Summertime

by Raffaella Barker

  Deliver a crisp lecture on theft and fraud while squinting anxiously at the tables, wondering what precious or embarrassing items have already been sold to gleeful passers-by. Cannot tell from the kitty, as The Beauty is sitting on the money tin, wagging her finger in the direction the postman has taken.

  ‘No, you may not have your pence back. You gave them to me,’ she is insisting with much energy.

  Felix also entirely ignores my sermon, and with cheeks quite as pink as The Beauty’s shouts, ‘Well it isn’t stealing, because the neighbours were really happy to get back their gnome which Lowly pinched and chewed on the lawn.’

  ‘But did they pay for it? Or did you give it back?’

  ‘Of course they paid for it. This is a shop.’ Felix jumps up and down, emphasising his point. ‘They were pleased, actually, because it only cost fifty pence, and they said it was a bargain because gnomes are really expensive new.’ Suddenly his rage diminishes, and he stops and shifts from foot to foot and stares at the ground.

  ‘Anyway, Mum, what are we supposed to do? If you marry Hedley we won’t need this stuff any more, because we’ve got to go and live at his cruddy house where there’s no Nintendo or anything good. I thought we could buy one to take with us with the money from our sale.’

  Anguished to think of their confusion and turmoil, but at least the Nintendo needn’t be an issue. ‘But you can take yours with you,’ I point out.

  Felix throws me a look combining pity and scorn. ‘Don’t be silly,’ he says, ‘we’re leaving it for David. How do you think he’s going to feel when he comes home and none of us are here and he hasn’t even got a Nintendo?’

  His welling tears, his clenched defiance, catapult me back to the year Charles left, and I am engulfed by familiar pain and paralysing guilt. All wavering resolve is strengthened. Of course I must marry Hedley. He will never leave me for a masseuse, like Charles, or head off into the celluloid sunset like David. He is a rock, admittedly a slightly red-faced one, but he will solve all these emotional nightmares and allow me to concentrate on the children. And the cardigans, he’s keen on the cardigans.

  Open my mouth to begin translating this into language suitable for the under-tens, but am cut short by a commanding ‘parp-parrrp’ as my mother’s car slews into sight around the bend, her hair beneath a pointed purple hat visible above the steering wheel, string and a plastic bag issuing from the closed driver’s door. Her arrival has a temporarily edifying effect on Felix, who climbs on to the wall to wave.

  ‘Look, Granny’s wearing a witch’s hat.’

  ‘Granneee, ooohh hellooo. Stop your car,’ screams The Beauty, leaping up and dashing into the road in kamikaze style. ‘Come and see the shop. Come and buy stuff, right now.’

  Very admiring of her sales pitch, I am caught smirking indulgently as my mother coasts to a halt, having cut her engine some yards back. Giles is in the car with her, and both have wraparound sunglasses on: fine for Giles, but disturbing and Blues Brotheresque on my mother. She winds down her window and leans out to greet me.

  ‘Venetia darling. Has it come to this? I thought you were becoming a fashion designer.’ She waves her cigarette at the roadside stall.

  Giles leaps out of the passenger side snarling, ‘Mum, how could you let them take my things?’ and snatches a handful of CDs.

  The Beauty bursts into tears and kicks him on the shins, while roaring, ‘Stop fussing about, you silly idiot.’

  The scene of mayhem is too much for Felix, who suddenly loses his head and vaults over the wall and back into the garden, turning his head to yell, ‘God this is it. This is it. I hate my family. I wish I was dead.’

  It is all too much, a real gas-oven moment. I slump in a heap on the upturned bucket and burst into tears. Am sobbing away with abandon when warm arms creep around my neck, and Giles is there whispering, ‘Please don’t cry Mummy, we can sort it all out, I know we can.’

  Redoubling of tears for a moment of self-indulgence before I pull myself together, and scooping the Rescue Remedy from its position at the front of the stall, I consult the card propped next to it which commands: Skweeze some drips on your tunge when you are crying – only 10p a drip. Duly squirt a whole pipette full into my mouth and instantly stop feeling so unravelled. Sniffing, I stand up and hug Giles back.

  A car towing a caravan and sagging with occupants and luggage passes, slowing and opening the windows for a better view of us. One of the children in the back produces a camera and waves it out of the window. I hear him yelling at his mother, ‘Look, gypsies! Please stop, I want to take a picture of them.’

  Am cheered by this, as have always wished to lead my life in a picturesque Romany fashion, and immediately begin to imagine spending the dwindling dog days of this summer driving a fat cob and wagon down leafy byroads with happy children wearing neckerchiefs. If only we had done that at the beginning of the holidays, none of this would have happened.

  My mother has clearly cast a spell on The Beauty, and she is neatly and silently packing up the stall, lifting items up to gaze at them wistfully before returning them to piles designated to each member of the household. All piles are wedged into the wheelbarrow, and Giles pushes it back into the yard, The Beauty kneeling precariously on top, her expression resigned yet wary, like a small refugee.

  Praising God in His wisdom for inventing computer games, and promising my conscience to deal with issues of hypocrisy and inconsistency later, I grant permission for Dinosaur Death Run to be played, and drag a chair close to the kitchen table in order to sit with head buried in hands.

  My mother busies herself with the kettle, and sitting down opposite me she places a cup of tea in front of each of us, ignoring for once the clean glasses and corkscrew on the window sill.

  ‘I want to talk to you, Venetia,’ she says, and I shift uneasily, dreading what is coming next.

  ‘You are making a huge mistake,’ she says, her eyes never leaving my face, her expression grave and penetrating, and her whole demeanour so unlikely that if it were not for the purple turban, I would find it difficult to believe it is her. ‘Hedley will not make a good father for your children because they already have a father. They need you to be happy, they do not need you to clutch at straws.’

  Manage to protest, ‘Hedley isn’t a straw,’ but am quelled by a glance as she continues, ‘I don’t often interfere with your plans, and I would not have done so on this occasion were it not for Giles. He is terribly upset. He says you don’t love Hedley, you’re trying to get back at David. He says you should be marrying David.’

  My head, which I thought I was shaking in disbelief, suddenly starts nodding involuntarily, as the truth of her words seizes me, and furious mortification floods in. Instead of meekly agreeing with her, I slam my fist on the table and retort, ‘I can’t marry David. He hasn’t asked me. He never rings, he doesn’t care about me. For all I know he’s been eaten by a crocodile. We haven’t seen him for months and I have reason to suspect that he has found love with the snake-handler on the Tarzan film.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Venetia,’ my mother snaps. ‘He’s done nothing of the sort. And if you live with someone, you cannot go around getting engaged to other people without sending so much as a telegram.’

  Thoroughly incensed, I leap up and begin pacing about. ‘I did, I had a conversation with him months ago and we agreed that it wasn’t working. All he’s done is send horrible insects and pygmy heads to the children, not to mention that parrot.’ I jerk my head in the direction of Gertie, who is sidling along the window sill, head on one side, listening to the muffled tone of the radio.

  My mother is sitting calmly, her hands clasped in Rev. Trev style on the table. ‘Go on,’ she says.

  Press my palms against my eyes, and have swirling, drowning sense of panic.

  ‘I agree with you that they need me to be happy in order to be happy themselves. And I am usually very happy,’ I say, indicating otherwise as tears stroll down my face. ‘It was Minna and Desmo
nd getting married, or maybe it’s a mid-life crisis, but all my instincts have become protective and I feel that by marrying Hedley I can make a secure environment for the children.’

  ‘Why can’t you make one on your own?’

  ‘I can, but it’s very hard. I thought that marriage to Hedley would be better.’ Gloom lifts, and suddenly have a sunburst sensation as if I am Vivien Leigh in the last moments of Gone With the Wind, chin rises, and I insist, ‘And I still think it will be better.’ Very important to stand up for myself in these matters.

  My mother still doesn’t light a cigarette. This is the longest I’ve ever seen her not smoking, apart from when she’s asleep, and I know that she has not finished with me yet.

  ‘I thought you had more strength of character than that,’ she says quietly. ‘When did you ever expect it to be easy?’

  Have not been carved up in this way since my divorce. A flame of righteousness flares within me. I snap: ‘Look, I’m marrying Hedley and that’s that.’ Stalk off to attack the garden, and, presumably in denial of some sort, begin brooding over the role of the postman in today’s dramas. Hope he gets transferred soon.

  August 25th

  The school second-hand shop is open today, and it is a triumph of filing that I know this. Came across the leaflet while searching for the puncture-repair kit in a drawer I like to think of as ‘Domestic’. The family height chart by the kitchen door reveals that Felix has grown two inches since April, and Giles has grown three. This means a great many larger items will be required for both of them, and many name tapes will have to be sewn on. Busy myself with maternal chivying, largely ignoring my mother, who has elected to stay on, as Peta is hosting another of her medieval meditation evenings on the grass between her caravan and my mother’s front door. At breakfast time, I vengefully pass my mother The Beauty, who is moaning gently, having developed a cold in the night. To my irritation, both are very happy with this arrangement, The Beauty snuggling into my mother’s embrace like a kitten.

  The boys and I having spread school clothes all over their bedrooms, drive off with a lengthy list which I hope to deal with at the second-hand shop, and they hope will require a trip to Norwich. For once, I am the first to turn up the dance channel on the radio, and it is a perfect thought-killer.

  August 26th

  Still in denial. Considerable satisfaction gleaned from tearing down dried-out sweet-pea plants and deadheading the roses. Decide to attack the box hedging with secateurs, but am quickly disheartened by the fact that it is so tiny. Cannot believe that it needs pruning as this is only its second year, and instead turn to the easier, more cerebral work of wandering around planning my autumn planting. Having endowed my garden with several thousand pounds’ worth of fantasy, my spirits lift. There is nothing like mental gardening to enthuse oneself again, particularly when the reality is falling so dismally short of expectations. New projects include the planting of a great many old roses, all with glamorous Proustian names like Mme Victor Verdier and Souvenir de Philemon Cochet. An exhaustive catalogue perusal leaves me with a list of thirty-seven roses where I need six. Whittling commences, and is painful, as I most particularly want to include the exotic Tipsy Imperial Concubine somewhere, and it is not the colour I need, being pink with yellow and red tones. Imagine it to look like a tequila sunrise, and decide it can have a home next to the summer drinking table in the most sheltered part of the garden. Attempt to turn my thoughts to the chaos of my emotional life, but find my brain is jammed on gardening mode and will not accept other thoughts. Shall try again after dark.

  August 27th

  Spent three hours yesterday evening trying either to telephone or email David, but am convinced that there is a gremlin or widget in my computer, as all the numbers and addresses I try make weird alien noises, then go dead. Am now attempting to write a letter, but cannot get past Dear David as situation is so dire. Against my better judgement, I reread the emails between us pre-Hedley. This is a mistake. My eyes fill with tears, blood rushes to my head and a terrible nostalgia for my life as it was then pervades. In trying to trace the moment when I lost touch with David, I review the past months and cannot remember why I was so sure we should split up.

  The postman arrives, and I cannot bear to speak to him. Throw myself on the floor in my study and crawl behind a chair in order that he cannot see me through the window. Of course, he has a parcel, so rings the bell. I hear the slap of The Beauty’s small bare feet on the hall tiles, then the creak of the door, and her voice piping, ‘Sorry about that, Mummy’s not well. She had too much vodka drink with Granny. She’s hidin’ in her study so she can’t see anyone, but I know where she is.’ The Beauty, having finished slandering me, pauses for effect, then laughs her fake laugh and delivers the punchline, ‘She’s lyin’ on de floor.’ Both she and the postman fall about with mirth at this sally, and it is some moments before he departs, having allowed The Beauty to sign for the parcel. She marches with it into the study, whipping open the door so I am caught still crouching under the window. She gives me a knowing look.

  ‘Come on Mummy, let’s open it,’ she commands, tearing at the brown paper. In the parcel are three cardigans I ordered from a cashmere factory seconds shop. The sight of them is quite lowering.

  ‘Let’s ring Vivienne,’ I suggest weakly. ‘Maybe we can ask her to help with these.’ Reach for the phone, then change my mind. I cannot speak to Vivienne until I have untangled the mess. I must see Hedley. I mean, I want to see Hedley. But I must also do these cardigans within the next twenty-four hours, and more immediately, I really should get the children and myself out of pyjamas and into day clothes and make lunch. This last thought occurs as The Beauty totters off to the kitchen to return, moments later, munching handfuls of dry Coco Pops straight from the bag she has removed from inside the cereal box. Letter to David must wait and be dealt with later.

  August 29th

  Have been dodging the telephone since my mother’s pep talk, in case Hedley rings, as he is always better face to face. Am also dodging the children. This is surprisingly easy considering how large they are and how small the house is, due to their very predictable habits. Left alone, Giles and Felix wear pyjamas and eat cereal in front of the television with the curtains drawn all day. The Beauty takes the biscuit tin and all her dolls into the dogs’ castle and makes a boudoir deep within it. There she bosses babies and dogs to her heart’s content.

  When I sneak past on tiptoe, she is arranging a wedding between Mouldy Baby and Lowly, with Gertie as clergyman.

  ‘No, no, no,’ she insists, ‘don’t eat it, Lowly. You have to wear the crown and so does Mouldy. That’s right. Now Gertie, say a prayer.’

  Move on stealthily to hang out the washing. Folding the dry clothes, I close my eyes and inhale deeply, loving the fresh-air scent, enveloped in it. Things have moved on from fresh-air candles, and now Rose tells me that in America, the vogue is for sheets to be ‘Line Dried’, an expensive process involving specially altered tumble driers, perhaps indeed broken ones able to let fresh air in.

  ‘Of course, what everyone there longs for is a washing line. There’s something so grounding about actually pegging out your clean laundry every day.’

  Sometimes Rose goes too far.

  Anyway, my limbo life cannot go on. Hedley has left nine messages on the answerphone, most of which are rants, due to the delivery of thirty tons of pig manure outside his front door. He has been engaged in a boundary dispute with a neighbouring pig farmer, who believes that actions speak louder than words. From the choleric nature of the messages, it is clear that Hedley has not even noticed that I am avoiding him. His voice transmits a tone of massive ill use and fury, which he seems convinced I will share.

  It is another hot, windless day, with the sun high and bright and the sky bleached pale blue. Nothing is moving in the hedgerows, but beyond, the fields are in turmoil as great yellow combine harvesters charge to and fro, trailing clouds of dust and shards of bright straw, as they perfo
rm their alchemy by devouring the last of the corn crop in order to deliver sliding mounds of gold into the waiting trailers.

  Drive everybody to the weekly auction in Aylsham as a delaying tactic for work as well as life. Have run completely out of inspiration, and in the hope that they will just vanish, have taken to leaving the as yet unworked-on cardigans on the bench in the hall. The result of this is that The Beauty has started wearing them, but with her legs rather than her arms in the sleeves.

  ‘They’re just soft pants,’ she explains, when asked what she is doing. ‘You try them.’

  Park at the auction by wedging the car in between a van full of caged ferrets and another delivering seven sludge-green lavatories to the outdoor part of the sale. ‘Can we have one?’ yell all the children in one voice, but looking in different directions at different objects of desire. Giles has seen the ferrets, Felix the bicycles just beyond, and The Beauty is entranced by the green loos being tenderly wrapped in blankets and deposited on the concrete outside one of the cavernous saleroom sheds. A bell rings; milling people herd towards a smaller shed for the fur and feathers sale. We join them, blinking to acclimatise to the clanking, sawdust-scented darkness of the shed. The usual bedraggled and demented chicken line-up, with the occasional proud, single cockerel, is augmented today by a big array of ferrets. Become transfixed by family of spectral white ferrets, slinking and rolling in a wooden box with a mesh top. The biggest one has yellowing fur at its neck, but the young are dazzling white, tumbling and playing, breaking off to uncoil their bodies and stand up on their hind legs to sniff the air. Can feel myself succumbing to their fascination, so concentrate on their rat-like pink eyes to put myself off and turn away towards the more harmless guinea pigs and rabbits. Discover The Beauty clinging like a rock climber to the mesh wall of cages, stroking a fudge-coloured rabbit.