by Nina Stibbe
My sister cleverly reminded her that credibility was ten-a-penny and that the village policeman had it in spades and what good did it do him? She had other things that most people could only dream of. Things you can only have (or be) if you’re an extraordinary person. I said, ‘You have art and music running through you like veins pumping blood to your heart.’
The mention of blood and veins gave me pangs momentarily about my biology lessons. Our new teacher had really brought it to life with beautiful illustrations on the board in pale pink chalk and said ‘capillaries, oxygen and heart’ as if they were poetry, not the workings of any old person. And I briefly regretted not being a dedicated scholar.
‘You’re an artist,’ said my sister.
My mother responded by reciting William Shakespeare.
Alas! ’tis true, I have gone here and there,
And made myself a motley to the view,
Gor’d mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear,
Made old offences of affections new.
Most true it is, that I have look’d on truth
Askance and strangely: but, by all above,
These blenches gave my heart another youth,
And worse essays proved thee my best of love.
Now all is done, have what shall have no end!
Mine appetite, I never more will grind
On newer proof, to try an older friend,
A god in love, to whom I am confin’d.
Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best,
Even to thy pure and most most loving breast.
‘See,’ said Jack, ‘you’ve memorized that whole poem.’
‘Sonnet,’ said my mother.
‘Yes, not many people could just trot that out,’ said my sister, ‘or want to.’
Mr Holt came in then and it was time for dinner. We let our mother cook and, even though we could see she was all over the place, none of us dared help.
Afterwards the credibility thing came up again, this time in front of Mr Holt, and you could see he was a bit puzzled by it all. We tried to tell her how extraordinary she was, that she had a beautiful imagination and a conscience that kept her up at night when she should be sleeping. She had humour. She could see how funny a thing was when no one else could see it and when everyone else was frowning or tutting or scared to death, there she’d be giggling and gasping in a most imaginative way.
But she wouldn’t hear it—the qualities we listed counted for nothing in her eyes.
She wanted to change; she wanted us to be a normal, happy family and her a normal mother making malt loaf and hand-washing jumpers in Stergene. We said we worried she’d throw away her true self just to be like dynamic Mrs Goodchild over the road.
Mrs Goodchild was nice and admirable with her baby and job and home-made food and curtains but had the habit of talking behind her hand. One time she’d said to my mother (behind her hand) that I was looking pale. I knew what she’d said because I heard her, and even if I hadn’t I’d have known because my mother responded, ‘It’s just her colouring, she tends to wanness.’ Anyway, she and my mother had slightly fallen out when Mrs Goodchild took our washing in off the line one day—because the sky had clouded over and looked like rain—and took it into her house. But far from thanking Mrs Goodchild, my mother had told her, ‘I’d rather you didn’t do that again.’ And then she’d seen my mother weeing in the kitchen sink, and told her she had, and it had become a much-mentioned thing in our house.
‘I want to be like her,’ our mother said, ‘of course I do.’
‘Why?’ we asked.
‘She talks behind her hand and has a miserable life,’ I said.
We reminded her she could drive like a racer, turn on a sixpence and park in a shoebox (our mother, not Mrs Goodchild, who’d taken four driving tests but not passed yet). That she’d had simple, natural births and tanned easily, was a fabulous swimmer, a perfect diver and never felt the cold. She was green-fingered and good with animals. She had the voice of a nightingale and could sight-read and play the piano more beautifully than Bobby Crush. And she was brave. Brave like only the very alone can be.
My sister grew weary. ‘Mother,’ she said, ‘none of us likes malt loaf.’
‘But, I–’ my mother began.
‘No, listen, Mum. You’re worried because you’re with Mr Holt and you’ve got Danny now and however happy the relationship is, the responsibility of being half of a couple is a big thing.’
‘Yes, that’s it,’ she said, ‘it’s weakened me.’
‘No, being with Mr Holt has strengthened you, but you have to stop acting as if you’re on your own, stop misbehaving. Stop lying to him,’ said my sister.
Mr Holt coughed to remind us he was there, behind his paper. And then made the very sensible decision to propose marriage.
‘Elizabeth,’ he said, letting his paper drop down so that he could look at her while he spoke, ‘shall we just get married?’
And she said she was sorry to cry but being in a couple with such a straightforward machine of a man had really fucked her up, but yes, she would marry him.
And actually him wanting to marry her changed everything.
‘I can finally get rid of the name Vogel,’ she said.
My sister and Jack and I must have looked offended because she apologized. She’d been stuck with it since marrying our father. Her solicitor had suggested she go back to Benson but the thought horrified her and she’d rather be Mrs Vogel than Miss Benson. Now she was going to be Mrs Holt and saying it made us all laugh. Mrs Elizabeth Holt. That was when I first realized how utterly terrible marriage was. That only in being asked by someone could you truly value yourself and then it was all making gravy and curtains. I think I’d known it before but wasn’t mature enough to put it like that. I vowed to marry only if I did the asking and if my sister could come, and no one else.
Mike Yu’s college was still on its summer break. He had been helping at Paradise Lodge since he had a bit more time. Miranda must have found out that I’d been officially chucked off the ‘O’ Level course at school and brought it up in the kitchen in front of Mike.
‘Lizzie’s been chucked off the “O” Level group, she’s going to have to do the CSEs next summer,’ said Miranda. Feigning nonchalance and doing one of her little yawns.
‘Well, I’m not doing the CSEs,’ I said.
‘There’s nothing wrong with the CSEs, they’re legitimate qualifications,’ said Miranda, ‘for the less academic pupil.’
‘Yeah, well I’m not the “less academic” pupil, so I shan’t be doing them,’ I said.
Mike was aghast and said I must insist on being reinstated to the ‘O’ Level group as soon as possible. ‘You must sort this out before next term begins,’ he said, ‘you must continue with your education at the highest level, Lizzie.’
‘I don’t know–’ I began.
‘You’re far, far too bright not to. You could do anything with your life,’ he said. He was animated and passionate. ‘If you drop out now, you’ll be regretful and probably unhappy for the rest of your life,’ he said.
Miranda butted in, jealously. ‘She can go to Charles Keene College of Further Education and do a hairdressing diploma if she gets sick of being a nursing auxiliary,’ she said.
‘Hairdressing’s a wonderful profession, but–’ said Mike,
‘Yes,’ Miranda interrupted him, ‘imagine being able to cut and style someone’s hair and change their life at the drop of a hat, literally.’
‘But hairdressing’s not for someone like Lizzie,’ said Mike, ‘Lizzie’s an intellectual, she wouldn’t be able to cut people’s hair.’
Miranda reminded Mike that she was also under threat due to having already lost the best part of an academic year because of the glandular fever she’d had on and off throughout 1975.
‘Lizzie’s an intellectual,’ Mike repeated.
‘And I’m not?’ said Miranda, hurt.
Mike said he was worried about b
oth of us—but you could tell he really meant me and thought it would be fine for Miranda to drop out.
Later, Mike was still there, preparing a stew for the next day’s lunch. The meat being such good value, the stew was going to have to be in the bottom Aga overnight.
‘How come you’re here so often?’ I asked.
‘I’ve been asked to lend a hand with the Aga and the cooking,’ he said. ‘It’s not official,’ he put a finger to his lips, ‘but it’s mutually beneficial.’
‘You mean you like being here?’
‘It’s peaceful after the chaos of Good Luck House. The kitchen and the customers—who I respect—can be quite disruptive. With their noise and demands,’ said Mike.
‘I know what you mean,’ I said, ‘I like the quiet and being able to have a long hot bath on a split shift.’
‘I like being here, especially I like the people,’ he said.
‘Especially Miranda,’ I said.
‘There’s an energy here,’ he said, ‘a gentle energy and some love.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘there is.’
‘I think we have a lot in common,’ he said, ‘and that’s another very nice thing.’
I got myself a glass of water.
‘I meant what I said about school, Lizzie, you must put your education first.’
‘I know,’ I said.
‘You might want to travel. And you don’t want your husband to outflank you, do you?’ he said, laughing playfully.
‘How many “O” Levels do you have?’ I asked.
‘I have ten, and eight of them As,’ he said.
I left him to finish chopping the meat and was walking on air. I bumped into Matron who made a rude comment about him being there again.
‘He’s a sly one,’ she said, ‘surely he’s needed at home. Bloody skiver.’
‘No, he’s not—he likes it here, the peace and quiet. It’s mutually beneficial,’ I said and marched off, blushing.
Everyone in my life felt strongly that I should straighten myself out, school-wise. My sister, my mother, my form tutor and Sister Saleem had all spoken to me on the subject, as had Miss Pitt and Mrs Hargraves the truant officer.
But hearing it from Mike Yu really made me think. He had absolutely nothing to gain from my actions. Mike Yu sensed something in me. And suddenly it felt as though my education should be a priority.
Mike had said so.
He’d called me an intellectual.
One result of my mother’s running off to Carrie Frost’s was that we almost missed Little Jack’s birthday. Realizing this, close to the end of the actual day—the day Mr Holt had proposed—my mother rushed out and bought Jack some grown-up clothing and a book of poetry by Ted Hughes because it was all she could think of.
‘It’s poetry, but manly,’ explained my mother.
And Mr Holt had tried to look neutral.
‘But where were you?’ asked Jack—no one ever told him anything. ‘Where have you been?’
‘She went to see Carrie Frost,’ said my sister, ‘and had an art lesson.’
Little Jack frowned. I knew his boy mind was whirring and he was remembering wanting Carrie to pick him up and her misunderstanding, thinking he was just saying her name. Not that it was her fault exactly, but it was frustrating and enough to make you mildly dislike her all the same. I could tell all that was going round in his mind. I knew him.
It annoyed me (the carry/Carrie thing) and I was annoyed further with Carrie Frost for spending two whole days teaching my mother how to draw people. Why couldn’t she have taught her how to thread the needle on her Singer sewing machine? We all knew Carrie was a dab hand at dress-making and that our mother had the basics but lacked confidence on the needle-threading and casting off. Think what an enormous help it would have been had she come home from Carrie’s saying, ‘Let me alter that nursing tunic for you.’
There’d be no hunting for intangible credibility if she’d been able to say that. No need to make malt loaf or read Marge Piercy—unless she really wanted to.
Anyway, Jack seemed to like his clothing and Ted Hughes, and I gave him a Terry’s Chocolate Orange and my sister gave him a PEACE badge—with a tiny dove and olive branch—and a bar of Golden Crisp. And our Granny Benson sent him a WHSmith token and our father sent him a cheque for double his age in pounds to put into the Leicester Building Society for a rainy day or driving lessons when he turned seventeen—whichever came first.
Mr Holt gave him the best gift of all. A Saturday/holiday job folding linens, sweeping the depot, cleaning vans, breaking or fixing pallets and oiling things. I should have been pleased for Jack but the truth is, the luxury of sibling rivalry had come to us when Mr Holt had moved in and I was resentful of him having the perfect job handed to him on a plate—a job where he’d get a door-to-door lift into work and home again and was pretty much the boss’s son and it didn’t involve the general public or wearing a dress or a hat or Pop Sox or anything challenging at all.
19. Dream Topping
One day, as I entered the kitchen to help with the coffees, there was a note on the table that made my blood run cold. It had been written on one of Sister Saleem’s official telephone message memorandum notes.
TELEPHONE MESSAGE
To: Lizzie Vogel
You Were Called By: Miss Pitt
From: Devlin’s School
Re: ‘O’ Level examinations
Message: Please call back as soon as possible
It was horrible knowing Sister Saleem had had to write a message for me from this woman who was pretty much barred from the premises. On the other hand, I was certain I was about to get a full apology and be reinstated to the ‘O’ Level group—which was a good thing. I didn’t phone Miss Pitt immediately because phoning was a big deal back then and not to be taken lightly and I needed to pluck up the nerve. I folded the note and put it in my pocket and imagined it coming in useful if any of this went to court.
When things had quietened down after milky coffees I went to make the call. Rather than use the phone on the special phone table in the hall with everyone around earwigging, I went up to Lady Briggs’ room and asked if I could call from there. She said, ‘By all means,’ which meant yes.
Miss Pitt sounded nicer than usual. ‘Can you speak?’ she asked.
Can you speak? I’d never been asked that before. I have many times since, of course, but it was the first time and I couldn’t think what she meant.
‘I think so,’ I said.
‘Look, Lizzie, Dad’s point-blank refusing to talk to me,’ she said, ‘I mean, Mr Simmons.’
‘Yes, I heard about that,’ I said.
‘The thing is, Lizzie, I’d love to have a chat with him.’
‘Right.’
‘Yes, but in a neutral place and with our GP and maybe our solicitor.’
‘What has this got to do with “O” levels?’ I said.
‘Yes, well, I need you to lure the fox out of his hole, as it were.’
‘You mean, lure Mr Simmons out,’ I whispered.
‘Precisely,’ said Miss Pitt, ‘lure Dad out.’
She had it all worked out. She was going to forward bundles of tickets to the free lunchtime piano and operatic recitals that took place in St James the Greater Church near Victoria Park and I was to let her know if and when one of them appealed to Mr Simmons so that she could ‘bump into him’ there—accidentally on purpose.
‘What do I have to do?’ I asked.
‘Make sure he sees the tickets. Be enthusiastic and, I don’t know, go with him if you can,’ she said, ‘and most importantly, let me know if he bites.’
Since Mike Yu had spoken so passionately about the need to continue my education, it seemed to me that Mr Simmons was quite capable of handling this situation with Miss Pitt—he was her father, after all, or stepfather. And now that I’d got him going on the garden revamp I couldn’t see Miss Pitt finding it easy to lure him out on a permanent basis. He loved being at Paradise Lodge, and
everyone was on to her.
And I really needed ‘O’ Levels, otherwise I’d be regretful and probably unhappy for the rest of my life—and I had a lot of life to be unhappy and regretful in (touch wood).
‘And I’ll be back on the “O” Level courses?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ said Miss Pitt, emphatically.
‘OK,’ I said, ‘I’ve got to go now.’
Miss Pitt said she was pleased we’d come to this mutually beneficial arrangement and that I should start reading the ‘O’ Level texts straight away. Starting with Animal Farm by George Orwell.
‘Animal Farm,’ I said.
‘Yes, George Orwell,’ said Miss Pitt.
‘I know who wrote Animal Farm,’ I said.
The call ended.
‘Is everything all right?’ Lady Briggs asked.
‘Yes, I’m back on the “O” Level course at school,’ I said.
‘School?’ said Lady Briggs.
‘I’m fifteen, remember,’ I said.
And Lady Briggs said, ‘Oh, is that you? I get you all so muddled.’
‘Have you got a copy of Animal Farm by George Orwell?’ I asked her, on the off chance—her having a pile of books in the corner of the room—and to my delight, she said she had, somewhere, she’d find it and I could borrow it as long as I promised not to dog-ear the pages.
A day or so later, she handed it to me. It had been downstairs in the library, she said, all muddled with her other twentieth-century novels—someone had had it sent up with the housekeeper. I laughed and promised I wouldn’t dog-ear the pages. Lady Briggs talked beautifully about her books. She talked about Mrs Dalloway and Ulysses, Of Human Bondage and her favourite play Time and the Conways. She invited me to go downstairs and look at the books any time and borrow them if it would help. I wondered where all those books really were now. The ones in the corner were all Ulverscroft Large Prints and not a classic among them, except for All Creatures Great and Small.
