by Sarah Long
‘Oh dear, poor Leo,’ said Sandra, suddenly overwhelmed.
Lydia patted her shoulder.
‘I am so sorry,’ she said, ‘it’s dreadful, isn’t it, with animals. I still miss my schnauzer so much. Would you like me to call the depot for you, I’ve got the number here, then you can decide what to do.’
Sandra composed herself, no point in going into meltdown, he was a cat for goodness sake.
‘No, that’s fine, I’ll call them. Thank you for letting me know.’
She said goodbye to Lydia, then phoned the number she had been given. A kindly woman expressed sympathy for her loss and asked if she would like to collect Leo for a private burial.
What did she have in mind, Sandra wondered. A horse-drawn hearse moving through the streets past shuttered windows?
Poppy was due home soon, and Sandra spent an uncomfortable half hour rehearsing how she was going to break the news. This was a new life experience and not one she cared for.
‘Oh hey,’ said Poppy, when she came in. She had been a little offhand since the spying episode. Sandra watched her take off her shoes and put them neatly in the cupboard, she was so much her father’s daughter.
‘What’s up, you look miserable.’ said Poppy. ‘Has someone died?’
‘Not someone,’ said Sandra slowly. She couldn’t have anticipated the direct question, but at least it got it over with.
‘Come and sit down, darling,’ she said, patting the chaise beside her. Poppy did as she was told.
‘You’re freaking me out, Mum, what’s happened?’
Sandra wrapped her arms around her.
‘I’m so sorry, Poppy, it’s Leo.’
As Poppy fell sobbing into her lap, Sandra thought how it was the second time this week that she had been the comforter. She wasn’t much of a crier, herself, only when her father had died and she had spent a week in bed.
‘He didn’t suffer,’ she said, stroking Poppy’s hair, ‘he would have died instantly.’
‘You don’t know that!’
She was right, but there was nothing to be gained from thinking otherwise.
‘He’s at peace, now, and at least he won’t have to go through a horrible old age.’
‘He was twenty-three in cat years, he had ages to go before he was old! We should have kept him indoors, I told you it was too dangerous to let him out.’
‘No, that’s so cruel, imagine if you weren’t allowed to go out and had to spend your life like a prisoner, cowering indoors. It’s only mad cat breeders who keep them in, because that’s how they live their own wretched lives.’
‘I suppose.’ Poppy sniffed.
‘And anyway,’ Sandra said, ‘it’s better to live a day as a lion than a hundred years as a sheep.’
Poppy nodded at this grandiose sentiment.
‘He’s even called Leo, like a lion,’ she said. ‘Was called Leo.’
‘Exactly, it was well chosen for our magnificent beast,’ said Sandra, wondering at how death had raised Leo’s status from decorative introvert to fearless warrior.
‘I spoke to the woman at Serco who asked if we wanted to bring him home for a private burial,’ said Sandra, wiping away her daughter’s tears with the hem of her cardigan, ‘but I said I didn’t think so.’
Poppy raised her head to look her mother in the face.
‘I think that’s a lovely idea,’ she said, nodding bravely. ‘I’d like to think of him resting in our garden.’
*
Tessa found John’s message as soon as she got home and kicked off her shoes, rushing to her computer for an explanation. His flight had been cancelled due to fog, he was so sorry, he would have to reschedule his client meeting and let her know. ‘Hang on in there, baby,’ he said, referencing another song from their youth. He hadn’t stood her up then. Her despondent mood lifted; it was a postponement not a cancellation, she could keep that spark of excitement going. She gave him her mobile number for next time. And now he was messaging her again.
You didn’t get my message? Don’t tell me you went to the Ritz and waited for me? I can’t bear to think of you sitting there alone.
In my posh frock and everything.
No!
I didn’t actually have the humiliation of sitting at an empty table. They told me you had cancelled.
Even so. I’m really sorry.
Not your fault. I need to get a smartphone.
She relaxed into easy online chat with him, describing the Rococo splendour of the Ritz, a far cry from their past meeting places; pubs with beer-stained carpets and scampi-in-a-basket.
We had lunch with my parents yesterday, who send their love by the way. Mum was saying how much she liked you.
Likewise! She was always gentle with me when I called round to see you and you were off with someone else.
Haha. You were never short of a girlfriend, I seem to remember. Jenny Colgate for one.
The toothpaste kid!
Perfect match for you with your Donny Osmond gleaming smile.
Not so white now! Yes, Jenny was a sweetheart.
You took her to see ELO I remember.
Mister Blue Sky!
I was quite jealous.
That makes me feel better.
And it made her feel powerful, knowing he was still having these feelings for her, after all these years. The ache of teenage rivalries, buried for decades, coming back hot and strong.
Only because I wanted to see them perform live.
I see, nothing to do with me then?
Nope.
That was a lie, it had cut like a knife when he’d started going out with Jenny Colgate.
Your parents are looking good. I saw the photos of you all in Thailand together.
That’s a few years ago! Still checking out my photos then?
I liked them all. Except for your wedding pics, for obvious reasons.
I would have invited you if I’d had an address!
That’s not why I don’t like them.
Ah.
There was a pause, she knew exactly why he didn’t like them.
I’m going to say goodbye for now. I’ll let you know my new dates so you can put your posh frock on again, although I’d just as soon see you in a pair of jeans
Bye then x
Tessa went up to her bedroom and changed her clothes, folding away the tights in her drawer in readiness for the next occasion. She tried to picture him in his home office. He had told her he had built a cabin in his garden, constructing it himself; he had always been good with his hands. It was ‘real cosy,’ he said, he had a heater for winter and a view over the plain so he could see the seasons change and there was an old couch where he could lie down with his computer and message her. She imagined lying down beside him, the way she lay down with him in his bed the last time she saw him. Or maybe outside in the fields, beneath the hot Midwest sun, where they could lay themselves down in the long grass . . .
Her dreaming was cut short by the arrival of Maria, reminding her that she was not romping in the hay fields of America, but in her London townhouse with a home help to instruct. She went down to exchange niceties with Maria, asking her to pay particular attention to the kitchen surfaces, then escaped to her usual game of dodge-the-cleaner which involved creeping from room to room and feeling guilty. Lying on her bed, she picked up Don’ts for Wives, and looked up the chapter on Household Management. It said that nothing was more annoying to a tired man that the sight of a half-finished laundry work and the remotest hint in your home of a ‘washing day’ is like a red rag to a bull. No worries there, Maria would have it all ironed and out of sight.
It wasn’t the case in Tessa’s childhood home, where laundry hung heavy, sheets and towels suspended from a ceiling-mounted clothes horse, drying in the heat from the kitchen stove. It was no wonder her mother was so keen on education. She loved the fact that Tessa was studying the metaphysical poets, her degree providing a door out of domesticity. ‘Do something you can go back to af
ter the children,’ she would say to Tessa, wielding wooden tongs to heave wet clothes from the washing machine, feeding them through the wringer, then the double sink for rinsing, and into the spin drier. Don’t worry, thought Tessa, as she dropped her dirty breakfast plate into the sink, there’s no way I’m going to end up like you.
‘You know you can get a machine now that does it all in one go,’ she had told June. ‘Why not get one and stop wasting your time?’
‘But I’ve got the time,’ June had said, her face flushed from the steam, ‘It would just be a waste of money.’
That terrible frugality.
‘Just work it out, Mum. You’re paying yourself a pittance. Get an automatic machine and do something more productive with the time.’
‘Like what?’
It was a good question. She could take in market research reports to collate at home like her friend Alison’s mum. Neat piles on the dining room table, a bit of pin money, but still on hand to respond to her family’s demands. Or she could work in a shop. Though it would have to be the right kind of shop. Tessa could see it was better to have your mother working through the steam of her own laundry than wearing a uniform and filling shelves.
‘It’ll be different for you,’ June had told her, ‘you can be whatever you want.’
Yes, she thought. Yes I can.
And here she was. Decades on and what had changed? Her mother’s weekly treat had been sitting under a hairdryer for a shampoo and set, exchanging news with her friends as they waited for the rollers to take their crimping effect before emerging into the rain and crushing the results beneath an unflattering headscarf. Tessa’s equivalent was a latte and almond croissant, or maybe a freshly squeezed kiwi juice and some edamame beans; she was trying to cut down.
Maria was coming up the stairs with the hoover so Tessa jumped off the bed to make her escape. She wasn’t comfortable about employing domestic staff, it made her feel like a spoilt little madam.
Feeling hungry – she’d only eaten a few violet creams today – Tessa went into her sparkling clean kitchen and rummaged for some calorie-free radishes. She arranged them on a plate, and moved into the office, closing the door against the noise of the hoover.
She took a bite of radish and pulled the wire filing tray towards her, spilling out with bank statements and random correspondence. We were supposed to live in a paperless world but stuff still arrived through the letterbox, demanding attention. There were three missed calls from Sandra, obviously wanting to hear about her lunch, nothing to say there. She was filing away a discouraging summary of her pension expectations when the home phone rang.
Of course it was her mother, nobody else bothered with the landline.
‘Hello, Mum.’
‘Hello, darling, just ringing to hear about your lunch at the Ritz, it was today, wasn’t it?’
‘Supposed to be, but John’s flight was cancelled.’
‘What a shame! I thought it would give you a bit of boost after Lola had gone, did she get off alright?’
‘Yes, Matt dropped her at the station. I was pathetic, as usual.’
‘I knew you’d feel like that, which is why I rang.’
‘Ah, thanks. I’ll never get used to saying goodbye to them, it doesn’t matter how old they are.’
‘It never gets easier, believe me. But you need to find something else to focus on, a clever girl like you.’
‘I know. As you would say, the Devil finds work for idle hands.’
‘You’re not idle! You’ve always got something on, and you’ve got that big house to run.’
‘I just miss her so much, you must know what it’s like.’
‘Oh yes, whenever you went back to university, I’d go into the greenhouse and feed my seedlings to cheer myself up. And when Elaine moved to Canada, that was when your father and I decided to get into travelling. No point sitting at home moping.’
‘Hmm, bit too soon for us, with Matt still working.’
‘Of course, that’s all to come. But in the meantime you should be able to get something, shouldn’t you? You used to be such a high-flier.’
‘Mum, I’ve explained this to you, there’s no way I could go back at the same level, and I honestly don’t fancy working in a shop or as someone’s PA.’
‘Nothing wrong with being a PA, I would have loved that. Or an air hostess, all that free travel in a smart pencil skirt.’
‘You sound like the school careers adviser circa 1965. Women can do anything these days, didn’t you hear? Unless they’re fifty and out to grass.’
‘Out to grass! Don’t be ridiculous, you’ve taken a career break, that’s all.’
‘For two long decades. I’ve loved being at home, though, I don’t regret giving up work for a moment. But now I just feel a bit redundant.’
‘You were quite right to leave that job, such silly long hours and you’ve done a marvellous job bringing up the children. I can’t bear this talk of women “having it all”, it sounds so greedy. But the children are grown up now.’
‘You’re right, they really don’t need me any more but I’m still pandering to them, doing their washing and everything. I know it’s ridiculous.’
‘All I’m saying is it would be good to have something else to think about, otherwise you just spend your time worrying about them.’
‘Yes, I agree with you, I need to sort myself out.’
‘I thought Lola seemed very happy, and I like the sound of that boyfriend.’
‘She’s bringing him home for inspection at the end of term, so we can see for ourselves.’
‘Good-o, make sure you invite us over to meet him! Anyway, I’ve got to go, it’s the weekly fish and chips residents’ lunch, I just wanted to check you were alright.’
‘I really am alright. Thanks, Mum, lovely to talk to you, speak soon.’
Tessa replaced the phone. Her mother was living proof that you never stop worrying about your children. Fast forward thirty years and it would be Tessa ringing a middle-aged Lola to check on her psychological wellbeing and work–life balance.
Returning to her filing, she climbed up the steps to reach the top shelf where she kept the archived papers. Hidden beneath a box of correspondence about their last house sale was a Freeman Hardy & Willis shoebox. Whatever happened to them, along with Lilley and Skinner? She pulled it out and brought it down to have a look. Inside were snapshots of her childhood: a contact sheet showing her four-year-old face in a hundred different poses; a school photo with gap-toothed classmates, she could almost taste the sour milk from the Tetra Pak pyramids, warm and sour from standing in the playground sun; a family holiday in Pembrokeshire, she’s wearing turquoise shorts, standing with Elaine in front of the caravan, her mother’s hair tied up in an orange headscarf.
There was correspondence, too, with postcards from Ibiza and Yugoslavia recalling the giddy early days of package holidays, and a bundle of letters from her mother, sent to her while she was away at university, soothing details of home life interspersed with health warnings hoping she wasn’t smoking too much and was getting plenty of Vitamin C.
Right at the bottom of the box, she found a letter from John with a Lanzarote postmark. He was on holiday with his parents and wanted to know how her holiday job at the bakers was going. ‘Hope they’re not giving you any lip,’ he’d written ‘otherwise tell them you’ll set your pet tiger on them.’
John Ormonde, her pet tiger. Her noble defender. She put the letter down and thought about an earlier birthday party at his house, when he was seventeen. He was mooning around after her but she was infatuated with Gavin Jones. She had bumped into John’s parents on the doorstep as they were on the way out, leaving the coast clear for the teenagers, and John’s dad had told her she looked like Joan Collins. ‘Who’s Joan Collins?’ she’d asked. Fancy not knowing who Joan Collins was! It must have been in the lull between the old movies and Dallas and The Bitch. The way Tessa had been in the lull between childhood and grown-up life. Going to parti
es, casually trampling over people’s feelings, unaware that thirty years later it would all come rushing back.
*
‘So, how was your old friend?’ Matt asked later, in the aftermath of their chicken cacciatore. ‘I hope he paid for lunch.’
She was surprised he hadn’t asked earlier. Perhaps he was secretly jealous and couldn’t bring himself to mention it. More likely he’d just forgotten; she had changed back into her T-shirt and trackies after all. There was nothing to suggest she hadn’t spent her entire day pottering round the house and preparing his dinner.
‘Oh no,’ Tessa said casually, ‘his flight was cancelled because of the fog.’
As she cleared the plates, she was aware of a text vibrating through the pocket of her fleecy bottoms and had a feeling it was from John.
Matt grinned.
‘Jilted Jane. It’s true there were some cancellations at Heathrow. Unless he’s making excuses, do you want me to sort him out for you?’
‘Ha ha. Could you manage a slice of Nigel Slater’s irresistible trifle?’
‘Just a little piece . . .’
He watched her spoon out a modest serving.
‘Little bit more . . . go on, one more spoonful, that’s fine, stop!’
She passed the overflowing bowl to him.
‘I came up with a great new expression today,’ he said. ‘How about this: “I’m not a digital native, I’m a digital anthropologist.”’
Oh please, thought Tessa.
‘Inspired,’ she said. ‘And did you succeed in bottoming out your brand materials?’
‘We smashed it, thanks largely to me.’
‘The hoary old anthropologist leading his young flock.’
