Dad had another one of his talks with me today. He explained why it is best for me to bring my essays downstairs and do them at the dining table where he can keep an eye on me. I reminded him that the reason I am allowed to work in my room is because of Mum watching the television and he said that was why he had told her she couldn’t any more and if she wanted something to do she could help us. I can’t imagine why he thinks Mum is going to be any help. It was on the tip of my tongue to remind him about the talk we had the other weekend when he explained how Mum isn’t our intellectual equal and we mustn’t expect too much of her but he wasn’t in the mood to be reminded of something he had said before.
Gemma closed her notebook. She was in her bedroom, recovering.
She had been sitting on the wall picking at her toenails when her father had come out and called to her. She had turned but the sun was in her eyes and all she could see was a blur of white which hurt the inside of her head. Her father’s voice came from the blur. ‘Gemma. Come inside. Come inside now.’
She swung her legs down to the ground and stood, unsteadily. As she walked down the garden, towards the blur, pale colours grew, like in a developing photograph. Her father was standing with his hands on his hips and the stance separated the two sides of his blue shirt, revealing a flat, pale stomach. He was wearing his trousers and slippers, but no socks.
When she reached the patio, he stepped forward to meet her. She stopped. He placed his hands on her shoulders.
‘Look at me,’ he said.
She looked at him.
‘Look me in the face.’
She looked, and felt the same dull hurt inside her head that she had felt when she looked at the sun. The cool shade of the patio was making her skin prickle and she had pins and needles in her left foot.
He shook his head slowly. ‘Gemma, Gemma, Gemma . . . you are such a dreamy thing.’ His voice had taken on the soft quality that she hated so much. She did not know why she hated it. When he used it, she wanted to look at the ground. She wanted a gaping hole to appear in the patio, one large enough for her to fall down, like Alice in Wonderland.
‘I’ve told you . . .’ the soft voice insisted. ‘I’ve told you that if you sit in the sun like that you will get a headache. Haven’t I told you?’
She nodded.
He sighed, an ineffably sad sigh, as if she could never begin to understand the breadth of his love for her, a love so wide that it encompassed even the distant blazing sun. ‘Go inside to recover, like a good girl.’ He chuckled indulgently. ‘And next time remember.’
She made a minute motion with her shoulders to indicate that she was turning to go, but he did not remove his hands. There was a pause. She did not like to examine his face in detail; the slight fair stubble, the porous nose; so she concentrated on his large, liquid grey eyes. If you looked at somebody’s eyes for long enough, you could forget that you were looking at a person.
‘What would you do if I weren’t here to look after you?’ he said. ‘What would happen to you? I can’t begin to imagine.’
Up in her bedroom, she opened her diary and read the last entry, then she closed the notebook and put it down. She went to the window.
Her bedroom looked out over the road. They were the last house in the village, so nobody ever came down the road. She didn’t like watching it, because nobody ever came down it.
There was only the spotless driveway and an unchanging row of trees.
This side of the house was sunlit, bleached. The shadow of their front gate was a black parallelogram against the pale gravel.
Chapter 3
Now that we have considered some historical examples, it is perhaps worth considering cases where the facts are less certain. It is a matter of record that Earl Ferrers killed his servant because he was a peer of the realm and it was enormously important a peer being hung like that. Some historians have suggested that it even prevented a revolution in England similar to those that had occurred in Europe. Had Earl Ferrers been as ordinary as his victim, however, then we might never know about it today. It is always worth bearing in mind that there must be thousands of murders that have never come to light.
Even among the aristocracy, strange things have happened which cannot always be explained. Take the case of teenager Catherine Noel, although she would not have been called a teenager in those days.
On Boxing Day in 1700, the Noel family of Exton Hall, who still exist today, held a grand ball. Catherine Noel, daughter of the family, played Juliet in a production of Romeo and Juliet which was made up for the entertainment of those attending the ball. In the scene where Juliet takes the poison, Catherine mimed taking it then swooned, and the musicians at the ball played a lament as she was lowered into a family chest and the lid put on. when the play was over, everybody applauded and waited for Catherine to get up out of the chest. When she didn’t, they applauded again. Eventually, somebody went to lift the lid and found that it was jammed shut. By the time they got the lid off, Catherine had suffocated.
Nobody can be exactly sure what happened in this case and everyone who has written about it has said that it was just a tragic accident and that her parents were terribly upset, not to mention all the other guests at the ball.
However, can we be really sure of what happened here?
It was during exams that her father instigated the ‘early-to-bed’ programme. It was essential, he said, that she got a good night’s sleep, otherwise she would not be able to perform.
She found it difficult going to bed early in the summer. Her curtains were made of fine cotton in a pale blue and white stripe. They haemorrhaged daylight. She would lie wide awake on her narrow bed watching the curtains, motionless but furiously restless, waiting for the light to fade.
Tuesday, 7th July 1996
It’s been weird since exams finished. The mornings are really weird. I wake up expecting to feel great but I don’t. I deliberately don’t set my alarm just to see what happens but I wake up at the usual time and am always wide awake immediately, planning all the things that I think I have to do. when I realise I don’t have to do them any more, I feel quite upset. I make myself feel better by thinking about Coleridge and how sad he was. You would think that having mastery of the pneumonic would make somebody happy. Most people, after all, don’t even know what a pneumonic is, let alone have mastery of it. (Most people probably think it is a bad cold!) Yet he was a really unhappy person. It made me wonder whether even when my results come through, it won’t be enough for me. Sometimes I think it would be quite nice just to be ordinary. Last Saturday, I went with Dad to the Co-op and as we drove through oakham I saw Clare walking past the library wearing a top that was too skinny for her, with a big flappy collar and the arms really tight. It was black, and the collar had a green stripe. Even though it was a really stupid top, she looked really good and cool because of the way she was walking and holding her head and because of who she is, I suppose. I know for certain that I could wear exactly the same top and just look stupid. Although I bet she doesn’t know what a pneumonic is!
Weirdly, though, she also writes poetry. We got talking in the library during revision and she showed me something she had written. It was pretty stupid, all about flowers and leaves, and I think she thought it was a sonnet when it wasn’t. At the bottom, she had written copyright, and signed it and she said I should do the same with all mine in case somebody stole them.
The morning that her results were due, she woke early. She sat on the end of her bed, from where she could open her curtains a crack, and watched the stillness of their front garden, the quietness of the road. She waited for the postman to come down the road.
When he did, she ran downstairs, picked up the buff-coloured envelope and took it to where her father sat at the dining table. The breakfast things had been laid out; the oval place-mats, the jug of milk, the patterned cereal bowls – but nobody had eaten anything. Her father was sitting at his place, not speaking. Her mother was in the kitchen.
&
nbsp; Gemma stood shyly in front of her father. It was always the way – school reports, anything. She had never been allowed to open the envelopes herself. She had to stand in front of her father while he did, waiting, watching his face for an interpretation of what he was reading.
For some time, her father’s face did not change. He laid the papers from the examination boards out on the table, where they rocked slightly. He looked from one to the other.
Gemma’s arms were by her sides. She could feel her fingers trembling. She waited for his face to crack, or flicker – anything that would give some indication.
Eventually, he rose from his seat.
He would not look at her. He half turned towards the door, then said, softly, ‘I have never been more ashamed in my life.’ He left the room.
Gemma felt flushed with heat. She went and stood behind her father’s empty chair, gripping it. She read the results.
She had fail grades in every subject except Geography, for which she had received a C.
Her father only referred to her results once after that, about three days later. He had still not spoken to her. She had spent most of her time in her room, only emerging when her mother called her down for meals.
She was leaving the kitchen, carrying a glass of milk. Her father was in the hall.
She stopped. It might be possible to ease past him without him noticing – he had his back to her, fastening his coat – but if he turned she would be trapped against the wall. She hesitated. Perhaps she should go back into the kitchen or through to the dining room until he had gone – but then, if he was aware of her presence, that would seem a bit peculiar.
Suddenly, without turning round, he spoke. ‘I am going to visit your headmaster,’ he said evenly, ‘to demand an explanation.’
The full humiliation of her failure washed over her. Her father was actually going to demand that the school explain why she had done so badly. He was going to have her inadequacy spelt out for him, word by word. She had to say something, to stop him.
‘Is that . . . They probably don’t know . . .’ she faltered.
He turned to face her. Underneath his coat, he was wearing a jacket and tie, smartly layered despite the summer heat outside. He looked at her. ‘You don’t imagine that I am going to let this pass?’ he said calmly.
She glanced down at the carpet, then back up at him. His face was kindly and resolute, and she saw with a wash of horror that he did not actually believe her examination results. He thought there had been some mistake. He thought that he could sort things out.
She was agonised for him. She opened her mouth, but he raised a hand to stop her. ‘My dear,’ he said, ‘you must trust me.’ He left.
She went back into the kitchen, still clutching her milk, and watched him as he strode confidently down the gravel drive and opened the gate. He got into the car, closing the door behind him with an efficient thunk. He fastened his seatbelt before he started the engine, as he always did, and backed out of the drive slowly and with great care. She noticed that he did not lower the car window despite the heat. She thought, he is like a spaceman or an alien, going off in his sealed craft, off into a world which he doesn’t understand. She realised that she knew more about that world than her father. At least she went to school each day, during term time. Her father had not worked since taking early retirement two years ago. (Her mother had explained that his employers did not understand how stressful his position was – he had been a manager for an oil company in Leicester).
Gemma realised that it was now her job to protect her father, and her mother. She would have to look after them both.
Her father did not return for some hours, and when he did, he went straight up to the bedroom and did not emerge for two days. Her mother said to her, over breakfast on the second morning, ‘Your father’s poorly.’
It was her mother who told her that she would not be returning to school when the new term began. Her father had decided it was a waste of money.
‘But what about my A-levels?’ Gemma said. Her voice sounded squeaky in her own ears, disbelieving.
‘Your father says you can study for them at home if you want. He can help you. You can send away for study packages. He read an article about it in the paper.’
20th November 1996
Sometimes I can’t believe it’s November already. The weather is horrible and it will be Christmas before we know it. Mum let me go to the shop for two pints of milk this morning, while Dad was out. She said it was time I got some fresh air. There is a new man in the shop now. I don’t know what has happened to the old one. I don’t even know when he got replaced. The new man said hello in a friendly sort of way but he probably didn’t know I live round here. As I was leaving, I saw the Christmas cards on the shelf and I could hardly believe it. At school, everybody will be writing out cards. I used to think it was really stupid the way we all sent cards to each other when we could just say Happy Christmas but I suppose we had all got into the habit. You could always tell who was most insecure because they gave their cards out really early so that you had plenty of time to buy them one. Heather with the lisp would give hers out the first week back after half term.
I don’t expect I will get many this year. I rang a couple of people last week, even though Dad doesn’t like me using the phone because of the bill and comes and puts the egg timer next to me on the stairs. I didn’t have much to say to them anyway. Jane told me a few things about school but I didn’t really have anything to say back.
Dad is getting more and more perculiar. He sits in the chair all morning and reads the paper. Sometimes, he gets really excited. He will jump up and wave the paper around and talk about taking action. Sometimes he will write a letter or get on the phone or go out. Sometimes he is like this all afternoon. Then, in the evenings, he is very quiet. He is often quiet for a couple of days. He has rung the electrical shop and told them to come and take the telly back because he says it is corrupt and we’ve got to economise.
I asked him once about the idea about me doing A-levels at home and he said he was seeing to it, but then nothing ever happened. I thought maybe he would think I should do some re-takes or something at the sixth form college, but we never got around to talking about that either. I am still reading my Coleridge and have discovered a poet called John Clare who is, if anything, even better. Both of them are much better than Wordsworth who just drones on and on for pages and I can’t believe that everyone thinks he is the great poet. Apparently, Coleridge thought so too which is why he was depressed a lot of the time. I find it reassuring that even Coleridge thought he was no good sometimes!
John Clare is in one of the anthologies that I took out from the school library. I’m surprised they haven’t written wanting their books back as I’ve got loads of them, but I’m very glad as I’m not sure how I would get hold of any more. I asked Dad to give me a lift into oakham last week so I could go to the town library but all he would say is that he would some time soon. It’s ages since we’ve been to town. I wonder if they will be putting Christmas decorations up yet. Last year the old-fashioned coloured bulbs across the High Street looked great but the big plastic Father Christmas’s on the lampposts looked stupid.
Her mother’s birthday was in January. Gemma bought her a card from the village shop, a large one wrapped in loose cellophane that crinkled when the man in the shop slipped it inside the brown paper bag. There was nothing suitable for a present, so Gemma asked her father for a lift into Oakham on the Saturday before, so that she could go and buy something. Her father said, not to worry, he would get something for her, and came back with a china box with four large holes in the gilt-edged lid. Inside was pot-pourri.
Her father seemed in a good mood. As he handed Gemma the box he said, ‘Do you know what I nearly got your mother?’ He paused, as if there was a possibility that Gemma might guess. Then he said, ‘A budgerigar. I nearly bought your mother a budgie.’ Then he laughed out loud.
Her mother’s birthday fell on
a Wednesday. In the morning, Gemma went down early and laid out the breakfast things, adding her gift, which she had wrapped in the paper her father had bought – paper so wafery thin it was almost translucent. She had had to wrap the present twice.
Her father came down and went past her into the kitchen, humming. He emerged a few minutes later with a tray on which there were three of their best crystal glasses and a carton of pink grapefruit juice. ‘I don’t think your mother’s ever had this,’ he said proudly. ‘It’s like ordinary grapefruit juice but sweeter.’
They sat waiting for some time. Her father became a little impatient, whistling and muttering under his breath. ‘Where’s she got to . . . ?’ His own present to her sat on the other side of her place-mat. From its shape and bulk Gemma guessed, correctly, that it was a cardigan.
When her mother eventually appeared in the doorway, wearing a grey woollen dress, her father stood up and opened his arms wide and said, ‘Ta-da!’
The pink grapefruit juice was a great success. After tasting it, her mother giggled, as if it had made her tipsy.
It was after breakfast that her father made his announcement. He had a surprise. As a special treat, that night, they were going to go out to dinner.
Gemma only had one skirt, a summer one which she had bought from Oakham market the previous year, for £5.99. She could remember fingering the filmy patterned cotton, lilac and orange. The adjacent store sold country & western CDs and was playing ‘I’m on a Honky-Tonk Merry-Go-Round’. Gemma mentally counted through the money in her purse, saved from the days when her father gave her pocket money. She could just about do it.
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