‘You’re a bit hard on Mattie, aren’t you?’ Andy once said to her over some silly thing that Mattie had done – the forgotten birthday of a mutual friend or a double booking for a weekend – and she’d felt defensive at once.
‘She gets away with murder,’ she’d answered. ‘It’s always been the same. Dad used to spoil her rotten.’
But afterwards she thought about it, trying to analyse the difference between her reactions to Mattie and to her friends. It was as if it were necessary to keep Mattie’s feet on the ground; to stop her showing off, being silly, getting into trouble.
‘Keep an eye on Mattie,’ their mother would say if they were going to a party or to stay with friends. ‘Don’t forget you’re the eldest.’ Or, ‘Let Mattie have a turn. Remember she’s younger than you.’
Charlotte resented this mantle of responsibility, this implication that she must always be the sensible one.
Now, as she watches Mattie stand up – laughing at Wooster’s greeting and pushing back the long dark hair that corkscrews round her face – a small part of her records anxiously that her sister is looking thinner whilst another part notes, slightly bitterly, that Mattie is able to wear old clothes and still look more eye-catching than anybody else.
‘I hope you didn’t wear those tatty jeans to the interview.’ Charlotte cannot help the critical remark even as Mattie flings her arms around both her and Oliver and hugs them tightly.
‘Of course I didn’t. Though it wouldn’t have mattered if I had. Everyone was very casual.’
‘So how was it?’
Mattie wrinkles her nose, pulls down her mouth. ‘Don’t know. They were lovely but I’m not confident. I expect they’ll interview lots of people who are better qualified than I am. Hey! Hasn’t Ol grown? Hi, Ol. Give me a hug then.’
She takes Oliver in her arms whilst Charlotte, still in this oddly self-observant mood, notices that she doesn’t make any comforting observations like, ‘Of course you’ll get it,’ or, ‘I bet you were great,’ as she might have done to a friend. And she wishes Mattie wouldn’t call him Ol.
‘I expect,’ she says rather sedately, ‘that if it’s right then you’ll get it. Have you lost weight? Did you get some lunch?’
Mattie is dancing with Oliver, twirling around whilst she holds up one of his chubby fists, laughing as she hums ‘My Favorite Things’.
I’m still doing the elder sister thing, thinks Charlotte irritably. Worrying that she doesn’t eat properly and she looks tired. But she’s quite capable of looking after herself.
She feels a very slight stab of jealousy as she watches Oliver laughing up at her sister. It’s always been so easy for Mattie; she could always make people love her. She makes them laugh, makes them feel good about themselves.
‘I had a sandwich on the way down,’ Mattie answers, ‘but I’d love a cup of tea.’
And then Tim suddenly appears from the path to the woods and Charlotte sees how his face changes when he sees Mattie. Briefly she glimpses the joy, the love, before he controls himself and calls out, ‘Fab-u-lous, darling. Definitely a ten.’
Mattie waltzes round, laughing. ‘Tim,’ she cries. ‘Isn’t this great?’
Charlotte, watching Tim embrace them both, gets a glimpse of Mattie’s half-hidden face as she hugs him.
So they are in love, she thinks. So what’s going on?
‘I’ll put the kettle on and make some tea,’ she calls. ‘And do stop twirling, Mattie. You’ll make Oliver sick. Anyway, it’s time for his sleep. I’ll take him in.’
Mattie passes Oliver to Charlotte but as she goes inside with him she’s already begun to feel perversely irritable with herself now: a party-pooper. It’s often like this when they are together: that old requirement to protect her little sister still causes friction. The six-year gap was just too much for them to be real playmates but not quite enough to engender any kind of maternal instinct in Charlotte. She’d been an only child long enough to feel that her nose was definitely put out of joint by this new baby to whom, everyone assumed, she would be a second little mother.
Charlotte holds Oliver in her arms, rocking him, gazing down into his small peaceful face. She is weak with love for him. Only now does she understand the fierce maternal instinct: that knowledge that she now has a hostage to fortune and nothing will ever be the same again.
Mattie makes a little face as Oliver is taken from her arms and whisked away. She knows that she sometimes irritates Charlotte but can’t always quite see why. There seems to be some unspoken mantra surrounding them that insists that Charlotte is the sensible and serious sister whilst she is irresponsible and emotional: a kind of Elinor and Marianne Dashwood. Just for a moment she wonders whether Tim should be cast in the role of Willoughby and bursts out laughing.
‘What’s the joke?’ he asks, unable to keep from smiling at her amusement, but she shakes her head, unwilling to discuss this with him. Her relationship with Charlotte runs too deep for a casual reference.
‘Just being silly with Ol,’ she answers.
‘It looks like the interview went well,’ he suggests. ‘You seem in good spirits.’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ She shrugs and slips her arm in his. ‘I really want it, Tim, but they didn’t give anything away. And, after all, why should I be selected? I bet they get loads of people after it.’
He presses her arm against his side with his elbow. ‘Because you’re the best, that’s why. Bet you get it.’
Mattie feels emotional; grateful for his partisanship and his approval. She knows it’s a weakness to need love but she responds to it as a flower does to the sun, expanding and relaxing in its warmth. As they stand, linked together, she wonders suddenly whether she’s been foolish in suggesting that Tim should move here to Brockscombe. If there is going to be anything between them it might be much more difficult to conduct a relationship under the eye of her slightly censorious older sister.
Typical, she tells herself, to think of that now when it’s much too late.
She’s always been the same: impulsive, acting on instinct, rushing in where angels fear to tread. It was always getting her into trouble when she was little: inviting a friend to tea, saying that she was having a party, promising to lend a toy or a book, all without asking permission.
‘Just like your father,’ Mummy would say in an exasperated voice, and Daddy would make a little face behind her back, out of sight, so that Mattie would want to burst out laughing. She didn’t because of getting him into trouble, but she loved him for it. Even now she’s careful what she says when she goes home to see them and it’s only when she and her father are alone together that she tells him about the dramas in her life.
He always says the same thing: ‘I’m on your side, sweetheart. Don’t let the buggers grind you down,’ and she gives him a hug and feels better, still needing to know that he loves her, that he’s on her side.
Now, still holding Tim’s arm, she sees how difficult things might be if they should get really serious. Yet at the time it seemed absolutely right to tell him about Brockscombe.
‘Charlotte’s bringing out some tea.’ She smiles at him and lets go of his arm. ‘I know, Tim, let’s all go down to the beach afterwards. We could have a fish-and-chip supper at South Milton. Have you been there yet?’
Tim shakes his head. ‘Don’t think so.’
‘You’ll love it,’ she says confidently.
‘We thought we’d all go to South Milton,’ she says as Charlotte comes out with some mugs on a tray. ‘Ooh. Lovely fruit tea. Thanks. What d’you think? Ol would love it.’
She sees, just briefly on Charlotte’s face, an echo of their mother’s expression of restrained irritation; sees Charlotte’s breast heave with the little sigh of reined-in impatience.
‘It would be much too late for Oliver,’ she answers. ‘You know he has his bath at half past five.’
Just for a minute Mattie wants to make her father’s comic face but she doesn’t. She feels guilty that she hasn
’t thought about it, that she isn’t being a responsible auntie. Though if Ol was hers she’d probably take him anyway, all snuggled down in his carrying seat, to let him look at the sea and hear the crying of the gulls. Does it matter if he has a late bath? Or misses it altogether? Clearly, from Charlotte’s expression, the answer is yes.
‘Of course,’ Mattie says. ‘I was being silly. Never mind. We’ll go another time. Ol’s got all his life to go and see the sea and eat fish and chips.’
She glances at Tim and sees an odd fleeting expression on his face. He looks immeasurably sad. The next moment he’s smiling, lifting his mug as if he’s toasting her.
‘To the job at the BBC,’ he says, and all three touch their mugs together and Mattie smiles back at the others.
Tim watches the by-play with interest. As an only child, with very little experience of family life to call on, the relationships between siblings fascinate him: between themselves it seems to be open season all year round. He is fairly confident, however, that were an outsider to criticize either of these sisters to the other they would immediately close ranks: blood is thicker than water. He’s also seen how the presence of a stranger amongst a family group often puts them on their mettle so that they behave with more restraint, though not always.
He drinks his tea, noticing that Charlotte is making an effort to control her irritation and Mattie is being placatory, complimenting Charlotte on the tea, the prettiness of the china – although he can’t quite understand why such a simple remark about going to the sea should engender such an undercurrent of feeling. He guesses that it is not simply the suggestion that Oliver should be given a treat at an inopportune time that is the reason. This behaviour is the result of the particular dynamic between them that is continually being played out.
It’s where you are in the pecking order, he thinks. Oldest, youngest, in the middle. Or an only child, like me.
Of course he knows it’s not quite that simple. Other things play their part, not least the genetic brew – and fate.
All these inputs subconsciously shape us, he thinks, so that our reactions become almost as automatic as dear old Wooster’s there, who at the mention of a particular word or the opening of a box begins to salivate at the prospect of a biscuit.
Tim leans to pat Wooster, who responds gratefully, flattening his ears and thumping his tail on the ground, and munches the biscuit that Tim slips to him. He licks his chops, looks hopefully to see if there might be another one, and settles down again with his heavy head resting on Tim’s feet.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE TALK HAS finished, the speaker clapped, and the audience is beginning to leave. Jerry has already seen Sandra sitting several rows ahead of him, noticed how she kept glancing anxiously around until she spotted him, and now he is hoping to get out of the library before she catches him. She’s with her friend so maybe she has plans anyway, and won’t be suggesting that he joins them for tea.
He sets off at a fairly quick pace but he hears her voice calling him and reluctantly he slows down and turns round, arranging a half-pleased, half-surprised smile.
‘Sandra. Hi.’
‘Jeremy.’ She stands beaming at him and, as usual, her indefatigable goodwill defeats his intention to be polite but firm and keep walking. ‘Glad you made it. We were hoping you might be ready for a cup of tea. Good talk, wasn’t it?’
‘Very good. The thing is, though,’ he makes the pretence of glancing at his watch, ‘I’m meeting someone at half past.’
‘Oh.’ Her change of expression is almost ludicrous: disappointed, a very slight reproving pulling-in of the chin. ‘Oh, I see. I assumed that perhaps . . .’
She allows her words to falter to a stop but Jerry hardens his heart against her disappointment. He raises his hand to the friend who has now caught Sandra up, smiles at them both and turns away.
‘Just a moment, Jeremy.’ She doesn’t give in. ‘I wanted to invite you to Sunday lunch. Just a few of us have a rota going and it’s my turn this week. I’d love you to meet some of them. There’s a retired lecturer from Exeter University. I’m sure you’d have a lot in common with him, and his wife was a head teacher.’
The smile – hopeful, kind – is back and he is unable to refuse. Anyway, he can’t think of an excuse and it would look rude to just say ‘No, thanks,’ when she means so well.
‘That’s very kind,’ he says. ‘Thank you.’
‘Wonderful.’ She is beaming again. ‘Come early and I’ll show you those books we were talking about.’
‘OK. Great,’ he says. ‘See you on Sunday then.’
He hurries away, down Fore Street, and across The Plains. His flat is in one of the buildings that once were warehouses, and he goes into the entrance hall, takes the stairs at a run, and lets himself in. His first action almost always is to go into the sitting-room and look down at Vire Island and along the river. Today, though, he hardly sees it; he’s thinking about Kat. He takes his phone from his pocket, stares down at it for a moment, and then begins to tap out a message.
I suppose you’re not around for a cup of tea?
He sends it, paces a bit, wondering if he’s crazy; it’s years since he felt so hyped up. Almost at once his phone rings and he flips open the lid.
I could be. Where are you?
In my flat. Where shall we meet?
What’s wrong with your flat?
Jerry gives a snort of amusement: what indeed? He sends the address, tells her there’s a parking space – and then panics. He dashes around tidying up, putting things away, checking that the visitors’ lavatory has a towel. Then he stands in the middle of the sitting-room, staring round him and trying to see it through her eyes. It’s a modern flat and very little of the big furniture that looked so right in the Victorian villa would have been appropriate. He shared the good pieces amongst his children, kept one or two smaller favourite items, but decided to make a whole new start. He’s chosen light-coloured wood, Impressionistic-patterned blinds, plain upholstery. The paintings are watercolours or charcoal sketches. For the first time since he was a student, he’s had the freedom to choose exactly what pleases him most. No cushions or shawls, none of the china ornaments that Veronica loved so much. Sometimes he feels guilty – as if he has rejected their life together – but he needs to stay minimalistic.
Sandra has already been to the flat, bringing some home-cooked treats – her hints had become quite impossible to ignore – and she looked around this big, light room and then smiled at him. It was a roguish, very nearly patronizing smile.
‘I can see that this is a man’s place,’ she said. ‘It’s definitely missing a woman’s touch. Not what I’d call homely.’
He busied himself with making coffee, not commenting, but next time they met for lunch in the town she brought a little parcel for him. It was a cushion: a small silky cream affair with a puppy embroidered on it. He was surprised at how cross this made him but he accepted it as graciously as possible and went along with her arch comments. When he got home he threw the cushion on the bed in the little spare room. He’d simply have to remember to get it out if he invited her again; meanwhile he was annoyed that she was attempting to impose her taste on him. After a bit he calmed down and felt guilty. It was simply a kind gesture, a generous act.
A ring at the bell and Kat is here. She comes in and at once his nervousness vanishes. She brings with her no delicious treat for tea, no cushions, only a bunch of primroses wrapped loosely in a tissue. She hands them to him, follows him into the sitting-room and looks around her.
‘How lovely to be high up,’ she says. ‘Lots of light.’
She makes an odd movement, almost as if she is translating the light and the shapes of his room into dance. When she looks at him he feels a strange mix of feelings: excitement and an odd kind of fellowship.
‘Feel free to dance,’ he tells her lightly.
‘I shall,’ she answers.
‘I’ll put these in water and make some tea.’ He hesitat
es. The primroses are wet with rain, and he bends his head to breathe in the faint scent.
‘I wondered after I picked them if you’d have a small enough vase,’ she said. ‘They were just there, in the hedge, and I couldn’t resist.’
He raises his head. ‘But I thought you weren’t allowed to pick wild flowers these days.’
She stares at him in amazement. ‘Aren’t you? Why on earth not?’
He feels rather pedestrian, shrugs. ‘Just some sort of protection for the countryside. They’re beautiful. What sort of tea?’
Veronica always drank fruit tea; Sandra likes Earl Grey.
‘Builder’s?’ she says. ‘Darjeeling? Whatever you’re having.’
He goes into the long narrow kitchen, puts the primroses on the surface by the sink, and fills the kettle, wondering where he put the teapot, realizing that he has no cake. He opens a cupboard, brings out a packet of biscuits and looks at them anxiously. He’s opened them, forgotten to put them into the tin, and now he wonders if they’ve gone soft.
Kat leans in the doorway watching him, amused. ‘I like your flat.’
She doesn’t offer to help, look for a vase or ask how he manages on his own. She and Sandra, he thinks, might be from different planets.
‘I’ve got some fruit tea bags somewhere. And Earl Grey. I drink pretty ordinary stuff, I’m afraid.’
‘Pretty ordinary suits me,’ she says. ‘I don’t like smelly tea.’
‘Nor me,’ he says, relieved. ‘Actually, I’d rather have coffee, myself.’
‘Me, too. Coffee then? Or why don’t we have a glass of wine?’
She nods at the bottle standing by the coffee machine. He glances instinctively at his watch, nearly five o’clock, and sees her smile as if she is mocking his conventionality.
‘Yes, why don’t we?’ he says recklessly.
He picks up the bottle and holds it towards her so that she can see the label.
‘Merlot? Or there’s some white in the fridge.’
The Songbird Page 8
