece of the future – at my age, that’s cheering. Plus I do want to be with Ruth. I know that’s hard for you to hear, Phoebe, but it’s true. Your mother will get the house and half my pension. She has her job and her bridge circle and her friends. I’d like to stay friends with her,’ he’d added. ‘How can we not be friends after such a long marriage?’
‘How can we be, when he’s deserted me?’ Mum had wailed when I’d repeated this to her. I could perfectly well see her point …
I made my way up Tranquil Vale wishing that I could feel more tranquil myself. Annie wouldn’t be coming until mid-morning as she’d gone to an audition. As I unlocked the door I found myself guiltily hoping that she wouldn’t get the job, as it was for a two-month regional tour. I liked having Annie around. She was always punctual and smiling, she was great with the customers and she took initiative in rearranging the stock to keep everything looking fresh. She was an asset to Village Vintage.
I’d started the day with a sale, I realised happily as I read my e-mails. Cindi had messaged me from Beverly Hills to say that she definitely wanted the Balenciaga gown for one of her A-Listers to wear to the Emmys and that she’d phone me with payment at the end of the day.
At nine I turned the sign to ‘Open’ then I phoned Mrs Bell to ask her when I could come and collect the clothes I was buying.
‘Can you come this morning?’ she asked. ‘Say at eleven?’
‘Could we make it eleven thirty? My assistant will be here by then. I’ll bring my car.’
‘Very well, I’ll expect you then.’
Suddenly the doorbell jangled and a slim blonde woman in her mid thirties walked in. She spent a few moments looking through the rails with a slightly intense, distracted air.
‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’ I asked after a minute.
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I’m looking for something … happy. A happy dress.’
‘Right … and is that for day or evening?’
She shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter. It just has to be very bright and cheerful.’
I showed her a Horrocks polished cotton sundress from the mid fifties with a pattern of cornflowers. She fingered the skirt. ‘It’s lovely.’
‘Horrocks made gorgeous cotton dresses – they used to cost a week’s wages. And have you seen those?’ I nodded at the cupcakes.
‘Oh.’ The woman’s eyes widened. ‘Those are fabulous. Can I try on the pink one?’ she asked, like a child, almost. ‘I’d like to try the pink one!’
‘Of course.’ I took it down. ‘It’s a 12.’
‘It’s wonderful,’ she enthused as I hung it in the changing room. She went inside and pulled round the linen curtain. I heard her unzipping her skirt, then the soft rustle of the net petticoats as she stepped into the dress. ‘It looks so … joyful,’ I heard her say. ‘I adore the tutu skirts – I feel like a flower fairy.’ She poked her head through the curtain. ‘Could you pull up the zip for me? I can’t quite manage … Thanks.’
‘You look gorgeous,’ I said. ‘It’s a perfect fit.’
‘It really is.’ She gazed at herself in the mirror. ‘It’s just what I had in mind – a lovely, happy dress.’
‘Are you celebrating something?’ I asked.
‘Well …’ She fluffed up the mille-feuille of stiffened tulle. ‘I’ve been trying for a baby.’ I nodded politely, unsure what to say. ‘And I wasn’t getting pregnant naturally so after two and a half years we went for IVF – a ghastly business,’ she added over her shoulder.
‘You don’t have to tell me this,’ I protested. ‘Really …’
The woman stepped back and appraised her reflection. ‘Anyway, I took my temperature ten times a day and I sniffed all these chemicals, and I injected myself until my hip was like a pin cushion. And I went through this hell five times – bankrupting myself in the process, incidentally: and then a fortnight ago it came to the sixth cycle, which was to be the last ever attempt because my husband had told me that he wasn’t prepared to go through it again.’ She paused for breath. ‘So it was the very last throw of the dice …’ She stepped out of the cubicle and gazed at herself in the side mirror. ‘And I got the results this morning. My gynaecologist phoned me to tell me that …’ She patted her tummy. ‘It hadn’t worked.’
‘Oh,’ I murmured. ‘I’m sorry.’ Of course. Why would she be buying a prom dress if she were pregnant?
‘So just for today I’ve pulled a sickie and I’m looking for ways to cheer myself up.’ She smiled at her reflection. ‘And this dress is the perfect start. It’s wonderful,’ she enthused as she turned to face me. ‘I mean, how could anyone feel sad in a dress like this? It would be impossible, wouldn’t it?’ Her eyes were shimmering. ‘Quite impossible …’ The girl sank on to the changing-room chair, her features distorted with distress.
I ran to the door and turned over the sign.
‘I’m sorry …’ the woman wept. ‘I shouldn’t have come in. I’m feeling … fragile.’
‘It’s totally understandable,’ I said quietly. I handed her some tissues.
She looked up at me. ‘I’m thirty-seven.’ A fat tear rolled down her cheek. ‘Women a lot older than me have babies, don’t they, so why can’t I have one? Just one,’ she sobbed. ‘Is that too greedy?’
I pulled the curtain round her so that she could change.
A couple of minutes later the woman brought the dress to the counter. She was calm now, though her eyes were red veined.
‘You don’t have to buy it,’ I said.
‘I want to,’ she protested gently. ‘Then whenever I’m feeling down, I’ll just put it on, or I could hang it on the wall like you’ve done here, and just looking at it will make me feel positive again.’
‘Well, I hope it has the desired effect, but if you change your mind just bring it back. You need to be sure.’
‘I am sure,’ she protested. ‘But thanks.’
‘Well …’ I smiled at her impotently. ‘I wish you the very best.’ Then I handed her the ‘happy’ dress in its bag.
Annie came back from her audition at eleven. ‘The director was vile,’ she exclaimed. ‘He actually asked me to turn round – like a piece of meat!’
I remembered the ghastly Keith making his girlfriend turn round for him. ‘I hope you didn’t.’
‘Of course I didn’t – I walked out! I should report him to Equity,’ she muttered as she took off her jacket. ‘Anyway, after that experience it’s very nice to be back in your shop.’
Feeling guiltily happy that Annie’s audition hadn’
t been a success, I told her about the girl who’d bought the pink cupcake.
‘Poor kid,’ she murmured, calm again now. ‘Do you want children?’ she added as she quickly glossed her lips.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘Babies are not on my radar.’ Except for my father’s baby, I thought wryly.
‘Do you have a boyfriend?’ Annie asked as she zipped up her bag. ‘Not that it’s any of my business.’
‘No. I’m single – bar the odd date.’ I thought of my forthcoming dinner with Miles. ‘My priority now is my work. How about you?’
‘I’ve been seeing this chap Tim for a few months,’ Annie replied. ‘He’s a painter – he lives down in Brighton. But I’m still too focused on my career to want to settle down, plus I’m only thirty-two – I’ve got time.’ She shrugged. ‘You’ve got time.’
I looked at my watch. ‘No, I haven’t – I’m going to be late. I’m collecting the clothes I’ve bought from Mrs Bell.’ Leaving Annie in charge, I walked home then got two suitcases and drove up to The Paragon.
In the week since I’d last been there the catch on the front door of number 8 had been mended, so Mrs Bell didn’t have to come down; which was just as well I thought when she opened her own door, since she seemed a little frailer even than when I’d last seen her.
She greeted me warmly as I stepped inside, laying her thin, freckled hand on my arm. ‘Now go and collect the clothes together – and I do hope you’ll stay and have a cup of coffee with me?’
‘Thank you – I’d love to.’
I went into the bedroom with the cases and put the bags, shoes and gloves in one of them, then I opened the wardrobe to take out the garments. As I did so, I caught a glimpse of the little blue coat and wondered again about its history.
I heard Mrs Bell’s footsteps behind me. ‘Are you all done now, Phoebe?’ She fiddled with the waistband of her green-and-red plaid skirt, which was slipping a little.
‘Almost,’ I replied. I put the two hats into the lovely old hatbox that Mrs Bell was including; then I folded the Ossie Clark maxi dress into the second suitcase.
