Close Relations

by Deborah Moggach

  Maddy, Louise and Prudence sat in the caravan. It was like the old days, except now the positions were reversed – it was they who felt like parents. It seemed so late in the day for their parents’ marriage to explode. Sometimes it struck them as thoughtless; after all, they had busy lives of their own.

  Their father was gadding about like a twenty-year-old, bopping till dawn for all they knew; none of them had seen him for weeks. He was back at work, upsetting their mother by turning up at the office. Dorothy had become a loose cannon, wreaking havoc wherever she landed. She was temporarily housed in a bedsitter in Prudence’s street but she was still dangerously at large, descending on them for evenings when she angrily slagged off their father and cross-questioned them to see if they had had any contact with him. She still hadn’t found a permanent place to live; she couldn’t decide where to go.

  ‘It’s like King Lear,’ said Prudence. ‘Except this time its Mrs Lear. Who’s going to have her next?’ She looked at Louise. ‘You’ve got off lightly so far. Isn’t it time you pulled your weight?’

  Louise had always had it easy – looks, children, money, wistaria-burdened house with five bedrooms. It didn’t seem fair, but then nothing seemed fair where Louise was concerned.

  ‘I can’t,’ said Louise. ‘She’s got to be in London.’ It was true. Dorothy still hadn’t found anyone to run the office.

  Imogen came in and sat down. Her face glowed. She thwacked her riding crop against her jodhpurs. ‘You hiding from Jamie’s friends?’ she asked.

  They nodded. Even in the caravan they could hear the thud-thud of music from the house.

  ‘They’re so infantile,’ drawled Imogen. She seemed, these past weeks, to have grown out of Jamie’s contemporaries.

  ‘We’re trying to decide what to do about your granny,’ said Louise. She explained the situation. ‘She sees your grandad every day, it’s like rubbing salt into the wound. She’ll never start to recover or begin a life of her own.’ She picked up a cigarette butt. ‘Has your brother been smoking in here?’

  Imogen turned to Prudence. ‘Why don’t you get your boyfriend to run the office? After all, he’s run one before.’

  The three women gazed at her. There was a smudge of mud on Imogen’s nose. Despite this, she looked impressive. Imogen could be surprisingly practical – even, on occasion, inspired. It was she, after all, who had suggested that Stephen work for Gordon in the first place.

  ‘He can work in the office,’ she said, ‘and leave Granny free to look for another husband. She doesn’t look too bad, for her age. And then she’d be off your hands.’

  So Stephen joined Kendal Contractors as office manager, a position more suited to his capabilities than that of a labourer. On a blustery day in February The Birches was sold, the yard cleared and the office shifted to new premises in Herne Hill, near Frank’s place. Dorothy dumped the last of the files on the desk and kissed Stephen on the cheek.

  ‘Good luck. You’ll need it.’ She gave him the keys. ‘I’m off.’

  ‘Where?’

  She patted her handbag. ‘Put this in the bank.’ It was her cheque for half the house. ‘Then I’m off to the hairdressers. Then I’m treating my friend Connie to a slap-up dinner in the West End and later I rather fancied one of those male stripper places.’

  ‘You’re not!’

  ‘No, but I could, couldn’t I?’ There was a glazed, hectic look to her. She gestured at the piles of cardboard boxes. ‘Rather you than me.’ She put on her coat. ‘Bye Frank, bye chaps.’

  And she stepped into the waiting minicab and sped away.

  The magnitude of what had happened over the past two months still stopped Gordon in his tracks. It seemed extraordinary that something as abstract as love could result in such monumental physical upheavals. Thirty-three bags of rubbish had been pulled from his house and loaded onto refuse trucks; the furniture had been crated up, loaded into lorries and locked into a depository in Croydon. The caravan had been hauled along twenty miles of motorway and heaved into position at the Old Vicarage. A new family, with their own furniture, had been lumberingly installed in The Birches. Stephen travelled to Herne Hill every day. Dorothy had moved into a rented room near Prudence; people had no doubt been trudging up and down those stairs lugging carrier bags and cardboard boxes.

  A mere smile had started this – a spark of recognition, a stirring in his loins. This seemed both terrible and miraculous to him.

  He accepted full responsibility. Gordon was a decent man – oh, he was boastful and impatient, he had his faults. But he was basically a good person who had done a deed that had shocked himself as much as anyone else. Now the house was sold his family map had been redrawn. New territories had been created and new alliances formed. He wanted to make peace with his daughters. He was nervous, however, about getting in touch with them. They were busy dealing with Dorothy; she was the one who needed their support. He had been cheered by Maddy’s show of solidarity in April’s flat but suspected that this was just a momentary act of rebellion; Maddy had always been out-of-kilter with the rest of them. The situation was too raw to test his youngest daughter’s support, just yet.

  So he busied himself with work. It was strange no longer to hear his old ally Dorothy on the phone or to see her face when he dropped in at the office. Instead, Stephen sat there, painstakingly learning all the procedures that he and Dorothy had taken for granted. It was strange travelling to a new office – in fact, on several occasions he had found himself heading towards Purley.

  It was liberating, however, to get rid of the house. Dorothy had said that she was glad to get shot of it. Maybe, despite her bitterness, she too felt liberated. It felt unnatural that he couldn’t ask her. That, and so many other questions that popped into his head. She was his oldest friend; he couldn’t just switch her off. He missed her, and he could tell nobody this. How daft that you could love somebody else and still miss your wife! Perhaps everybody felt this; he didn’t have a clue. Men his age didn’t have these sorts of conversations.

  The Sunday after the house was sold he took April out to lunch. They went to a restaurant in Maidenhead, overlooking the river. The couple at the next table gazed at them; it was envy, of course.

  April opened the menu and yawned. She had just come off a week of night duty.

  ‘Why don’t you give up your job?’ he asked. ‘Let me take care of you.’

  ‘I don’t want to give it up.’ Her face appeared over the leather binder. ‘I like it.’

  ‘You told me you’re just a glorified skivvy.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s glorified. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do.’ She pointed to the menu. ‘I’ll have the avocado and the pheasant. I know I complain about it but so do you, about yours. That’s why people live together. Well, one of the reasons. It’s cosy complaining.’ She put down the menu and smiled at him. She wore a demure white blouse he hadn’t seen before; she still had clothes he hadn’t yet seen.

  He said: ‘I want to buy you a house. How about it? How about renting out your place and moving in with me, somewhere nice.’ He put his hand over hers. ‘You deserve it.’

  She gazed out of the window. The river was grey and swollen. ‘Everyone who doesn’t live in Brixton thinks that everyone who does is longing to get out. Actually, I like it.’ She smiled at him. ‘Let’s not rush things. We’re happy as we are, aren’t we? You’re such a restless bugger.’

  It’s a funny thing about love. The same words can be an accusation or a verbal caress. Words are like tofu: their taste comes from the emotions that drench them.

  Gordon looked at April. She picked through a bowl of nuts, searching for the cashews. She put one into her mouth.

  In her white lacy collar she looked like a gospel singer. He said: ‘Right enough. I’ll do whatever you want,’ because what he really wanted was to kiss her.

  But he was unconvinced. He wanted to look after her. He wanted to be in charge.

  At the end of the month Erin’s book was pu
blished. Prudence held a party in her flat. Dorothy helped with the preparations. She needed tasks to anchor herself. She felt she was spinning into space, dizzy with loneliness. She needed to get a grip.

  ‘Haven’t you got any more baking trays?’ she asked Prudence irritably. If only sadness were as appealing as it sounded. In fact, it makes those suffering from it quarrelsome and egotistical, distempered and intolerant. Dorothy knew that she mustn’t alienate her daughters; they were all she had. But as she laid out the onion bhajis she felt herself prickle with hostility – towards the guests, who would no doubt be contented and handsome, towards Erin whose book she didn’t like the sound of, towards the very fact that they had to have vegetarian food, which struck her as self-righteous. She knew she was being unreasonable. She knew that even her daughters had only a limited reservoir of tolerance, but the very fact that she now had to be nice to people – she was a guest in their homes, she was beholden to them – only increased her bad temper.

  She carried a plate of crudités into the living room. ‘Your father’s not coming, is he?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Prudence. ‘You think I’m an idiot?’

  ‘He’d love to show up and ruin it for me.’ Dorothy dumped down the plate. She was a tanker, run aground on the rocks. Her sides were split open; out of them seeped poisonous oil.

  The guests arrived – a lot of people Dorothy didn’t know. They did indeed look handsome and contented; there was a sheen to them. Some of the women wore suits.

  ‘So you’re Prudence’s mother,’ said one of them. ‘I’ve heard so much about you.’

  What: that I’m an abandoned wife? Her gaze flickered around the room, searching for Gordon to rescue her.

  He wasn’t there, of course. She was so stupid. Her eyes filled with tears. It was the blasted cigarette smoke. What could she do with these old habits, how could she slough them off? How did anyone do anything?

  Prudence tapped her glass. The room fell silent. ‘People say that publishing isn’t a risk-taking business any more, that new novels are hard to promote unless they’re written – or not written, as the case may be – by a TV personality or stand-up comedian. Well, Erin Fox is not a household name – yet. But listen to these reviews.’ She read from a piece of paper. ‘Marie Claire said A stunning debut. The Guardian said Compulsively readable, a raunchy trans-global romp through the female psyche. . . and there are plenty more where they came from. So, please raise your glasses to Playing with Fire. We played with it and – look! – we haven’t got burned.’

  There was a murmur of laughter; the clink of glasses. Dorothy was standing near Stephen. A man turned to him. ‘Here’s to you too, old cock.’ He raised his glass. ‘I hear you’re working for a builder, eh? Doing their paperwork.’ He grinned. ‘Need all your editing skills there, I bet.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Stephen.

  The man grinned. ‘Making things vanish, nudge-nudge.’

  Stephen laughed. Dorothy stared at him. She turned to the man. ‘Not all builders are crooked, you know. Certainly not our firm.’ She turned to Stephen. ‘Thank you for standing up for us.’

  She collected an empty plate and took it into the kitchen, where Maddy was pouring out some grapefruit juice. She dumped the plate on the draining board. ‘How could Prudence live with such a weak man?’ she demanded.

  ‘Don’t spoil things!’ hissed Maddy. ‘It is Erin’s party.’

  Dorothy looked at her daughter. ‘That used to be your department.’

  ‘What did?’

  Dorothy said: ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter.’

  The Literary Editor of the Sunday Times flicked his fag-end into the fire. Prudence flinched. Couldn’t he tell it was gas?

  Her room was packed with people. Between the heads she could see Stephen talking to Erin. She wore the same tribal dress she had worn to that dinner party all those months ago. At least he didn’t have trouble with one erection. What a fateful party that had been! Maddy had fallen in love, she had become a lesbian. Now she had moved home and started a new career. Their father had fallen in love, again with the most unexpected of people. Their parents had split up, their home sold and their childhood packed into crates and locked up in Croydon. Stephen had left his wife and come to live here, with her. She thought of the absent Louise. Only she had remained untouched, her charmed life sealed off from the mess everybody else made of theirs.

  Prudence passed round the samosas. She was a practised host, she liked giving parties. This was a business affair, however, and the presence of her mother made her uncomfortable. In the old days Maddy had been the troublemaker but love had changed her. She was proud of Erin’s book, she had somehow entered into Prudence’s life.

  ‘It is a wonderful novel, isn’t it,’ Prudence said to the man from Kaleidoscope.

  ‘I’m going to sue you,’ he said. ‘It’s ruined my sex life. My girlfriend brought it to bed every night for a week.’

  Prudence laughed. ‘Maybe we could market it as a contraceptive device.’

  She moved away, looking for her mother. She didn’t trust Dorothy; she had become so unpredictable – weepy, aggressive, manically cheerful. Dorothy was passing round a plate of quiche. Her hair was tinted a redder shade nowadays. She wore her suede waistcoat and emerald-green slacks; she looked like a brassy woman who picked up men on cruises. Behind the bold front, however, she seemed to have disintegrated. Prudence realised, standing there, that she didn’t know her mother at all. She wasn’t a separate person; she was half of Prudence’s parents. Was she mean or generous, for instance? Was she a sensual person, or basically inhibited? Prudence didn’t have a clue. Her mother’s identity had drained into her husband, he was the dominant person and had bullied her into a shape of his making. What on earth was going on in her mother’s head?

  ‘Are you okay?’ Prudence asked. ‘Are you enjoying it?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Her mother smiled – a sweet smile, Louise’s smile. Her mother was scattered into all of them.

  They were interrupted by a woman with a crew-cut who worked for Channel 4. ‘Erin Fox is a real star!’ she sighed, her cheeks blazing.

  ‘She is, isn’t she? We’ve got great hopes of her.’ Prudence thought: there’s a substance to Erin, an inner conviction, that’s why people are drawn to her.

  Prudence found her handbag. She rummaged in it and took out her cigarettes. Lighting one she realised: this is the first time I’ve smoked in front of my mother. Is it because I’ve finally grown up, or that now she’s a weakened vessel I just don’t care?

  She drew the smoke into her lungs. Standing, jostled by her guests, she bade a mental farewell to her mother. For Dorothy had now become a person, incomprehensible and contradictory, loosed into the world; a woman for whom Prudence felt the weight of responsibility.

  Dorothy went into the bedroom. Allegra sat on a pile of coats playing with her Game Boy.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ said Dorothy.

  ‘I don’t know any of these people,’ said Allegra.

  ‘Nor do I.’

  ‘I’m fed up with vegetarian muck,’ said Allegra.

  ‘So am I.’ Dorothy smiled at the little girl. ‘Get your coat.’

  ‘This is much more fun,’ said Dorothy.

  Allegra, her mouth full, nodded. They were sitting in a place called Costas’s Burgers and Kebabs, opposite Clapham Junction station. Allegra was eating a double burger and chips. She was small for her age; she looked as if she needed fattening up.

  ‘She your granddaughter then?’ asked the man behind the counter – a large, moustachioed Greek.

  Dorothy shook her head. ‘I’ve just borrowed her.’

  ‘We’ve borrowed each other,’ said Allegra.

  What a tenuous link they had, she and this little girl. They were sticks, tossed by a storm and washed up together on a beach.

  ‘Where does your daddy live?’ she asked Allegra.

  ‘In his office.’

  ‘His office?�
�

  Allegra nodded. ‘He’s lived there since Christmas but he’s not supposed to. It’s against the regulations.’

  ‘Hasn’t he got a home?’

  Allegra shook her head. ‘His wife chucked him out.’

  ‘He’s married?’

  Allegra tore open a ketchup sachet with her teeth. ‘She’s a cow. She’s got these horrible children.’

  Dorothy’s head spun. ‘Whose children?’

  ‘Someone she met before Dad.’ Allegra squirted ketchup over her chips. ‘Anyway, Dad and her bought this house, it was all falling down, and he did it up really nicely. It took him ages, years and years. And then, when it was finished, she said she didn’t love him any more. She chucked him out and her pottery instructor moved in. Dad’s really bitter.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘He’s trying to get her out. He’s spending all his money on lawyers.’

  ‘Does he have any other children of his own?’ Dorothy asked.

  ‘No. Only me. And he hardly ever sees me.’

  ‘But he sends you faxes.’

  Allegra nodded. She speared a chip with her fork and put it into her mouth.

  ‘Do you want to see him?’ Dorothy asked.

  Allegra nodded.

  ‘Do you know his phone number?’

  Dorothy felt invigorated as they got into the car. Everyone else broke the rules; why shouldn’t she? She felt sorry for this Aziz man, he had sounded nice on the phone. He had been thrown out of his home too, just as she had. She drove through the littered streets. The world seemed full of such cruelty, such selfish brutality. Why not mend two of the broken pieces?

  She drove north, across Waterloo Bridge. She knew she was interfering, but what the hell. Erin thought she was taking Allegra home, and would baby-sit her until they returned from the party. If she found out – too bad.

  Dorothy had found the place in her A-Z. She drove to Kentish Town and parked the car in a turning off the high street, next to a closed Magnet showroom. Allegra took her hand and led her up an alleyway. The greasy cobbles shone in the lamplight. It was cold; the wind whipped a plastic bag into the air.