by Liz Byrski
He hears the shower being turned on and they are talking now, low voices masked by the sound of the water. Laurence takes a deep breath, rubs his eyes, gets out mugs and milk and opens a packet of Tim-Tams.
‘Can I get a clean towel for her please, Dad,’ Emma says from the doorway. Her face is pinched and streaked with Rosie’s tan, her eyes are red, and she is twisting her hands as she did as a child when she thought she was in trouble.
Laurence puts down the biscuits and clears his throat. ‘Of course,’ he says, walking over to her, and he takes her hands in his and holds them still.
‘It’s my fault,’ Emma says, ‘all my fault.’
Laurence releases her hands and gently grasps her upper arms, looking straight into her face. ‘It’s not your fault,’ he says. ‘It’s far more complicated than that and nothing terrible has happened. This is just one unfortunate afternoon, in the home of people who almost certainly don’t see anything wrong in what they’re doing.’
‘Well they should, they should …’
‘This will soon be forgotten, Em. Rosie will be back to burying dead birds, and while she may well turn out to favour lentils and Birkenstocks, today is not going to scar her psyche, or turn her into a bunny or teenage beauty pageant obsessive.’
‘Mum, Mum, I need a towel,’ Rosie calls from the bathroom.
‘But you, Emma,’ Laurence continues, ‘you were wonderful – passionate, strong, articulate. I was … I am tremendously proud of you.’ He pulls her back to him, kisses her forehead, and then puts his arm around her shoulders. ‘Come on, let’s go and find madam a towel, and then we’ll have a nice supper at the Boatshed.’
And he leads her out to the linen press, pulls out a couple of towels and gives her a gentle push towards the bathroom.
The sun is setting, hanging in a crimson haze on the horizon as they wait for their food on the deck at the Boatshed.
‘Relax,’ Laurence says, pouring the wine. ‘Look, she’s fine, happy as a flea,’ and he nods towards Rosie, who has discovered a friend nearby and is leaning on the edge of her friend’s table.
Emma, tight-lipped, shakes her head. She still seems to be on the verge of tears. ‘I’ve been a terrible example for her,’ she says, her voice quavering. ‘I’ve been so obsessed with myself I didn’t think … I just didn’t think.’ A large tear rolls down her cheek and she dabs it with the napkin.
‘Darling girl,’ Laurence says, ‘this really is the proverbial storm in a teacup. Don’t blame yourself for this, please. You’ve had some hard things to deal with and you just tried to find a way to feel better. And you’re a wonderful example, you’re a smart, intelligent and very successful businesswoman –’
‘So why do I still feel like a child, and a hopeless failure who can’t get anything right?’ Emma snaps back.
Laurence, whose heart has been sadly battered by the events of recent months, now feels it might finally break. ‘I don’t really know,’ he says, trying to keep his voice steady and reassuring. ‘I can’t answer that, but … well, you’re not going to like this, but maybe you could get some help working it out. It doesn’t mean –’
‘You mean see a counsellor.’
‘Yes, but not …’
‘I have,’ Emma says. ‘I am.’
‘Really?’ Laurence is stuck for more words, amazed and relieved. He hesitates, desperate for the right response. ‘Well, that’s good, Em. Great in fact. Good for you. How is it going?’
Emma shrugs. ‘Weird, difficult, it’s hard to say. I seem to spend most of the time in tears and then go home and cry some more.’
‘Well, it’s early days – you’ll keep going?’
She nods. ‘Oh yes, I’ve hardly got my feet wet yet. It feels a bit like going for a swim on a hot day,’ she says. ‘You’re far too hot so you walk out into the water and it’s freezing and it creeps up over your feet and your ankles, and it’s agony and you know it’ll be worse when it gets past your knees, and truly awful when it gets to your crotch. But once you’re in you have to keep going, don’t you?’
‘You do,’ Laurence says, smiling at her. ‘You really do. I’m so proud of you.’
A waiter appears with cutlery, bread plates and napkins heralding the arrival of their food, and Rosie comes bounding back to the table.
‘Did you get wedges, Grandad? And those fish things?’
‘I did, darling,’ Laurence says, straightening her chair. ‘Wedges for all of us and the Thai fish cakes for you.’
‘Cool,’ Rosie says. She leans over to him, lowering her voice. ‘Louise can’t have the fish cakes because she’s allergic to something, so she’s having some stuff made of beans and it has goat’s cheese in it. Yuk! I’m glad I’m not allergic or anything.’ She wriggles into the chair and unfolds her serviette. ‘And Grandad,’ she says, thrusting her hand into the pocket of her jeans and struggling to pull out a lanyard, ‘what’s this?’
‘Wherever did you get that?’ Emma asks. ‘It looks like a personal alarm. Someone must have dropped it.’ She looks around for likely owners.
Laurence clears his throat. ‘It’s … er … well, it’s mine actually,’ he says, feeling his face flush.
‘It was in the toilet paper,’ Rosie says. ‘I thought you might have hid it but I expect you just dropped it.’
‘It’s yours?’ Emma says. ‘You think you need it?’
‘Oh of course not, not yet,’ Laurence says. ‘Not for ages, probably never.’
Emma seems to be struggling now to suppress a smile. ‘But you got one anyway?’
‘Well, yes …’ Laurence busies himself with his pasta, which has now arrived. ‘Just in case, you know, after what happened to Dot. It … well it focuses the mind, rather.’
‘And you hid it in the toilet roll?’
‘When you turned up, yes, well I thought it might … and I live alone now, there’s that to think of … but I thought it might make me look …’
‘You don’t,’ Emma says quickly. ‘You don’t look like that, not at all.’
‘You won’t … well, you won’t tell anyone … your mother … Phyl … ?’
She shakes her head. ‘Not a soul.’
There’s something different in the way she’s looking at him, Laurence thinks, and it’s a bit unnerving.
‘You look terrific, Dad,’ she says, leaning towards him across the table, ‘not in any way any of the things you’re worrying about.’ She pauses. ‘And … I should have told you this before. I’m sorry about Bernard, really sorry. This must be so hard for you, the sadness, him not being there … everything.’
Laurence looks up and meets her gaze and it makes him catch his breath. He sees what it is now, that look in her eyes – she can see right through him into the great aching void inside him, and in that moment he is totally vulnerable, stripped naked of his defences, and he has to look away.
‘Can I have all the wedges?’ Rosie asks, piling them onto her plate.
‘Definitely not,’ Emma says. ‘Grandad needs some.’
And she picks up the bowl and passes it to Laurence and as he takes it from her their eyes meet and her hand lingers on his.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Vinka paces back and forth between the lounge and the courtyard, stopping first in one place and then another. She picks up a cigarette, lights it and as she inhales her stomach heaves; it’s hours since she ate anything, not since breakfast, in fact, and now it’s nearly six. In the kitchen she hacks a large slice from a dark rye loaf and takes it with a chunk of cheese and a shot of vodka out to her chair in the courtyard. Patrick will be here any minute now, she must try to stay calm, at least as calm as it is possible to feel under the circumstances. She’s still not sure that she is doing the right thing; she thinks it is probably right in many ways, but is it the ethical thing, the compassionate thing? She cannot, after all, predict the result – hurt, anger, embarrassment, shame; all sorts of things are possible. But she has made up her mind that it has to be done, and now her
own inner dialogue is exhausting her. She will sit here with her bread, her cheese and her vodka and Patrick will be here before she is finished.
She checks her watch again and starts on the bread, chewing slowly in the hope that it will steady her mind. She makes herself look around at the plants in the courtyard, one at a time, letting her gaze rest on them, measuring their health and strength, using each one to calm her before moving on to the next. She loves this time of the evening before it’s dark, when the air is soft and still in the heat. It’s so quiet here and yet there are plenty of people nearby, and the city is just outside the gates – it is ideal, really. It is so much better than she had imagined. Beate would have liked it here, Vinka thinks; if Beate were alive they might have finished their days here, together.
She looks again at the time; he is late now, how much longer? And she swallows the last of the cheese and the remains of her drink, and carries the plate and glass in to the kitchen, just as Patrick appears at the screen door.
‘So what is it that is so serious?’ he says when they are sitting outside, with more vodka. ‘It all sounds very mysterious.’
Vinka’s heart pounds in her chest, her head spins and she has to close her eyes to stop the giddiness. ‘Are you okay?’ Patrick asks. ‘You look really pale. Can I get you some water? Do you need to lie down?’
She shakes her head. ‘No, no, I am all right,’ she says. ‘Just worried about what I have to tell you …’
‘You’re not ill, are you?’
She sees the concern, even fear, in his eyes and grips his hand. ‘I am not ill. Please, Patrick, I must tell you something. If Beate were here … but then if Beate were here this would not be my decision to make. It is not so easy, let me take my time, let me tell it all before you say anything.’
‘Sure,’ he says, obviously puzzled. ‘Take your time, I’m sure it can’t be anything really bad.’
Margot hasn’t told anyone about the phone call, and no one has enquired about the fate of her manuscript. But they are relieved, they have said in various ways, to have her back, for themselves, for the campaign, for each other. What they don’t know, what they haven’t yet seen, is that she is not quite ‘back’; part of her is somewhere else and she suspects that from now on that’s how it will always be.
‘I’d be delighted to represent you,’ the agent had said on the phone this morning. ‘It’s a terrific novel. In fact it’s hard to believe it’s your first.’
And so another period of waiting has begun, this time while the agent tries to persuade a publisher to read it. Writing, Margot realises, is not an occupation for the fainthearted. The waiting is agony, and always in the back of her mind is the knowledge that she may wait for months and then have to start waiting all over again.
‘Not long now,’ Alyssa says from the head of the table, forcing Margot’s attention back to the meeting. ‘Let’s do a quick round-up to see where everyone’s at.’ It’s her turn to chair the meeting and it’s clear from the energy she brings to the table that she’s already pumped with adrenaline.
Watching her Margot is reminded of Dot as a young woman; Alyssa loves to be the chair, she has the same compulsion to lead, the same fire in her belly. Dot still has it, Margot thinks, but she’s finally developed some sort of inner thermostat which allows her to run hot when necessary, but also to keep something in reserve. Without that the inner fire might by now have consumed her. Years ago Margot had doubted that Dot – the heavy smoker, the stress junkie, the compulsive sampler of any new and risky experience – would make it to sixty, but now, in her seventies, she looks as though she could go on forever, although it’s clear that Dot is not quite as convinced of that as she once was.
‘What are you wearing around your neck?’ Margot had asked when she’d arrived at the house a couple of days ago.
‘It’s an emergency call system,’ Dot had said, leading her through to the back verandah. ‘Sit down, have some iced tea. I’ve made this big jug of it.’
‘So when did you get the alarm thing?’
‘Last week. Laurence organised it. It’s temporary of course, just until I can get rid of the walking stick. It makes me feel like an accident waiting to happen.’
‘It’s very sensible. You should keep it. Laurence should’ve got one for himself at the same time,’ Margot said.
‘He’s convinced that being a bloke he’s never going to need one! Obviously men do not fall over in the house – or at least not in Laurence’s world.’
‘Well don’t tell him I told you this, but he told Lexie that he’s having a lot of trouble with his back since he did the pilgrimage. He’s a bit worried about it – not that he’ll say that to you or me of course. This is delicious iced tea, it tastes like Phyllida’s.’
‘It’s made to Phyllida’s recipe,’ Dot had said. ‘You know, putting it in the sun and so on. I don’t think I’ll ever drink the bottled stuff again, this is so much nicer.’
Margot is bewildered by this new friendship between Dot and Phyllida. She looks at them now, sitting side-by-side at the meeting as though they have been great mates all their lives, and she feels a shameful stab of jealousy, as though little bits of each of them which had been hers have now been stolen. Ridiculous, she thinks; not so long ago she was worrying because Phyllida had no friends, now she wants to keep her all to herself – or is it perhaps Dot who she wants to keep to herself?
Alyssa has finished her checklist of the preparations and Lexie leads them through the timetable and the route for the march. Everyone is here tonight, all except Patrick who, according to Lexie, has gone to see Vinka, who sounded on the phone as though she might have a cold or a virus.
‘You’ve all done a terrific job,’ she says. ‘It’s going to be amazing and it’ll take us to another level.’
‘How many do you think we’ll get?’ Alyssa asks. ‘Hundreds?’
‘Let’s hope so,’ Lexie says, holding up her crossed fingers.
‘Margot,’ Phyllida says as the meeting breaks up and Emma and Alyssa bring tea and scones from the kitchen. ‘Did you have time to read that book?’
‘The one about the two women – the wife and the lover of the man who died?’
Phyllida nods. ‘Did you find it interesting?’
Margot shrugs. ‘It was okay but I think I’m more interested in why you asked me to read it.’
‘I’m interested in that too,’ Phyllida says. ‘Dot and Em and I are going to the Boatshed book club tomorrow, they’re discussing it. Why don’t you come too?’
‘Well I –’
‘Do come, Margot,’ Dot cuts in. ‘Remember that book group when we read The Women’s Room?’
Margot nods. ‘I remember.’ And she looks across at Phyllida. ‘Okay,’ she says, ‘I’ll meet you at the Boatshed.’
Emma has stayed in the office for as long as she can. She has watched her colleagues leave to go home to their partners and children, to meet friends for a drink, or evening shopping, for a new date, or simply a quiet evening in front of the television. And she has hung on as long as she can, waiting for the moment when it will be safe for her to leave and make her way to the station. From the moment she woke this morning Emma recognised the signs and has known how her day will be and how it could end, and she has ricocheted back and forth between her old chaotic self and the person she is trying to become. As she has tracked back through her own history of compulsive attempts to make herself over by shopping for new looks, or fixing bits of her face or body, she has realised it always begins in the early morning. She wakes with a terrible sense of her own emptiness – a black hole of self-hatred that threatens to swallow her if she doesn’t do something to make herself feel better. As the day progresses it builds to an obsession that drives rational thought straight out of the window.
Christmas had been a turning point for Emma; surrounded by her family she felt suddenly besieged by pinprick insights into her own behaviour. Determined that she wouldn’t be crying in the bathroom next Chr
istmas, she had made some enquiries, got some recommendations and on the first day back at work after the holidays had managed to get an appointment with a therapist, only half believing that it might be the answer. But things have started to change. Recognising and acknowledging the warning signs has helped, and several times she has controlled the old compulsions and managed herself through the day by starting out as the therapist suggested.
‘From what you’ve told me,’ Mara had said, ‘you’ve built up a good routine since you moved in with your aunt, so make it work for you. When you get those feelings that warn you that you might go off the rails it’s really important to stick to your routine. So – deep breathing before you get up, then everything slowly, thoughtfully, entirely in the present, thinking just about what you are doing in the moment. Don’t skip anything; let the routine keep you grounded.’
But for some reason this morning it began to fall apart. Was it something in the light coming through the bedroom window, that high white cloud combined with oppressive airless heat that she finds infinitely depressing, or perhaps the aftereffect of a dream that she can’t now recall? Whatever it was, the danger signals were all there and she had lain in bed for a while, grasping desperately at the routine: breathing deeply, reminding herself to stay cool, focusing on the feel of her body against the mattress, the safe and comforting surroundings of the room. She was almost on top of it then, suddenly, everything fell apart. She had thrown back the sheet and moved instantly into the day, her mind reeling and whizzing, and the whole framework slipped and crashed and she couldn’t get it back again. She skipped her morning run and went straight to the shower, ignoring the many tiny rituals that had been working so well: making herself feel the water on her body, the feel of the shampoo as she massaged it into her hair, the comfort of Phyllida’s huge white bath towel wrapped around her body. But today she dressed with the old edgy tension, the tightness in her chest and the same compulsion to be doing rather than just being that had always preceded disaster. She was revving so fast this morning that she was out of the house and on the train before Phyllida was up.
