Olivia's Luck

by Catherine Alliott

  Chapter Five

  A few days later I was lying in bed mulling it over. Nina. Nina, for God’s sake. Who on earth was called Nina these days? It sounded so pre-war, like she wore a cardy and slippers, or sold smellies in Boots, or even – yes, that’s it – maybe she was foreign? Nina Mouskouri – no, no that was Nana – or, OK, Nina Simone? Oh God, I couldn’t compete with that, I thought hastily, some dark, exotic, dusky maiden. No, far better she was the cardy type. Or could it be an aristocratic name perhaps? I wondered, with a jolt. Wasn’t one of the Mitford sisters called something like – No. No, that was Nancy. I sighed and turned over, bunching up the pillow – then stared. Claudia was beside me, feigning sleep, eyelids flickering. I groaned.

  ‘Oh darling, you said you’d try not to do this any more.’

  ‘I know, but I couldn’t sleep. And anyway, Daddy’s not here, so there’s plenty of room.’

  Well, there was no arguing with that. The sun was also streaming persistently through the curtains now, so I turned back and seized the clock, peering myopically at it. Twenty to eight.

  ‘Claudia! It’s twenty to eight!’ I shot up like a rocket.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Well, don’t say I know, flaming well get a move on! You’ll be late for school – again!’

  She rolled out of bed, pulling the duvet with her, and dragged herself to her bedroom. ‘That, Mother dear, was precisely the idea,’ she muttered sardonically.

  I flew around the room looking for clothes, desperate for a shower but knowing there wasn’t time, listening to Claudia slowly opening drawers and dragging her feet. Hardly the sounds of frenzied activity.

  ‘Claudia, come on!’

  ‘I am!’

  I sat down abruptly on the bed feeling a bit of head rush. I held my fingers to my temples. Oh God, I shouldn’t have yelled like that so early in the morning. It always made me feel nauseous. And anyway, so what if we were late, just for once? Sometimes Claudia had a point. I flopped back on the bed. She was so like me in so many ways, and so unlike me in others. Aesthetically speaking, it was plain to see we were a mother-and-daughter act: skinny-framed, beaky-nosed and wide-eyed – which, together with pebble glasses and an unusual dental arrangement, was not a combination Claudia enjoyed at ten years old – but, as I kept assuring her, she’d grow into her looks, as I had done.

  ‘What, and end up looking like you?’

  ‘Is that so terrible?’

  ‘No, but it’s just a bit boring to already know what I’m going to look like in twenty years’ time.’

  This was classic Claudia. Not exactly bored with life, but resigned to it, slightly world-weary. She excelled at school academically, but didn’t find it particularly stimulating, so almost as if to compensate, in a minor way, she’d recently become something of a troublemaker. She avoided all games and sports citing her asthma – although these days that was rare – she cheeked the younger teachers – taking care not to tangle with the battle-axes – and wore her skirt hiked up at a ridiculous angle, socks well down, tie in her pocket along with her chewing gum. On one ghastly occasion recently, she’d even been caught stealing a comic from Smiths, whilst ostensibly on a school trip.

  ‘I can’t believe she did that!’ I’d shrieked down the phone to Molly.

  ‘Why not? We’ve all done it.’

  ‘We have?’ I’d gasped.

  ‘Of course. Remember the make-up counter in Boots? Max Factor lipsticks? Those quiet afternoons of jiggery-pokery on the way home from school?’

  ‘No! Not me. That was always you and Imo.’

  ‘Ah, perhaps.’

  ‘And you were at least fourteen!’

  ‘So she’s precocious. Relax, Livvy, it’s nothing outrageous. She’s just showing a healthy lack of respect for authority. Just ground her for a few days.’

  ‘How can I ground her when she’s not allowed out yet!’ I’d shrieked.

  Nothing outrageous, I’d thought, putting down the phone, but all the same, all acts of rebellion that I, at ten, would have been horrified by. Mine had always been a timorous spirit, eager to please, careful not to offend, yet Claudia seemed unable to pledge allegiance to any values that conflicted with her own. I grudgingly admired her for this, knowing full well from whence it came. She got her looks from me and her balls from Johnny.

  The one time Johnny and I had really seen her shine, and revelled in the reflected glory, was when she took the lead as Alice in Wonderland in the school play. She’d left the rest of the cast standing, and when we’d congratulated her afterwards – full of pride as so many parents patted her on the back, then whisking her away to the hamburger joint of her choice by way of celebration – she’d confided that the reason she’d loved it so much was because she could pretend to be someone else. This had filled me with dread.

  ‘But what’s so wrong with being Claudia McFarllen?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ she’d said coolly, sipping her milk shake. ‘But it’s just nice to get away from her once in a while.’

  Being a normal, angst-ridden, middle-class mother, of course I’d been sent into a flat spin by this, and for one mad moment I’d almost felt compelled to whisk her off to a child psychologist, such was the contemporary vogue for these people, but Johnny had been appalled.

  ‘Christ Almighty, the one time she gets a buzz out of something and you want her psychoanalysed! Relax, Livvy.’

  Relax, Livvy, relax, I thought, heaving myself off the bed and dragging myself, like some rough beast, over to my dressing table. I sat down heavily. That was a word I’d come to hear a lot of over the years. I peered blearily at my reflection in the mirror and sighed. The hair badly needed a cut so I tucked some of it behind my ears, then peered again, hoping perhaps for a miraculous transformation, blinking out through the fringe. On a good day, adjectives like ‘elfin’ or ‘principal boy’ came to mind, and on a bad day, ‘Oxfam’ or ‘hermaphrodite’. Today was a bad one. I reached for my nail scissors and had a go at the fringe. Lop-sided, of course. I switched hands and attacked from the other side, ending up looking like Julius Caesar. God, just give me a laurel wreath. I sighed and went to the window.

  At the far end of the garden I could see movement in the caravan. The door opened and Alf came out. I watched his listing movement across the grass, large and lumbering in his blue overalls, bound, no doubt, for the Portaloo and a few quiet moments with the Sun. The Portaloo had arrived with the caravan, and was sent from heaven, as far as I was concerned. So outrageous had been the pong in mine on one occasion that I’d been forced to race, clenched buttocked, round to Nanette’s, banging on the door to use hers.

  Alf was soon followed by Mac, coming down the caravan steps and looking critically up at the sky. Far too blue for his liking – what they needed was some rain to curdle the cement, to make bricklaying out of the question, to ensure that they could huddle under the blue tarpaulin and smoke and drink tea for a bit. Finally, came Spiro, woolly-hatted even in a heat wave, dark eyes peering into the sun, and naturally, clutching his Wotsits. Despite a monumental fry up in the caravan every morning, Wotsits were essential to get these boys through the next half-hour, together, of course, with their mobile phones. These wonders of modern technology were never out of their hands, and they could quite easily plaster a chimney breast with one hand and talk to her indoors with the other: Spiro to her in Greece, Mac to his third wife, and Alf to his first, with whom he’d notched up twenty years’ hard labour. Her name was Vi and she was a legend in her own front room, according to Mac; a shrew of the first order, who nagged Alf ‘something rotten’ and bent his ear at the slightest opportunity.

  As Alf came out of the loo now, his phone went. Vi, of course. My bedroom window was open and I could hear him as he approached the kitchen.

  ‘Orright, luv, the lean-to, yeah, I’ll sort it … Yeah, I know, it’s a mess … OK, it’s a buggerin’ mess … Yeah, I will, I’ll do it on Sunday … Orright, Saturday, yeah … As soon as I get home, yeah. Love you.
Bye.’

  Harangued but devoted, you see. Perhaps that’s where I’d gone wrong? I’d noticed recently, as I analysed marriages, that women who harangued and nagged on a permanent basis generally had very well-behaved husbands. I looked at mine as he grinned out at me now from our wedding photo on my dressing table. Bloody photos were everywhere, I thought, glaring at it. Every flaming room I went into, there he was, leering at me again. I should have smashed the lot of them, of course, especially after yesterday. I leant my elbows on the table, put my head in my hands and groaned.

  Oh God, yesterday had been awful. The first Sunday Johnny had been over to pick Claudia up, and the first of many, no doubt. I, of course, in a frenzy of anticipation, had spent the two hours before his estimated time of arrival prowling the house, disastrously picking a spot on my chin, checking my hair repeatedly in the mirror, and wondering how the hell I was going to play this. What exactly was the estranged wife form? Should I ask him in? Should I give him a cup of tea, or should I simply open the front door and punch his lights out? And I’m ashamed to say I considered my wardrobe very carefully, too. Casual, of course, so shorts, since it was ninety degrees in the shade and my legs were brown, but teamed with a skinny white T-shirt and a rather snazzy little denim jacket I’d found in River Island, which was probably a bit young for me but looked terrific. My freshly washed hair was blown casually just so, I added a hint of lipstick, a slick of mascara – how the hell was he going to resist me? Unfortunately, though, when the big moment came and as I heard his car arrive in the front drive, I was having a nervous evacuation in the downstairs loo, and as I charged out, zipping up my shorts, I realised I’d left the crucial denim jacket in the garden. Claudia began to clump downstairs.

  ‘Don’t go without saying goodbye!’ I shrieked. ‘I’m just getting my jacket!’

  Out into the garden I raced, down to the deckchair under the spreading cedar, seized the jacket, wriggled into it when – damn.

  ‘Hulloa, Mrs McFarllen!’ Mr Jones, my next-door neighbour, very Welsh, a highly competitive gardener – very into his leeks and radishes – and always with a roguish twinkle in his eye, stuck his head over the garden wall.

  ‘Oh – morning, Mr Jones. I’m sorry I can’t stop now, I’m –’

  ‘Ooa, I woan’t take up much of yewer time, like, but I just wanted to say how sorry I am, reely reely sorry. Only Gwyneth told me, see, told me last night about yewer terrible predicament!’ He twiddled his moustache nervously, gazed abstractedly at my bosom.

  ‘Ah.’ I hovered. ‘Right. Thank you, Mr Jones.’

  ‘Wha’ a thing to happen, eh? Wha’ a shock! Terrible. Terrible! You must be devastated, like!’

  ‘Well, yes, quite upset, but bearing up, thank you, under the circumstances.’ I glanced nervously through the French windows to see that Claudia was already opening the front door. I tried to inch away.

  ‘Ooa, yes, I dare say yewer are, like, an’ I was sayin’ to Gwyneth oanly last night, yewer a bewetiful young girl, feisty too, and yew’ll bounce right back like nobody’s business, but even soa, ’s not easy, is it? Soa I was wondering, like,’ he reached down behind the wall and picked something up, twinkling at me the while, ‘could yew use one of these?’ With a sudden flourish he produced a cucumber.

  I gaped at it. Blinked. Finally found my voice. ‘Sorry, Mr Jones?’

  ‘Only I’ve got soa many, I don’t know what to do with them, see!’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure I’d know what to do with it!’ I spluttered.

  ‘And when Gwyneth told me about that rat getting into yewer greenhouse and destroying all of yewers, and all those luverly tomato plants with it, I thought oo noa – and I went straight out into the garden to pick yew the biggest one I could find!’

  ‘Oh!’ I breathed. ‘Oh, yes!’

  ‘And here it is!’ He beamed. ‘Must be about two foot long, see, and thick with it! Feel that, girl!’

  ‘Yes, yes, I do see. Gosh, how marvellous!’

  Out of the corner of my eye I noticed that Claudia was grabbing a jacket from the banisters, picking up her duffel bag. She turned and spotted me in the garden. ‘Bye, Mum!’ She waved.

  ‘So I said to Gwyneth, I said I’ll give her this one, Gwyn, and –’

  Suddenly I lunged across the wall and seized it from his arms. Short of decapitating him, it was the only way to shut him up. ‘Yes, thank you, Mr Jones,’ I gasped, ‘thank you so much!’ And with that I beetled back to the house, running as fast as my legs would carry me.

  ‘Are you off?’ I managed to gasp, racing through the French doors and into the hall – just as the front door was closing. To my relief it opened again.

  ‘Yes, well, Dad’s here so I –’ She stopped. They both stared at me in astonishment, Johnny looking blond and tanned and lovely in old shorts, deck shoes, and a blue sailing shirt that matched his eyes.

  ‘What’s that?’ Claudia gaped.

  I glanced down, panting. ‘This? Oh, this! A cucumber, of course.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s huge. And so fat!’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it?’ I grinned maniacally.

  Bloody thing, what could I do with it? I cast around desperately. The last thing I’d envisaged when greeting my estranged husband at the door was to be found panting hard and clutching an outsized cucumber. Finally I flung it on the floor behind me. They both looked startled as it rolled about.

  ‘And whose jacket is that?’ persisted Claudia.

  ‘Hmm? Oh, it’s mine.’

  ‘I’ve never seen you in that before. Is it new?’

  ‘What – this old thing?’ I laughed. ‘No, darling, I’ve had it for ages!’

  ‘Blimey, you must have done. Either that or you had a complete rush of blood to the head in the high street! That’s real teen gear, Mum. Looks like something out of River Island!’

  Sometimes I just wanted to kill my daughter. I ignored her and turned to Johnny. ‘So. Where are you off to then?’ Smoothly, I hoped, with a hint of a cynical smile.

  ‘Oh, London.’

  ‘Ah.’ Narrows it down. Was it rude to ask where, exactly? I hesitated. ‘Well. Have a good time then!’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Bye, my darling – Claudia!’ I added quickly, just in case Johnny thought I meant him.

  ‘Bye, Mum.’

  I went to shut the door behind them, my head spinning. God – two hours of bathing and hairwashing and make-up and wondering what to say – just for that? For that two-second interview with my husband at the front door? I hesitated. Should I walk them to the car, perhaps? Or maybe, yes, maybe just down to the gate? Hell, I’d see any other visitor off the premises, wouldn’t I. Why not?

  I tossed back my head, smiled broadly, and strolled out after them into the sunshine. Whistling. Which I never do. They turned round in surprise.

  ‘Have fun!’

  ‘We will,’ said Claudia, cautiously.

  On I strolled, shoving my hands into my tiny, waist-high denim pockets, which was a mistake, because when I tripped over a protruding paving stone, I couldn’t get my hands out in time.

  ‘Ooomph!’

  They turned to see me sprawled on the ground, nose in the gravel.

  ‘Mum! Are you all right?’ Claudia started back.

  ‘Fine!’ I gasped. ‘Fine, darling. On you go!’ Bugger. Also shitsville.

  As I got up, gasping, winded, picking gravel out of my nostrils, I was in time to see them get in the car and to hear Johnny mutter sotto voce, ‘Is your mother all right?’ I’m quite sure he wasn’t referring to my fall.

  Claudia shrugged noncommittally, and off they went. I, meanwhile, gave a bright, cheery wave, a demonic little smile, and went sailing back into the house. Once inside I slammed the front door, seized the cucumber and slammed it viciously against the wall, smashing the living daylights out of it until I’d reduced it to a green pulp. Finally I dropped the shattered remains.

  ‘I’m your wife, damn you!’ I screamed at it.

&
nbsp; As I raised my head from my hands at the dressing table now, my eyes went back to the photo. I could swear he was laughing at me. Then they caught the clock.

  ‘Claudia!’

  I jumped up and raced across the landing to her bedroom. ‘Claudia, will you hurry up and get downstairs! We’re going to be – Oh, for God’s sake!’

  Claudia was tucked up in bed again, open-mouthed, thumb just adrift, and sleeping like a baby.

  We finally swung into the school gates three-quarters of an hour late, with Claudia insisting she was going to claim a doctor’s appointment and that I should write a note to that effect.

  ‘But that’s a bare-faced lie, Claudia. I’m not doing that!’

  ‘Oh Mummy, you’re such a goody-goody. Everyone else does.’

  ‘I don’t care what everyone else does, we are not “everyone else”.’ My God, did I sound like my mother or what? ‘And I will not have you being mendacious. No, we will simply say that we got held up by the builders.’

  ‘But that’s a lie.’

  I screeched to a halt in the car park.

  ‘Claudia,’ I snarled, ‘would you kindly stop splitting hairs and remember that I am the mother and you are the ten-year-old girl!’

  I got out and slammed the door behind me, then raced round the back to the boot where, puffing and blowing, I lugged out her games bag, her lacrosse stick, her flute, her gym kit, her swimming bag, and all the other energetic paraphernalia that she regarded with such cynical detachment and refused to use. As Claudia yawned and leant against the car, I threw it all on to my back and, like a trusty old packhorse, made off, puffing away across the playing field, with my daughter, shuffling along behind me, hands deep in her pockets. Through a chink in the hall curtains I could see that assembly was still in full swing and, yes, ‘Lord of the Dance’ was wafting towards us on the air waves. With any luck she could sneak in at the back.

  ‘Go on,’ I whispered, giving her a little push. ‘I’ll put your stuff in your locker and you creep in. If anyone asks, say you’ve been here for ages, went to the loo or something.’

  Claudia opened her eyes wide. ‘Mum – another barefaced lie!’