“Yes, I’m fully aware of that, but...”
“Okay, okay, old girl. Time’s ticking and I can see I’m not convincing you. Let’s move on to the lack of mental capacity question. What’ve you got on that?”
I told Brigid about the two strokes my mother had had prior to the drafting of the will. “To be perfectly honest, I didn’t see a lot of her in her last months, but when I did see her I didn’t think she seemed totally compos mentis. And even Edward’s crony, Rob, admitted that she was vague. I’ve applied for her medical records, but the wheels of officialdom grind slowly. I’ve been told I should get them soon.”
“Well, fingers crossed that that’ll give you the proof you need. Ideally there’ll be a helpful diagnosis in there, or expressions of concern about your mother’s mental state. But you don’t want to rely on that alone. You need some witness corroboration of how her medical condition affected her. Who was she close to? Who did she see on a daily basis?”
I’d already thought about that. “The vicar of her church—St. Stephen’s—is the person she’d probably have confided in. I can visit him and take a statement. And her doddery old neighbors over the road. They told me, on the last day I saw her alive, that they were worried about her, but I didn’t think they were worth taking seriously.”
“Okay, old girl. Get all that evidence together and come and see me in chambers. I’ll cast my eye over it and let you have my assessment. This is off the record. I’m not leaving myself open to a professional negligence claim if it all comes crashing down around your ears. And bear in mind that you could be in for some unpleasant legal costs if you don’t win. It’s probably not even worth asking, but are you sure you wouldn’t rather choose the easy life? You could just walk away, concentrate on the impending sprogdom and wait for your inheritance to come to you in due course.” She looked at me quizzically. “No, I thought not.”
December
15
I find it hard to believe it’s now six months since sperm inadvertently met egg and the inexorable process of cell division commenced; it seems only days ago that that little plastic stick delivered its thundering verdict. In other ways, however, it feels like decades have passed. When I took the test, my mother was alive and well(ish) and there was a family home I could return to whenever I felt inclined. Now I’m parentless, rootless, adrift with no anchor. No, I retract that. I have no idea why such weak-minded thoughts have started to form in my head. As you’re aware, I’ve always been the author of my own destiny. We can choose how to define ourselves, and I define myself as an autonomous and resourceful woman. What I lack in terms of family and other close personal relationships is more than compensated for by my rich inner life, which is infinitely more constant and dependable.
I can’t help, though, but feel twinges of regret that my mother never knew about my pregnancy. What would she have made of it, I wonder? Would she have been shocked, worried, pleased? It’s hard to imagine her having any of those reactions. She always treated my achievements with mild, disinterested approval and my disappointments with equally mild, disinterested regret. It was clear that she wished the best for me, but she also wished the best for the newspaper boy and the girl who helped out in the greengrocers. Edward’s every minor success, on the other hand, was a source of intense joy and a cause for great celebration on her part, and his failures (which were regular and predictable) elicited sympathy or distress. My father would probably have been pleased about my pregnancy, so long as he wasn’t expected to have anything to do with the child. His attitude toward Edward and me, on the occasions when he was sober, appeared to be satisfaction that he’d fathered offspring, mixed with annoyance at the practicalities of interacting with us. When he was drunk, satisfaction metamorphosed into euphoria and annoyance into seething resentment, admittedly aimed more at Edward than at me.
* * *
As I was writing my short Christmas present and card list, Kate disturbed my peace yet again. She’s taken to knocking on my door whenever she feels like it, particularly if she wants to share her frustration about her ongoing marital dispute. Apparently, sometimes Alex demands to see the children when it’s inconvenient, sometimes he pleads unavoidable business commitments when he’s needed; sometimes he treats Kate as though they’re old friends, sometimes he treats her like his nemesis. I’ve told her on numerous occasions that she should just change her phone number, put new locks on the front door and forget she ever had a husband. Her response is always the same: “Oh, Susan, life isn’t that simple.” It makes me very grateful that Richard’s position vis-à-vis the baby will be agreed well in advance of its birth. At least I won’t have to engage in such irritating and time-consuming maneuvering.
With the lights of the baby monitor winking through the fabric of her cardigan pocket, Kate plonked herself down on my sofa, proffered the box of Quality Street she’d brought with her and told me about her latest dilemma: the arrangements for Christmas, less than three weeks hence. Kate wanted to visit her family in Lichfield over the festive period, but Alex said that that was unacceptable; he had no desire to spend Christmas Day driving to the Midlands and back just to spend a couple of hours with their children. I suggested to Kate that, if she felt compelled to reach a compromise rather than simply informing Alex what would be happening, they have one child each. Again, however, she was reluctant to follow my judicious advice.
Kate asked me about my own plans for Christmas, which up until this year I’d spent with my mother. Coincidentally I’d had a phone call from Aunt Sylvia only an hour or so earlier.
“Ooh, hello, our Susan,” she cooed. “It’s Auntie here. Just got back from the villa and wanted a catch-up. Bin thinking of you all the time we was away, wondering how you’re getting on with your pregnancy. You must be quite big now, eh? Make sure you’re putting your feet up. You don’t want to get swollen ankles or varicose veins. I’ve always put my feet up for an hour or two in the afternoons, since I was in my twenties, and I’ve got the legs of someone half my age.”
Sitting down on the sofa and resting my feet on the oak casket, I assured her that I couldn’t have been feeling fitter. To be quite honest, that isn’t entirely true. While I’ve had boundless energy from the time the morning sickness ceased, I’ve found, on several occasions in recent days, that a feeling of exhaustion has overwhelmed me without warning. I even had difficulty keeping my eyes open during what should have been a particularly productive in-house training day at work. Aunt Sylvia proceeded to prattle on about how a “nice deep tan” takes pounds off you, which are the best places to eat out in Estepona and how, if it wasn’t for the girls and the grandkids, she’d be a permanent expat. “I’m a lady who can’t abide being parted from her nearest and dearest, you see,” she said. “That’s just how I am. Family comes before anything else, even my own health and happiness. Talking of being with family, that’s what I’m ringing up about. I bet you haven’t got any plans for Christmas, have you, love? What with your mum having passed away so recently, God rest her soul.”
“Well...”
“So, that’s settled, then. You’re staying with us. Wendy and Chrissie’ll be here with the kids, so it’ll be a houseful. Not that we’re short of space. Your uncle Frank thought about guest accommodation when he had the house built. And the girls are dying to see you, so don’t worry about feeling like a cuckoo in the nest. We’ve got a cozy little box room that’s just the right size for someone on their own. We’re going to have such a laff with the family all being together. I was forever telling your mum to come over for Christmas Day, but she always said she liked it to be just the three of you, and I suppose when your dad was alive she didn’t want him causing a scene and ruining it for everyone. Come on Christmas Eve and stay ’til the day after Boxing Day. Ooh, I can’t wait.”
So that is, indeed, settled. Well, what were my other options? I haven’t exactly been inundated with invitations for the festive period, and, a
lthough I do naturally prefer my own company, there’s something about Christmas that causes a person to balk at the idea of being alone. Next Christmas, of course, I won’t be.
* * *
“Why don’t I give you a lift up to the Midlands again?” Kate said when I informed her of my plans. “Sod bloody Alex. If he wanted to spend Christmas with the kids he shouldn’t have walked out on them, should he? He can fester in his gorgeous apartment with his gorgeous girlfriend and think about what he’s missing. You know, I do appreciate you lending an ear. I feel much stronger since we became friends.”
She passed the Quality Street across the sofa once more. I took a caramel swirl, then propped the box between us.
“I’m very pleased to hear it. Just keep telling yourself to think more like a feminist, and you’ll come out of this on top.”
“What do you mean? I am a feminist.”
“I’m sure you’re trying to be, but you have to learn to be more self-contained. You’re too easily affected by the things Alex does. Your confidence was shattered when he left you, and you still let him get to you where the children are concerned.”
“Anyone would be devastated if their partner ran off with someone else, leaving them with a newborn baby and a demanding toddler, whether they were male, female, feminist or otherwise.”
“I wouldn’t be. I’ve organized my life very carefully so that no one could ever cause that kind of devastation. Because I’m not reliant on anyone emotionally or financially, I can’t be hurt. That’s how a feminist is—iron-willed, Teflon-coated, in total control of every aspect of her life.”
Kate unwrapped a toffee penny and put it in her mouth.
“That’s not my definition,” she said, sounding like someone with a mouthful of marbles. “As far as I’m concerned you don’t have to be all, or even any, of those things to call yourself a feminist. What it boils down to is knowing that women are equal to men, and living that knowledge. It’s about ensuring that that equality is recognized in the home, in the workplace, in public life. And it’s about acknowledging that we all—women and men—are strong sometimes, weak sometimes, coolheaded sometimes, emotional sometimes, right sometimes, wrong sometimes. Locking away your feelings and vulnerabilities has got nothing at all to do with it. That’s something else entirely.”
She picked up the box and shook it at me invitingly. Resistance would have been both futile and unseasonal.
“I don’t entirely disagree,” I said, smoothing out the purple cellophane from my chocolate and adding it to the growing pile. “And I’ve got nothing against men in general, only against being treated as a second-class citizen. You must see, though, that a feminist would never voluntarily put herself in a position where a man could hurt her.”
“That’s like saying a feminist would never love, and that’s obviously not true. Whenever you open yourself up to another person, same sex or opposite, you take the risk of being hurt. That’s a simple reality of life.”
“You’re overlooking the centuries of oppression that women have suffered at the hands of men, sometimes even colluding in it. We’re lucky we can choose to step out of the cycle. Why do the orange and strawberry creams always get left to the end?” I added, looking into the box.
“Not in my house—chuck me one. I’m not overlooking the lessons of history. But women have made huge strides in the last few decades. There’s still a very, very long way to go, but maybe we feel more confident about acknowledging our vulnerabilities as well as our strengths.”
“I don’t have any vulnerabilities.”
“Everyone does. You just hide yours, probably even from yourself. Try letting your guard down sometimes. You might find yourself pleasantly surprised by the consequences.”
“You need to read The Female Eunuch,” I told her.
“Okay, but you should read something more current. The discourse has moved on, you know. It’s like fairy stories. In the old days, the princess always had to get the prince, or it wasn’t considered a happy ending. Then came the first wave of feminism, and that suddenly felt like a cop-out—no self-respecting princess would sell her soul by marrying a prince. (Chuck me another orange cream, will you?) It must’ve been a massive breath of fresh air after what went before. But, these days, fairy-tale endings come in all shapes and sizes. It’s okay for the princess to end up with the prince, it’s okay for her to end up with the footman, it’s okay for her to end up on her own. It’s also okay for her to end up with another princess, or with six cats, or to decide she wants to be a prince. None of those make her any more or less a feminist. It’s about finding out who you are and what you want, and then being true to it.”
“Maybe. You know, we mightn’t always agree with each other, but I like the fact that you have opinions on things. At least you can be bothered.”
Before she left, Kate gathered up the smoothed-out wrappers and put them back in the empty carton; something about making Christmas decorations with Ava.
* * *
The following day Rob was due to drop off the items from my mother’s house that I’d decided I could accommodate. He was driving down from Birmingham in the morning with Edward, off-loading him at a friend’s house, then proceeding on to my flat. According to Rob, he hadn’t told Edward either that he was storing items for me at his own house, or that he was delivering the boxes; my brother was under the misapprehension that he was visiting an elderly relative and Rob hadn’t corrected him. A likely story. Why on earth would Rob be doing this if it wasn’t part of a bigger plan concocted between the two of them? Did he have a subconscious resentment of Edward that made him want to act contrary to his wishes? It would be understandable, but I’d seen no evidence. Did he have a split personality? If so, he was keeping it well hidden. Was he perceptive enough to see that I was in the right and Edward was in the wrong? Doubtful. Could he have more personal reasons for wanting to help me? Obviously not; he hardly knows me, we have nothing in common and he’s on a determined mission to win back Alison. The only logical explanation was that Edward, through his proxy, was keeping his enemies close.
“Ed’s particularly angry with you at the moment,” Rob had said on the phone when he called to confirm the arrangements. “If he knew where you lived he’d probably be battering the door down.”
“And what’s my dear brother’s reason for feeling more antipathy toward me than usual?”
“He called in at the undertakers a couple of days ago to pick up your mum’s ashes, and they told him they’d already given them to you. He’s mad. He was going to phone you straightaway and tell you what he thought—he was saying you were a grave robber—but I persuaded him to calm down and take his time.”
“So he cares about our mother’s ashes so much that it’s taken him over three months to think about collecting them? He’s got no more legal or moral claim to them than I have. And you know what the law says about possession. He can do his worst, but I have no intention of relinquishing them.”
“You shouldn’t’ve taken them without telling Ed, though. It’s a bit underhanded, if you ask me. But, hey, it’s not my battle. I just thought I’d let you know he’s on the warpath. He says he’s been too laid-back in this will dispute thing because he’s had other stuff on his mind, but he’s going to start fighting back. He’s going on again about valuables you took from the house after the funeral, and saying he’s going to get them back.”
All the above, I’m sure, was conveyed to me on Edward’s instructions. I expect my brother thinks I’ll be so intimidated by his wrath that I’ll roll over like a little lapdog. He should have realized by now I’m a very different species.
* * *
As you know, I pride myself on my good manners and civility. Although Rob is my brother’s coconspirator, I decided it would only be polite to invite him to join me for lunch in return for delivering the boxes. Politeness, though, wasn’t the primary motivation
for my cultivating our acquaintance further. I woke early—it was still dark outside—and pulled out some recipe books. I wondered what sort of food Rob would like. Being a gardener of sorts, I supposed it would be pork pies or pasties. Perhaps I could cook a beef Wellington or a stew with dumplings. Then I remembered he was a vegetarian. In the end, I decided to prepare a Spanish-style lunch instead. I wrote a list and headed down to the shops as soon as they were open. I spent the morning assembling a variety of tapas dishes, then cleaned, tidied, did my makeup and hair, and set about choosing an outfit that would combine weekend informality with classic style. Eventually, the meal, the flat and I were all as effortlessly organized and presentable as it’s possible to achieve in half a day.
At the appointed time of one o’clock I sat down on the sofa to await my visitor. Whenever I heard a vehicle approaching, I got up to look through the bay window. Five past one: no Rob. Ten past one: no Rob. Quarter past, and I was beginning to think he must have had an accident; surely nobody would be so late without phoning with an explanation and apology.
I had my mobile in my hand to call him when I saw his familiar white van draw up behind Kate’s car, which she’d parked in front of the house seconds earlier. I watched as the two of them greeted each other and exchanged a few words. A moment later he was carrying a stack of leaflets from her boot to our shared front door (she’s recently started a campaign to oppose the withdrawal of funding from a local mothers-and-babies group). Noah was in Kate’s arms, and Ava was walking next to her. I couldn’t help noticing that Rob was acting in rather an over-friendly manner, causing mother and child to explode with laughter. He spotted me looking through the window and grinned, as did Kate. I went to the front door and opened it, while she was still fumbling in her handbag for her keys.
The Cactus Page 18
