Mummy doesn’t sob – it’s not her style, sobbing – but she does blink. I sometimes sob. On the other hand, sometimes I go hours, or even days, without thinking about Daddy. And then, of course, I feel terrible.
‘Why are we going for brunch?’ says Dan as we pull up at the lights.
‘To have brunch!’ I say, a little sharply. ‘To be a family!’
‘No other agenda?’ He raises his eyebrows, and I feel slight misgivings. I don’t think there’s another agenda. On the phone last night I said to Mummy, at least three times, ‘It is just brunch, isn’t it? Nothing … else?’ And she said, ‘Of course, darling!’ and sounded quite offended.
She has history, though. She knows it and I know it and Dan knows it. Even the girls know it.
‘She’s at it again,’ says Dan calmly, as he finds a parking space outside her block.
‘You don’t know that,’ I retort.
But as we enter her spacious mansion flat, my eyes dart around, searching for clues, hoping I won’t find any …
Then I see it, through the double doors. A white, kitchen-type gadget perched on her ormolu coffee table. It’s large and shiny and looks totally out of place sitting on her old, well-thumbed books about Impressionist painters.
Damn it. He’s right.
I deliberately don’t see the gadget. I don’t mention it. I kiss Mummy, and so does Dan, and we get the girls out of their coats and shoes, and head into the kitchen, where the table is laid. (I’ve finally got Mummy to give up trying to entertain us in the dining room when we have the girls with us.) And the minute I enter the room, I draw breath sharply. Oh, for God’s sake. What is she up to?
Mummy, of course, is playing completely innocent.
‘Have some crudités, Sylvie!’ she says in that bright sparkly voice that used to be real – she had everything to sparkle about – and now sounds just a little hollow. ‘Girls, you like carrots, don’t you? Look at these ones. Aren’t they fun?’
There are four huge platters on the kitchen counter, all covered in strangely shaped vegetables. There are courgette batons, etched with a criss-cross design. Discs of cucumber with scalloped edges. Carrot stars. Radish hearts. (They do look super-cute, I must admit). And as the pièce de résistance, a pineapple carved into a flower.
I meet eyes with Dan. We both know how this is going to go. And half of me is tempted to harden my heart, be brutal, not even mention the extraordinarily shaped vegetables. But I can’t. I have to play along.
‘Wow!’ I say, dutifully. ‘Those are incredible.’
‘I did them all myself,’ says Mummy in triumph. ‘It took me half an hour, if that.’
‘Half an hour?’ I echo, feeling like the second presenter on a QVC show. ‘Goodness. How on earth did you manage that?’
‘Well.’ Mummy’s face lights up. ‘I’ve bought this rather wonderful machine! Girls, do you want to see how Granny’s new machine works?’
‘Yes!’ cry Tessa and Anna, who are so easily persuaded into new ventures, it’s ridiculous. I know if I said to them, ‘Do you want to study QUANTUM PHYSICS?’ in the right tone of voice, they’d both yell, ‘Yes!’ Then they’d fight over who was going to be first to study quantum physics. Then I’d say, ‘Do you know what quantum physics is?’ and Anna would look blank, while Tessa would say defiantly, ‘It is like Paddington Bear,’ because she always has to have an answer.
As Mummy hurries out, Dan shoots me an ominous look. ‘Whatever it is, we’re not buying it,’ he says in a low voice.
‘OK, but don’t …’ I gesture with my hands.
‘What?’
‘Be negative.’
‘I’m not being negative!’ retorts Dan – totally lying, as he couldn’t look more negative. ‘But nor am I spending any more money on your mother’s—’
‘Ssh!’ I intervene.
‘—crap,’ he finishes. ‘That apple-sauce maker …’
‘I know, I know.’ I wince. ‘It was a mistake. I’ve admitted it.’
Don’t get me wrong: I’m as big a fan of the heavyweight retro American-style gadget as the next person. But that bloody ‘traditional apple-sauce maker’ is huge. And we hardly ever eat apple sauce. Nor do we use it for ‘all those handy purees’ that Mummy kept on about in her sales pitch. (As for the ‘liquid spice’ sachets … It’s best to cast a veil.)
Everyone works through grief in their own way. I get that. My way was to have a meltdown. Mummy’s way is to blink furiously. And her other way is to sell one weird product after another to her friends and family.
When she started holding jewellery parties, I was delighted. I thought it would be a fun hobby, and distract her from all the sadness. I went along, I sipped champagne with all her friends and I bought a choker and a bracelet. There was a second jewellery party which I couldn’t make, but apparently it went well.
Then she held an essential oils party and I bought Christmas presents for all Dan’s family, so that was fine. The Spanishware party was OK, too. I bought tapas bowls and I’ve used them maybe once.
Then there was the Trendieware party.
Oh God. Just the memory makes me shudder. Trendieware is a company that makes garments out of stretchy fabric in ‘modern, vibrant’ (vile) prints. You can wear each item about sixteen different ways, and you have to choose your personality (I was Spring Fresh Extrovert) and then the saleswoman (Mummy) tries to persuade you to throw out all your old clothes and only wear Trendieware.
It was horrendous. Mummy has a sylphlike figure for her age, so of course she can wear a stretchy tube as a skirt. But her friends? Hello? The place was full of ladies in their sixties, glumly trying to wrap a lurid pink stretchy top over their sensible bra or work out the Three-Way Jacket (you’d need a thesis in mechanics), or else flatly refusing to join in. I was the only person who bought anything – the Signature Dress – and I’ve never worn it even one way. Let alone sixteen.
Not surprisingly, after that a lot of Mummy’s friends dropped off. At the next jewellery party there were only half a dozen of us. At the scented candles party it was just me and Lorna, who is Mummy’s oldest and most loyal friend. Lorna and I had a hurried conversation while Mummy was out of the room, and we decided that this selling obsession was a harmless way for Mummy to process her grief, and it would come to a natural end. But it hasn’t. She keeps finding new things to sell. And the only person dumb enough to keep buying them is me. (Lorna has claimed ‘no more room’ in her flat, which is very clever of her. If I did that, Mummy would come round, clear out a cupboard, and make room.)
I know we need to stage an intervention. Dan’s suggested it, I’ve agreed, and we’ve sat in bed many times, saying firmly, ‘We’ll talk to her.’ In fact, I was all geared up for it, last time we visited. But it turned out Mummy was having a bad day. Lots of blinking. Lots of window-gazing. She looked so piteous and fragile, all I wanted to do was make her life better … so I found myself ordering an apple-sauce maker. (It could have been worse. It could have been the nine-hundred-pound special-edition retro ham-slicer: a unique and distinctive focus for any kitchen. I’ll say.)
‘So!’ Mummy arrives back in the kitchen, clutching the white gadget that I noticed before. Her cheeks have flushed and she has that focused look she gets whenever she’s about to pitch. ‘You may be thinking this is an ordinary food processor. But let me assure you, the Vegetable Creator is in a league of its own.’
‘The “Vegetable Creator”?’ echoes Dan. ‘Are you telling me it creates vegetables?’
‘We all get so tired of vegetables,’ Mummy ploughs on, ignoring Dan. ‘But imagine a whole new way to present them! Imagine fifty-two different chopping templates, all in one handy machine, plus an extra twelve novelty templates in our Seasonal Package, free if you order today!’ Her voice is rising with each word. ‘The Vegetable Creator is fun, healthy, and so easy to use. Anna, Tessa, do you want to try?’
‘Yes!’ yells Tessa, predictably. ‘Me!’
‘Me!’ wails A
nna. ‘Me!’
Mummy sets the gadget up on the counter, grabs a carrot and feeds it through an aperture. We all watch speechlessly as it turns into tiny teddy-bear shapes.
‘Teddies!’ the girls gasp. ‘Teddy carrots!’
Typical. I might have known she’d get the girls onside. But I’m going to be firm.
‘I think we’ve got too many gadgets already,’ I say sorrowfully. ‘It does look good, though.’
‘A study has shown that owning a Vegetable Creator leads to thirty per cent more vegetable consumption in children,’ says Mummy brightly.
Rubbish! What ‘study’? I’m not going to challenge her, though, or she’ll start quoting some stream of made-up figures from the Vegetable Creator Real Proper Lab with Real Scientists.
‘Quite a lot of waste,’ I observe. ‘Look at all those bits of carrots left over.’
‘Put them in soup,’ Mummy retorts like a shot. ‘So nutritious. Shall we try making cucumber stars, girls?’
I’m not buying it. I know I’m her only customer, but I’m still not buying it. Resolutely I turn away and search for a change of subject.
‘So, what else is up with you, Mummy?’ I say. I head across to her little pinboard and survey the notices and tickets pinned there. ‘Oh, a Zumba class. That looks fun.’
‘All the unused pieces collect in this handy receptacle …’ Mummy is still doggedly continuing with her pitch.
‘Oh, Through the High Maze,’ I exclaim, seeing a hardback book on the counter. ‘We did that at my book group. What did you think? A bit hard-going, I thought.’
Truth be told, I actually only read about half of Through the High Maze, even though it’s one of those books that everyone has read and is going to be a movie, apparently. It’s by this woman called Joss Burton who overcame her eating disorder to set up a perfume company called Maze (that’s the play on words). She’s stunning, with cropped dark hair and a trademark white streak. And her perfumes are really good, especially the Amber and Rose. Now she hosts events where she tells business people how to succeed, and I suppose it is quite inspirational – but there’s only so much inspiration you can take, I find.
Whenever I read about these super-inspiring people, I start off all admiring and end up thinking: Oh God, why haven’t I trekked across the desert or overcome crippling childhood poverty? I’m totally crap.
Mummy hasn’t responded to my gambit – but on the plus side, she’s paused in her chat about the chopper, so I quickly carry on the conversation.
‘You’re going to the theatre!’ I exclaim, seeing tickets pinned up. ‘Dealer’s Choice. That’s the one about gambling, isn’t it? Are you going with Lorna? You could get a meal deal beforehand.’
There’s still complete silence from Mummy, which surprises me – and as I look round I blink in shock. What did I say? What’s up? Her hands have frozen still and there’s an odd expression on her face, as though her smile has been petrified in acid. As I watch, she glances at the window and starts blinking, very fast.
Oh shit. Obviously I’ve strayed on to another ‘wrong’ topic. But what, exactly? The theatre? Dealer’s Choice? Surely not. I glance at Dan for help, and to my astonishment, he seems frozen, too. His jaw has tensed and his eyes are alert. He glances at Mummy. Then at me.
What? What’s this all about? Did I miss the memo?
‘Anyway!’ says Mummy, and I can tell she’s pulling herself together with an almighty effort. ‘Enough of this. You must all be hungry. I’ll just tidy up a little …’
She starts sweeping things off the counter with an indiscriminate air: the Vegetable Creator, a load of Tupperware which was out (no doubt to store her vegetable creations) and the copy of Through the High Maze. She dumps them all in her tiny utility room, then returns, her face even more pink than before.
‘Buck’s Fizz?’ she says, almost shrilly. ‘Dan, you’d like a Buck’s Fizz, I’m sure. Shall we go through to the drawing room?’
I’m baffled. Isn’t she even going to try to sell me the chopper thing? She seems to have been utterly derailed, and I can’t work out why.
I follow her through to the drawing room, where champagne and orange juice in ice buckets are waiting on the walnut Art Deco cocktail cabinet. (Daddy was very big on cocktails. When he had his sixtieth birthday party, almost everyone who came bought him a cocktail shaker as a present. It was quite funny.)
Dan opens the champagne and Mummy makes the Buck’s Fizz and the girls rush over to the big dolls’ house by the window. It’s all just like normal – except it isn’t. Something weird happened just now.
Mummy is asking Dan lots of questions about his work, one after another – almost as though she’s desperate not to let any gaps into the conversation. She swigs her entire drink, pours herself another (Dan and I have barely begun on ours), then flashes me a bright smile and says, ‘I’ll make some pancakes in a moment.’
‘Girls, come and wash your hands,’ I call to them, and lead them into Mummy’s powder room, where they have the usual fight to go first and squirt far too much Molton Brown soap everywhere. Tessa’s hair has become a wild tangle, and I go into the kitchen to get my hairbrush from my bag. On the way back, I glance into the drawing room and see something that makes me slow down … then stop altogether.
Mummy and Dan are standing close together, talking in low voices. And I can’t help it – I inch forward, staying out of view.
‘… Sylvie finds out now …’ Dan is saying, and my stomach flips over. They’re talking about me!
Mummy replies in such a quiet voice, I can’t hear her – but I don’t need to. I know what this is. Now I get it. It’s one of Dan’s surprises for me! They’re planning something!
The last thing I want is Dan thinking that I’m eavesdropping, so I hurriedly head back to the safety of the powder room. It’s a surprise. What kind of surprise? Then it hits me. Are Dan and I going to see Dealer’s Choice? That would explain Mummy’s frozen expression. She probably pinned the tickets up on her board, not thinking, and I went and blundered in, asking her about them.
OK, from now on, I’m noticing nothing untoward. Nothing.
I tidy Tessa’s hair and then lead the girls back into the hall, and my gaze falls on the massive framed photo of Daddy which sits on the hall table like a sentinel. My handsome, dapper, charming father. Killed while he was still in his prime. Before he had a chance to really know his grandchildren, write that book, enjoy his retirement …
I can’t help it, I’m starting to breathe harder. My fists are clenching. I know I need to let it go, and I know they never proved whether he was using his phone or not, but I will hate Gary Butler forever. Forever.
That’s the name of the lorry driver who killed Daddy on the M6. Gary Butler. (He was never prosecuted in the end. Lack of evidence.) At the height of my ‘bad time’, as I think of it, I found his address and went and stood outside his house. I didn’t do anything, just stood there. But apparently you’re not supposed to stand outside people’s houses for no reason, or write them letters, and his wife felt ‘threatened’. (By me? What a joke.) Dan had to come and find me and talk me into leaving. That’s when everyone got alarmed and gathered in corners, murmuring, ‘Sylvie’s not coping well.’
Dan, in particular, went into overdrive. He’s a protective type naturally – he’ll always open a door for me or offer a jacket – but this was another level. He took time off work to look after the girls. He negotiated extra leave for me from Mrs Kendrick. He tried to get me to go to a counsellor. (Really not my kind of thing.) I remember the doctor told Dan I needed to sleep (of course I wasn’t sleeping, how could I sleep?) and Dan took it on as his responsibility, buying blackout blinds and calming music CDs and asking everyone in the street to keep the noise down. He still asks me every morning if I’ve slept. It’s become his habit, like he’s my sleep monitor.
Mummy, on the other hand, didn’t want to know. I don’t mean that to sound bad. She was grieving herself; how could she worry
about me too? And anyway, it’s her way. She doesn’t cope well with outlandish behaviour. We once had a lunch guest who got so drunk he fell over the sofa, which I found hilarious (I was nine). But when I mentioned it the next day, Mummy just closed the conversation down. It was as if nothing had happened.
So when I went to stand outside Gary Butler’s house, she wasn’t at all impressed. (‘What will people say?’) It was Mummy who was keen for me to take some pills. Or maybe go abroad for a month and come back all better again.
(She herself seemed to process her grief like a caterpillar in a cocoon. She disappeared into her bedroom after the funeral and no one was allowed in for two weeks, and then she emerged, fully dressed, fully made-up, blinking. Never crying, only blinking.)
‘Grandpa is in heaven,’ asserts Tessa, looking at the picture of Daddy. ‘He is sitting on a cloud, isn’t he, Mummy?’
‘Maybe,’ I say cautiously.
What do I know? Maybe Daddy is up there, sitting on a cloud.
‘But what if he falls off?’ queries Anna anxiously. ‘Mummy, what if Grandpa falls off?’
‘He will hold on tight,’ says Tessa. ‘Won’t he, Mummy?’ And now both of them are looking expectantly up at me, with absolute trust that I know the answer. Because I’m Mummy, who knows everything in the world.
My eyes are suddenly hot. I wish I was what they think I am. I wish I had all the answers for them. How old will they be before they realize I don’t? That no one does? As I survey their questioning little faces, I can’t bear the idea that one day my girls will know about all the shit that the world really involves, and they’ll have to deal with it, and I won’t be able to fix it for them.
‘All right, Sylvie?’ says Dan as he and Mummy come out of the drawing room. He glances swiftly at the picture of Daddy, and I know he’s realized my train of thought. Photos of Daddy do tend to catch me out.
Surprise Me Page 13
