Carol, his production manager, reminded him they had the interviews for the new admin assistant when he got in, which sounded boring, but nothing too serious.
‘I’ve narrowed it down to three,’ she was saying. ‘Do you want to see their CVs before we go in?’
But he was already reading his emails. ‘No, thanks. Anything I should know? Any of them only got one leg?’
She laughed. ‘No, nothing like that. They all seem great.’
He had a meeting with the Chairman at ten who wanted to know how the contract with Sky was going, which took up two minutes, and then they spent half an hour laughing about the new reality show from the weekend. By the time he got out Carol was annoyed with him because their first interviewee had been sitting in reception for ten minutes and he’d obviously forgotten. Right, right, Christian had said as he’d grabbed a cup of coffee on his way in.
They sat at a Formica desk in a room which someone had designed to look jaunty by adding a couple of round windows framed in acid colours. Touches like this depressed him as he hated anyone pretending that work was fun. It wasn’t like he had a bad time, but he wouldn’t choose to be there. Which wasn’t what Ruth thought. Ruth constantly told him that he’d rather be at work than at home, that he was better friends with his colleagues than his actual friends, that he probably worked on programmes he didn’t have to only because he enjoyed it. Christian found the last accusation hard to fathom. Firstly, it wasn’t true and he wouldn’t do it, but secondly what would be so wrong about him enjoying something? Ruth seemed to live with a constant yoke of resentment around her neck and couldn’t bear it if he had more fun than her. Sometimes he considered compiling a fun chart like the children’s star charts and they could tick off the minutes they’d each enjoyed during the day and at the end of the week the loser would get an afternoon to themselves. The flaw in this plan was that they would both have to be honest and both have to have the same perception of fun. Ruth, for example, claimed that going out for lunch with Sally was all right, but because she was always on her guard it wasn’t exactly fun. Jesus, he wanted to say, take what you can.
The door opened and Sarah walked in. They were both thrown so immediately and physically off guard that Christian couldn’t pretend to Carol that he didn’t know her. He also couldn’t help but wonder if Sarah might have engineered the situation.
‘Do you know each other?’ asked Carol.
Christian stood up. ‘Sorry, I didn’t know you were coming in. Yes, we used to work together at Magpie.’
Carol, thankfully, was hard-skinned. ‘Well, I did say you should read the CVs.’
Sarah had changed. She was a lot thinner and her face was paler. She’d also let her hair revert to its natural colour, which was much darker than Christian had realised, and her clothes were more demure. She was much, much more attractive and Christian felt himself start to sweat. He couldn’t think what to say and let Carol do all the talking, which she enjoyed so didn’t notice his silence. Sarah stumbled over her answers and rubbed her blotchy, rash-covered neck, which made Christian remember things he shouldn’t.
As she left, Christian felt the air move and was relieved when Carol said, ‘Sorry, I misjudged her. She was so confident last time. That was awful. What was she like at Magpie?’
‘I can’t remember. We didn’t work directly together, I don’t think she was there long.’
Carol tossed Sarah’s CV into the bin. ‘I think we can forget that one then.’
The next girl was much better than Sarah and even the third, who had hygiene problems, would have been preferable. After they were done he told Carol he had a meeting and left the office. Christian walked towards the park, a dull pain building behind his eyes and rang Ruth.
‘You okay?’ he asked.
‘Not bad. Busy.’
‘Are you?’
‘No need to sound so surprised.’
‘I wasn’t, I just . . . ’ He searched for what he wanted to say, but there was nothing he could articulate. He wanted her to tell him he was being stupid.
‘Look, did you want something?’ she said now and he could see her perfectly, the phone wedged between her ear and her shoulder, her fingers tapping on the keyboard. ‘It’s just that I want to leave on time tonight, give the kids a bath.’
‘No, nothing. It’s fine.’ But even as he was pressing the red button on his phone he was thinking about Sarah.
April was Agatha’s favourite month of the year. It held all the promise without any of the disappointment. She had tried to get Betty to walk to school before, but the little girl had complained so ferociously about wet shoes and a cold nose and the wrong gloves that she’d given up. Now though she made it a fun adventure, through the park and along fairytale streets. Betty was not a hard child to figure out; she needed positive reinforcement, a term Agatha had learnt from one of the numerous child-care books she’d hidden under her bed. You had to pre-empt Betty. You had to watch her and that bottom lip and when you saw it begin to tremble you had to say something like, Don’t you hate that little girl’s boots, they are completely the wrong shade of pink? or, Did I ever tell you that Cinderella thought that eating two ice creams in one go was really greedy? or, Washing your hair makes it grow faster.
But nothing was going to be properly achieved until the girl was allowed to sleep. Agatha had lain awake most nights since her arrival at the Donaldsons’, listening to the pointless drama occurring on the floor beneath her. Betty woke at midnight every night, almost to the second, and yet her cries obviously pulled Ruth from a deep sleep as Agatha heard her bumping and banging on her way to her daughter’s bedroom. She’d start the night relatively tolerantly, but by the third or fourth wake-up she’d be shouting, saying ridiculous things to the child like she was going to die if she didn’t sleep soon and then expecting Betty to fall into a peaceful state. Sometimes she’d take her to the loo, turning on all the lights and making Betty wash her hands. It was proper madness and Agatha itched to be allowed to intervene; she reckoned she could have Betty sleeping through in a week.
The morning was warm; the air felt like a kiss on your skin and when Agatha opened the kitchen window she could smell the sap.
‘Would you like to plant a vegetable garden?’ she asked Betty and Hal, out of nowhere. She hadn’t planned on speaking those words, which scared her as Agatha believed she’d given up spontaneous speech a long time ago. She mustn’t let herself get too comfortable.
‘What’s a vegetable garden?’ asked Betty. ‘Well, it’s like an ordinary garden, but instead of growing flowers you grow vegetables.’
‘Why?’
‘To eat, silly.’ Agatha was starting to sweat, she’d only been there a month and re-planning the Donaldsons’ garden was too much.
But Betty was already brimming over with excitement. ‘Can we grow tomatoes? And carrots? And chips?’
Agatha laughed. ‘We’d have to grow potatoes and make them into chips. I tell you what, I’ll call your mum and ask if it’s okay and if it is we’ll do it.’
‘Can I call? Can I call?’ shouted Betty, already reaching for the phone.
The message Ruth listened to when she left the caverns of the tube was garbled and she couldn’t make out what Betty was saying. Something about growing carrots on the patio. Shit, not another school project she’d forgotten. She remembered how last year she had pinned the list of what Betty needed for the school nativity play to the fridge and then forgotten all about it. Gail had called on the morning of the play to say that Betty was hysterical because she needed a brown T-shirt and brown trousers by twelve o’clock that day. So instead of being able to make the editorial meeting she’d spent a frantic hour in H&M, crying when the shop assistant couldn’t find Betty’s size.
She dialled home now and Betty picked up, immediately pleading with her. ‘Can we do it, Mum? Please say yes.’
‘Say yes to what? I couldn’t hear you properly.’
‘Aggie is going to make our garden grow
vegetables. That we can eat. But only if you say yes.’
Ruth had an image of Aggie digging up their whole garden, turning it into some sort of allotment. ‘Where in the garden, darling?’
Betty started to whine. ‘I don’t know. Please don’t say no, Mummy. You’re no fun.’
Ruth felt a strong surge of annoyance with Aggie. ‘Can you put Aggie on, sweetheart. I just want to find out where she wants to do it.’
‘I’m sorry, Ruth,’ Aggie said as soon as she got on. ‘I know I should have spoken to you first. It’s just that I opened the window this morning and everything smelt so fresh and I’ve been reading about how if you get children to grow their own food they’re more likely to eat it and so obviously that made me think of Hal and I’ve been meaning to mention it to you.’
Aggie’s enthusiasm rubbed off on Ruth and she immediately lost her annoyance. Besides, the appointment with the nutritionist that she’d had to re-schedule because of the advertisers’ lunch she’d forgotten about was only a few days away and wouldn’t that be a good thing to say. ‘It sounds like a great idea,’ Ruth said as she approached her office. ‘Get what you need and I’ll pay you back.’
Ruth thought she probably should call Christian and check that he liked the idea as well, but the day rushed at her as soon as she was by her desk. She tried to tell herself to remember to call him later.
Agatha felt pleased with herself. Her improvisation about getting children to grow their own food to make them eat wasn’t something she’d read, but it was something which should have been written down and, as such, it had been a good thing to say. Finding a garden centre in West London was hard, but not impossible. Agatha got the children to think about what they wanted to grow and then she wrote a list: tomatoes, carrots, potatoes, beet-root and celery. It seemed like a good, clean start. She got a cookery book down from a large white wooden shelf unit that looked like it should have gone on top of a dresser, but Ruth had fixed to the wall. The paint was flaking off it and Agatha had already mentally re-painted it. She showed Hal the pictures of the vegetables and explained to him that he would have to try whatever he grew because it was a miracle that you put a seed in the ground and it turned into a plant you could eat. He was interested enough to take the bottle out of his mouth.
Betty was impossibly good on the bus and in the garden centre. She behaved like a proper little lady all the way around and was so good that Agatha allowed her to choose an organic chocolate bar at the till.
‘It’s so fun, hanging out with you,’ she said, making the little girl beam with pride.
All the way home they talked about the best way to plant. Agatha had bought a cheap manual in the book section of the garden centre and she read to the children from it on the bus. It sounded like a fairytale anyway. You had to dig a patch of ground and mix in some compost. Then make rows and plant your seeds just under the surface and not too close together. You had to protect them from marauding insects and take good care of them with lots of water and even a bit of food. And then they would reward you with lots of juicy goodness that would run down your chin when you bit into them and make you glad to be alive. ‘All the best things are worth waiting for,’ Agatha repeated from somewhere when Betty asked her how long it would all take.
The spot they chose was in the bottom right-hand corner, because you could see it from the kitchen window and it wasn’t going to interfere with any precious plants. Agatha started by marking out the area and then digging a trench. It was much harder work than she’d anticipated, but now she’d started she was definitely going to finish. The children were so excited that they didn’t once ask if they could go in and watch TV. Hal brought his trucks into the garden and ran them through the disturbed soil so that Agatha could see how they were traversing mountains and building new futures. Betty took her little shovel from the shed and begun turning over the soil in the middle of their patch. It took two long hours, but by lunchtime there was a patch of virgin soil waiting to be cultivated.
Agatha made herself and Betty tuna sandwiches for lunch. She had decided to stop offering Hal anything for a while, even though this was exactly against Ruth’s instructions. She didn’t even question his requests for bottles. She had read in one of her books that making a child feel like eating was an issue was not advisable. The same went for children who wouldn’t go to bed. Apparently it was negative attention and because kids crave any sort of attention, however much they get, if you made a fuss about them not doing something they would continue not to do it just to get the attention. It made sense to Agatha and she planned to pay no attention to Hal’s not eating, but lots to anything he might put into his mouth that wasn’t a bottle. And if ever she was left alone with the children overnight she would let Betty into her bed and cuddle the girl all through the night.
They sat in a patch of sunlight on the patio, Agatha and Betty munching on their sandwiches and Hal slurping a bottle, surveying their new territory. Agatha imagined they were in America, pioneers carving out their own place in the world. Hal sidled over to her, placing his head on her lap, his signal that he was tired. Agatha stroked his head as he sucked and in minutes his eyes were closed and the bottle had fallen to the ground.
‘That’s handy,’ she said to Betty. ‘Now he’s asleep we can get on with the job.’
Betty beamed because there was nothing she liked more than being made to feel superior to Hal. Agatha picked him up, a dead weight of trust in her arms, and carried him into the house. She buried her face into his neck and smelt his peculiar scent of yoghurt and cotton. She laid him on the sofa and kissed his damp, red cheek. Something twisted in her chest.
Agatha never stopped until she had completed what she set out to do. Unfi nished tasks weighed heavily on her mind like her father’s pheasants hanging in his game store. Working for all the women who had left their children in her care over the years had proved to Agatha that when she had her own house and family she would not be able to work herself. Which presented a problem in that she would have to marry a man who earned enough to keep them all. She wasn’t sure where she would meet this man, as she didn’t have any friends and never went anywhere that wasn’t connected to the children. And even if she did, she didn’t much like men anyway.
By teatime the three of them were banging a miniature fence around their new vegetable patch, pretending to be giants standing over a country they had excavated for food. Agatha planned to cover it with a fine mesh she had bought earlier to guard against snails and birds. Betty and Hal were ecstatic that finally they were going to be allowed to plant the seeds they had bought so long ago. Agatha made the neat furrows they needed, not letting the children help, and then stood over them as they dropped their tiny offerings into the earth. Hal couldn’t be persuaded to keep to his row or to drop one seed at a time, but still Agatha felt proud with what they had accomplished. She let them watch TV while she finished off the labelling and the netting.
Christian tried to call Ruth on his way home because he’d found a message from Carol stuck to his computer when he got out of his monthly management meeting saying she’d forgotten about the MTS awards that night and wouldn’t be home till late. All he got was her voicemail. Very occasionally he wondered if she would ever pay him back by having her own affair. The thought of another man touching her made him nauseous, but he supposed he would have to be graceful about the whole thing if she did. He doubted that she would, though; even in revenge she was likely to be fair.
When he opened his front door he felt an air of calm which had settled like a fine layer of dust. There didn’t seem to be anyone in. He dropped his bag in the hall and went into the kitchen where he could see the remnants of Betty’s dinner. There didn’t seem to be a place laid for Hal, but Ruth could be trying a new technique so he hardly even registered it. He heard noises in the garden and made his way outside. Agatha, Betty and Hal were bent over a patch at the bottom of the garden and both the children were talking at once. Betty turned when she heard him a
nd ran across the grass like a battering ram. She was filthy and he couldn’t stop himself from worrying about his suit as she hurled herself at him. Children, he had noticed, had no respect for personal boundaries. They often acted as though they would climb inside you if they could, pressing their face up against yours, fiddling with your clothes and speaking over your words. But he checked himself and tried to match her glee.
‘Come on, Daddy,’ she was screeching. ‘Come and see what we made.’
He followed the urgent pull of his daughter’s hand to a dirty patch of his lawn which he could have sworn had been grass when he’d left that morning but now was a mangy patch of earth surrounded by a cheap and ugly fence. He didn’t know what he was looking at.
‘We’re going to be eating them soon,’ Betty was saying. All Christian wanted was a beer. ‘Eating what?’
‘The vegetables, silly.’
‘Toms . . . ’ He strained to hear what his son was saying, but it got lost on the air.
Christian looked imploringly at Agatha and she laughed. ‘We made a vegetable patch. Ruth said it was okay. The kids decided what they wanted to grow and we went and bought the seeds and it’s taken us all day to make this.’ She held out her arm like a hostess on a game show. He was surprised that she didn’t say taa-daa.
‘Wow. That’s great.’ He knew his response was inadequate, but he could never be as enthusiastic as women seemed to need him to be.
‘I’ve been reading about kids who don’t eat,’ Agatha was saying now, ‘and there’s this one doctor who suggested that you should get them to grow their own food as it makes it more appealing. I thought it might be good for Hal.’
‘That’s a great idea. Makes loads of sense.’ Christian was genuinely impressed. ‘Well done.’
Everything and Nothing Page 3
