And now they had sprung it on her on live national breakfast TV.
Fighting the urge to run away, she closed her eyes and breathed. She tried to keep it factual.
‘Martha was our daughter. She loved reading, and one of her favourite books was called Children of the World, in which children from different countries talk about their lives. She was shocked that in some parts of the world girls weren’t expected to go to school. She said that when she grew up, she wanted to make sure that every girl in the world had a school place.’
She stopped and swallowed. The damn tears were stabbing at her eyes. It was no doubt TV gold, but she hadn’t asked to be part of it. The studio felt hot, stifling, and she was aware of the sour smell of something electrical near to burning point.
Sally nodded sympathetically and reached across the vast red studio sofa, placing a hand on her knee.
‘But you lost poor Martha, didn’t you, Kate?’ she said, her eyes glistening like a crocodile’s.
Kate slipped her hand inside her tailored jacket pocket and rubbed the pebble she had found long ago at Gwel an Mor, the beachside house she and Mark owned in Cornwall. It was a holey stone, supposed to ward off evil spirits, and she carried it with her always, in case of emergencies.
With enormous self-control she nodded, remembering Sophie’s third Golden Rule: If you argue or appear flinty, you will only harm your cause. Flinty was an understatement, though. At that moment, Kate felt murderous.
‘Martha died of an inoperable brain tumour. She was eight.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Sally said, as if it were somehow her own personal tragedy.
When she set up the charity, Kate had still been unmoored by Martha’s death. If she hadn’t been, she might have thought it through and called it something else. Mark had even suggested as much at the time. But she had wanted her girl to live on forever, and the charity’s promise of lasting goodness was an enormous comfort.
And back then, how was she, the grieving mother, to predict the moment when she would be called upon to explain? Or how she would feel about doing so? There was a brief outline of the story on the Martha’s Wish website. That should be enough for the world.
But no. It seemed like every last drop of pathos had to be wrung from her.
She told herself she had to do it, because of the girls like Mariam and Bintu who, without her dancing on a wire for them, would face that potently life-shortening combination of being poor, illiterate and having too many children, too young.
It wasn’t really too much to ask, given all that, was it? She needed to put herself aside. She should feel churlish for having allowed Sally’s questioning to stir up such rage.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Sally went on, ‘that Martha lives on.’
Kate nodded, blinking, examining her red, raw hands. It was. It was beautiful.
‘Let’s have another look at the photograph,’ Sally said, and, on the monitor, the image of the two of them on the studio sofa was replaced by that of Kate and the two girls.
‘The Face of Kindness,’ Sally cooed.
The picture was one of the rare shots of Kate that did her justice. In it, she looked at least a decade younger than her fifty years, and the golden light that surrounded her softened the sharp edges she knew she possessed after a lifetime of being too thin. Her beauty, which she had often heard about but never believed, was plain for all to see in this shot. There was nothing to suggest that she was anything other than a kind, wonderful, warm and loving person.
Of course, the image had its detractors, keen to troll anonymously on countless websites. Her paleness next to the black girls was a symbol of white Western imperialism, some said: of a certain patronising philanthropy. But, she would have argued, had she been able to see her opponents face to face, what alternatives were there? She put surplus wealth to good purpose, and the photograph had galvanised that process.
If that’s what it took, then so be it. Amendments had to be made.
And with that thought, her stomach contracted.
Had she lived, Martha would be fifteen. And Kate would have given anything in the world – she would have gone out to West Africa and knocked all the schools they had built down – to have her back.
That was also part of what she understood to be her sharp edges.
But it was only a small piece of the story. There was something far, far worse: Kate knew that she was utterly responsible for the death of her daughter. Through what she had done, she had brought it on them all.
EMMA
23 July 1980, 1 a.m. Somewhere south of Paris. Train.
So much for writing every day . . . Oops!!! If you want to be a proper writer, Emma, you should at least make the effort on this, your big adventure.
Just to note, so I don’t forget:
Great time in Paris – Louvre, Notre Dame (including the amazing Sainte-Chapelle with its stained glass), The Orangerie, Jeu de Paume and Musée Rodin. Lived on crêpes bought in the street, and cheap wine – 3F50 a bottle!
Let’s Go Europe says sleeping in Paris is a waste of time and money. But I need my zzzzz, so stayed in a crowded hostel full of the first Americans I have ever come across not in a film. Met up with a group of girls from Washington State (which is different from Washington D.C. Whaaat?), who told me about when Mount St Helen’s erupted in May. One of them (Lori) talked about her dad driving them all away from their home as fast as he could, with the windscreen wipers going, washing off all the ash.
Most evenings I tripped around with the American gals ‘riding the Metro’, as they put it. Smells funny, the Metro, like perfume, cake and sewage all mixed up. And you can buy sweets and stuff from these machines they have on the platforms.
We ‘hung out’ outside the Centre Georges Pompidou, smoking, drinking wine, talking, eating baguettes and Camembert. Must have put on about half a stone while I was with them. I’m bloated with all the bread I’ve been allowing myself to eat. Must take care. Must eat more healthily/less.
Met a band from Brighton. They were busking on the concourse there and made loads of money. Said I’d get in touch once I got back!
How cool is that? Nothing like that happens in Ripon.
Read Tess of the D’Urbervilles in my down time. Poor girl.
Anyway, heading south now, where I hope it’s a bit warmer.
Must sleep.
23 July 1980, 1 p.m. Marseille. Restaurant on the Quai de Rive Neuve.
I’m going to try to be more descriptive with this. Paris bit was too brief. So:
This morning I stepped off the train at Gare St Charles and into the hot, herby air. It’s a different world to Paris. My preconceptions of this city – from reading about it in Let’s Go – didn’t do it justice. I saw it as a dirty urban sprawl, possibly quite Arabic in influence. In fact, it feels more how I’d imagine Italy to be, although it’s quite clean compared to English cities. And, despite the Mistral, which shoots along the alleyways blowing dust into your eyes, the light here is sparkling. You can see why the Impressionists all came down to the South.
Oh, I’ve got to record the old woman sitting next to me on the train. She was incredibly well dressed in what looked like a Chanel suit. Her face was caked in powder and she was drenched in some sophisticated perfume. I was practising my French on her, telling her about my university plans, and she seemed to be very gentille, very sympa.
But then, as we pass through the suburbs of Marseille, past a forest of tower blocks, she purses her bright red lips and says – as if she has some sour taste in her mouth – ‘That’s where les Arabes live.’ She then goes on to tell me that les Arabes are parasites in France and that they should all go back to Algeria with their primitive habits!
I watch her as she’s talking and I realise that under all that finery and paint I’m looking at an ugly animal.
Luckily we only had another ten minutes before we hit the station, or I would have moved seats. I’ve never seen such hate in anyone. Never.
Picked
up a map from the tourist office at the station and headed off with rucksack to the youth hostel. Let’s Go said it’s about an hour’s walk, but I must have got lost, because it took me nearly two . . .
It’s a beautiful, big old chateau with a cavernous living and dining area that must have once been a ballroom, but which now echoes to the sound of Jimi Hendrix being played very loudly by Hans, the German bum who is the warden. He wears nothing but a pair of tight little shorts and ends each sentence with ‘for example’. Don’t know how much of him I’ll be able to take.
There doesn’t seem to be anyone else staying there except a group of very jolly German boys I passed on my way out who I suppose are a bit older than me, so it looks like I’ve got the girls’ dorm all to myself! It’s like having a massive, very cheap (four francs a night) hotel room. A real treat after being crammed into the place in Paris.
Dumped my stuff and headed off down to town. Hans drew me a map showing me how to get to the bus stop. I’ve walked so much that my poor old feet didn’t want to make the journey all the way back into town. Blisters on my blisters, etc.
Got off the bus at the top of La Canabière – or, as the old sailors used to call it, the Can o’Beer (thanks, Let’s Go) – and strolled down to the port.
There’re loads of leery old men around, and they make these little clicking sounds as I go past. I’m beginning to find it quite annoying, worse than builders’ wolf whistles back home.
Then when I was wandering through the old town (Le Panier, a warren of little narrow alleyways and tiny shops), a man jostled past me and took a left just up ahead of me. As I passed the turning, I glanced down it and saw that he was just around the corner, leering at me, with his hand working away at his very stiff, very exposed, willy!!!!
I was so shocked, I laughed out loud. Don’t think that was the reaction he was hoping for . . .
What was he thinking? That I’d be turned on? Or scared? To be honest, I just think he was pathetic. He was at least as old as my dad. It’s disgusting.
Anyway, thankfully, a group of older women were coming up the alley towards me, hauling baskets full of vegetables and talking in thick accents that I couldn’t make head nor tail of, despite my French A level. At the sound of their voices, the man scuttled away.
Must make sure to keep on busier streets in future.
It’s annoying, though. If I were a boy, that wouldn’t have happened, would it?
Anyway, apart from the wanker, Marseille is amazing. I’m writing this sitting in a great little bar on the waterfront, smoking roll-ups and drinking a beer. So long as I concentrate on writing this, I don’t get interrupted.
Perhaps some of the FOUR men who have tried to talk to me since I sat here were just being genuinely friendly. If so, I’m missing out: it would be nice to talk to someone. But I can’t help suspecting they were all slimeballs.
So how do I meet people? Where are the young women? The only ones I see are with other people and don’t seem at all interested in meeting me. So perhaps I should go up to a boy and say hello. I have to remember that the whole point of travelling on my own like this is to be open to new people, new experiences. I made the decision to come here, and I am going to make it work, whatever happens.
But it’s scary. If I do go up to someone, what if he thinks I’m trying it on?
Again, can’t help thinking it would be different if I were a boy. Think of John Steinbeck, Jack Kerouac, the Durrells. Does the fact that I’m a girl stand in the way of having those sorts of adventures?
Rang home today. Yes. I am a little bit homesick. Never thought I’d miss my parents – couldn’t wait to get away from them.
But anyone I meet now is just part of a sea of passing faces: people passing me by. We travellers – and I think I can call myself that now – are blasé about saying goodbye. We do it every day to people and to places. I doubt, e.g., if I’ll ever see those girls from Washington State again. Shouldn’t imagine also that I’ll ever sit in this spot again in my entire life.
It’s strange: life’s a collection of experiences; the end of each one is a little death.
Sigh. That’s depressing. Wonder if I’m really cut out for travelling on my own? Still, it’s only for a month.
Tan’s coming on. Freckles all over my nose. Halfway through The Bostonians. A bit long-winded.
Going to have bouillabaisse later – the local fish soup, with a sort of chilli mayonnaise on the top. Sounds interesting – a far cry from Mum’s shepherd’s pie-type English grub.
I’m discovering the world, and the world’s discovering me! I’m going to take great care to try different sorts of food and eat well and healthily and regularly. I feel fat right now, but I have to remember what Doc Norman said: six stone, even for someone as short-arse as me, is underweight by normal standards.
I know she’s right, but, really, who wants normal standards?
KATE
2013
‘You were seriously good, though,’ Mark said as he and Kate sat in the restaurant, a glass of champagne each, waiting for Tilly who was, as usual, running late. ‘If I hadn’t known you’d be uncomfortable I’d hardly have guessed.’
‘Though you are somewhat biased.’
Mark held up his hands. ‘Not a bit of it.’
Dinner out was in honour of Kate’s TV appearance that morning. She would far rather have gone home and either cooked something or got a takeaway: once out in a day was more than enough, as far as she was concerned. But, wanting to treat her, Mark had booked a restaurant that was close enough to his office for him to be able to cycle back for a late call he had with some challenging American clients.
On the plus side, she said to herself as she got ready to go out, it would be a treat to see him on a weekday evening. He had always worked late, but in the past year or so, it had become rare for him to get home before midnight. She didn’t mind. Being on call at the helm of capitalism was, after all, how he made all their money. It was why they could live their lives in the way they chose, why she could give much of her spare time – and a chunk of their spare cash – to Martha’s Wish.
No. She never, ever complained about his work. Martha aside – and, admittedly, that was quite a sizeable aside – she was aware that she could only count her blessings. Considering.
She sat back and cast an eye around the room. If a restaurant could be a person, this one would be Mark. Tucked away in Bankside behind the Tate Modern, it was one of his favourite places for bringing clients. The ambience was exactly him – expensively understated, shades of taupe, clean lines, not too much of anything. Jil Sander as opposed to Versace.
It had taken Kate a long time to pick up these codes from him, but now she had it as if she had been born to it. She knew which artists to admire, the right designers to wear. Even though she used it only rarely, she had the perfect car – an Audi cabriolet. Her clothes were simply, beautifully cut, her jewellery – most of which had been bought for her by Mark – was pared-down, clean-lined and surprisingly expensive for such simple-looking stuff.
It hadn’t always been like this. Along with her accent, her buying habits had been quite consciously modified.
‘Oysters?’ Mark asked. ‘While we wait for madam to turn up?’
Kate nodded. She had even brought herself to enjoy what she used to think tasted of nothing but ozone-infused snot. Of course, the fact that they contained virtually no calories helped.
The waiter placed a platter of ice, West Mersea rock oysters, Tabasco and shallot vinegar on their table and they scooped and sipped. Piano music – Kate identified it as Glenn Gould playing Bach Partitas – played at an almost subliminal level and the lighting was low, but not too low.
She glanced at their fellow diners, who blended almost imperceptibly with the decor, tinting the generous space between tables with the murmur of smiled conversation. The kind of place where wealthy married couples ate, this wasn’t where one would bring one’s lover. Or one’s adversary, come to that.
Nor, Kate thought as she watched Tilly dash across the floor to join them, should one really bring one’s daughter. Completely changing the energy in the room, Tilly looked entirely out of place, all holey matt black tights, Doc Martens, tartan ski jacket and striped minidress.
‘Jeez, I’m sorry.’ She flopped onto the empty chair at their table. ‘Tyrone spilled this massive cake on the floor and I couldn’t let him clean it up on his own.’
‘So I see.’ Mark licked his thumb, reached over and wiped a blob of crusted, dried-on icing from her cheek. It was a curiously maternal gesture. But then, for a hard-working hedge fund manager, when it came to his daughter he could be a curiously maternal man.
‘Oh fuck. Have I been going around all day with stuff on my face?’ Tilly draped the back of her hand across her forehead and leaned away in a dramatic fashion. ‘The shame.’
While there was no perceptible change in the attitudes of their fellow diners, it was clear that Tilly had been noticed.
She really was too vibrant for the place.
‘Hey, guess what?’ Tilly abruptly leaned forward, and wiggled her elbows onto the table. ‘The famous vegan soap star Sally Peters had mystery meat pasty again today.’
‘No,’ Kate said in mock shock.
In her gap year, Tilly was working at the National Theatre staff canteen, serving, as she put it, ‘chips to the people with the jobs I want’. As well as free theatre tickets and cheap meals, the other perk of her job was keeping abreast of the eating habits of the stars. Only the day before she had told Kate of a famous film star, renowned for her slender beauty, who consumed only bacon butties and full-fat cola.
Mark poured Tilly a glass of champagne. ‘Here’s to your mother,’ he said. ‘For a great performance on Hello UK!’
‘We all watched it just before breakfast service,’ Tilly said, raising her glass then knocking back the whole lot in one. ‘Tyrone and Maria clapped after you’d done. Maria crossed herself and said, “Your mudda is a saint”.’
The Long Fall Page 2
