by Sue Margolis
“Fancy coming to mine for a cuppa?” Ginny says. “I have to drop Ivo off. He’s got a playdate with a boy from another school. Then Emma’s coming round and leaving her boys with me for a few hours—so your kids will have company.”
I tell her I’d love to come, but it’s Tuesday. The kids have French Club.
“I hate French Club,” Rosie harrumphs. “Everybody can talk it ’cept me. Delphine gave us volcablry to learn last week, and I lost the bit of paper. I know she’ll be cross with me.”
“I’m glad I don’t do French Club,” Ivo says. “It sounds strict and horrible.”
As if on cue, Sam appears. “It is. All we do is sing silly babyish songs or get tested on words. I don’t see why we have to learn French when practically the whole world speaks English—apart from the Chinese. I learned that from my book of facts.”
“And French people eat frogs’ legs,” Rosie says. “Why would you want to eat poor little frogs?”
“Actually frogs’ legs are rather nice,” Ginny says. “Can’t say I have much time for the Frenchies. What bothers me is that in 1558 we handed them Calais and all they gave us in return was the bloody bidet.”
Both children are clamoring to be let off French Club. “Please, please … just this once. We won’t ask again. Promise.”
I give in for selfish reasons more than anything. Having spent the day changing beds, doing laundry and spring-cleaning kitchen cupboards, I’m bushed. I’d much rather have a cup of tea and a gossip at Ginny’s than drive two miles to French Club in traffic and then sit in the car for an hour and a half while the kids learn to conjugate avoir and être.
• • •
Soon after we arrive at Ginny’s, her daughter, Emma, appears with her two boys, Mason and Tyler. It’s hard to believe that Ginny and Emma are mother and daughter. Ginny is stocky and lives in sweatshirts and jeans, whereas Emma is tiny and looks like she’s heading to a rockabilly convention. Her Rosie the Riveter head scarf has been accessorized with a tight red-check shirt, pedal pushers and clumpy fifties slingbacks. Like Tanya, she’s a whiz with scarlet lippie.
She’s full of warmth and smiles when she greets us and she makes a particular fuss over Sam and Rosie. But I can’t help thinking that her cheerfulness is affected. There’s something about her manner, the occasionally taut facial expression, the way she picks at her nails, that suggests all is not well.
“So, did you sell much today?” Ginny says, coming into the living room with a tray. There’s tea for us—sandwiches, potato chips and juice for the kids. She sets it down on the dining room table.
“A bit.”
“What does that mean?” Ginny says, swatting the back of Emma’s hand to stop her picking at her nails.
Emma pulls away. “It means you have to stop nagging.”
“Fine. I apologize.” She hands out mugs of tea.
“Sorry,” Emma says. “I didn’t mean to snap. The boys are getting me down, that’s all. They won’t stop fighting. I don’t know what’s got into them lately. They used to play really well together.”
“Join the club,” I say.
“Your two fight? Seriously? They look like butter wouldn’t melt.”
I can’t help noticing the way Emma speaks—only because her accent is something else that separates mother and daughter. Whereas Ginny sounds like somebody who regularly revisits Brideshead, Emma’s accent is pure London street.
• • •
For the last half hour, the children have been upstairs in Ginny’s spare bedroom playing Scalextric. So far there have been no skirmishes. The only sounds have been good-natured cries of victory or defeat.
Ginny calls them downstairs for snacks and insists that they eat at the table. Mason and his younger brother, who are both wearing Manchester United shirts, want to take their sandwiches into the garden, where there’s a trampoline. But Ginny’s not having it. “You eat at the table like proper people. Then you can go into the garden.” Sam and Rosie get up to the table. Mason and Tyler don’t move.
“That’s crap,” Mason says.
Emma is on her feet and in Mason’s face. “Don’t you dare talk to Granny like that. Now apologize. I don’t know what Rosie and Sam must think.”
With the sullenness of a sixteen-year-old, Mason mutters an apology. Both boys get up to the table.
“It’s OK, Mason,” Sam says. “Everybody at my school says ‘crap,’ even though you’re not meant to.”
I tell Sam that’s enough and that we’ve had enough swearing for one day.
“Well, I bet they don’t say ‘shit’ or ‘fuck,’” Mason says.
“Mason!” Emma turns to her mother and shoots her a plaintive look. “What do I do with him?”
“OK, folks,” Ginny says, “do you think we could possibly change the subject?”
Sam chooses not to hear. “They do say the F word,” he whispers. “But it’s really naughty.”
“Well, at our school we say it all the time. The teachers don’t care.”
“Yeah, they do,” his brother says. “You got sent to the head for saying it.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“You’re such a liar.”
“I am not.”
With that Mason thumps his brother’s shoulder. Tyler returns fire with an identical blow. Before anybody has time to react, they are on the floor punching, biting and pulling hair. This isn’t the usual sibling set-to. The boys’ faces are red and contorted with rage. They really want to hurt each other. Emma makes a halfhearted attempt to separate them. “Stop it, you two. I said, stop it.”
Rosie is wide-eyed and clearly a bit scared, but Sam is kneeling on his chair to get a better view. He’s enjoying this.
Emma looks on, close to tears. “I give up. I dunno what to do with them.”
Ginny puts down her mug of tea and wades in. “Right. This stops now,” she bellows. She grabs Tyler by the arm and heaves him, protesting, off his brother. “How many times have I told you I will not have fighting in my house? Now both of you sit down and eat your sandwiches—or you will go straight home. This is appalling behavior. I cannot tell you how disappointed I am.”
Tyler looks at her, sweaty and defiant, as he rearranges his football shirt. “But Mason started it.”
“I did not. You called me a liar.”
“I don’t care who started it. How dare you misbehave—particularly in front of visitors? Now, I won’t tell you again—sit down.” Ginny’s arm is outstretched, her finger pointing at the table.
The boys do as they’re told and the four children eat in silence.
Ginny is still trying to get her breath back as she sits down. “For God’s sake, Emma,” she says, lowering her voice, “you have to start showing those boys who’s boss. If you don’t, they will be out of control before you know it. Heaven help you when their hormones kick in.”
Emma is holding her mug of tea in one hand and wiping her eyes with the other. “I do my best. You know I do. But I’m trying to run my business and look after them on my own. It’s not easy raising kids in this neighborhood—particularly boys. You’ve no idea what it’s like.”
“Of course I know what it’s like,” Ginny barks. “I raised you here, didn’t I?”
“It wasn’t as rough back then. Kids weren’t roaming the streets with knives.”
I find myself thinking—not for the first time—that the parents at Faraday House have no idea how lucky they are.
After they’ve finished their snacks, Ginny says the children can play on the trampoline. They put on their coats—with no arguments—and charge outside. Standing by the sliding glass door, I can see that Ginny’s secondhand trampoline doesn’t have a safety net around it. It’s also getting dark. I’m imagining broken heads, but I don’t have the heart to stop the fun. Emma follows the children outside. “Mason, you’re the oldest. You make sure that everybody gets a turn. And no fighting … and don’t say fuck.”
“I worry ab
out the boys so much,” Ginny says to me, closing the door against the icy blast. “They’re not bad kids, but they’re always fighting—either with each other or with kids at school. And then there’s all this other mischief—like playing chicken on the main road.”
“If you ask me, that’s not mischief. They could get killed.”
“Don’t I know? The thing is that round here all the kids play in the street. The only alternative is to keep them inside. But they don’t have Xboxes and iPads like other kids … They’d go stir-crazy.”
Emma comes back into the living room and says she’d better get going. Her class starts in half an hour. As she picks up her bag and fake leopard-skin coat, she thanks her mum for agreeing to look after the boys.
“No problem. Just go.”
“Great to meet you, Judy. I’m really sorry about my kids playing up. I don’t know what you must think.”
What do I say? I’m not about to tell her that Ginny’s probably right and that she could have serious trouble brewing. Instead I tell her not to worry and that all kids have their off days.
“With my two, every day’s a bloody off day.” She gives a quick glance into the garden and is gone.
Ginny explains that Emma is doing a business start-up course. “It’s the first step to opening her own shop. But without the cash I can’t see that happening anytime soon.”
“Still no joy from her brother and uncle?”
“Uh-uh. They take after each other, those two. Bloody hard, the pair of them.”
I can’t think of anything that might console her. For a few moments we drink our tea in silence. Finally I mention that I haven’t seen Tanya yesterday or today.
“Didn’t she tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“She’s decided to stop working from home. She’s back at the record company’s office in Soho.”
“Why?”
“All this drugs gossip is getting her down. She can’t face people. So she’s decided to stay away for a while.”
“Bloody Claudia.”
I tell Ginny that I’m not sure she’s doing the right thing. I tend to think it’s better to stay and fight. But Ginny says her mind was made up.
“I’ll give her a call… . Oh, by the way, guess what—I bumped into Mike.”
“No! What did you say?”
“I apologized for not coming after him to say sorry for my outburst. He apologized for Claudia. Believe it or not, it was all very easy.”
“He’s a lovely man. But he must be so torn. He knows Claudia’s a head case. On the other hand, she’s his daughter. He has to remain loyal.”
“I agree. He’s in a rotten bind… . So, are you and Mike friends? You seem to know him quite well.”
“Not really. I met him the same way I met you. He picks up his grandkids from time to time and we got chatting. I’ve known him for ages. Actually it’s strange your paths haven’t crossed before.” She pauses and goes all quiet and conspiratorial. “He’s rather good-looking, don’t you think? Slim, trendy clothes … single.”
I can feel a grin forming on my face. “My God, you’ve got the hots for him.”
“Me? Don’t be daft. First of all, I have no interest in dating and second, even if I did, Mike’s not my type. He’s far too nice. I’d eat him for breakfast.”
I’m laughing. “You sure?”
“Positive. I need a man who would stand up to me. Give as good as he gets.”
“A sturdy cattle farmer—that’s what you need.”
She laughs and tells me I could be right.
“So, has Mike ever told you about Claudia’s childhood?” I say.
“What about it?”
I enlighten her.
“Good grief. That explains rather a lot. Not that I’m about to excuse her.” She pauses. “Interesting, though, that he chose to confide all this in you, don’t you think?”
“Not really. Claudia and I had a fight and he wanted to set the record straight.”
“Or maybe he wanted to unburden himself and thought you might be a good listener. I always get the impression that Mike’s rather lonely. He works hard, has a lot of work friends. There have been women in the past. But these days I’m not sure he has much by way of female company… .”
“Hang on—what are you suggesting?”
“Me? I’m not suggesting anything… . Another cup of tea?”
• • •
All the way home, Sam can’t stop talking about Mason and Tyler. “They’re really good fighters—way better than anybody at my school.” In a matter of hours, they’ve become his heroes.
He’s still going on about them over dinner. “So how come Mason and Tyler get to wear their soccer shirts at home and I’m only allowed to wear it when I’m actually playing?”
“It’s because the lower orders treat football shirts as leisure wear,” Mum says. “Estelle says it’s terribly vulgar.”
The words “can” and “worms” immediately come to mind.
“What’s lower orders and vulgar?” Rosie says.
I glare at my mother. “Great. Now look what you’ve started.”
“What have I started? All I’m saying is that it’s common to wear football kit in the street.”
The conversation is going over Rosie’s head and she’s lost interest—unlike her brother. “So, are Mason and Tyler common?”
“Of course they’re not,” I tell him.
“I think they probably are. The streets around where they live aren’t very nice and they say shit and fuck a lot.”
My mother waves a forkful of meatball at Sam and tells him to go and wash his mouth out with soap. “Where on earth did you learn filth like that?”
“I’m sorry,” Sam says, “but I’m only trying to explain to Rosie.”
“No, you’re not,” I say to him. “You’re looking for an excuse to say swearwords. You’ve heard Mason and Tyler use them and you think it’s clever. Now stop it.”
“And these are the kinds of youngsters you’re letting my great-grandchildren play with? Very nice.”
I promise everybody ice cream for dessert if we can change the subject. Mum says she doesn’t fancy it and Sam still wants to know if Mason and Tyler are common.
“Common is a horrible word,” I say, taking a tub of Phish Food out of the freezer and leaving it on the counter to thaw. “People who use it are snobs who think they’re superior to other human beings. There’s nothing wrong with Mason and Tyler wearing their football kit to knock about in.”
“So, does that mean that from now on I can wear mine at weekends and when we go out?”
“Absolutely.” Please don’t let him have picked up on the hesitation in my voice. “Now finish your meatballs.”
After dinner we Skype with Abby and Tom.
“You’ve been away weeks and weeks and weeks,” Rosie says. “Aren’t all the sick people getting better yet?”
“They are,” Abby says, “but it takes time to wipe out diseases like cholera and typhoid. People are still getting ill.”
“How much time?” Sam says.
“It’s hard to say. But I’m really hoping we’ll be back by the beginning of May. And it’s already March.”
“That means you’re going to miss my chess tournament.”
“I know, darling,” Abby says. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s OK.” Sam is close to tears.
“And when you get back we can go to Disneyland like you promised?” Rosie pipes up.
“You bet.”
“Good.”
• • •
Once we’ve finished on Skype, I give Sam a hug. “Don’t worry about the chess tournament. It’ll be all right. You’ll have me and Nana supporting you and cheering you on. You’re going to be fine.”
“I know. It’s just that all the other kids will have their mums and dads.”
“And your mum and dad will be there in spirit.”
Rosie wants to know what “in spirit” means.
After I’ve explained, the kids head upstairs for baths, and I put the kettle on for coffee while Mum scrapes plates into the trash can.
“By the way,” Mum says, “I’ve decided not to go to the wedding.”
“But you have to go. You’ve promised Estelle. She really wants you there.”
“I know. But when I explain, she’ll understand. It’s going to be a long day, and I’m not up to it. I don’t have the energy. And what with my irritable bowel syndrome—”
“Hold on. Since when did you have IBS?”
“Since I Googled my symptoms. I’ve got the cramps, wind and diarrhea. I’ve had it for a while. I just didn’t want to worry you.”
“But after your physical the doctor said you were fine.”
“Ach, what does he know?”
“OK … tell me honestly: Has this got anything to do with Estelle dating this Max guy?”
Mum pauses in midscrape. “What are you talking about? You keep bringing this up. Why would it have anything to do with Estelle?”
“Is she planning on bringing Big Max to the wedding?”
“I don’t know. She thinks it might be too early to introduce him to the family, but she’s thinking about it.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
“I don’t care. She can do what she likes. Personally I think it’s far too early. But it’s her decision.”
“I think you’re jealous.”
“Jealous? Of what?”
“Of Estelle. She’s dating somebody and you’re not.”
“Are you serious? Why would I want to start dating at my age? I’m almost dead.”
“You’re not—but all the more reason perhaps.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Maybe.”
Mum insists we drop the subject and announces she’s got a chicken neck to stuff for tomorrow’s dinner. I leave her with a cup of coffee and take mine into the living room. The phone is lying on the sofa arm. I pick it up and hit Tanya’s number. She’s full of apologies for leaving me out of the loop and not telling me she was going back to work. “I’ve just been so upset. I know you have been as well after your confrontation with Claudia. But I suspect you’re stronger than me. I can’t face people just now.”
I do my best to convince her that going into hiding will do no good and might even fuel the gossip.
