Unravelling

by Lindsay Stanberry-Flynn

  She filled sheet after sheet of paper with different images, trying to capture the bewilderment that furrowed his face. Her mother told her he hated England and his work on the building sites. He yearned to be back in Sligo, ‘with the wind and the sea in his nose and mouth’, but he’d been forced to bring his wife and children to London to look for work. ‘It accounts for the drink,’ her mother said.

  Vanessa dreaded being forced to settle for second best. Her parents had agreed to send her to college believing a diploma in fine art would make her an art teacher. Her dream was something quite different. She read everything she could find about Mary Quant and on Saturdays got the tube to Kensington and searched through the clothes in Bazaar. But whenever she imagined announcing that what she really wanted to be was a fashion designer, her head filled with the sound of her da’s harsh laugh.

  She opened the folder that lay under the sketches. Inside were her designs – jumpers, dresses, waistcoats, trousers, anything that could be knitted or crocheted. Some of them were bold – a red geometric shape slicing across the front of a black jumper. Others had more intricate designs – an extravagant frill running along the collar and cuffs of an orange ankle-length coat. Under the designs Vanessa stored the scraps of material she had collected.

  On Sunday mornings, when he was in a good mood, her father took Catherine and Daniel to the market in Petticoat Lane. Her mother insisted Vanessa went along to look after the little ones, but instead Vanessa usually drifted off to the stalls stacked high with roll after roll of material. She ran her fingers over the raised designs of the brocade, felt the smoothness of the velvet between her thumb and forefinger. She always ended up with some off-cuts in her bag.

  Vanessa piled the scraps of material on to the bed and lifted out the tissue paper from the bottom of the case. She unfolded the paper and began counting the white crocheted squares that lay inside. She’d been making them at odd moments for several weeks and had forty-six now. She reckoned she would need twice as many for the dress she wanted to make. It was the boldest thing she’d designed so far.

  The kitchen was empty when Vanessa went down for breakfast. She raced back upstairs. The curtains were still drawn in her parents’ bedroom.

  ‘Mammy, what’s wrong?’

  Her mother opened her eyes and turned her head on the pillow. Her cheeks were flushed a brilliant red. Her false teeth sat in a glass on her bedside cabinet. Without them, her face seemed to have caved in on itself.

  ‘I’ve a temperature.’ Her voice was hoarse and rasping. ‘I’d kill for some water.’

  When Vanessa came back with a glass, her mother had pulled herself up against the pillows.

  ‘Can I do anything?’ Vanessa asked.

  ‘Take Catherine and Daniel to school. I got up just now and as near as fainted.’

  Vanessa winced at the bubbling sound in her mother’s chest. ‘I’ll call the doctor.’

  ‘Go to Mrs Cochrane, at the end of the street.’ Her mother pushed herself up on one elbow. ‘Ask to borrow her best sheets.’

  The doctor leaned over the bed. ‘You’ve got pneumonia.’ He folded his stethoscope back into his bag. ‘You should have come to see me earlier.’ He patted her mother’s hand. ‘You need to take more care of yourself, Mrs Heaney.’

  Vanessa stayed home from college. She shopped and cooked and cleaned the house. She made sure Catherine and Daniel had fresh clothes and got to school on time each morning. Gerald Blackstone and his hurtful comments seemed no more than a speck to be brushed away. She prepared her father’s sandwiches before she went to bed, cutting the bread thick, just as he liked it, and left the flask and tea caddy on the table, so that next morning all he had to do was boil the kettle. She made his favourite dinners of steak and kidney pudding, liver and bacon.

  He gave her one of his rare smiles, his freckles spreading across his cheeks. ‘You’re a grand little cook, Nessa.’

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ she told her mother, when she took her a cup of tea after the little ones were in bed and her father had gone to the pub.

  Her mother struggled to sit up. ‘What about the pots and dishes?’

  ‘All done. Don’t you trust me?’ It wasn’t surprising her mother doubted her: usually, she moaned if she was asked to do domestic chores. Now though, she felt the glow from the halo shining on to her head.

  But the domestic circle soon stifled her. One morning when she’d waved Catherine and Daniel off to school, she got out the Berthe Morisot biography she’d been reading when her mother fell ill. She loved the way light filled Morisot’s paintings. She was still in her pyjamas at eleven o’clock, sitting at the table reading and chewing toffees, when the door opened.

  Vanessa dropped the book. ‘Mammy! What are you doing up?’

  ‘Dear Lord, have mercy on us!’ Her mother’s eyes swept over the breakfast dishes piled in the sink, the basket overflowing with ironing. ‘Look at this mess.’

  Vanessa leapt up. ‘I was just about to start. Honestly.’

  Her mother bustled over to the sink. She turned the taps on full and shook soap flakes on to the dirty plates. ‘You’re a lazy little madam, Vanessa Heaney!’

  ‘It’s the first time I’ve sat down all week.’

  ‘You’ll get back to that college on Monday. You’ve spent too long lazing round, as it is.’

  One look at the crockery flashing through Mammy’s hands, the soapsuds flying around her, silenced Vanessa’s protest. Besides, her mother’s words set off a rush of elation, like a fistful of balloons released into the sky. She was an artist and she’d go back to college and prove it.

  Vanessa’s absence enhanced her popularity. The other students crowded round her easel. ‘You’re back, that’s fab’ … ‘We were worried’ … their voices rippled over her, cross-currents of warmth and support.

  ‘We’re going to the pub on Thursday after class,’ Judith said as they began to fix paper to their easels. ‘Last day of term. Do you want to come?’

  ‘I’d love to.’ Vanessa looked up to find Andrew’s eyes on her.

  The teacher came into the room then. ‘Right folks, the model will be here in ten minutes. Some pointers first …’ It was their usual tutor, thank goodness.

  Andrew gave her the thumbs-up sign. She smiled. He winked at her and turned back to his easel.

  On the way to the pub, Judith hooked her arm through Vanessa’s. Andrew was walking on the other side of Judith, and Vanessa wondered if they’d linked arms as well. A thin drizzle sparkled in the beam of the cars’ headlights. The damp air settled about Vanessa’s head, and her fingers closed over the rain hat in her pocket. She thought of opening out its concertinaed folds, spreading the plastic over her head and tying the cotton strings under her chin. What would Andrew and Judith think? She took her hand out of her pocket.

  ‘I hate that Gerald Blackstone,’ Judith suddenly said.

  ‘But he really liked your still life.’

  ‘You should have heard him lay into my painting last week when you were off.’

  ‘He couldn’t have hated it as much as he did mine.’

  ‘I’ve been to one of his shows,’ Andrew said. ‘His sculpture is brilliant. I’d like to go to his classes next year.’

  ‘You wouldn’t catch me at one,’ Vanessa told them.

  ‘But he wasn’t half as horrible to you as he was to me.’ Judith’s voice was plaintive.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘That I was singularly without talent.’ Judith laughed, but it was an awkward sound in the back of her throat. Vanessa gave her arm a squeeze.

  Close up, she noticed one of Judith’s front teeth was crooked and her eyes seemed too small for her face. She thought of her own eyes. She’d been practising in the mirror to get that dark sooty look she’d seen in magazines. She’d bought some black eyeliner and green shadow from the make up counter at Haversham’s.

  ‘Let’s forget about boring old tutors,’ Judith s
aid. ‘What are you getting for Christmas? I want a coat like yours, Vanessa. But Mum says there’s nothing wrong with my old duffle.’

  ‘Bad luck,’ Vanessa said, but secretly she breathed a sigh of relief. The thought of fat Judith in a coat like hers.

  There weren’t many people in the pub. The barman was polishing glasses, holding each one up to the light. He threw the cloth to one side, as they crowded round the bar. ‘What’s everyone having then?’

  Someone caught Judith’s arm and she turned to speak to them. Vanessa looked across at Andrew. Suppose he felt stuck with her? Perhaps he’d rather talk to one of the others. She began to move away.

  ‘Hey, where are you off to?’ he said. ‘I’m getting the drinks in. What would you like?’ He smiled and the lock of hair flopped over his forehead.

  What should she order? The only drink she knew was sweet sherry, which her mother drank on Christmas Day.

  ‘Cider,’ she said, astonished to find the word in her head.

  ‘Sweet or dry?’

  ‘You choose. I’m going to find the ladies.’

  In the toilets, she risked a glance in the mirror. Drops of moisture glistened in her hair like dew caught on a spider’s web. It had frizzed up a bit, but it didn’t look too bad. She took off her coat and turned back to the mirror. She’d finished sewing the crocheted squares together last night and managed to get out of the house this morning without her mother seeing she was wearing a white lacy dress instead of her usual blouse and skirt. She’d kept it carefully covered with her painting shirt all day. The dress clung to her small breasts. She smoothed it over her hips and catching hold of the hem, tugged it down as far as she could. Even so, it barely skimmed her knees. The sleeves were close fitting at the top, flaring out below the elbow. She fished around in her bag for the lipstick, drew it across her bottom lip and then the top. She put her face close to the mirror and rested her mouth for a moment against her reflection. When she drew back, a pink outline remained on the glass.

  Andrew let out a loud whistle when Vanessa went back to the bar. He was talking to Judith and another girl, Maureen, but Vanessa could see his eyes were fixed on the door, as if he was waiting for her.

  ‘Look at you!’ Maureen said. ‘Where did you get the dress?’

  ‘I made it.’

  ‘My gran tried to teach me to knit,’ Judith said, ‘but I couldn’t get the hang of it.’

  ‘It’s crocheted,’ Vanessa told her. ‘Lots of little squares. I sewed them together.’

  ‘Where did you get the pattern?’

  ‘I designed it myself.’

  ‘It’s different,’ Andrew said.

  ‘It certainly is!’

  There was an edge to Judith’s voice that hadn’t been there before.

  ‘You must be cold in it.’ Judith turned to Andrew and Maureen. ‘You two want another drink?’

  Vanessa was left staring at Judith’s back. Why on earth had she worn the dress tonight? Surely it was enough to be in the pub with the other students. Why did she need to show off? Draw attention to herself?

  She finished her cider and quickly had another. Her head began to swim and her body felt light and free. She liked the sensation and ordered a third drink.

  The pub grew crowded with staff from the nearby hospital. It was hot and noisy. Someone fed a continual supply of coins into the jukebox in the corner and Let’s Twist Again played over and over. Cigarette smoke hung above their heads. Vanessa’s eyes were stinging.

  ‘Anyone want to go to the pictures next week?’ Andrew asked. ‘Lawrence of Arabia’s on at the Odeon.’

  ‘Oh, Peter O’Toole, he’s dishy.’ Judith closed her eyes and licked her lips. ‘I’ll come.’

  Andrew was looking at Vanessa. ‘What about you?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Monday?’

  Vanessa’s mother always went to a whist drive at the social club on Mondays and Vanessa had to look after Catherine and Daniel. ‘I could do Tuesday.’

  ‘Monday suits me,’ Judith said.

  Vanessa glanced from Andrew to Judith. Judith was gazing up at him, her eyes shining. Vanessa chewed the inside of her cheek. How could she have been so stupid? Why hadn’t she realised? It was Judith that Andrew was interested in. She turned away.

  She saw him immediately. With his dark wild hair and black beard, he stood out from the others gathered round the bar.

  ‘It’s him,’ she said, almost to herself.

  ‘Who? Where?’ Andrew looked round.

  ‘Over there, by the bar.’ She indicated with her head. ‘That tutor.’

  ‘You mean Gerald Blackstone. Yeah, I’ve seen him in here before.’

  ‘He scares me.’

  Andrew laughed. ‘Probably cultivates it. Anyway, it’s settled. We’re going to the pictures on Tuesday.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Vanessa couldn’t bring herself to look at Judith.

  ‘Yep. Meet you at the tube station at seven.’

  When Vanessa said she’d have to go home, Andrew offered to walk to the bus stop with her. As they reached the door, several people arrived and pushed past them.

  One of the men stopped. ‘Hey, Andy! You off already?’

  ‘’Fraid so.’ Andrew put his arm round Vanessa’s shoulder and pulled her towards him.

  Vanessa felt the man’s eyes on her. ‘Jammy bastard,’ he said.

  Four

  Cordelia hates the first few minutes of each new day. That process of returning to the conscious world, remembering things you meant to do the day before but didn’t, or worse, the things you said or did, but shouldn’t have.

  She opens her eyes and sits up, settling the duvet so that it covers her breasts. She’s always been self-conscious about her body: too tall, too thin – gawky she heard her mother tell someone once. And her face and hair don’t work very well either. It’s her parents’ fault. She’s got their attributes: her father’s jet-black wavy hair and wide mouth, her mother’s dark eyes, but it’s as if the genes have been dropped on the floor like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle you can’t figure out how to get back together.

  A photo of her parents on their wedding day stands on the chest of drawers. When she was younger she used to pore over it: her mother gorgeous in a white lace mini dress, her long legs in white knee-high boots, a big floppy hat perched on top of her red curls. Her father, glamorous in a midnight-blue velvet suit, a cream cravat at his throat, a cigar in his hand. And laughing. Both of them laughing.

  The mobile on her bedside table vibrates. She picks it up and clicks on messages. Morning Gorgeous. Have a wonderful day. Oodles of love. Patrick acquires words like some women acquire shoes and ‘oodles’ is his latest. He’ll use it all the time, until he discovers a new one. How long before she’s consigned to the world of once-loved words?

  She pushes back the duvet and swings her legs over the side of the bed. The room seems to tilt and she leans forward, her elbows on her knees. She puts her fingers to her temple, massaging the skin on each side of her forehead. In the pile of clothes on the floor, her jeans and T-shirt are entangled with Patrick’s trousers, like some parody of their lovemaking last night. She pulls her clothes on and shakes out the trousers before hanging them from the wardrobe door.

  She peers round the window blind. A haze of lights encircles the town, but otherwise the world outside is filled with lurking shadows. Blue-black clouds daubed with crimson streaks roll across the tops of the lime trees on the other side of the road.

  On the landing outside Savannah’s room, she reaches for the knob but instead tiptoes along the corridor. She could do with some time to herself this morning. There are several envelopes on the mat, a mixture of brown and white, but none that looks interesting she decides, dropping them on the hall table. She glances at the vase of roses sitting there. Their petals are limp and edged with brown, and her nose catches a whiff of decay.

  Picking up the vase, she pushes against the kitchen
door with her shoulder.

  ‘Hi, Mum.’

  The vase slips from Cordelia’s hand, smashing against the floor tiles. Her bare feet are covered with water, bits of flowers and broken pottery.

  ‘Savannah! You scared the life out of me. What are you doing here?’

  Her daughter is sitting at the table, her knees pulled up to her chin and her skinny arms hug her legs to her chest. ‘I live here. Remember?’

  Cordelia steps away from the mess. ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Ooh, touchy this morning.’

  ‘I’ve got a headache.’

  ‘Too many gin and tonics with Granny?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid!’ Cordelia searches in the cupboard for a dustpan and brush. ‘I don’t see why I should have to clear this lot up.’

  ‘You dropped it.’

  ‘You made me.’ A nerve jumps in Cordelia’s temple as she bends over to sweep the broken roses and fragments of pottery into the dustpan. Since she’s been going to the counsellor, she’s got used to testing her reactions: this isn’t good.

  She moves to the sink and fills the kettle. She glances across at Savannah. ‘Coffee?’ Her daughter’s wearing a skimpy pink T-shirt that has some sort of stain on the right shoulder, and her eyes are black-rimmed with the liner she never seems to take off.

  ‘No thanks.’ Savannah points to the glass on the table in front of her. ‘Water. Good for the complexion.’ She grins up at her mother. ‘You look as if you could use some. Wild night was it?’

  ‘Savannah!’

  ‘I’m fifteen, Mum. No point pretending you and Patrick go to bed and hold hands.’

  Cordelia pours water into the coffee pot and reaches into the cupboard for a mug. ‘My sex life is nothing to do with you.’