by Alice Jolly
But Mum, you don’t want to be in a musical.
Right now, love, I’d be in anything that pays, Mollie says, pushing her glasses back up her nose and taking a swig of gin.
Lara knows where the babies are. They’re at a boarding school called Frencham Heights. Lara has a brochure about Frencham Heights in the drawer in her bedroom. It’s all green lawns and white dresses and big old stone buildings with a sundial and wide stone steps with urns on the top of balustrades. In the dorms, tartan blankets are on the beds and laughing girls play tennis or peer through microscopes. Lara is glad that the babies have gone to Frencham Heights because they’re certain to be happy there. Mollie says that isn’t right. Children who go to boarding school are desperately unhappy. Of course they are. How could they be otherwise if they aren’t with their mothers? Except the girls in those photos don’t look unhappy. They look like angels. You can’t quite see their wings but still they have that pale translucent angel look and doubtless their silk-slippered feet don’t touch the floor. And they sing that anthem Lara has heard in church. Oh for the wings, for the wings of a dove. In the wilderness build me, build me a nest.
Spencer Talbot – off to LA. You know, I was going to go once. Just before I met your father. Had an audition with MGM, could have been in The Night of the Iguana. You know, the Tennessee Williams play with Richard Burton.
Lara looks impressed although she’s heard this many times before.
Oh look, a photo of Jerry and Tabitha in As You Like It. You remember them, don’t you? Mollie pushes The Stage towards Lara. Lara nods as though she does remember. She wonders about Jerry and Tabitha. Surely in the evenings, after the theatre, they don’t go back to a flat in the top of someone else’s house, have stale bread and spaghetti hoops for supper, and alter second-hand trousers? Or perhaps they do?
And Kerry Lovage getting married to Jason Spens – you’d have thought she’d know better. And Patrick Lougeville – can you believe it? Can’t act for toffee.
Lara squirms in her chair. She herself can’t act for toffee – or for fudge, banana bread or Black Forest gateau either. She goes to auditions nearly every week but she never gets a job – not even in a pantomime. Oh no she doesn’t. At the auditions she lines up and her tap shoes stomp across the floor and her voice croaks. She’s six inches taller than all the other girls, with fat knees and her smocked dress is too short and tight across the white skin of her chest. She can hear the crash-crash-crash of her feet on the parquet floor. Stand aside, dear. Yes, sorry, darling. Yes, you with the red hair. Stand aside. Mollie says, Don’t get discouraged, you haven’t reached your playing age yet. Lara suspects she might have to wait a long time before fat knees and frizzy red hair are what is required. She’s heard her father tell Mollie to give up. The girl is useless, you’re wasting your time. She’s tried to hate her father for that but her true feeling may be closer to gratitude.
In her picture, she draws the spreading branches of the oak trees and the river that wasn’t there. Mollie said they’d plant a tree for the baby. She says that every time but it never happens. Remembering the Frencham Heights brochure, Lara adds a sundial and wide stone steps with urns perched on the top of a stone balustrade. She leaves out the overflowing rubbish bins and the concrete block which contained the public loos. Mollie drains her gin and looks through the sewing tin, trying to find the right colour cotton for the trousers. The window is open because, despite the rain, it’s been a hot day.
On the windowsill field daisies are arranged in a willow-pattern vase. Mollie had bought the vase the Sunday before, at a jumble sale in the car park of the church next door. She and Lara had chosen it together, deciding to take it despite the chip in the rim – or perhaps because of that. No one else seemed to want the vase so Mollie said it was down to them to give it a home. Outside the light is growing dusky over the allotments opposite and the church beyond. Lara hopes that Rufus will keep working at the Crucible for a while because then they’ll stay in this flat. She likes the white walls, the blond wood and the view through the floor-to-ceiling window. And she likes the white box-shape of the building, the circular window like a porthole on the landing, the brown swirling wallpaper in the hall.
She likes her school as well. It’s called Sutton Road Primary and her teacher is called Miss Sweet. If you put that in a story it would be silly but she really is called that. Lara helps her give out the books and keep the craft cupboard tidy. Miss Sweet says that Lara is an exceptionally clever little girl and that it’s a great shame she misses so much school. The other children don’t speak to Lara because they’ve been told she won’t be staying long. Lara doesn’t mind because that’s the price of living creatively. She knows herself to be Mollie’s only compensation, knows she alone has the power to make it all up to Mollie – but she can only do that by being a good actress. Any other kind of good isn’t good enough.
What do you reckon? Mollie says. Is this about the same colour?
Lara moves around the table, looks at the thread which Mollie is holding against the checked trousers. A knock sounds at the door. Oh why don’t you get stuffed? Mollie shouts, in the direction of the door. What does old Missy Misty want at this time of night? Hasn’t she got anything better to do with her time than come bothering us? I’ve told her Monday.
The knock sounds again. Mollie turns the radio up so that it blares through the room. She props her glasses on the top of her head, bends down over the machine, tries to thread the needle. The bruise is turning green now at the edges.
Mollie used to like Missy Misty and Lara loved her. Now Mollie doesn’t like her and so Lara tries to feel the same. With grown-ups it can be hard to keep up. Missy Misty is divorced and reads tarot cards. She also teaches psychology, which is to do with being mad, at the university, and she designed this house herself. The knocking at the door comes again but Mollie takes no notice. Lara wriggles and sits on her hands. Missy Misty allowed them to take this flat although they didn’t have a deposit and, when they’d first arrived, Missy had asked them down into the house below, cooked them tagine for supper, read the cards for Mollie. Missy has twin Siamese cats with thin and mysterious faces who wound themselves around Lara’s leg. While Mollie and Misty talked about Dutch Elm disease and the Greenpeace ships trying to stop the whalers, Lara sat in a basket-work swing chair which hung from the ceiling with a tangerine coloured cushion in it.
Missy Misty has photographs everywhere of her two grown-up daughters. One of them is in Paris, studying languages, and the other works for Vogue. Both of Missy Misty’s daughters went to Frencham Heights, a very progressive school. Missy Misty had been there herself and she’d been determined that her daughters would go as well. Lara stared at long photographs with hundreds of girls all in the same uniform and the date underneath and a curly crest all in gold with a Latin motto. Missy Misty had said that Lara was clearly a clever girl, and maybe she could get a scholarship to Frencham Heights. She’d sent off for the brochure, which she’d then given to Lara. They did Assisted Places at Frencham Heights, the full fees. Wouldn’t that be helpful, Missy Misty said, what with all the moving around?
Now Mollie turns the radio down and starts to work the sewing machine. Lara adds a few flowers into her pictures at the foot of the oak tree, on the banks of the river. She holds the picture out to her mother. Look, she says. What do you think? Mollie holds the picture under the light. Oh, darling. It’s beautiful, she says. Absolutely beautiful. You’ve captured it all so perfectly. Oh thank you – that will be so lovely to go in the box. Mollie is suddenly tearful and catches hold of Lara, kisses her on one cheek and then the other, then she does it again and again. Lara pushes herself against Mollie, gets a handkerchief out of her pocket and wipes at her mother’s tears.
A shuffling and banging sounds at the door.
Oh God, Mollie says. It’s your father. What’s he doing back? He was meant to be going out. The banging at the door comes again and Mollie hurries to open it.
Ru
fus falls into the flat. Lost the bloody key, he says. Come in, come in. He gestures towards Phoebe. Lara recognises her from the Crucible. She plays Ophelia in Hamlet but she wears a long blonde wig for that. Her real hair is short and coal-black.
Hello sweetheart, Rufus says to Lara, but she doesn’t move from her chair near the window because she’s seen the anger on her mother’s face. For months now her dad has been promising to take her to see The Towering Inferno but it doesn’t look like that’ll happen tonight.
Can you believe it? Rufus says. We were going out to the Anchor and guess what? It’s burnt down. So anyway, we didn’t fancy anywhere else so we thought we’d come back here. Plenty of food in the house, I said. Come back and have supper with us.
Of course, Mollie says. Of course. You’re very welcome. Sit down. Sit down. Her voice is friendly but Lara can hear the spite in it.
My, my, Phoebe says. Aren’t you a big girl now? So big – growing all the time. She smiles widely, screws up her nose, giggles. Lara keeps the muscles of her face still. Mollie pulls out chairs, hurries the sewing machine and the trousers from the table, pushing them in through the door of Lara’s bedroom. Lara clears her crayons away.
Have a drink, Rufus says, and pushes the gin bottle across the table and takes glasses from the cupboard. Phoebe hiccoughs and giggles, nearly misses the chair as she sits down. Rufus picks up the gin bottle, ready to pour, then notices that the bottle is nearly empty. Is this all we’ve got? he says, turning to Mollie.
Oh no, Mollie says. There’s more. She takes a bottle out of the cupboard and passes it to Rufus.
That’s my girl, he says. So what’s for supper?
I’m just going to pop out, Mollie says. I’m out of eggs. But it won’t take a moment. She picks up her bag from the sofa. Come on, Lara, she says.
Lara follows her mother out of the door. On the top landing Mollie hesitates, listening. The house below is silent – Missy must have gone out. Mollie and Lara hurry down the twilight stairs, past the wooden bead curtains at the kitchen door, and the curling cats, the hanging basket chair with its tangerine cushion, the wall of mirrors in the hall. Lara sees the whiteness of Mollie’s hand as it clutches her bag. They cross the hall and step out of the front door.
How can he do this? Mollie says, wiping tears from her eyes. How can he turn up suddenly wanting supper? And bringing that tart with him. If she had any decency she’d know not to arrive at someone’s house uninvited, particularly when – Mollie has taken her purse from her bag and she’s sorting through the contents of it although she must know it’s empty. I can’t provide supper for people if I haven’t got any money – what am I going to do?
Lara feels the evening melting, everything around them growing heavy, sagging. She hopes no one will walk down the street and see. Clinging to Mollie’s hand, she stares up and down the dusky, summer-evening street, wondering what she can suggest. Next door is the church where they bought the vase. The people there were friendly – maybe they would help? But the church looks all closed up. Don’t worry, Mummy. Don’t worry. I’m here. I’m here. Mollie raises her dark glasses, wipes at her eyes.
Thank you, love. Thank you. What would I do without you? Come on, I’ve got an idea. There was a torch in the hall. Let’s go in those allotments at the back. At least there we’ll find something for a salad.
Lara doesn’t like this idea – what good is salad? What if someone sees them? But together they set off down the garden. Missy Misty doesn’t have time for the garden so the grass is long and brambles grow along the fence. Trees, shrubs and a fallen-down wooden fence divide Missy’s garden from the allotments. Mollie and Lara push their way through the shrubs and step over the remains of the wooden fence. The grass on the far side is up to their knees, the ground soggy. Mollie switches on the torch and waves it across the allotments. In the distance, Lara can see the lights of other houses. She imagines the normal families in those lighted rooms. Just like a Ladybird book. Mummy, Daddy, Janet and John. Mummy does the cooking in a frilly apron, while Daddy, smoking a pipe, reads stories to the children next to the fire.
It’s too early in the year for much to be growing. Runner-bean canes stand up naked in the wavering light. Planted rows are marked out but only a few shoots grow. Mollie walks further along, until her torch touches on flickers of green.
Come on, she says. Lettuces. They’re a bit small but they’ll taste good.
Lara stumbles after her. She watches her mother grubbing around in the damp earth. Turning, she looks back. She can see the church spire and the upper floor of Missy Misty’s house. The lights are on, and she imagines shadows moving past the window. Her father will be up there, drinking and smoking, laughing, telling theatre stories to Phoebe. But there’s no sign of him. Her mother passes half-grown lettuces to Lara, wipes her hands on her skirt. Her dark glasses sit askew amidst hair which is falling down over her face and she stumbles as the heels of her sandals sink into the earth.
Come on, Mollie says. As they climb back over the fence, the frill of Mollie’s dress gets caught on a spike of wood and she nearly falls. Lara has to catch her and the lettuces fall from her hands. Mollie can’t stop giggling and, as they pick up the lettuces, Lara starts to laugh as well. Stumbling back through the garden, Lara expects to hear Rufus’s bellowing voice from above but the house is strangely silent. At the front door, Mollie takes the lettuces from Lara. Listen, she says. Old Missy Musty is bound to have some food in her fridge. You go and see what else you can find.
Lara watches her mother fade away up the helter-skelter stairs and hesitates. She knows where the kitchen is. Missy took her in there when they first arrived and gave her apple juice. Lara had never had apple juice before and she can still remember the taste. Now she creeps towards the kitchen and pushes the bead curtain aside. Behind her she hears noises, a shuffle, a squeak. She presses herself back against the fridge. The noise comes from a corridor which leads to Missy Misty’s downstairs bathroom and the garage. Lara hesitates. She should just get the food and go back upstairs – but what if a burglar is in the house? Lara knows that if she goes along the corridor she’ll see something she doesn’t want to see – but she can’t stop herself from moving towards the sound.
The bathroom is on the left and the sliding door of it isn’t properly shut. A pool of light spreads onto the linoleum-tiled floor of the corridor. Through the crack in the door, pink tiles, a bubble-patterned shower curtain, a tiny window high up in the wall with a cracked extractor fan. Below the window a blonde head is pressed back against the wall. Rufus’s back heaves and presses. What is he doing in Missy Misty’s downstairs bathroom? A sound of shuffling and grunting muffles out from the door. Phoebe’s glittering high-heeled shoe is swinging in the air, moving back and forwards. Lara turns, hurries back along the corridor.
In the kitchen she looks in the fridge – eggs, milk and butter. See what’s in the bread bin. The fridge hums and when Lara opens the door its butter-yellow light makes a square on the floor like a slice of cheese. She takes the eggs and milk out, puts them on the kitchen table, lifts the lid from the bread bin. Her heart is trying to get out of her chest, her fingers fumble and the bread bin clanks. Three quarters of a loaf is wrapped in a paper packet. She reaches into the bin and lifts it out.
The light goes on and Lara jumps back, the tin lid of the bread bin crashes onto the floor. Missy Misty has pushed the bead curtain aside and is staring at her, her eyes wide under the fuzz of her hair. The kitchen light glares, Lara is suddenly conscious of her muddy shoes. Her hands, where she touched the loaf of bread, feel scalding hot.
What are you doing? Miss Misty says. She’s wearing a lime-green kimono and she grips a roll-up cigarette between her fingers. Her eyes are lined with fierce black liner and her curly hair stands out in a halo around her head.
I was just— Lara says.
Stealing?
Lara feels that word like a slap in the face. No.
Then what?
Lara se
nses the world slipping away from her. Missy Misty shakes her head. Don’t worry, love. I did try to come up and see you earlier – I was a bit worried about your mum. Should I be worried about your mum?
Lara says nothing, shuts her eyes, pleads for this to end.
Listen love, I don’t need tarot cards to tell me – she should go to the police.
Lara feels herself starting to cry. She knows what Missy is saying because she’s heard it before. Landladies, teachers, people at the theatre, nodding their heads and whispering. Lara knows what they think but they don’t understand.
It’s not like that, Lara says.
Silence crowds into the cramped space of the kitchen. An image flickers through her mind – the back of her father’s jacket, that dangling glittery shoe.
Missy Misty shakes her head, draws on her cigarette. You’re a good girl, aren’t you, Lara? Far too good. But don’t worry. I’ll have a word with your mother.
Lara puts the food down on the table and wipes at her tears with her bare arm.
Not easy for you to be all of your mother’s children, is it? Missy Misty says.
Lara stares at the shameful loaf of bread.
Come on now, Missy says. Don’t you worry. You take these things. She takes a string bag off the door handle, opens it up and puts the eggs, milk and bread inside. What else do you need? Is there anything else?
No, Lara says. No. Thank you very much, thank you. She hurries away past Missy Misty, heads back upstairs, with the food gripped against her. Mollie has broken the lettuces up and arranged the leaves on a plate. Lara stares at their tender greenness, the torn leaves, the near-transparent stems, milk-white. She feels that the lettuces shouldn’t be involved in this. And then she thinks of the dead baby, no bigger than a baked bean. Mollie has moved the field daisies in their green-patterned vase from the windowsill onto the table and lit a candle. She won’t have people at the theatre thinking she lives like a slut. Lara hands her the eggs, milk and bread.
