Fly in the Ointment

by Anne Fine

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake! You’re giving me a headache. Shut your damn hatch!’

  The efforts that I had to make never to slap her! Never to tell her what a shrew she was to think her poor child’s only role in life was to take on the chin whatever it was she felt like dishing out.

  Or keeping from him. One glorious summer morning, I tried to tempt her. ‘I’ve a good idea. Let’s take my car and go off to the sea.’

  ‘I don’t like water.’

  It wasn’t said as a confession, more as a statement of pride. I’d very easily become accustomed to Janie Gay’s blinkered assumption that anything she didn’t care to do wasn’t worth doing. (It mirrored perfectly the attitudes of both my bull-necked father and my censorious husband.) But I did think that in this case I might just manage to persuade her into a smidgeon of self-sacrifice. After all, every child has to see the sea some time, and Larry was now getting on for three. I would be doing a favour, not just to him but to myself, if I could teach her how to be a better mother.

  So I persisted. ‘Larry could paddle. You could hold his hand.’

  ‘You’re joking! Make a rod for my own back? He’ll come home moaning all the time.’ There was no fondness in her imitation of her son. ‘“Can we go back to the seaside? Can we? Can we? When? ” Then he’ll find out about the pool behind Marriot’s, and it’ll be nag, nag, nag about that.’

  ‘What’s wrong with taking him there?’

  ‘Why should I want to go there? I can’t swim.’

  ‘But you could learn. They do have classes for adults.’

  ‘Why should I bother?’

  And that is suddenly how I felt. Why should I even bother to say the words, ‘For Larry’s sake, that’s why.’ She’d never grasp the point that he was not just some lump of bad luck that had come her way, even a punishment. He was her son. Frankly, I couldn’t see how anyone could get through life hampered by such cast-iron self-absorption. But thinking only of oneself is probably the strongest of addictions. She’d have top billing, even if her child was weeping or screaming his head off. Whenever I saw them together she seemed to be snapping at him. ‘Stop making a pudding in your teacup!’ ‘Oh, shut it, Larry!’ ‘Look at me that way one more time and I’ll peel you like a banana!’ Why should a child his age be expected to handle the fallout from all her vile moods when I could see the neighbours dive for cover each time that she emerged, irritably blinking, to start her endless shrieking? At first I simply thought that Janie Gay, like any other ranting fool, made the mistake of assuming that since she made a deal more noise than anyone around her, her needs were greater than theirs. But gradually I realized the problem ran far deeper. She was what on the estate they called a headbanger. Some days she simply slopped through – careless and inattentive to her child, but lacking venom. On other days, rage simmered behind every look and under every remark, and she became a walking force field of misery and aggression. At any moment at these times, one felt, the last few flapping shreds that tethered her to reality might fray too far and she would lose her grip, and do something terrible.

  And that, I realized, was what was causing all those rushes of compassion I kept on feeling. For, when you thought about it, Janie Gay was little more than a living, breathing example of what a child like Larry might become, left to grow up with no protector. If I am honest, I was little short of grateful that the contortion of her personality made it so easy for me to abandon my pretty little house and spend my days on an estate so cheerless it could make you weep. What sort of rancid childhood could have caused some little girl in pigtails to grow up to become someone whose only satisfactions stemmed from being more irritated, and thinking herself more put upon, than anyone around her? And, more disquietingly, what had kept my own son there through all the screaming matches and the fits of rage? Had Malachy sensed, as I did, that inside this spoiled woman there was a childhood so awful, so destructive, so unmendable that all this nastiness was not her fault?

  And so I probed, steadily tossing out my casual questions. ‘Janie Gay, did you grow up round here?’ ‘Which school were you at?’ ‘Do you have brothers or sisters?’ Usually she ignored me, brushing away the questions as if her childhood had been something so dull and unremarkable it wasn’t worth her while to take the breath to answer. One day, however, I asked her, ‘Do you get any help at all from any of your family?’

  The floodgates opened. ‘Shite, no! I wouldn’t want it, either. Not from that nest of rats.’

  And out it all poured, about the mother who had run off for the very last time before Janie Gay was even seven; Dad’s eighteen-year-old girlfriend, all secret slaps and spite; the final showdown leading to a year in a children’s home, followed by foster families who couldn’t deal with the endless bunking off from school, the stealing and tantrums, and Janie Gay’s refusals to come home at night. Soon she was in the family way, of course. ‘And he was a right royal bully. He couldn’t stick the baby making any fuss.’

  It didn’t sound at all like Malachy. ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh, yes. A proper bastard. Downright nasty! And all too easy with his fists. Really I had no choice, so I just waited till he was flat out one night, and did a flit.’

  I was appalled. Who would have thought my son could have sunk so low? ‘He was so bad you just took off? With Larry?’

  ‘Not Larry, no.’ She scowled. ‘And anyway, I didn’t take the baby.’ The look on her face flattened to one of pure sanctimony. ‘I should have, though. I knew Ramon would totally arse up looking after her.’

  Thank God! An earlier lover.

  And another child. But, my Christ, what sort of mother was she, that she could have a baby when barely out of school and then abandon it the very same way that she herself had been left? And where was that little girl now? Dead after one small fuss too many in front of the loose-fisted Ramon? Or mercifully safe in care? I kept my mouth shut, not really wanting to know. At times like these, the whole demanding business of living among these totally undisciplined people – halfway to feral sometimes – could prove too taxing.

  It was with such relief I saw the post van drawing up outside.

  ‘Parcel for Cartright.’

  ‘Me!’ I called loudly. And I fled.

  21

  RAMON. MALACHY. GUY. easy to see how Janie Gay could catch a man’s attention. When it was not disfigured with scowls, she had a pretty face. And though the garish and ill-fitting outfits she carried home from shopping trips in town were of the sort to make me shudder, when she was all dolled up she could turn any man’s eyes.

  Forget Ramon. He sounded like a born brute who would thrive in any atmosphere rife with bad moods and spite. But once her character had revealed itself, why did the other two stay?

  Had they felt pity? For Janie Gay was definitely what my Scottish neighbour back on Rosslyn Road always referred to as ‘a right Mrs Nae Friends’. Most of the mothers I’ve known had stronger ties with other females when they had babies and small children than they’d had back in school. But no young woman ever came up next door’s path, either alone or trailing toddlers. So either Janie Gay had skipped all her clinics and parenting classes and given birth in a hedge, or, like the blithe miller in the nursery rhyme I sang for Larry so often (‘Again, Aunty Lo! Again!’), she cared for nobody, no, not she, and nobody cared for her.

  From time to time young men would come to her door and chat for a while. Old boyfriends? Unlikely. Drug-dealers? More on the mark. She never let them in. As far as I could tell, apart from the driver of the fast blue car who took her off for the occasional spin, she hadn’t had a boyfriend since Guy left. (Guy! The very echo of his name would set me praying for the lad’s return, and I would have to make an effort to remind myself that he too was someone’s son, and down in Dover there was a woman my age who wouldn’t be too grateful for me to wish her easygoing, floppy-haired lad back with this peevish harpy.) I couldn’t help but think about him, though. And it was obvious why Guy had made such a fine stab o
f lasting out through the vicissitudes of life with Janie Gay. He was a natural when it came to kindness, and his affection for Larry had been real and strong. I had seen that the day I made my little visit as Mrs Kuperschmidt.

  But what about Malachy? Why had he stayed? Had even a boy as immature as he was somehow already known that all you need to break a chain of family misery is someone in the house prepared to take an interest in a child and treat him gently? The longer I thought about it, the more I wanted to be sure my son had stuck it out with Janie Gay from a sense of loyalty to little Larry – or even from selfishness, simply to keep a roof over his head or save on rent – anything rather than having to face the fact that something in the way that Stuart and I had brought him up had triggered in our son a sense of kinship with someone as clearly starved of love in childhood as Janie Gay.

  Yes, starved. And so I made a hundred thousand efforts to offer her the small attentions I thought might buff off some of the corrosion left by a childhood like hers. I took all sorts of tacks. And still the only exchanges I ever managed to have with her took place on her doorstep or mine. If I invited her inside, she didn’t even answer or make excuses. She simply acted as if my ‘Why don’t you come in? I could make tea’ had not been said aloud. I’d try to start a conversation, but it would beach up almost before it began. It was as if she’d never learned how people talk. As she pushed Larry towards me, I’d ask her amiably, ‘Doing something nice?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  And that was that. She’d slouch away as if she hadn’t even realized that it was natural to take the time to chat for a moment or two to someone in whose care you planned to shove your child for several hours. Talk only took off if she had the inclination to use it as a springboard to air self-pity. So, burning with the question that only she could answer, I waited till she’d brought Larry to my house one day, then, nodding after him as he scooted past and vanished into the kitchen, I asked her outright, ‘I’ve often wondered, Janie Gay. What about Larry’s father?’

  She gave the most contemptuous snort. ‘Oh, him? He’s dead.’

  Oh, him? I could have slugged her. That was my son she was dismissing like some freshly swatted wasp. But, wait. She wasn’t finished. ‘He was a real dumb loser.’

  ‘Loser?’ Though she was moving off towards my gate, I still persisted. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know.’ She shrugged. ‘The sort to buy a telly that never works, or vodka that turns out to be water.’ In spite of herself, she warmed to the task of trashing my son’s memory enough to risk an indiscretion. ‘Mal was so stupid he nearly got me killed once.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. He owed this guy an awful lot of money. The guy got mad and thought he’d get his own back.’

  She gave me a sideways look as if in sudden doubt as to whether it was wise to go on with her story. Perhaps the sight of my frilled blouse and sensible skirt gave her confidence that I wouldn’t have the slightest clue what she was on about, because she finished up, ‘Next time they did a deal, this guy fobbed Mal off with some really cheap stuff.’ She gave the usual martyred sniff. ‘Of course, it was me that took the bad hit.’

  I felt like saying, ‘Our old friend Wilbur, was it?’ but kept a grip. In any case, she’d reached the gate and started cursing at the loop of string I’d recently fixed on it to stop young Larry charging into the road. ‘Well, see you when I see you.’

  I gave a nod, as if her careless words had been the grateful thanks for looking after her son that had been due. But inside I was thinking just how much trouble would have been saved for me and everybody else if that bad hit had come about a little earlier, and been a whole lot worse.

  A few days later, emptying a new batch of files out of my car, I found myself glancing towards Janie Gay’s house as usual.

  That glint.

  Was it her doorkey sticking out from the lock? Well, if it was, here was an opportunity I wasn’t going to miss. Hoping that no one on the street could tell from a glance that I was walking as lightly as possible, I went up her path. I had no fears at all about being seen to pull the key from the lock. After all, saving your next-door neighbour from any sharp-eyed ne’er-do-well is only sense.

  But one must at least knock. So, raising my hand, I shook it vigorously in front of the door. That would look right.

  When, after a while, I still heard nothing from inside except for Larry’s howls and the persistent snarls of irritation that passed in Janie Gay’s book for ‘standing firm’, I slid away, back to my car.

  Her total lack of interest in those around her had always left her blind to other people’s altered routines. None of her swathes of grimy netting twitched as I pulled out from the kerb again so shortly after arriving. So off I drove, into the early evening and down to Marriot’s, where, in a booth tucked away beside the entrance, two men whose backs seemed permanently turned against the customers spent their days heeling shoes and cutting keys. The girl behind the counter picked out a key base in the only colour left, a lurid purple I would not have chosen for myself but liked at once, and passed it back to one of them along with Janie Gay’s key and the graceless warning, ‘Better get on with it. This one’s not shopping. She’s going to hang around.’

  In minutes I was driving home again and back at Janie Gay’s door. This time I really knocked while, under cover of the noise, I slid the key back in.

  The door swung open. ‘What the hell? Oh. You.’

  I pointed. ‘Just walking by and thought I ought to warn you . . .’

  ‘Oh, right.’ She tugged the key out. ‘That’s Larry’s fault. The little arse-wipe wouldn’t come inside. I had to drag him in. Then I forgot about it.’

  ‘Easily done.’

  Yes. Easily done. And though I wasn’t sure how I’d so quickly summoned the wits to take my chance when it was offered me, it was with satisfaction and relief I dropped the purple copy of her key into the little flowered china pot that sat so innocently on my shelf.

  22

  NEXT TIME I took the chance to drop in at the office there was no sign of Trevor or his father. I had become so used to one or another of them hearing the tell-tale buzz of the security lock and leaping out to greet me that I stood rather helplessly in the hall. The place seemed colder than usual. Where were the usual cries of welcome? ‘Lois! You’ve never finished Alderson & Howatt? What a gem you are!’ Or ‘Dad was just saying how much he hoped you’d pop in before Friday.’

  Silence.

  Then from inside I heard a fruity sniff. I pushed the door. Dana was at her desk, hunched over a cairn of tissues. ‘Lois! You’d better keep away from me. I’m a sink pit of germs. I really shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Where’s Audrey?’

  ‘Still off. This is her cold, you know. She had the damn thing first.’

  ‘What about the Hanleys?’

  ‘The old man’s just gone home. Same thing, I reckon. Trevor keeps popping in and out.’ She blew her nose again before she added, ‘I think he was hoping to catch you. Wants a little chat.’

  I felt the chill of premonition. Clearly this spread of illness round the office had set the Hanleys thinking that mine was an arrangement that couldn’t last. I’d obviously have to tackle the business of getting Larry into a nursery if I were going to get back to my workplace without abandoning the child for too long to his mother’s care. I stacked more files, wondering if there was any point in phoning Mrs Kuperschmidt to see if there were any strings that she could pull. But when I tried to think how any conversation of that sort might roll along, I could imagine her suspicious tone. ‘So, Lois. You’re still taking a very deep interest in this child . . .’

  Didn’t want that. Exchanging a few last pleasantries about the virtues of aspirins and hot toddies, I made for the door. ‘Tell Trevor I’ll do what I can to come in tomorrow.’

  I said it with so little conviction that Dana didn’t bother to respond. I drove off in a flurry of anxiety. Was my job on the line? I had a vis
ion of having to choose between my precious house at Pickstone and abandoning Larry. Perhaps I did take far less care than usual to keep to the speed limit. Maybe I did take chances shooting through amber lights along the Forth Hill Road. All I know is, the drive back to the estate took far less time than usual.

  Pulling the box from the car, I hurried up the path and stacked the new files on the usual shelf, way above Larry’s reach. I pushed my heaps of current paperwork aside to make some room to go through my own affairs just one last time to see if there was any way that I could run to paying for a place for Larry in a private nursery. No doubt it would turn out to be a stretch too far. It was, after all, only a matter of a few months since the two Hanleys had increased all our salaries, and already the costs of running both houses had swallowed up the difference and stretched me to the limit once again. And I would have to fool Larry’s mother into thinking the nursery was free. But telling lies to someone who won’t benefit from learning the truth is always easy. And being good with figures was my job. I could at least make an attempt to force the columns to balance.

  Almost before I started there was a rapping on the door. Sighing, I rose.

  Janie Gay.

  She had a dangerous look about her and so, instead of stepping back to let her in, I held my ground in the doorway. ‘Everything all right?’

  Oh, she was certainly in fighting trim. For safety’s sake, I pulled the door closed behind me as she lurched forward to thrust a shimmering silver-grey jacket towards me. ‘See that?’

  I caught the stench of vomit.

  ‘So?’ she snarled. ‘What do you call that?’

  I couldn’t think how best to answer. In any case, it would have made no difference. She had kicked off on one of her tirades. ‘That’s sick, that is! This jacket is brand new and now it’s ruined. And it’s all your fault! What’ve you been feeding him?’