Even when it was in full use, this room never felt other than empty. It is a machine room, silently waiting for legs and arms to pump it alive, waiting for the grease of human sweat to oil it. The walls down here are of brick, painted white, with a floor of dull red lino. The central-heating boiler is kept down here; it gives out a constant, low rumble but no warmth. Massive old pipes lead off it; heavily lagged, they take a turn round the room before they snake up the wall by the door and disappear through the ceiling where the flakes of plaster are loose. A smell of wet animal comes from the leather vaulting horse, the small trampoline, stacked neatly beside the back wall, is dappled with patches of what looks like damp; there are prickings of black on its thin metal parts where it has corroded. Fitted out by rails of silver and chrome which glint with splinters of light, the area is sterile, serviceable as the inside of a fridge. If Vanessa has expected to find something of Daddy left down here she is disappointed. There is not even a twinge of his familiar old B O.
‘It’s echoey down here. It looks as if the snow has covered the windows.’ Camilla checks the door to the street and tries to peer out of the glass beside it. It is locked and bolted, the hinges rusty from lack of use.
‘Daddy had them painted over, don’t you remember, so nosy neighbours couldn’t stare in to watch him. And the bars were always there. I suppose, years ago, they kept food down here. Come on. Let’s hurry.’ Vanessa’s heart still pumps but everyone else seems remarkably calm.
Mother slides easily over the lino, casting a looming shadow on the walls. They make for the largest, most colourful thing in the room. The sauna is of Swedish pine, pleasingly constructed like a Scandinavian log cabin. The stripped wood is a pale-ish beige, Mother’s most hated colour. It stands hard against the furthest wall, right in the centre, like a little house that a child might draw, with the rest of the gym like a frosty garden of ropes and coils spread out around it. The vaulting horse, thinks Vanessa, might be a grazing cow, head down, beside a railing fence. The sauna has its own light inside, a bare 40-watt bulb which Dominic has already switched on so it looks almost inviting, nearly cosy. ‘I thought she’d want a light on,’ he tells them casually, ‘for when she wakes up. I’ll turn the electric fire off now and we’ll turn the sauna heat on when we leave, just a gentle sixty-five degrees.’
Dominic is beautiful. His black hair curls at his neck, his skin is the shade of a creamy coffee liqueur so that when he smiles his teeth look an almost translucent white, mother of pearl. Sometimes he needs his puffer, but not tonight. His asthma gets worse when he concentrates on it and he hasn’t had the time, he’s had far too much on his mind. The pride in his voice makes it sound as if he wants approval for completing a Lego windmill, or mending his remote-controlled Ferrari without Daddy’s help.
Dominic has moved the padlock from the basement door, and hitched it round the double handles of the sauna. When the metal is snapped together there is no way that stout wooden door will budge.
They heave Mother up so she lies neatly along the slatted wooden bench. Amber is shaking all over with exertion and excitement. Dominic approaches Mother; he stares at her carefully before untying the scarf from her wrists. Sacha and Amber bring down the blankets they’ve been sent to fetch from the airing cupboard, so Mother is fine… if she finds it chilly she has not only her fur coat, but fleecy pink blankets to snuggle in. Because of their concern it does not feel as if they are doing anything so dreadfully wrong. While they take care of their charge, surely God will forgive them? But Vanessa knows. Is it only she who is aware of the enormity of what they are doing?
Before they leave her they make sure the bucket on the floor is filled with fresh water from Daddy’s shower; they use the shower tap. She will be able to drink from the wooden ladle. She will not need anything to eat.
‘What if she wants to pee… or something.’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ Vanessa says coldly.
‘She’ll have to lift up the grating and do it in the drain. She can sluice it away if she uses some of her water.’ Dominic has had time to work it out. Vanessa gives him a grateful look, for in all the horror of the last terrible hour these thoughts have not crossed her mind. All she wants, her frantic desire, is to get Mother out of the way.
‘That means she will have to squat down in the middle of the floor.’
‘We can’t do anything about that,’ Vanessa snaps at Amber. ‘Unless you want to go into the attic and find your old plastic potty.’
‘I was only asking! Can’t I even ask?’
‘We can push her food through the hole where the pipes travel through.’ Even Camilla is with them, concentrating on the practicalities now. ‘That hole is big enough for a plate.’ But nobody enjoys the thought of this. The silence comes; it tightens. When they push a plate through the sawn hole, it looks like a cartoon mouse-hole, Mother will be wide awake… But they’ve come this far. There is no turning back. They have to go on.
It is Dominic who turns the key in the padlock. He gives it to Vanessa who passes it to Camilla who gives it to Amber. The key moves quickly, with a life of its own, like Mother’s warm and tingling wig. Sacha takes it out of Amber’s hand. She starts back up the twisting staircase, fluffy as a snowman in her sleepsuit and slippers. In her chirpy, high-pitched voice she says, ‘I’ll hang it on the hook in the kitchen, beside the key for the garden shed. Mrs Guerney can look after Mother now. And then why don’t we all have some cocoa?’
What? Does Sacha think Mrs Guerney’s going to come and scrub this away as if it’s a mess they have made with their paints? Does Sacha believe she’s going to come with her dirty great floorcloth and turn all these colours of fear into a watery grey before disappearing them all together—with her Flash? Vanessa turns crimson. She takes her horrified gaze to Camilla who hesitates beside her at the foot of the steps. Filled with a fearful dread, she wonders how they are going to get through this. Her tired eyes sting, they feel as if they’ve been filled with sand. Her will almost collapses as she realises—they must have imagined they’d been playing some game! The twins—Sacha and Amber—like the men who crucified Jesus, oh God they do not even realise what they have done.
They will have to be told. The twins will have to be bribed to keep their mouths shut.
Wearily she climbs the spiral steps to the hall and closes the basement door behind her. Heavy and solid, she thinks of a headstone. Angry now, for the relief she had hoped for has not materialised, she would like to scrawl on the door with a squeaky chalk, ‘Grant her Thy peace’. She wishes she’d been able to bury Mother absolutely.
Five
WHILE ROBIN TOWNSEND’S FIVE young children are sleeping the sleep of the just, two good wives come down to their kitchens in order to put their turkeys in.
Down in their South Kensington mews, Suzie and Robin are trying for a baby… well, obviously not at this actual moment in time, but a great deal of their energies are directed towards this objective which is understandable because they have only been together for eighteen months so the bedroom is not just somewhere they go to sleep and change and dry their hair. Naturally not.
Does Suzie believe she can redirect Robin’s affections once he has a new child, by her? Does she think a baby will take away some of his guilt? She sat and stared at the sky last night and thought that the biggest star shone directly over her roof… a sign, perhaps?
Suzie Townsend’s turkey is a twenty-four pounder because, although there will only be six for dinner, she only has turkey once a year to keep it special, and she likes to eat it cold. She also enjoys cooking homemade soups and curries. She enters the pine-shuttered, plant-strewn kitchen with its walls of exposed red brick in her negligée, tying the tapes of a frilly waist-pinafore round a middle which is nicely proportioned. Barefooted, her toenails are painted a pretty pale coral.
She turns the radio on in order to get the carols. She pulls up the blinds. How wonderful—it is snowing! She cannot remember how long it is since she’
s seen snow on Christmas Day… the last time she’d been skiing, surely?
Maybe the roads will be too dangerous for travel.
Robin’s parents, and her own mother, Eileen, are arriving at lunchtime today. Because of the Townsends, no matter how much they have to drink, the whole thing will be terribly formal. Suzie, of course, as the hostess, will take the strain. Never mind. She laid the dining-room table last night, after their return from the opera, and it looks superbly festive in a muted, tasteful way… mostly tartan. That is one blessing, she considers, as she struggles manfully with the huge bird, remembering Delia Smith’s instructions to make a tall parcel of the foil. Starting again means you can choose the most up-to-date decorations from Harrods; you do not have to drag all the old tatters along for sentiment’s sake.
Yes, she has laid the table and the various stuffings are in their dishes under foil in the fridge, as is the bread sauce, the cold consommé and the brandy butter. Suzie does not stuff her turkey. She dislikes inserting her hand. As she waits for her split-level cooker to warm she returns to the old problem, the one she spent so many wakeful hours trying to tackle last night, pondering deeply into her pillows.
Robin’s kids. Hell. She had a dreadful struggle to get him to take the presents over to Camberley Road last week. ‘Just in case we don’t get around to it…’
‘What do you mean? I thought we’d decided.’ He looked suddenly crestfallen, like a child. His serious face puckered up like a baby’s.
Suzie hastened to say, ‘I know, Robin, I know, but the best-laid plans have been known to go wrong and how awful if something happened which meant that you couldn’t fetch them here after all. Imagine! If they thought you had forgotten them! Go on, deliver the presents, just in case.’
‘The tragedy is that everything has to be caged in this sort of ridiculous secrecy.’
‘Well, if you’d asked to have them on Christmas Day, Caroline would have refused—everyone knows that. I mean… “how cruel, to deprive me of my family… you have taken everything from me and now it’s the children on the most sensitive day of the year”. I can actually hear her saying it! But if you call round unexpectedly she’ll probably be out, or in bed, an entirely different situation.’
‘Yes, but I could have delivered the presents in person. You don’t understand, Suzie, the whole joy of giving is to watch the children open them. I missed that last year and I am just sorry, that’s all, just very, very sorry to be missing out once again. I am extremely uneasy about the whole situation. Ilse won’t be there and neither will Mrs Guerney. We should have kept the presents here as I originally intended.’
Suzie thought, They will open the stable door and go and play in the garden. They will trail mud into the flat. They will knock the pot plants over. And if I attempt to quieten them down they will pester Robin until he plays the old videos. We will sit and watch old videos all through Christmas afternoon.
Suzie edits gardening books. She is a specialist on orchids. She is at her happiest when fiddling in the greenhouse, or out in her borders cutting and pruning.
She said, ‘I still think you have done the right thing by taking them round. You worried yourself silly last year but it all turned out fine. Caroline is an actress, and when she hasn’t got anyone to perform to she manages to behave perfectly well. She has taken you in for too long… you and everyone else. She’ll probably be absolutely contented cuddled up under the mistletoe with her latest man.’
God, if it wasn’t Christmas it was something else. And the flat, though larger than most people’s houses, is hardly the size happily to accommodate five excited children, the stodgy Townsends and Suzie’s own homely old mother, hot and disgruntled after gorging themselves silly. Halfway through the ghastly performance Robin will probably crack and disappear off to his study, leaving her to cope with the mess.
Suzie has promised to do a special, child-orientated tea with paper hats and crackers, something light, just a fun meal really which can be eaten at any time of the day though she prays she will not need it. She had battled through overcrowded shops, staggered home over people-heavy pavements to fetch it. Most of it is in boxes—packages of stuff from Marks. She looks out of the window again with a wry smile she uses often, familiar to her face. Suzie is small, unlike Caroline the model, everything about her is small, even her well-controlled, silky voice. She is pretty and lithe as a cat with fascinating green eyes that slant provocatively when she smiles. Perhaps it will snow harder. Maybe it will continue to fall, thickly like this, all day, and stick. Contrary to what Robin imagines, Suzie understands his need to see his children, she just wishes things were different so he could go round to Camberley Road and be with them there because surely, from their own point of view, the children would prefer to be in their own home on Christmas Day.
Coldly polite, Vanessa, Camilla and Dominic do not approve of Suzie. They make their attitudes quite clear when Robin’s back is turned. The twins, Amber and Sacha, are too young, thank God, to play those jealous games. No, Suzie is determined to do everything she can to prevent the threatened visit of her new husband’s children. It is guilt that drives him, poor Robin, yet of any man she knows in the world, he has the least to feel guilty about. Awesome in his remorse and self-recrimination, yet surely a phone call will reassure him? A well-timed phone call will relieve his suffering.
So would a new baby.
Gracefully as in all things, and quickly, Suzie removes the toast from the toaster and slots it in the toast rack. She unplugs the percolator and sets it on the tray beside the milk jug. She crinkles her catty eyes as she prepares the grapefruits. All these loving little services are quite new to Robin. Caroline had never, ever, brought him breakfast in bed… and when Suzie first moved in with Robin he had tried to behave in the same way with her, from habit, as if she had to be consoled before he approached her… babied, wrapped up in cotton wool in case she would break into sharp pieces and cut him. It was pathetic. The whole sorry story of Robin’s marriage is pathetic, although friends confide that Caroline had not started out like that. ‘Well, think about it,’ said one. ‘Why the hell would he have married her if she’d been that bad? Things happen to people, Suzie, they change.’
From the heights of her superior knowledge Suzie smiles briskly. For a while, when Robin first left Caroline, Suzie had been forced to pretend that she did not even exist, and her protestations, ‘But Robin, this is all perfectly ridiculous,’ fell on deaf ears. ‘Just for a while, Suzie, for me, please!’ He begged her so pitifully that she was embarrassed, glad to comply for his sake. For the first time she saw another side to her lover, for this was not the man who clicked his fingers at waiters, who appeared so suavely and intelligently, the presenter of Update, who dealt with dictators and foreign ambassadors with such wit and cynical charm, deferred to in all things during the Gulf War.
Caroline loomed large in those days, not so far off, only the year before last. Such pathetic, childish behaviour! Such a silly woman! She turned up at the BBC and contrived to cause the most scandalous scenes until the doormen were instructed to alert the security department whenever she was spotted anywhere in the vicinity. It was ghastly. Robin’s terror was contagious, and Suzie, normally such a philosophical person, caught herself creeping around, afraid to pick up the morning post after the first banger went off, nervous of taking Robin’s car after Caroline penetrated the cavernous vaults of the underground car park where he normally left it. Mercifully, knowing nothing about cars, she ripped out anything from under the bonnet that could be moved. At least he had not driven off in it because of course it had failed to start. He might have killed himself.
And the money she’d spent on that private detective—Robin’s money! Robin’s money flows like water through Caroline’s hands.
Christ! What was all that about?
And all this was before Caroline realised that Robin had left her for another woman!
The Christmas bells are ringing. The snow is softly falling.
Poor Robin. Those poor little kids, what chance have they ever stood with a mother like that? Hopefully they were too young to realise, kept in the dark during those early days.
Caroline is quite without shame. Suzie, stretching to reach the grapefruit dishes, supposes there must be a funny side somewhere. One day, perhaps, they will look back and laugh. There was one incident, when fascinated viewers watched open-mouthed as the camera zoomed close in to Alan Bean, with his mike and his herringbone coat, and a wild-looking woman chained herself to the railings behind him while he was giving his live report. Robin, back at the studio with his list of relevant questions, recognised Caroline immediately, you could see he did. His expression did not flicker but he did a half-twirl in his chair when Alan Bean, unable to ignore the disturbance any longer, remarked, ‘Here is a lady who is clearly violently opposed to the Prime Minister’s visit to China. Perhaps we should…’
Apart from the country’s lip-readers, it was impossible for anyone else to catch the obscenities that Caroline was shouting. ‘Look what he’s done! Look what he’s fucking well done! Look what he’s done to me!’
How ridiculous! No one can do that to anyone else!
‘No, no,’ said Robin calmly, straight-faced in front of twelve million viewers. ‘Just speak your piece, Alan, just carry on.’
But two deaf viewers wrote in to the programme, demanding to be told who Caroline referred to, and why. You always get your insensitive cranks. Quite rightly Robin instructed his lackeys to ignore them.
Suzie gives a little barking laugh. There is absolutely nothing anyone can do but wait for time to do its healing. Caroline is massive, terrifying, still beautiful in a brutal sort of way, and seemingly inescapable. There was a period when Suzie feared Robin might take to drink to survive. The large attic space in the Kensington flat remains empty, waiting for Robin’s beloved gym. Suzie does not question his need although she could do with a study of her own. Nearly forty, keeping fit is important to Robin—he is absurdly pleased with himself for completing last year’s London Marathon. Every weekday morning he goes jogging and three times a week he plays squash. On a Sunday he brings her breakfast in bed and then goes off to church. When the time comes, when Robin finally decides that the time is right to send for his precious equipment, so cruelly denied him, Suzie believes the worst of the trauma will all be over, they can all start behaving sanely again. Suzie gives a hopeful smile. He will probably send for it this year. Caroline has gone quiet recently and the children appear more cheerful, almost normal. Suzie tells herself she must be more relaxed; it is Christmas, she should be more charitable.
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