Usually, Eleanor would say she’s fine, it’s fine, everything’s fine, but somehow, today, she felt… weary, defeated. She wrinkled her nose and looked round to check that no one she knew was seated within earshot.
‘The Cloud,’ she said, without further comment.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake! That man is such a spoilt child. Eleanor, why on earth do you pander to him? It’s ridiculous. I know what you’re like, spinning round bloody Planet Roger in faithful orbit as if you’re just a service satellite. Honestly, if it were me, I’d tell him to stop being such a grumpy old git.’
‘Well, no two marriages are alike…’
‘It’s nothing to do with that. Look, I realise you’re a lot more patient than I am and that’s admirable, but no one’s handing out medals for stoicism.’
‘I’m not asking for a medal.’
‘I know that, I’m just saying. If Mark’s pissing me off, I usually just come straight out with it and tell him. And when I’m in a strop, he teases me out of it.’
‘But you two have always been so straight with each other.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘There’s no “of course” about it. And I can’t change tack now, can I? If I suddenly say to Roger, “Darling, I find your black moods really hard to live with – is there any chance you could fucking snap out of it?” he would go ballistic.’
‘Would he? How do you know? And, frankly, so what if he does? That might be easier to deal with than having him glowering about the house for days on end.’
Eleanor silently shook her head. ‘Anyway, to be fair to Roger, it was partly my fault. I failed to wash the cafetières the other day and he was seriously pissed off because he had to clean one himself in order to have coffee.’
‘What?’
Eleanor repeated her explanation.
‘Can you actually hear yourself?’
‘What do you mean? I’m just explaining.’
Sarah reached for her friend’s arm and looked into her eyes.
‘You are blaming yourself. You “failed” – your word, not mine – to wash Roger’s sodding cafetières! You don’t even drink coffee, for God’s sake. Why can’t he wash one himself once in a blue moon? What’s happened to you, El?’
Eleanor looked down at the table, unable to speak. She bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself crying.
‘El, I’m sorry.’ Sarah patted her hand. ‘I don’t mean to give you a hard time. It’s not for me to tell you what to do.’
‘It’s OK. I’m fine.’
Sarah clattered her cup down into the saucer.
‘No, you are not fine. You’re clearly not fine. For God’s sake, will you please stop saying you’re fine.’
‘Don’t have a go at me!’ Eleanor’s voice snapped out much louder than she had intended and the people either side of them suddenly looked round.
‘Sorry – but still, why can’t you stand up for yourself like that with Roger?’
Eleanor shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I never have, I suppose, and now I don’t know how to start.’
‘You didn’t used to be like this, you know. You had some grit. Every time I see you now, you seem to be growing fainter and fainter. There’s more and more Roger and less and less Eleanor. It scares the hell out of me to see you like this. Soon I won’t be able to see you at all.’
‘You mean you won’t want to see me any more?’ Eleanor was struggling desperately not to cry. Her chest felt tight and full, as if had been packed full of sharp stones; her voice rasped in her throat.
‘No, silly, not like that. I mean you’re becoming the Invisible Woman. A sort of shadow in your own life, letting Roger have his own way about everything.’
‘I don’t really. Perhaps I was making too much of it. You know how much I hate arguing and often it’s just easier to go with the flow and let him have his way. And once he’s emerged from a mood, it’s really not so bad at all. I know I’m very lucky: I have happy, healthy children, a lovely house, no money worries.’ She shrugged. ‘I should be grateful.’
Sarah said nothing.
‘What?’
‘Is “really not so bad at all” your idea of a happy marriage?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m sick of thinking about myself. And how many people have a really happy marriage, after all? I don’t think my parents were especially happy, but they rubbed along OK most of the time. Maybe it’s not a realistic thing to want?’
‘That’s ridiculous. And I don’t give a toss about other people and their marriages, I care about you and whether you’re happy or not.’
‘Well, thank you, I love it that you care, but you honestly don’t need to. We’re just having a bit of a bad patch at the moment because things have all been shaken up by Hannah’s going away, I think, but we’ll settle down soon and then everything will be fine.’
‘It’ll all be fine?’
‘Yes.’
Sarah shook her head slightly then set down her cup.
‘El, it’s not good for you to be like this, and it really can’t be good for Daniel and Hannah to see their mother being so consistently eroded by their father, can it?’
‘But they’re both away from home now, at least.’
‘Oh, well then, in that case you might as well lie down on the floor and let Roger wipe his feet on you.’
‘That’s not fair! I’m not a doormat!’
‘No, Eleanor, exactly. You’re not. So why the hell are you acting like one?’
‘I’m not. Don’t give me a hard time. I’m bloody sick of everyone having a go at me and blaming me when I haven’t done anything wrong.’ Eleanor rose to her feet and tugged out some cash from her pocket and slapped it on the table.
‘Of course you haven’t done anything wrong. I’m not saying that. Come on, El.’
‘I have to go.’
She left the café quickly and ran along the pavement. She was dimly aware of people turning to look; women in smart coats and office shoes didn’t run in the street with tears streaming down their faces. Breathless now, she ducked into the park. To one side was a dense thicket of rhododendrons the children had loved to hide in when they were little, and now she plunged into a narrow gap between the shrubs. Branches clawed at the cloth of her coat, snagged at her hair, yanked her to a halt. She unhooked herself from their clutches, then suddenly felt completely overwhelmed. She crouched down on the damp earth, her vision blurred by tears, losing herself in the gloom, the silence, the barrier of branches, knowing she would be completely obscured from view, invisible.
32
Doing the Right Thing
1982
That bloody boy will be the death of him. He’s gone too far this time. Conrad can feel the anger engulfing him, an unstoppable wave surging into every blood vessel, so he is just a repository for rage, with no room for anything else. If the boy were here now, he’d give him a jolly good shaking. He slams the flat of his hand down hard on the desk. He’d… he’d… what would he do exactly? Shouting and railing at Benedict has never achieved anything. The boy laughs in his face when he tries to be strict, and gets away with murder when left to his own devices. When Conrad turns a blind eye to his son’s behaviour – the stealing, the drinking, the skiving off school – the boy merely pushes it further. Marcia, never the most relaxed of creatures even at the best of times, has become as taut as a wire, holding her breath for the next crisis while doing nothing to avert it other than pleading with Benedict to please try a little harder and slipping him money so as to try to stop him stealing.
Conrad slumps into his seat, defeated, sinks his head into his hands. It is his fault, he knows; he has failed, not the boy. For Christ’s sake, man, what the hell were you thinking? You’re a father! You might as well have died when he was seven, for all the bloody good you’ve done the boy.
His legs are shaking uncontrollably, his knees pumping up and down like pistons, and he sets his hands on them to try to steady them, thoughts, images buffeting each other
in his head. When it came to the children, he let Marcia have her way: with Eleanor – well, she barely seemed to need more than the odd parental steer now and then, a bit of help with her maths and science, the occasional lift home; she was almost scarily self-reliant. He once came down in the morning to find her laying the breakfast table, folding cloth napkins, setting out the cups just so, frowning in concentration in her intense need to get it right. She was eight. So, with Eleanor, it was different. But the boy… Marcia has been not just indulgent, it is more than that. He shuts his eyes, trying to picture his wife with their son, turning the image over in his mind as if it were some challenging puzzle. The way she looks at him, the way she smooths his hair back from his face or straightens his tie just before he goes off to school. It is oddly… intense. When he gets into trouble at school, she makes excuses for him: it is just a phase, or he’s been influenced by some other boy, or the teacher is known for being unduly harsh. It has got worse, though, much worse, the last two or three years.
Conrad shoves those thoughts to one side: too easy to blame his wife. He is to blame, he can see that now. He has let himself be distracted from his duties and responsibilities as a parent, as the head of the household, devoting himself only to work and… and to her, of course. Yes. He has been selfish – so selfish! And his family have suffered. Benedict is like a highly-strung stallion and he needs someone firm and strong to train him, not soft words and a yielding hand. He has been given free rein, and it has made him impossible.
Enough. No more. For now, at least, they would need a cracking good lawyer or the boy would end up confined in a borstal and come out as an unthinking, unfeeling criminal in all probability. In his mind, Benedict looks at him with disgust and Conrad feels a deep stab of shame. He could not let that happen to Benedict, his own flesh and blood, not if he can do anything to prevent it.
He calls Geoffrey, their family lawyer, for advice and explains the situation as it stands. Benedict has been caught driving on an A-road. Drunk. No licence, of course. Who knew he could even drive? He’s only fifteen. Good man, Geoffrey – he will know what to do. Benedict would hardly be the first lad from a decent family who has gone a bit haywire, after all. No one was killed, at least. The car was a write-off, but Benedict was in one piece and, though his friends had injuries – one with a broken leg, the other cuts from broken glass – they would be all right. Then he must leave to meet Marcia at the police station to collect Benedict. She was barely coherent on the phone, though he managed to extract the salient facts from her disjointed phrases between sobs. He will come at once, he said, as soon as he’s spoken to Geoffrey to set wheels in motion. In the meantime, sit down, take deep breaths and for God’s sake don’t tell a soul – not your mother, not a friend, not a neighbour. With any luck, they might still be able to hush it up. Marcia, snivelling uncontrollably, at least saw the merit in that. ‘Daddy will be so cross,’ she said. ‘What on earth will I tell him?’ Fuck Daddy, Conrad thought, why don’t you care what I think, for once?
There is a knock at the door while he is still on the phone to Geoffrey. Bloody hell, he can’t deal with anything else right now.
‘Come!’ he commands.
The first sight of her face, her hair, brings him to silence for a moment, as it always does. She is here, here in his office. She is never here. The two parts of his life touch, spark intriguingly for a second, then collide awkwardly. She looks odd here, shorter than usual, and her clothes strike him as positively peculiar rather than interestingly bohemian. He winds up the call, after agreeing to meet Geoffrey at the police station in one hour.
Now he turns to her, explains briefly, and tells her he will see her tomorrow at her flat, as usual. He speaks to her for a minute, then says goodbye.
He will not go tomorrow, of course, he knows that. It is just to get her out of there. He cannot deal with tears and upset, not now. He will call her later or tomorrow. She will understand. He sags in his seat, defeated. It is not to be thought of now, living without her in his life. No. Not to be thought of.
He stays there for a few moments, deep in thought. She has never simply turned up here before. She knows that people might wonder who she is, that it could be awkward. So now he wonders if she came to see him for a particular reason. She didn’t say so, but still… Well, no matter. Weightier business is pressing on him now. And, after all, she knew he was married when they first… got together, so he is sure it will not come as a huge shock, even though it has been more than an affair, yes, so much more. Do not think of it. Of her. At least not today. You will not, he tells himself, I forbid it.
But – he reaches for his briefcase as he must get going – she will be all right. As he puts on his raincoat, a thought pushes into his mind – a line from their poem:
Nothing else is.
33
Fragments from the Past
The girls were up at the top of the house in Cecilia’s studio, allegedly decluttering, though so far this seemed to have involved multiple trips back down to the kitchen by Madeleine for wine, crisps, something to nibble, something else to nibble, more wine, and chocolate or anything sweet but please not the ‘Ursuline’ biscuits that tasted of sawdust. Cecilia suspected that, as ever, Olivia was doing the bulk of the actual work, while Madeleine fetched refreshments so as to avoid doing any sorting or tidying, her two least favourite activities. Occasionally, shrieks of hysterical laughter reached Cecilia here, reclining on her chaise longue, resting. It was ridiculous. How was it that she’d been managing to work on her mermaid mosaic perfectly well for weeks, halfway up a ladder without so much as a wobble, but then, yesterday, tripped over an uneven paving slab in the middle of the street? She’d twisted her leg badly as she fell. Her knee was swollen and her ankle was still throbbing. She refused to go to the doctor as she could never be bothered with all that unless it was really unavoidable, but she had at least submitted to enforced rest with her leg raised on cushions and ice packs on her knee and ankle (courtesy of Olivia), a glass of red wine and a trashy novel by her side (courtesy of Madeleine). When Olivia was not keeping a beady eye, Cecilia took the opportunity to shove the ice packs off because they felt pretty unpleasant and she was sure it would all mend in a day or two. At least the mosaic was almost finished.
Periodically, one of the girls appeared, bearing some ‘mysterious relic’ that required Cecilia’s judgement. Was she really going to have this broken lamp repaired or could it be… um… recycled… perhaps? Madeleine brought down a cardboard box containing ‘The National Collection of Moth-Eaten Scarves’, many of which were perfectly fine and were just waiting for Cecilia to find a few minutes to embroider over the holes something small but pretty – a tiny heart or star, perhaps a little bird. Olivia bore a small sample of ‘enough fabric scraps to make a patchwork tea cosy for St Paul’s Cathedral’. Just when exactly was Ma realistically planning to take up patchwork again, given that she hadn’t done any for, ooh, fifteen years? Cecilia was aware that sometimes her daughters smuggled items out of the house to charity shops, recycling or even – God forbid – into the rubbish. Usually, she put her foot down and insisted on keeping whatever it was that her spoilt offspring dismissed as junk: pillows with just a couple of coffee stains on; perfectly serviceable lamps with slightly wobbly fittings or shades; plastic food containers temporarily missing their lids; chairs with broken cane seats that she was planning to mend as soon as her friend Thalia had time to show her the complex weaving pattern to do it…
She fancied another coffee and could toy with one of those incredible dark chocolate ginger biscuits that Olivia had brought if the girls hadn’t laid waste to them completely. Cecilia swung her legs down and attempted to stand up. Pain, intense and sudden, shot up her leg as if she’d been struck by a poisoned dart. She slumped back down immediately, feeling sick and faint, and laid her head back on the cushion. Bollocks, bollocks. She hated having anything wrong with her. She was not old, for Chrissakes! Refused to be old. Anyone could have fallen ov
er that bloody wayward slab – anyone of any age. But if you fell over at her age, people were so bloody nice and sympathetic to you. They helped you up and called you dear and offered to see you safely home. Olivia had borrowed a walking stick from someone and there it was, leaning against the end of the chaise longue, just behind her so that Cecilia could reach it if she chose to but didn’t have to look at it if she preferred not to. It was the kind of very particular thoughtfulness that was Olivia’s defining characteristic. Madeleine would probably have left the stick miles away on the other side of the room or immediately in front of her mother so that she would fall over it the moment she got up. Not that Madeleine was selfish, exactly; she could be extremely generous – would offer you her jumper if you were cold, her toast if you were hungry – but she didn’t think beyond the next few minutes, just like a child.
At that moment, the pair of them suddenly appeared, looking decidedly shifty. Presumably they had broken something. With any luck, Olivia would make some more coffee. Cecilia wasn’t in the mood for wine this early; it wasn’t even six o’clock yet. She hated having to ask for things. And if she asked, Olivia would realise just how painful her leg must be and would start fussing over her and nagging her to go for an X-ray. She ostentatiously drained her already empty mug.
‘That was lovely coffee. I wonder if there might be any more left in the pot?’ Even though she knew they’d finished it.
‘We found something,’ Olivia interrupted.
‘Stuck at the bottom of the plan chest. Must have fallen down behind the drawers,’ Madeleine added.
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