by Gil McNeil
‘Call me when you get home, promise?’
‘Yes.’
‘And if Elizabeth gets too annoying, just hit her. Pretend you’ve gone into widow hysterics and deck the old bag. You’ll feel so much better, trust me.’
‘I must just try that.’
‘Hurrah. God, I really wish I was coming down now.’
* * *
They’re just getting back from church when we arrive, and Elizabeth is having a light bicker in the kitchen with Fiona about how long the joint needs to rest before Gerald can start carving. It’s still pouring with rain, which doesn’t bode well for our graveside moment after lunch, and Gerald hands me a rather epic sherry; for some reason best known to himself he seems to think I’m likely to start kicking up if I don’t have a full glass in my hand at all times, possibly because Nick’s usual tactic for getting through a Sunday lunch with his parents was to get completely plastered. Which is a perfectly sensible plan if you’re not the person who has to drive home, and keep two small boys amused in a house full of china figurines and very pale carpet. Christ, this is going to be a long afternoon.
Fiona, wearing her floral pinny, has found a documentary about chimpanzees for the children to watch, and she settles them on the sofa for a quiet ten minutes before lunch.
‘Now not too loud, girls, because Daddy’s reading his paper.’
I feel like I’ve been catapulted back in time into the middle of a 1950s Bisto commercial.
Lottie and Beth look rather anxiously towards James, who’s knocking back the whisky while he reads the papers and makes Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells noises whenever he comes across anything he doesn’t approve of.
‘Are there any cartoons?’ Archie’s doing his Best Smile.
‘No, Archie, but I’m sure you’ll find it interesting. We love wildlife programmes, don’t we, girls?’
Lottie and Beth nod, although Lottie doesn’t look particularly enthusiastic.
‘I do try to ration cartoons, don’t you, Jo? Some of them are so violent, aren’t they? Awful. Now I must pop into the kitchen and see if Elizabeth needs a hand.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’
She gives me the kind of look you’d give a teenager who’s just offered to re-wire your house. My domestic skills have always been awarded nil points by Fiona and Elizabeth; I just don’t think I pipe enough rosettes on things to meet their exacting standards.
‘It’s all under control. You just sit and have a rest after your drive.’
James makes a choking noise, and reads us a few lines from his paper about a woman who’s suing her bosses for millions for harassment.
‘Just because they took a client to a club where she didn’t feel comfortable. Dear God, what is this country coming to?’
James is in middle management in financial services, and slightly to the right of Attila the Hun.
Fiona tries a little laugh, which sounds rather nervous and high-pitched.
‘Now, darling, don’t let’s get started on politics.’
Oh dear. I just can’t resist.
‘What sort of club was it, James?’
He looks at the paper, and reddens slightly.
‘Some sort of dancing one.’
‘Lap dancing, by any chance?’
‘Possibly, but for heaven’s sake, horses for courses and all that. Nothing to go to the lawyer’s about – it’s only a bit of fun.’
‘So if all your bosses were women, and they took you to a club where the boys were dancing about in leather trousers, with a finale that involved lots of baby oil, you wouldn’t mind?’
Fiona’s gone rather pale, and tries another little laugh.
James gives her an irritable look.
‘I think women should realise that it’s a big tough world out there, and we all have to do things we don’t particularly enjoy. I had to take a load of Japanese clients to dinner a few weeks ago, sitting cross-legged on the floor for hours, but you don’t see me suing anybody.’
‘And he had terrible trouble with his knees the next day, didn’t you, darling?’
He turns to glare at her, as Archie wanders over for a cuddle.
‘What’s lap dancing, Mum?’
‘A rather sad sort of dancing, love.’
‘Do they do it at discos?’
‘Not really.’
‘We have discos at our school.’
‘I know, love.’
Please don’t let him ask me for lap-dancing tips. I’m not really sure it’s what the PTA had in mind.
‘I can do all sorts of dancing. Sometimes I go round and round until I get dizzy.’
‘I know. But don’t show us now, all right? You might break something.’
He giggles and Fiona looks relieved to be back on safe territory.
‘I meant to tell you, Jo. The girls are doing so well at their ballet classes, Beth was chosen to do one of the solos in the last concert, actually, weren’t you, darling?’
Beth simpers and nods.
Lottie rolls her eyes.
‘And I was a toadstool.’
‘Were you? That sounds like fun.’
She grins.
‘I’ll show you, if you like, Aunty Jo, but you’ll have to take your boots off.’
Fiona doesn’t seem keen.
‘Not now, darling. Lunch is nearly ready.’
Archie sighs.
‘I’d like to be a toadstool. Can you show me too?’
Beth makes a sniggering noise.
‘Toadstools are only for people who aren’t very good at ballet. I was a deer. I can show you, if you like, Jack.’
Jack looks rather panicked.
‘A what?’
‘A deer. Like in Bambi.’
Archie’s delighted.
‘Yes. And then we can shoot him.’
After a last-minute crisis with the Yorkshires, which seem perfectly fine to me but apparently haven’t risen properly, Elizabeth calls us in to lunch, looking rather tense. Gerald’s swaying slightly as he carves the joint: perhaps that second sherry wasn’t such a good idea after all.
‘Would you like horseradish, Jo?’
‘Thank you.’
Elizabeth passes me a small china jug.
‘I do think proper horseradish is so much nicer than those terrible jars, don’t you? Fiona made this. It’s one of our WI recipes.’
‘Lovely.’
Fiona smiles.
‘It’s ever so easy really.’
‘I don’t like horseradished.’
Jack’s looking rather anxious; he’s already had two Brussels sprouts launched on to his plate against his will.
‘You don’t have to have any if you don’t want it. Just eat up your lovely carrots. And try a sprout, love; you might like them now. But if not, just leave them, OK? Nobody will mind as long as you try a mouthful.’
Actually, Elizabeth will mind, since she’s definitely from the You Have To Eat Whatever Is Put On Your Plate school of thought, but I don’t really go in for force-feeding children, not least because it’s totally counter-productive.
‘Christ almighty.’
We all turn to look at James, who’s started coughing.
‘Horseradish. Bit strong.’
His eyes are watering.
We all taste our horseradish, and then wish we hadn’t. Bloody hell, the tip of my tongue’s gone completely numb.
Fiona’s looking totally stricken.
‘I’m sure I followed the recipe.’
Gerald coughs and pours himself some more wine.
Time to change the subject, I think.
‘The beef is delicious, Elizabeth. Archie, don’t lean back on your chair like that, or you’ll tip over.’
‘No, I won’t.’
‘Archie.’
‘I never tip over. Jake Palmer fell right off his chair at school when we were having our lunch, and he spilled his water. But I never do.’
‘Archie, just sit properly, please. Do you want your m
eat cut up?’
He gives me an outraged look.
‘No, I do not. I’m not a baby.’
‘Well, eat properly then, please.’
Elizabeth smiles at him encouragingly.
‘There’s jelly and ice cream for boys who eat up all their lunch. Nice clean plates, that’s what Granny likes to see.’
I think she’s trying to be helpful.
Archie looks at her.
‘And girls too?’
‘Sorry, dear?’
‘And Beth and Lottie can have ice cream, if they eat up?’
‘Yes, dear.’
He looks at his plate.
‘And can you just have ice cream, if you don’t eat all of it?’
Gerald laughs.
‘Good point, my boy, excellent. Negotiate, that’s the thing. Now then, who’s for more wine?’
‘Nicholas loved jelly and ice cream when he was little. It was his favourite pudding.’ Elizabeth is looking tearful now, and I don’t think it’s just the horseradish.
Oh God, here we go.
‘Granny, did you know when monkeys want to do sex they wee on all the trees? It was on our programme.’
Elizabeth chokes slightly, and Lottie starts to giggle.
‘Archie, I don’t think that’s a very nice thing to talk about at lunch.’
‘Monkeys don’t know it’s not nice.’
‘Archie.’
He sighs.
‘I don’t even like jelly.’
By the time we’re trudging through the field towards the church I’m feeling very close to slapping someone, most probably myself for landing us with a family escort for what should be a quiet moment for the boys. Bloody hell. Elizabeth is seriously sulking now because Gerald said bugger after his fourth glass of wine, and she’s been trying to get me to deliver Grace Harrison as her VIP guest at the next Golf Club dinner, and I’ve had to tell her that I think it’s a bit of a long shot. Fiona’s still trying to recover from the horseradish debacle, and James is having a long conversation about golf, mainly with himself. Everywhere is still soaking, and my boots keep sinking into the grass, but at least it’s finally stopped raining as we climb over the stile and walk into the churchyard.
Jack’s holding the letters and pictures in a plastic bag, and starts to go rather pale as we get a few yards away from Nick’s grave. There are yellow tulips in the black marble vase at the bottom of the headstone, and a small bunch of roses.
Fiona coughs, very quietly.
‘The roses are from the girls. We put them there earlier.’
I nod. I’m not sure I can actually speak just yet; it’s such a shock, seeing the grave again. Jack puts his hand in mine and we move forwards and I bend slightly to put my flowers down, but they don’t look right in their cellophane wrapping – it’s like Interflora have just made a special delivery or something – so I kneel to take them out of the wrapper, getting wet knees in the process. Jack and Archie are now standing on either side of me. They seem much smaller and quieter than usual.
‘There, that’s better. You can put your letters on top of the flowers now if you’d like to, and your lovely pictures.’
They put their folded-up letters and pictures down very carefully, as Elizabeth walks towards us and starts rearranging the tulips.
‘Shall we pop into church now and say a little prayer?’
‘I think we’d like to just stand here quietly for a minute, if that’s OK. You go ahead, though.’
Fiona and James head off towards the church with the girls and Gerald, while Elizabeth hesitates.
‘I thought a prayer might be nice. Wouldn’t you like to say a prayer for Daddy, Jack?’
Jack’s starting to look tearful now. Bloody woman.
‘Elizabeth, I think we’d like a moment on our own, if that’s all right with you.’
In other words, bugger off, you old bag.
I put my arm around Jack and we walk towards the wooden seat under the tree in the corner of the churchyard.
‘It’s wet, Mum.’
‘I know, love, but it doesn’t matter, we’ve got our coats on. Let’s sit down and have a cuddle.’
He smiles.
‘How will Daddy see our pictures?’ Archie’s sounding rather shaky too.
Actually, I’m not sure I can do this. I don’t know the right things to say; the magic words that will make it all right for them. Christ, this is so unfair. Why should they have to worry about how their dad will get to see the pictures they’ve just put on his grave? I hate this. I really hate it.
I put my arms around them.
‘I think the important thing is that Daddy knows how much we love him.’
Jack nods.
‘Let’s keep cuddling for ages, shall we? I think we need a special big one, because my cuddle bank’s nearly empty.’
They both snuggle in and I kiss them and they pretend to mind.
‘Would you like to go into the church and say a prayer? We can, if you like.’
Jack seems to be considering this for a minute.
‘No thanks, Mum. I think this is better, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do, love.’
Archie snuggles in.
‘We’re cuddling for Daddy, aren’t we?’
‘Yes, love.’
‘And then we can go home?’
‘Yes.’
‘But only after Lottie has shown us her toadstools.’
‘Yes.’
‘And we’ve got cake for tea?’
‘I think so, Granny said she’d made a special one.’
Jack nods.
‘She said she made the one Daddy used to like best when he was little.’
They both snuggle in tighter.
I’ll never forgive him. I know it’s not his fault, and it was just bad luck, and it’s a terrible waste and everything. But I’ll never bloody forgive him.
Archie falls asleep on the drive home, and is extra grumpy when I wake him up, but there’s no way I can carry him into the house like I used to when he was little, so we do the guided-shuffle-with-whining routine instead, as I steer him towards the stairs.
‘It’s not fair. I haven’t even had my supper yet and I was looking forward to it.’
‘You can’t be hungry, Archie – you had crumpets and two slices of cake at Granny’s.’
‘Yes, but that was ages ago. I need some supper, I really do, Mum.’
‘Well, let’s get you in your jimmies and then we’ll see.’
He tuts.
There’s a mega bicker in the bath about who kicked his brother’s leg on purpose, and who did it by accident, and a fair amount of water gets sloshed on the floor until I promise that toasted cheese might be available for anyone who isn’t screaming. Peace is restored, and at least I’ve got the mud off Archie’s face, which he collected during over-enthusiastic toadstool manoeuvres.
They’re both sitting at the kitchen table with damp hair when Gran arrives. She’s got a packet of chocolate buttons for each of them. They’d usually reject buttons as far too babyish, but tonight they seem willing to make an exception.
‘Eat them all, Jack; no saving any for later. We’ve got to do your teeth after supper, don’t forget.’
Jack likes to make his sweets last as long as possible; not least because it torments Archie. He’s busy arranging his buttons on his plate, while Gran puts the kettle on and I slice cheese.
‘So how was Her Majesty then, pet?’
Gran’s never been that keen on Elizabeth.
‘She was fine, a bit of moaning about not seeing enough of us, but when I said she was welcome here any time she backed right off. I think she wants us to trek over there every weekend, but I’ve told her that what with the shop and everything I just can’t do it. We had a few more tearful My Perfect Son moments, though.’
Gran glances at the boys who are engrossed with their buttons, and starts to whisper.
‘I could soon put her right on that one.’
‘I know, Gran, but what’s the point?’
‘She ought to know what you’ve had to put up with, and then maybe she wouldn’t be so high and mighty, but least said soonest mended, I suppose.’ She turns back to the boys. ‘Did you have a lovely day at your Granny McKenzie’s then, Jack?’
‘It was all right. I had to eat my sprouts, or you couldn’t have ice cream, but Mum ate one of them when she wasn’t looking. And we took our pictures to Daddy, only the ground was all wet. But it doesn’t matter, does it, Gran?’
‘No, pet, it doesn’t matter at all.’
Jack nods.
‘Granny made a cake for our tea but Jack didn’t like it, because he’s a silly baby.’
Jack glares at Archie.
‘I just don’t like cake with bits in, that’s all.’
‘They were nuts, not bits. Stupid.’
‘The toasted cheese is nearly done. Who needs more juice?’
They both put their hands up, which makes Gran smile, and we’re just settling down for a fairly peaceful supper when there’s the unmistakable sound of scrabbling and barking by the back door. Sod it. Bloody Trevor has come round to play.
‘Please, Mum. Please.’
They both turn towards me looking desperate.
Bugger.
‘No way. You’re not going out now – it’s too cold.’
Trevor starts leaping up at the kitchen window, barking enthusiastically.
Double bugger.
I close the door to the passage while Gran opens the back door, and Trevor launches himself into the kitchen like a hairy Exocet missile, helping himself to a slice of toasted cheese and knocking Archie over.
Bloody hell.
‘I’ll put the kettle on for Mr Pallfrey, shall I, love?’
‘Thanks, Gran. Archie, don’t let him lick your face, I’ve told you before.’
‘I can wash it.’
‘I know, but, oh never mind.’
Gran opens the back door to Mr Pallfrey, who’s out of breath, as usual.
‘I’m sorry about this. We were just out for our walk and I think he spotted your car was back. He missed you earlier. He kept whining and standing by your gate.’
‘Cup of tea?’
‘Well, if you’re sure, dear, that would be lovely.’
After what seems like an eternity of stroking and patting, Gran takes the boys up to bed with the promise of an extra story. Mr Pallfrey’s trying to get Trevor back out of the kitchen door, but he’s lying on the floor pretending to be asleep; only he keeps wagging his tail, which is a bit of a giveaway.
