Books now. Lots of books. Having shared out the bags they struggle along the slushy pavement. They are hit by the heat as they push inside the store. ‘Keep together. Keep tight hold of each other. It’s a good thing Dom didn’t come, he would have hated this.’ Once through the foyer they move straight to the paperbacks where Vanessa hands her bag to Camilla and says, ‘You stand over there while I look. It’s essential we choose right. At the end of the day these could prove more important than anything else.’
She moves along the paperbacks, her bottom lip caught between her teeth and her tongue occasionally flicking in and out as her concentration grows. What to choose, what to choose… If only she was older and wiser. She picks out two Daphne du Mauriers, two James Herriots and one Barbara Cartland before spying the Miss Reads further along the shelves. She spends some time reading the backs and looking at the jackets. Then she returns the Barbara Cartland with a sigh and takes three Miss Reads instead. She picks up a Lillian Beckwith on the way by.
‘That ought to keep her busy,’ says Vanessa, pleased, as they queue for what feels like hours at the till.
‘But Mother never reads books.’
‘She used to. She used to read all the time—but not nice books like these—books by that Fay Weldon and Germaine Greer, books by Nancy Friday and Marilyn French. It’s only since Daddy left that she hasn’t been able to read. It’s only since then that she’s stopped watching plays on TV and changed to those terrible game shows. She’ll be very happy reading these. I bet you she’ll ask for some more.’
But Sacha doesn’t look convinced.
There’s only shoes to find now and that would be easy, save for the fact that they are all struggling under the weight of the bags. They trail up the road, looking in shoe-shop windows, bored. Mother is fond of shoes. Mother owns hundreds of pairs, but they are all sharp, pointed and smart, and it’s definitely flat ones the children are after. Amber points to a pair of summer sandals. ‘Jesus sandals! Amber, I think you are probably going too far. She doesn’t want anything huge and gawky. She wants to be neat and pretty, not hippy!’
Amber starts sulking. She hangs a finger in her mouth while hoisting the carrier bag high on her shoulder, protesting under the weight. ‘I haven’t chosen anything yet. It’s all been you and Camilla.’
‘But don’t you approve of what we’ve bought?’
‘Oh yes, I suppose so, but I haven’t chosen, that’s the thing.’
‘Well, before we go home we’re going into Boots and you and Sacha can pick out the make-up.’
‘I thought we didn’t want Mother to wear make-up. I thought you said it would be good for her skin if she stopped painting her face.’
‘But she needs creams and lotions, and I suppose she could do with a pale shade of lipstick. And then there’s the shampoo…’
‘Okay, okay.’ Amber is mollified for a while.
‘I don’t like selling shoes without the wearer trying them on.’ This is their first real obstacle, the large, coarse-looking woman in the shoe shop. The line of her knickers is showing under her skirt.
‘But it’s a late Christmas present.’
‘It is not a good idea to give anyone shoes. Shoes tend to be a most personal choice. I don’t want my customers coming back here to me and complaining that their shoes don’t fit, having to have them changed because they haven’t even tried them on.’
‘All I want to know,’ says Vanessa in her most haughty voice, ‘is if this measurement is the equivalent to a five and a half?’
The assistant smacks her lips together but nods her head at the same time.
‘That’s all I want to know. I’ll take them.’
‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
The lemon and white leather crosses over at the front, and there’s a hole where the toe will poke out. In spite of what the assistant says there’s a strap at the back so they must be adjustable. Neat, flat sandals like these need not be a perfect fit.
‘But will they look all right with black tights?’
‘They’ll look all right with anything. They are just ordinary shoes, Sacha, for goodness sake. Even someone like Mrs Guerney would be perfectly happy to wear them.’
Everyone is close to exhaustion by now; everyone is near to snapping. It’s not the distance they’ve covered, it’s not the heat in the shops, it’s the tiring drag of the huge crowds of people. And the worry of what they might face when they do reach home—a furious Mrs Guerney on the phone to the police, a pale, sad-looking Daddy forced to come round to sort it out and Mother at her most manic—cross-legged, drink in hand, towering over all the proceedings, enormous in her anger while she lets her ash fall on the carpet and they start the struggle all over again…
‘Oh please God let it all be all right,’ Vanessa murmurs to herself as they finally climb to the top of the bus, Sacha and Amber sorting through the make-up; Ponds Cold Cream, Bronley lemons, cleansing lotion… everything fresh in pink or white packaging, nothing dirtily strong or strident, and a bottle of gentle Vosene shampoo. Amber opens the box of talc and there’s a soft puff of red roses.
‘We must have spent hundreds of pounds.’
‘We have. But it’s going to be worth it.’
‘What if Mother refuses to wear any of the things we’ve bought her?’
‘She won’t have much option. Her black dress is all damp and sweaty. Her fur coat is too hot. Her underwear needs washing and she won’t be offered anything else.’
‘She might choose to go round with nothing on, just to spite us.’
‘Then we will simply turn the heating up.’
‘Mother is going to start to hate us, Vanny. Who knows, maybe she already does.’
‘Dominic says that prisoners kept in solitary confinement might start by hating their captors, but after a while they come to love them, no matter what they do. Even when they torture them, there’s a kind of loving there.’
‘I don’t understand that.’
‘Well you wouldn’t, Amber, because you’re far too young.’
‘I don’t think I ever want to be old enough to understand about that.’
As they trudge the last few yards along Camberley Road, every step feels heavier. Vanessa wants to rest and yet she doesn’t want to reach home. She is relieved to see the road in front of the house free from police cars, from cameras and Black Marias…
Dominic opens the door with a smile. It is the most wonderful smile Vanessa has ever seen. She wants to take it and keep it for ever, dried and pressed in a book. ‘It’s okay,’ he says quickly, sensing her desperate anxiety. ‘Ilse’s not even back yet. Bring it all in and we’ll take it straight down to her. There’s no point in carting it upstairs first. She’ll enjoy undoing the parcels.’
‘Have there been any difficult phone calls?’
‘No, none.’
‘Have you been down?’
‘No. I haven’t needed to go down. She’s been absolutely silent all morning. I’ve done the jigsaw three times. Mrs Guerney thinks I must be coming down with something so tomorrow she’s bringing some malt.’
Amber insists on the tubular bells although Camilla tells her it’s silly. ‘It has to be done this way,’ she insists stiffly. ‘It feels better when we ring the bells, and it means that Mother knows we are coming and it makes it feel important.’
So, tired as they are, and eager to get on, they have to stand and wait till the ritualistic ringing is done with. Then, down they go, and Mother is not at the window, but sitting listlessly on her bench with her face towards the circle of plastic, waiting—just waiting.
‘Does anyone else want to do the speaking?’
Vanessa turns to Camilla, but she shakes her head.
So Vanessa moves to the window again. ‘We’ve been out to get you some things, Mother. We’re going to push them through the pipe-hole now. Some of the bags are too big so we’ll have to get the things out and send them through separately.’
Mother do
es not respond. She just continues to sit on her bench and Vanessa senses the twins’ joint disappointment.
One by one, with the help of the hoover extension tube, Dominic pushes the various items carefully through the hole. They gather there, on the floor, not looking half so good, so interesting, or so fresh as they did when they were displayed in the shops. Mother watches their arrival without much interest.
When he has finished with the clothes, Vanessa signals for Dominic to start pushing the books through. Each one is in a paper bag so Mother can’t see the titles immediately. The sandals go through one at a time, the make-up follows last of all.
‘Aren’t you even going to look at them, Mother? They cost a lot of money. The dress, for instance, was very expensive.’
‘Vanessa, I’m afraid I just don’t understand what this is all about. I don’t understand what is going on or what sort of response you want from me. I have spent the night down here all on my own, not knowing what is going to happen, not knowing what is going through that head of yours…’
‘We just want you to look at what we’ve brought you, Mother, and then we will bring you your lunch.’
‘Well, if that’s what you want, I’d better do it.’
‘Is she looking now?’ Sacha spits with excitement.
Vanessa nods impatiently without removing her eyes from the window. She’s never noticed before how Mother’s shoulders are so childishly narrow.
Like an automaton Mother gets up and starts picking up the various pieces of clothing. She puts the underwear to one side and there’s no way of telling what she is thinking. She unfolds the vast nightdress and glances towards the glass but there’s still no expression on her face. She looks better than she did yesterday, but that is probably because she is eating. She ate all her curry last night, and the fruit, and she finished the grapefruit and toast that they offered her this morning.
Now, clammy and drab in her over-worn slip, she undoes the pinafore dress (they pinned it in the shop and Mother undoes the pins) and lays it out on her knee. Her limbs are thin and marble-white. Once again she turns her face to the window but this time there’s a quizzical crinkling around her eyes. She can tell that the blouse goes with the dress because she puts them aside both together. She is neither approving nor disapproving. She looks kind of… defeated. But she sorts through the make-up all the same, holding it up to the light the better to see the labels on the individual jars and boxes.
‘Well, Mother, so what do you think?’
‘I had better put them on.’ Vanessa, taken aback, has never heard Mother quite so submissive. Normally, when she’s sad, when something disappoints her, she rages.
‘There’s still the books.’ But Mother doesn’t seem interested, or strong enough to tackle anything else. Vanessa tries to encourage her on. ‘You’ve got lots of time to read now, Mother, and tomorrow we’re going to bring your Walkman down, and some of your music.’
Obediently—she thought she had finished but now she knows she must go on performing—Mother stoops to pick up the scatter of books that are piled messily on the floor. One by one she slips them from their bags, and reads the titles before stacking them dully on the bench beside her.
‘Who chose the books?’
‘I did, Mother.’
‘Yes, of course you did. I can see.’
‘Will you read them?’
‘I don’t know. What will you do if I don’t read them, Vanessa? Turn the heating up?’
Vanessa doesn’t know what to say. She turns to Dominic for reassurance but he seems quite happy. He is waiting beside the hole for the dirty clothes to come through. Camilla, too, has a satisfied look on her face because, after all, they have accomplished what they set out to achieve; they have used the cards and the chequebook successfully. They have cash in their purses and Mrs Guerney has gone home with her mind fixed on malt, unsuspecting.
There has to be a balance, you see, especially with the reading. Mother has gone to such wild extremes! She is bound to be depressed—who wouldn’t be depressed, locked up and alone in a basement sauna? But Vanessa could stand all this much more easily if Mother stayed angry. Coping with screams and curses is far more straightforward than dealing with this.
Vanessa needs to get out of here quickly. Something intolerable and new in the atmosphere is making her ache. Perhaps it is just that she is tired after her nerve-racking morning struggle around London.
But just as they’re leaving, just as Dominic is closing the door and they breathe in the safe, warm sanity of the hall at last, the laugh that floats up from below, swirling up from the basement like coloured smoke in a bell-bottomed jar, is so shivery cold, so devoid of any kind of recognisable mirth, that Vanessa can’t keep strong any longer. Her face rigid, her eyes enormous, she shudders sharply and bursts into hysterical tears.
Twenty-six
HERE IS A BLUSTERY February morning with pavements slick and dark with rain; when the gusts shift it beats against the chilly windows of Bertorelli’s. Suzie’s here, warm and comfortable at a window table, and she is not laughing because what she is hearing is far too important merely to amuse her. There is pleasure to be had in watching the people battling along down Floral Street, grim-faced, wild-haired beneath warring umbrellas, longing to be home or whatever place, to them, signifies safety. Suzie’s concentrating terribly hard; she’s listening to Kitty Beavers-St Clair whose skin—minutely creased and tacked to seams hidden behind her hairline—hardly moves as she tells her guest that the world is her oyster if she wants it.
Suzie goes coy though deep inside she feels herself swelling with pleasure. ‘I wouldn’t get the job. They’d say that I was too young—not enough experience.’
‘Rubbish. My, my, what a careful person all of a sudden! A year ago and you wouldn’t have hesitated.’
Suzie clears her throat. ‘Well, maybe so, but I’ve never been in charge of people before. I’m not sure I know how to get in touch with them any more. And I know nothing about running a business.’
Kitty scans the menu, taking it down to knee-level. ‘Oh, fine! Be negative then. This job is nothing to do with running a business. All they want you to do is boost circulation and churn out the profits. It’s just a matter of commissioning the right sort of people and giving the right sort of editorial input. You can’t stand outside other people’s lives watching for ever you know, Suzie.’
‘Who else would be interested?’ Suzie’s not hungry for this kind of rich food any more. She wishes she was at home with something simple and hot in a pot, consoling.
Kitty Beavers-St Clair, columnist, society watcher, would turn this subdued luncheon into a frenzied feeding of famished piranha if she sensed the slightest whiff of a scandal. Kitty waves an elegant arm in the air to attract the waiter’s attention. Her hand revolves like a ferret’s nose, and her fingers could almost be sniffing. She is known at this restaurant; she is known at most of the most sophisticated restaurants in the squares and back-streets of London’s West End. She has no trouble, absolutely no trouble at all, filling her column with gossip, and Robin, as a respectable celebrity with a cool eye for public opinion, keeps Kitty and her ilk at a healthily calculated distance. ‘You know as well as I do who they are. Since your self-imposed hibernation from the big wide world nothing has changed that much. Daphne Frazer will apply because she applies for everything but she’s not a journalist, she’s a salesperson really, only knows about admin. She’s so shrill no one can stand her and she doesn’t have the languages like you. Then there’s Bob Beevis, the walking accident, but somebody told me his old problem was rearing its ugly head again. Let’s see… Amanda Bracewell might apply, and Fiona Hawkins is being considered, but isn’t Fiona pregnant? You’d have thought she’d be past all that, at her age. They don’t want someone who’s going to keep ducking off for childbearing and rearing—well, obviously they don’t. I think the contract runs for five years.’
‘I’d have to ask Robin.’
Kitty
narrows her lilac-skinned eyes. They are merely a suggestive wink between two stretched linings. Her face looms closer over the table and her breath is a sweet garlic breeze. ‘What did you say?’
Suzie sucks the slice of lemon that she slides from the side of her glass. ‘Naturally I’ll have to ask Robin.’
‘Discuss it with Robin, yes, but ask him? Suzie, did you say ask him?’
‘Slip of the tongue.’ The lemon is more sour than she had expected. She winces, she wrinkles her pert little nose. ‘What if they decide to appoint from inside?’
‘Nope. I was speaking to Hilary yesterday and they want a new face, preferably pretty. They want someone with expert knowledge, a member of all the right organisations, someone who can write, and most important of all, they want that someone to be British, absolutely! That’s when I told her I’d talk to you.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Not much. But she seemed satisfied.’
‘When would I have to let them know?’
‘Now. You’d have to say you were interested right away. Go and meet them, chew the fat.’
A little crowd forms outside. Someone important is coming out of the stage-door.
‘It’s funny, you know, Kitty, it feels strange telling you this, but it’s made me feel quite honoured to even be thought of. Working from home, you know, I seem to have lost touch with the buzz of it all.’
‘My goodness! This is new. You were never… quite so modest! Good God, Suzie, I don’t have to remind you that even the experts ring you up if they’re stuck for a name or a piece of obscure information. Honestly, you’re the one. Orchids have always been your passion…’
‘Tatty flowers, Robin calls them.’
‘He would. He’s jealous. You’re his wife.’
‘Oh Kitty, you were always so suspicious of men.’
‘With good reason, and don’t exaggerate.’
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