The Cactus

by Sarah Haywood

  I mentally noted down everything in Richard’s favor. He’d certainly been good company over the years; he’d never let me down, lied to me or hurt me. He was a smart, exceptionally well-mannered, pleasant-looking man with good taste and a steady income, and he and I shared many of the same interests. There had always been an attraction between us, and our more intimate encounters had been pleasurable. We’d never done anything “domestic” together, of course, but there was nothing to say that the good times we’d had within our strictly delineated boundaries couldn’t translate into everyday life. In almost all respects he was the ideal life-partner for me. Balanced against that, though, was the fact that I’d never had the slightest desire to share my life. There was also the fact that I didn’t have “romantic feelings” toward Richard, and neither, as far as I was aware, did he have them toward me. How important was that? I wondered. I looked at him hard, trying to decide whether I could ever feel more for him than I currently did. If such sentiments were going to develop between us, I would have expected them to do so by now. It was not entirely out of the question, but I was far from convinced.

  “I do sympathize with your urge to do things by the book, Richard, but I don’t think it would be a good idea. We’ll get along much better as coparents than as husband and wife.”

  The pelican had emerged from the water again, and was eyeing me with what looked like contempt. Richard sighed, and slumped back on the bench.

  “I suspected it might be too soon in our rekindled friendship to bring up the subject of marriage. I’ve taken you by surprise—you’ll need some time to think about it. We can revisit the subject at a later date.”

  “I’m afraid there wouldn’t be any point,” I said, with more conviction than I necessarily felt. “I have to get back to the office. People will wonder where I am. I don’t usually take a proper lunch break.”

  “Mummy will be so delighted when I tell her I’m going to be part of our child’s life. I’ll be in touch to discuss the details. And as far as the other matter’s concerned, we’ll just leave it hanging in the air for the time being.”

  “It’s not hanging in the air. It’s gently floating to the ground, where it’s going to stay.”

  “Hmm. We’ll see about that. I sense that you’re open to persuasion.”

  I allowed him to peck me lightly on each cheek once more, then retraced my steps along the path to The Mall. Glancing back, I could see that the pelican had jumped back onto the bench next to Richard, who was trying to remove his handkerchief from beneath its webbed feet.

  14

  A big-boned young lady were the words my mother used to describe her. “Beefy Brigid,” Edward called her—actually to her face on one of the few occasions they’d crossed paths. I, personally, thought she looked like an Olympic weight-lifter. I wouldn’t have dreamed of telling her that, of course. I did, though, suggest on several occasions that she might want to consider reining in her calorie intake for the sake of her health, appearance and self-esteem. Brigid would just slap me on the back heartily and say it was a good job she didn’t easily take offense or I’d have no friends at all.

  Brigid and I met in the first term at Nottingham University. We both liked to sit in the middle of the front row in lectures, so we often found ourselves next to each other. I was rather reserved in those days, and found her effusive bonhomie both infuriating (it felt like being battered by a tsunami of affability) and oddly soothing (I had no need to watch what I said, or even, for that matter, to say anything at all). At the end of our first year, spent in halls, it was Brigid who suggested that we flat-share, Brigid who found a suitable property and Brigid who made all the practical arrangements. I had no problem with allowing her to do so. She was the sort of assertive, forthright person who would never be fobbed off with substandard accommodation or an unfavorable rental agreement. Our domestic relationship worked well, even when Brigid took up with Dermot, a rugby player even bigger than herself, and I—well, we will come to that.

  And here I was, twenty-odd years later, sitting across the table from my old flatmate in a noisy Italian restaurant just off Chancery Lane. Since leaving university, Brigid had married Dermot, qualified as a solicitor, “dropped a sprog” as she called it and whiled away the early years of motherhood at a personal injury firm specializing in mundane slippers and trippers. She’d since retrained and was now a barrister with an exciting, radical chambers in Lincoln’s Inn. Her caseload was of the type that often attracted media attention. Indeed, I’d recently seen dear Brigid interviewed on the ten o’clock news (a good job they invented widescreen television). Even though we both lived in London, I’d managed to limit our rendezvous to once every two or three years, aided and abetted by the busyness of her life.

  “Who’d’ve thunk it,” she said, smacking a great meaty paw on the table and making the cutlery jump in the air. “Old Susan ‘I’m not the breeding type’ Green up the duff. I remember you saying families were like prisons but without the hope of a release date. Well, you took your time coming round to the idea. Any longer and the train would’ve left the station.” She took a large swig from her glass of red wine. “I’m almost out the other side now. Rachel’s seventeen—one more year and she’ll be off my hands. I’ve already started packing her bags.” She took another large swig. “Honestly, though, motherhood’s a doddle. I don’t know what all the fuss is about. Just grab the nearest nanny and Bob’s your uncle. Or your childminder.”

  Perhaps you can see why I befriended Brigid all those years ago, and why I’ve allowed our friendship to keep ticking over. Despite her exasperating sense of humor, she’s a woman with a no-nonsense approach to life. It was for that reason, and more particularly for her legal expertise, that I’d suggested meeting for lunch. A few days earlier my—possibly naive—assumption that I had limitless time to investigate and prepare my legal case to overturn my mother’s will was dealt a blow. I received in the post a document headed In the High Court of Justice, Family Division. It stated that I had eight days in which to “enter an appearance” setting out my case. If I failed to do so, probate would be issued to Mr. Brinkworth, allowing him to deal with the estate. The solicitor was clearly trying to call my bluff; I took that step, the matter could then only be settled by the court, with all the costs that would involve. He was no doubt banking on me losing my nerve.

  “So have you finally given up the bachelor-girl life, or is this a solo enterprise? I mean, I’m assuming artificial insemination. Have you been finding alternative uses for the old turkey baster?”

  “No, Brigid.” I sighed. “It was insemination in the usual way, and no I haven’t given up my independence. That’s all I want to say on the matter.”

  “Fair enough, old girl. Your womb is your own business. As are your sleeping arrangements. So what brings you blinking out into the daylight? I haven’t seen you for donkeys.”

  I paused for a moment as dishes were placed before us; a mozzarella salad for me and a mountain of linguine drenched in creamy sauce for Brigid, which she commenced shoveling into her mouth as though her plate might be whisked away from her.

  “I want some legal advice,” I said.

  “Aha, an ulterior motive. What is it? Have the cops finally discovered you’re running a drug-smuggling cartel from your flat in Clapham?”

  Oh, the unparalleled wittiness of the woman. How I’d missed it.

  “No, Brigid.” I sighed yet again. “It’s to do with my mother’s will. She’s given Edward a life interest in the house, so I’m not going to get my share until he decides to move out. Which he probably never will.”

  “What, your pothead bro’s got the property?” she said, between heaped forkfuls. “You’re going to have to do something about that, Susan, old girl. You don’t want your dosh tied up ad infinitum. It could be yonks before you get your mitts on it, if you ever do. What was the mater thinking of? Did she forget about all the crap he’s
done over the years? Like what happened to your Phil, for God’s sake. Though, now I come to think of it, she was the one person who didn’t think any blame attached to Ed.”

  * * *

  Perhaps Brigid’s reference to Phil requires a little explanation. You may be surprised to learn that Richard wasn’t my first partner, and neither was he the first person to suggest marriage. When I was younger, I had none of the silly, girlie interest in boys that others in my class had. I know people like to look for psychological reasons for every aspect of our personalities. If you want to go down that route you need only look at my closest models of masculinity, viz my father (alcoholic, unreliable) and my brother (lazy, vindictive). It could simply be, however, that I was aware from an early age that a close relationship with a boy or man—or indeed anyone—would undermine my freedom, dilute my individualism, take up precious time and cause the unnecessary expenditure of emotional energy. Looked at logically like that, it’s astonishing that any rational person would want to engage in intimate relationships.

  But then there was Phil, from up the road. He went to the same nursery school as I did, although I have no particular memory of him from those days. He went to the same primary school, and I do remember him from that time, vaguely, as a small boy with a pudding-basin haircut who was forever on the edge of things, on the sidelines; unobtrusive and easily overlooked. We ended up at the same local secondary school, and walked home the same way. It was probably when we were about thirteen or fourteen that he first spoke to me, after school. Initially it was about homework, tests and marks; later it was about what we’d read, listened to and watched on television. I wouldn’t have described him as a friend at that time. I didn’t need or want friends. He was just someone who happened to be going the same way as me, and who shared some of my interests. I tolerated him but was careful not to let him get too close, and I made it quite clear that he wouldn’t be welcome to call at the family home.

  In sixth form it transpired that Phil had chosen to take the same A levels as I had, so we had things to talk about on the academic front. People started thinking of us as girlfriend and boyfriend, but that wasn’t the case at all. On the occasions he tried to get too familiar with me—when his conversation became too personal or intimate—I’d deliberately say or do something unkind to push him away. He made the mistake, in our first term of the lower sixth, of asking me to go to the cinema with him. I explained that that would never, ever happen. I didn’t speak to him for at least two weeks after that.

  Edward resented deeply the fact that I had a companion of sorts. On the way home from school he and his tight little coterie of misfits, rebels and dunces would trail behind Phil and me, making kissing noises, singing, “Suze has got a boyfriend,” or, if that failed to rile me, trying to trip us up, barge us off the pavement or fire spitballs at us. It was to Phil’s credit that he simply ignored Edward and his cronies, as faintly annoying but ultimately inconsequential insects.

  I’ve been trying to track back to when and why Phil and I became closer. I think it must have been following my father’s death. You might have assumed, from my references to my father’s manifold faults and weaknesses, that I didn’t care for him. If so, I’ve unintentionally misled you. I did. So, when my father died, I wasn’t quite my usual resilient self. For the first time in my life I needed the support of another person. My mother was too focused on poor dear Edward. “A boy needs his father” was her repeated mantra. Phil appeared to understand how I was feeling: when I wanted to talk, when I wanted to be quiet. He invited me to the cinema again, to something subtitled (One Deadly Summer), I think, and I accepted. That led on to other evenings out and eventually—shortly before our A-level exams—I allowed him past the front door of our family home. We became, in the traditional sense, boyfriend and girlfriend. It’s hard to believe it now, but it’s true. I had a boyfriend.

  Phil had decided to stay at home and go to Birmingham University, as he was required to provide practical and emotional support to his wheelchair-bound mother. He asked if I’d consider transferring from Nottingham to Birmingham University, but I declined. If our relationship was strong it would survive the geographical separation. If it was weak, it wouldn’t. To further test it I insisted that we had no face-to-face contact at all during term time, a rule that I maintained until halfway through our second year. It turned out that our relationship was strong.

  At the end of that academic year, as we descended the steps of the Birmingham Central Library, Phil dropped his book bag, turned to me and asked if I’d marry him once we’d finished our degrees. I told him I’d think carefully about his proposal and let him know my answer the following day. I spent that evening listing the pros and cons of marriage to Phil. On the positive side was the fact that he was serious, studious, quiet and amenable. In addition, I was used to Phil, and I certainly wouldn’t want to go through the bother and effort of meeting and getting to know other possible partners in the future. On the negative side, could I be sure that he wouldn’t try to fetter my independence, or prove to be unreliable and untrustworthy? Plus, I’d have all the hassle of divorce proceedings if he turned out to be a disappointment. I decided to reject the proposal. The next day I met Phil outside the Odeon cinema.

  “So, what’s the decision, then?” he asked, tracing the cracks in the paving stones with the toe of his shoe. His hands were thrust deep in the pockets of his corduroy trousers and he was carefully avoiding eye contact.

  And then a strange thing happened. Instead of the words I’m sorry, it’s no, I heard myself saying, “Yes.” I was as stunned as he was. We both stood there staring at each other for quite a few seconds before the siren of a passing police car broke the spell. We hugged awkwardly, neither of us knowing quite how we should behave at such a significant moment. In the end, we marked it with two Coca-Colas and a large bucket of popcorn. So that’s how I found myself engaged at the age of barely twenty. My mother seemed moderately pleased for me when I informed her of the fact. I remember she insisted I phone Aunt Sylvia immediately. My aunt, in her usual overdramatic and overemotional way, burst into tears of what I concluded was joy, rendering her even less coherent than usual. When I told Edward, his reaction was rather different.

  “God help the poor bastard,” he said, his face contorting with an expression that managed to encapsulate jealousy, malice and mockery. “Does he know he’s letting himself in for a lifelong, nonstop barrage of criticism and disapproval? I think I’ll have to have a word with him.”

  He did more than that. Much more.

  * * *

  “So, let’s hear about your strategy. What’s your angle of attack? What’re your weapons and how big’s your army?” asked Brigid, rubbing her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “I’m planning a two-pronged assault,” I told her, yielding to her well-worn metaphor. “Undue influence by Edward, and lack of mental capacity on my mother’s part. I’m amassing troops on both fronts at this very moment.” I explained my belief that Edward had pressurized my mother into doing something she would never, in her right mind, have considered doing.

  “Hmm. Undue influence is a slippery fish. You’ll have to get some pretty watertight evidence that your brother was up to no good. What’ve you got on him so far?”

  When I thought about it, I had to admit: not a great deal. I told her what I’d managed to glean from my interviews with Aunt Sylvia and Rob. “But I know categorically and unequivocally that Edward engineered all this, even if no one else will come straight out and say so. It speaks volumes that the witnesses’ stories show he knew where the draft will was kept and organized the signing.”

  “Not enough, old girl.” She folded her arms across her ample bosom and fixed me with the matronly look she no doubt used on her less biddable clients. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that bullheaded maintenance of criminality on the part of Edward isn’t going to persuade a judge by itself. Unless you can get some
real dirt—proof that he frog-marched her down to the solicitors’ office with her arm twisted behind her back, or that he was threatening to unravel her knitting—undue influence is going to be a nonstarter. In fact, it might even turn the judge against you. They might decide you’re just a green-eyed aggrieved sibling who can’t come to terms with the fact that your mum put the needs of your brother before your own. Not that I’m saying you are, by the way. But it’s much better to focus on what you can prove, and not muddy the waters with what you can’t.”

  “But dropping the undue influence allegation takes the focus off Edward and trains it on my mother,” I said. “It’s like exonerating him from blame, and saying it was all down to her. I’m not letting him off that easily.”

  “Yes, but listen, old girl. I’ll tell you what I tell all my clients, and what you must already know—it’s not about occupying the moral high ground or achieving vindication of your beliefs, it’s about winning the legal argument. Simple as. Shove all your feelings about Edward to one side and think, coldly and clinically, what you need to do to get your hands on half the proceeds of the sale of the house. Forget about trying to show the world that Edward’s a bastard and you’re a saint. If you confine your attack to your mum’s lack of capacity, you can still say that her mental state left her open to self-serving suggestions by Edward. It’s just that you’re not claiming he set out with a malicious intent to force her into doing something against her wishes.”

  “I don’t agree, Brigid. The facts need to be aired in court. I want to see a judgment, in black-and-white, stating that Edward is corrupt and immoral. This has been a very long time coming, and I’m not shying away from it now.”

  Brigid leaned back in her chair, which just about managed to withstand the force, and shook her head. “You’re in danger of sounding like one of my obsessive clients. Step back from the case for a moment and think how you’re going to convince the judge on the day. It’s not going to be by raising all sorts of hyperbolic and evidentially unsupportable allegations against a family member, however well-founded you and I might believe them to be. It’s going to be by producing incontrovertible, rock-solid evidence.”