‘To warn me?’
‘Well, sort of to warn you, though she did say that she didn’t quite mean it like that . . . but she thought you ought to know that she’s got her sister Shirley staying with her. She didn’t want just to spring Shirley on you. She couldn’t remember whether you’d ever met Shirley.’
‘Have you met Shirley?’
‘Oh yes, I’ve met Shirley.’
‘And have I?’
‘I don’t know. How would I know?’
‘I don’t think I have. I don’t seem to recall her. What’s she like?’
‘Oh, sort of – well, I don’t know really. She’s not much like Liz. Well, she’s quite like Liz, in some ways.’
‘That’s very helpful.’
‘Anyway, you’ll see for yourself. Tomorrow.’
‘Why is she staying with Liz?’
‘Because she invited herself, I gather. Liz didn’t seem best pleased but she said it was such an unusual occurrence that she had to go along with it. Apparently she’s been ill, in hospital, or something. She’s come to convalesce.’
‘To convalesce? At Liz’s?’
‘Well, to perk herself up, or something.’ A pause. ‘Brian knows her. Brian knows her husband. Brian says she’s very nice.’
‘Brian says everyone is very nice.’ Another pause, as Alix relays this comment to Brian. Alix says: ‘Brian says to say that he doesn’t think Dr Streeter is very nice. Or Mrs Thatcher. Or Mr McGregor.’
‘Of those, I only count Dr Streeter,’ says Esther. ‘Brian doesn’t know Mrs Thatcher and Mr McGregor. He might quite well decide he liked them if he did.’
Another pause. ‘Brian says, fair enough, but unlikely,’ says Alix.
‘Well,’ says Esther, ‘I shall look forward to meeting Shirley. What does she do?’
‘I don’t think she does any thing,’ says Alix. ‘She’s a housewife, mother of two. Or is it three?’
‘I see,’ says Esther.
‘I say, Est, did you know that Liz and Charles are actually going to sell that house? I thought she was set against it, but she’s changed her mind, She suddenly seems to have decided it’s a gloomy monstrosity. Isn’t that odd?’
‘Well, it is a bit gloomy,’ says Esther, carefully.
‘Good God,’ says Alix, dumbfounded. ‘What do you mean? Explain, explain.’
Shirley sat back in the pale-yellow armchair and watched Liz, Alix and Esther. A summer evening light fell slanting on the polished inlaid coffee table, lending it a strange, watery, reflective sheen: a gold-sprigged white cup swam prettily on the veined wood, next to a posy of daisies in a tiny cut-glass vase. Liz, Esther and Alix were talking, with much animation and many an apparent non sequitur, about London districts, property prices, houses, the police, no-go areas, rape, violence, murder, robbery, Tennyson and Arthur Hallam, Leslie Stephen and Virgina Woolf. Shirley listened. There was, perhaps, a thread linking this rambling, discursive, allusive, exclusive, jumbled topographical discourse: the sale of the Harley Street house itself, in which they were now sitting. Shirley had little to contribute to this discussion, so sat quietly, observing: it was obvious to her that the house should be sold, but then, people do not always, even often, obey the obvious, and she could tell that both Alix and Esther were a little surprised by the turn of events.
She had in fact met Esther before, more than once, though she could see that Esther had forgotten their meetings: she remembered Esther quite well, as Esther was visually rather memorable, rather distinctive, and had not changed much over the years. There she still was, small, neat, olive-skinned, with her hair cut short and dark and straight like a Chinese doll: still neatly dressed, this evening, in a timeless smart fashionless combination of dark-green velvet trousers with a pale duck-egg blue shirt: tidy, neat, ageless, contained; with perhaps just the slightest hint of a wizening, of a wrinkling, of a preservation to come? But really, remarkably little changed from the undergraduate Shirley had first glimpsed over twenty years ago in Cambridge, from the graduate she had once secretly heard lecture at the National Gallery, from the Esther to whom she had spoken at some length some five or six years ago, at one of Liz’s boys’ birthday parries. She was not surprised that Esther had forgotten these encounters.
In Shirley’s eyes, Alix had changed more than Esther: her brown hair was fuzzily streaked with grey, she now wore glasses (which she would impatiently remove from time to time to peer fiercely from face to face, as though indignantly unable to believe that she could not see properly without them), she was dressed more stylishly (if more ethnically) to Shirley’s eye, than she had been in the old days, and looked somehow more adult, more imposing than Shirley had ever thought she would; though as relentlessly pleasant as ever, her docility, her air of anxious humility, had vanished. And Liz – well, there was Liz, also looking older, a little stouter, more solid in her chair, her face fuller, her neck fuller, her voice as loud, her opinions forceful as ever, her hair dyed? highlighted? – and looking, Shirley thought, not quite well, transitional somehow, as though she hadn’t decided quite what to look like for the next ten years, the next twenty years? Though it was Shirley herself who was in theory not well, Shirley who was here in London to recover from a D and C, the necessity for the D and C caused (according to the gynaecologist at the Royal Infirmary) by spending too many years on the pill: sterilize me, then, Shirley had demanded, and the gynaecologist had done so, and now Shirley was, in theory, recovering from this shock to her emotional and reproductive system. Though in fact she was not here for anything of the sort: she was here to force Liz to confront the problem of their mother. And knew, already, after five days in London, after a couple of suppers, after a night at a Tom Stoppard play, after an exhibition at the Royal Academy, after walking in the early evening with Liz beneath the deep, honey-scented red of the horse chestnuts in Regent’s Park, that she had failed. Liz had refused to listen, had stolidly, solidly, professionally, refused to allow the subject to be raised. Liz would do nothing: nothing at all. Looking at her, as she sat there in her own elegant drawing-room, in her rather less than elegant Indian wrap-round skirt and cotton slogan-printed T-shirt (had Liz started to dress a little oddly, with the years?), Shirley thought: my God, she’s beginning to look like our mother. God help her, that’s what she’s beginning to look like.
Alix, unlike Esther, had remembered Shirley well. She was, Alix noted, extremely well dressed. She was thin, pale, carefully made-up, and very smart. Her maroon shoes matched her maroon handbag. Her suit was well tailored, fashionable, of the year: her silk shirt was tied at the throat with one of those complicated bows that Alix instantly noted as a tribute to high chic and considerable manual dexterity: she had once made the mistake of purchasing a shirt with a similar kind of adornment at the neck, and had never managed to make it look like anything but a ragged, bunched, shapeless mess. In fact, Alix had noted, peering closely, putting on her glasses to peer more closely, the detail of Shirley’s outfit was remarkable: the buttons and buttonholes, the handkerchief in the pocket, the well-chosen costume jewellery (well, Alix supposed that that was costume jewellery, for if it wasn’t, what was? – she’d never been quite clear), the beautiful little golden cuff-links protruding from the shirt cuffs. Elegant, that’s what Shirley was: this was no doubt her going-away outfit, her newly-purchased-for-London outfit, Alix recognized that, but nevertheless to Alix it bespoke a habitual confidence, a knowingness, a town-smartness. Alix knew she wouldn’t know how to look like that if she tried, couldn’t look like that even if dressed in the same (or similar) garments; it wasn’t in her range. The cuffs and cuff links particularly astonished her: so clean, so impractical! At home, Alix seemed to have to roll up her sleeves every five minutes, and even here, at Liz’s, where the washing-up went in the dishwasher, she noted that she had rolled back the full sleeves of her Monsoon shirt in a business-like manner, in order not to trail them in her dinner, in order to be at the ready for any domestic emergency that might arise.
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br /> And Alix had forgotten that Shirley was so handsome: her post-operation pallor, lightly heightened with rouge, became her, and she had kept her figure well. She wondered about Cliff Harper’s business: presumably he was making a fortune? She could never remember what it was his firm made. Shirley didn’t look happy, but unhappiness suited her. Happiness is turning me into a slob, thought Alix, idly: then dismissed the thought, an ill-luck thought, and returned her attention to Liz and Esther on the subject of St John’s Wood. Liz rather favoured St John’s Wood, and was describing the house of her own analyst of bygone years: a very secret, secluded town house, almost a Chekhovian house, with a garden with benches, and high dark-green painted wooden fences round it, and large trees, and shutters – rather like a house in a painting but I’m not sure what painting, a psychiatric sort of painting, or is that just association? Munch? suggested Esther. It was a good house, said Liz: why not buy it, said Alix: it’s not for sale, said Liz: it might be, if you made an offer, said Alix: how odd that would be, it would be sinister, surely, to live in one’s ex-analyst’s house? said Liz. It is a house with secrets, but good secrets, said Liz. She seemed quite pleased by the idea of looking for a new house. That St John’s Wood garden looks as though it ought to have owls, said Liz. Do you remember the Cambridge owls?
And suddenly, belatedly, as they launched into Cambridge memories, they realized how rude they were being to Shirley: as suddenly they recovered themselves, in a collective leap: suddenly they began to discuss summer holidays – a universal, a banal, a relatively safe topic: Shirley spoke of plans to go to Spain, Alix and Brian were borrowing a cottage in Dovedale, Esther was torn between Somerset and Tuscany, Liz said she didn’t know what she was doing because she didn’t know how many if any of the young people wanted to do anything – but that she herself rather fancied France, if any of them would come with her: and on they comfortably rambled, exchanging anecdotes of past holiday joys and disasters, until Esther and Alix said they had to go. Alix insisted on driving Esther home: no more walking home late at night until they catch the Horror, she and Liz reiterated. All right, all right, said Esther: who had noted on several occasions that the more she protested her love of walking, the more paradoxically certain she was of securing a lift to her own front door.
Liz hoped that at this juncture Shirley would go to bed. But Shirley was still there, when she returned from the door, still sitting almost attentively in her large armchair. Unavoidable. Liz yawned, suggestively. The London version of Shirley looked very odd, in Liz’s view: why ever was she wearing that department-store suit and that strange shirt with a watch-strap pattern, and a big bow? It was hardly appropriate for an evening with old friends, thought Liz. Was she wearing it to keep her distance, to mark herself off? And if so, why? Liz yawned again. She noted that Shirley was wearing, as well as several chunky cheap gold necklaces, the thin silver locket, twin to her own, that was alleged to contain a photograph of their father. She wondered if she, like Liz herself, wore it most of the time. It was rather disquieting to see it there: like an echo, a commentary, a mocking reflection. Seeing Shirley here, like this, in such intimate estrangement, was unpleasant: Liz was not enjoying Shirley’s visit, and was ashamed of herself for her lack of enjoyment, her lack of ease. She had no idea what Shirley thought about, these days, and she thought she did not want to know. The gulf between them had widened with the years: too late, now, to bother to try to cross it. But Shirley spoke.
‘I forgot to speak to Alix about Brian’s aunt,’ she said. Unaccountably.
‘Brian’s aunt?’
‘Yes, Brian’s aunt. Brian’s mother’s sister. Brian’s aunt Yvonne. Dora’s very worried about her.’
‘Who is Dora?’
‘Dora’s my sister-in-law. Steve’s wife. Cliff’s brother Steve’s wife. She’s Brian’s aunt’s niece. By marriage, that is. Not a proper niece.’
‘Good Lord. What a kinship network.’ Liz spoke without enthusiasm, warily, distrusting the conversation’s tendency. ‘I always forget you’re sort of related to Brian. It seems such an odd thing to have happened.’
‘It’s not all that odd. It’s us that’s odd. Having no relations at all. Or none that we know of.’
‘Tell me about Brian’s aunt,’ said Liz, quickly.
‘Aunt Yvonne? Oh, it’s just that she’s in a bad way, and no one quite knows what to do about her. Or to be more honest what they can face doing about her. I meant just to mention it to Alix. Though I don’t suppose there’s anything Brian can do either.’
‘What kind of bad way?’
‘Old age. Ill health. The usual sort of thing.’ Shirley spoke flatly. ‘Bad feet, bad dentures, noises in her head, solitude. Going mad, if you ask me.’ More conversationally, Shirley continued, ‘As a matter of fact, it is rather awful, at Auntie Yvonne’s. I’ve only been twice, and I was shocked. It’s filthy. She never washes anything. Bedclothes, tea towels, her own clothes, it all stinks. And she took her shoes and stockings off to show me her feet, and I’ve never seen anything like it. You couldn’t imagine. Terrible. Her toe-nails. Her corns.’
‘Can’t the social services help?’
‘She doesn’t get on with the social services. She’s suspicious. She really wants to go and live with Dora, Dora says. But of course Dora can’t have her.’
‘And there’s nobody else?’
‘Not really. Well, there’s Brian. And Alix.’
Silence fell. Liz felt her energy, her stone-walling intimacy-blocking energy flag: it was late and she was crumbling, and she knew that Shirley knew. It’s not, thought Liz plaintively, as though I’ve led an idle life: I take on a lot, I work hard, I have to be up at seven in the morning, I cooked that supper she’s just eaten. Self-pity filled Liz: she felt it seeping in; horrified, amused; people are dreadful, thought Liz (meaning herself), quite, quite dreadful. She was ashamed of herself: but determined not to relent.
‘Luckily,’ said Shirley, in a clear, high voice, a public voice, a voice that betrayed, perhaps, a certain fear, ‘luckily, our mother seems not to want to live with anyone. She still maintains that she prefers to live alone. Not that I ever ask her. But she says it, just the same.’
‘That’s what she always said,’ said Liz.
‘Maybe she means it,’ said Shirley.
‘I’m sure she means it,’ said Liz, doubtfully.
The room was vibrant with conflict, with pain. Liz realized that she was cornered: there was, for once, no question she could ask, no direction she could give to the conversation, no guide, no lead, no hint. Anything she said could be used in evidence against her. She must wait on Shirley: Shirley had won.
‘You haven’t seen her, I think, for some time?’ asked Shirley, almost compassionately, as though regretful of the vulgarity of the query.
‘Not for a year or two, I’m afraid,’ said Liz. Both knew, precisely, how long: three years it was, since Liz had been in Northam, three years and a month. ‘But I spoke to her last week,’ said Liz, bravely.
‘Yes,’ said Shirley. ‘So she said.’
Another long silence. Liz suffered. She felt wretched. She accepted Shirley’s position. Of course it was wrong, it was unfair, it was a scandal, that Shirley should do all, she herself nothing: that Shirley should cook and run errands and suffer criticism while Liz remained the favourite, the exempt, the righteous. Anybody could see that it was unfair. Liz knew that her very posture conveyed guilt: she tried to straighten herself in her low chair.
‘I don’t know what’s going to happen to her,’ said Shirley. ‘She can hardly get up the stairs by herself now, you know.’
‘No, I didn’t know,’ whispered Liz, humbly. ‘She never mentions anything like that to me.’
‘She’s got very heavy,’ said Shirley.
‘Heavy?’ asked Liz, in genuine surprise.
‘She’s put on a lot of weight in the last few years. You’d be amazed. You’d hardly know her if you saw her. That’s partly what I wanted to ask y
ou, you know, I mean, is it common, to put on weight like that, at her age? What can it mean?’
‘Heavy?’ repeated Liz, bewildered: noticing, however, that the balance had tipped slightly, that Shirley had had pity, had asked a question, had ceased, bleakly, to reproach. ‘Really heavy? She was always such a stick.’
‘Well, she’s not now. She must weigh twelve stone. Not that one could ever get her near a pair of scales.’
‘Twelve stone?’
‘I thought you’d be amazed. I thought I ought to tell you.’
‘Whatever can have caused it?’
‘That’s what I wanted to ask you.’ Shirley paused, dramatically, then pursued, ‘But in my view, it’s eating.’
Both sisters laughed.
‘But you know what I mean,’ said Shirley. ‘Why is she eating?’
‘Because you’re feeding her?’ suggested Liz, momentarily throwing away all sense of advantage, all battling for position, in a desire to pursue the truth, in curiosity for truth.
Shirley considered. ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘I’m feeding her, and Meals On Wheels are feeding her. But why is she eating what we give her? It’s odd, isn’t it? After all those years of Complan and jelly cubes and Oxo?’
‘A second childhood, perhaps,’ said Liz.
‘It seems a bit like that, at times. She’s like a great fat baby waiting for its next spoonful.’
‘God,’ said Liz, ‘do you remember those dreadful dreadful suppers? Stale bread and fish paste. Do you remember?’
‘Bread and dripping. Bread and marge. And do you remember that wonderful treat we used to make ourselves, of bread and marge and sugar and a bit of cocoa powder?’
‘What do you feed her on now?’
‘Chicken. Fish. Casserole. Shepherd’s pie. Sometimes a chop. You know, proper meals. She’s got quite fussy. Complains if it’s not quite right. It is odd, isn’t it? I thought old people ate less and less, not more and more?’
‘Well, she’s never been exactly normal, has she?’ Liz began to laugh, a little wildly, at her own understatement. ‘She’s never been much of a guide to normal behaviour, has she? I suppose we should have expected some oddity like this, but I must say you’ve taken me by surprise. Twelve stone? I can hardly believe it. Does she still fit in her clothes?’
The Radiant Way Page 27
