by Adele Geras
‘Goodbye, Justin. I’ll see myself out.’
‘You’re running away because you haven’t got a leg to stand on,’ Justin was shouting himself now. ‘You’re not going to admit there’s even a tiny bit of justice on my side.’
Matt forced himself to smile pleasantly. It took some doing but it was worth it. He was well aware that nothing would infuriate Justin more than him walking out right now, without saying another word, so that was what he did. As he went down to the ground floor, the sound of the flat door being slammed echoed round the stairwell, which made Matt feel marginally better, but not for long. Once he got outside, he started walking quickly along the street. Justin will be looking at me from up there, he thought. I won’t give him the satisfaction of appearing anything except brisk and upright. Once he turned the corner, he leaned against the wall, closing his eyes and breathing in and out in an effort to calm himself. What now? Where to go? He didn’t feel like going back to the office. He took out his mobile phone and stared at it. Ellie’s flat was quite close by. Portland Place. Would she be in? Was he mad to try and see her? No, he wasn’t. Justin was her son after all. Maybe she’d be able to talk some sense into him. Worth trying, Matt thought. He flipped his phone open and punched in Ellie’s number.
*
I’m having withdrawal symptoms, Phyl thought, as she sat behind the counter in the surgery waiting for the last animals of the day to leave with their owners. She’d just shown Montpelier Tango, a Borzoi with a spoiled and arrogant mistress, into Doc Hargreaves’ room, and since there weren’t any new animals to process she went through to the back where the cats and dogs who’d had surgery that day were lined up in their boxes, waiting for their anaesthetic to wear off.
‘You’ll be going home soon,’ she whispered to Mimi, one of her favourite cats, who’d been coming to get her boosters here for the last ten years or so. Mimi was an affectionate creature. She’d been in for a minor operation and had now recovered enough to purr a little as Phyl stroked her head and spoke to her. ‘I wish I could take you home with me. Actually, I wish I weren’t here at all, if you really want to know. I wish I still had Poppy to look after.’
When Lou came to take the baby back to London, Phyl had made all the right noises. I didn’t show how much I was going to miss her, she thought now, how empty my days would suddenly become. I rattled on about how Doc Hargreaves would be pleased to have me back; how much I missed the animals, and if Lou didn’t believe me, then she pretended to.
To be fair, Lou did seem to be coping a lot better with Poppy nowadays. Perhaps she was growing into motherhood at last. Or maybe (and this was a possibility that Phyl favoured) there was somebody in her life who was making her happy.
‘A boyfriend, Mimi,’ she told the cat. ‘That’d be good, right? A possible dad for Poppy.’
As soon as she said those words, a chill came over her. I’ve read too many tabloid newspapers, that’s my problem, she thought, and urged herself not to be so stupid. Not all stepfathers were either cruel or sexually predatory to their stepchildren, and it was a very long way from being that kind of relationship, wasn’t it? If indeed there was a relationship at all. Lou hadn’t said so. She hadn’t said anything. It was more a feeling that Phyl had picked up. I won’t think about it, she said to herself. She sighed. As soon as she stopped fretting about Lou, there was Matt to worry about. He hadn’t been himself in the last couple of days. She’d asked him about it, and he’d denied there was anything wrong. He was obviously lying, but they’d never been the kind of couple who probed and prodded one another, digging after innermost thoughts. He’d tell her when he was ready.
The talk about Paris, which was what had made her agree to giving Poppy back in the first place, hadn’t come to anything yet, and they were already well into May. When the Poppy business came up, Phyl had the impression that a trip to France was imminent, but then some things had happened at work which Matt needed to attend to, and they’d put it off ‘till another time’. Those were his very words. ‘Sometime soon,’ he’d gone on, to dispel her disappointment.
And she’d cheered up. She wasn’t a sulker. Paris would happen when it did and meanwhile it was something to look forward to. And with Poppy gone, they’d started making love again. She had to admit that it was lovely to be gathered into Matt’s arms, caressed, kissed, fondled. She was conscious of the fact, though she’d have died rather than tell a soul about it, that perhaps she wasn’t getting the full – what could you call it – value? That sounded funny. The full glory – yes, that was better – out of sex that other people did. She wasn’t one of those women who’d never experienced an orgasm, but she was aware, from the pages of the fiction she read, that others were obviously much more highly sexed than she was. Or something. Some writers created heroines who went off like a rocket the moment a man came within inches of an erogenous zone. Were they lying or just exaggerating? Or maybe some people truly were like that and it was seen as something for more run-of-the-mill readers to aspire to … Her thoughts flew to Ellie. Phyl had always assumed she was very highly sexed. She’d be one of those rocket-women for sure. Then another thing occurred to her: maybe the sexual exploders were pretending, at least for some of the time. She herself didn’t have the amorous sophistication to know how to pretend and would have felt a fool groaning and moaning and arching her back if she didn’t mean it.
The mobile in her handbag was ringing. She went through quickly to the reception area and found her bag under the counter. By the time she got there, the phone was silent. She flipped it open and listened to Matt on the voicemail.
‘Er, it’s me, darling … I’m going to be a bit late, I’m afraid … Something’s come up. I’ll tell you all about it when I get back. Don’t wait supper for me. I’ll be … well, see you when I see you, all right? Sorry, Phyl.’
She listened to the message again, feeling worried. That was silly. It couldn’t be anything to do with Lou or the baby or Matt would have said. So what was it? He’d tell her later, so nothing private, but he sounded – how had he sounded? He was never quite himself on the phone anyway and he hated leaving messages. She decided to phone him back. When he picked up and said, ‘Hello?’ she thought she could detect a note of something like panic in his voice. Why did he sound like that? She said quickly, ‘It’s only me, Matt. I was a bit worried by your message, that’s all.’
‘Oh. Oh, no need to worry, love. I’m fine. Really.’
‘Has something happened?’
‘No … no, nothing’s happened. It’s just …’
‘Tell me, Matt. Or I’ll worry. Please.’
‘No need to worry. And I’d rather tell you later. I’ve just been to see Justin, that’s all.’
‘Is he all right?’
Matt gave a laugh, though it was clear he didn’t think anything was in the least funny. ‘He’s more than all right, believe me. I’ll tell you all about it when I get home.’
‘Why can’t you come now? Where are you?’
‘Oh.’ He paused and Phyl wondered why he wasn’t answering at once. He must know the answers to both her questions. She was just about to prompt him when he said, ‘I’m in Brighton. I ran into Neil Freeman, remember him? We’re going to have a quick meal together before he goes back to London. Okay?’
‘Fine. That’s fine. I’ll see you later then.’
‘Yes. Of course – shan’t be long. Bye.’
Phyl dropped the phone into her bag and went back to sit with Mimi, who had now fallen asleep.
‘You’re not much company,’ she whispered and sat staring into space, not really thinking, but aware of a sense of unease. Something wasn’t right. Matt sounded as though someone else was listening in on the conversation. Well, they probably were. He wouldn’t have been able to speak freely if Neil Freeman could overhear what he was saying.
*
The room where Poppy’s cot took up most of the space was dimly lit and she could see her baby, sweetly asleep among the cuddly creat
ures she adored. She’d dropped off almost as soon as Lou had put her down and now she lay with her plump cheek making a lovely smooth curve and her hand on top of the blanket, the fingers spread out. It looked like a small pink flower. Poppy’s hair fell into ringlets, and spun gold described it exactly. Bloody hell, what’s brought on all this poetic nonsense? Lou left the room feeling rather silly, but unable to stop herself feeling a pleasant glow of satisfaction and happiness, most of which had to do with the prospect of the nice glass of wine she’d promised herself. But some of it was pleasure at having her daughter there in the next room, fast asleep. Perhaps she was getting the hang of motherhood at last. She’d have a drink and then just look at the screenplay once more before taking it round to Ciaran Donnelly’s house in the morning.
She sat down and took a long sip of her wine. Grandad’s novel lay on the table, and she picked it up, handling it carefully, as she always did. She couldn’t stop thinking of it as a living part of her grandfather, though no one else would see it like that. An out-of-print book which wasn’t exactly a bestseller even when it first came out. Now though, there was some hope of it being reissued and then other people would be able to read it. What would they think of it? Even if that did happen, which was far from certain, it didn’t affect the work she’d done on the screenplay.
I wonder if I’ve got it right, she thought. What will it be like as a movie? Some things were so difficult to write, like the scene where Peter’s baby sister dies. She knew exactly where it came in the book:
Dulcie said it wasn’t his fault but it was. She didn’t know. He’d hated the baby. He wasn’t a wicked person usually but he’d done it. He’d killed her. Dulcie came to tell him. ‘You must be a brave boy, darling,’ she said to him. ‘Your poor little sister’s dead.’
‘I know,’ he whispered. ‘I killed her.’
‘You didn’t! What on earth would make you say a thing like that? You’re a naughty boy, you know. This isn’t to do with you. It’s poor little Mary … yet you’re trying to turn attention to yourself. That’s not … that’s not helpful. We’re very sad, you know. Your poor mother.’
‘I’m not sad. I hated her.’
Peter didn’t say that aloud. You couldn’t say things like that, not ever. But you could think them. The creature (he couldn’t call her by her name) was horrible. Her skin was grey and clammy and her fingers were just a collection of tiny bones. Her head was huge – too big for her skinny body. When she breathed, you could practically see her heart bursting out of the skin. And he’d killed her. He used to lie in the dark and imagine it: you wouldn’t have to do anything much. Just hold a bit of cloth or a pillow over her face for a bit and then she’d stop breathing and that would be that. Peter wouldn’t have to look at her any more and he wouldn’t have to think about her. He could imagine she’d never been born. He could forget his mother’s legs covered in blood. The way she screamed. He wouldn’t have to listen to the baby crying which was a sound that sliced his heart when he heard it, sliced it into pieces so that he could feel the bits of it in his body, hurting. His mother was sick now. She was getting thinner and thinner and she didn’t have any strength left to speak to him. Tomorrow, he’d go and sit with her and try and talk to her. The last time, she’d hardly looked at him. Not really. She didn’t want to speak to him. The baby – that’s what she was interested in and he wished more fervently than he’d ever wished anything that she’d die. Die, die, he said to himself. I want you to. I want you not to be there, next to Mummy. In her arms. Sucking at her breasts. There was no milk in his mother’s breasts, so the baby died. That was the reason. It didn’t have anything to do with him, not really, but Peter felt as though it did. He felt as if he’d made it happen. I’ve killed her. My own sister. He closed his eyes and all he could see was his hand, growing and stretching, reaching out through the darkness like a monstrous claw, over the sleeping bodies of the other children in his hut and snaking over the compound and past the latrines and up into his mother’s hut and into her bed and over the nose and mouth of little Mary, the bony, skeletal baby who didn’t want to live, who was halfway to being a skeleton already. Killing her. It could be true. If you wished something often enough, it might come true. No one knew, not for certain.
Lou took a sip of wine. First this scene, and then later, the death of the boy’s mother. How had her grandfather, her gentle, mild, rather strict and solemn grandad, thought up a scene like that? It wasn’t a bit like him in real life. Well, she supposed that this was what made a good novelist: the ability to inhabit different people. Writers had to imagine themselves in the same position as their characters. Had to put themselves in the same situations however horrible those were. It would have been a bit easier for Grandad than for some others because after all, he’d spent time in a Japanese prisoner-of-war camp. He’d have had to do less research than most, but the force of the scene was striking. Perhaps Constance resented the fact that he lived so much inside his own head. Maybe that was one of the things that led to the difficult relationship he had with her. Maybe if he’d been able to talk to his wife about how awful things had been in the camp, he wouldn’t have needed to write the novel. Lou smiled when she imagined how Constance would have greeted a description of life as it was lived in the camp:
Oh, darling, how absolutely ghastly! But for goodness’ sake, do we really have to dwell on such hideous things? That was all a very long time ago, I’m happy to say, and there’s nothing about our lives now which could possibly be reminding you of all this. I think you ought to go and play golf or something. It doesn’t do to wallow in such things, does it? I’ve got nothing against you writing a book, darling, but who’s going to want to read about horrors like that? Why don’t you try a nice comedy? Or a detective story? People love detective stories, don’t they?
She’d have tried to put him off, and when he persisted she’d have lost interest in the whole writing thing and that would have been that. Another thought occurred to Lou. He’d read parts of the book out to her when she was very young, as though he knew she’d be the one who’d appreciate it. He’d never read aloud to Matt. Lou knew that because her father had told her so.
‘You’re honoured,’ he’d told her. ‘Maybe he knows that you’re the one person who’d enjoy Blind Moon.’
And she knew she was privileged. She was called after John Barrington’s mother and it was clear from Blind Moon, even though it was a novel, that the love Peter has for his mother was something John himself must have felt. You couldn’t invent such a thing. Grandad had loved his mother. That much was clear.
She got up from the sofa and went to fetch her screenplay. Annette’s death, the moment when Peter sees Dulcie for what she really is, the moment when he understands everything: that was the scene that had to be right. That had to work.
*
‘This is jolly nice,’ Matt said, allowing himself to relax against the cushions. Ellie’s small basement flat was decorated in a style he thought of as Bohemian: lots of cushions, covered in satin and velvet, too many pictures on the walls for his taste, not terribly clean and more than a little untidy, but welcoming. Piles of magazines, a few books, not too many ornaments and a rather splendid set of brocade curtains which had seen better days but still managed to make a good impression. Vaguely orange, he thought, making a mental note of the colour to tell Phyl and then wondered in almost the same moment whether he’d been right not to tell her the truth about where he was. Whatever the case, it was too late now. He’d already given her that Neil Freeman story. He’d have to work out something to say about their meeting – to lend verisimilitude to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative. The words from The Mikado, which he loved, came unbidden into his mind.
There was no real reason why he shouldn’t have told Phyl that he’d come here. Justin was Ellie’s son. He wanted to complain, let off steam, etc., so what more natural than to go and visit the chap’s mother? He knew, though, that however he spun it, Phyl would be jealous. She
’d always tried to hide them but her sentiments about his ex-wife emerged in all kinds of ways. Like the small, pursing movement of her mouth whenever Ellie’s name was mentioned. She had no idea she was doing it, but Matt understood what it meant
‘Lots of my stuff is still in storage, darling,’ said Ellie from the kitchen where she was making tea. The thing about ex-wives was odd, he thought and wondered whether other men shared his feelings. Perhaps it was a little like what happened to ducklings. Didn’t they get imprinted with the first adult they saw? Bond with that particular duck and all march behind her in a line to the pond or wherever else she decided to lead them? Didn’t babies fix on their mother in the same way? That’s what must have happened to me, too, when it came to Ellie. I loved her so much that it’s been hard to wipe away the … what could you call them? … the leftovers of that love. One of which was the desire he felt for her. He’d never stopped wanting her. She left me too soon, he thought. We hadn’t been married long enough for me to tire of her in bed. He smiled. Would one ever tire of Ellie in bed? Ever get used to her? Take her for granted? All he knew was, after she left him, his whole body remembered her for years and it had taken some effort of will to blot her out of his mind while he was making love to Phyl, and he didn’t always succeed either. This was a shameful secret and for a long time he’d felt terrible about it, but over the years the memories of Ellie had grown more and more faint and it was only from time to time that he recalled what things used to be like. And then she’d appeared at Constance’s funeral and he’d started remembering all over again.
‘Here you are, darling. Now,’ Ellie began pouring the tea, ‘tell me all the gossip about Justin.’ She was wearing a sort of kimono affair, which looked silky and was printed all over with bright pink flowers against dark green foliage. As she handed him the cup, she leaned towards him and the front of the robe gaped a little, allowing him a glimpse of cream lace that edged a bra which seemed to be having trouble containing her breasts. She sat up again, decorum restored. She said, ‘What’s he done now?’
