by Sue Margolis
I make my way back to the school gates, where the children going on the school trip have congregated along with their parents. Claudia is a few yards away, dispensing largesse to a couple of her acolytes. Laurence is with her. Quite a few dads have turned up to see their kids off. Since Laurence is an investment banker, I was imagining a tall, entitled WASP in a bespoke suit. Instead he looks like my uncle Norman: short, dark, bald, could do with losing forty pounds. Even in flats, Claudia dwarfs him.
“You’re not the first person to notice they look odd together. The ‘long and the short of it,’ I call them.”
The voice belongs to Tanya. She’s standing next to me, grinning. “I wonder what attracted her to a multimillionaire banker.”
“You are evil.”
“I know, but I’m right.”
“Not necessarily,” I say. “The impression I get from Mike is that Laurence is one of the few people who understands Claudia. That’s why she fell for him. It wasn’t his money.”
“I bet the money helped, though … or maybe he’s exceptionally gifted in bed. They say bald men often are. They have an excess of testosterone apparently.” She pauses. “Talking of testosterone, I hear from Ginny that you and Mike are …”
“We are.”
She laughs and offers me a wink. “Good for you.”
Our conversation is cut short. A child in a Breton T-shirt is having a loud tantrum. His mother has given him bread sticks as a snack for the journey, but she’s failed to provide hummus.
“Don’t worry,” her friend says. “He can share Raphael’s baba ghanoush.”
While the kids tear around in a frenzy of overexcitement, the parents swap angst about the trip.
“I’m furious that they’re not allowing the kids to bring iPads. I mean, what harm could it do? Felix would only be bringing his spare one.”
“I agree. Mind you, Izzy shouldn’t even be going on this trip. She’s far too tired after our spring break. She gets dreadful jet lag, even coming back from Europe.”
“Well, I’ve put my foot down and said that on no account is Anastasia allowed to eat next to Flora. I won’t have my daughter eating near fat children.”
“And I’ve told Mrs. Gilbert that Maisie Armitage should be made to say her bedtime prayers to Jesus in private. Ours is a strict atheist home and I won’t have it corrupted.”
It’s time for the children to board the bus. Sam hugs me tight and says he already feels carsick. I remind him that I’ve put a sick bag in his backpack. “And don’t worry. Remember you can phone me. If it all goes pear-shaped, I will come and get you. I promise.”
“’K.”
“Now off you go. And have a wonderful time.”
“I love you, Gran’ma.”
“Love you, too, darling.”
I give him one final kiss and he joins the line of children waiting to get onto the coach. Mrs. Gilbert is at the foot of the steps, her eyes going from child to clipboard as she ticks off their names. So far she has confiscated at least three iPads. “This trip is not about you staring into your iPad and they will get broken. I don’t care if your dad says it’s insured along with the house contents… .”
Some of the mums are in tears as they wave off their offspring. Even a couple of dads are wiping their eyes. I’m crying, too, and it isn’t just because I’m worried about Sam having a rotten time. It’s because, as the bus pulls away, I catch sight of him throwing up into his sick bag.
CHAPTER
seventeen
Edith has rallied. For a few days it looked as if the heart attack was going to carry her off, but Ginny called last night to say that she was off the danger list. “The doctors think that you and I getting to her when we did probably saved her life.”
“So what’s the prognosis?”
“They’re not sure about her long-term prospects. They’re still doing tests. But for now she’s on the mend. So it looks like the pair of us has been given another chance.”
“That’s such wonderful news. I’m so pleased—for both of you.”
She asked if I would mind bringing her another change of clothes. “My brother says I’m bonkers staying, but knowing my luck, the moment I leave her, she’ll have another bloody attack and pop her clogs.”
Until now, each time I’ve been to the hospital, Edith has been unconscious and I haven’t been allowed into the room. So Ginny and I would chat in the corridor while I handed over clothes and books and chocolatey treats. The day before yesterday I brought her a bottle of Scotch. She called me an angel and said she might ask the doctors if she could be given it intravenously. Instead she kept it hidden. She wasn’t sure if it was against the rules to bring booze into hospital—even if you were only visiting.
This morning when I arrive, Edith is awake, but no less frail than when we found her collapsed on the floor. She’s pale as veal. Her sinewy neck and tiny head are supported by a mountain of pillows. Her nightgown is gaping at the neck, revealing the top of her bony rib cage and the electronic pads that are attached to the heart monitor above the bed. But her teeth are in and judging by her clean fingernails and grease-free hair, now brushed off her face and held in place by a velvet headband, she’s had a decent sponge-down.
Edith’s body may be feeble, but her brain—not to mention her voice—is anything but. She’s up in arms about something. Having just walked in, I can’t make out what. All I know is that “it” won’t do and that she’s very cross about “it” not doing. Since she’s in midrant and I fear that if I interrupt she might turn on me, I don’t. Instead I hover just inside the door with my bunch of pink tulips and a holdall containing Ginny’s change of clothes.
“It’s unbearable. Can’t you get them to do something?” Ginny, who is perched on the edge of the bed, fanning her mother with a copy of the Times, says she’s already tried. All the electric fans are being used. “I can only imagine the money they must be wasting keeping the place at blood heat. The windows don’t open because God forbid they might let in germs.”
“Tell you what, why don’t I pop out and buy a fan?”
“Would you? That would be wonderful. For now, though … if you could just move the newspaper a notch to the left … Ah, that’s better.”
“Knock, knock. Only me.”
Ginny stops waving the Times and swings round. “Judy! Come in. I didn’t see you there… . Mummy—this is Judy.” It has always struck me as odd how grown women—posh ones at least—happily infantilize themselves by referring to their parents as “mummy” and “daddy.”
Edith looks me up and down. “Good grief. Another strange face. How many more new nurses am I expected to endure? But since you’re here, you should know that the heat is worse than the Black Hole of Calcutta. What’s more, the hospital tea is undrinkable. Please fetch me some Earl Grey with lemon. Oh, and the blind needs pulling down. I can hardly see in this sun. And when you’ve done that you can help me off with my bed jacket. I’m perspiring like a coolie in all this heat.”
“Mummy … Judy’s not a nurse. Look, she’s not wearing a uniform.” Ginny gets off the bed and pulls down the blind. “She’s a very good friend of mine. She was with me when I found you, and she’s stopped by to see how you’re doing.” Ginny starts helping her mother off with her bed jacket. That done, she comes across to relieve me of my bag and the bunch of flowers.
“Look, Mummy, Judy’s brought you tulips. Aren’t they lovely? I’ll go in search of a vase later.”
“How thoughtful,” she says, barely glancing at the tulips. Instead she focuses on me. “Judy—short for Judith, I presume. Are your people Jews?”
Ginny looks like she doesn’t know where to put herself. “Mummy—for heaven’s sake … please.”
“My mother is Jewish, yes.”
“I have a lot of time for the Jews.”
“You do?” Ginny says, looking both relieved and puzzled. “Since when?”
“Since always. The Jews have clung to life through thick and thin—mostly
thin. I admire that.”
“Thank you.”
“Crafty lot, mind you, the Jews. Very clever. You wouldn’t want to do business with them.”
Before I have a chance to say anything, Ginny tells her mother she needs to speak to me in private and bundles me out of the room.
“I can only apologize. I would love to tell you it’s her medication speaking, but I’m afraid it isn’t. If it makes you feel any better, she hates most racial groups—even the Scots and the Irish. Always has. But now that she’s old, her inhibition has deserted her, and she says precisely what’s on her mind. I’m so sorry.”
“Stop it. You don’t have to apologize. It’s water off a duck’s back. She’s old and a bit dotty. You’re not going to change her. Just keep her away from my mother, that’s all.”
“Good Lord. Can you imagine?”
“It wouldn’t be a pretty sight… . So, how have you and Edith been getting on? She doesn’t appear to have thrown you out yet.”
“I’ll walk out before she gets a chance. Lord, she’s a demanding, cantankerous old cow. Mind you, she always was. But it’s got worse with age. And yes, before you say anything, I know she appears to have me wrapped around her little finger. But she’s old and ill. I haven’t seen her in decades… .”
“I get that. But you need to watch her. If you’re not careful she’ll run you ragged and you’ll be the one in hospital.”
“Thank you and duly noted. The thing is, her unpleasantness aside, we’ve actually been getting on rather well—which isn’t at all what I was expecting.”
“Have you talked about her kicking you out?”
“I brought it up this morning. I know I should have left it until she’s stronger, but I couldn’t wait. I don’t know when she’s going to have another heart attack. But I didn’t get anywhere. She refuses to discuss it. All she’s prepared to say is that she made a regrettable decision. I suspect that’s as close as she’ll come to apologizing. She says what’s done is done and we should put it behind us … stiff upper lip and all that.”
“I suppose that’s better than nothing.”
“I guess. Anyway, it’s all I’m going to get, so I will have to make do. By the way, she wants to meet Emma and the boys.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“That’s not the half of it… . She wants the lot of us to move in with her.”
“Seriously? But you’ve only been back in her life two minutes.”
“I know, but she says she wants to make up for lost time. The thing is, I’m not sure if I could put up with her unpleasantness. I can see her turning me into some kind of unpaid skivvy. On top of that, the house is so run-down and dingy. I can’t see Emma and the boys wanting to move in.”
She perks up when I remind her that the house is in an excellent school catchment area. “Good Lord. You’re not wrong. I hadn’t thought of that. A decent school would do the boys no end of good. It’s just what they need.” She pauses. “But even then I’m not sure I’d be doing the right thing. I’ve hated her for all these years. It’s far too soon. We’d come to blows in no time.”
“So what did you tell her?”
“I said I’d think about it and talk it over with Emma.”
I insist she come to me for dinner this evening. “It’ll cheer you up. Tanya’s got yoga, but Mike will be there. Mum’s doing roast chicken … Oh, and FYI, I haven’t said anything to her about Mike being in love with me. She’ll only start auditioning caterers.”
“Roger that,” Ginny says, tapping the side of her nose.
• • •
I’m laying the table while Mum fries onions for the chopped liver hors d’oeuvres. “Mum, stick the extractor on! You’re stinking out the entire house!”
“What?”
“I said, would you stick …”
I’m wasting my breath. She can’t hear me. It’s easier to do it myself.
I abandon the table laying, head into the kitchen and flick the switch on the cooker hood. I’m pincering a piece of fried onion from the pan when my mobile rings. Mum manages to slap my wrist, yell at me about first-degree burns and hand me a cloth—all at the same time.
It’s Sam.
“Hi, darling. How’s it all going?”
“Great. We did canoeing this morning and we learned how to capsize and get back up again. Some people couldn’t do it, but I could. It was easy. I wasn’t a bit scared.”
“Sam, that’s wonderful. I’m so proud of you. And I know Mum and Dad will be, too.”
My mother is waving her spatula. “Tell him Nana says to be careful and to keep out of danger.”
“Will you be quiet?” I hiss. “No, not you, darling. It was Nana interrupting.”
“OK … so later on we went into the woods and the teachers pretended to abandon us and we had to find our way out, using a map and a compass. Our group was the second back to base and we won a silver medal. It’s not real silver—just plastic painted silver… .”
“That’s fantastic. So you’re not missing home?”
“A bit. But I’m OK.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah. The Cake twins are being bullies as usual.”
“The Cake twins? Who are they when they’re at home?”
“Hugo and Orlando. They’re in the year above me. They’re just idiots. They keep starting fights and calling this girl Flora fat. She is a bit fat, but they didn’t need to make fun of her and make her cry. Mrs. Gilbert says Flora’s just got glands and she made them apologize and they had to miss canoeing.”
“Messrs. Cake sound like delightful young men. If they start picking on you, promise you’ll tell me.”
“They never do at school. I always keep out of their way… . So, the best thing about being here is that nobody makes you have a bath. The boys are having a competition to see who smells the most by the end of the week.”
“Great stuff. I look forward to smelling you when you get back.”
“Yeah, I’m going to be really stinky.”
“Let’s hope so. Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”
“I really am. So, Grandma, would you be upset if I stopped calling? It doesn’t mean I don’t miss you.”
“Good Lord, of course not. I’ll leave it up to you. Call if you need me. Otherwise I’ll see you on Friday.”
“So he’s having a good time?” Mum says.
“He’s having a great time. So if you don’t mind, there will be no more doom-mongering.”
“I don’t doom-monger. I am on the lookout for pitfalls, that’s all.”
“Well, I’d prefer it if you could stop being on the lookout. Just for a few days. Please?”
While the onions sizzle, my mother washes the liver and slices off the odd gall bladder.
Mike arrives with posh chocs for me and flowers for Mum. She coos and clucks over them, says yellow roses are her favorite (I happen to know she prefers pink) and asks if he would possibly mind helping her in the kitchen. Ginny has already offered to help but was politely turned down.
“Mum, don’t ask Mike. He’s a guest. I can help.”
“Oh, he doesn’t mind, do you, Mike? Judy—you stay and talk to Ginny. Why don’t you open that lovely prosecco she brought? Pour me a glass while you’re at it.” She bundles him away.
“Only too happy to oblige,” Mike says, turning to grin at me and mouth, “She loves me.”
“Do you think she’s going to ask him what his intentions are?” Ginny says.
“I wouldn’t put it past her.”
We both do our best to eavesdrop. But Mum has closed the door. While Ginny pours the wine, I excuse myself and go upstairs and check on Rosie.
She appears to have fallen asleep in the middle of one of her unboxing games. An object I can’t identify is wrapped in several layers of loo paper held together with bits of Scotch tape. I put it on the nightstand. Then I pull up the duvet and kiss her newly washed hair. Heaven only knows what her brother’s smells like by now.
>
On the way down I hear Mum speaking to Mike: “You know, if anybody deserves some sugar in her bowl, Judy does. Please don’t hurt her.”
“I would never, ever do that. You have my word.”
Back in the living room, I tell Ginny what I overheard.
“You are so very loved,” she says, handing me a glass of prosecco. “You know that, don’t you?”
“I do. I’m a very lucky girl.”
• • •
When it comes to offal, Ginny is a zealot. Kidneys, heart, sweetbreads; she does it all. “You can’t call yourself a meat eater,” she said when I asked her if she “did” liver, “and then wimp out when somebody sticks a slice of brain in front of you.” She demolishes Mum’s starter. Mike does the same, but it’s an act of supreme valor, since I know he struggles with liver. When Mum offers him seconds he manages to decline while praising her culinary skills to the skies. Mum kvells.
“The secret’s in the onions,” she says. “They make it sweet. You need to fry them very slowly until they caramelize.”
Mike and Ginny are also full of admiration for her stuffed neck.
“Onions and chicken fat.”
But the star is her roast chicken, which is as moist and succulent as ever. “Everybody overcooks chicken because they’re scared of salmonella. But it’s all about timing. There’s a sweet spot when it’s just done and still juicy. I’ve spent years perfecting it. And of course I stick a lemon in the cavity. And … an onion.”
Then she tells the story about how when onions were rationed during the war, Mrs. Lewin, who took her in after she arrived in London, would make them last by refrying them. “It wasn’t until the end of the week that we actually got to eat them. Of course by then, they were done to a crisp. On a Friday night, everybody got a pile of burned onion on their plate. People today—they don’t know they’re born.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Ginny says, raising her glass.
Mike asks Ginny how her mother’s doing.
“She’s on medication. For the time being, she’s not too bad… .” She pauses and says that perhaps she shouldn’t say any more over dinner because it will spoil the atmosphere. I tell her she won’t be spoiling anything. “Come on. What’s happened?”
