What Goes Around...

by Carol Marinelli

  ‘I found it really hard to write this,’ Luke admits then. ‘The Jamesons were my neighbours growing up.’ He talks about the family that they once were. How Luke had a single mum, so he sort of looked up to him. He tells how, when Luke’s mum died, he and Gloria took him in for a few months and he speaks a little bit about his time there. Luke mentions all the Original Jameson Girls and how he often told Luke, when they played golf, how proud he was of them. Luke explains how, when he finished university, he ended up working at the same company as him and how well he did there. How he sped through the ranks, how he shot out of working class and then I hear the shift, I know it’s coming… but then along came Lucy….

  I close my eyes but of course he doesn’t say that.

  ‘For all he was the funniest, cleverest man I have ever met, he could be hard work at times and was certainly no saint …’ Luke says and then he gives a thin smile. ‘We had a few rows about it, but the fact was, he never wanted to be one.’ There’s a soft ripple of laughter that spreads through the church as he addresses what is.

  What was.

  What remains.

  ‘We didn’t speak for a couple of years and then he rang me one night.’ Luke looks over to Charlotte. ‘He was a dad again and so very proud…’ Luke’s voice breaks and Charlotte looks up, I feel Alice’s arm go around her when, for a moment, mine can’t. ‘This time, he told me, he wanted to do things right.’

  He speaks on and though I don’t always recognise the family man that Luke’s talking about, sometimes I do. Sometimes Luke captures him. How funny he was, how much charm he had, how he could convince anyone of anything. As I listen, I forget how angry I am, but I can’t forget because then I might cry.

  He talks some more about a man who was generous and lavish, at times to a fault.

  He was generous and lavish, I sit there and think, not just with his willy, but also with so many other things. He would, as Luke says, literally give you the shirt of his back. Literally, because when one of the juniors had an interview and spilt coffee, Luke retells the tale of him being hauled into Greg, the MD’s office because he was naked beneath his jacket. The congregation laughs again when Luke tells them that he was still wearing his tie.

  And then it’s time to be serious.

  ‘The last time we played golf was in January.’ Luke tells the congregation, ‘I don’t know how this conversation came about but he’d told me that he’d always thought of me as a son.’ Luke’s voice starts to shake with emotion. ‘I wish I could change that day and my response. I said, “well I hope that doesn’t mean I have to start calling you Dad.”’ Luke’s voice breaks and my head begs him to please, just keep talking. Please keep talking, because I don’t think I can stand…

  Please keep talking, I beg and I look up to him and Luke’s eyes meet mine and I just will him to go on, to finish this as he would want him to. I watch Luke drag in a big breath, I watch Luke hold it all in, so that he can get the last bit out.

  He talks just a little bit more about a man who was, to so many, a huge part of their lives. A man who will be missed in different ways by so very many, and he tells him to rest in peace, he’s earned it.

  And then he says it.

  ‘I love you, Dad.’

  I can’t stand, I just can’t, except the organ starts as Luke steps down and everyone does.

  Stand.

  Everyone, except me.

  ‘Mum!’ Charlotte says, but for a second I don’t think I can. I push up and I sway just a little. I feel Alice pull away, as our shoulders almost meet, when Charlotte cuddles into me. It’s as if I'm taking up too much space, simply by being in the pew, except I’m his wife.

  That's all I know how to be.

  It's who I am.

  Whether we were happy or not, whether our marriage was good or bad, being his wife is all I know and I'm not her any more.

  I am holding the song sheet for Charlotte and my hand is trembling and I don’t know who I am.

  I'm not the most important person in somebody's life any more.

  Apart from Charlotte.

  But I’m not talking about Charlotte.

  I'm on the wrong page and I don’t know the words to the hymn, well, not very well, so I sort of mouth them.

  And then it’s coming to an end. I panic because it really is coming to an end. We sit and music I recognise starts, which means soon we will head for the cemetery and I have to watch him being lowered into the ground.

  Morning Has Broken.

  I look at him - a photo of him, and then there’s another. He’s very young, very proud and looking a bit shocked and holding a newborn baby.

  I see him with Original Jameson Girls camping.

  I see his other kids on the day they were born.

  I see Gloria and him in high-waisted jeans and there she is again, beaming with him on Luke’s graduation day.

  I see him holding my newborn baby, he’s older, but so very good looking and yes, he looks so very proud and yes, still a bit shocked.

  I see Charlotte getting her first rosette, then there’s another photo where she’s lifted in his arms and the smile on her face spells adoration.

  Charlotte is weeping beside me, I go to put my arm around her but I can't move and I can’t cry, because I can't let go.

  I can't faint.

  I can't, because my bowels have turned to liquid and I can see the headlines now.

  SCORNED WIFE SHITS HERSELF.

  But there won’t be headlines, I soothe myself, because there isn't going to be an inquest and nobody ever has to know.

  I tighten my arm around Charlotte’s shoulders and Mum gives my shoulder a squeeze. Jess leans forward and hands me a tissue and I wipe Charlotte’s tears and, hard bitch that I am, I don’t even blow my nose.

  I hold my head up high because I have no choice.

  I have to do this.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Everything, that I’ve spent my life keeping apart, is now coming together at my house.

  There's Mum and her merry mob from AA, there are some of his family who like me, some of his family who hate me, his work colleagues and some mums from the school, gym and pony club.

  Yes, it's an awful lot more work and yes, a hotel or church hall would have been far easier, but for Charlotte's sake I'm glad that it's being held here. She and her friends and her cousins are in the garden now. It's a glorious spring day and a lot of the adults drift out into the garden too. I’ve got a lovely garden – I have someone in once a week and I got him in for a few more hours yesterday, just to make sure that it looked nice.

  ‘Why don’t you take out some cheese straws,’ Mum says to one of her helpers. I’m sure she’s trying to wind me up. They’re not cheese straws – they’re Swiss cheese allumettes and I’m paying people to pass them around.

  I don’t want one of her friends taking care of my business.

  ‘Mum!’ I snap. ‘I don’t need help. I told you, it’s all catered.’

  ‘Well, they’re a bit slow,’ Mum says. ‘People are hungry. Geoff,’ she calls to another one of her elves. ‘Can you take out the Bakewell tarts?’

  ‘They’re cherry and almond frangipane tartlets!’ I hiss to her. ‘Will you just leave it?’

  I head out to the living room. Back to the “wonderful service” murmurs and a cuddle from sleazy old Greg and then one from Shirley. My eyes are wandering over Greg’s shoulder and around the room. Bonny is shovelling my buckwheat blinis, with sour cream and caviar, into her gob – she takes three of everything when it comes around and I’ve heard her moaning that there’s no food.

  We could be on Mars as far as Eleanor is concerned, or back in the hospital - she’s just sitting in a chair and looking out of the window, though she asked me to get her some wine before. Maybe I should put a little call bell in her hand so that she can buzz me if she gets thirsty or needs to go to the toilet. Apparently Gloria is looking after Daisy and picking up her other children, Laura and Daniel, in a little wh
ile.

  I hope she doesn’t come in.

  I excuse myself from Shirley and Greg and get back to policing mum. She’s chatting away to Simone and the last thing I want is Mum chatting away to anyone.

  ‘But you’re far too young to be Lucy’s mum!’ Simone says, then murmurs how sorry she is and how hard it must be for my mum and dad. ‘I’m a single mum, Simone,’ Mum starts and opens a mouth that is more than happy to tell anyone, anything, to just stand and pour out her life and I have to stop her.

  ‘Mum!’ I say. ‘They’re being a bit slow getting the food out. Can you hurry them along?’

  It’s completely exhausting.

  Then I get Alice’s boyfriend as I try to go upstairs to my bedroom with the excuse that I need the loo. I don’t, I just need five minutes, I’d settle for two, but oh no, I’ve got Hugh introducing himself. He’s a psychiatrist and heaven knows that family needs one. He asks how I’m feeling.

  I almost laugh.

  My shoulders drop, as does my jaw and I almost laugh, because does he really want to know? I mean, does he really want to know how I’m feeling?

  God knows what he sees in loony Alice – maybe she’s a case study, maybe he’s doing a thesis on self absorbed narcissistic bitches – he’d have a job keeping his word count within limits with her.

  Memories are raining in again and I don’t want bad memories today. I want to be a grieving widow. That’s so much easier to be, but instead I’m remembering things that I don’t want to.

  We had it out once here, right on this spot. She was coming down the stairs and I was trying to be nice, I’d bought cakes and everything and I was nice to her lesbian friend – I was so nice and I tried to address it - the tension between us. I stood on this spot and I tried and she sneered and she told me - she basically told me, that she knew my husband was cheating on me.

  I hate Alice.

  I hate her guts.

  Yet, she’s spent an hour with Charlotte in her room, going through photos of Noodle and her dad and if I hate her too much it will spill over and I’ll upset Charlotte.

  But seriously - is this guy joking?

  Does he really want to know how I’m feeling! ‘You don’t have to answer that,’ he says.

  ‘Good,’ I say. ‘Then I won’t.’

  One of Mum’s friends comes over and offers me a slice of “apple pie.”

  They’re tarte tatins.

  I want to take the plate and throw it and Hugh’s still standing there and then joy and double joy, Alice comes over and he puts his arm around her waist as she speaks to me again on this very spot.

  ‘Look,’ she says, ‘I know it’s a bit soon to be suggesting it but…’ she’s bright red in the face and I stand there and watch her squirm. ‘We go home in a couple of days, so if I don’t say it now…’

  I just stand there.

  What does she want? For his gravestone to have a picture of him and Gloria together perchance? Maybe all of the Original Jameson Girls too. You can do anything with Photoshop. Perhaps they could squeeze Charlotte and me on the end.

  Mum’s putting out her cheese and pineapple sticks and there’s this sort of wha wha noise in my ears. Alice is talking about Queensland, saying that they’d give Charlotte a good holiday, not now, but if I need it, if I think it would be good for Charlotte.

  I just stand there.

  I can’t bear it, because it’s never going to be over.

  They’re here forever.

  He’s dead and I’m left with it.

  I mumble something about I’m not happy with her flying and yes, thank you, if I need it and blah blah blah, because that’s what you do at a funeral, especially one you’re hosting.

  Except, my face has gone numb.

  It has.

  It’s sort of all numb down the side and I’m about to be a good wife and suitably grieved and faint, but I’m not a good wife and I’m not grieved, I’m just so angry. I don’t faint, I drool my way out of it, or I try to but Jess sees that I’m struggling. She puts her arm round me and sort of glides me up the stairs and into my room. He’s still lying there on the floor with his Viagra beside him. I’ve changed the sheets, I’ve put Shake and Vac on the carpets but I can still smell him in the room.

  Jess lays me down and I want to give in.

  I don’t want to go back down stairs.

  A double plot will do if I can just lie quietly.

  ‘It’s okay, Lucy.’ Jess holds me and without her I could not do this.

  ‘Mum!’

  Charlotte’s all panicked. She flings herself into the room and I’m supposed to comfort her, that’s my job, except my body won’t move. Charlotte lies down beside me and I feel her bony body against mine. ‘What’s wrong with mum?’ When I can’t, Jess gives the right answer.

  Just not the true one.

  ‘She’s missing your dad.’

  I feel Charlotte beside me and Jess is spooned in beside me too and I’m drenched in sweat and my face is numb and we all know that we have to go back down there.

  I’m sorry Lucy, God says to me. He was supposed to be at his desk, he was supposed to die working. He was supposed to be at work. We can only go with the information given.

  I get a response from his customer complaints department too.

  We are sorry to hear you are unhappy with our services – while we do understand the impact on Charlotte – we have to take all our customers into consideration.

  Then there’s one from God’s account department too.

  The GFC and the state of the Euro has had a huge impact on everyone and God can’t delay these things until the financial picture is clearer.

  We trust you will understand.

  Thank you for your loyal patronage…

  Except I’m not loyal and neither am I a patron. It seems a bit hypocritical to sign up now but I want God or Jesus or a Higher Power. I want someone, some thing to make it all better, I want a sign that it will all be okay, but I’m not going to get one, I really am on my own.

  Luke’s at the bedroom door, he doesn’t say anything.

  There’s no “back to it, Lucy” today.

  I know it’s expected though and when my face stops being numb, I know that I have to go back down there.

  I just do.

  So, we do.

  We sort of roll off the bed, all in one motion, we just get up and get on and try to get through.

  It's a relief when they leave. Luke and Jess take Charlotte and I feel guilty that I’m pleased.

  Mum and her AA friends stay for a little bit to clean up.

  I can't stand them.

  Honestly, you have no idea.

  They’re like cheerful elves all fuelled on coffee, all chatting as they work, all filled with their infinite wisdom as, sleeves rolled up, they support each other!

  Oh, I know it so well.

  I pour myself a drink; a lovely big brandy and I smirk behind my glass as I take a sip.

  ‘You know you want one really,’ I want to say to them, but I have a baby bagel with goats’ cheese instead, before mum smothers it with cling film.

  ‘Why don't you come back home with me?’ Mum suggests as I open the fridge. I know she’s worried that I’ll soon be face down in the black forest gateaux that she brought but I didn’t put out. I don't even bother to answer her. ‘Or I could stay here for the night,’ she offers.

  ‘I want some time on my own.’

  The elves carry on working, cleaning down the bench, putting chairs and stools back and pretending they're not listening.

  I don't know why they bother pretending.

  She’ll be standing up in a meeting tomorrow talking about me and about how I still haven't forgiven her.

  Not that she needs it. Mum's forgiven herself you see.

  She's made her amends and said that she is sorry and now she has to move on with her life and it's up to me, they’ll tell her, whether or not I accept her apology.

  That's my journey apparently.
/>   Well, I don’t forgive her.

  There are a few elves smoking in the garden and I head out and pinch a fag.

  ‘You don’t smoke,’ Mum says, following me out and, to prove she’s such a good example, she lights one up herself. ‘You gave up years ago.’

  ‘Special occasion,’ I say. ‘I only smoke on days that I bury my husband!’

  I stand there and it makes me feel a bit sick. As I take another sip of my brandy I watch her lips purse and she’d better not fucking say anything.

  It’s my journey.

  I hate the lot of them.

  They know me you see.

  Or rather, they know too much about me.

  Those Nordic good looks didn’t come from my mum’s rich Swedish lover; instead they came courtesy of an 18-30’s holiday to the Costa Brava. She thinks he might be Danish and there were quite a few Swedes, possibly German… Simone was right, she was far too young to be my mother, so basically, she wasn't one. The council found her a flat when her parents kicked her out and she partied on from there.

  I got myself to school.

  I worked out to get milk, sausages, bread and ice- cream on the day her benefit came through, before it all went on booze.

  I cleaned the flat.

  I found out that clothes need washing more than once a fortnight when I got teased because I smelt and I changed my own sheets when I wet the bed. I was a fat kid and bullied mercilessly thanks to her meticulously thought out meal plans and my long love affair with ice cream.

  She straightened herself out though.

  But not till I was sixteen and left.

  Not till there wasn't someone to do the washing and cleaning anymore and make sure that there was food in the house.

  I got a job as a receptionist at an estate agent’s and I bought nice food and kept my tiny bedsit immaculate. I also worked out that I could have my ice cream-cake and eat it too, just so long as I threw it up, so I lost weight and the real-estate agent noticed.

  That was the first marriage I broke up but I’m not thinking about that now.