Cuckoo

by Wendy Perriam

  She had stood at the sewing-room door, trying to look calm and normal and welcoming. ‘Goodnight then, Magda.’

  ‘’Night.’

  ‘Got everything you want?’ My house, my husband, my sewing-room.

  ‘Yeah.’ Why couldn’t Piroska have taught her child how to speak?

  ‘Well, goodnight,’ she’d said again.

  ‘’Night.’

  She’d still lingered, holding the door handle. It didn’t seem enough to say goodnight. She’d offered Ovaltine, but Magda wouldn’t touch it.

  ‘Hungry?’

  ‘No.’ If only she wouldn’t flatten her vowels like that. A foreign accent would have been preferable – charming even, and certainly classless.

  The child must be hungry, however she denied it. None of them had eaten, only played at it. Magda had jabbed the food around her plate for an hour and a half, and all she’d swallowed was two peas and half a glass of water.

  ‘I’ll be off, then. Sleep well.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Yeah. Oh yeah. Of course they’d sleep well, all of them. Charles escaping into his midnight calculations, she herself wondering why hugs were so impossible, Magda sobbing under the bedclothes.

  Was the child sobbing? She sat up and tried to hear. The sharp cry of a night bird ripped through the silence, but nothing else.

  She crept upstairs and listened outside Magda’s door. She heard the laburnum tree shift and sigh a little outside the window, and a tom cat courting. She opened the door a crack.

  ‘What d’you want?’ The voice was fierce, almost rude. It came from by the window, where Magda was standing, still dressed and wide awake. She wasn’t crying. She looked as if she had never cried in all her fifteen years. Her face was stiff and wary.

  ‘You’re spying on me.’

  ‘Of course not, Magda, I just wondered …’

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘I thought perhaps …’

  ‘I said ‘‘go away’’.’

  How dare a mere child tell her to go away in her own house. Rude, ungrateful little bitch! ‘Look, Magda, if you want to be difficult, please yourself. But we’ve got to try to live together. So you might as well …’

  Ridiculous, taking that tone with a child, a miserable, frightened creature who belonged nowhere and owned nothing. I’d like to be nice to you, Magda, really I would. Give you a hug, put my arms around you. But I’ve no idea how to even get near you. I’m not as heartless as I seem. Or maybe I am. Perhaps I’m a monster, a snobbish, steel-trap of a woman, completely lacking in maternal feelings. Is that why I’ve never conceived? I’m too bloody mean to be a mother? I can’t blame Charles any more. He’s proved his fertility, hasn’t he? You’re the living, breathing proof of it. That’s partly why I hate you, Magda. Oh, I know it’s unfair. It’s not your fault, and I’m sorry for you, but …

  You’re beautiful. I wish you weren’t. Your hair’s magnificent. I could never grow mine as long as that. Perhaps Charles will make you cut it. You’ve got your faults, though. You’re too tall for a child, and your hands are large and bony. Why don’t you wash your feet?

  She took a step inside the room. ‘Listen, Magda, I’m sorry I was sharp. Why don’t you have a nice warm bath? It might help you to sleep. I could give you some bathsalts, lovely pine ones, which turn the water green.’ She did really long to give her something. A hug was impossible, but bathsalts, biscuits, time to talk. So long as Magda went on saying no, they’d never break the barrier between them.

  ‘No.’

  ‘All right, then, I’ll go away.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You don’t want me to go away?’

  ‘No.’

  She sat down on the bed. It wasn’t good for the mattress, but it might be a start. ‘Why don’t you come and sit beside me?’

  ‘No.’

  Christ! what a little minx she was, slouched beside the wardrobe, jabbing her feet against the wood, expecting them all to wait on her and worry about her, and spend the whole night trailing up and down stairs. She felt stupid sitting on the bed – trapped and vulnerable. Where in God’s name was Charles? Hiding behind his tax returns, frightened of his own daughter. How could you be frightened of a schoolgirl? Yet, she was herself; she was.

  Magda looked even paler now, sort of shrunk and faded, as if Mrs Eady had put her in the washing machine on the wrong programme. She probably hadn’t slept at all, and she couldn’t cope with breakfast. Frances cleared the toast away – no point forcing her. She brightened up a little after Charles had left. Frances wondered if she was angry with him, too. Both of them furious with Charles. By having a daughter, he’d betrayed his wife, and by having a wife, he’d disowned his daughter. Perhaps she could use it as a bond between them.

  ‘Magda?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Look, first of all, let’s get one thing straight. It’s ‘‘yes’’, not ‘‘yeah’’.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you say it, then?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Because it’s correct.’

  Magda shrugged. ‘Don’t care.’

  No, thought Frances, you don’t. Your fingernails need cutting, and your breasts are far too heavy to go around without a bra like that. And you haven’t brought a flannel with you. She tore a piece of paper from the memo-pad hanging by the dresser and made a shopping list: flannel, slippers, bras, blouses, skirt, shampoo …

  By twelve o’ clock, they’d only got the slippers and shampoo. Magda refused to wear skirts or bras. She didn’t make a fuss, she just said no, but in such a pale fierce way, Frances didn’t argue. She wouldn’t even have a proper pair of shoes.

  ‘But you can’t go out in those.’ They were combat boots, with heavy studded soles and knotted laces.

  ‘I won’t go out, then.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Magda. I want to take you out. I’ve already planned a visit to the V. and A., with lunch in town beforehand. You can’t go dressed like that.’

  ‘Well, I’ll have to stay at home.’

  ‘Magda, please.’

  ‘What’s the V. and A., anyway?’

  A voice behind her chipped in. ‘A boring old museum which kids get dragged to in the name of culture, and then inflict on their own children as a just revenge.’

  Frances whirled round and came face to face with blue corduroy and a grin.

  ‘Mr Bradley!’

  ‘Ned. What’s all this, then? Another Medfield job? Guided tours of Richmond, I suppose. Is this your passenger?’ He stopped in front of both of them, barring their way, and grinned full-frontally at Magda. ‘Pleased to meet you. Ned Bradley’s the name. Friend of Frances, and enemy of all museums.’

  She’d never seen Magda smile before. It was a slow, unwilling smile, but at least it displaced the scowl she’d worn all morning. She felt a surge of gratitude. Ned was like a human de-icer.

  ‘This is Magda.’ She and Charles had decided to dispense with Magda’s surname for the moment. She had, of course, taken her mother’s name, which was all but unpronounceable. And until they’d decided who Magda was supposed to be, a surname posed problems. ‘She’s our – er – guest at present. We’re just buying her some clothes.’

  ‘No, we’re not,’ said Magda.

  ‘Do I detect a clash of interests? I suppose Lady Frances insists on twinset and pearls, and you refuse anything but a boiler suit.’

  ‘Yup,’ said Magda. ‘Though I wouldn’t mind some cords. Like yours.’

  ‘Well, you won’t find them in this dreary old emporium, my love. They only sell grey suits for grey people. I’m just off to buy some gear myself. Going to a jumble sale. You’d better come along.’

  ‘A jumble sale!’ Charles’ daughter in second-hand clothes which might have come from slums or syphilitics …

  ‘Well, let’s be fair to it, it’s really a summer fête. Big do, in fact, with all the sideshows. Guess the weight of an anorexic goldfish – you know the so
rt of thing. But they do have an old clothes stall. One of the best round here. I come every year and sniff out all the bargains.’

  Magda took a cautious step forward. ‘Do they have cords?’

  ‘Oh, stacks of ’em. Boiler suits, dungarees, ex-army stuff – all the ‘‘in’’ gear. It’s held at a school where I used to teach. I still know half the staff and they put things by for me.’

  Frances ignored him. ‘Magda, the last thing you want is junk clothes. You’ve got enough of those already. You need some respectable outfits – skirts and blouses, a decent little dress or two.’

  ‘Why?’ said Magda.

  ‘Yeah, why?’ said Ned.

  The two were near conspirators, slumped together against the window of a record shop, their messy, casual clothes almost matching. Ned slid his bottom down the window and balanced on his haunches. ‘There’s a nearly-new stall, as well – you’d get a decent dress there. They even sell period clothes, Queen Victoria’s knickers, Second Empire ermine tippets.’

  Magda giggled. ‘Come on then, let’s have a dekko.’ They plunged arm-in-arm down the High Street, Magda almost skipping. She couldn’t be missing her mother much, if a few germy cast-offs were enough to distract her. No, that was totally unfair. But somehow the sight of Magda treating Ned like a brother – or worse – made Frances bristle. Ned was her property, and she didn’t want him mixed up with sordid reality. If anyone were going to hold his arm, it shouldn’t be a pushy, problem kid.

  ‘Magda, will you please come back …’

  Ned came back instead. ‘Be a sport, Fran. You’ll love the fête! There’s a donkey derby and a very classy dance display. We could make a day of it. I’ll treat us all to tea.’

  ‘We haven’t had our lunch yet and I’ve already booked a table at Valchera’s.’ Charles’ restaurant, where the waiters all paid homage to him. Where else could she take his child?

  ‘I don’t want lunch, I want tea.’ Magda had trailed back and dumped her shopping bag on the pavement. She was staring into the record shop. ‘Please, Frances.’

  Frances could see the pale, pleading face reflected in the window. The kid was asking for something. Why not give it to her? ‘All right then, but only for an hour. We’ll have to do the proper shopping afterwards.’

  They walked through Richmond, three abreast, across the roundabout and down the Lower Mortlake Road.

  ‘Brent Edge Comprehensive!’ Ned announced, as they stopped in front of a Dickensian blacking factory. Plastic pennants were fluttering in the wind; rock music blaring out across the road and on through half of Surrey. Two scruffy boys in school uniform were standing just inside the gates, playing mouth organ and accordion.

  ‘Please give generously,’ said the placard propped between them. ‘Headmaster, staff and 2000 boys to support.’

  Ned tossed them a coin and made straight for the jumble. Half a hundred female welter-weights had had the same idea. Ned fought with Crimplene bosoms and knuckle-duster handbags. An irate matron started a tug-of-war with him. They landed up with one sleeve each of a velvet smoking-jacket.

  ‘We need help against these Amazonian hordes,’ he muttered. ‘Hold on a sec, there’s Mac.’ He nodded to an out-of-work gangster with a patchwork waistcoat and the dirty debris of a beard, who was serving behind the stall.

  ‘Hi, Mac, meet my harem. Magda, Franny – this is Neil Macauley. Teaches Comparative Religion to the drop-outs. Got any decent cords, Mac?’

  ‘Who for, you or the ladies?’

  ‘All three of us. Three for the price of one! And none of your Shylock tactics.’

  Mac dug about under a pile of assorted outerwear. ‘You don’t want a wet-suit, do you? Genuine hundred-per-cent British rubber. Donated by a diver who never re-surfaced. No, wait, here’s something better.’ He slung a pair of black corduroys into Magda’s arms.

  ‘Special price for you, love – 20p. Try ’em on. You’re not really allowed to, but if you crawl behind the counter …’

  ‘Magda, you can’t possibly wear those.’ Frances dodged thirteen stone of polyester polka-dots, advancing on her from behind.

  ‘Why can’t she? They’re cheap at the price.’

  ‘Yeah, why can’t I?’

  ‘They’re filthy, to start with, and …’

  ‘It’s only good clean dirt. Gives them a bit of body.’ The polka-dots had overtaken and were blocking the view.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Ned. They’re men’s jeans, in any case.’

  ‘I don’t care, I want men’s. I want them exactly the same as Ned’s.’

  Ned was wrestling with a pair of purple Levis and some smaller jeans in a dirty shade of grey. He shook an ersatz Boadicea off the other end of them. ‘I don’t really think you can tell the sex of jeans. They’re unisex, like goldfish.’

  Magda crawled up from underneath the stall, the cords so tight they looked as if they had been painted on her.

  ‘They’re far too tight, Magda, you can’t sit down in them.’

  ‘I’ll stand up, then …’

  Mac laughed. ‘That’s the spirit, dear! Look, I’ll make it 15p. But only for you, mind.’

  Ned squeezed between a dropped bosom and a brass-bound handbag, and took Frances’ arm. ‘Go easy on the kid, love. One pair of cords can’t hurt.’

  She wished he wouldn’t interfere. Magda was already far too free and easy, calling Ned by his Christian name, and leaning against him like that, when she’d only just been introduced. With a mother like hers, she needed watching. Easy for Ned to spoil her, when he didn’t know the facts. It wasn’t his problem; he didn’t have to live with her. He was right, though. It wasn’t really Magda’s problem, either. She hadn’t asked to be conceived. And anyway, she’d probably worn this sort of gear all her life. Magda in cords hadn’t brought the world to a halt yet.

  ‘All right,’ she said gruffly. ‘She can have them.’

  ‘Great!’ said Ned. ‘I’ll take these two pairs as well.’ He rescued his booty from a materfamilias with a terrier grip. ‘What’s your best price, Mac?’

  ‘50p the three. And I’m more or less giving them away.’

  ‘Daylight robbery. Make it forty.’

  ‘Forty-five.’

  ‘Done!’ Ned handed across a pocketful of loose change and looped the jeans around his neck.

  ‘Who are those ones for, Ned?’ Magda was clinging on to his arm, stroking the Levis.

  ‘Purple for me, grey for Franny.’

  ‘I never wear jeans, and would you please not call me Franny.’ She was being shoved from behind, against the hard wooden stall. There’d be splinters in her skin, and God knows what else if she wore other people’s cast-offs.

  ‘They’d look smashing with your eyes, that sort of feline grey. It’s more or less the colour of my cat.’

  ‘I distinctly remember your cat as being black. With a small white patch on his back left paw.’

  ‘Yes, Rilke. You never saw Hallam – he’s the grey one. But fancy you remembering. Cor! I wish I was a cat – they’ve obviously got a way with women. I bet nobody’d ever remember the colour of my back left paw.’ Ned ducked beneath a pair of seersucker biceps and stormed the counter again. ‘If you don’t like jeans, I’d like to buy you something else, Fran. Hey, Mac, what you got for a natty dresser?’

  Mac flung a silver lurex top across, with a décolleté neckline and sequins round the sleeves. Ned caught it in mid-air.

  ‘This is absolutely you, Fran. Just the thing for Conservative Party coffee mornings. You get a very decent class of jumble here, you know. Even Mrs Thatcher buys from Mac. OK, you’re not impressed, I can tell. Let’s try the Bargain Box, then.’

  He dipped into a cardboard carton labelled ‘Rockbottom Prices – we must be daft’ and came up with a large straw hat. Plastic cherries dangled across the broken yellow brim and purple ribbons cascaded down the back. He set it rakishly on her head, ruffling her Evansky hair-do. ‘Miss Brent Edge 1981, chosen unanimously from a thousand breathl
ess finalists!’

  Frances almost shook him off. His humour was E-stream and the hat worse. She could hear herself sounding harsh and irritable, like the worst sort of spoil-sport. Why couldn’t she just relax and enjoy a summer afternoon, as Magda was now doing? She looked a different child without her scowl, looping diamanté earrings over Ned’s earlobes and trying on a stripey blazer back to front. Ned seemed to know how to tame and thaw her … which only made it more difficult. He was like a grinning reprimand, his easy banter showing up her shrewishness. She didn’t want to be a shrew, but there was some strict headmistress of a voice, sitting in her head, nagging and prohibiting, casting a blight on everything. It reminded her of her own mother’s voice, anxious, life-destroying. ‘Don’t get your feet wet, Frances; dogs bite, Frances.’ Her mother would run a mile from jumble sales. ‘You’ll only pick up germs, Frances, after they’ve rooked you …’ But why repeat her mother’s maxims? The umbilical cord had been cut long since, and she was free to go her own way. Grudgingly, she picked up the hat.

  ‘What about that tea you promised?’

  ‘Oh, it’s not time for tea. Let’s have ices first. They’ve got a Dayville’s tent here. I’ll treat us all to triple scoops.’

  They sat in the stuffy tent on collapsible stools. Ned wore the hat back to front, a frayed purple ribbon trailing in his cornet. He leant across and licked the nuts off Magda’s ice. ‘Here, do a swap. A lick of my Rocky Road for a bite of your Strawberry Fizz.’

  Frances seethed inwardly. Ned had no right to make Magda’s manners worse than they were already. He’d bought them all giant-sized cornets with hot fudge sauce and nuts. No gold stars. Ice cream was fattening, and chocolate ruination for the skin. Delicious ruination, none the less. She’d never had a Dayville’s, could almost have enjoyed it, if it weren’t for Charles’ prohibitions. It was so difficult, being torn all ways, her mother’s voice in one ear, Charles’ in the other, and another, new-hatched voice urging, ‘Go on, spoil yourself.’ She might have heeded that one, if she and Ned were on their own. It had been a bonus to bump into him at all, but she was annoyed that it had happened when she was playing dreary mother, so he’d see her as a nagger and a killjoy. And Magda herself had come between them, slipping triumphantly into the role of Ned’s playmate, and making her the odd one out. It could have been far worse, though. She might be marooned now in Valchera’s, toying with her vichyssoise, a sullen rebel facing her across the table, and the afternoon stretching to infinity. Ned had worked wonders with Magda, no doubt about it, but she almost resented the fact that he had succeeded where she and Charles had not. Everything was so confusing. Perhaps she was simply tired. Three sleepless nights hadn’t helped, nor a daughter delivered like unsolicited goods. The fête was mercilessly noisy, crowds jostling and jabbering, loudspeakers blaring, one announcer out-shouting another.