‘So, how are you doodling, Ma?’ A phrase from when Madeleine was little, long since incorporated into the family lexicon. ‘Mads is coming separately. She stayed at Ben’s last night.’
Cecilia patted one of the radiators as if it were a misbehaving puppy.
‘The heating doesn’t seem to be very hot… but I don’t mind really.’
‘Ma, you’re wearing a coat in the house. Would you like me to organise someone to look at the radiators?’
‘Well, it is a bit awkward trying to do anything in this coat. The sleeves are too long.’
‘I wish you’d let us get you one that fits you. You look like a child who’s raided the dressing-up box in that.’
‘I could afford a new coat…’ Although her mosaic commissions were now very few and far between, Cecilia had no penchant for extravagance and she had managed to buy a flat some years ago, which she now let to her two daughters and largely lived off the proceeds. ‘I just don’t want one.’ She slipped off the coat and threw it onto the chaise longue. ‘Anyway, I’m warm enough now.’
Olivia rinsed out a cloth, wiped the table and worktop, then – with a certain amount of sighing and tugging – extricated a broom from a tangle of things in the cupboard and swept the kitchen floor. Then she unpacked the shopping. Cecilia disliked shopping unless it was for art materials – who could resist those? Then she was like a small child, transfixed by the delicious treasures in the sweet-shop window, wanting everything all at once. But buying eggs and bread and loo paper – where was the pleasure in that?
‘I did call from the shop to see if you wanted anything. You must answer the phone sometimes.’
Fresh eggs, thick-cut smoked bacon, orange juice, a crusty sourdough loaf, mushrooms smelling of darkness and clean earth, bulging tomatoes, properly plump and deep red. A thick thud of the Sunday papers as they were disgorged onto the worktop. Colombian coffee, smelling of Heaven. Despite her ostensible lack of interest in food, Cecilia’s mouth started to water.
‘You hungry, Ma?’
‘I think I must be.’
‘Have you got coffee on the go?’
The pot was nearly empty, so Olivia refilled the kettle to make more.
‘Did Mads ring?’ Olivia started slicing the mushrooms. ‘Is she on her way at least?’
‘No… oh, she might have called. I don’t know. The phone may have rung.’ Cecilia looked round vaguely. ‘I was just in the garden…’
‘She’s probably texted.’ Olivia dug into her jeans pocket and pulled out her mobile to check. ‘Yes. “Round the corner”, i.e., ten minutes away, probably. I’ll start anyway.’
Olivia opened the fridge for milk.
‘You are eating properly, aren’t you?’
‘Of course. Don’t fuss.’ Cecilia tipped the coffee dregs into the compost bucket below the sink.
Olivia began removing items from the fridge and ranging them along the worktop.
‘They’re fine! I just bought those.’
‘I’m just having a quick look at the dates, that’s all.’ She carried on taking things out. ‘Good grief, that’s practically vintage. And that. And that.’
‘Supermarkets just put those dates on so you’ll throw them away and buy more. You’re playing right into their hands.’
‘Why don’t you buy less, then? Buy one packet of ham, not three.’
‘They were on offer – three for two.’
‘Now who’s playing into the big bad capitalists’ hands, Mum? And it’s not a bargain if you leave two of them to become a breeding-ground for botulism.’
‘Oh, nonsense. I’ve never had botulism from eating anything in this house.’
‘It’s probably too scared to enter. Can’t you hear the noxious bacteria huddling by the fridge door, whimpering: “Help, help! Let us out! The maggotty brie is coming for us!”’
Cecilia laughed appreciatively.
‘Oh, you girls, you’re spoilt rotten. And so cautious. When I was your age, I never worried about food or the electricity bill or boring things. I thought only about my work and love – and sex, of course. Live a little! Take risks – where’s your sense of adventure? Ah, there was this time in Rome—’
‘God, please not up against the wall at the Colosseum again.’ Olivia pressed her hands over her ears and began to hum loudly.
The doorbell rang: Madeleine’s signature insistent triple ring. Always late herself, she was nevertheless impatient to get stuck in the second she arrived.
‘I’m starving. What have we got?’ Madeleine planted kisses on her mother and sister. ‘Ma, I found this note on your mat.’ She waved an old envelope in the air and deposited it on the hall table.
‘We have got bacon and eggs, etcetera. Do you want the whole shebang?’
‘Fab, yes, yes. Tons of everything for me, please.’ Madeleine shucked off her grey military greatcoat, like her mother’s, way too big for her. ‘God, why’s it so cold in here? Can’t you turn up the heating?’ She went and stood right next to the radiator. ‘That’s an… um… interesting item of clothing, Mother. What is it exactly?’ She cast a glance sideways at Olivia.
‘Feel free to mock – I don’t give a damn.’ Cecilia hitched up her long cardigan, then walked up and down as if along a catwalk. ‘Lilian made it for me and I love it.’ It was a skirt with an asymmetric flounce that bulged out at the bottom and a wavy hemline, though whether this was by accident or design was unclear.
Lilian was one of Cecilia’s numerous ‘artistic’ friends, sometimes referred to by Cecilia as ‘the coven’ – all women in their sixties, like Cecilia, and single, widowed or divorced.
‘Hmm, I rather thought I detected the distinctive hand of Lilian in it,’ Olivia chipped in, while cooking the breakfast.
‘It makes you look like a lampstand,’ Madeleine pronounced.
‘It’s jacquard.’ Cecilia enunciated the word with relish as if it were the name of an unusually attractive man. ‘Very good quality.’
‘It looks like a recycled sofa-cover.’
‘But a good-quality sofa-cover,’ Olivia added.
‘It’s not sofa fabric,’ Cecilia said. ‘Lilian was given Mrs Reynolds’ curtains – yards and yards of fabulous material. She’s made such wonderful things—’
‘—and also your skirt,’ said Olivia.
‘Isn’t that the horrid old woman at the big house on the end? The one who died?’
Cecilia ignored the questions. Madeleine made a face at her sister and mouthed ‘Dead woman’s curtains!’ at her.
‘Who was that man I saw on your doorstep just before I arrived?’ Olivia asked, fork poised in mid-air, as the three of them sat around the table.
‘Hmm?’ Cecilia, though she rarely bothered to cook for herself, was an appreciative recipient when it came to food. She wished she could somehow paint the taste of these tomatoes… intensely red… sweet… those lovely burnt bits on the cut side… ‘What?’
‘That man. As I was coming along the road, there was a man turning away from your door, or perhaps it was your neighbour’s? I was too far away to be sure.’
‘Oh, that’s what it was! The doorbell did ring earlier, I think.’
‘Mum!’ Madeleine scooped up the last of her mushrooms and stuffed them into her mouth. ‘You have to answer the door, you know.’
Cecilia shrugged and swigged her coffee as if draining a tumbler of Scotch.
‘Why do I?’
‘Well…’ Madeleine turned to Olivia. ‘Why does she?’
‘Because people do.’ Olivia neatly cut the rind off her bacon. ‘Otherwise, why bother having a bell? Besides, perhaps it was something nice. Maybe he was a lawyer, come to tell you you’ve been left thousands of pounds by your eccentric aunt Amelia?’
‘Who’s Aunt Amelia?’
‘Not a real aunt, you noodle.’
Cecilia waved away the question. ‘All aunts deceased now, thank the Lord. Think the last two were probably poisoned by do-gooders wanting to show the o
ther occupants of the home a degree of mercy in their final years.’
‘He had a nice face.’ Olivia tilted her head to one side, the way she did when she was picturing something specific.
‘Ooh, Liv’s got the hots for the lawyer!’
‘Grow up, Mads.’
‘Nooooo – but I’m really happy for you. Can I be a bridesmaid?’
‘No. We’re going to run away to Mull and get married at Calgary Bay. On our own.’ Olivia terminated the conversation by standing up and clearing the plates.
The smears of egg yolk were brilliant on Cecilia’s plate, paint on a palette. Sunflowers. Darker than daffodils. Almost enough to make you believe in God, a colour like that. Almost.
Cecilia looked up from her plate.
‘Who’s getting married?’ she said.
8
Marrying Marcia
Marcia was not the kind of woman you fooled around with. If you’d made it as far as a fourth date, you’d better start saving for an engagement ring and preparing your bank statements to show her father. Conrad thought he detected the slightest slowing of her footsteps when they passed the window of an estate agent or a jeweller, but perhaps he was imagining it. Still he held off, although he wasn’t quite sure why as there were no obvious objections to the match. It was all most satisfactory. He was twenty-seven, not too young to settle down, Marcia a couple of years older, but there was nothing wrong in that. She ticked all the boxes. She was educated, more than adequately intelligent, composed, and – on the whole – a rather rational creature not unlike himself.
Their dates – though Conrad never named them to himself as such, thinking of them (if he thought of them at all) more as pleasant enough time spent with a companion who shared his interests – were usually cultural: museums and galleries, classical concerts, music for the mind rather than the heart perhaps (German or Austrian, not Russian), occasionally the theatre or cinema. Marcia was admirably capable and efficient, what in the past might have been termed accomplished: she could cook, sew, sail, swim, play the piano, etc., all to a high standard and without a trace of fuss or even pride. She never drank more than a single glass of wine, rarely raised her voice, and would not embarrass you in front of your friends. There was no history of madness or serious illness in the family. And, Conrad reminded himself, they never argued. She was not unattractive, though perhaps a little angular – as if she had been drawn with the aid of a geometry set – but nothing to complain about. Not a woman of ardour, but then not someone who would be swayed by raging passions this way and that – unlike his previous amour, who had spent an inordinate amount of time crying over the fact that Conrad never told her he loved her (and why would he? He would never lie just to get a woman into bed).
In the end, he doesn’t need to ask.
They are by the river one day, walking, when Marcia says, ‘My mother thinks a June wedding is best. That way, one can honeymoon during the long vac without taking off extra time.’
At that time, they are both living in Oxford: Conrad employed at the Ashmolean Museum, Marcia on the administrative side at the University.
It is late February now. June is barely four months off.
Conrad pauses for a moment, then carries on walking as Marcia continues: ‘I dare say we could use one of the college rooms, if we like. For the reception. Registry office for the ceremony, yes? Keep it simple.’
It sounds modest, unthreatening. No overblown church fandango with endless fussing and fretting about the dress and bridesmaids and cars and all that nonsense. Something manageable. And yet…
‘I wonder…’ Conrad turns so that his body is facing her but he looks out over the river. ‘I wonder if…’
‘I’m pregnant,’ she says.
‘Ah, I see.’ He glances at her face, then back to the river. ‘Well, June then, yes, that sounds sensible.’ Conrad nods. ‘Very few guests on my side, so we can keep it small.’ It seems he has assented then. Well, why not?
And so it is. The four months scoot by and, if Conrad considers applying the brakes, there is no outward sign of it. A registry office ceremony, with just immediate family and a couple of friends apiece. Marcia wears an empire-line dress and matching jacket in a rather unfortunate shade of light green, a colour that leaches her skin of any note of warmth it might have. As a concession to the occasion, she applies some make-up, but – unfamiliar as she is with the art of it – the effect is somehow very slightly askew. It is hard to pinpoint exactly what is not quite right; perhaps there is a little more eyeshadow on one eyelid than the other, or maybe her lipstick is straying just a fraction beyond the boundary of her thin lips in a minor act of rebellion. Still, no matter – it is really a jolly day, and surely hardly anyone notices it at all.
Conrad looks very much himself, only somewhat smarter, in a grey suit, rather than his usual academic’s tweed jacket, with a new silk tie and a crisp blue shirt. A modest drinks party for their small circle of friends is followed by a formal dinner at the Randolph Hotel. Marcia’s father makes a moderately amusing speech and toasts ‘the happy couple’. For a moment, Conrad glances round, then realises that this refers to him and Marcia. Well, they are a happy couple. Marcia seems extremely happy today. And he is content. It is a clichéd phrase, not the kind of language he would ever use, other than as a mocking aside, but he is not unhappy about the marriage or the day so far, so it is all good. Conrad’s own speech is a source of pride to him – clever, pithy, gracious, witty; he has spent quite some time honing it and practising the pauses to seem natural when there might be responsive laughter.
The newlyweds spend their wedding night at the hotel. And if their nuptial coupling is perhaps a little lacking in bells and whistles, it is none the less perfectly satisfactory: lights off (as always), new wedding nightgown duly lifted, a moderate amount of foreplay, and proceed to the main event.
Before their wedding night, they have gone to bed together on a small number of occasions. It is the sixties: if the magazines are anything to go by, people are expected to rip each other’s clothes off at every opportunity. Conrad and Marcia do not go in for ripping off clothing, of course, but their activities between the sheets are usually reasonably effective, at least for him. Early on, Marcia instructed Conrad ‘not to concern yourself about it’ on the matter of her orgasm. Occasionally, she grinds herself to climax, eyes tight shut, rocking regular as a metronome against him, but her absolute silence and minimal facial expression mean that it is easy to miss it. The only clue, Conrad notes, is an intense pursing of her lips as she comes, as if something very slightly unpleasant has occurred, like when she passes by a rubbish bin that is in need of emptying and there is a lingering whiff of fish bones or old cheese.
In the early days, despite Marcia’s diktat, Conrad does his best to be an imaginative lover, inspired perhaps by notions of romantic love absorbed from art and literature, or from the mysterious cogs and corners of his own mind. Surely women like that sort of thing and, in any case, he has never had any complaints. He initially pays a great deal of attention to Marcia’s bosoms, thinking of Marvell’s line about spending two hundred years to adore each breast, but she frowns and moves his mouth away from her nipple - ‘That’s for babies surely?’ – and opens her legs so far and no further so that he can proceed to insert his erect penis which, after all, was the point of the thing, was it not?
9
Insufficient Data
Andrew went to make himself a cup of coffee in the cramped, grimly lit kitchen used by both the Prints and Drawings department and his own section that was housed within it, Conservation – Western Art on Paper. He was too busy to go all the way over to the staff canteen again this morning just for a quick coffee. If there was someone in the kitchen already, he usually went away and came back later, otherwise you felt obliged to make conversation. It wasn’t that he didn’t like talking to other people, not at all; it was just he didn’t want to have to do it if he wasn’t in the mood. Of course you couldn’t take y
our drink back into the department, where you might accidentally spill it over an irreplaceable work, but had to stand in the flat fluorescent light or perch on the lone wobbly stool or cold stone steps and drink it there. He poked his head round the doorway, as if he were just passing, hoping it would be empty. Conrad was there. Ah, well, he was safe enough. Not a man for small talk either. He was standing by the worktop, waiting for the kettle to boil.
‘Andrew.’ Conrad nodded.
‘Good morning, Conrad. How are you?’
‘I’m well, thank you.’
Andrew paused for a few moments, waiting for Conrad to ask him how he was, too, but he did not.
‘I enjoyed meeting your daughter the other day. She seems very nice. What does she do? I mean, does she work or…?’
‘I suppose these days one might call her a “homemaker” – repellent though that is – as the term “housewife” seems to have become verboten, for some reason.’
Andrew checked the coffee jug in the filter machine, but it was nearly empty. Some bright spark always left just a tiny, irritating amount in it; if you finished it, you had to make a fresh batch. He sighed and reached for the coffee jar.
‘Well, these things change, of course.’ Andrew gestured towards the machine. ‘Coffee?’
‘Tea, I think. Yes. Earl Grey, if there is any.’ Conrad watched while perched on the stool as Andrew foraged in the cupboards, looking for the tea. ‘And I’m doing my daughter a disservice, in fact. She’s also a print-maker. Wood engravings,’ he added, anticipating Andrew’s next question.
‘Sort of a family tradition then?’ Andrew turned round.
‘In what way?’
‘Well, you know, you… here… being an expert on prints… and your daughter… making them.’ It sounded childish, simplistic. Conrad’s particular area of expertise was actually early Italian engravings, but of course he had acquired an encyclopaedic knowledge of the collection over the thirty-odd years he had worked there. Even now, in his supposed retirement, the man was in two or three times a week, researching material for his next book.
Growing Up for Beginners Page 6
