Of what, though? That Jo is a bad person? Amber suspects that the sum total of her stories doesn’t even come close to disproving Jo’s essential goodness, of which Amber reminded me more than once this morning, in the interests of fairness: Jo is a devoted mother to her two boys, a loving wife to her husband Neil, a wonderful daughter and sister. Her mother Hilary and her entirely dependent sister Kirsty spend nearly every day at her house. She cooks most of their meals, even gives them food parcels to take home, knowing it’s the only way they’ll eat properly. Hilary, a single mother, ground down from years of looking after a severely handicapped child twenty-four hours a day, would not be able to cope if Jo didn’t feed her and boost her morale constantly. Jo’s brother Ritchie has never had a job. He is what some would call a layabout, but Jo doesn’t judge him, and regularly reminds Hilary of all the reasons to think well of him: he’s clever, creative, kind, loyal, and one day he will find his passion and realise what he wants to do with his life, as long as those close to him continue to believe in him. Jo gives Ritchie money whenever he needs it, and Neil doesn’t protest about this. Presumably, as one of the chief beneficiaries of her family-conquers-all policy, he knows better than to question it.
Jo is as devoted a daughter-in-law as she is a daughter. When Neil’s mother Pam died of liver cancer, Jo saw straight away that her father-in-law, Quentin, would not be able to manage on his own, and moved him into her home. Sabina, nanny to William and Barney, is part of the family too. She is also in Jo’s house all the time, being fed, being looked after. She makes no distinction between her working day and the rest of her life, and leaves Jo’s side only to go home and sleep, by the sound of it.
Is Amber part of this big, warm, Jo-centred family? She ought to be. She’s married to Neil’s brother, Luke. Yet she speaks as a non-beneficiary, as an outsider. Why? Because of the stories she’s told us, that prove . . . what?
Let me talk us through them, adding a few observations of my own and filling in the missing details using intelligent guesswork, based on things Amber has said in this session and also this morning when we were alone together. If you’re going to tell a story, you might as well tell it properly, bring it to life. That’s what I’m going to try to do, and I’m willing to bet I’ll end up with as much truth in my stories as I would if I were describing events about which I believed I had objective knowledge. Amber, forget these are your stories and just listen. Remember, a story is not a memory; a memory is not a story. Each story contains memories, but the interpretations and analyses we impose on events come later. Those can’t be called memories.
Boxing Day 2003. Jo, Neil and their two sons have returned unharmed. Jo has gathered everyone together, announced that everything is fine, but refused to explain why she and her husband and children disappeared from the family gathering and, in doing so, turned Christmas, a day that should have been happy and celebratory, into a traumatic ordeal for all those close to them. Everyone, on the face of it at least, accepts the lack of explanation, and goes along with Jo’s idea that Boxing Day should become the Christmas Day that never was. So, first there is the present-opening and the chaos of torn wrapping paper everywhere, and then there’s a festive turkey dinner for eleven people to be cooked – by Jo alone. Amber now believes that her sister-in-law had a brilliant, devious idea while she was putting together that lavish meal, insisting she needed no help from anyone and could work far more efficiently if she had Little Orchard’s substantial kitchen entirely to herself: look as if you’re slaving away for the common good, and no one will suspect you of burying yourself under a mountain of hard slog in order to avoid potentially problematic conversations. Amber is convinced that this has been Jo’s policy ever since.
While Jo is busy assembling the perfect Christmas feast, what is everyone else doing? Neil is upstairs having what everyone is calling ‘a nap’, though he’s been asleep for so long, it seems to Amber that what he’s actually doing is trying to cram a whole night into the daytime, which probably means he didn’t get any sleep the previous two nights. Luke is sitting in a corner with a notepad and pen, making some last-minute alterations to his Christmas Day quiz. His father, Quentin, is boring Ritchie with one of his interminable, labyrinthine stories – this time focusing on a septic tank, and several unsuccessful attempts to install it – from which Ritchie has no idea how to escape. Sabina is trying everything she can to stop Barney crying, walking him around, joggling him up and down, lying him flat on his back.
Hilary hovers nearby, giving unwanted advice. She tells Sabina that Jo ought to see sense and forget about breast-feeding. Barney has only just been fed, and he’s hungry again; that must be why he’s crying. Breast-fed babies are hungry and dissatisfied, Hilary says. They scream all the time and never sleep – ask any midwife, any health visitor. Never mind what they’re supposed to say, the official line; ask them what they really think, off the record. Sabina says it’s Jo’s decision and that Hilary is arguing with the wrong person. As it happens, Sabina agrees with Hilary. She has looked after dozens of babies, and there’s no doubt in her mind that the bottle-fed ones are more contented, better sleepers. Their mothers are happier and more relaxed because they can delegate the job of feeding to others when they need a break. Sabina has said all this to Jo, she tells Hilary, but Jo wants her son to have the best possible start in life, food-wise, and health professionals are unanimous about what that is, so Sabina is putting her own views to one side and supporting Jo’s decision. What else can she do?
Hilary isn’t satisfied. From her bag, she produces a baby’s bottle in a sealed plastic bag and a carton of formula milk. Jo isn’t here now, she says – she’s busy cooking. Let me give Barney this, she says. I’ve done it before. Jo knew nothing about it, and it made such a difference. He was like a different baby that day, hardly cried at all. Pam puts her foot down. Nothing must be done to Barney without Jo’s consent. Whatever we might think, she says, it’s Jo’s decision. She makes no mention of Neil, her son and Barney’s father. His views on how his son ought to be fed are irrelevant.
A quiet, relatively polite row ensues between the two grandmothers. Pam is normally quiet and compliant, and Hilary is put out. Life is hard enough, she argues, for everybody. Why make it harder by letting a child go hungry? Kirsty, unused to seeing her mother angry, starts to make distressed noises and sway from side to side. Five-year-old William is upset by the noise and runs away from it. Amber goes after him. She catches up with him in the garden. He tells her he is frightened of Kirsty, whom he describes as being like ‘a big monster’. Amber doesn’t know what to say to this, and asks if William has ever told his parents about his fear of Kirsty. Yes, he says, and Mummy said he mustn’t be scared of her. She’s his aunt, she’s family. She loves him and he must love her, even though she’s different. It’s not her fault. William asks Amber not to tell Jo what he said, or that he ran away from Kirsty.
This makes Amber angry. Jo shouldn’t tell William how he ought to feel; she should understand that a five-year-old is obviously going to be alarmed by someone like Kirsty, who is clearly an adult and yet doesn’t behave like one. How dare Jo make William feel he has to keep his fear secret? To cheer him up, Amber suggests they play a game, a sort of hide-and-seek: hunting for the key to Little Orchard’s locked study. William is hugely excited by this idea, and so they begin their search, speculating as they go about what might be inside the forbidden room. No one asks what they’re doing as they wander all over the house, in and out of bedrooms. By the time dinner is served, they’ve searched everywhere apart from the kitchen, the utility room, and Jo and Neil’s bedroom and en-suite bathroom, which they can’t get in to because Neil is first napping and then showering and getting ready for Christmas dinner.
After the meal, Luke’s quiz is the next thing on the agenda. Amber and William do not take part. They continue with their secret game, telling everyone they hope to have a surprise to present later in the day. Is Amber aware that she wants her own secret, si
nce Jo has one she’s not sharing? Does she have moral scruples about violating the privacy of Little Orchard’s owners, should she be lucky and find the key? No and no would be my guess. Consciously, Amber is worried only about not finding the key, wondering if she was crazy to embark on this hunt that’s surely doomed to failure. What if she never finds it? William will be desperately disappointed.
No need to panic: close examination of the kitchen reveals a key on a long string, hanging from a nail sticking out of the back of a pine dresser. That must be it, Amber tells William as soon as she spots it dangling in the gap between the dresser and the wall. Why else would anyone keep a key in such an inaccessible place? Amber hurts her back as she struggles to shift the dresser so that she can reach the key. It’s too heavy for her to lift alone, strictly speaking, but she perseveres because – like Jo earlier, and in the same room, the kitchen – she doesn’t want help. She wants to prove she can do everything herself.
William, overcome by excitement, runs to the lounge and interrupts Luke’s quiz with his triumphant announcement: he and Amber have found the key to the locked room. Amber declares her intention to use it, and have a nosey around – who wants to come too? A deliberately provocative invitation: daring the others to stop her. If Amber wasn’t so resentful of the silence surrounding Jo and Neil’s disappearance, would she have behaved differently? I think so. I think it’s no coincidence that she created an opportunity to stage a protest against metaphorical if not actual ‘no entry’ signs and things being kept from her.
Jo is furious. She demands Amber hand over the key to her immediately. She’s responsible for the house, she is quick to point out. She and Neil were the ones who rented it from the owners and are therefore its trusted guardians. Amber tells her to lighten up. It’s not as if they’re going to do any damage to the study. They’re just going to have a look and see what’s in there. It’s the harmless conclusion to the harmless game Amber and William have been playing. Luke, Ritchie and Sabina are tempted, infected by Amber’s enthusiasm, and William’s. They all agree that it can’t do any harm; jokes are made – cryptically, to protect William – about sex toys and cannabis plants. Quentin doesn’t care. He is only interested in his own concerns, and the contents of Little Orchard’s locked room can’t possibly affect him. Pam thinks they should put the key back and says so, as firmly as she said before that Barney shouldn’t be given the formula milk; this prompts Hilary, immediately, to say that a quick peek won’t hurt, just to make William happy.
Amber suggests a vote, knowing she will win. Jo puts her foot down. She is furious, nearly crying with anger. She quickly disabuses Amber of the idea that any sort of democratic principle can be applied; she and Neil paid the full cost of the rental, as well as the deposit, which makes them the only two people entitled to a say in the matter. Neil agrees: unlocking the study is out of the question. No one speculates that the key Amber found might belong to a different door; they all assume it’s the right one. Jo tells Amber, in front of all the others, that the whole idea – the hunt-the-key game and involving William in it – was totally, utterly immoral and that she ought to be ashamed of herself.
Amber refuses to feel ashamed. She still believes it would do no harm to have a quick look inside the room – that most people would, if they found themselves in a similar position, just as most people eavesdrop on juicy conversations and look over strangers’ shoulders to read the text messages they’re composing whenever they can. On some level, she argues, the owners of Little Orchard must know this.
Jo says she would never eavesdrop, or try to read somebody’s private correspondence.
Amber says she would never tell anybody when to feel ashamed, or congratulate herself on being a better person than anyone else.
Amber gives the key back to Jo.
5
Wednesday 1 December 2010
‘Seventy-three? Seventy! Seventy-six?’ Nonie fires numbers at me, her voice trembling with anguish.
‘Stop panicking,’ I tell her, wishing she was in the passenger seat next to me and could see my face, knowing she’s wishing the same thing. Nonie is a victim of her own scrupulous fairness policy: when, she, Dinah and I are in the car together, she and Dinah must both sit in the back, even though they would both love to sit in the front. Dinah has suggested they take turns, but Nonie won’t allow it. Since none of us knows how many car journeys there will be in total, in the whole of our life together, we can’t be sure that it won’t be an odd number. Someone might end up having an extra turn.
‘I can’t do it! I don’t understand! Seventy-seven?’
‘No. Sorry,’ I say. Are desperation and panting part of most people’s Maths homework routines? I try to catch Nonie’s eye in the rear-view mirror. I’ve always been able to soothe her with my eyes quicker than with words.
‘Seventy-five!’
I hate Wednesdays. On Wednesday afternoons I’m not free; I am bound by a tradition I would dearly love to put an end to: I pick the girls up from school and we go for supper at the house known by everybody as ‘Jo’s’, though Neil, William, Barney and Quentin live in it too. Also on Wednesdays, Nonie has Maths last thing in the afternoon, the lesson that never fails to convince her that she’s the stupidest person on the planet.
‘There’s no point shouting out random answers, Nones.’ I fiddle with the controls on the dashboard. I was foolish enough to let Luke persuade me to buy a better, newer car than I felt comfortable with, given our precarious finances, and have never understood its various knobs and dials. The complicated multi-arrowed air-current diagrams indicate that it offers a range of heating options, but I’ve never had time to work out what’s what, so I press whichever buttons take my fancy and never remember what sequence of actions led to the desired result, on the rare occasions that I’m lucky enough to get it. Today, I’m unlucky. Instead of warmth evenly distributed throughout the car, I get a suffocating faceful of scorched air. I decide I’d rather freeze. I envy the girls the winter coats I bought them that look like inflatable air-beds with sleeves.
‘Even if you hit on the right answer, you won’t understand why it’s right,’ I tell Nonie. ‘If you’d just calm down and let me explain . . .’
‘What did Mrs Truscott say?’ Dinah asks.
‘Hang on, Dinah, let me finish.’
‘You’ll never finish. Nonie will talk about how she doesn’t understand anything in Maths forever.’
‘It’s all right for you! You’re brilliant at Maths. I’m rubbish at it. I’ll always be rubbish.’
‘It’s seventy-four, obviously. Sixty-six plus eight: seventy-four. What did Mrs Truscott say, Amber?’
‘Don’t tell me!’
‘Dinah, don’t—’
‘I already have. What did Mrs Truscott—?’
‘Don’t cry, Nones, it doesn’t matter.’ She needs to see me smiling at her. Trying not to think about Ed from my missed DriveTech course and his dead daughter, I take my eyes off the road ahead and turn in my seat so that Nonie can see my face. Hopefully there’s a reassuring expression on it and not one of abject terror. It’s myself I’m telling as much as I’m telling her not to panic and not to cry. I don’t know how to pay enough attention to both girls at the same time; it’s a riddle I can’t solve. I’m sure there must be an answer, one a parent would know instinctively, but I’m not a parent and never will be – not a proper one. I’d like to give each of the girls all my attention all the time, but that’s not possible, and neither one will ever wait. Dinah is too demanding and Nonie too worried.
I hate Maths for what it’s doing to her. I’d like to kick its spiteful teeth in. I always suspected it was a noxious pile of pointlessness, and now I have proof of its vileness in the amount of misery it’s causing this lovely, hard-working child whose happiness is my responsibility. Surely if I can bring about the un-banning of Dinah’s play, I can arrange for Maths to be eliminated from the curriculum for good? Obviously some people need to study it, the ones who are
going to go on to be mathematicians and scientists, but there are others – like me, like Nonie – who equally obviously don’t need to bother with it because we’re never going to get very far and we’ll always find it the dullest thing in the world on account of it having no people in it.
Luke has forbidden me to air these philistine views in Nonie’s presence. While I secretly wonder who I might be able to sleep with in order to secure for her the decent Maths GCSE grade she’ll need in order to get into a sixth-form college to study proper subjects like English Lit and History and Psychology, subjects with people in them, Luke continues to believe that one day, with the right help, everything will click into place and Nonie will tap into her innate mathematical abilities, so long dormant. I don’t believe this for a minute, but I’d hate to think that my endless pessimism might limit her life chances, so I lie.
‘There’s no need to be scared of Maths, Nonie.’ Yes, there is. There’s every reason to be scared of a thing you hate and can’t get away from. ‘I can give you another sum to do – and Dinah, please don’t tell her this time. Let me try to explain the method to her. Nones, once you understand the thought process involved . . .’
‘I’ll never understand it,’ Nonie says quietly. ‘There’s no point. Can we listen to Lady Gaga?’
‘Tell me about Mrs Truscott first,’ Dinah insists.
‘I’ve already told you.’ I reach behind me, give Nonie’s knee a supportive squeeze. I ought not to let Dinah steamroller over her sister, but I sense that Nonie is secretly hoping I won’t object to the change of subject. ‘Your play’s back on.’
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