‘Um?’ Victoria replies distractedly, now closing the dishwasher and crouching down in front of the cupboard below the sink. ‘Do you really not have any bleach? Not even the bit I left behind last time?’
‘Um, that was last October,’ Penny says.
‘I know. I just thought that, seeing as you don’t use the stuff . . .’
Penny fills the kettle and switches it on. ‘Tea?’ she asks.
‘Sure,’ Victoria says, studying the various labels on Penny’s ecological cleaning products.
‘You know, I love that you’re cleaning my kitchen,’ Penny says, leaning back against the countertop and watching her sister, ‘but what’s it all about? I mean, it’s not like Mum’s here to impress any more, is it?’
‘Um?’ Victoria says as she straightens with a spray bottle of Green Clean. ‘What’s it got to do with Mum?’
Penny shrugs. ‘Oh, you loved it when she used to tell you how clean your place was compared with mine.’
‘She never told me that.’
‘Well, she told me often enough.’
Victoria holds the bottle up. ‘Is this any good?’ she asks.
Penny crosses the room and takes the spray from her grasp. ‘It has slightly more cleaning power than tap water,’ she says.
‘Oh.’
‘On the other hand, it won’t destroy the planet, kill all the fish in the sea or give you cancer.’
‘Right,’ Victoria says doubtfully.
‘But seriously, Vicky, what is it all about? Why don’t you just stop cleaning for twenty-four hours and have a break?’
‘Well, I can’t stop, can I?’ Victoria says. ‘I would have thought that was obvious.’
‘You can’t?’
‘No. It’s an OCD thing. Surely you’ve realised that by now?’
Penny looks puzzled. She pushes her bottom lip out. ‘Actually, I hadn’t. I just thought you were trying to show me up.’
Victoria shakes her head. ‘Sorry, Sister,’ she says, ‘but strange as it may seem, not everything is about you.’
‘Which you have to admit,’ Penny says, ‘is a bit rich coming from you.’
‘Are we really doing this, then?’ Victoria says.
‘Doing what?’
‘The whole argument thing,’ Victoria says. ‘Again? Really?’
Penny reaches out and touches Victoria’s elbow. ‘No,’ she says. ‘No, we’re not. I’m sorry. I’m just grouchy because I haven’t had my tea yet.’
When the two mugs of tea are ready, the sisters make their way to the lounge. Outside, the day is silent and still. Around them, the house sleeps.
‘So is the cleaning really an OCD thing?’ Penny asks after a few sips of tea. ‘Have you had a diagnosis?’
Victoria nods. ‘I have an appointment in March to see someone about it.’
‘In March? Why March?’
‘Because it’s the NHS,’ Victoria says. ‘And because there are a million immigrants in the queue before me, I imagine.’
‘It’s more likely to be because this wonderful government isn’t spending all the taxes those immigrants are paying on the NHS,’ Penny suggests, ‘but anyway . . . Why don’t you go private? You’ve never cared about paying to jump the queue before.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean? Oh, because I see a private GP in Harley Street?’
Penny shrugs. ‘Well, you do, don’t you?’
‘Only to get Valium,’ Victoria says. ‘If you must know, I’m addicted. I’m trying to wean myself off it but, for the moment, yes, I’m addicted. And the Harley Street guy is far more dealer than doctor.’
Penny tuts compassionately at her sister. ‘Addicted? Are you really?’
‘Yep.’
‘That’s a tough one. Look, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m being like this.’
‘It’s an old habit,’ Victoria says. ‘Mum set it up when we were kids. I’ve thought about it a lot since she died. She created a whole system of resentment. A perfect “let’s be mean to Victoria” syndrome.’
‘I don’t think that’s true at all,’ Penny says.
‘No, well, you wouldn’t.’
‘So how’s it going? With the Valium, I mean?’ Penny asks, after a pause for thought.
Victoria taps her wedding ring against her mug of tea. She shrugs.
‘How much are you taking?’
‘I’m down to thirty milligrams now. But I was on forty. I’m doing my best. And the HRT makes it a bit easier.’
‘That’s all related, I suppose,’ Penny says.
‘It seems so. I started getting these anxiety attacks at 4 a.m. And my GP gave me Valium, which got me back to sleep, for a while. When he wouldn’t give me any more, I found another doctor who would.’
‘I get that sometimes,’ Penny says. ‘The 4 a.m. thing. But I take Valerian root instead. It’s natural.’
Victoria laughs. ‘My neuroses are well beyond the reach of a bit of Valerian root, I’m afraid,’ she says.
‘And the cleaning things? What’s that about, then?’
‘It’s linked to the Valium, really,’ Victoria explains. ‘When I stop – between doses, I mean – it’s all I can think about, really: How long till I can take the next dose? When I’m busy, cleaning and stuff like that, it helps, sometimes. The time goes faster.’
‘I see,’ Penny says, sounding more professional than she would like.
‘My life’s a bit empty,’ Victoria says softly, her eyes glistening a little. ‘That’s the thing.’
‘Oh, don’t say that,’ Penny says. ‘You have Martin. You have Bertie.’
‘You know, I really ought to call Martin and put him out of his misery. It’s just that Will thinks I should wait until Bertie has told me himself.’
‘I think Will’s right. Bertie made him promise not to tell anyone, and it really should be up to Bertie when he tells his father.’
‘I suppose it can wait another twenty-four hours. But I just hope Will convinces him to tell us both so we can put an end to all of this.’
‘He will, don’t worry. But you see, your life isn’t empty. You have Bertie and Martin to worry about.’
‘Bertie’s getting older. He doesn’t need much from me nowadays. And Martin . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I don’t know. I think he might . . . I mean, you couldn’t really blame him, because I haven’t been very . . . you know . . . sexual. But I think he might be fulfilling his needs elsewhere, to be honest.’
Penny looks shocked. ‘God, Vicky!’ she says.
‘Actually, I don’t know at all. But he’s been coming home later and later, so . . .’
‘I don’t believe that,’ Penny says. ‘Martin’s lovely. And he loves you. He wouldn’t. He just wouldn’t.’
Victoria shrugs. ‘Well, you would say that.’
‘Why do you keep saying that?’
‘Because . . . I don’t know,’ Victoria says. ‘I mean, it’s all right for you, with your job and your house by the sea . . .’ She glances around the room now, as if to demonstrate the sheer luxury in which Penny is living. Penny follows her gaze and sees only the chipped paint on the fireplace and the threadbare couch that Solomon has spent the last nine years sharpening his claws on. ‘It’s OK for you,’ Victoria continues, ‘with your touchy-feely arty husband and your career and your mini-me daughter.’
‘Huh!’ Penny says.
‘Huh?’
‘Well, you finally said it,’ Penny says.
‘Said what?’
‘That you’re jealous. I mean, I always knew you were jealous, but you never said it directly before.’
‘Of course I’m jealous. Just take any aspect of your life and compare it with mine, Penny.’
‘Any aspect?’
‘Yes.’
‘What, like the fact that I work sixty hours a week but don’t get paid overtime? Like the fact that we’ve been so broke I’ve been taking the washing to the bloody launderette for months because the mach
ine’s broken and we can’t afford a new one? Like the fact that – just like you, in fact – Sander is addicted to dope, which costs even more than Valium? Like the fact that my husband hasn’t earned a penny since the beginning of the century?’
‘Yes, but—’ Victoria says.
‘I have to do everything here,’ Penny interrupts. ‘I have to do everything and pay for everything. You have no idea.’
‘But you do love Sander?’
‘Yes, I love him,’ Penny says. ‘But I’m so tired. I’m so damned tired, Vicky.’ Penny sighs deeply then continues, ‘I’d give anything, you know, for a week of your life. A week of zoning out on Valium in front of the telly and wiping the odd worktop with bleach.’
‘That’s so unfair,’ Victoria says. ‘I do not spend my weeks zoning out in front of the television.’ She prays that Penny won’t challenge her on what she actually does, all the same. Because she’s really not sure what she would say.
Thankfully, Penny’s thoughts take a different track. ‘You’re right,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry. But you know, every time Mum got home from yours, she’d phone me to tell me what a lovely time she’d had. She’d tell me how clean and organised it was. How relaxed you were.’
‘Relaxed?’ Victoria says. ‘I used to take a double dose of Valium when Mum came. Sometimes I popped a few Tramadol, too.’
‘Tramadol?’
‘Yeah. GP number one prescribed them for menstrual cramping. They didn’t help much, but combined with Valium and a glass of wine, they give quite a nice buzz. I’ve got a couple left if you want to try.’
‘No, you’re all right,’ Penny says. ‘Anyway, Mum made it all sound quite idyllic at yours. And you have to admit, you’ve had it easier than me.’
‘Easier?’
‘Well, yes. Martin earns a good wage. You’ve never had to work. You buy anything you want . . .’
‘See, you’ve always done this,’ Victoria says.
‘Done what?’
‘I don’t know. Pretended everything was easy for me. Pretended I have some kind of charmed life. You’ve always had a chip on your shoulder about things. That’s what Mum always said about you, actually – that you had a chip on your shoulder. But that . . . that resentment stops good things from happening to you, Penny. There are loads of times I wanted to help you out, but I couldn’t.’
‘Because of the chip on my shoulder?’ Penny says, glancing at her shoulder and brushing it mockingly. Despite her best efforts, she’s starting to feel quite angry again.
‘Yes! At the funeral, for instance, I wanted to lend you some money, but I didn’t dare. Because we all know how you would have reacted to that. It’s like the washing-machine business. I wanted to give you my Smeg. I even asked Martin if he’d agree to drive it down to you. But Mum said it would offend you. She said you’d always had a chip on your shoulder about my cast-offs. And she’s right.’
‘That’s so untrue,’ Penny protests.
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘I asked Mum about your washing machine. And do you know what she said?’
‘No, I don’t. But I think you’re about to enlighten me.’
‘She said you were selfish. That’s what she said. She said that even when you were little you wouldn’t lend me your toys. She reminded me how, even when you didn’t want them any more, I still couldn’t have them. And she was right. You were like that. You are like that. And so, knowing full well that we needed a new machine, you sent it off to the tip.’
‘That’s so unfair!’
‘Only it isn’t!’
‘It is unfair,’ Victoria says. ‘I’m telling you, I wanted to give it to you. But Mum warned me not to.’
‘I’m sorry, but I simply don’t believe you,’ Penny says.
‘Well, that’s up to you, I suppose.’
‘I mean, why would she say that? What could she possibly gain by lying? I asked her to help me out so that we could buy a new one, but she didn’t have the money. And then . . .’
‘Yeah,’ Victoria interrupts. ‘Like, she only had eighty thousand in her bank account, after all.’
‘Ninety thousand. And? Your point is?’
‘Well, she said she didn’t have the money to help you with a washing machine. Why would she say that?’
At that moment, Sander pops his head around the door. ‘Morning, ladies,’ he says.
Both Penny and Victoria turn to greet him, but one look at their expressions has Sander beating a hasty retreat. ‘Oh,’ he says, stepping backwards and closing the lounge door.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ Victoria asks.
‘I have no idea,’ Penny says. ‘So, what’s with this agenda to paint Mum as the root of all evil? What’s that about?’
‘I’m sorry?’ Victoria says.
‘Is it because painting her as some kind of monster makes losing her a bit easier?’
‘Oh, do stop trying to analyse me, would you? I mean, I know it’s your job and everything, but . . .’
‘I’m not.’
‘Yes, you are. And you’d do better to analyse yourself and consider for one second that you might be wrong about something – that your world view might not be one hundred per cent accurate, like you always think it is.’
Penny rubs one hand across her face then chews a fingernail. She tries to remain calm. Accusations of her lapsing into ‘shrink’ mode always stop her dead in her tracks. Because it is, she knows, a genuine risk. ‘OK,’ she says finally, ‘so, why don’t you tell me?’
‘Tell you what?’
‘Tell me your world view. Tell me what it is I’m so wrong about. I’m listening. Really.’
Victoria shrugs. ‘Well, you have this myth, don’t you? Of the all-smiling, all-singing, all-dancing, loving mother. But Mum wasn’t the person you thought she was.’
‘OK,’ Penny says dubiously. ‘So, who was she? Tell me the Victoria version.’
Victoria sighs and shakes her head slowly. She half-stands and puts her empty mug on the coffee table and then returns to her seat and starts to wring her hands together.
‘She was complex,’ she says.
‘Complex?’
‘Like everyone, I suppose. But she was a mixture of good and bad. It’s just that you got most of the good.’
‘And you got most of the bad?’ Penny says, her tone vaguely mocking.
‘Yes,’ Victoria says emphatically. ‘Yes, I did. Mum hated me a bit.’
‘She did not hate you.’
‘She did. She made my life hell. I know you choose not to remember any of this, and I understand why that’s easier for you, but she did. She used to mock just about anything I said. She would always go with your preference over mine. She was ten times stricter with me about everything than she was with you. She used to call me Dirty Deirdre. Do you even remember that?’
‘I do,’ Penny says. ‘But she called me Piggy Penny.’
Victoria snorts. ‘She did. But if you think back carefully – and honestly – you’ll remember that she didn’t say it in the same way. Piggy Penny was like a term of endearment almost.’
‘It was. That’s exactly what it was.’
‘But Dirty Deirdre wasn’t.’
Penny twists her mouth as she struggles to remember. And yes, hadn’t there been a certain curl to her mother’s lip when she addressed Victoria? ‘You know what I never understood,’ Penny says, ‘is when Ed died – I mean, Mum worshipped Ed, right?’
Victoria nods vaguely.
‘So, when Ed died, why did she skip over you? Why did I suddenly become the wonder child?’
‘So you admit it?’
‘I suppose, yes . . .’ Penny says. ‘I mean, I don’t agree that she hated you. But I suppose I did become the favourite. And I could never understand how she could do that. I mean, I could never choose between Max and Chloe. When you have children, you love them all equally, right?’
‘Except that Max is your favourite,’ Victoria says. ‘And Chloe is Sander’s.’<
br />
‘He is not.’
‘Well, I’ve always seen it that way,’ Victoria says. ‘But I just assumed it was the natural mother/son thing. The father/daughter thing, too. But maybe I got it wrong.’
‘Then maybe I need to watch that,’ Penny says thoughtfully. ‘But it still doesn’t explain Mum. I mean, she ended up with two daughters. So why choose one over the other?’
‘She was angry,’ Victoria says with a shrug. ‘She was angry with me about Cecil – because he left. And she never forgave me for it.’
‘Because you told her what was going on?’ Penny asks.
‘Yes. Because I told her what was going on.’
‘But that would be horrible. I mean, talk about shooting the messenger.’
‘It was horrible. I mean, in her defence, she really did think it was all my fault.’
‘How could it be your fault?’
‘Well, she didn’t believe me, did she? So it became my fault. For making things up. And we all know how hard things became once Cecil vanished. I mean, you remember how broke we were, right?’
‘It was horrible,’ Penny says. ‘Do you remember those bargain-basket meals she used to come up with?’
Victoria nods. ‘Mashed potato for dinner and smashed-up ginger nuts for tea?’
‘A well-balanced diet, if ever there was one,’ Penny says. ‘But when you say that she didn’t believe you . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, that doesn’t really make any sense, does it?’
‘Why not?’
‘Because she sent Cecil away. I mean, if she hadn’t believed you, she wouldn’t have sent him away.’
‘Ah,’ Victoria says. ‘Well, you see, that, unfortunately, isn’t quite what happened.’
‘It isn’t?’
‘No.’
When she got back to her bedroom, Vicky had cried for a little while. But then, as childhood resilience prevailed, she’d pushed what she had seen from her mind and started to play with her dolls instead. Barbara, her biggest, oldest, one-armed doll, had matted blonde hair, and so she had emptied her toy box until she found the brush. She’d then sat cross-legged on her bed. ‘Don’t cry,’ she’d told the doll. ‘I know it hurts, but it’ll be over in a bit.’
Five minutes later, her bedroom door had creaked open and Cecil’s plump face – still flushed from exertion – appeared.
The Bottle of Tears Page 29
