Prime Time

by Jane Wenham-Jones

  All I had managed, when asked for some kitchen anecdotes, was a lot of drivel about the best way to make scrambled eggs, which left everyone looking rather glazed. But Cal was still smiling as he came over.

  ‘That was terrific, both of you,’ he said easily. ‘We’ll be in touch, see what we can do.’ He had his eyes on me. ‘I think you’d be good. Maybe we can pair you up separately with other people.’ He pushed back the floppy bit of hair over his eyes. ‘Though this won’t be my baby much longer, thankfully.’ He nodded over toward the skinny girl. ‘Tanya and I are leaving to work on something else.’

  ‘Well, then,’ said Alicia at once. ‘Put us forward as mother and daughter and say you didn’t know anything about the Randolph show.’

  Cal shook his head. ‘I have my reputation to think of,’ he said. ‘Some of us have principles and ethics. We don’t knowingly mislead our viewers. Can you hold on a moment?’

  Alicia pulled a face at his back as he walked away. ‘Wanker!’

  ‘He’s got a point,’ I said, thinking how nice it was that he cared so much about the integrity of the programme. ‘If someone saw us who’d watched Rise Up with Randolph they’d know we were pretending and he could get into terrible trouble.’

  Alicia’s face was pitying. ‘So?’

  ‘I’ve just had a word with Tanya,’ Cal told me when he came back. He looked again at the skinny girl, who glowered. ‘And I think we might be able to use you for the next thing we’ve got on.’

  I shifted self-consciously under his gaze.

  ‘You’re smart and funny and sexy,’ he continued. ‘And we’ve got some projects coming up that might really work with you involved …’

  I stared back at him in disbelief. ‘Really?’ I felt all fluttery inside. Me? Projects?

  ‘Look,’ he was saying, ‘do you have a card or something?’

  ‘I could um …’ I began to scrabble in my handbag, feeling around in the murky depths for something pen-shaped. My fingers closed round a tampon that had come out of its wrapper. ‘I might have some paper. Or the back of an envelope or something … I’ll just … I’ve got rather a lot of things in here.’

  I laughed awkwardly as I saw Alicia over his shoulder, shaking her head wonderingly at my ineptitude. I dug about a bit more. He moved a bit closer and appeared to be having a look too.

  ‘Er no,’ I said brightly, abandoning the search and trying not to feel flustered by his undeniable beauty at such close proximity. ‘I’ve never really needed … I don’t have a card.’

  ‘Well, here’s mine …’ He pressed a small piece of cardboard into my hand, his skin brushing mine for a tiny moment, and pulled a silver pen from the back pocket of his jeans. ‘I can write your number down for now, but –’ He looked up and gave me a long, slow smile. ‘I think it’s time you got one …’

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘I think it’s time you did something about that bath.’

  My mother opened the door wearing blue gingham overalls and brandishing the Dettox. ‘What on earth’s happened to it?’

  ‘It’s only hair colour,’ I said, plonking my handbag onto the hall table and throwing my jacket over the newel post. ‘Is Stanley OK?’

  ‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘Good thing I was here, that’s all I can say. He’s had some proper food and we’ve tidied up his bedroom – there were clothes on that floor that don’t even fit him any more. He says you never give him vegetables – he’s had carrots, swede, and broccoli tonight.’ My mother breathed deeply and looked me up and down.

  I smiled. Was she about to finally enquire how I’d got on? If I’d had a nice time? Whether I had passed the audition I’d told her about? It seemed not.

  ‘All very well for you gadding off, getting yourself on television,’ she finished. ‘What about him?’

  ‘It’s only been one day after school, Mum, and it sounds as if Stanley’s had a really lovely time with you –’

  ‘Hmm.’

  She turned and walked down the hall to the kitchen. I followed her.

  ‘He’s all right, isn’t he?’

  She picked up the kettle. ‘Bit quiet, I thought. Not his usual bubbly self at all.’

  ‘Mum, he’s never been bubbly.’

  ‘Well he’s not himself,’ she said darkly. ‘Is something going on at that school?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said uneasily. ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know. Sounds like it’s full of riff-raff to me. Shame you couldn’t have got him into somewhere decent like the sort of place Conway Hall used to be. It’s gone downhill, of course, since your brother left …’

  ‘Highcourt is decent. It’s one of the best schools in Kent.’

  My mother sniffed. ‘If you say so. But they don’t do so well if there’s girls there – puts them off. I remember the headmaster saying to me about Anthony. That boy could go to Oxford …’

  I reached into the fridge for a bottle of wine, pouring myself a large glass and forbearing to point out that my brother spent most of his education behind the bike sheds at the girls’ school up the road, where, far from ever wishing to go to a redbrick university, he’d been rather more interested in getting into the nearest bar.

  ‘They’re only mixed in the sixth form,’ I said. ‘And Stanley’s doing very well. I’ll just go and say goodnight.’

  My mother peered into the teapot. ‘He’ll be asleep now. I sent him up early – it being a school night,’ she added, as if I would have been too feckless to consider such things.

  ‘I’ll pop up and check.’

  As I suspected, Stanley was sitting up, gripping a games console, a deep frown of concentration on his face. He looked up and gave me a brief smile. I perched on the edge on his bed and waited. After a few minutes of intense grunting and swatting of buttons, he let out a sigh of satisfaction and put the PSP down. ‘Are you going to be on TV?’ he asked.

  ‘Maybe, yes. Not on the cookery programme, I don’t think, but maybe something else. Or perhaps on the cookery programme, but not with Alicia the way we thought. Someone’s going to phone me.’

  I felt a little flare of excitement at the thought of Cal writing down my number.

  ‘Well done,’ said Stanley doubtfully.

  ‘Have you had a nice time with Grandma?’

  ‘Yeah, it was fine.’

  ‘Good day at school?’

  ‘It was OK.’

  ‘Much homework?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Well, you’d better go to sleep, darling. School tomorrow. Grandma,’ I said, lowering my voice, ‘was expecting you to be asleep already.’

  ‘OK.’

  I kissed the top of his spiky head.

  ‘Love you,’ I said, switching out the lamp and moving toward the door.

  ‘You too. Mum –’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why did you call me Stanley?’

  I turned back and frowned. ‘You know why.’

  ‘It’s a stupid name.’

  It felt like a little stab in my stomach. ‘It’s a great name – why are you saying that?’

  ‘Why couldn’t you call me something normal like Jack or Connor?’

  ‘You know why,’ I repeated. ‘It’s after your grandad. Stanley Edward Meredith – hasn’t it got a lovely ring to it? I can just see that on a brass plaque when you’re a mega-famous lawyer or top surgeon keeping your old mother in the style she longs to become accustomed to.’

  I laughed. Stanley didn’t.

  ‘It’s stupid,’ he said again. ‘And I hate it.’

  ‘Well,’ I said calmly, although my intestines were now fluttering anxiously, ‘don’t say that to Grandma.’

  ‘She agreed with me,’ said Stanley. ‘She said, “I don’t know why your mother called you that.” She said she wanted you to make it my second name – so I was Edward Stanley. That would have been much better. I could have been Eddie then – Eddie’s quite cool. But she said you wouldn’t listen.’

  I felt a fl
ush of rage go through me. How dare she?

  ‘Well you can change it when you’re older,’ I said, trying to keep my voice reasonable. ‘Tell everyone you want to be called Eddie instead.’

  Stanley shook his head. ‘I want to change it now.’

  ‘It would be a bit difficult now with school and everything.’ I sat back down on the bed and reached out a hand to pat his dark form. ‘Has somebody been teasing you?’

  ‘No.’ His voice was muffled.

  I switched the lamp back on.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘What have they been saying?’

  Stanley rolled over to face the wall. ‘Just, you know, “Ooh, Stan-ley”. He put on a sing-song voice, stretching out the two syllables, but kept his head turned away from me.

  ‘Well,’ I said, trying to keep my voice light. ‘Boys are like that sometimes. They’re just being silly. I expect some of the others get teased too, don’t they?’

  ‘Not about their names.’

  ‘But other things, eh?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  I stroked his shoulder. ‘When I was at school, people were always calling each other names. Charlotte used to be called Concorde because she had a big nose.’

  Stanley turned on to his back and looked at me. ‘I’ve never noticed.’

  ‘Exactly. It doesn’t seem big at all now – I think she sort of grew into it.’ I gave his arm a squeeze. ‘And I had funny thick hair that used to stick up in all the wrong places,’ I said.

  ‘Which you’ve now given to me,’ said Stanley gloomily. ‘Thanks, Mum.’

  ‘Your hair’s lovely,’ I said. ‘It’s one of my favourite things about you. And if they’re making silly comments about your name it’s because they can’t think of anything else to say.’

  ‘They call Danny Four-eyes.’

  ‘There you go, then.’

  ‘And Billy’s Ginger-carrot ’cos he’s got ginger hair.’

  I nodded. ‘They used to call people that sort of thing when I was at school too’

  ‘Michael’s Tank,’ Stanley continued, warming to his theme. ‘Alex is Rug Head ’cos his hair is like all over everywhere and Tyrone’s Drainpipe ’cos he’s so skinny …’ He gave a sudden giggle. ‘And Kieron’s called Burger Lips …’

  I smiled at him. ‘You see? They look for something to call everyone. In a way,’ I said, ‘it’s a sort of affection.’

  ‘I don’t think it is, Mum.’

  ‘It’s similar,’ I said firmly. ‘Just try to remember that, and also that it’s not only you. Try to ignore it. People only tease to get a reaction and if you don’t react they’ll lose interest. The trick is to smile as if you don’t care.’

  Which is what I would have to do. I settled him back under the duvet and kissed him for a second time. Then I took a deep breath as I went back into the kitchen.

  ‘Do you want a glass of wine, Mum?’

  My mother was sitting reading the paper, a cup of tea in front of her. She didn’t look up. ‘No. Oh all right, go on then.’

  ‘You were up there a long time,’ she said, as I put the glass in front of her. ‘I hope you didn’t wake him up.’

  ‘He wasn’t asleep.’ I took a mouthful of wine. ‘We were talking about his name. He seems to be suddenly quite upset.’ I looked at her, wondering if she’d admit to her part in it.

  My mother nodded, matter-of-factly. ‘Well, why did you call him Stanley? Edward’s much nicer and it’s not as if he even knew his grandfather!’

  This sent such an unexpected pain through my solar plexus that for a horrible moment I could feel my chin wobbling. Why was I feeling everything so very intensely? What time of the month was it?

  ‘I know,’ I said tightly. ‘That’s why I wanted to give Stanley his name – you know that, Mum – you were there. God,’ I went on, suddenly realising. ‘I can’t believe that was more than 11 years ago.’

  ‘Twelve soon,’ said my mother briskly. ‘It was 12thDecember.’

  ‘I know when it was.’ I could still see it clearly. My father propped up on pillows, his limbs like sticks, striped pyjamas hanging off his bone-thin frame. Face yellow-grey and exhausted. Nothing like the tall, strong, capable man he’d always been but still the same eyes fixed on mine. Trying to jolly me along.

  ‘Tell him to get a move on,’ he’d said.

  And I’d sat there huge and bloated, my baby wriggling round inside me, showing no sign of wanting to leave his comfortable home. ‘I’m doing my best,’ I’d joked, though I was desperately close to tears. ‘Curry, hot baths, I’ve tried the lot …’

  I didn’t tell Dad that I’d even asked the consultant to induce me but he wouldn’t. Said nature would take its course when nature was ready.

  It did. Dad died 12 hours before Stanley was born. He tried to wait but he couldn’t hang on any longer.

  ‘I really wanted to put my baby in his arms,’ I said, my voice full of emotion, my throat tight even after all these years. ‘I just wanted him to see.’

  My mother made a fuss of taking her teacup to the sink and rinsing it noisily. ‘That was him all over,’ she said, ‘wasn’t it? Always did have a rotten sense of timing.’ She gave one of her sudden barks of brittle laughter, as if that might soften her words.

  I swallowed hard, trying to get a grip. ‘I don’t want you saying anything negative about Dad to Stanley,’ I said. ‘I want Stanley to be proud of his name and who he was named after. He was a good father and he would have made a wonderful grandfather.’

  My mother sat back down opposite me and pressed her lips together. ‘Hmm,’ she said, as if she didn’t believe it.

  I gritted my teeth. ‘He would have loved Stanley and Stanley would have loved him.’

  ‘He was always difficult with your brother,’ she said stubbornly. ‘Anthony was always such a good boy and your father could never say anything nice. Jealousy, that’s what it was, because your brother went to university and is far cleverer than your father ever was – and he just couldn’t stand it.’

  Here we go again . There was never any mileage in pointing out that my father was only trying to provide a bit of balance. Trying to temper the canonisation of my sainted brother by occasionally asking him to remove his head from his back passage. It was futile to say that his was simply a vain attempt to prevent my mother making the poor boy even more insufferable than he already was. But still I couldn’t help the familiar rush of anger and frustration that ran through me whenever we had this conversation.

  ‘He was very proud of Anthony,’ I said, as calmly as I could manage, considering that from the way I would have liked to tip the contents of the washing up bowl over her head, we must definitely have hit Day 21 again. ‘He just had a different way of showing it from you.’

  In other words, I added silently, he saw no reason to wait on his son hand and foot when that son was well into his 20s, nor bore all the neighbours with regular bulletins on his achievements.

  ‘Humph,’ said my mother loudly.

  I was only just starting my second glass but the wine had hit my bloodstream with a vengeance and I knew I was in that slightly pissed, slightly reckless state where I opened my mouth first and considered the wisdom of what I was about to say at some point in the early hours when I woke up sweating about it.

  I might regret it later, but it suddenly seemed a fine opportunity to bridge some gaps and to say something that had been bugging me for years, to perhaps reach some sort of new understanding with the difficult woman in front of me. I took another deep breath and topped up her wine glass too.

  ‘Mum,’ I began in my friendliest tones, noting the way her head immediately jerked up in suspicion. ‘I know you and Dad had your problems and in families we all experience each other differently because of the varying dynamics and obviously Anthony did not have quite the same childhood experiences as me –’ I stopped and breathed again.

  ‘And Dad may have been a slightly different father to him t
han he was to me – but then again, you had varying styles of mothering and you were not quite the same sort of mother to me as you were to Anthony –’ I saw her eyebrows shoot up and swept resolutely on. ‘But I can only talk about how Dad was to me and to me –’

  I paused for a moment, feeling my treacherous chin beginning to quiver once more and thinking that I really must start taking Oil of Evening Primrose again and trying to remember whether it was Agnus Castus or the hormone balancing mix they sold in the health shop that really had seemed to stop me bursting into tears and smashing things for a while.

  ‘To me, he was the best father I could imagine. And even after all this time I miss him and wish I could talk to him because he always made things seem better.’

  I took a gulp of wine. She didn’t speak.

  ‘And you are, of course,’ I added inconsequentially, ‘a fantastic grandmother to Stanley.’

  ‘Yes, well,’ she said, picking up her wine glass too, clearly mollified by this but still looking as if she’d got something unpleasant in her mouth. ‘I know what boys need.’

  But not much about daughters , I added in my head, saying out loud only, ‘And I loved Dad very much.’

  My mother’s lips immediately went into what my brother describes as “a cat’s arse” but I ploughed on anyway. ‘And so it hurts me when you run him down, and you’ve done it for years. Can’t you stop now? Especially if it’s going to affect Stanley.’ I looked at her hard, but she was gazing at the wall tiles above the hob.

  ‘Because if Stanley is being teased about what he’s called then he needs our support, not you suggesting it’s a daft name too. Couldn’t you just say something nice about his grandfather for once?’ I said, pushing down my rising emotions with another enormous swallow. ‘If you can’t do it for me, then do it for Stanley.’

  As I said it, I was suddenly acutely aware of my own shortcomings in this department. I had started off making a token effort to present Daniel as a father to be proud of (even if he had rotten taste in women and a tenuous relationship with the truth) and had made a point of regularly reminding Stanley that Daniel still loved him to pieces, but I’d soon slipped into the habit of speaking about him as if – as if I were my mother!