‘Well, my mate’s pregnant, right, but it’s not her boyfriend’s baby.’
‘I see.’
‘So ’e gets out of prison this morning and comes straight round to mine, where she’s stayin’.’
‘Ah. Right.’
‘So I opens the door –’
‘What did you open the fucking door for?’ interrupted Debs.
‘Well, I didn’t know it was him, did I?’ she flashed angrily at her friend. ‘So he pushes past me, right, into the kitchen, where my mate is, and he lunges at her, tosser. And I thought: I’m not havin’ that.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I knifed ’im with the bread knife.’
‘Good heavens. Where?’
‘Only in the calf. Stopped him, though.’
‘Yes, I’m sure it did.’ In his tracks, I should imagine. ‘Where was your boyfriend, Becks?’ Becks, rather unusually for her social circle, had four children all by the same man.
‘Where ’e always is, in front of the telly, telling us all to calm down.’
‘And he didn’t interject?’
She glared at me. ‘He’s not a pervert. I told you, he was watching telly. Had all his clothes on.’
‘No – no, I didn’t mean …’
‘Anyway, so the cops came – the neighbours called them cos of the noise – and I’m out on bail. They let me off wiv a caution.’
‘Good. Excellent,’ I murmured. ‘And the boyfriend? I mean – the one with the leg. He’s in hospital, I suppose?’
‘Yeah, but ’e’ll be inside again soon, thank God. ’E wrote off a car on the way over to mine, didn’t ’e?’
‘Heavens.’ This man had been in the wars. ‘But … why will he be back inside?’
‘Well, ’e nicked it, didn’t ’e? Knob’ead. What’s that, then, Amy?’ she asked cheerfully as Amy, silent, anoraked and hunched opposite us, put the finishing touch to something she’d been creating for a couple of weeks. Something we’d all been wondering about.
It was a large, hollow ball, one side of which had been moulded into a gruesome man’s face, bald, huge ears, slits for eyes and mouth – Wayne Rooney on a bad day – and on the other side was an equally ghastly thug with bulbous nose and hollow eyes.
‘It’s my exes,’ Amy told her quietly. ‘Both bastards and you can see right through them.’
There was a silence. Ray and Charles looked a bit nervous. We worked on quietly for a while and I glanced to see what my mother was making. An oblong box, for tissues, perhaps. She was decorating it with a tool. Rather pretty. One of our number couldn’t settle, though: Sam, the bleached, skinny girl of about fifteen, didn’t know what to make. Eventually she decided to make something for her baby.
‘Might make ’im Winnie-the-Pooh,’ she muttered, biting a non-existent nail.
‘That’s a lovely idea,’ agreed Ottoline, as she watched her break off a small piece of clay and roll it into an egg-sized ball. ‘But obviously he can’t …’
‘Nah, I know. ’E can’t put it in ’is mouf.’
‘Good. Just, you know. Checking.’
Winnie-the-Pooh proved hard, though, and Sam got tearful, shouting at Ottoline when she tried to help. Becks stepped in and did the legs for her, and the face, and, after a word from Ottoline, made the whole thing a bit bigger. But, later, Becks decided her ashtray was rubbish and threw it on the floor, where it smashed, startling everyone.
‘Crap!’ Becks yelled, her face the colour of her hair. ‘Fucking crap!’
Ottoline didn’t rush over to soothe or cajole; she didn’t pander to them. She just got the broom and swept it up. Wordlessly, she handed Becks another lump of clay. Becks seized it and pounded it hard on the workbench, pummelling furiously. I thought Mum would be watching all this with huge eyes, but she calmly got on with her box.
Ray sidled up to me, standing much too close, as usual, and breathing hard. He looked me up and down, sly and admiring, his eyes on my breasts. ‘I like your jugs.’
I swallowed. ‘Um, thank you, Ray. And I … like your egg cup, too. What are you making, Mum?’ I asked, deflecting Ray.
‘I’m helping Amanda,’ she told me shortly.
‘Right.’ The box seemed to have a lid now. Not for tissues, then. And Amanda was making an identical one.
‘What are they for, Amanda?’ I asked lightly, as I passed en route to the sink to wash my hands. ‘The boxes?’
‘My shotgun cartridges.’
There was a stunned silence.
And so the afternoon wore on in the company of these eclectic, extraordinary, startling, sometimes entertaining people, the like of which, I thought, watching as my mother helped Sam with a tiny jar of honey, Mum would surely never have come across before. Nor me, either, if it wasn’t for Ottoline. I knew better than to ask Mum if she’d enjoyed herself at the end of the session; she’d find it patronizing, which it probably was, but it was so difficult to talk to her without getting it wrong and her becoming irascible, that I ended up saying nothing.
When we were helping Ottoline to clear away, though – when the women and Ray had shuffled off to their bus stop, and Charles, his chauffeur having collected him, to his empty Hall – and when we were wiping down the plastic tablecloths together, it seemed odd not to talk.
‘Did you buy anything with Ginnie in town?’ I asked pleasantly.
‘You mean, am I still spending your father’s money with gay abandon? I gather you and Ginnie thought Jaeger too expensive for me. Perhaps you’d like me to shop at Dorothy Perkins? Or be a career woman? Earn my own money, is that it? After all these years?’
I gaped at her, J-cloth in hand. ‘No! God, Mum, no. Of course not.’ I was shocked by her hostility. She glared at me for a moment, her eyes very bright. Then she took her apron off and hung it on a peg. She thanked Ottoline brusquely, and walked out, full of the hauteur in which she specialized.
I went to the door and stared after her, baffled.
‘She’s still so hurt,’ said Ottoline, coming to stand beside me in the open doorway. We watched her go back to her cottage. ‘Can’t you see that?’
‘Yes, sure. But, God, Ottoline, we’re doing our best, aren’t we? Ginnie and me?’
She shrugged. ‘Oh, you’re ticking all the boxes. No doubt about that.’ And she went back inside to clean the rest of the tables.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I brooded on what Ottoline had said for couple of days. Knew she was right. Knew, on paper, we were being the model daughters, sheltering our mother in a crisis, trying to mend fences between her and my father, but that because of the nature of our relationship, there were certain steps we weren’t prepared to take. She was a guest on my farm as she was, occasionally, a guest on Ginnie’s estate. We made time for her, rang each other to confer, to set aside mornings, or a couple of hours, synchronizing our diaries like a couple of board members. But we didn’t fully integrate her. Why? In case we were rebuffed? Or in case we couldn’t get rid of her? Probably.
Other cultures are scathing of our treatment of elderly relatives; cultures where elders are venerated and not only included, but regarded as heads of the family: Indian, Muslim, Mediterranean families. My own friends, however, had purred with admiration – gosh, you are a star to have your mother – so I thought I’d achieved. Done well. In my heart I knew I hadn’t, though. Knew I was being shabby.
On the morning of Tabitha’s fete, therefore, we were a party of five. Tabitha, her brother, mother, father and granny. I’d had to persuade Mum, who’d instantly said no, but Josh had sweet-talked her into it. Josh, who, in the first instance, couldn’t believe he was being asked to attend himself.
‘You’re having a laugh.’
‘I’m not, Josh.’
‘What do I want to come to some rubbish fete for?’
‘Because Dad’s coming, and Tabs would like us all to go. I know she would.’
‘What is this, The Waltons? Some cringy show of unity? Let’s pretend Dad doesn’t
live next door and Granny hasn’t been kicked out?’
‘Something like that,’ I said, keeping my temper. ‘Think you can manage it?’
‘For who, you or Tabs? I think you’ll find she’s not fussed about me or Granny coming.’
‘You may be right. OK, Josh, you’ve got it. I’d like us all to go.’
‘Do we have to hold hands? Pretend we’re in love? Like politicians and their wives on holiday?’
‘Quite possibly.’
‘I’ll dig out a polo shirt and tuck it into my jeans.’
‘Look, Josh –’
‘Yeah, yeah, all right. Don’t go off on one. I’ll come.’
And then, as I say, he’d persuaded my mother.
She’d arrived at the back door in her new coat and I did a double take. Looked her up and down.
‘Is that the one you bought with Ginnie?’
She was wearing a very snazzy grey linen coat dress, with a full skating skirt and cream trim. Quite youthful and quite unlike anything she ever wore, but it suited her.
‘Oh, no. Ginnie wanted me to buy some ghastly camel affair. In this weather. Ottoline and I found this in Monsoon.’
Ottoline and I. It hadn’t escaped my notice that Mum was spending a lot of time with Ottoline. I hoped she didn’t mind. It also occurred to me that Ottoline didn’t do anything she didn’t want to, so clearly she didn’t. Lottie had spotted the pair of them coming out of the Playhouse together the other day. Laughing like girls, apparently.
‘Really? What was on?’
‘I’m not sure. Something Noel Cowardy, I expect.’
The next time I’d driven past the Playhouse in town I’d seen it was Calendar Girls. Great fun but, actually, not Mum’s cup of tea at all. Something of which, latterly, she’d have given a thin smile and said, ‘What fun,’ but secretly disapproved. I knew better than to mention that, too.
‘Right, well, come on, then. We’re going to be late.’
Sebastian appeared from the Granary, looking surprisingly handsome in a clean blue shirt and buff-coloured linen jacket. His black hair was overlong, but clean and curling on his collar, and he’d shaved. I saw Tabitha smile in delight.
Once I’d shoed Ladyboy out of the car – if I left the window open she was inclined to roost on the back seat – I got into the driver’s side. It was boiling hot and my legs were baking on the plastic. Sebastian was beside me, having lost his licence long ago, and, in the back, the children were either side of their grandmother. As I let out the handbrake I caught Josh’s eye in the rear-view mirror, ironic and amused at this highly unusual family outing. I willed him not to say anything. Hopeless, of course.
‘Do we have a packed lunch?’ he asked politely. I ignored him.
‘The sixth form are doing refreshments,’ Tabitha told him, missing his tone.
‘Your year,’ I told him sharply, unable to resist the jibe.
‘Damn,’ he muttered. ‘Didn’t make the cut. That’ll keep me awake at night. Not to be trusted with a teapot, perhaps,’ he mused.
‘How ridiculous,’ said his grandmother roundly. She turned to him. ‘You can use a teapot, can’t you, Joshua?’
‘We don’t have one, Granny,’ he said truthfully and very sadly. ‘So I’ve never tried. Mummy uses bags. Says it’s quicker.’
My mother was horrified. ‘For heaven’s sake, Eleanor!’
I refused to look at Josh’s smiling face in the mirror. As we drove on down the lane, browned-off fields frazzled under an increasingly simmering sun. The forecast had promised more rain; annoyingly I was in jeans. An error. On we purred. After a bit Josh cleared his throat.
‘Does anyone know “She’ll Be Coming Round the Mountain When She –” ’
‘Josh!’ I interrupted sharply.
‘Oh, let him sing it if he wants to,’ Mum said, surprised. Tabitha tittered.
‘That’ll do, the pair of you!’ I snapped. I wasn’t sure who the pair were, but Tabs instantly assumed she was of their number and widened outraged and heavily made-up eyes into my rear-view mirror.
‘Great! What have I done?’
‘Not you, darling,’ I muttered. As it dawned, my mother’s mouth disappeared. She turned her head away, affronted. We drove on in silence. Sebastian brooded quietly beside me, looking out of the window. Josh shut his eyes and rolled his head back as if he were dying, and Tabitha continued to look hurt and pick her nail varnish. The school was still a good twenty minutes away. After a couple of miles I could bear it no longer and said the first thing that came into my head.
‘Josh has got some artwork on display,’ I told Sebastian quietly, as if we were normal parents. ‘We might take a look.’
‘It’s crap!’ Josh exploded from the back, his head snapping upright. ‘And why d’you have to say it in that conspiratorial way, like – let’s see what the little chap’s been up to?’
I licked my lips nervously. ‘Josh, I’m just saying that, while we’re there, we could take a look at your A-level work.’
‘Well, don’t. Keep your nose out of it, Ella.’
That helped. Oh, that really helped. The atmosphere in the car thickened and set. Sebastian still hadn’t uttered a word and I knew it had been stupid to even mention art: Josh was genuinely cross.
We arrived at the school in complete silence, amidst other families cheerfully getting out of cars in the car park, chatting and laughing to one another, greeting friends. Tabitha looked anxious and pale.
‘Why does it always have to be like this?’ she muttered.
‘I don’t know,’ I said sadly, but knew I was partly to blame.
I watched as Josh, hands thrust in pockets, shoulders hunched, sloped silently away to see whether any friends of his might also have been press-ganged into this arsehole event, and thence to commiserate and smoke in the woods.
‘I’ve got to go,’ Tabitha told me. ‘I’m on the bring-and-buy.’ She shot off to her stall, slowing down quickly when it became apparent her huge wedged heels and very short skirt couldn’t cope with the grass. I remembered how, not so long ago, she’d speed across this stretch of grass when I dropped her, pigtails flying.
Right, I thought, slamming my car door. Since everything I said was wrong, I was damned if I was going to make the running. Feeling tears prick, I glued on a smile and turned to see Sebastian helping my mother out of the car.
‘Thank you, Sebastian,’ she said crisply.
Since he’d moved out of the farmhouse some years ago, she hadn’t spoken to him at all. Other mothers might have tried to have a quiet word, get to the bottom of a daughter and son-in-law’s separation, discovered his number from her grandchildren and picked up the phone, but not Mum. She’d instantly reverted to her well-I-never-liked-him stance. When she had to be, though, as she did now, she was studiously polite. I don’t think Sebastian noticed her frost one way or the other, and he certainly didn’t care.
As she turned speculatively, to survey the summer fete scene, handbag over arm, lipstick freshly applied, I noticed she had a horrible wet patch on the back of her new coat. With some sticky bits of shell attached. A glance back in the car confirmed my worst suspicions. Bugger. Ladyboy had laid an egg. Bastard chicken. She hadn’t done that for months. She was supposed to be going through the change, for God’s sake – a bloody sex change, at that! Just as I was summoning up the courage to tell Mum, with all the agro that would entail – taking her to the loo to sponge it down, or home, even, knowing my mother, because how was she supposed to walk around with a great wet patch on her backside – Tabitha reappeared, looking aghast.
‘I’m supposed to have brought the kitty! It was my responsibility!’
Faced with this more immediate and potentially weightier problem I did what I always do and panicked. Shooting my fingers through my hair I cast around wildly, as if expecting loose change to rain from the sky.
‘Typical!’ I seethed. ‘Tabitha, why can’t you be just the slightest bit organized for once? I’ve got a sodd
ing great jar of change sitting on the dresser at home, for crying out loud!’
‘I didn’t know!’ she wailed.
But Sebastian was way ahead of us. ‘Here.’ He’d delved into the central compartment in the car, where, of course, I throw change, and was giving her a large handful. He added some from his pocket. ‘Start with that and I’ll change a tenner in a minute and give it to you.’
‘Thanks, Dad,’ she said gratefully. He then fished out a Tesco bag from the floor of the car, where any number floated about wantonly, and they tipped the coins in. She flashed him a relieved smile and took to her wedged heels again, bag in hand.
I missed that, I thought, watching her go. Sebastian never flapped. He had many faults but he was good in any sort of crisis. When Josh had fallen off his bike and his head had bled so much the grass had turned red, Sebastian had staunched the flow with his fingers and still managed to ring Lottie, who’d beetled round with Steri-Strips. They’d mopped my face with a wet flannel to bring me round but I was still sitting on the red grass with my head between my knees when Josh was in front of Scooby-Doo with a Fab. When they were even smaller it was always ‘Daddy’ they called in the night, as he went to clear up the sick and deal with the bed linen, ignoring me in the background as I flapped and wondered if we shouldn’t call a doctor. Weren’t they very hot? High temperature? Meningitis, perhaps? I flushed now as I remembered. The still small voice of calm had always been Sebastian’s. I took a deep breath as we walked on in silence towards the modern school buildings in the distance, bunting flapping over the clutch of stalls in the courtyard, no children now to offer what shield they provided.
‘I’m going to look at the cake stand,’ my mother announced, and before I could open my mouth to tell her about the coat, she’d sailed off to check out the Victoria Sponges.
That left the two of us: my husband and I. I felt hot with nerves. We walked wordlessly across the hockey pitch. It was quite wide, the hockey pitch.
‘How have you been?’ he asked. The solicitude shocked me.
‘Fine, thanks,’ I said warily, waiting for the barbed remark to follow. None came. ‘And you?’
My Husband Next Door Page 20
