‘Rufus!’ cries Mary.
‘Yuh, Mummy. That means you too.’
I catch the look on her face and it’s tragic. Mary is the mistress of self-control, but just for a second, she looks so lost, so ripped apart that I almost feel sorry for her. Because whatever else I feel about her, I know that she loves her son. Truly, wildly. He’s the whole focus of her existence. Always has been: raising him, teaching him manners, getting him ready to take on the mantle of the Wattestones. He’s more than a child: he’s a whole career. And on top of that, when I see the way she looks at him sometimes, I know, also, that, in the end, what he is is her baby boy.
She catches herself. Catches me catching her. ‘Well, we’ll talk about it later,’ she says. ‘Though I just want to say what a thoughtful, generous brother you are.’
No-one quite knows where to look. Apart from Yaya, who’s having the time of her life. Other people’s family discord is like manna to her. Her eyes are glittering, she’s enjoying herself so much. Everyone else looks down at their plate. I take a bit of caviar on the tip of the tiny spoon that comes with it. Pop it on to my tongue, close my eyes to feel the eggs pop-pop-pop against the roof of my mouth. Salty seawater heaven. It makes you shiver, caviar.
Dad clears his throat. ‘Well, I don’t know if I can beat that,’ he says. ‘But tell you what, Mel, there’s something in here for my girl.’
He throws me a small gift-wrapped box from his end of the table. Oh God: the present Costa was going on about. I’m not sure if I want to open it.
I do. Inside, nestled on a bed of shredded tissue paper, is a key. A car key.
I look up at him. He’s chewing furiously on his cigar, looking like he’s just swallowed a turkey whole.
‘Is this what I think it is?’
‘No, it’s a pumpkin.’
‘Dad … I …’
‘Well, don’t get excited or anything.’
‘Oh my God. Oh my God!’
‘That’s better,’ he says. ‘And it’s all insured and ready for you to drive,’ he adds, pointedly.
I’m out of my seat. ‘Where is it? Where is it?’
With a flourish, two of Santa’s little helpers pull back the curtain that has been hiding the window behind our table.
Parked on the drive, gleaming and gorgeous in a giant silver ribbon, stands a Mercedes coupé. No: not a Mercedes coupé: an SL 600. A convertible SL 600 in black with alloy wheels and – I can see it from here – cherry-red leather interior.
‘Oh my God,’ I say. There’s a hundred grand’s worth of sports car standing on the drive, and it’s mine.
‘She likes it,’ says Mum. ‘I told you she’d like it.’
‘Like it?’ I say. ‘I friggin’ love it. I’ve got a fucken hard-on for that car.’
And then I remember the company I’m in and shut up. Walk round the table and give my dad the biggest hug of his life. ‘I love yer, you old sod,’ I tell him. ‘You’re a little belter!’
‘Steady,’ says the old man.
‘I could sit on your knee and call you big boy! I couldn’t be more chuffed!’
‘Oh, I think you could be,’ says Mum.
‘I couldn’t. I’m as stoked as it’s possible to be!’
‘Oh, get on with it, Don,’ says Yaya. ‘You’re confusing the girl.’
‘OK,’ says Dad, and gets to his feet. Oh God: he’s going to make a speech. Right here in front of the whole dining room. Attracting attention. I can see the whites of Mary’s eyes.
Dad takes his cigar out of his mouth and taps on his glass with his knife. That does it. Anyone who wasn’t rapt at our little display before is surely aware of us now. The muttering in the dining room dies to silence as he stands there and digs in his pocket. Clears his throat.
‘H’OK,’ he says. ‘Well, here we are.’
I’m not used to my Dad making speeches. Nor is he, of course. He’s always been of the low-profile persuasion that way.
He shows us why by not saying anything at all for a full minute because he’s come over all gulpy. Grabs a napkin and dabs furiously at his eyes. There’s not a sound in the room: not a tinkle of crockery, not a whisper, not a footfall. I find myself blushing on his behalf.
He speaks. ‘Melody’s my daughter,’ he says, ‘my princess. We call her Princess back home, you know. We call her that because that’s what she is. A princess. Our – little – I would do anything for her. Anything.’
Dad is overcome by sentimentality. He stumbles to a halt, going all watery about the eyes, and blows his nose, loudly and at length, on the white damask clutched in his hand. It’s funny, isn’t it, how these men, the ones who are capable of extreme ruthlessness in their outside life, are also capable of such extremes of sentimentality when it comes to family? I’ve seen it all my life among Dad’s business associates. Stabbing people in the back with one hand while they hold handkerchiefs to their eyes with the other.
On the edge of my field of vision, Mary sits stock still, one palm on the table.
He recovers, continues: ‘Anyway. Since she was a nipper, there’s been one day I’ve looked forward to with all my heart, and that was the day I gave her away. And – well – I guess I’ve been robbed – no, not robbed – it just wasn’t to be …’
He drinks half a glass of champagne in a single gulp. Champagne is a dangerous drink. It loosens tongues. Rufus looks uncomfortable. Mum looks down at the tablecloth. ‘… but at least we’re all together now, eh? The families. And maybe we can give them a toast now, like we didn’t get to make on the day.’
Dad is, bless him, oblivious to many things he doesn’t want to see. He beams waterily around the table and recharges his glass. ‘So if everyone,’ he says, ‘would like to raise their glasses, here’s to the bride and groom.’
It’s one of those moments. Rufus takes my hand and squeezes it while Mum, Dad, Yaya, Edmund, Tilly and Roly bellow ‘The bride and groooooom!’ with an enthusiasm that almost drowns out the half-hearted mumbles that come from Hilary and Mary’s end of the table and the ‘stuff and nonsense’ that comes from Beatrice. The toasters slug enthusiastically from their glasses. Mary and Hilary sip the tiniest drops from theirs, lips pursed, like hamsters at a water bottle. Beatrice just glares.
He puts his glass down. Starts digging in his breast pocket.
‘Anyways. I’ve been thinking about what to get you, and it wasn’t easy. I’d wanted to maybe sort you out with a house or something, but when I got over here, I realised that you’re not really short of houses.’
You can feel the tension. Well, I can. Dad, evidently, can’t. ‘So, well, I thought maybe what you really need is a bit of help with the houses you’ve got. I couldn’t help but notice,’ he says to Edmund, who has stopped grinning and started looking for the exits, ‘that you’ve got a bit of a hole in the roof, there.’
Ever a one for understatement.
‘So I thought –’ he finally locates the piece of paper he’s been looking for, brandishes it triumphantly. It’s a cheque. I can see the ANZ logo from the KebabCab cheque book. Crikey. He must have been putting some serious wedge through that account – ‘maybe the best thing would be just to give you a little … help.’
Chapter Forty-Six
Dad of the Year
So this year’s Embarrassing Dad award goes to Adonis Katsouris of Brisbane. And, like all Embarrassing Dads, he hasn’t even realised.
That state of affairs doesn’t last long, though.
Edmund, hand trembling, takes the cheque and looks at it like he’s never seen one before. To do him credit, I think the tremor is more to do with alcohol – he’s a nice old stick, Edmund, even if he can’t get through an hour without a top-up – but when I catch sight of the sum the cheque’s made out for, I wonder if emotion isn’t also a factor. But he’s not the sort who would get in a strop or anything, whatever you did to him.
Not the case with his mother.
‘Good God,’ she says in a voice that’s calculated to br
ing anyone in the room who might have lost interest right back on to the radar. ‘Do you think you can buy us?’
Rufus isn’t saying anything. I think he’s in shock, especially as the digits on the cheque have swung into his sight at the moment they swung into mine. The amounts of money that have swapped hands in the past half-hour would even shut Elton John up for a few seconds.
‘Ay?’ says Dad. This is not the sort of reaction he’d been expecting, I’d wager.
Beatrice pushes her glass away from her like it’s poisoned. ‘We can not be bought,’ she says.
‘Now hold on a minute,’ says Mum. ‘Who said anything about buying anybody?’
Bea’s off and running. ‘Your sort of people,’ she says, ‘think money is the answer to everything.’
‘Well, it’s the answer to quite a lot,’ says Mum wryly. ‘I don’t think it’s exactly bypassed your own life.’
‘I suppose,’ says Beatrice, ignoring her, ‘that in exchange you’ll be wanting introductions. And invitations.’ She addresses the room. ‘I’ve seen it all before, of course. Arrivistes thinking they can buy their way into—’
Rufus finally moves. ‘Shut up, Granny,’ he hisses.
‘Christ,’ says Dad, ‘it was just an offer.’
‘Wattestones don’t parade their problems like dirty laundry,’ says Beatrice, ‘and we don’t like other people doing it for us.’
‘Well, that wasn’t the idea,’ he says.
‘I suppose you thought we’d be impressed by –’ she waves a hand over the table, at the caviar and the champagne and the gold-rimmed chargers – ‘all this. Rented finery. Gewgaws. And cheques.’
‘We’re no show ponies,’ says Ma. ‘Got it all for real back home.’
I will her to shut up. Shut up, Mum. It’s not helping.
Edmund tries to cut in. ‘Mummy – enough.’ He turns to Dad and says: ‘Don, I appreciate this gesture. It’s immensely generous. But I can’t take it.’
‘Nonsense,’ says Dad. ‘You’ve already got it. And it’s family, ain’t it? I’ve been putting it aside against Melody’s wedding anyway, so it’s no skin off my nose.’
‘It used to be the Americans, of course,’ says Beatrice. ‘Coming over here and thinking they could buy a bit of class. I suppose it was only a matter of time before the Australians—’
Rufus glares at her. ‘Be quiet, Granny.’
‘What’s the problem here?’ asks Mum. ‘Our money not good enough for you?’
‘No,’ says Beatrice.
‘Shut up, both of you!’ I say. ‘Not another word!’
The people in this dining room must be having their most entertaining Christmas ever. I can imagine the pleasure they must be getting from having the traditional family row without having to participate themselves.
‘Please,’ says Edmund, ‘take it back.’
‘No,’ says Dad. I think he’s under the impression that this is some British politeness ritual. That if he refuses a couple more times, they will accept it and all will be well. No-one says no to my dad. He’s not used to it.
‘No, really,’ says Edmund.
‘Aah, take it,’ says Dad.
‘No. Thank you, but no,’ says Edmund.
I dread to think what Rufus must be thinking. Because though Dad’s got the subtlety of a discarded condom in an alleyway, this sum of money is the answer to his prayers. It’s enough to put the roof back on. Seriously. Not to mend the foundations, but at least to stop the rot from above. And here’s his father turning it down and his grandmother hurling invective at the givers.
‘Ah, come on,’ says Dad. ‘Let’s face it. It’s not like it’s not obvious you could do with it.’
I actually hear a groan escape my lips.
‘What I want to know,’ says Beatrice, ‘is where this money came from in the first place.’
‘Granny, how dare you?’ says Tilly.
‘Oh, right then,’ says Mum. ‘If that’s the way you’re going to play it, then we might as well forget about it.’
Great wafts of despair drift over from Rufus.
‘Look,’ I say, ‘maybe we can talk about it later? Dad, I think you’re amazing. I can’t even begin … but why don’t we leave all this till later?’
‘What a good idea, Melody,’ says Mary, voice oozing sincerity. ‘What a good girl you are.’
Mum glances at me speculatively as she hears the tone, but I just smile. No way. No way am I getting into this now.
I turn to my mother-in-law as plates of turkey with all the trimmings land in front of us. ‘So what’s the deal with Boxing Day, Mary?’ I ask. ‘Are you all going out with the hunt?’
‘Every able-bodied person in the entire county will be out,’ she assures me, with the absolute certainty of the totally sheltered.
‘What, all two million of them?’ asks Mum. I attempt to kick her under the table, but my leg doesn’t reach.
‘Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha!’ tinkles Mary. ‘Ah-hah-haaa!’
Conversation sort of dries at that point. Everyone concentrates on the plate in front of them. I cut into a Brussels sprout. It gives off the sulphurous scent of the overcooked brassica and takes several chews to get it down.
Beatrice still looks murderous. Peers round the table like a malevolent little gargoyle. Never been one to let things lie, that woman.
‘It’s her fault,’ she announces. ‘That woman. Twisting his mind. Turning him against us. It was all fine before she came along.’
I stretch my eyes. Rufus takes his serviette off his lap and slaps it down on the table. Stalks out of the room.
‘Oh God, Granny,’ hisses Tilly.
Yaya lifts her glass. Says, loudly and ironically: ‘Well! Happy Christmas, everybody!’
Chapter Forty-Seven
Mum’s Opinion
I storm off after Rufus. He’s not in our room, not in the lounge, not out in the grounds in any obvious sort of way. My family doesn’t last a lot longer at the table: Mum, letting loose a couple of choice adjectives, storms off after me, Dad storms off to have a smoko and Yaya, suddenly deprived of people she can make asides to in Greek, just storms off, in a hobbling sort of a way. Tilly, who knows perfectly well that once we’ve all gone she’s going to be in for it despite the fact that she’s not actually done anything, waddles off to her room holding her stomach. When I pass the dining room five minutes after I first left it, there’s nothing left but a pile of wrapping paper, a couple of dozen delighted fellow-guests and the Wattestone party, all eating their roast turkey with their elbows tucked in and gazing, blankly, into the middle distance.
Serve them bloody well right.
I can’t seem to find Rufus anywhere. He must be really distressed if he doesn’t even want me to find him. I decide to give our room another go. Maybe he’s curled up in a cupboard somewhere, doing the old rocking routine. As I mount the stairs, I find Mum coming in the opposite direction.
‘There you are!’ she says. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere!’
‘I’ve got to find Rufus,’ I say.
I get a hand on the arm. ‘Not yet, you don’t, young lady. Not until you’ve had a serious word with me.’
‘I don’t have time, Mum. Give me a break, huh?’
‘No, I won’t. I want to know what’s going on and I want to know now.’
‘It’s nothing I can’t handle.’
‘Well that’s not the way it looks from here. What is going on here, Melody? Have you gone out of your mind? What are you doing, letting people talk to you that way?’
‘Please, Mum. Just leave it, OK?’
‘Leave it? I didn’t bring you up to let yourself get walked all over by snobs like that. I’m not bloody putting up with it. I’ll tell you something: we’re not staying around here to get talked to like that. We’re out of here and if it was up to me we’d be taking you with us. You’ve got to stand up for yourself, girl. Haven’t I told you a million times? I can’t be here to do it for you all the time.’
> I’ve managed to get a couple of steps above her by now. Stop and turn to face her. ‘I’m not asking you to.’
‘Well, you don’t seem to be doing a very good job of it for yourself.’
I take a deep breath, try to find the right words.
She ploughs on. ‘It’s pathetic, Melody.’
And this is the problem. My parents are so afraid of anyone getting one over on me that they’ve never let me sort things out for myself. I love them. I love them to bits, but I’ve had to cross several oceans to get to make my own mistakes. It’s about themselves, of course. But it’s not really about me. If they see someone dominate me, insult me, overlook me, ignore me, they feel it as a reflection on themselves. And they can’t bear that.
I lean against the wall, arms folded like a sulky adolescent. ‘Mum, it’s my problem, OK? I’ll handle it my way.’
‘Your way isn’t working. I’d say that was pretty obvious. Don’t be such a bloody doormat.’
The trouble is, she has something of a point. I am being wet, I know that. But I’m like someone trying to put in central heating without a monkey wrench. And if there’s one thing I do know, it’s that if you ain’t got the tools, you’re bound to make a few cock-ups along the way. I tried doing it the Katsouris way, with Andy, and all it did was drive him off. There has to be another route, and I haven’t worked out what it is yet. But one thing I do know is that nagging isn’t going to help.
She goes on, ‘And another thing. How come Rufus lets people talk to you like that? What sort of a guy lets his wife—’
‘No,’ I say, ‘leave Rufus out of this. You’ve only been here five minutes. You don’t have the first idea—’
She does a sort of hah-type laugh. ‘I’ve got a good enough one. You’re living in an armpit of a house with a load of people who think they’re too good for you, right down to the –’ she pauses to emphasise the word – ‘employees, and your husband – well. Presumably he thinks he’s too good for you and all. I’ll tell you, Melody, if you don’t do something about it, then I will.’
Simply Heaven Page 30
