‘It’s what women do,’ Joe said impatiently. ‘That’s what they do to get what they want.’
‘What do you do?’ Polly asked him.
‘Generally speaking,’ he said, ‘sweat my guts out in the Talks Department of the BBC –’
‘I meant, what do you do while Kate’s doing all these threats and ultimatums and checking the holiday brochures – still, it doesn’t matter. She’s all right now. If you say she should have done all this, then I suppose that’s what she should have done. Of course, she couldn’t.’
‘I can’t see why not,’ said Joe, nettled.
‘Didn’t know how, I suppose.’
‘All women know how,’ he told her.
‘So you say,’ Polly said. Joe looked at her. It was all very well to say women shouldn’t use their age-old wiles on their menfolk. Not doing so had lost Kate what she wanted – himself – and Polly Kops looked as if she was going nowhere in particular, not attending to her appearance – what a mess – not being very pleasant, challenging him, in fact, while upstairs her evidently broke and drunk lover made a pig of himself. If the child was hers – well, thought Joe, that only made it worse. A drop of scent and a few women’s wiles wouldn’t have done her any harm. In fact Joe was still niggled by how Polly had behaved following what in retrospect could be termed little more than a one-night stand ten years ago. But he had been her partner. She had not responded well. The only thing which had seemed to worry her at the time was when he had revealed he was having an affair with her friend, Kate. ‘Go round and tell her,’ she’d insisted, like a child. ‘Tell her I didn’t know.’ Joe’s pride had rebelled at being treated like a bone from which one dog was backing off, politely recognising that it was, in fact, another dog’s dinner. He was by then high on women competing over him, although still technically married to his weary wife, Naomi, who was living with their children in the country. But by that stage he had learned to expect the start of an affair to be followed by a desire for commitment, followed by tears, reproaches, and phone calls from the woman in the middle of the night. In many ways Polly hadn’t been satisfactory and, although it was behind him now, it still rankled a little. Therefore he wasn’t completely sorry Polly was on hard times, although it was a disappointment in one way. He had hoped to re-enter and be accepted by a household with some class. It had, after all, been here that the SDP was invented at a party, Polly’s Cabinet Minister father had toppled to his death, naked, from a balcony, rock stars had lain about stoned – the place was a small part of that canon, longer than the Odyssey, but not so structured, which constituted the myth of the 1960s.
‘Caroline and I were thinking of moving in round here,’ he said.
‘Cost a lot, these houses, these days,’ Polly told him.
‘Caroline has some money of her own,’ Joe said.
For some reason, Polly sniggered.
‘We’d like to get somewhere for the lad to play,’ Joe continued remorselessly – this was another reason for his visit. ‘He has several friends round here already. Oh – do you know Anna Lombard? She and Caroline were at school together. She’s a Beresbury.’
‘What’s a Beresbury?’ asked Polly.
‘The Kydds’ family name is Beresbury,’ Joe told her.
The dishes remained on the table. The kitten had fallen asleep on a huge pile of clean laundry. ‘I don’t know anywhere that’s going, Joe,’ she said. ‘I think I can hear the baby crying.’
‘If ever –’ began Joe, above the sound of many feet on the stairs. A lot of girls came in, all dressed in black as if they had all been bereaved at an early age. A second glance at the heavy make-up, patterned tights and big earrings raised thoughts of a prostitute’s funeral. Joe was stunned by their massed loveliness. ‘Some of you must be Pam and Sue,’ he said. They looked at him, instantly identifying him as a youngish dirty old man. Polly made no introductions and the five girls turned as one young woman to the stove and fridge. A conversation started about toast, tea, cheese, hot Bovril and hot chocolate. The grill and the kettle went on. Pot noodles were produced. Clancy Goldstein came in with the wriggling baby in his arms. The child’s Start-rites struck the floor like two small magnets hitting steel plate, then he dived into the massed black legs of the girls and disappeared. Terrible if the child belonged to one of Polly’s daughters, thought Joe. They were so young, only about sixteen or seventeen, and there was no doubt that the child was half black. A tragedy, thought Joe, the Channel 4 emotion making him feel somewhat better about his own misdeeds. Polly had very little excuse to lecture him, he decided.
‘Well then,’ he asked. ‘How is Katie these days?’
‘She qualified as a doctor. She’s just been in Africa for famine relief or something. Save the Children, I think it was.’
This silenced Joe for a moment. He rallied. ‘I never thought of Kate as a doctor,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know they trained them at that age. I’m surprised they took her. What about the children?’
‘Plague,’ said Polly lugubriously, guessing Joe’s desire for some bad news about the set-up he had abandoned. ‘Kate brought back this horrible tropical disease – of course, she didn’t know she was a carrier. But the effects – I can’t tell you!’
‘My God –’ said Joe.
Polly nodded mournfully. Then she said, ‘No – they’re fine. Of course, even Ajax is fourteen now. Their aunt’s been looking after them while Kate was away. She’s a nun on some sort of compassionate leave.’
The thought of sturdy, incessant Ajax, who slept in fatigues, put a plastic helmet on before he got out of bed in the morning, named his Action Man Hitler and lived exclusively on peanuts, actually growing up and joining the human race made Joe pause. He suddenly remembered clearly what that life had been like. He felt not remorse, but, worse, the feeling of an opportunity missed. He had a little painful thought, then repressed it.
‘So – what is he?’ he asked. ‘National Front?’
‘Vegetarian – joined Militant Tendency,’ Polly answered. Meanwhile one of the girls thrust the baby on Polly’s lap and said, ‘We’re taking all this stuff upstairs.’
The party, carrying a tray and various cups and plates, disappeared, leaving behind many crumbs, a selection of jars with their lids off and a cheese paring.
‘Pampam,’ the child remarked confidently.
‘And how are things – basically?’ asked Joe.
Clancy had turned on a small television set on the other side of the room and was sitting, legs astride a kitchen chair, singing along with Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald, who were standing on a haystack, in colour.
‘Well,’ said Polly. ‘I think it speaks for itself, really.’
‘I’m always reading about Alexander,’ Joe said, meaning that she must be receiving large sums from her ex-husband, and if not, why not.
‘He’s in this Big Bang, now,’ Polly said, ‘I think.’
‘Yeah, the Big Whimper himself,’ Clancy said to the TV.
‘Well,’ Joe Coverdale said neutrally. He was respectful and cautious about people with money, partly because he thought they must have some merit hidden from the rest, partly out of that unadmitted fear of the power of the rich which is learned at mother’s knee. Meanwhile he hoped there might be more than met the eye in this superficially depressed and poverty-stricken situation. The news about Kate Mulvaney had done nothing for him. His own news had been greeted without curiosity, with, it seemed, incomprehension. He came originally from a small village in Yorkshire where everyone knew everyone else. He still felt uncertain faced with the variety of big-city life, the large, unknown groupings. The grammar of this city world was too imprecise and complicated for him to understand. Even the few sentences he could comprehend seemed to translate in more than one way. Everyone spoke too fast. It was a social Tower of Babel. In reality he had married the daughter of a deputy Minister of the Crown, a young woman with some money of her own. She had borne him a son. He wanted this feat acknowledged and wished to take his pla
ce among the great and the good, but, if possible, also among the interestingly raffish, at a safe distance. Their how-d’you-dos would convince him of the basic worth of a steady life with money behind him, their names when dropped give him cachet. He continued doggedly in pursuit of the dream.
‘Which were Pam and Sue?’ he asked.
‘Pam’s the blonde, Sue’s the dark one,’ said their mother. It was not enlightening, especially as all the girls appeared to have dyed their hair and he could not be sure whether Polly was reminiscently describing their original colouring or identifying them by the colouring they had chosen to adopt.
‘See anything of your own children?’ Polly asked.
‘Harriet and Paul aren’t all that welcoming,’ Joe admitted. ‘Obviously, we’ve grown away from each other. Paul’s at Trinity. Harriet’s doing a Cordon Bleu course. What are Pam and Sue doing?’
‘Oh – courses, of course,’ Polly said. ‘It’s the middle-class way of being unemployed these days. They’ve got an all-girls band.’
‘Following in father’s footsteps,’ said Joe.
‘As long as he takes them into the family business in the end,’ said Polly. ‘So they can go from heroines of the revolution to merchant banker when the joke’s over.’
‘Funny times, the ‘sixties,’ said Joe.
‘Yes,’ said Polly.
‘Set up plenty of expectations which can’t be met now,’ Joe mentioned.
‘Unemployment, heroin, AIDS, schoolgirl mothers,’ said Clancy, from the TV. ‘You doing a programme on it, or something, mate?’ he said, turning round belligerently. ‘And, second question for ten points, are you staying long?’
Joe stood up. ‘Just leaving,’ he said.
‘That’s good,’ said Clancy.
Joe said, keen not to leave empty-handed, ‘If you should hear of anywhere in the neighbourhood for sale, could you give me a ring, Polly? We’re in the book. In fact,’ he added, ‘if you should ever think of leaving this house –’
‘Oh, piss off,’ Clancy said.
Polly said, ‘I think I’ll take Rufus for a walk round the garden,’ and went down to the french windows at the bottom of the room. Clancy caught up with her as they walked among the leaves. The child tried to catch one as it drifted down.
‘Has he gone?’ Polly asked.
‘Mealy-mouthed sod,’ declared Clancy. ‘Comes in on Sunday afternoon, next thing you’re making him nice cups of tea and asking about his health –’
‘He took me by surprise. I know he’s rotten but here’s a man who fell on his feet by marrying a rich woman, he’s got hundreds of thousands to play with and I’ve got an overdraft of £100,000, the bank’s on to me all the time to sell up, we’re at rock bottom. Joe Coverdale could be a gift horse –’
Clancy disliked these conversations and always hid his guilt about living in the condemned home with rage. ‘Sell up or shut up,’ he told her. ‘It doesn’t mean we have to have every prick in the world sitting around the house on a Sunday afternoon asking questions. People like that kill me.’
‘Just enjoy the sunshine,’ Polly advised. ‘While you can,’ she could not resist adding. She knew it was pointless to attack him. More than that, it was often dangerous. Clancy’s moving in had been a bad idea which had, as they say, seemed like a good idea at the time. Clancy, in fact, had seemed like a good idea at the time. He had come bouncing in the year before, just after she had set up her little junk business, saying that he and she had always loved each other, that he was Margaret’s father, and Max’s for that matter, that she was alone and could do with some help. He had money, he said, coming in from royalties on his old recordings. He could help out when she drove her van around collecting junk for her Saturday stall in the market, he could help with the children. Like any woman alone with children she’d fallen for it, despite the warnings of friends, and she’d got what women in sore need of a knight in shining armour normally get. Clancy’s armour fell to pieces after a fortnight, the night he got drunk, smashed a lamp and told her she was a whore. His charger, a new Range Rover she had been counting on to take over from her old van when it finally fell apart, was reclaimed a week later by some large men in suits. If there were any royalties she never saw any after the first cheque and, as for the children, he quarrelled with them, seeming to think he was their older brother, the one who had to take on the responsibilities while they, being younger, were over-indulged and given privileges he was denied. One summer day Polly had found herself hurrying home with four choc ices for the children, since she had realised, with terror, in the shop, that if she just bought them for Pam, Sue and Margaret, and didn’t buy one for Clancy, there might be a row, even though he probably wouldn’t want the choc ice when she gave it to him. Some weeks after that she’d told him she felt the arrangement wasn’t working out. ‘You’re not happy,’ she’d told him, adopting the placatory attitude of a woman who means she’s not happy. ‘This probably isn’t the place for you.’ He had, predictably, become angry, to hide the fact that he had no money and nowhere else to go. Lately he’d had a number of phone calls, but had taken care she shouldn’t overhear them. She didn’t know what they were about. He’d bought himself two new pairs of shoes, but when she’d showed him the gas bill he’d expressed only sympathy and said she ought to keep a stricter check on Pam, Margaret and Sue. He was sure they went to bed, even on fairly warm summer nights, without turning off their gas fires. ‘Blazing away all the time,’ he’d said. ‘Bad for them as well – all the fumes.’ Then he’d mentioned a gas leak he suspected.
Polly realised all her children were orphans, even Margaret, who was Clancy’s own child. He’d hardly seen her since she was born and now lumped her in with Pam and Sue, twin daughters of his former rival Alexander Kops, showing the same camaraderie or resentment to her as he did, by turns, towards the others. Meanwhile her financial situation was critical.
Kate Mulvaney had advised her to get Clancy out of the house quickly. She said she felt he was a positive danger. Polly said she was afraid of him, and when she wasn’t afraid of him she was sorry for him. She was also running too hard to earn money and pay the bills to face the problems he’d cause her if she asked him directly to go. All she wanted was a little peace and quiet so that she could find a solution to her difficulties. Also, she explained, sometimes he was nice and if he was nasty, well, look at the state she was in – wouldn’t anyone lose his head? But, ‘I don’t like it,’ Kate Mulvaney had said, seriously. Then she had to go back to Africa, probably too soon for Polly, who reverted to her old desperate, anxious, terrified and guilty behaviour – the place was toppling round her ears, the wife of the civil servant next door was always on to her about her roof, which was contaminating their roof, the hot water system broke down, she had it repaired knowing she couldn’t pay for it, bills flooded in, even the vacuum cleaner broke down, she was dropping with exhaustion and each morning got up, bent like an old woman, shoulders hunched under the weight of her own bills. And it was all her own fault things had got like this, and all her own fault she couldn’t find a solution.
Every day, thought Anna Lombard, I come into my beautiful hall where the Audubon birds hang over the small table grandmother gave me when they sold Kellinthwaite. I can smell, faintly, the beeswax-laden furniture polish Mrs Adams uses on some of the furniture and I take off my gloves and lay them on the table and go upstairs past the watercolours and the dim (thank goodness) picture of Geoffrey’s great-great-great grandmother. I peer into the living-room, where the early hyacinths in the blue bowl are opening, and the books on the wall have, today, been dusted. The room smells faintly of hyacinths. I put my plastic bags, with the wild mushrooms and the blackberries for the mousse on the counter in the kitchen next door to the living-room. I walk upstairs, take off my shoes, put them in the cupboard, put on others. Before Geoffrey comes back I shall make up my face again and change these old shoes for a better pair. I look at myself in the gold-framed old mirror by the dressing table
– the real mirror, the one which tells the truth, is in the bathroom, where the light is fierce. I take off my make-up and put on some moisturiser, take down my hair, brush it, put it up again, this time with little gold combs. Today is one of the two days a week when my lectures at the Institute end at 3.15, so today, I can concentrate on cooking a really good supper for us. Geoffrey has been looking preoccupied lately. We both need to slow down, be together in a relaxed way.
I have anxieties, too. I worry. I don’t know why. I think it’s little things, like Harriet. Pauline’s at the back of it, I’m sure. I think she’s encouraging Harriet, to get at me. Without Harriet, I might feel better.
Then there’s that stupid woman next door, Polly Kops, and her roof. Then there’s Julie Thompson – without her, life would be a lot different. It’s not her fault she lives in our basement flat. We wanted the house, couldn’t afford, at the time, to buy a whole house but having her there with those children makes a difference. I’ve asked Geoffrey about it dozens of times …
‘Can’t we get rid of her somehow?’ said Anna Lombard to her husband Geoffrey, as he took a final helping of the blackberry mousse. ‘We didn’t plan this to be permanent and we’ve been here four-and-a-half years now and still nothing’s happened.’
Geoffrey ate his spoonful, perhaps rather quickly, and put down the spoon. Anna said ‘Cheese?’ When he shook his head she automatically placed the coffee on a tray which already contained cream, sugar and cups and carried it into the other room.
They sat with their cups in the long pale-carpeted room. There was the faint smell of hyacinths. Unfortunately, as they discussed what music to play Julie Thompson, down in the dark and windy garden, was urging her children in. Kevin, the oldest, was crying. ‘Come on, Kevin. It’s too dark now to find any conkers. You can come out early on and look.’
Both the Lombards, without looking at each other, knew what the other was thinking. What a noise. Would they be woken by the Thompson children shouting at a quarter to seven tomorrow? It summed up the whole unsatisfactory situation. They were sharing a house, effectively, with someone with whom they had nothing in common, whose habits were irritating and whose presence reflected no credit on them. The days had long gone when it might be acceptable to have a sitting tenant in the basement. Now it merely proved that you were inefficient, too broke to buy the tenant out and too uninventive to find some loophole by which to get rid of her.
As Time Goes By Page 2
