Unchained Melanie

by Judy Astley

  ‘Who phoned? Was it for me?’ Rosa, wearing one of her father’s long-abandoned Led Zeppelin tee shirts, appeared in the doorway. Her long legs were bare and had the faded tan of late summer, and her arms were wrapped across her front against the morning chill. The scent of stale cigarette smoke and crowded pub wafted from her. Mel hoped she was intending to shower it all away: at least on day one it might be an idea to present herself to her unknown flatmates as someone reasonably clean and appealing.

  ‘No, it was your Nana Gwen, wishing you luck.’

  ‘Oh. Is she going to send me some money?’ Rosa looked at Mel as if expecting the answer to be at least an instantly produced fifty-pound note.

  ‘I don’t know. Shouldn’t think so, would you?’

  Rosa switched on the kettle and spooned instant coffee into a mug. ‘I don’t see why not. Her first grandchild to go to university, it’s a special occasion.’ She grinned at her mother. ‘I’ll send her a card, a postcard of the Hoe or something, let her know the address. I bet when the saintly Twitchy and Witchy cousins go to uni she’ll send them whopping great cheques.’

  Melanie laughed. ‘Poor Tess and William, do they have any idea you call them that?’

  ‘Nah, though I wouldn’t care if they did. So no-one else called?’ Rosa was looking beady-eyed and eager over the top of her mug. Mel knew whom she meant: Alex might now be an ex-boyfriend but that ‘ex-ness’ hadn’t been Rosa’s choice. She kept hoping he’d change his mind, but he wasn’t going to: he was a boy for whom life was a list of Next Things that had to be sought out and ticked off. For him now, the current Next Thing was Oxford and then on to a career in law. He’d turn up at Christmas, after the first term – both she and Rosa knew it, and one slightly pissed evening had giggled about it – with a neat-haired girl in baby-blue cashmere, a single slender gold bangle and sleek black trousers with a crease down the front. Rosa and her charity-shop treasures, her multi-pocketed low-slung baggy trousers and her trainers that were so very past their best would be laughed off as early experimentation, simply a way of finding out how to do sex just about well enough before moving on to someone who might need to be impressed into a Good Marriage. That, she and Rosa had damningly decreed, would last until, as a big-name lawyer in bored middle age, Alex was tempted into the thrill of some career-jeopardizing sexual naughtiness and was caught by the tabloids.

  ‘Perhaps . . .’ Mel started, then thought better of it. She’d been about to suggest Rosa might meet someone else, someone in Plymouth, but it was both too obvious and too trite.

  ‘Perhaps what?’

  ‘Perhaps we’d better get going. You don’t want to be late.’ Melanie didn’t want to be late. She’d planned an overnight stop on the way back in a hotel near Exeter and she fancied a leisurely settling-in, a rustic walk in the late afternoon sun followed by a long hot bubbly bath with a couple of indulgent magazines, then a solitary delicious supper. She was going to practise hard this new art of being totally alone. Perfect Patty (who loved any chance to check out her neighbours’ decor) was away for the weekend but her sister Vanessa had promised to call in and feed the cat. Melanie had quite easily impressed on her the folly of driving to Plymouth and back in a day. She hadn’t mentioned the hotel with the 25-metre pool and Michelin-starred chef, for Vanessa didn’t much approve of the pursuit of a good time. In case of emergencies she would leave the hotel’s phone number, but wasn’t going to feel any guilt for Vanessa assuming she was making a sensible but reluctant stopover at a Travel Lodge.

  Rosa was taking her time brushing her long coppery hair. Clouds of ciggy-scented dust danced in the sunshine from the open door of the cloakroom. ‘It’s not like school, Mum. No-one’s going to give me bloody detention if I’m a few hours after the deadline.’ Rosa slammed the loo door shut behind her and flung the brush into her battered suede bag. ‘Come on, help me load up. You can take the heavy stuff.’

  Melanie shoved aside a box of books and picked up Rosa’s guitar case. ‘I don’t think so. I’m old and decrepit, I need to protect my bones.’

  Rosa grinned. ‘God Ma, you’re not going all menopausal on me, are you?’

  Melanie hadn’t even considered it. The very idea came as quite a shock. OK, so she wouldn’t see forty again (or forty-three) but she still felt and functioned like a twenty-year-old. Her heart still quickened at the sight of a gorgeous young hunk, she’d never yet felt so out of place in Top Shop as to expect the Age Police to evict her at any moment and if she occasionally felt a bit hotter than usual she would put it down to excessive central heating, nothing more.

  ‘No, I’m not going all menopausal as you so sweetly put it, I’m just old enough to choose what to lift and carry. And it is your stuff,’ she told Rosa, picking up a small carrier bag full of what looked like old letters. She hoped they weren’t relics of Alex. Wasn’t university supposed to be about fresh starts?

  Eventually the car was packed. There were no arguments about what would fit in and what wouldn’t because Rosa simply doggedly arranged and rearranged the bags and boxes till they were wedged into place and the boot could just about be forced shut. Melanie noticed that the kitchen radio (the one she’d only that morning loaded with new batteries) was lying on top of a box of CDs and that back in the sitting room the video player had been unplugged as if in a half-hearted attempt at removing it. Rosa went back up to her room to check for forgotten essentials and came down the stairs looking thoughtful.

  ‘Sure you’ve got everything?’ Mel asked as she locked the front door behind her.

  ‘Mmm. I think so. If there is anything you could send it down on an overnight, couldn’t you?’ Mel gave her a look. ‘Please? And Mum, you won’t get all upset when we get there, will you? I mean I’ll be back in a few weeks. And I might phone you.’

  ‘Might? Oh thank you so much. Yes, I’ll probably cry absolute buckets,’ Melanie teased. ‘You’ll be so embarrassed you’ll be hustling me out of the door and disowning me.’

  ‘Don’t even joke about it.’ Rosa scowled as she settled herself into the front seat and under the comfort of her headphones. Her fingers were pecking at her mobile phone, texting her loyal troupe of female friends (and especially best mate Gracie) who supplied each other with a constant running commentary on their lives. If Mel was as prolific with her Tina books as these teenage girls were with their text messages she’d be on her twentieth novel by now, no problem. Mel headed for the M3 and wondered what Rosa was saying, reluctant goodbyes or a sort of ‘Yesss! I’m outa here!’ Rosa had not since her mid-teens, been what a social worker would call a ‘high divulger’. Whatever went on in her shaggy, foxy head was only rarely broadcast beyond the edges of the digital telephone networks.

  The room in the hall of residence was smaller than Mel had expected, but cleverly put together like a half-size hotel one with a dolly-sized bathroom built into one corner. The block was so newly built you could still smell freshly dried paint. There was a sign at the end of the corridor just beyond Rosa’s room, saying ‘New Plaster – Do not kick the walls’. Someone had been a bit naive putting up a sign like that, she thought; competitive wall-kicking would almost certainly turn into a regular post-pub activity. In the room the pale wood-veneered wardrobe, desk, drawers and bed were all as a continuous fitted, immovable unit. The thought of mental patients or unstable prisoners flitted across her mind, folks who needed their furniture nailed down to prevent murder and maiming.

  ‘Good grief, the luxury of it. Your own bathroom!’ As Rosa hadn’t yet made a comment, Mel filled the silence with over enthusiasm.

  ‘Well, shower room, you couldn’t swing a kitten.’ Rosa looked out of the window. There was a glimpse of something silvery sparkling far away between the city buildings.

  ‘And a sea view!’

  Rosa scowled. Her mother was overexcited, fast heading towards being a liability. If anyone came out of any of the other rooms Rosa thought she just might have to lock Mel in the bathroom and pretend she was a mad intru
der or a (very) mature student wandering around the wrong building. There was a smell of interesting smoke from along the corridor and she wondered why the alarm hadn’t gone off – the rules in the booklet she’d been sent were very strict about smoking in the rooms. It seemed to be practically a chucking-out offence. She could hear music too: David Gray, which was a promising sign – she didn’t want to be sharing with five swots whose idea of entertainment was something soothing on Radio 3.

  ‘Shall I help you with the bed?’ Melanie was delving into one of the boxes and pulling out pillows and the new packs of duvet covers and pillowcases. ‘The plain blue or the stripey ones?’ Rosa just felt exhausted. They’d hauled box after box up the two flights of stairs from the car. All she wanted to do was lie down on the unmade bed, among all the unpacked debris, and go to sleep for a couple of hours. Ideally, when she woke up it would all be done completely by magic. All her food and crockery would be stashed away in the cupboards in the big shared kitchen just across the hallway, all her clothes hung up, all her books lined up on the shelf over the desk and photos of her friends would be grinning down at her from the silly dinky pinboard that hung over the bed.

  ‘Are you Blu-tacking stuff up?’ A tall girl with streaky blonde hair appeared in the doorway, clutching a rolled-up poster. ‘I’m Kate? Next room to you?’ She had what Melanie called Neighbours intonation, every statement a question. Rosa looked shy suddenly, but smiled at the girl.

  ‘I’m Rosa. I’ve only brought photos. Friends and that, I thought I’d see what the room was like first.’

  ‘I think you’re not supposed to . . .’ Mel interrupted.

  ‘Mum!’ Rosa warned, picking up a carrier bag and clanking off with it to the kitchen opposite. Kate followed her and Melanie could hear the two of them laughing, could hear glasses being unpacked and put on a shelf and the fridge door opening. Rosa reappeared a few minutes later clutching a bottle of beer.

  ‘I did the bed for you,’ Mel said, ‘but if it’s OK with you . . .’

  ‘It’s OK Ma, you’re allowed to go now. I’ll be fine.’

  Melanie didn’t doubt it. Rosa allowed herself to be hugged but Mel could feel her eagerness to get to know her flatmates, to move in properly to her room and her new independent life.

  ‘Shall I come down and wave you off?’ Rosa offered.

  ‘No, stay here and meet the others. Give me a call soon, I expect there’ll be something you’ve forgotten.’

  Melanie went back down the stairs to the small car park in front of the building, calculating that she’d just have time for that riverside walk if she put her foot down a bit on the A38. Her car was blocked in by a black Range Rover.

  ‘Bugger!’ she muttered, looking round for the owner. A tall man with a light blue sweater emerged from the building behind her, carrying an empty supermarket box.

  ‘Sorry, I’ll move it. Elly’s stuff’s taking forever to unload. She makes me carry all the boxes of books.’

  ‘Sounds studious! I think mine’s only brought a few novels.’

  ‘Oh, I expect these are only for colouring in!’ the man laughed. His eyes were the same smoky Gitanes-blue shade as his sweater. His hair was short and spiky and blond. Mel felt ludicrously fluttery. He was just the sort she’d fancy if she was . . . well, what? How much more available could anyone be than she was? No husband, no child at home – she even had what Rosa and her friends used to call a Free House. He wouldn’t be available, though. There was sure to be a Mrs Spiky-blond-hair-and-blue-sweater. She was probably up there settling daughter Elly into her room, checking the cupboard space in the big airy shared kitchen and admiring (as Mel had) the new microwave, the cooker, the pair of fridge-freezers.

  ‘So where’ve you come from?’ Spiky asked, seemingly in no real hurry to move the car. The afternoon was still hot and sunny. Mel was anxious to get going.

  ‘Richmond. And you?’ she asked. Jeez, he was delicious-looking. What a smile, just enough of a tan, big elegant hands, bare brown feet in scuffed docksiders.

  ‘Oxford. Are you staying over or going back?’ It was only conversation, not an invitation. But still . . .

  ‘Er . . . I’m staying over. A place on Dartmoor.’ So why not let him know, she thought, her fantasies leaping way ahead, the theme going: she told him where, he said oh yes, might see you later, she did see him later, an awful, thrilling lot of him and . . .

  ‘Not the Inn on The Edge?’ He grinned at her, unlocking his car. She grinned back, nodded. Perhaps there was a God.

  ‘We stayed there when Elly was down for her interview. Food’s gone right off, the wife got food poisoning. We wouldn’t go back.’ He climbed into his car, then added, ‘Though perhaps it was just a bad day. Hope you have more luck!’

  Oh me too, thought Melanie, feeling more than slightly foolish. Me too.

  Three

  Gwen Thomas hadn’t been inside a church since Vanessa’s boy William’s christening, but took it for granted that God was someone with whom she had an ongoing working relationship. Her personal mental portrait had him down as male (well of course), close to an Englishman’s retirement age, thin and tall but slightly stooping beneath the burden of his responsibilities. Her God was dressed in a proper suit with a starched white shirt, just like the manager from the Barclays bank she’d wheeled Vanessa and Melanie to in their double pushchair, back in the days when you weren’t separated from the counter staff by bulletproof glass and your signature didn’t need to be backed up by a plastic card. God chronicled the world’s fateful progress in massive ledgers using a black Parker pen and indelible darkest blue ink. He had a slow, solemn hand – what was written had been carefully considered, for life, death and the judgement of souls were not matters for haste or frivolity.

  In the same way that she felt humbly apologetic for taking up his time if she ever needed the attention of her doctor, Gwen didn’t trouble the Almighty with requests for unnecessary favours. She disapproved of those who were in the habit of wishing their lot was an easier, more prosperous one – you only got out what you put in. She had worked hard taking care of her home and family, reaped just enough in the way of material rewards, a healthy pair of daughters, three (so nearly four) grandchildren and a paid-off mortgage. Now that she and Howard were well into retirement she’d quite reasonably expected to be among the great band of elderly contented, smiling towards life’s sunset with Howard at her side like the silver-haired couples in TV ads for life insurance. She should be able to look back and be pleased with having done her best, look forward and see herself and Howard enjoying an old age of shared interests, garden-centre visits and the loving attentiveness of their comfortably settled children. She didn’t like to put it to God directly, because it was hardly the stuff of Third World debt, earthquake, famine or tidal wave, but, as she listened with slight disgust to some gynaecological frankness on Woman’s Hour, she did wonder where things had gone amiss.

  In the same way that she trusted God (though his ways were sometimes more than mysterious) to keep a guiding hand on the universe, Gwen assumed she’d continue to be the one who ran domestic life for herself and Howard until God decided which of them should be first to line up at St Peter’s gate. The diary on the kitchen dresser was filled in by her, not by Howard. She would tell him when they were due at Vanessa’s for Sunday lunch, when it was time to get the pelargoniums out of the greenhouse and repot them, when they should start going through the brochures and decide between Cornwall and the Lakes. Howard deserved a rest from serious decision-making, after more than forty-five years at the Ministry of Health. When he went down to the corner shop to get the paper every morning, all he needed to do was choose between the Mail and the Telegraph. He could take the dog as well, make sure it went before it got back to the garden. Nothing trickier was required of him. He certainly wasn’t supposed to come back with copies of Maxim and Mayfair and the smell of early beer on his breath.

  If anyone was to blame it had to be Melanie. If she’d made more
of an effort and hadn’t let Roger go chasing after young things she’d still be keeping her family properly together. Rosa would still have a father on the premises to come home to in the university holidays, and Roger and Mel would be safely on the home straight. The fact that they weren’t had unsettled everyone, especially, it seemed, Howard. Mel had had a secret gleeful look about her ever since Roger had wrapped his grandmother’s Steinway piano in old blankets and called the specialist removers round to take it into storage.

  ‘Oh the space! The glorious empty space!’ Melanie had sung out, twirling round in the great gap by the sitting-room window on the day the instrument had been trolleyed out of her house. Gwen and Howard had been there at the time, invited for lunch, though Mel had completely forgotten in the midst of the upheaval. ‘I should have got rid of it years ago!’ It was obvious she’d meant more than just the piano. Gwen had said as much to Howard in the car on the way home, trusting him to be as appalled as she was.

  ‘Good for her,’ he’d declared instead, adding, ‘and for him.’

  Not at all the response she’d expected. ‘But . . . what about . . .’

  ‘What about what? What’s there to “what about” about? Rosa’s off to have her own life. She doesn’t need parents breathing down her neck any more. Mel and Roger have grated on each other like sandpaper for years and now they’ve both got a chance to be happy. Good on them.’