by Ann Kelley
When Daddy gets back, I say it was me who was sick. He doesn’t notice the scratches, luckily, as the vomit stain is so gross. He is very good about it. I suggest we cover it with a cushion but he says we’ll still smell it. He phones a caretaker or someone, to come and take the sofa-bed away, and orders another one which will take twelve weeks to be made and delivered, and only then thinks to ask me if I am all right now and suggests we go to the hospital – my hospital, not Mum’s. He assumes I have been vomiting blood. But I convince him I’m fine, say I had too many pilchards in tomato sauce.
‘Where will Claire sleep?’ I ask.
‘The surviving sofa.’ He gets out yet another set of bed linen, and has to go out to buy another duvet as the other one was ‘beyond salvation’. Mum would buy a second-hand sofa if we were at home, but Daddy only likes new things, apart from movies. He’s got to buy new towels too.
Now I’m in a flat with no bed for my mother when she comes out of hospital, my father is mostly absent and I’m looking after a destructive fleabag. Sunny has taken to climbing the blinds in the bedroom. They are white pleated fabric and he runs up the side of them and sits on the top. He is now called Fleabag or Bad Boy. He purrs at both names and climbs my legs. Luckily he doesn’t scratch through my combat trousers. Funny little thing, he still hisses and spits when I pick him up. He is so black – black paw pads, black nose, black whiskers, midnight coat, the darkest winter’s night on the Cornish moors with not even a sliver of moon; he is the total lack of light, the deepest lake, the darkest forest, the angel of darkness, Beelzebub. He is Beelzebub. Not sure how to pronounce that – is it Beel or Be-el? Anyway, it suits him. Beelzebub. You bad, bad cat. I like it. He likes it. It’s an important name. I think it might mean the Prince of Darkness, or the Devil.
Claire hugs me gently. ‘You look wonderful, Gussie, what a change! You look so well, I can’t believe it.’ It’s funny how if someone tells you you look awful, you immediately feel bad, and if they tell you you look good, well, you suddenly feel good. It must be psychological.
‘It’s lovely to meet you, Claire,’ says Daddy. ‘Will you go and see Lara this evening or are you too tired from the journey?’
‘No, I’m not in the least bit tired. Oh thanks, that’s plenty.’ Daddy has poured wine for them both.
‘I have a bit of catching up to do, so if you take Gussie…’
‘Of course. Is that all right? Can you walk that far, Gussie?’
‘Yes, it’s only a couple of hundred yards down the road. I’m fine.’
Claire has brought me presents: a jigsaw from my little cousin Gabriel, that he made himself. He’s painted a picture of his puppy, Zennor, pasted it onto thin wood and then sliced it up into little pieces with a special tool in his father’s workshop.
‘It’s lovely. He’s very clever.’
‘Yes, he’s a chip off the old block.’ We laugh.
She’s brought Cornish clotted cream and fudge – much better than the supermarket ones. Best of all, there are photographs of my cats – Charlie in Gabriel’s tree house, Flo looking cross at a chicken; Rambo cringing from a rabbit.
I offer Claire another glass of wine but she says she’d rather have a cup of tea and she’s brought her own herbal teabags.
‘Show me the kitchen, I’ll do it.’
After lots of news of my cats and my cousins, she suddenly remembers another present from my great-aunt Fay: it’s a hand-made, bright pink and orange felt bag, with a shoulder strap. Very girlie. I can’t imagine ever wearing it. I’d have preferred a camouflage or khaki Army surplus rucksack. But it was a kind thought. Maybe I’ll hang it in my room with socks in.
Claire holds my arm and we walk slowly through the dark, down the road to the village, past the gate to the allotments and the railway line, across the road and past the pharmacy and the shops still open, then up Pond Street to the hospital.
I haven’t seen Mum smile so much since Alistair was here. They gossip and I talk to the person in the next bed, who hasn’t got any visitors. She’s had a similar operation to Mum except that hers wasn’t an emergency. Her three children and husband are at a school concert tonight.
School concerts! I wonder if St Ives School has concerts? I don’t even know if I can act. I can’t play any instrument. Or at least, I’ve never tried. I suppose if Mum or Daddy had been musical they would have encouraged me, bought a piano or a violin, but they aren’t and they didn’t. Perhaps Phaedra would let me try her drum kit? The Jesus Loves You woman has left or died and the bare-bottomed old man is nowehere to be seen, thank goodness. I wish I was a boy. I don’t think males have as much trouble with their insides as females do.
For supper Daddy makes us cheese omelette with a green salad and we sit around the table together. At home we’d sit on the floor at the low table and watch telly while we ate.
‘So, I hear Gussie and Lara knew you before Gussie discovered that you were related to me?’
‘That’s right. She’s a clever girl, researching and all that sort of thing. Moss’s mother Fay is your late father’s sister. It’s a shame you lost touch with your family.’
‘Yes, well, Gussie’s trying to reform me. Make me more family-conscious.’
‘Nothing wrong with that. Nothing wrong with families. Anyway, I’ll stay as long as I’m needed,’ Claire says, tucking into her dinner.
‘I’ll be off then,’ says Daddy. He has a black leather holdall on his shoulder.
‘I’m sorry I’m turning you out of your own home. I didn’t think,’ says Claire.
‘No it’s fine, that’s okay. No problemo. I can sleep at the office.’
‘I thought you were staying with Boadicea?’ I say.
‘Annika! Yes, well, when she’s calmed down, maybe.’
‘She’s a bit Bette Davis,’ I say to him, picking out the anchovies and putting them on the side of my plate. I wonder if Beelzebub would like them?
‘Yeah, well, she is a bit.’ He smiles smugly as if being a drama queen is a good thing.
‘Sorry there’s no proper bed, Claire, but we’ve had a few accidents lately. The sofa’s pretty comfortable.’
‘Why don’t you phone Boadicea?’
‘Annika.’
‘Annika, and see if she’s forgiven you?’
‘Too soon. She might be Scandinavian, but she has a Mediterranean temperament. I’ll give her a day or two.’ He kisses me goodnight, and gives Claire a peck on the cheek.
So, maybe his girlfriend is not the Snow Queen – more of a Tank Girl or Red Sonia? Terrifying, anyway.
Daddy safely out of the way and the dishes stacked in the dishwasher, I fetch the kitten. I tell Claire how I found him and that Daddy doesn’t know anything about him, and mustn’t be told.
‘What a sweet kitty. Why mustn’t he know?’
‘He’s given up cats and children. He says he prefers furniture.’
Beelzebub is nocturnal, as most cats are, and races about chasing his toys and invisible mice and having fun until he suddenly falls asleep inside the felt bag.
‘Thanks for coming to rescue us, Claire.’ I kiss her goodnight.
‘My pleasure. It’s lovely to see you looking so well. We’ve all been worried about you.’
Mum comes home today. I’ve cooked a chocolate cake. She’s always showing me how to cook things, and now it’s come in useful. Daddy fetches her, while I kill fleas. They are difficult to see on Beelzebub’s black fur, but he has loads. Luckily they are mostly of the pale brown variety. I enjoy the satisfying pop when I squash one between thumb and fingernails – difficult, though, as I have bitten my fingernails to the quick. Why is it called the quick?
What am I to do about Beelzebub? He is getting naughtier and naughtier – leaping from the curtain rail onto the bed and attacking me is his latest trick. I have made several small toys from string and twisted paper, which he enjoys chasing and killing. He climbs onto the bed when I am in it and sleeps curled up on my pillow. At least he hasn’t tor
n the muslin curtains – yet. His tiny turds are easy to dispose of. I pluck them from the dirt with Mum’s tweezers and put them down the lavatory.
Claire is making chicken pie.
‘Mum!’ We hug carefully.
‘Claire, thank you so much. You’re a star, you know that, don’t you?’
Mum looks frail still and moves slowly, slower than me! She is going very grey. Daddy doesn’t hang around.
‘But aren’t you staying for supper. Chicken pie?’
‘Smells wonderful, but I have a date, sorry. Got everything you need? Then I’ll be off. Ciao ladies.’
He kisses me and waves airily at Claire and Mum. He never was good with ill people. We girls eat an early supper – the yummy pie followed by my chocolate cake and we cuddle up on the remaining sofa.
‘What’s that?’ Mum pinches something on her ankle. ‘Oh my God, it’s a cat flea. Gussie?’
‘Yes, Mum, I know.’
‘But how? We didn’t import them from Cornwall, did we?’
‘No, it’s a NW3 cat flea.’
‘Explain!’
I fetch Beelzebub, who for once is sleepy and gentle with me.
‘Oh Gussie, where did it come from? Does your father know?’
I explain how the robin metamorphosed into a black cat.
‘Oh, yeah, of course it did. You can’t keep it, you know that, don’t you?’
‘Oh but why not?’ I whine pitifully, hoping her maternal instincts will kick in to protect me from hurt and sorrow. No such luck.
‘It’s out of the question. Your father won’t tolerate it. It’s black, for goodness sake! Cream suede upholstery? You’ll have to find it a new home.’
‘It goes beautifully with his décor. Classic – black and white. Like photographs and old movies. He ought to have a black cat.’ I admit to her that it was the kitten that ruined the sofabed and she hoots with laughter.
Mum has the kitten on her lap where it turns its full moon eyes on her. ‘Oh, you’re so beautiful! The kitten touches his nose to Mum’s and turns round, tail up, so his bottom is facing her.
‘Do you know why they do that?’
‘No, why do they do that?’
‘They expect you to sniff their bottoms, ‘ I tell her.
‘Well, I think I’ll forgo that pleasure,’ she says, ‘fragrant though it is, I’m sure. Is there any chicken left, Claire? I’m sure kitty would like some.’
We giggle together. It’s so lovely to have Mum back. She examines the kitten’s ears to see if he has mites, and is delighted to see I have managed to keep fleas to a minimum by daily grooming but says we will have to get some flea powder for the flat at the earliest opportunity. She says I’m not allowed to clean the litter tray any more in case of infection – cats carry a disease called toxoplasmosis, so she will do it until Beelzebub learns to go outside. A visit to the vet is planned, to make sure he is healthy and for anti-flea and anti-flu injections etc. I can’t remember how old Charlie was when she had her anti-flu injections.
Mummy and I are sharing my bed: luckily it’s king size. The kitten joins us, trying to catch our toes from the outside of the duvet, then curling up by Mum’s head.
‘He likes you.’
‘She, he’s a she,’ Mum says.
‘Oh, really? Well, she’s called Beelzebub.’
‘Good name,’ says Mum. ‘It’s pronounced Be-elzebub. Seen my clock?’
‘What clock?’
‘Alarm clock, folds up, you know, red leather case.’
‘Er...’
‘I know I brought it with me. I seem to have mislaid my cream cashmere scarf too.’
‘Night, Mum. It’s so lovely to have you home.’
‘Lovely to be out of that hard bed. God I hate hospitals. I didn’t sleep a wink all the time I was there. And my own lavatory – bliss! Having to share with strangers is awful. And there Wasn’t a Bidet.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
DECEASED—DEAD; LATELY DEAD
ONOMATOPOEIA—THE FORMATION OF A WORD IN IMITATION OF THE SOUND OF THE THING MEANT; A WORD SO FORMED; THE USE OF WORDS WHOSE SOUNDS HELP TO SUGGEST THE MEANING
CLAIRE IS GREAT, she’s so organised. Makes our beds, opens and closes stiff windows, does the washing and ironing and hoovering. Mops the kitchen floor. Cleans the two lavatories, the bath, shower and washbasins, the bidet; cleans the kitchen sink, tidies the flat ’til it looks nearly as immaculate as it did when we arrived, apart from all our clothes and books and girlie stuff: knickers and their tights and bras hanging up in the bathroom and shower room. She shops for food and everything and does it all without any fuss. She’s very good at looking after people. It must be her physiotherapy training and the fact that she has three children.
‘How’s Gabriel? Won’t he be missing you?’
‘He’s okay. Back at school and busy with animals and his tree house. It’s Phaedra I’m worried about. She doesn’t know what she wants to do. She says she’s going to study “Stuff”. Get a degree in “Stuff”.’
‘I thought she wanted to be a dancer.’
‘Sure she does, but my god, every child in St Ives is all singing and dancing. It seems the youth theatre has a lot to answer for. The market will be flooded.’
‘How’s her drumming?’
‘Don’t know, she’s banished to the shed at the other end of the garden.’ Claire is making chicken soup and apple crumble, using Willy’s apples.
Mum is oblivious to most things apart from her bowels. She’s obsessed. Has to have pears in the morning or her bowels don’t work. ‘Haven’t worked since the hysterectomy.’ Her physio at the hospital told her to eat three pears a day, and she doesn’t really like pears.
Linda, one of her London friends, comes round with a bag full of natural remedies, like arnica and vitamins and food supplements of zinc and silenium for Mum and a magazine for me, and while Claire takes time off to go shopping in Hampstead they spend the afternoon discussing their insides. They are laughing over a cartoon in the Oldie magazine: two middle-aged women drinking. ‘Do you remember the days we used to sit around talking about what arseholes our husbands were? Now we just talk about our arseholes.’ I can’t see what’s funny about that.
The teen magazine is shocking, all about boys and snogging. I tried reading the stories that are supposed to be true ones, but they seem totally alien to my own life. Normal lives with normal problems like friendships that go wrong, girls with bitchy friends, girls who have period pains or pimples or girls who want to be pop stars. One story about a Russian girl whose brother made her pregnant. Ohmygod! Mum would not approve. I feel like hiding the magazine under the bed so she can’t find it.
We are a couple of old crocks, sitting together in the evening after supper, comparing our aches and pains. The bathroom cabinet is our pharmacy, full of our combined medicines. Claire is very understanding and nods at Mum’s complaining, and gently massages her back.
‘Allowed alcohol, are you?’ she asks as Mum pours herself a large whisky.
‘Better the painkiller I know than the drugs I don’t,’ she replies. ‘I recommend it. One for you?’
Using a pencil I rescue a fruit fly from Mum’s whisky and examine in through Dad’s Lupe (a magnifier especially for examining transparencies). Actually I thought it was dead and deceased, a late fruitfly, passed on, gone to the other side, fallen off its perch, pushing up daisies, but it sits on the pencil point, wiping its face with its forelegs, staggers around a bit and falls over. Now it’s drying its face again and exploring the pencil. Whisky has damaged its brain. (It’s damaged Mum’s, Daddy reckons.) Mum always eats a fry-up when she has a hangover: eggs, bacon, fried bread, tomatoes and mushrooms; the full English. Then she needs sugar – chocolate, or fudge and lots of it. It works a treat, apparently. But she’s always a bit wan that evening. Wan is a lovely word – onomatopoeic – woozy, weepy, weak, wilting – wan. Several minutes after I have removed the fruit fly from the whisky it seems to recover from the nea
r drowning and soon it’s flown. It will be back in Mum’s single malt, betya. Yes, it’s back, circling the glass for a hair of the dog that bit him. She ought to have one of those little cotton circular thingies with beads at the edge to put on top of her glass, like they used to have for milk jugs. Grandma had them. When I was little I used to wear them on my head, pretending to be a princess. I’ve seen them at car boot sales and thought how pretty they are. It’s something I can look out for – a useful present. Oh dear, she’s just spat it out. Mum, the fly. Poor fruitfly. I expect it died happy. That’s better than being squashed before you’ve had a chance to taste a special single malt whisky.
It’s Mum’s birthday soon. April 1st. I don’t know if we’ll be back in St Ives for it, or will we be able to celebrate it with Daddy? I probably won’t be able to find a doily or whatever it is called before then, unless I find one at the Hampstead antique market. We’ve been to no car boot sales here. I bet a Hampstead car boot would be brilliant. All the rich people could sell their old designer clothes and trainers and practically new furniture and antiques they are bored with. We could find all sorts of treasures, not like in Cornwall, where lots of the stall-holders are poor and are trying to sell clapped-out kids’ clothes and toys.
I better remind Daddy about her birthday. It must be strange for him, for both of them, to be thrust together like this, when they’ve been apart for so long. Like being on a desert island with someone you hate but have to get along with in order to survive. My idea of hell is to be on a desert island with Siobhan – my rival in affection for Brett. She is girlie pretty, has a padded bra and a belly button ring and I hate her. Her little sister Bridget is cool. But Siobhan is definitely the woman in the Three Musketeers, Milady: no morals whatsoever, completely cold-blooded, played by Faye Dunaway. Called in the movie Lady de Winter. How funny – like the first Mrs de Winter in Rebecca. I’ve never known a de Anybody. I call Siobhan SSS – which stands for… but my Grandma used to say – if you can’t say something nice about someone, say nothing. So… I’ll say nothing.
Moss phones and says that Gabriel is missing Claire badly and is living almost entirely in the tree, like Cosimo in Italo Calvino’s The Baron in the Trees, who at the age of twelve, vowed to always live in trees. There’s a problem with a pet spider that’s gone AWOL, though Claire says she can’t imagine what he means, as Gabriel hasn’t got a pet spider, and Phaedra is staying out all night long doing goodness knows what on the back of a boy’s motorbike, and he can’t go searching for her as he has to stay and look after Gabriel, and Troy is being a pain in the arse, as ever. ‘What’s new?’ says Claire.
