‘Broken Javanese shadow puppet?’
‘Ah, yes, that’s going to Thalia. She’s promised to mend it for me.’
Olivia sighed and set it down again.
‘Note on old envelope about your apple tree?’
‘Hmm? What note?’
‘From someone wanting to talk to you about your apple tree at the back. Have you dealt with this already? Presumably not?’
‘Oh, don’t think so. Someone came round a while ago. I presumed the problem had gone away.’ Cecilia returned to the basket of wool. Gosh, she’d forgotten she had that undyed Jacob sheep wool. Glorious. Perhaps there would be enough to knit a beret or something?
‘So, do you want me to deal with this, Ma?’
‘Would you really?’ Cecilia stroked the hank of wool in her hand. ‘You know I’m hopeless with that kind of thing. Thank you.’
Olivia came over to peer into the basket.
‘God, what a tangle. Doesn’t it drive you mad having to disentangle it every time you want to extricate something?’
‘Oddly, I think I rather enjoy it. I do have my methodical side, too, you know.’
‘Ha!’ Maddy snorted. ‘That’s a well-kept secret, for sure.’
‘I don’t know. Like with your mosaics, I can see there’s a sort of crossword-puzzle element to it alongside the creative bit.’
‘Exactly. I’m really enjoying making my mermaid one. There is great satisfaction in creating an orderly whole out of chaos. Bringing disjointed fragments together to find meaning. Very Gestalt.’
Her daughters exchanged a look. Gestalt was one of those words that would set them off into an oh-mother! alliance, along with many others, such as Jungian, Kleinian, loom, intercourse, miso paste, rooibos tea, soy milk, evening primrose oil… Ah, well, let them have their fun – she didn’t mind.
‘Well, I wish you’d employ your methodical side to sort out the kitchen,’ Olivia said. ‘I’m struggling to see an orderly whole in the midst of the chaos.’
‘Oh, you. Life’s too interesting to waste it in tidying up.’
‘That sounds like a platitude you’d find printed on a tea-towel,’ Olivia said.
‘I hate tidying up.’ Maddy tugged out a skein of wool.
‘Really? I had no idea. I’ve barely noticed, despite sharing a flat with you. I always thought all that mess was caused by leprechauns making mischief in the wee small hours.’
‘Still, you take the point, Olivia? Tidying is not inherently interesting.’
‘No, it’s not. But I like knowing where my things are. I don’t think I’m especially tidy, but I find being around too much clutter and chaos unsettling. It’s not relaxing.’
‘I wonder if perhaps you have OCD?’ Cecilia said.
‘Oh, Mum, come on. She’s not that bad.’
‘Of course I don’t have OCD. I’m just averagely tidy.’
‘I wouldn’t want to be averagely anything,’ Maddy pronounced.
‘You know what I mean. When I lived with Alex, our flat was pretty tidy. It was nice. You could actually sit down without having to shift a pile of papers from the chair first. It was restful.’
‘Ah, Alex – he was a lovely boy. Whatever happened to him?’
‘Mum! Sssh!’ Maddy frowned at her mother and mouthed ‘Remember?’ at her. Oh yes, he was the one who’d dumped Olivia for someone else and made her move out as his parents had paid for the flat. Well, these things happen. She’d grown up a lot since then. Life was all about learning really.
‘Anyway, I’ve got to be off now, Ma. Anything in particular I should know about the tree?’
‘What tree, dear?’
‘This! The apple tree.’ Olivia was waving a scrap of paper. ‘I’ll call them.’
‘I’m not cutting it down! I’ll camp out in the branches if I have to!’
‘Remain calm, Swampy. Good luck with your mosaic mermaid.’
16
A Proper Person
After she had seen Roger off to work, Eleanor zipped round the kitchen, loading the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher, wiping the kitchen table and worktops, giving the enamel sink a scrub. Then she rushed back upstairs to tidy the bedroom, fold Roger’s pyjamas, wipe his toothpaste spittle off the bathroom mirror, and apply her minimal make-up before leaving for work. Today, it was one of Eleanor’s volunteering days at the Conservation Trust, a small charity that offered expertise and guidance to residents and architects wanting to adapt or extend local period buildings. There was no compulsion for her to arrive at a particular time, as she was unpaid, but she liked to get in early anyway and was always one of the first ones in.
This morning, as soon as she arrived, the Director, Rachel, asked Eleanor if she could pop in to see her.
‘Of course. In five minutes?’ Eleanor’s heart sagged as she took off her coat and hung it up. She supposed Rachel was going to say they didn’t really need her any more. Or maybe it was to do with that report she’d drafted on the area’s hedges; Eleanor had spent ages on it, but now she worried that she must have got the wrong end of the stick and it wasn’t at all what was wanted. She’d been working there for the best part of a year and had gradually been given more and more complex tasks, not just admin any more but attending site meetings and writing reports and doing research. Truth was, she loved it there: the work was fascinating and she liked the people, who were not unlike herself – quiet, meticulous, thorough – who saw nothing tedious in discussing the detailing of a front door for forty-five minutes; people who understood the deep satisfaction in working hard to arrive at something that was exactly right. Roger found it puzzling, this devotion to work that wasn’t even paid, so no doubt he’d be relieved when he came home and she had to tell him they no longer wanted her.
Eleanor nipped to the loo to check her face in the mirror. It looked pinched, as if she were trying to be brave in the face of bad news. Well, that was right. She suddenly had the awful feeling that she might cry when Rachel told her, that she might sob uncontrollably and beg to stay. She cranked a smile to her face – don’t be so silly, Eleanor – and went and scooped up her notebook and pen, and knocked on Rachel’s office door.
Rachel came out from behind her desk and gestured for Eleanor to join her at the round meeting table. Clutching her notebook in front of her like a shield, Eleanor smiled tightly, already biting the inside of her lip.
‘Now, you know that Siobhan’s going off on maternity leave in February?’
Eleanor nodded.
‘Well, we wondered if you’d be interested in covering for her? As a paid position.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes. The thing is – and feel free to say no, of course – but we’d need you three days a week really, same as Siobhan does now, not just two. And I could only offer it to you as a maternity cover position as Siobhan is entitled to come back later if she decides to.’
‘But why would you want me? I mean, aren’t you advertising it? For a proper person?’
‘Oh, Eleanor, you are funny. I don’t think I’ve ever encountered anyone before so refreshingly devoid of ego.’ Rachel smiled at her with affection. ‘Do you really not think you are “a proper person”?’
‘But I’m not being modest. Surely I don’t have enough experience?’
‘Eleanor, trust me. You understand the work, you’re efficient, capable, precise and never get flustered. And you’re extremely diplomatic, which, in this place, counts for gold bars. It’s invaluable with prickly home-owners, architects, planning officers – you must know that? You help us get the right results, and everyone comes away feeling that they’ve scored some sort of victory. It’s a rare gift.’
‘But… but…’ Eleanor knew there must be plenty of other objections but, for now, she couldn’t quite put her finger on what they were.
Rachel briefly outlined the pay and other benefits.
‘And, of course, there are one or two short training courses we could send you on, if you’d like to do that. It might gi
ve you more confidence.’
‘Well.’ Eleanor could feel herself flushing. ‘Yes, then. Yes, please. I’d love to do it.’
‘Wonderful.’ Rachel stood up to return to her desk. ‘And is the timing OK? You mentioned you might go on a cruise in the New Year?’
The cruise, oh God, the bloody cruise. Roger had started rhapsodising again about the supposed joys of a cruise yesterday, but she’d deflected him by pointing out a squirrel in the garden starting to dig up his precious hyacinth bulbs and he’d dashed out to chase it off.
‘Well, my husband is very keen to go on one, but we’d be back by then, I’m sure. Anyway, it’s not booked yet. With any luck, he may change his mind!’ Eleanor laughed.
‘Don’t you get any say in it?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Eleanor felt herself blush and looked down at her notepad as if a better response might be written there. ‘Yes, of course he lets me have a say. I mean, I do have a say, of course I do.’
‘Good. I’m very pleased you want the job, Eleanor. We all think a great deal of you, as I hope you know.’
‘Thank you.’ She turned to go, then had a thought. ‘Oh! I suppose I should… I ought to… to, ah, run it by my husband, shouldn’t I?’
Rachel raised her eyebrows. ‘I’m afraid I have no idea about these things. I’ve always managed very well without a husband, but I suppose some people like to have one around the place.’
Eleanor laughed appreciatively.
‘Well, I probably should ask him. Tell him.’
‘Up to you. Let me know on Monday then?’
‘Yes. Yes, I will.’
She mustn’t let herself agonise about telling Roger. It made no difference in the end anyway. Either he’d be fine with it or he wouldn’t. Tying herself in knots and fretting about how best to sell it to him would just make her more anxious. And waiting wouldn’t help either, tempting though it was to stave it off till the last possible moment on Monday morning when he’d be heading out the front door to drive to work. She had visions of standing in the hall and saying, ‘By the way, the Conservation Trust has offered me a proper job. Three days a week. Paid. And I’ve said yes. Have a good day!’ And slamming the door.
Still, as she put the final touches to supper, sprinkling the beef stroganoff with a handful of chopped parsley as if she were light of heart, she thought perhaps she might wait until dessert. By then, Roger would have had two large glasses of wine and, if she waited for the influx of sugar from the poached pears to kick in, it should all be fine.
She poured his coffee and pushed the little jug of cream towards him, as if tentatively offering an unworthy sacrifice at an altar.
‘And what about you, darling? Did you do anything nice today?’ Having run through the minutiae of Roger’s own day over the course of supper. ‘Was it a conservation thingy day? I can never remember.’
‘Yes, it was. And guess what?’
‘Oh, darling, I’ve no idea. Somebody wants to put a hot tub in their back garden? Pull out a hedge and erect a fence? Something that set you all spinning in circles of indignation, no doubt! Honestly, I can’t see what all the fuss is about half the time. If someone wants to enhance their property, stick on a conservatory or whatever to maximise their investment, so what? An Englishman’s home is his castle, etc., eh?’
There was no point in having this sort of conversation with Roger. She had tried before, on more than one occasion, but he didn’t really understand why you might want to encourage people to keep their front hedge rather than grubbing it out to replace it with a wall. For him, a house was solely an owner’s business; thoughts of context, history, wildlife, the whole streetscape were entirely irrelevant.
‘They’ve offered me a job. Part-time. Paid.’
‘A job? Whatever for?’
‘Well.’ Eleanor fiddled with the corner of her napkin on her lap. ‘Rachel said she thought I’d be good at it. It’s only three days a week and it wouldn’t start till February. I’d still have lots of time to… to take care of the house and everything.’
‘I’ve no doubt you’d be good at it, darling. Of course you’re very competent. That’s not what I meant. I meant – what for? It’s not as if we need the money, is it? Am I not giving you enough? Honestly, darling, you should have said. I know women’s little needs are expensive – hair salons and toiletries and all that sort of thing. I want you to be able to treat yourself to a nice dress, a silk scarf, whatever you like. What say I up the amount I transfer to the joint account for your personal expenses each month? I’m very happy to.’ He raised his coffee cup to his lips, smiling.
‘No, it’s not that.’
Roger stopped smiling and lowered his cup.
‘I mean, thank you for the offer – that’s very kind – but it wasn’t about the money really. It’s the work itself. I like it there. And it’s only three days a week, so barely more than I’m doing now.’
‘Is it that you’re a bored little bunny?’ He patted her leg and made his mouth into an exaggerated pout. ‘What with both the kids away now?’
‘Well, a little, I suppose.’ Digging her fingernails into her own palms; wishing she were brave enough to reach across and pinch him instead.
Roger sniffed.
‘I trust you warned them you’ll be away in the New Year for a while on our cruise?’
‘Of course. And I said I needed to speak to you first before I could give them an answer.’
Roger nodded.
‘I suppose it’s all right then. If you must. I presume the pay is an absolute joke?’
She told him what the pay would be and he laughed.
‘Charities! Honestly, they’re hopeless, aren’t they? No wonder these places are always staffed by bumbling amateurs! Oh well, you go and have fun with them, darling, bossing people about their extensions and their windows if it makes you happy.’ He shook his head, laughing, and drained his coffee.
17
Happy Families II
1973–1977
When Benedict is six or seven, he pushes another child down the garden steps that lead from the terrace to the lawn.
The screams ring round the garden and Conrad springs out of his study to see who is murdering whom. Marcia and the other boy’s mother are fussing over the child – Conrad can’t remember the woman’s name; she is an irritating, fluttery sort of a woman, all eyes and giggles and pretending to be even dafter than she actually is, though Lord knows she is not over-burdened with intelligence so why she feels the need to assume this mantle of absent-minded silliness, he has no idea. The child does seem to have quite a bit of blood on his nose, mouth and on his T-shirt, but Conrad is aware that these things often look more dramatic than they really are.
Marcia calls to him, ‘Could you bring some ice, darling? Wrapped in a cloth. Quickly.’
He strides back towards the kitchen. Marcia has become quite good at giving specific directions rather than uttering vague pleas for assistance.
He returns with the ice, wrapped in one of their finest damask napkins, which is all he could find.
‘Oh, I meant a tea-towel or something! Not this.’ Marcia looks at the white damask as if at a dying bird then at the child’s bloody face. Conrad pulls out his cloth handkerchief, fresh this morning at least, tips the ice into it and hands it over without comment. Marcia clamps it firmly to the bridge of the boy’s nose.
‘He p-p-pushed me!’ says the bloodied boy, between sobs. ‘On purpose!’ His outrage is unmistakable.
Marcia directs the fluttery mother to hold the ice in place, then draws Benedict to one side.
‘Benedict, you didn’t push him, did you?’ She takes him by the arms. ‘You would never do such a thing, would you?’
‘I didn’t do it, Mummy.’
‘Do you promise, my darling? You wouldn’t do anything so wicked, would you?’
‘No, Mummy, I wouldn’t.’ Benedict puts his hands behind his back. Conrad spots him crossing his fingers. God, but he’s convincing. ‘We
were just playing. On the terrace. Then he fell down.’
The temptation to shop his own offspring is very strong. Conrad wonders what Marcia would say if he said to the other boy – what is his name? – ‘Poor you. Very sorry and all that. Perhaps you’d like to shove Benedict down the steps, too?’
‘I see,’ she says. ‘Well, then.’
‘You do believe me, Mummy, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do.’ She leans forward to kiss him on the forehead. ‘Please promise me to be more careful next time, won’t you?’
‘Yes, Mummy.’ Benedict bestows one of his winning smiles on her and she echoes it back to him.
Conrad thinks, after a time, that the other child never did come back to play, but he couldn’t swear to it. They are all rather interchangeable at that age: mostly a source of noise and irritation. Not a huge loss, then, but Benedict’s willingness to lie is another matter. Conrad will attempt to speak to him later, explain the importance of telling the truth, especially to one’s parents. He would rather know the truth, even if unpalatable, than be told a lie. He is not entirely sure that the same holds true for his wife, but surely she will understand that they must present a united front over something like this?
Eleanor, by contrast, is admirably self-governing on the whole. At bedtime, she stretches up to kiss each parent good night and takes herself off to bed. When she was little, he read to her almost every night, and she was an appreciative audience, begging him to do different voices for the characters, pleading for ‘just one more page, Daddy, one more page,’ but once she could read well herself, he considered it better to encourage her rather than have her listen to him. She often reads while drifting about the house, driving Marcia into fits of exasperation as the child is not looking where she’s going and will surely cause an accident. When Eleanor can get away with it, she has a book open on her lap during meals, something that Conrad aches to do himself but accepts that children need a good example to follow when it comes to social norms. Still, he turns a blind eye until Marcia spots that Eleanor is not eating because she is glued to a book yet again and whisks the offending volume away to a high shelf until Conrad retrieves it at bedtime. When he pokes his head round his daughter’s bedroom door each evening, more often than not she is still reading, even if she can barely keep her eyes open. He dips to kiss the top of her head, whispering ‘Good night, Small Book,’ and gently taking her book to place it on the bedside table. ‘Good night, Big Book,’ she murmurs, slipping into sleep.
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