by Claire Sandy
Their faces sharp with shock, the girls looked at their accomplice. ‘Oh no, please,’ begged Scarlett.
‘In that case, send us all home,’ said Tillie, her face a peculiar colour.
‘Believe me, I’d like to,’ shouted Shen. ‘You girls can make dinner every night and go to bed early and get up early and . . . and . . .’
‘Perhaps you’d like us to lick your feet?’ asked Tillie with total seriousness.
Zane sniggered, then said, ‘What?’ in answer to his step-mother’s withering look. ‘Are you going to send me home even more?’
Clive put his oar in. And, thought Evie, what a predictable and unhelpful oar it is. ‘I should never have let him come in the first place.’
‘Yeah, right, Dad,’ said Zane. There was a flicker between him and Tillie, as if he drew energy from the girl’s grit. ‘Don’t forget to polish your Daddy of the Year Award.’
Before Shen could draw breath to roar, Jon strode to the rug and put an arm around her. ‘I think these three are idiots,’ he said soberly. ‘Absolute idiots. I think we were probably all idiots at their age.’ Evie almost raised her hand and said ‘A-men’, before reminding herself she was neither from the Deep South nor in an Oprah audience. ‘They’re ashamed and embarrassed, as they should be.’ Jon craned his neck to look closer at each in turn. ‘If they’ve any sense – and they have plenty of sense – they’ll learn from this and it won’t happen again. At least, not in front of us. I suspect their brains are like throbbing, rotten cabbages right now.’
Three heads nodded in agreement, then stopped as their owners regretted such extravagant movement.
‘Jon’s right.’ Mike slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t send Zane home, Shen. Do something far worse to the boy.’ He lowered his head and looked penetratingly at the accused. ‘I vote for a fate worse than death.’ He rubbed his hands like a panto-villain. ‘Crazy golf!’
The pace of holiday life is slow; for Evie, forty-eight hours ago was another era, the good old days of relative peace before the turmoil of modern times. Why did I make such a fuss about revealing my new job? From her present perspective, as another spasm made her wince, that barely qualified as a problem.
Standing under the shower, grateful for the abundance of hot water that never sputtered or went cold when she had suds in her hair, Evie absent-mindedly fingered the scar on her abdomen, a pink memento of something she’d rather forget.
Not all the memories of 2009 were ugly. There were nuggets of gold amongst the murk. Like Shen casually handing over a rectangle of paper, saying, ‘This is for you’, as she unpacked a carrier bag full of organic goodies.
‘But this is . . . I can’t take this!’ Evie had fingered the cheque and noted the noughts. ‘Seriously, Shen, it’s lovely of you, but I can’t accept it.’
‘People only say that in films,’ Shen had laughed. ‘It’s my contribution. It’s only money. It’s simpler than having to sit here and watch you in pain. I already do that, so please let me do something easy, for once.’
That cheque had helped Evie jump the queue. It may have saved her life. Driven out of the shower, she found her phone and closed the door against the noise from the master suite.
‘This is your territory, Shen!’ Clive was shouting.
‘She’s not territory – she’s a baby!’ Shen was shouting. ‘Change her bloody nappy while I have a bloody nap or I’ll cut your bloody balls off and bloody feed them to you!’
‘Hello,’ said Evie into her phone. ‘I’m not one of your regular patients, but I need an appointment.’ She swallowed. ‘Yes, it’s urgent,’ she finally conceded.
It was too muggy for anything energetic. Tillie and Scarlett stayed in their room, suffering, waiting for the after-effects to wear off.
In the driveway Zane cleaned his father’s car.
‘Hot work.’ Evie wandered out to him with a cold drink. ‘Did Clive order you to do this?’
‘Nope.’
‘Is it your way of saying sorry without using the word?’
Zane looked affronted. ‘I’ve nothing to be sorry about.’
‘Last night’s behaviour wasn’t very responsible.’
‘You lot . . .’ Zane rubbed at the bonnet. ‘If you knew what the guys at my school get up to.’
‘I don’t want to,’ said Evie hurriedly. ‘Scarlett’s been tipsy, but never as slaughtered as she was last night.’ She rewound Scarlett’s short life, seeing her as a ten-year-old, as a six-year-old, as a dot. Mike always warned her to be wary of sentimentalizing childhood, of looking at Scarlett as a snowy piece of paper for life to scribble on.
‘It was my fault. Dad was right about that.’
‘Like all seventeen-year-old girls, my daughter doesn’t need leading astray. She’s halfway there already.’ Evie took back the empty glass. ‘Why do you do all this this petty rebellious stuff, Zane?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Dunno.’ Evie mimicked him. ‘Yes, you do.’
Zane buffed a headlight. ‘Something to do, isn’t it?’
‘You could collect stamps or learn French. No need to push the self-destruct button every time.’ Evie wondered where this empathy and eloquence went, when she dealt with her own teenager.
‘Stamps are boring, and I speak fluent French.’
‘Maybe it’s to impress a certain lady then.’
‘Hardly,’ said Zane quickly.
‘I’m right. When you’re right, you’re right. And I’m right.’
‘I just do what I do,’ said Zane cagily.
‘Pulling girls’ hair to get their attention is out of date,’ said Evie. She’d seen Scarlett’s baffled pain when Zane teased Dan about his night-light. ‘Why not try a little kindness? Girls like that stuff.’
‘Secretly, they like having their hair pulled even better.’
‘You won’t get far with that attitude.’ Evie wondered why she had such patience with a boy who spurned advice and rampaged through life, his sense of entitlement so pronounced that it took a seat beside him on public transport. ‘Girls aren’t an alien life-form. They have the same needs and hopes as you. You don’t have to be cocky, but you do have to be nice. That’s a lame word, but it hits the spot.’ She had a sudden urge. Since phoning the doctor she’d felt light-headed, with a hunger to be happy right here, right now. So she gave into her urge. ‘Come here, you twit.’
Zane resisted the hug. The hugging didn’t stop, however, and he had no choice but to surrender. His head found Evie’s shoulder.
If somebody had hugged Mike at Zane’s age, his teen years might have been very different. Zane’s arms tightened around her and Evie realized she needed a hug just as much as the boy did.
‘Sure you don’t want to come to crazy golf?’
‘Mike, have you ever met me?’ said Evie. ‘I’m sure.’
‘But you love crazy golf.’ He was slack-jawed with shock. ‘We’ve played crazy golf loads of times.’ He went white. ‘Are you telling me you never enjoyed it? Not once?’
‘Now that I’ve shaken our relationship to its core, I’ll tootle off and run some errands in the village.’
‘What else are you keeping from me?’ laughed Mike as she walked away.
Another hole-in-one. Clive retrieved his ball from the giant plastic duck’s custard-coloured beak. ‘I believe I’m winning,’ he said.
‘Winners. Losers. Who’s counting?’ Mike lined up his shot.
‘The winner is counting.’ Clive leaned on his club. ‘Where did Jon go?’
‘He’s around somewhere.’ Mike concentrated hard. Clive had been unbearable since his first hole-in-one had hurtled over a miniature bridge. ‘Damn!’ It was too muggy for crazy golf; he felt as if the sky hung just above his head.
‘A hole in . . . twelve,’ said Clive.
‘This is shit!’ shouted Zane, from the far side of a toy farmstead.
‘Language, please,’ said the man in the ticket booth. ‘There are children playing.’
; The children were The Eights and they had yet to hit a ball, preferring to explore the strange, small world of the course. ‘Mummy, look!’ shouted Amber. ‘A loop-the-loop!’
‘Yes, dear.’ Paula was distracted. She’d been stuck at the windmill for what felt like years.
The woman in the mirror was a stranger to Shen. The determined, shapely chin was the same. And the demure nose and the large forehead. But this poor cow had mascara smudges beneath her eyes and her hair was unbrushed.
She wasn’t accustomed to being this bad at something. She was an achiever. She blazed trails and set standards. Yet here she was, two days into full-time motherhood, and she was a wreck.
The baby who’d conquered the house with one shake of her rattle, who had more energy than a fleet of cheerleaders, who made Shen’s heart lift with joy and her brain wilt with fatigue, was asleep. Shen thought of Fang’s naps as something delicate, made of the same stuff as bubbles. If she thought too loudly, she’d wake Fang and the whole cycle would begin afresh.
Clive had whistled a tune on his way out to crazy golf. He was still in the parallel universe she’d recently left, the one where this was a holiday. For Shen, Wellcome Manor had become an endurance test.
It had come to this: Shen Ling-Little was envious of people playing crazy golf.
Alex, just seen the doc. It’s as I feared. This changes everything. I can’t take the position after all. I’m so, so sorry. I know I’m letting you down. We’ll talk when I get home. But for now, please start looking for another assistant. E x
Bypassing the front door, Evie rounded the side of the house. Since leaving the surgery, a sheaf of pamphlets in her bag, she’d pelted along at full tilt. At some point she would stop and, when that point came, she would need to talk. To talk and talk and talk to somebody who understood, somebody who cared and would let her burp up all the fear, and then hold her while she cried.
That person, however, mustn’t be Mike, so she was relieved to find the jalopy still absent from the drive. Shen was what Evie needed. Ferocious, you’ll-get-through-this-because-I’ll-kill-you-if-you-don’t Shen.
The house was quiet. Evie hoofed from room to room, until she heard a smothered snuffling coming from the drawing room.
Propped up on cushions, Fang slept. Kneeling beside her, her head sunk into the sofa, Shen sobbed into the velvet.
‘It’s playing the game that counts,’ said Mike as they handed over their flimsy clubs at the kiosk.
‘But winning is nice,’ said Clive. ‘Who wants an ice cream?’
You little traitors, thought Mike, as The Eights gathered around Clive as if he was the Pied Piper.
Shen felt the sofa shift. She jerked her head to see Fang’s waxy soles rise in the air, as the child was lifted up and spirited away through the door, which closed with barely a thud.
She sat up, rubbing sore eyes that felt like tiny button-holes. She hadn’t cried like that in years and was surprised at how fresh and clean she felt now. And tired.
On the coffee table was a tray. A percolator of coffee stood, its plunger flirtatiously begging to be pressed. On a plate sat a slice of organic, gluten-free carrot cake.
Shen ate greedily. And gratefully.
The house’s empty spaces filled up with noise. Five minutes back at Wellcome Manor and each teen was already accessorized with a bowl of cereal.
‘Mum,’ said Scarlett, ‘Dad puts the “crazy” in crazy golf.’
‘I heard that.’ Mike looked hurt at this slur on his miniaturized sporting acumen. ‘You have real promise, Scarlett,’ he said nobly, generous despite his daughter’s rudeness.
Scarlett locked eyes with Evie. ‘I can die happy,’ she said, through a mouthful of Cheerios.
‘Here she is, my favourite lady.’ Clive breezed into the kitchen.
‘My wife or your daughter?’ asked Mike wryly.
‘I leave that entirely up to you.’ Clive winked at Evie, but the wink was lost as she thrust the baby at him, leaving him no option but to embrace Fang.
‘Yours, I believe,’ she said, in a tone of voice that Mike knew well. Even though he wasn’t in the line of fire, it made him want to duck.
‘Could you hang on to her, darling?’ Clive held Fang out again; the child was a human relay-baton. ‘Just until I’ve opened a bottle of something glorious.’
‘No, darling, I couldn’t.’ Evie crossed her arms as Fang dangled.
Clive looked at her as if she was a gadget that had suddenly short-circuited. He leaned in, lowered his voice. ‘You look fabulous when you’re angry.’
‘What? No I don’t.’ Evie stepped back. She needed the people around her to be rock-solid, to be ordinary, not odd. ‘Clive, Shen’s worn out, and I have things to do.’
‘Like what?’
Like digesting the universe-tilting news from the doctor. Like planning the assault course of the rest of my life. Like telling my happily oblivious husband he’s just escaped one man-trap, only to step into another. ‘Your daughter’s nappy needs changing and you’re the only available adult – you do the maths.’
‘I don’t do babies,’ said Clive.
‘You do now.’ Their stand-off – Is Clive enjoying this? thought Evie, irritated – was curtailed by a full-throttle scream from the terrace.
‘Paula,’ they said in unison, and bustled out to see Paula pointing at the ground as Jon tried to pull her away.
Shen, her hair on end, ran out, Mike behind her, holding Mabel and Amber by the hands. Tillie rushed up like a paramedic.
‘What does this mean?’ Paula was mad-eyed.
Picked out in pebbles on the stone flags was a name: Paula.
‘It’s starting again!’ she screamed.
‘No,’ Jon battled to keep her hands from clawing at her scalp. ‘Please, Paula.’
Tillie went to her mother, dwarfing her, wrapping her long brown arms around her, but to no avail. Paula screamed on.
‘I was out here five minutes ago.’ Evie bent to examine the pebbles. ‘There was nothing here.’
‘It’s the murderer!’ Dan, late to the scene, caught up quickly.
‘I love the murderer!’ yelled Miles, high-fiving Dan.
Mabel burst into tears, welding herself to her dad’s leg.
‘Quiet, boys. You’re making it worse,’ sighed Evie.
‘You all think I’m cuckoo. Even you, Tillie, who should know better.’ Paula shook her daughter off. ‘I’m the only one who knows what’s going on. We have to leave. Now. You!’ She wheeled at Jon, jabbed her finger so close to his face that he had to dodge her. ‘You broke your promise!’
‘Mummy!’ Amber’s voice was a screech. Everybody looked at the little girl. ‘I’m thorry, Mummy!’
‘Was it you?’ Mike hunkered down, eye-to-eye with Amber, his voice gentle. ‘Did you spell out your mummy’s name?’
‘Yeth!’ cried Amber, as if confessing to a homicide. ‘It was me!’ She stamped her foot, losing control. ‘It was a thurprithe, Mummy!’ She was tormented, as if she wanted to jump out of her eight-year-old skin.
Paula sank to her knees. ‘Amber,’ she began, breathless.
‘No!’ Amber roared into her mother’s face. ‘You’re always being mean. And we never do anything bad.’ She raced off down the steps, almost taking flight in her desire to get away.
Tillie followed. After a second’s hesitation, so did Scarlett, shooting a reproachful look at Paula.
‘Again.’ Jon shook his head, took off his spectacles, massaged the bridge of his nose. ‘You’ve done it again, Paula.’
‘Look, let’s all—’ Evie got no further, and the arm she reached out to Paula found only thin air as the woman lurched away, as hysterical as her eight-year-old.
‘I know you hate me, Jon!’ Her diction was distorted by tears and spittle. ‘I know you want out!’
Like a man walking to the gallows, he followed her into the house.
The argument was circular, endless. Nobody dared rap on the Browns’ bedroom
door to tell them that, with the window open, every bitter word was telegraphed to the whole of Wellcome Manor on the still, pregnant air.
‘Just go!’ Paula said that over and over.
Jon’s answers were various. Sometimes he shouted, ‘Where the hell would I go?’ Sometimes, ‘I don’t want to go.’ About an hour in, he snarled, ‘I’ve given up everything for you. What more do you need? Do you want blood, woman?’
He ran out of steam earlier than Paula, resorting to, ‘Paulie, how about a nice lie-down?’ while she was still telling him he had no feelings and had always considered himself above her.
Whacking up the sound system, Evie enticed The Eights into an impromptu dance session, which always went down well at home; watching Mummy wig out to The Saturdays was a perennial crowd-pleaser. Whether it was the oppressive weather crushing down on them or the backdrop of marital carnage, today’s danceathon didn’t catch fire.
‘Amber.’ Evie took the little bundle onto her lap. ‘All mummies and daddies argue. It doesn’t mean they don’t love each other.’
‘My mummy doesn’t love my daddy,’ said Amber, matter-of-factly. ‘My daddy loves my mummy too much.’ She sighed. ‘How can you love thomebody too much?’
‘I think too much is just the right amount.’ Evie squeezed her and Amber giggled. The child was thawing, with the awe-inspiring resilience of little ones.
From upstairs Paula yelled, ‘Don’t you think I’d love to walk away from this mess myself!’
Twilight swooned over the house, like a damp blanket. Waving Mike and The Eights off in search of a chip shop – the rota had gone to pot; dinner wasn’t happening – Evie wished the storm would just get on with it. This charged feeling of something eternally about to happen exaggerated the mood of the house. A natural blurter, she wanted to shout her news.
She needed to hear Shen chop it into manageable chunks. Within ten minutes her eyes would be dried and a To Do list written.
That’s how the old Shen would deal with it, thought Evie. The new, dead-eyed and hostile model would probably shrug.
