by Susan Sallis
It was no good, Gus had to put aside her very personal nightmare and chuckle. She could imagine her grandmother’s pregnant silence during all this hullabaloo. And Zannah, encouraged by the chuckle, went on to tell of other things and other men. Men who could dance.
Suddenly she was still, staring into the fire, eyes dark and enormous. For some reason, Gussie put her hand on the thin shoulder by her knees and squeezed gently. Still, Zannah was silent and the slice of profile that was visible to Gussie was outlined by a tear.
‘Can you tell me?’ Gussie asked.
‘I just remembered what he said once. He said … he said … oh God, he said to me, “I can die for you, Zannah, but I cannot dance.” He’d had his tin legs only five minutes. He always said if he’d had flesh-and-blood legs he still wouldn’t be able to dance because he had no sense of rhythm – and that was bloody true, Gus! So why did he say that? Because he wanted me never ever to forget him! He wanted me to feel guilty for the rest of my bloody life!’ She wrenched herself into a sitting position and put both hands to her face and wailed the last words.
Gussie slid off the chair and sat cross-legged next to her mother. She waited for the storm to pass and then said in her most sensible voice, ‘But he didn’t want you to be unhappy, darling, did he?’
‘Didn’t he? Are you sure of that?’
‘I am indeed.’
‘He found Kate bloody Gould soon enough, didn’t he? He was all right, Jack! And so was she. I might have … looked for consolation. But I didn’t get myself pregnant within a year of our split!’
‘Zannah, why are you saying these things when they – Mark and Kate – aren’t able to put their side?’
She was silent for a while and then said sullenly, ‘Well, you’re going to do it for them, I assume.’
‘I think that’s a presumption rather than an assumption. I can’t speak for them either. But I do know one thing: we are sitting here warm and well fed, talking like real friends, and I can’t speak for you, but I am happy. I never thought I would say that so soon after losing them, but I can say it.’
Zannah twisted forward and grabbed Gussie into her arms. ‘Oh, my darling girl! I am too. And I never thought that either of us would say that.’ She hugged her daughter and then sat back and crossed her legs too.
‘And another thing.’ Zannah was trying to sound like Gussie, trying not to sound like a drama queen. ‘I’m not insanely jealous of Kate. OK, she got Mark, but I got my daughter back. Not a bad deal.’
Gussie looked round at her with a resigned grin. ‘You really are a hopeless case, Zannah Scaife. You always manage either to say the wrong thing or to say the right thing in the wrong way.’
But Zannah was looking out of the window, her attention span exhausted. ‘Guess what. It’s snowing.’
By suppertime there was a millimetre of snow on the grass apron. Gussie tugged the heavy table in front of the range and set the chairs so that they both had the heat at their backs. She put the Lancashire hotpot into the side oven and tore a loaf into pieces. A peculiar muffled tapping came at the window and there was Zannah in ice-caked mittens and Scandinavian hat, beckoning frantically. Gussie ran to the porch.
‘Come on, quickly!’ Zannah was already running towards the apron where the snow was transparent and the grass pushing through it very obviously. ‘This isn’t going to last and we have to make a snowman!’
‘Supper’s ready—’
‘It will wait half an hour, for Pete’s sake! Get some wellies on – gloves in the box with the cricket bats – quick!’ She had made a football-sized snowball and started to roll it into something torso-big. Gussie watched her for all of three seconds and then turned and grabbed her coat. ‘Go with the flow …’ she muttered as she searched among the cricket bats without success, then found gloves in a drawer neatly arranged with scarves and hats.
By the time she had rolled enough snow into a suitable head shape and placed it on top of the melting torso she was hot enough to discard the hat and scarf. Zannah disappeared into the porch and emerged holding a Tyrolean trilby, feather and all. She put it on the bald snow-head, panting with helpless laughter as she did so. And then they skipped around ‘our very own sculpture’ and trailed back in, dripping melted snow in every corner of the porch, leaving sopping wet gloves on the radiator and padding into the kitchen and as close to the range as they could get without burning themselves.
Gussie sneezed and Zannah was on instant alert.
‘I shouldn’t have let you … just after that wretched cold.’
‘You “let me”, did you? I could have sworn you ordered me out into that freezing weather just so that you could succumb to your intense desire for an instant sculpture!’
Zannah pretended to be beaten. ‘You should’ve been a lawyer.’
‘I thought of it, but I read up about the College of Agriculture and that was that.’
‘Did you have lots of boyfriends and go to dances?’
‘I suppose I did, but nothing serious until … later.’ She avoided her mother’s avid look and went on, ‘Zannah, play some music while I get out the plates and the hotpot.’
She was surprised when Zannah went obediently to the stack of CDs in the corner and fiddled with switches. An Ivor Novello song surged poignantly across the farmhouse kitchen. Gussie wrapped the cast-iron pot in a tea towel and put it on the table. Why on earth had she asked for music – to stop her mother asking more questions? She might have guessed that all her CDs would be about moonlight and music and romance.
Zannah waltzed slowly back and held out her arms. ‘Will you have this dance with me? Just while the plates cool off a little.’
Gussie put down the tea towel and stared at her mother. She was still beautiful, still vibrant. Her daughter was still proud of her.
‘It is my pleasure.’ She enfolded the thin shoulders into a long arm and they pirouetted slowly around the table. Zannah tilted her head to the ceiling and closed her eyes. Gussie saw the lines; they were deep enough to throw their own shadows. Above them, following the hairline, was another line: a scar. She felt suddenly awkward.
She said, ‘I cannot believe this is happening.’
Her mother smiled but did not open her eyes. ‘Give in to it, Gus.’
‘Well … that’s what I’m doing. That’s what I mean. How did we get to this place, this time? We’ve been strangers since I was eight years old and after two weeks together, we’re dancing in the snow.’
Zannah opened her eyes at that. ‘Not quite, darling.’ She chuckled. ‘That’s the sort of thing I say. You see? We’re not strangers at all. We share the same genes. Go with the flow.’
They were the words Gussie had used to herself in the porch; she could have smiled and gone with it. But she said, ‘You’ve had a face-lift, haven’t you?’
Zannah kept her eyes closed. ‘Naturellement,’ she said with a Birmingham accent, then shook her head slightly. ‘All these questions! Just live for this moment, darling! How are you feeling – at this precise moment?’
‘Embarrassed.’
The eyes flew open. ‘What rubbish! Embarrassed forsooth!’ But she stopped dancing and went to the table. ‘Come on, let’s eat. I’m surprised you’re not worrying about the food getting cold.’ Her particular moment had gone. Gussie felt as if she had slapped her mother – or child – and spoiled things for ever. But that was ridiculous.
She said weakly, ‘I should have left it in the side oven.’ She unwrapped the hotpot and took off the lid. It was, of course, red hot. She ladled out two plates of the lamb and vegetables and sat down with a bump.
Zannah said, ‘I’m not really hungry. Think I’ll have an early night.’
‘Sit down. Eat.’ She looked across at the stubborn, set face. ‘Please, Zannah. I can’t help being how I am. At least I was honest.’
Zannah stayed where she was and after a few moments picked up her fork and started to eat. Gussie did the same, then took a torn piece of bread and pushed
the basket sideways to her mother. Zannah smiled wryly and helped herself.
She said, ‘Everyone has them here, darling. Face-lifts, I mean. And the sort of people I need to impress don’t need to see an aged woman.’ She let the smile dissolve into a giggle and looked at her daughter for a response.
Gussie obliged briefly. Then she said, ‘Usually face-lifts tend to lift the face.’
Zannah frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Your face has not been lifted, darling. You have a tiny line of a scar, yes. But your face is … your face. Beautiful because of that.’
‘Well, I did not want to look sort of set in stone. You know how some people do not dare smile – probably cannot smile!’ Another laugh. ‘I told them to go easy on the lift!’
Gussie nodded slowly, wanting to be reassured. She replenished their plates. ‘Eat up. You are much too thin. And don’t tell me that you have to be thin for your impressionable contacts. It’s not how you have to be for your anxious daughter!’
Zannah was back to herself; she looked at the full plate with dismay. ‘I can’t afford to be overweight, Gus! How would I get up on that scaffolding?’
Gussie actually fed her mother as her mother had once fed her. She loaded a spoon and pretended it was a train. ‘Into the tunnel, choo-choo.’ She was definitely embarrassed then but Zannah laughed inordinately even as she swung her head away.
The snow had gone by the morning and throughout the week the weather gathered itself together for an early heat-wave. Gussie swept and polished and hung out the laundry, shopped in the village and cooked meals. Zannah worked all the daylight hours and on the Sunday announced that ‘the end is nigh’.
‘I’m going to finish it tomorrow, which means we’ll have a whole week together before the money-man arrives. If this weather holds, sweetie, we’ll take a picnic to the ravine and you can see for yourself why I wanted to do a Scaife job on it. Quite spectacular, not unlike bits of Cornwall. Actually, I think I’ve got it, too. Daddy’s work was always somehow sad. The sea gradually, insidiously invading the land. This makes you angry. It’s a slash, a rape, a statement of dominance.’
Gussie had seen the painting every day since her cold had passed and did not recognize its dominance. Her chief reaction had been bewilderment.
She said, ‘It will be good to see you at ground level for my last week.’
‘Darling, d’you have to go? I know you will be embarrassed – oh that word! – at my antics with Broomfield.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Louis Broomfield. Can you imagine that being a real name? But he’ll only be here two or three days. Then we could have another lovely week before the gîtes begin.’
‘I’ve reserved a seat, Zannah. You know that. And I’ll be back in the summer. I’ll fly to Nice and hire a car.’
‘I’ll meet you, darling. We can have a couple of nights in Nice, if you like.’
‘That would be marvellous.’
That evening when she took a mug of tea to the studio, her mother was cleaning brushes. She was naked, her body covered in daubs of black and purple paint. She laughed and passed Gussie a hammer.
‘Make sure the lids are hammered on, would you, sweetie? And don’t look so shocked. I wanted you to see what the visitors see!’
She was so thin yet not emaciated. She looked like a child.
They took a picnic to the ravine. Gussie carried it in her backpack: bread, cheese, olives and a slab of Cadbury’s dark chocolate she had brought with her because one of her childhood memories was of Zannah eating it avidly for ‘instant energy’.
Gussie’s last week had seen the weather rocket into spring. She knew it was the same at home because she had spoken to Rory the night before. His sale had gone through and he was staying at the Sloop and revelling in the sunshine. ‘If this is climate change, then bring it on!’ he’d roared down the phone. Unexpectedly, she had felt depressed. The four weeks with her mother had established a routine that suited her very well. She had expected a hectic round of social ‘occasions’, but because of Zannah’s work this had not happened. And now, as they started up a steep track apparently carved through a meadow of flowers, she wondered whether she was returning to the seesaw of grief that seemed now to be a way of life at Zion Cottage. And she would be on her own for two weeks at least because Ned was in California and had an open ticket back home, and Jannie was … in love.
‘We’ll stop here for five minutes. Have a breather,’ Zannah called over her shoulder. She pulled herself up and around a large boulder and leaned on her arm. ‘You can see Nice from here.’ She held out a hand for Gussie and hauled her alongside. ‘I meant to take you shopping there, sweetie. Buy you some designer clothes. All the maternal things I’ve never done!’
‘I don’t need any more clothes, Zannah.’ Gussie was panting, marvelling that her mother was not. ‘Do need a drink, and we haven’t got anything.’
‘Yes we have. There are springs popping out of the ground everywhere. And I’ve got a couple of beakers … hang on.’ She fished a plastic mug from her pocket and scrambled to the other side of the rock. Gussie was suddenly conscious of the sound of water. She thought of all that melting snow on the Alps above them and glanced upwards nervously. Then Zannah was back with two full mugs of spring water. Gussie lowered herself to the ground, leaned against her backpack and drank. The water was ice cold and tingled deliciously.
‘Better than wine?’ Zannah asked. Gussie nodded. Zannah went on, ‘Can you hear the water? That’s the Brussac carving its way through the living rock. It starts – is born – in the High Corniche and by the time it reaches the Rhône it has calmed down, but it has put its heart and soul into getting there. And we’re going to watch all that effort and energy and we’re going to take some of it with us.’ Zannah was aglow with enthusiasm. She stood up, helped Gussie to scramble to her feet and rebalance the backpack, and forged on, bent almost double on the slope, which became steeper with each step.
Gussie began to feel strange, as if her head were whirling with doubts and unidentifiable fears. She wasn’t afraid of heights – she had dived and jumped from promontories all over Cornwall – yet the sudden realization that she was about to see the original of her mother’s huge painting in the converted barn was terrifying. Her breathing became laboured and by the time Zannah stopped again, she was almost sobbing.
They were on a plateau that led on the left to another meadow, and on the right to what must be the lip of the gorge. For some reason the noise was less here. Zannah helped Gussie off with the backpack, unwound a small groundsheet from beneath her jacket and spread it out, weighting it down with the pack.
‘This is where we’ll eat,’ she announced. ‘But first we must sit and have another drink and then we’ll go to the edge and look over.’ She was already moving into the meadow, crouching by a runnel, filling the beakers again. Gussie collapsed on to the groundsheet and put her elbows on to crooked knees to rest her head. She told herself that she must be all right because her mother had noticed nothing. She straightened her back and took the overflowing beaker, sipped and felt instantly better. What a fuss she was making; there was nothing wrong. The climb had tired her, that was all. Perhaps they were high enough for the air to be thinner …
‘I know how you’re feeling, sweetie,’ Zannah said. ‘It’s a bit like having one drink too many, isn’t it? An exhilaration that exceeds all exhilarations!’ She lifted her beaker. ‘The consummation of water and land. The ultimate celebration. Here’s to Nature’s very own wedding, Gus!’
Gussie sipped again and felt strength returning to her legs; she had not realized that she was trembling inside until it stilled. She smiled at her mother and lifted her beaker high.
After a while they scrambled up and went towards the sound of the water. The land folded into a lip making a natural barrier, which masked the sheer drop and offered the perfect viewing point. Zannah pulled Gussie towards it, grinning in the face of the sudden explosion of sound. She gestured, then put her own ar
ms on the lip and looked over. Hesitantly Gussie did the same. For a second she understood completely how her mother felt about this place; understood the beauty and the power of it. The torrent was almost a waterfall; the land reared up to their right in cliffs; the cleft made in the cliff over thousands of years spouted the water outwards so that it appeared to leap with sheer exuberance before it found the land again and rushed beneath them and then out of sight.
Gussie registered it, looked down and saw the drop, remembered the sea beyond Clodgy, felt the air as she rushed downwards; a terrible nausea rose inside as she slid down the bank and into semi-consciousness. She felt her mother’s arms around her, tipping her forwards. She was violently, horribly sick.
Zannah said matter-of-factly, ‘I think you had better tell me all about it, hadn’t you?’
They were somehow back at their picnic spot, the roar of water was reduced to bearable levels and Gussie was chewing a piece of bread and feeling stronger by the minute. She had tried to apologize, told her mother she felt a perfect fool, but she had been only too happy to lie back, breathe the air, drink the water and now eat some food.
‘I wondered whether it was something to do with being so high up—’
‘Come on, Gus. You know very well you’ve got to be three times as high as this before it becomes serious. Are you sure you’re not sickening for something?’
‘Quite sure.’ Gussie took some cheese from the large plastic box. ‘This is good. Plain. Wholesome.’
‘Why are you so sure? Do you often faint like that? I mean, you live by the sea, for goodness’ sake. You were brought up as a rock climber. Don’t you remember how we used to jump off that rock just west of Five Points?’
Gussie continued to savour the cheese. Then, in the face of her mother’s waiting silence, she said, ‘As a matter of fact, that early training you gave me probably saved my life. I’d forgotten about it. We had a lot of fun, didn’t we?’
