Lot and Ruby stand alone in the kitchen of the silent house. Lot stares at Ruby, trying hard to understand. He waits patiently beside her, his deepset features in shadow, holding the tea towel, while her fair face steams in the running hot water. She tries to put him at ease by smiling, but she sniffs forlornly and fails. Even the Fairy liquid has taken on a merrily malicious Christmas gleam.
One warm tear trickles down her cheek. She brushes it off with the back of her hand, afraid in case Lot will see it and become upset. She must pull herself together, just for a little while longer; she must, she must.
But she cannot, she seems to have lost all control. If she doesn’t talk to somebody soon she is either going to choke to death or throw up all over the greasy dishes. Lot sinks down beside her, the perfect, patient listener. His whole body stiffens as he hears the hurt pour out of his idol, his dream woman and his queen.
‘She must be a very wicked, evil person,’ he says eventually, when she has finished, his eyes impassive as a camera lens. ‘She must be the most wicked person ever to be born on this whole earth.’
Ruby sniffs a little hysterically. ‘Well, hardly that bad, Lot. After all, Bart had something to do with it. It does take two, you know.’
But it is too late; Lot fails to hear her. He has sunk into one of his deepest trances and when Ruby, slightly better, gets up to tackle the dishes again he stays at the table with his head in his hands, sunk in the deeply bewildering world that is his own.
It’s as simple as constructing boxes, really; you flatten, bring up, stick and fold over. A to B to C. He is going to find this wicked person and throw her away so she’ll never hurt anyone, especially Ruby, again. Dispose of the dirty sweepings.
Because Lot knows, oh yes, Lot understands what has happened. And he might view the world through unusual eyes but he has certainly arrived at the right conclusion.
In essence, Ruby Dance’s heart has been broken.
Twelve
WHEN DADDY GETS UP, stretches, and declares that it might be time to start thinking about going home, Sacha’s outburst gives Vanessa real pain. It seems somehow to reflect on her—the temporary substitute mother. The embarrassing silence that follows is difficult, the fuss made worse because it takes place in front of a stranger, Suzie’s nice fat cuddly mummy.
‘I want to stay with you!’ The demand is childishly direct as usual. She clings to the back of Daddy’s old hacking jacket, faded and familiar with the sticky old Nuttall’s Mintoes of days gone by glued to the inside pocket; it smells of him. She tugs it. Daddy’s daunted eyes find Suzie’s. She closes hers slowly. She’s saying, ‘Oh no, surely not this again,’ easing out a long steady breath.
‘Just for Boxing Day!’ Sacha’s head swivels on her babyish neck, she embraces the room, trying to grab with a clumsy, hysterical gesture. ‘Anywhere!’ she cries, her glasses flashing. ‘We don’t need beds, we sleep anywhere, don’t we, Amber? You tell them! Ask anyone!’
Daddy’s kneebones click and he hitches his trouser-knees to adjust himself down to the small girl’s height. He is calm and gentle. ‘That would be quite wrong, Sacha, don’t you understand? That would be taking advantage. That would be breaking all the rules. Because of the snow I’ve had you all day as it is, and now Mummy will be waiting for you at home.’
‘What rules?’ It is useless and Daddy is silly to persevere. No one can argue with Sacha in this frame of mind, she’s not old enough to listen to reason, she continues to shout her demands while her voice grows higher, choked with sobs as she reaches a state of absolute despondency.
‘It is getting dark,’ Daddy gallantly tries to persuade her, ‘and I’m worried about the state of the roads. If this lot freezes…’ his voice, threaded with lies, goes dotting away to an icy nowhere, trailing off as in a book.
Suzie is watching with a strained face, and tension lines web the edges of her eyes. Everyone’s on the watch. You can see that Eileen would love to speak. Her dumpy body leans forward, her elbows rest on her knees but her restless hands want to stretch out, to mend, to cure, to be helpful. Through a kindly face and soft blue eyes she stares at the audience of agitated faces, she licks her lips, ready to speak, but says nothing. Isobel, frail and grim, who so disapproves of divorce, would dearly like to remind everyone, ‘You see? You see what I mean? Such selfishness brings its own rewards.’
What is happening here? Surely what is happening cannot really be happening! Vanessa blames herself; a sense of powerlessness raises its head so suddenly it is terrifying. What about Mother? How can they stay here and leave Mother alone all night without food or supervision? She certainly should have foreseen this reaction.
‘We have all had such a lovely day, poppet, playing in the snow, pulling the crackers, now please don’t go and spoil it.’
But Sacha just goes redder than ever as her anger boils over, impervious to reason, and now Amber, disturbed and afraid, starts her habit of repeating her twin word for word as she always does when she is over-excited about something.
‘I’ll run away,’ shouts Sacha.
‘I’ll run away,’ says Amber.
‘And then you’ll be sorry!’
‘And then you’ll be sorry!’
Sacha flings herself on to the sofa and buries her wet face under a huge floral cushion. Her ‘somebody is being very naughty’ is too muffled to hear until Amber interprets it as she stands there stiffly with one small hand on the sofa arm. ‘Somebody is being very naughty.’
‘Listen to me, poppet.’ Daddy places exasperated pats on the hot, shaking, uniformed back of his weeping child. None of his kisses quite touch. In the Radio Times they call him thrusting and penetrative. Some people say that to be interviewed by Robin Townsend is better than getting a puppet of yourself on Spitting Image, or being invited to take part on Desert Island Discs. ‘I understand why you think we are being naughty and not realising how you are feeling, but that’s really not true at all, is it, Suzie?’
Suzie, on the very edge of her chair, nods ‘we’ve all been through this before haven’t we’ encouragement.
‘You see, if we let you stay here for Boxing Day we all know what would happen. We would have to go through this very same tantrum tomorrow night.’
‘No, you wouldn’t! No! No!’ Sacha’s words are difficult to decipher as they come through the cushion, punctuated by shuddering sobs. ‘I would promise on my honour that I’d go quietly tomorrow. I would probably get in the car at six o’clock without even being told.’
Poor Sacha. She has sensed a hole in the forbidding wall of adult disbelief. She is trying to push herself through it.
‘I don’t think so, darling…’
‘Oh dear,’ exclaims Eileen, her gentle coil of white hair listing dangerously as she follows the drama, resting on one arm, then the other. And then she mouths with her lips alone, ‘Oh, lovies, this is quite dreadful.’
‘It is quite understandable.’ Isobel stirs the chilly undercurrent and her closed eyelids are white and fragile as communion wafers. ‘After all, there is nothing for them at home.’
‘Oh Isobel, please!’ snaps Robin.
‘I hate you all!’ screams Sacha, from underneath her cushion.
‘I hate you all,’ says Amber automatically. Her handle of orange hair sprouts from the elasticated edge of her nursing cap and bobs up and down like a question mark and her freckles darken her face.
Vanessa speaks out with as much force as she dares. Sacha must be made to back down. She can’t think of anything with which to bribe her, except for an unabridged reading of her favourite story about the skin horse who is LOVED and therefore becomes miraculously REAL, unlike the expensive mechanical toys or the doll with the golden hair. ‘Sacha, remember we’ve got our special meal and it’s cooking in the oven at the moment. We are going to need your help to get it all ready nicely as a treat for Mother.’
‘And I hate Mother,’ shouts Sacha. ‘I do not want to give her any treat.’
At any momen
t now, Sacha, delirious in her agony, is going to blurt out the awful truth. Of course there is always the chance that nobody will believe her, but…
‘Oh Robin, all right, let them stay.’ Suzie drops her bombshell in a fast, gruff voice as she stalks over to the window, and the extraordinary thing is that she means it. She is standing, holding the curtain and she might also be holding back tears but you can’t see her face. More likely she’s just sneering. Vanessa noted with interest that throughout Sacha’s performance Suzie never lost her quiet confidence, her self-assurance. Suzie’s doing this for Daddy; she wants him to see what a martyr she is, how she’s pained by his children. She stares through the small panes, through the thickly distorting glass; she stares out into the fading light.
Everybody is stunned.
Sacha goes instantly still and is silent except for the odd wet sniff. They all stare at Suzie’s straight back and Joe coughs lightly from the far end of the room, not making any particular point, only clearing his throat. You can sense Isobel’s constant impatience with him. He has stayed inside himself all afternoon, tucked in like a tortoise.
‘D’you know, I think that’s a jolly good idea,’ says Eileen, glowing all over.
‘I suppose I could telephone Caroline and see what she says. I would have to telephone anyway, to remind her to turn the oven off.’
‘Oh yes, Daddy, yes!’ Sacha jumps up and down, crazy now. Her pink tongue pokes wildly through the gap in her teeth and her tear-stains already look dry.
‘I do not want to stay here. I can’t stay.’
Oh thank you, Jesus! Vanessa stifles the urge to cross the room and kiss Dominic hard, to take her cool and calculated hero into her arms and hug him.
Daddy stares. ‘You don’t want to stay here for the night?’ His eyes are flecked with violet, his voice is tired and old. ‘Well why not, Dominic, for God’s sake? Why can’t you?’
‘Because I have forgotten my puffer,’ he replies, head down, peering furtively out through his eyelashes at Vanessa.
‘It would be awkward if we stayed here, really, Daddy. I know Mother would be upset if we didn’t give her notice and she is going away. She is waiting for the meal we promised, we’ve been here all day and now we really ought to be with her.’ Vanessa thanks God for finally giving her back her voice.
Daddy simply nods. ‘You are absolutely right, of course. Some other time perhaps.’
Sacha sucks at the finger she’s stuck in her mouth, her ankles are crossed, she doesn’t understand what is going on. She pleads, ‘But Suzie said we could, didn’t you, Suzie?’
‘It was never a very sensible idea,’ Daddy puts in quickly.
The sulking child raises her eyes and meets Vanessa’s direct gaze. She has forgotten all about Mother and now the memory flashes back. It’s to do with secrets she must not tell, happenings she must keep hidden or there will be a very great deal of trouble. She purses her lips and keeps them tight together, ashamed of herself suddenly, and aware how near she has come to letting everyone down. Her abrupt change of attitude is astonishing, enough to stir the mildest curiosity but of course none of these adults have the slightest idea… Vanessa must stop worrying, but how easy it is to believe they are blessed with special powers, like God, and are watching and waiting to see what she’ll do.
‘If we go back, please can you come and get us again? Can we come back tomorrow?’ Sacha wheedles, twisting with guilt and remorse as she fumblingly replaces her glasses.
‘Well, actually poppet, that would be difficult, as you see we’ve arranged for some people to pop in tomorrow. It would be very boring for you. You wouldn’t like it.’
‘All day?’
‘Yes. All day, I’m afraid.’
Open house on Boxing Day, exactly the same as it used to be at Camberley Road when Daddy lived there but now how strange it is, life goes on exactly the same for some people while for others—Vanessa glances at Sacha—their worlds are turned upside down. She will read her sister the whole of The Skin Horse this evening; she won’t skip even half a page.
‘Will these people be bringing their children?’
‘Oh no, I shouldn’t think so.’ But even Sacha is astute enough at six to know that Daddy is lying, even if his half-truths are clever like a conjuror’s, snaking down his sleeve so he has to wipe his hand. He forces himself to brighten. ‘Come on, gang, let’s find your coats and say our thank yous to Suzie.’
Vanessa is angry with Daddy. Can’t he see Sacha’s crumpled face, doesn’t the sight of so much pain hurt him? ‘Thank you for having me.’ ‘Thank you for such a lovely tea.’ They are forced to smile at Suzie because she holds their happiness in her hands but Vanessa’s is the smile of a ceremonial Madonna carried through the streets on religious holidays, pale and waxen, moulded to her face.
They help Daddy to find his spade and he puts some sacks in the back of the car. Outside the garage Sacha whispers to Vanessa, ‘It’s not fair that Suzie’s got a mother like that.’
‘What—Eileen?’
It seems that Sacha’s ashamed of her disloyalty; she doesn’t want to say much more. ‘Yes, why can’t we? And a cottage called Poppins, cats, and a lovely wild garden?’ And then she looks down, trails her small red boot in the snow, unable to find the words that she wants. ‘We would be different.’ She runs away to find him, she clutches a toggle on Daddy’s coat. ‘You should have a bar of chocolate, too, Daddy, in case you get stranded.’ Sacha’s concern is desperately real—how can she forgive him so soon, and how can he let her?
Would we be different?
The white of the snow soothes Vanessa’s head during the journey home.
Dominic can’t stop talking… about silly, ridiculous things that don’t matter and probably are not true. Anyone would think that his life was happy and normal. ‘D’you know, Daddy, that they have to have a proper funeral ceremony even if they find someone’s leg?’
Daddy concentrates on the hazardous driving. He says, ‘Is that so?’
‘Yes, Westminster Council had to call in a priest last year when they buried a woman’s leg they found floating in a canal.’
‘Really?’
‘Would they dig it up and bury it with the rest of her if they found her?’
‘I expect so. But you’d think they’d have burnt it.’
‘Oh no, they might need it later, in case there was foul play.’
Vanessa looks to see if the ribbons are still round the trunk of the tree… she sits back and sighs, relieved to see that they are, although they are wet and drooping, and have lost most of their colour. She is saddened to see there are no flowers any longer. This is the spot where, back in the spring, a sixteen-year-old joyrider crashed his stolen car and died, and the tree where it happened was surrounded by flowers until recently… all sorts of flowers, from stiffly posh bouquets to soft little posies. The number of bunches dwindled as the year went by. Every time Vanessa comes past she stares with a sinking heart. ‘The boy’s mother might think that people have stopped remembering,’ she confided to Daddy one day. ‘What will happen when the ribbons rot? She’ll think that nobody cares any more and be even more unhappy.’
‘No she won’t.’ Daddy is wise; he understands terrible things like death. ‘She will know that the giving of flowers is just the beginning of mourning. When the flowers die, Vanessa, they leave room for something more permanent to grow in people’s hearts.’
‘You are so morbid sometimes, Vanny.’ Camilla is far more competent at dealing with the sad facts of life.
There are no flowers there today. Morbid or not, Vanessa is going to pick some snowdrops one day during the holidays and take them along all the same. She tries to see through the windows they pass and wonders where that poor boy’s mother lives.
All the other houses are flooded with light, while number fourteen is dark and frowning. It is a kind of prison now and it has taken on the menace of a prison. You can almost imagine you can hear the ghost-wolves howling from the high p
ine trees over in the park. Her breath catches—she can’t breathe: what about the 40-watt sauna light they’ve left on? Can it be seen from the road?
She shivers with relief, like when she’s waited too long for a pee. Thank goodness the sauna is against the back wall of the gym, and the white paint on the windows is thick. In future they will have to think far more carefully about such details. The ordeal has only just begun and already they’ve been dangerously careless, they could easily have been found out.
‘Your mother must have been very tired,’ says Daddy. ‘She’s not up yet. Do you want me to wait? I really think I ought to come in.’
But he does not want to wait…
… so they say, ‘No, we’ll be all right.’
The snow still falls but is barely noticeable because the flakes have turned light as icing sugar sprinkling softly down through a sieve. But the fresh snow lies thickly, crisp and shining on top, hardening as evening comes and a cold breeze ices the top layer over.
Getting out of the car is difficult, leaving all that warmth outside on the road, leaving Daddy’s smile, and his promise to phone in the morning. ‘Say thank you to Caroline for me. I won’t come in,’ he calls through the crack of the open window. ‘I don’t want to get stuck, I’d rather keep the engine running.’
Thank you thank you thank you—everyone always has to be thanked, everyone seems to be doing them a favour as if they are beggars with nothing to give of their own, the kind of children who get sent out into forests in order to gather sticks.
Mothertime Page 10
