The Generation Game

by Sophie Duffy

  I am halfway through the pixie’s toadstool when Mr Sugar pops his head round the door.

  ‘You alright, Philippa?’ he asks and he lobs a packet of Salt ‘n’ Shake onto the desk. Then he winks. Not a creepy wink. Not the sort of wink the ironmonger throws at Helena when she is forced to go in his smelly shop for nails and things because she has ‘no man about the place’. (Is that why she wishes I were a boy? So I could change a plug and unblock a drain?) This is more like the wink I’ve seen Bernie give Toni when he’s done something he knows Sheila won’t approve of, such as putting his dirty great clodhoppers on her Ercol coffee table.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Sugar,’ I say politely.

  ‘Call me Bob,’ he says.

  I must look shocked at this show of friendliness so he says, ‘I’m pretty sure it’s my name.’ And he checks inside the collar of his shirt, looking for an imaginary name tag. ‘Yes. Definitely, Bob. Short for Robert.’

  Then he fills the kettle and puts it on the little stove like the one we used to have Above the Lot. The bell goes in the shop but Mr Sugar stays put, leaning against the mug-rimmed Formica worktop. He obviously trusts my mother to deal with customers in his absence.

  ‘Cup of tea, Philippa?’

  I’ve never been asked that before but I don’t let on. ‘Yes please,’ I say as casually as I can. (I don’t want Lucas being the only one to have new experiences this weekend.)

  He starts chatting away to me about school. He says he hated school but he wishes he’d stuck it out. He left with no qualifications and ended up being a waiter at one of the big hotels until he was bequeathed some money and bought the shop.

  ‘But what could be better?’ I am flabbergasted at the way he sighs when he recounts his disappointing career.

  He laughs, ‘Do you know what, Philippa? You could be right. It’s not a bad little shop is it?’

  The kettle whistles on cue and he pours water into the pot. While we wait for it to brew (there is a lot of waiting involved in tea-making), we can clearly hear a woman’s raised voice out in the shop. The customer is shouting at Mother. Why is she doing that? Has Helena made a mistake with the Mint Imperials? Given her the wrong cigarettes? Short-changed her? I look at Bob who shrugs. Then he peeks his head round the door into the shop, briefly, before withdrawing it again.

  ‘Nothing to worry about,’ he says, all cheerful, walking back to the worktop. ‘Just one of your mother’s friends. A little tiff. Something or nothing.’

  I carry on with the colouring, more restrained now, my ears pricked to the conversation outside. Bob cuts in when the volume increases once more, this time my mother joining in.

  ‘So,’ he says, pouring the tea from a great height into three mugs, two of which are chipped. ‘Does your mother have a gentleman caller?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘A… ’ he coughs, his cheeks flushing red ‘… a boyfriend?’

  I consider this, chewing the end of my new pencil, trying not to listen to the noise outside. ‘There’s Lucas,’ I suggest helpfully. He is a boy. But he is my friend. Is that what he means?

  ‘What’s he like, this Lucas?’ Bob asks, carefully placing a mug in front of me.

  ‘He’s got lovely hair and egg-skin and he’s this much shorter than me.’ I indicate a hand span, the way Toni measures me when I am her pony. Bob looks puzzled.

  ‘How old is he exactly?’

  ‘Five.’

  ‘Ah,’ he says, relieved. ‘That kind of boyfriend.’

  ‘What other kind is there?’ I ask, confused.

  But Bob doesn’t answer. By now there is a full scale row going on in the shop. I hear phrases like, you filthy harlot and you disgusting slut. I know Mother is a little lackadaisical with her housework but I don’t know why this woman is so cross about that. And why is Bob doing nothing? It is his shop after all and Mother obviously can’t be trusted on her own.

  I look at Bob. He ignores my look entirely and instead helps me colour in the pixie’s cuffs which are particularly challenging. He shows me how to stay within the lines which is another of life’s mysteries solved. Despite – or maybe because of – his reluctance to sort out my mother, I want Mr Bob Robert Sugar to marry her. (My own father will jolly well have to learn to share if he ever makes his way out of that jungle.)

  Finally the shop door is slammed with such force that a pane of glass tinkles to the floor. This is enough to make Bob abandon the pixie cuff and hurry out to see what is going on. I follow him.

  There is Helena, quite still, standing amongst the broken glass, lighting a cigarette, staring after a woman who is striding down the street with a girl in tow. Mother is not crying, though crying is not far off. (I can make out the telltale signs of patchy skin.) But when I look again, through the jagged glass of the door, down the street, it is my own eyes that fill with tears. The girl who is galloping after her mother has her hair scraped back neatly in a bun. A little Margot Fonteyn.

  Lucas did have new experiences in London. His grandparents took him to the Planetarium where he saw the birth of Earth amongst other things. They took him to the Changing of the Guard (apparently there were lots of guards and they’d all kept their clothes on which was a little disappointing but I didn’t tell Lucas that as I didn’t want to spoil his memories). Then Mrs Jones took him to see a Special List in a hospital. I wonder what was on this Special List – names of good children, perhaps? And why was it in a hospital? When I ask Mother she is vague and fails to light her cigarette on the first strike of a match which is strange as she is an expert.

  So, when Lucas comes round with Mrs Jones to help us pack (we are moving again), I ask him.

  ‘It’s a man,’ he says. ‘A doctor.’

  ‘He’s on the list?’

  ‘There is no list.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘He’s called a Specialist because he’s the best doctor.’

  ‘Is your mother poorly?’ I ask, horrified. His mother always looks as immaculate as mine and I can’t imagine her lying pale and sick in bed.

  ‘No,’ he says.

  ‘Oh, good.’

  ‘No. It’s me. I’m poorly.’

  And somehow when he says this, I know he doesn’t mean a cold or tonsillitis. I know it is something beyond my understanding. Why else would they go all the way to London? Why else would Helena’s hand be shaking? Why else would she have held me so fiercely when she tucked me in last night?

  But everything is suddenly hectic this morning. I don’t have time to ask any more questions (not that I’d get any answers anyway.) Mother and I must pack up all our things in our little house (goodbye giant rabbit hole!). We must move out because the landlord doesn’t want us here anymore.

  There is a silver lining, however (must it always be silver?). We are moving in with Mrs Jones and Lucas who have a spare room. Lucas will be my landlord!

  ‘We’ll stay until we find somewhere else,’ Helena says.

  ‘Please,’ urges Mrs Jones, ‘stay as long as you like.’

  And they both steal a Look at Lucas, lying on the sofa sipping Lucozade, watching Blue Peter with eyes like pebbles washed up on the beach.

  I am not sure what that Look means exactly, though I can see it is full and heavy. But at least I know who Valerie Singleton is now.

  2006

  I’m supposed to go home today. Home is not two rooms over a Lot or any of the other various places I lived as a child. It is a very expensive Victorian house in the over-priced trendiness of East Dulwich where we were going to play small-but-happy families.

  You and I can’t go anywhere yet though – not until the doctor has been to check us over. I’m an old mother and could fall apart at any moment apparently. It’s not me I’m worried about; I always seem to scrape through whatever challenges Life arranges. It’s you that concerns me. I won’t feel happy until I am told by someone with years of medical training that you are as you should be. All present and correct. You may look absolutely fine but who knows what’
s going on in that little body of yours that can’t be seen? Appearances can be deceptive, I should know that.

  “It’s perfectly normal to worry”, Fran says. “You’re a mother now. It’s your job.”

  I don’t remember it being in my own mother’s job description but I plan to be more conscientious.

  “Who’s going to take you home?”

  Good question. I don’t have anyone to take us home. I don’t even have a car seat contraption thing. I wanted the most expensive one Mothercare had to offer but that idea flew out the window, along with ‘Daddy’s’ hastily-packed suitcase.

  Fran has a muslin square swathed over one shoulder where she is rocking you like the old pro she is, while I finish off my hospital shepherd’s pie which brings back memories of school dinners shared with my brown-eyed boy. It is the weight and consistency of concrete and would sink a dead body but I’m famished so needs must. “That’s breastfeeding for you,” says Fran, “you can never get enough food inside you.” She changes position and is now cradling you, examining you closely, a concentrated look in her eye, holding you up to the light at the window, checking for jaundice. You do have a slight yellow tinge. Or is it blue? Duck egg blue like Lucas. Whatever colour it is, you don’t look quite right, even to my inexpert eyes. But there’s probably a perfectly simple explanation.

  “What do you reckon, then?” I ask.

  She sighs. “She’s lovely.”

  (You are, you are.)

  Then she hands you over, my baby-with-no-name, saying it’s my turn.

  “Whoever did your stitches made a good job of it,” Fran announces. “Which is one less thing to worry about.”

  Indeed.

  Chapter Four: 1971

  This is Your Life

  The following months are a mixed, confusing time stuffed with emotion of one sort or another. Life has become that infamous roller-coaster when once it was a rusty old roundabout. Lucas and I never know what to expect of our mothers. We don’t know if we are coming or going or what is round the next corner (etc, etc).

  Sometimes Lucas and I are given complete and utter freedom, freedom that would never be contemplated these days for six-year-olds without serious concerns for their health and safety. We like to wander the local streets. We like to go down the road to Toy Town with our pocket money to add to our growing collection of Dinky TV tie-ins. We like to call in to see Mr Bob Sugar who stocks us up with goodies and sometimes lets us play with the pipe display. And although we no longer have the giant rabbit hole at our disposal, it is just a quick walk to Albert Morris’ graveyard where we like to spend hours playing Hide-and-Seek amongst the crosses and angels or Guess-the-Animal-Poo amongst the shrubs and undergrowth. But the time I am happiest in the Bone Yard is when Lucas helps me with my reading. I have mastered several Biblical verses and all the old family names of Torquay. He is a good teacher.

  At other times our freedom is stripped and we are imprisoned inside the house. We are not even allowed to go in the little garden and fiddle with the snails. But as long as Lucas and I are together there is always something to do. We can play on the old piano in the dining room. We can listen to The Monkees on Mrs Jones’ record player. We can make our way through the games in the sideboard: Battleships, Tiddlywinks, Draughts and (my favourite) Happy Families. And, when we are feeling imaginative, we can play Sweet Shops (where I am Mr Sugar and Lucas is the paperboy) or Schools (where Lucas is almost as strict as Miss Pitchfork but much easier to fathom) or even Vets (when Andy is in a compliant mood).

  Sometimes Mrs Jones – or Auntie Nina as I am now allowed to call her – is the cheeriest person imaginable (after Father Christmas). She has a wide-stretched smile that shows off her silver fillings. Mother too is trying her best to be a ray of sunshine and to avoid dipping into her Moods – tricky for her as she is still harbouring resentment over the Eviction. I am beginning to suspect the Eviction had something to do with Auntie Sheila as I haven’t been to play with Toni in a long time (I am really out of practice on my dressage).

  At other times Auntie Nina is swaddled in anger. I watch her in the garden, snipping the slugs in half with the kitchen scissors, pruning the rose bushes aggressively until all that remains is a row of miserable-looking stumps. And she spends a lot of time simply staring. She will walk into a room and suddenly stop, forgetting what she has come in for. She carries on standing there for some considerable time, staring into nothingness. I wonder if that is exactly why she came into a room in this way: just to stare and transport herself to another place where she doesn’t have to worry anymore.

  Worry is taking its toll on Auntie Nina. She no longer looks the immaculate creature that first grasped my mother’s attention across a crowded playground. Even Mother sometimes fails to coordinate her shoes and bags these days. They are worried about Lucas. He has a disease with a name that could’ve been made for him. He doesn’t have to go to school because he must go to the hospital an awful lot where they give him medicine that makes him sick. ‘Go to bed,’Auntie Nina urges her son on their return. But he doesn’t want to miss his favourite programmes so she lets him stay downstairs on the sofa, cocooned in a green blanket. Underneath the blanket I know he is as thin as our class stick insect, Graham. And he lies as still as Graham does on his twig of privet so that every now and then I have to poke Lucas. Just to check.

  Lucas has another trip to London to stay with his grandparents. This time they take him to the Tower of London and St Paul’s Cathedral and a Very Important Doctor in Harley Street. Lucas is exhausted on his return and doesn’t even want to watch The Monkees with me. He takes to his bed for three (endless) days while I have to go to the shop with Mother after school to give him some Peace and Quiet. I help Mr Bob Sugar with the stock-taking. He says I am a natural and I can feel my cheeks burning up just like Lucas’ do from time to time.

  Lucas starts wearing a hat. A Torquay United bobble hat. Blue and yellow like the Swedish flag (according to his Book of Flags). Lucas doesn’t like football but Mr Bob Sugar says every Torquay boy must have one of these bobble hats. What about every Torquay girl? That’s what I want to know. But I don’t say anything. I know this isn’t about me.

  Lucas still hasn’t returned to school. ‘I want him to have Happy Times,’ I hear Auntie Nina tell Mother. ‘We’re going to have Days Out.’

  After weeks of Days Out in the museums and castles and country houses of the West Country, Lucas begs to be allowed back to school.

  ‘But why?’ Auntie Nina protests.

  ‘Because I like school.’

  Shock, horror. But it is true.

  So Lucas goes back to school with special dispensation to wear his bobble hat, only – lucky Thing Two – he doesn’t have to do PE! Instead, while the rest of us strip to our pants and vest, he goes into the class next door with his copy of Stig of the Dump.

  Lucas is happy. And that’s what counts.

  I am not happy. We are not allowed to play in the Bone Yard anymore. And I don’t think this is because we come back caked in red mud which isn’t hygienic for Lucas who has to keep very clean in case he catches Germs (little tiny alien life forms that no-one can see).

  It is more than that. It has something to do with Albert Morris, the dead boy.

  A strange man turns up on our doorstep. He is short for a man. Much shorter than Bob and Bernie but with a familiar look about him – pale skin and dark eyes. Mother invites him in for a cup of tea and sits him down in the dining room. Auntie Nina is out at the chemist’s fetching a prescription.

  ‘Stop following me round like a seagull, Philippa,’ Mother snaps.

  I follow her to the kitchen where she fills the kettle.

  ‘Who is that man?’

  ‘Mr Jones.’ She will not look at me.

  ‘Mr Jones?’

  ‘Yes. Mr Jones.’ She lights the gas stove and puts on the kettle before adding in a quiet voice, ‘Lucas’ father.’

  ‘Father?’

  ‘Yes, father,’
she whispers loudly, her green eyes flashing up at the ceiling above where we can hear Lucas’ mouse-steps patter across the floor boards, busy on his Secret Project.

  ‘I don’t know what Nina will say,’ Helena adds, sparking up a cigarette at the back door.

  And then I remember the Divorce. Lucas’ mother and father do not like each other anymore.

  ‘She won’t be very happy to see him, will she Mummy?’

  ‘No, Philippa,’ she says. ‘But the least I can do is make the poor man a cup of tea.’

  While we wait for the kettle to boil, music floats in from the dining room. Mr Jones must be playing the piano. It is a tad off-key but you can tell he is a good musician. The tune is far more sophisticated than Chopsticks which is as much as Lucas and I can manage. A little while later we also hear mouse-steps on the stairs. Mother quickly pours the tea and the cup rattles on the saucer as she carries it through to Mr Jones, me at her (high) heels.

  And there is Lucas. Standing by the piano, watching the man’s pale hands as they flutter over the black and white keys like a swarm of moths. The man doesn’t need to look at the music or at the piano. He can play by heart, by touch. Instead he looks at Lucas.

  And there we stand, Helena and I, in the doorway, watching this tableau: Mr Jones studying his son; Lucas studying his father’s hands. They don’t even notice we are there.

  My throat hurts so much because I am trying not to cry. I am trying hard to be cheerful because I know that is what I must do, though I can’t stop myself from saying: ‘Don’t take him away.’

  But I don’t know who it is I am pleading with.