by Anna Maxted
Chapter 12
MY MOST HATED school subject was music. I loathed it even more than I loathed maths. I was a music illiterate. No matter how long and loud I was shouted at and made to squawk ‘doe ray me far so larrrr tee doe!’ the notes remained a collection of mystifying black squiggles on the page. To me, a quaver was a type of crisp. Yet, aged seven, I was still bullied into learning to play the recorder. During my lunch hour! I dreaded those lessons even more than I dreaded The Child Catcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. All I remember is cowering in the music room with a huddle of fellow unfortunates while they played ‘Frère Jacques’ and I mimed it.
Then, one fateful day, I was asked to play solo and the fiasco was up. I was brandished in front of the entire class as a tone-deaf fraud. I wanted to disintegrate with shame. However. The following morning I awoke feeling different – light, excited, and wondrously free. No more recorder lessons. Ever. And when I look back on my life’s greatest traumas – recorder lessons, not being allowed to have my ears pierced – I see that each one has something in common. No matter how life-shattering they felt at the time, there was an end to them. The trouble with death is, there isn’t an end to it.
It goes on and on and on. Sometimes, I’ll forget it’s happened. Or I won’t believe it. But then I’ll remember. And I can not believe it as much as I like, but it won’t go away. My mother pores over photo albums obsessively. As if – because the image of my father is evident in glorious Fuji technicolour – he can’t be dead. I, meanwhile, am at a loss. I don’t know if my mother is in such a state because she loved my father or because she is on her own.
She certainly perks up when I tell her Jasper and I are no longer together. Until I reveal that I am single – ridiculous phrase! every person in the world is single, even Tina who has been sensationally outed as a my-husband-and-I type – my mother is sullen towards me. As if my father’s ‘passing’, as she terms it, is my fault! Well excuse me, but I didn’t cook the final cholesterol-laden straw. She continues to make barbed comments like, ‘He was my one soul mate. It’s alright for you, you’ve got your support network.’ And what ‘support network’ would that be? Luke telling me to keep my chin up? Michelle berating me for being ‘a bitch’ to Alan and asking me if I’m ‘losing it’? Laetitia who declares – when I explain I’m late because I had a huge fight with my mother over cancelling the Financial Times – ‘Shame. But you must be relieved he went so quickly. You wouldn’t have wanted him to suffer.’
But when my mother snipes I don’t snipe back. I don’t, for example, say, ‘He was my one father. It’s alright for you, you can re-marry.’ Instead, I spend the entire week fussing and fretting and trying to make her eat more. I buy the Good Housekeeping Recipe Book – an oppressive 576 pages – and decide that from now on, I shall devote every Sunday plus Monday and Wednesday evenings to fattening up my mother and distracting her from widowhood. Unfortunately, this plan necessitates me forfeiting my social life and learning to cook.
I also ring the local estate agent who called my mother this Wednesday (I persuaded her to start answering her phone on Tuesday) and announced he’d heard ‘she was thinking of moving’. Translation: he’d heard her husband had stiffed it, presumed the widow would downsize to a cottage, and decided to procure himself a nice fat profit by browbeating her into selling up through him.
Traditionally, I welcome confrontation as I welcome a Jehovah’s Witness to my dinner table. But strangely enough, I enjoy the call. The elation of out-pompousing Alan must be addictive. I ring Rodney & Carter, having jotted down a few venomous notes in advance. I stand up (Lizzy swears this promotes assertiveness) and demand to speak with Mr Rodney. Then I assume the voice of Linda Blair in The Exorcist and snarl, ‘My father died thirty-six days ago and my widowed mother is numb with grief and you, you ambulance chaser, ring her up and try to make money out of her! I hope you’re proud of yourself! You disgust me – you grave robber!’ Judging from his servile, cringing bleat of an apology, even estate agents fear demonic possession.
I also ring a few of my mother’s friends. According to my mother, they have ‘abandoned her’. From what I can gather, this is not strictly true. I play back the string of ignored messages on her answer machine and discover that her old pal Vivienne has called nine times. Nana Flo has called fourteen times. I cringe as I listen to her cracked, splintery voice. She sounds lost. ‘Cecelia, are you there? Hello? Hello? Is this machine broken? Hello?’
I’d forgotten about Nana Flo. Oh alright, I’d forgotten about her in the way that you forget about a dental appointment. I’ll ring Vivienne first. Vivienne’s early messages are along the lines of ‘Cessy, it’s Viv. I do hope you’re bearing up, give me a tinkle when you have a moment. You know I’m here if you need a shoulder to cry on. Call any time, day or night.’ Her later messages are along the lines of ‘Cecelia! Vivienne here. I’m very concerned. Why haven’t you called? Have I done something to offend you? Do call. I’m dying to – I’m desperate to see you. We should do lunch.’
It emerges, when I quiz my mother, that Vivienne did visit her twice, three weeks ago. The first time, she popped round to invite my mother ‘for a casual bite, Monday lunch’ and to disinvite my mother to a dinner party, Saturday night, arranged five days before my father selfishly popped his brown Church’s lace-ups and put out Vivienne’s table plan.
On her second visit, Vivienne brought my mother a sponge cake, a shiny copy of OK magazine, and a complimentary ticket to a fringe theatre production of Hamlet that her Rupert Everett wannabe son Jeremy has a minor part in (he plays Rosencrantz). Her exact words: ‘You won’t be needing more than one, will you?’ I tell my mother that while Vivienne has done ill, she means well, and to give her another chance. Meanwhile, I tell Vivienne – I catch her on her mobile between Harley Street and the hair salon – that my mother has no intention of pinching anyone else’s husband just yet and furthermore, Sainsbury’s now sell chicken breasts in single portions. So, the odd hussy out won’t be a problem and on that basis, I trust her dinner invitation is reinstated with immediate effect.
Vivienne is flustered and blustering. ‘Helen, she’s more than welcome, you know that,’ she trills. ‘But you have to know I was, first and foremost, thinking of her. We’re going to be five couples! Us, the Elworthys, the Williamses, the Schnecks, and the Struthers! The last thing I wanted was to rub salt into the wound.’ I overlook the glaring fact that at least three of these guests are having affairs and explain, while it will certainly be painful for my mother to sit amid these shiny prototypes of married bliss, she would doubtless prefer it to sitting at home on her own eating a piece of Edam cheese in front of Casualty. The upshot? My mother – dressed in black from obstinate head to defiant toe – goes to the ball.
I meanwhile, sit at home on my own eating a piece of Edam cheese in front of Casualty. It is a joy and a pleasure. The only bluebottle in the ointment is Fatboy who picks at his food like a sixth-form girl on a diet then hoity-toits off to the hallway where he yowls, miaows, and scrabbles furiously, remorselessly, pointlessly at Marcus’s beige carpet. ‘Shut uuuuuuuup!’ I screech from the sofa. I am drained of the resources needed to pacify a problem child.
Five minutes later, I plod into my bedroom to get a cardigan and see Fatboy squatting in my underwear drawer. For a split second, I’m confused. Why? A hissing pissing sound makes the enigma rapidly and unpleasantly clear. ‘You little shit!’ I mutter, as I realise that – unless I want a hysterical abstract wee scatter all over my bedroom floor – I can do nothing but wait until he’s finished. I slink towards the drawer and stealthily move my lacier, frillier, sexier lingerie away from the target area under his peeing bottom.
As a responsible pet owner I am aware that companion animal behaviour counsellors strongly advise against any form of ‘punitive technique’. Too bad. As Fatboy leaps triumphantly from my urine-soaked drawer I see him on his way with a medium-sized wallop. He speeds off, crouches like a furry Nemesis at the far end o
f the hall, and remains on hunger strike throughout Sunday. On Monday morning I ring work, explain to a frosty Laetitia that I have ‘toothache’, and take my cat to the vet. Megavet. I am jittery with anticipation and fear. I wince as I recall my recent shameful exchange with Tom. Maybe another vet will be on duty. And yet . . .
Tom waves me into the surgery without a glimmer of recognition or warmth. ‘What’s the problem?’ he says as I empty Fatboy from his Pet Voyager – he clings frantically to its vertical side like a passenger on the sinking Titanic – on to the surgery table. ‘Well,’ I say nervously, ‘he’s lost his appetite. And he’s blanking me. He’s also had diarrhoea.’
Tom’s expression turns even more disapproving. ‘How long has this been going on?’ he says coldly. Isn’t that a line in a song, I think but don’t dare say. I am desperate to beg Tom’s forgiveness but too certain of being rejected.
‘Well, I’m not entirely sure,’ I say, squirming with guilt, but [gulp] ‘maybe a week, two weeks.’
Tom raises an eyebrow, ‘And have you tried to make a previous appointment?’ he says in an incredulous tone.
‘No,’ I begin, ‘I didn’t think—’
Tom interrupts. He seems to have turned into a crankier version of my old junior school headmaster. ‘No, you didn’t think,’ he snaps. ‘Is there anything else? Vomiting? Is the diarrhoea ongoing?’
I shake my head miserably, ‘Just one bout, I thi— I’m pretty sure.’
Tom glares at me. Then he says, ‘Describe it.’ How very romantic.
‘Well,’ I say in a slightly condescending tone, ‘it was brown and runny. Rather like diarrhoea in fact.’ Jesus, what does he want from me? Tom looks disgusted, and I’m not entirely sure this relates to my poetic description of liquid pooh.
He snarls, ‘In a young cat, symptoms like these can be the first signs of leukaemia, Feline Aids, or FIP – a horrible disease which starts with diarrhoea and snottiness about food and ends with respiratory problems. There’s no vaccination against it.’
I am stunned – ‘Leukaemia, Aids, or FIP?’ I whisper, unaware that FIP existed until a second ago but now certain Fatboy has it, Aids, and leukaemia – and it’s all my selfish, neglectful fault.
Tom nods grimly. ‘So,’ he says, ‘if it’s not too much trouble, I want to know, did his faeces contain any traces of blood? Was it stringy? Bile-like? And has he been drinking and peeing more than normal?’
I shake my head to the pooh question and whisper, ‘I’m not sure about the peeing.’
Tom continues, ‘I’m going to have to run some bloods. A young cat like this should not be having problems in these areas, he should be eating, drinking, peeing, poohing as normal. If a cat has diarrhoea you don’t hang about. If he reaches twelve to fifteen per cent dehydration he’s dead.’
I gasp, ‘Oh no!’ and, in a small piteous voice, add, ‘Fatboy won’t, he won’t, die, will he?’ I am near tears and about to report myself to the RSPCA.
The side of Tom’s mouth twitches and he says, ‘We’ll get the lab results tomorrow.’
I am weak with remorse and shame and terror. I watch in silence as Tom feels Fatboy’s lardy abdomen, prises open his jaw and peers down his throat, and pushes his lip into a sneer (Fatboy’s, I mean – Tom’s own lip is already in a sneer). Then he gently presses Fatboy into a crouch, restrains him in a firm hug and – to loud, hissy indignation – slides a greased thermometer up Fatboy’s bottom. ‘Alright, big chap,’ he murmurs in a soft, low voice.
My heart flips. Eventually, he removes the thermometer and says sharply, ‘He has a slight temperature.’ I nod sadly. He then summons the vile pouting Celine, trims a tiny square of fur on each of Fatboy’s front legs, swabs each shaven patch and – while Celine holds down Fatboy who I will to bite her and if he does have Aids, transmit it – takes a squiddle of blood from each vein. He then squirts it into two transparent tubes, one pink topped, the other orange.
Considering his rollercoaster ordeal, Fatboy isn’t as outraged as he should be. He emits a deep, low, angry growl but doesn’t attempt to bolt. The traitor even allows Tom to weigh him while I, the evil abuser, choke back my tardy tears of penitence. Tom leans down, strokes Fatboy’s head, and plops him back into his Pet Voyager.
He glances at me, seems to hesitate, then says – in a firm, but not terribly hateful, tone: ‘That cat is taking on the proportions of a boudoir madam. But I’m sure he’s fine. He probably just ate something crappy. Or picked up on a recent upset or stress. Any change in lifestyle, even moving a sofa, can send the most stable cat into a huff. Often conveyed via the distinctive brown letter of complaint. I want you to starve him for today, and I’m going to give you three days’ supply of special bland cat food. Then, providing he’s okay, I’m putting Fatboy on a weight reducing diet. And I’ll let you know when we get the lab results. But if he pukes or squits again, bring him in immediately.’
I nod meekly and whisper: ‘So there’s a sliver of hope for Fatboy?’
Tom turns away – I think, to cough – then says sternly, ‘More than a sliver. You want to know his real problem? He’s a mummy’s boy!’ With that, he tots up the (extortionate) bill, hands over the ‘recovery pack’ and nods in his next client. He says ‘Bye’ but looks a fraction past my ear as he says it. I go home, groom Fatboy, and feel ashamed of myself.
I award myself compassionate leave for the rest of the day and stay awake all of Monday night praying. Tom rings me at work on Tuesday at 11.39 a.m. to inform me – in a brisk tone – that Fatboy is fine apart from a small increase in his red blood cells indicating he may have worms. I rush to Megavet straight from work. Tom briefly appears to hand me a worming tablet and a quarter (because Fatboy is so fat) in a blue and white envelope. ‘If he pukes within half an hour it hasn’t been digested,’ he says, sounding about as warm as a deep frozen polar bear. ‘If he pukes any later it’s worked, it’s just upset his tummy.’
I spend a good forty minutes before managing to poke the pill down Fatboy’s throat. Then I spend twenty minutes dabbing my wounds with antiseptic. I am angry and upset. I call Tina. She’s out. I call Lizzy. She’s out. So I call Michelle. Who has run up an almighty overdraft whingeing about Sammy, so she owes me.
First I pander to her lingering indignation on oily Alan’s behalf – ‘Michelle, to be honest, I’m in such a volatile state at the moment I didn’t think it was fair to, you know, burden him?’ Bullshit over, I progress to my true agenda – ranting and raving about Tom. I am not quite sure how I want Michelle to react, but she puts on a satisfying show. Boy does he sound like a piece of work! You owe him nothing! What a deadbeat! Messing with your head like that! But don’t sweat it! He should lighten up! He’s way intense! Etc!
I am inflamed and inspired to consult her on a matter that has been niggling for some time. I miss Jasper. I keep thinking about him. I want to call him. Again, Michelle obliges. He’s a cool guy and I should go for it. Encouragement and permission! So I do.
To my disbelief and delight, Jasper is ‘chuffed’ to hear from me. It would be ‘ace’ to meet up sometime. ‘How are you fixed for tomorrow night?’ I say (an hour of listening to Michelle and even Luke would start talking like a Hollywood Wife). ‘I’m around,’ drawls Jasper. ‘Why don’t you stop by?’
I squirm with coquettish pleasure and purr into the phone, ‘I could do that . . .’ I replace the receiver, head swirling. Jasper Sanderson & Helen Bradshaw. The return of! To borrow a favourite Jasperian phrase: Michelle – you played a blinder. I make a beeline for my (de-defiled) underwear drawer and start choosing knickers.
Chapter 13
IF EVER TINA and I want to irritate Lizzy, which we frequently do, we call her Mogadon Girl. This is because Pure Unadulterated Elizabeth is petrified of flying and before she’ll set even her littlest toe in a Boeing she has to pop a great fat horsepill of a Nitrazepam. Of course she tried hypnotherapy, acupuncture, and peppermint tea first but – to our private glee – they didn’t make the tiniest den
t of difference and the Wholesome One was forced to resort to legalised drugs. We weren’t that mean though. A while back, we spent an exhausting twenty minutes in the office trying to reassure her that God did mean humans to fly.
‘Lizzy,’ said Tina patronisingly, ‘I fly so often I don’t even think about it. A plane is like a bus to me.’
Feeling left out, I added soothingly, ‘All the statistics show you’re more likely to die in a car crash.’
We even demonstrated – with an emergency plane constructed from a circular on illegal use of company cabs for social purposes – how air pressure forces the aircraft to stay at 33,000 feet rather than drop like a three hundred and sixty thousand kilo stone from the sky.
‘Unless the wings snap off,’ interrupted Laetitia, who hates me to be distracted from toil. ‘Then it plunges to the ground like a large sausage.’
Unfortunately, Lizzy is always discovering new hazards. ‘What about clear air turbulence!?’ ‘What about uncommanded slats deployment!?’ ‘What about sparrows in the engine!?’ When we crush these fears, Lizzy always comes back at us with her trump card: ‘But you don’t know. Plane crashes happen. It could be you. There’s no guarantee.’
Until four months ago when my father died, I couldn’t comprehend Lizzy’s fears. Before my father died I was invincible. I’d read about a honeymoon couple whose plane erupted in flames over a turquoise sea, a woman stabbed as she walked home from work, friends blown up as they sat in a pub drinking on a warm summer’s night, a young man shot at a bus stop, and I’d feel pity and turn the page. I knew that kind of thing happened to other people.
Now, I read about other people and they are me. I am tearful, angry, and obsessed. I imagine their last carefree minutes before the end. I wonder if they comprehended the actual moment of death. I ache for their poor, bewildered families, the stricken mother saying, ‘Why him? Why do they always take the best?’ The fiancé, face pale, eyes red, whispering, ‘She was my life. I can’t believe this has happened.’ I want to comfort them but my tenderness is vampirical. I feast sorrowfully on their pain with the self-loathing and monomaniacal compulsion of a bulimic devouring chocolate cake.
