The House of Memories

by Monica McInerney

Keep busy. Distract yourself. I stood up. ‘I’ve had an idea about the tutors, Lucas. A way of getting them to talk to me.’

  ‘Ella —’

  ‘It might work. I think it’s worth a try. Can I tell you about it?’

  He wasn’t pleased. I knew that. But he listened as I outlined my barely formed plan and agreed it was worth a try. Afterwards, I left the room as soon as I could.

  I made a start over breakfast the next day, getting up early, before everyone else. I cooked pancakes, a stack of them, and prepared three different fillings: fruit, spinach and cheese, lemon and sugar. Peggy was the first into the kitchen, a novel tucked under her arm. If she was surprised to see me up so early, she didn’t show it. She accepted my offer of pancakes and let me pour her a coffee too.

  ‘We’ll never leave the house if you keep this up,’ she said, opening her book and putting her feet up on the chair opposite. ‘Literally. We’ll be so huge we won’t be able to fit through the door.’

  She had two large fruit pancakes. For a small woman she had a big appetite. She read as she ate. I had to pick my moment, in between her pancake-eating and page-turning.

  ‘Peggy, I wonder if I could ask a favour?’

  ‘Mmm,’ she said, not looking up.

  ‘I’m writing an article about private tutors —’

  ‘Writing?’ That got her attention. ‘I thought Lucas said you were an editor.’

  ‘I was, yes, but I’ve been commissioned by an Australian education magazine to write about the world of private tutors in London. It’s not something that happens much at home and —’ Stop there, I thought. ‘I wondered if I could ask you a few questions for my article.’

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I’m very boring, though. All I do is study, teach, study, teach. Oh, and eat now. Study, teach, eat.’

  I reached for paper and a pen. There were always notebooks and pens lying around the house. ‘Could you tell me your reasons for deciding to tutor as well as study?’

  ‘One, for the money. Two, for the money.’ She smiled. ‘But I can lie and say it’s for the love of learning and to share my knowledge, if you think that would look better in print?’

  I looked down at my notepad. Money. Money. ‘And what about your own background? Your own university years?’

  ‘This is like that Desert Island Discs radio show, isn’t it? Without the discs.’ She leaned back in her chair. ‘I grew up in Newcastle, the oldest of three. I had a teacher who noticed how much I read, who thought I had a gift for writing. He pushed me into after-school tuition, A levels, then into applying for Oxford. It was very tough. I was the first in my family to go to any university, let alone a posh one like that. But I got in and I loved it, worked hard, did well enough.’

  I remembered her CV. She hadn’t done ‘well enough’. She’d got first-class honours.

  ‘In my final year, I heard about Lucas’s set-up here, got added to his waiting list, and now here I am,’ she smiled, ‘doing my PhD and living rent-free while the tutoring pays for the rest of my life. Thank God for Lucas. I couldn’t afford to keep studying or live around here otherwise.’

  ‘So money’s a problem?’ Subtle, Ella.

  ‘This is London. Of course money’s a problem. But I’m okay. If I run short, I steal a few antiquarian books from Lucas’s vast uncatalogued collection and sell them at Camden Market.’ She laughed at my expression. ‘I’m joking, Ella. But I can tell you, it sticks in my throat when I go to some of my tutoring jobs. My parents had to scrimp and save to help put me through school and into university. I took any job going, cleaning and waitressing. And now I sit in expensively decorated rooms and tutor rich, spoilt children who don’t want to learn and don’t need to learn because their parents will be able to buy or network their way into any job or position they want, no matter what results they get. I know I have a job because of them, but by the time this year is over, I’ll be a fully fledged communist marching the streets chanting, “Share the wealth!”’

  I glanced down at my notebook. It was still blank apart from the words Money, Money. ‘That’s great, Peggy. Thanks very much.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Any more pancakes?’

  I interviewed Mark next. He ate four pancakes, asking if they were a bribe to get him to talk. I admitted that they were.

  ‘Can you tell me what you like about tutoring?’ I asked, my pen poised on the notebook.

  ‘It’s a great way to get inside rich people’s houses and scope them for future burglaries.’

  I was starting to think they’d bugged Lucas’s withdrawing room. ‘Seriously,’ I said.

  He shrugged. ‘It’s an easy way to earn good money. Money for old rope, really. Money for old algebra, in my case.’

  I glanced down at my notebook. Money. Money. Money. ‘And what don’t you like about it?’

  ‘On the record? Nothing. I love every single minute of it. Off the record? I don’t like the students. I don’t like the students’ parents. I do like their houses, though.’

  Before I could think of another question, he spoke again. ‘Who did you say this article was for?’

  I stumbled through my answer: an Australian magazine, different education systems, etcetera, etcetera.

  ‘Did Saint Lucas get you that job too?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘He’s Mr Fix-it, don’t you think? Looking after us, looking after you. What does he get out of it? Nothing but a warm glow, as far as I can see. He’s like the Mother Teresa of education. We’re like members of the Cult of Lucas. Lucasians. Lucasites. Lucasades.’

  I wasn’t sure if he was being admiring or critical.

  He was sharp enough to pick that up. ‘I’m not complaining. I know I’m lucky to be a chosen one. Did you know the waiting list for this house is in the hundreds? Though you got to skip the queue, of course. Three cheers for family ties.’

  I picked up my notebook again. ‘Could I ask you another few questions?’

  ‘Sure, if you cook me another pancake. But maybe you’d answer something else for me first. What’s Lucas’s own story? Was he ever married? Is there something going on between him and Henrietta? Or is he gay?’

  I’d liked Mark over dinner. Not now. ‘I’m not sure that’s any of your business.’

  ‘Of course it’s not. But you can’t blame me for being curious. We all are. When he told us you were coming to live here, he described you as his only relative in the world. So we decided you were coming to check out your inheritance. It’s true, isn’t it? All this will be yours one day?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘It must be worth a fortune.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Believe me, it would be. A place this size, this close to Hyde Park. Lucas doesn’t know how lucky he is.’ He gave me an appraising glance. ‘Nor do you, by the sound of things.’

  I didn’t like the way he was talking about Lucas or the house or me. He didn’t seem to care what I thought, though, casually reaching across to pour himself more coffee.

  He continued. ‘I thought this house was amazing when I first moved in, but you should see some of the houses we teach in. I couldn’t believe it the first few times. Artwork everywhere, nannies and drivers and chefs and gardeners. And these kids – they want something, they get it. A new toy, a pony, a holiday. That’s why they’re so hard to teach. They’re not used to working for anything. If their mummies and daddies could buy them a pill to give them extra brains, they’d do it.’ He glanced up at the clock. ‘I’d better go. Hope that’s been a help for your article.’

  I looked down at my notes. The only words were still Money. Money. Money. ‘A great help, thanks.’

  The third tutor, Darin, was the opposite in manner to Mark. Charming, funny, helpful, answering anything I asked. But it soon became clear he felt exactly the same way about his students as the other two did. The children were spoilt but their parents paid well.

  ‘It’s a means to an end,’ he said. ‘I try to teach them w
hat I can, and in return I get a place to live and study and a good wage for the year. And for all the discussions we have with Lucas and Henrietta about the students, in the end it doesn’t matter what the kids learn. They’ll all succeed in life anyway. We’re for show, along with their paintings and jewellery and sculptures. I mean it – I’ve overheard them boasting to their friends. “Our tutor speaks four languages and is a martial arts expert.” “Oh, really? Ours climbed Everest.” “Ours was the first man on the moon.”’ He was smiling, but he was serious.

  ‘And that bothers you?’

  ‘It did at first. But now? I’m getting plenty out of it myself, after all.’

  ‘Plenty?’

  He grinned. ‘Worldwide publicity. You wouldn’t be interviewing me otherwise, would you?’

  My final interview, with Harry the scientist, took place two days later, in front of the other three. He’d said he’d been waiting for me to ask, that he’d been feeling left out. They were all in good spirits, interrupting, teasing.

  I asked him the same questions. He told me he’d been interested in science since he was a small child. Like the others, he’d come from a lower-middle-class background, the first in his family to have a university education.

  Also like the other three, Harry was not just bright-eyed and quick-witted, but opinionated. He felt the same about Lucas’s clients – astonished at the wealth on display and at how hard it was to get some of their clients’ children to study.

  Darin joined in. ‘We’re the ones to blame. They don’t take us seriously. They can tell from a mile off that we’re from the lower classes, no matter how many degrees we have.’

  Mark interrupted. ‘It’s not about class. It’s about wealth. That rock star in Belgravia is about as upper-class as I am. All these trappings are to show off their bank accounts, not their class. Why don’t they cut to the chase? Put a big neon sign on the front door with a real-life display of their bank balance? Wear T-shirts that say “I’m Stinking Rich”?’

  They all laughed, but there was a serious undertone. I could sympathise. There was no mistaking the class system here, or the chasm between those with plenty and those with little. I was always much more aware of it here than I ever was in Australia. It had been a hot topic during my visit to Aidan’s parents in Ireland too. His father held very strong opinions about class divisions. He had strong opinions about everything. He’d made it clear to me that the sooner Australia voted to become a republic, the better. I didn’t get much of a word in, but by the time Aidan and I left, I knew enough to head up my own republican movement.

  The tutors were still arguing. ‘It comes down to education, not money, in the end, doesn’t it?’ Peggy said, earnestly. ‘And that’s why Lucas does what he does here. He’s trying to even it up. Give us the same opportunities as rich kids, a rent-free place to live and study, a good job —’

  ‘Fattening food,’ Mark said, reaching for a croissant.

  The other three left soon after. It was just Harry and me in the kitchen together. I gave up on my formal interview questions. ‘Do you know what you’ll do after you’ve finished living here?’

  He took a sip of his coffee. ‘A year ago, I’d have said I’d keep studying. I wanted to change the world. Cure cancer. But not any more. I’m starting to think I should go where the money is. I’m tutoring for one family at the moment – all four of us are – that’s rich from drug money. Serious drug money.’ He grinned. ‘Not street drugs. Pharmaceutical money. I met the father the other night for the first time. When he heard I was a science PhD he gave me his card, told me to get in touch with him as soon as I’d graduated and he’d have a job for me.’ He reached into his pocket and passed me a card. ‘Look at this. It’s unbelievable. He’s got six different contact numbers.’

  I wasn’t looking at the business card. I was looking at Harry’s watch. It was an enormous Rolex. He noticed and pushed his sleeve back even further. To show it, not hide it.

  ‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ he said with a grin. ‘Have a guess how much it’s worth? Ten thousand pounds. For a watch. It’s obscene. That’s a year’s salary. Now, guess how much I got it for.’

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘Twenty pounds!’ He laughed. ‘It’s a knock-off, of course. Darin’s got one too. We bought them at Camden Market. But it tells the time and it fools enough people to make it fun.’ He looked at it again. ‘Speaking of which, time I left too. Thanks for breakfast. Hope I’ve been a help, have I?’

  I glanced down. The page was blank. ‘A big help, thanks,’ I said.

  Chapter Thirteen

  An email from Australia was waiting for me when I logged on to my computer the following morning. It was from a features writer at one of Australia’s bestselling women’s magazines.

  Dear Ella,

  I’m sure you’ll be delighted to hear your mother Merry is going to be the focus of a six-page feature in our autumn issue. We can’t wait to spend time with her and we know our readers will love hearing all about her amazing life and path to success too! As well as Merry and her husband, we’ll be interviewing her nearest and dearest, and as her eldest daughter, that of course includes you!

  We’ve already taken some fantastic photos of Merry and Jess together on set, and we’d love to photograph you all together. We will of course cover your costs to bring you to Melbourne. Will you please let us know some dates that might suit?

  Thanks and looking forward to chatting soon!

  I deleted it.

  Then I rescued it. Then I deleted it again.

  It wasn’t Mum’s fault. Mum could be self-absorbed and scatty and distracted and unthinking, but she wouldn’t have done this to me a second time, surely?

  I found the email again and wrote back briefly, saying I was sorry but I was overseas so would be unable to take part. I hesitated, then sent another email, to Mum’s personal email address. I should have let her and Walter know I was in London before now.

  Mum, just a quick note to let you know I’m not in Margaret River any more. I’ve decided to spend some time in London. I’m staying at Lucas’s. I’m sorry I won’t be able to take part in the magazine article. I hope it goes well.

  Love to you and Walter,

  Ella xx

  I’d been asked to be part of one of Mum’s publicity campaigns before. It was six months after Felix had died. I’d left Canberra and was working as a waitress in Melbourne. I’d been behind the front desk of a very busy pizza restaurant in St Kilda when Mum and Walter came in.

  It wasn’t a surprise to see them. They’d dropped in several times before, each time saying they happened to be passing by. They greeted me with a hug. I hugged them back. They asked how I was. I asked how they were. Then I waited. I could tell they were there for a specific reason. It was before the lunchtime rush. I had a few minutes to talk. We took a seat at one of the empty tables.

  Walter spoke first. ‘Ella, we’ve had some exciting news.’

  I listened as he told me the cable network had offered Merry-Makers another series.

  ‘That’s great. Congratulations to you both.’

  ‘Not just us. Jess too.’

  I didn’t answer. I waited, as they glanced at each other. Then Walter spoke again.

  ‘Ella, there’s a place on the show for you too, if you’d like to join us. We’d like you to join us.’

  Mum spoke in a rush. ‘The network loves the family aspect of it. The joking between Jess and me. You know, the way she comes into the kitchen while I’m cooking and steals bits of food and —’

  ‘It’s authentic family life,’ Walter said. ‘The viewers feel like they are there in the kitchen with Meredith and Jess.’

  I listened. I sat and I listened.

  Mum repeated Walter’s offer. ‘We mean it, Ella. We’d love you to be part of it. We can write you in like this.’ She clicked her fingers.

  ‘How would you introduce me?’

  ‘As my daughter, of course. My eldest daughter.’
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  ‘And you’d want me to joke and stick my finger into the cake batter, and tease Jess, and it would be like a normal mum and her daughters, having lots of fun in the kitchen together?’

  Walter beamed. ‘Exactly!’

  ‘Messing and joking around, lots of laughs and cooking, all for a national TV audience?’

  ‘International! More than two million and growing every week,’ Walter said, smiling proudly.

  ‘And could I say during one of the shows, just casually bring it in, that I used to be married, that I used to have a baby son, but one afternoon Jess was babysitting and she chose to talk to her latest boyfriend on the phone instead of look after my son, and because of that —’

  Mum interrupted. ‘Ella, please —’

  ‘Would you like me to cry on camera? Would that be great for your ratings?’

  Walter stepped in. ‘Ella, your mother is only thinking of you, wanting to help —’

  ‘My mother is thinking of her show and of Jess, Walter, not me.’

  ‘Ella, please.’ Mum, again. Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Darling, please. I loved Felix too. He was my grandson. You’re not the only one who —’

  I felt guilty. I apologised. But there was more to come. Walter glanced at my mother, put his hand on her arm and then spoke to me again, his voice even lower.

  ‘Ella, I am sorry, this might not be the best time, but we need to ask you something else. The network publicity department has been in touch. You know they sent you some flowers, when … when it first happened.’

  There had been more than forty wreaths and bouquets sent to our Canberra apartment. I had read all the cards at the time, but I couldn’t remember now who they were from.

  Walter continued. ‘They’ve asked if Meredith will talk publicly about it. It would be an exclusive interview. With the most-watched current affairs show in Australia.’

  Mum spoke again, still tearful. ‘They said that so many other women would be able to relate, Ella. They said they want me to be able to show that being a celebrity doesn’t make you immune to heartbreak, that there is a way forward after a family tragedy like ours, that we just need to …’