Fran’s plants were a redeeming feature, although there were so many it was starting to look like a greenhouse. Even the light in the room had a green tinge. Every plant, and there were at least a hundred, had a note attached, written in Fran’s copperplate script, with its name and care instructions. These, Fran explained, were for Louis, who had agreed to water them while she was away. Good luck with that, thought Rose. But perhaps she was judging him by Peter’s track record.
Rose assumed that their accommodation would be a step up from this, but she wasn’t the fussy one. In fact, it was easy to imagine they were still in the seventies here. She had been to two of Fran’s other flats, and it occurred to her that Fran had moved so often she never quite settled any more. She’d been here a couple of years but there was still a stack of packing boxes in one corner. Fran began to make tea and toast, then realised she had no milk, having given it all to the cat. And, despite them both insisting black tea was fine, she rushed off down the street to get some.
Rose stood at the window and watched the traffic on the street below. Despite everything that was difficult about London, it had an allure that had never faded, like an adored movie star whose celebrity was undiminished by age. London was the Sophia Loren of cities.
In Sydney, you could breathe sea air and see the horizon from a thousand different vantage points. London had a pulsating energy, this city that millions of people seemed determined to conquer. Great seething masses of people. Rivers of people who poured down escalators like a single entity, long black centipedes of commuters, their bodies pressed tightly into tubes rocketing through the network deep under the city. Here, there were displays of wealth far in excess of anything you would see at home, as well as people sleeping rough, begging outside the railway stations. It was dreary and glorious at the same time. And then there was the weather. It was the last week of May and the sky was dark, rain gusting past the window.
‘Rose,’ said Maggie from the sofa, ‘don’t tell Fran about the video thing, you know … Anthea …’
Rose turned from the window and sat down on the sofa. ‘Really? You know she’s bonked a few blokes in her time, and shopped around the corner once or twice.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’m saying, I doubt she’d be shocked by anything of a sexual nature.’
‘I just don’t want to talk about it any more. I want to forget it and not go over it again. I’m so sick of it. It’s finished, anyway.’ Maggie put a cushion on the arm of the sofa and laid her head on it like a tired child.
‘Fair enough,’ said Rose. ‘Then you don’t mention the restraining-order business.’
‘What? I don’t know anything about a restraining order.’
Fran rushed in the door with a carton of milk. ‘What have I missed? Who’s had a restraining order?’
Rose groaned. ‘Max. He doesn’t have a restraining order. He was threatened with one.’
‘Oh no! I’m sure it’s just a mix up, isn’t it?’ asked Fran. ‘He didn’t assault anyone, did he?’
‘No, of course not. He was just being a pest. He’s not good at reading social cues. He’s moved back home to keep Peter company while I’m away. He won’t have time for stalking.’
‘I don’t think you should make light of it, Rose. I’ve been stalked. It’s horrible,’ said Maggie, sitting up. ‘We know that Max wouldn’t hurt anyone, but his victim doesn’t know that.’
‘Who stalked you?’ asked Rose. ‘When was this, recently?’
Maggie looked away. ‘As if anyone would stalk me now,’ she said evasively.
‘Oh, Maggie. It’s not a compliment to be stalked,’ said Fran.
‘How come you’ve never mentioned it before? Who was it?’ asked Rose.
Maggie’s expression shut down. ‘I’m sorry I brought it up. Forget it.’
‘Well, who was it?’ Rose repeated.
‘No one you know. Just leave it, Rose.’
Rose didn’t want to leave it. It was unlike Maggie to be so secretive, and odd that she’d never mentioned it before. Rose would remember something like that.
‘Who was Max bothering anyway?’ asked Fran, bringing out the tea on a tray.
‘A young woman he went out with a couple times. He really wasn’t stalking. She works in the same building and he went to extraordinary lengths to “accidentally” bump into her. And messaged her. Excessively.’
‘Stalking and harassment,’ said Maggie under her breath.
Rose pressed her lips together and was rewarded with an approving nod from Fran, always the peacemaker. Rose thought it a mystery that, despite being such a good and lovely person, Fran had suffered so many disappointing relationships. She wasn’t judgemental enough – too tolerant, always ready to excuse someone’s inexcusable behaviour. Rose envisaged a thrift shop of used men, pre-loved, a little worn, frayed at the edges or perhaps no longer suiting or fitting their previous partner. They seemed like a bargain but it didn’t take long to realise that there were too many flaws to deal with. It was astonishing that Fran never seemed to give up or become cynical, although lately there had been a weariness in her, a sense of resignation.
‘How are you feeling, Maggie?’ asked Fran. ‘Would you like a lie-down on my bed?’
Maggie sat up straight, smoothed her hair back from her face and flicked it expertly into a knot at her nape. Without the soft frame of hair (these days expensively coloured) her face had a naked, vulnerable look. ‘I appreciate your concern, both of you, but I really don’t need to be treated like an invalid. There’s nothing actually wrong with me, apart from being tired and grumpy.’
‘I think that deep down Mags has been very pissed off for a very long time,’ offered Rose. ‘It was like a subterranean river of discontent running through her. Now it has risen to the surface and flooded her senses and she’s pissed off about absolutely everything.’
Fran looked to Maggie for confirmation. ‘That fairly much covers it,’ admitted Maggie. ‘I’ll make an effort to be more cheerful.’
‘I don’t think you should,’ said Fran. ‘I think you should be completely honest. Let it flow out of your system. You don’t have to pretend with us. We’re solid. Just lay it on us.’
Rose gave Maggie a sidelong glance. ‘Yeah, she’s right. You need to stop being polite and spit it out. We can just bitch about you behind your back.’
Fran shook her head seriously. ‘Let’s all be honest. And not bitch.’
Maggie nodded. She lifted her mug in a salute. ‘To our quest, whatever the hell it is.’
Fran and Rose raised their mugs solemnly. ‘Our quest.’
The accommodation Rose had booked was a basement flat in a Regency house in Bayswater with a small rear courtyard. Spacious and pleasant, it gained Maggie’s full approval. They settled in and walked the surrounding streets to stay awake until a reasonable hour. It was damp with a cool wind and their jackets were only just warm enough. The whole area seemed to be populated by tourist groups, their wheelie suitcases squeaking along the pavements, as though it wasn’t really a part of the city but a staging post. They ate in weary silence at a nearby café and went home to bed.
As soon as Rose lay down, she felt wide awake. She kept thinking about Maggie being stalked. In all these years, it would be rare if a month went by without them speaking. They were each other’s first responders and their conversations were honest and frank. Rose knew about the intimacies and intricacies of Maggie’s life, so how was it possible that she never mentioned a stalker before? Rose had obviously not mentioned the business with Max, but that was an unintentional oversight. Rose was absolutely certain it was a misunderstanding. Then again, did a mother see that side of her son? Mothers make excuses for their sons, hoping they’ll eventually live up to their mothers’ aspirations. She messaged Max: Where are you?
He messaged back: Y?
She sent him a kiss. It was futile. She had to trust him. She had to let him suffer the consequences of his actions. And
just check up on him now and then. No point in relying on Peter to keep an eye on him.
Peter was able to receive and read messages on his phone but incapable of sending them, so she was quite used to messaging him without expectation of a response. It was, she mused, reflective of their relationship in many ways. She initiated and he considered, pondered, prevaricated, stonewalled and, occasionally, capitulated. He was like a great battleship sunk in the harbour of her life, an obstacle that had to be navigated around.
Fitz, on the other hand, was a prolific communicator. He shared links to articles from The Guardian, podcasts, snippets of news, memes, gifs and funny YouTube videos – there were several messages awaiting her attention. They could wait. Everyone could wait. One of the things she wanted to do on this trip was to stop being so responsive to every need that every person thrust at her. She was tempted to send Peter or Max a message to remind them to put the bins out but managed to resist. She turned off her phone to avoid temptation.
After struggling to get to sleep, Rose woke just after midnight feeling as though it was morning. She switched on her lamp and went quietly down the hall to the kitchen, made a cup of tea and brought it back to bed. She was working her way through missives from Fitz when Maggie appeared in the doorway.
Rose put her phone aside. ‘Kettle’s boiled. Do you want me to get you one?’
Maggie shook her head and disappeared off down the hall. Minutes later, she was back with a steaming mug. ‘I’m not used to sleeping alone.’
Rose propped up the pillows on the other side of the bed. ‘I’m not going to make a habit of it – just this once.’
Maggie slipped in beside her. They sat sipping their tea and Rose sensed that she needed to be silent, not try to fill the space. It was an effort, but she managed.
After a while Maggie said, ‘I felt almost crippled with anxiety today. I woke up just now and started imagining myself falling in front of the Tube or being hit by a cab or a bus …’
‘What about Uber?’
Maggie gave her a look of disbelief. ‘What?’
‘Cities are crawling with them and you wouldn’t even know. I just wondered if it was a generalised fear of public transport … that’s all,’ she finished lamely.
‘No, it’s a fear of dying in a strange city and never seeing my family again. I feel exposed and vulnerable.’
‘That’s because you’re usually cocooned in the domestic mayhem of your family life. Now you’re out in the world as an individual.’
‘I’m not sure I know how to be an individual any more, or want to be one. I’m worried about Kristo and the girls and Yia-yiá and the business.’ Maggie’s voice was thick with emotion. ‘I was lying there sort of scrolling through all these people and their problems in my mind. And leaving the business … I feel as though I’ve left my newborn in the care of a … delinquent.’
‘Is this your assistant?’
Maggie nodded. ‘Yannis.’
‘I thought you were trying to get rid of him?’
‘I have tried but there’s no getting rid of Yannis. I’ve told Kristo over and over that he’s careless and lazy; he doesn’t have an aptitude for the work at all. He’s Yia-yiá’s only nephew. His mother, Theía Agnes, is Yia-yiá’s closest friend; they’re like sisters. Anyway, the family don’t even want to hear about it.’
‘It seems ridiculous to have to pay people because they’re related to you.’
‘It’s the way it is and Kristo thinks he’s safer behind a computer than out on site, and that is true. He’s a fifty-something, grossly overweight man who lives with his mother and his PlayStation. More to the point, he likes the pokies and I don’t really trust him.’ Maggie sighed. ‘I just feel so agitated, I don’t know if I can do this. I feel like the house is burning down and I have to rush home and put the fire out.’
‘That’s because you think you’re the only one who can. It’s not true. It’s going to take some courage, Mags. You need to save yourself first.’
It crossed Rose’s mind that Maggie’s mental state was actually deteriorating. She was practised at keeping it well hidden. What if these thoughts about buses and taxis were premonitions or a death wish?
‘Try and put those worries to sleep for the moment. Close your eyes. I’ll keep watch for taxis and whatnot.’
Maggie nodded submissively. She finished her tea in silence, slid down in the bed and closed her eyes. Rose switched off the lamp and lay in the dark listening to the sound of sirens in the distance, wondering what on earth they were doing there.
Rose didn’t feel that panic or need to get home. Her life was locked in like a Rubik’s cube – you could click the blocks this way or that, but only rearrange what already existed. Perhaps it had always been that way and she just hadn’t realised. Apart from becoming more dependent on her, Peter hadn’t actually changed much over the years, and she was complicit in his dependence. She had followed her mother’s pattern of venerating her husband and infantilising him at the same time. She wondered what a psychologist would make of that. These days she worked around him to get things done without even thinking about it. But they had begun to squabble the way her parents did, and she had to take some responsibility for that friction.
Over breakfast recently, he’d put forward the idea that when he retired, he could train to teach English to foreign students, as Rose did.
‘What on earth made you think of that?’ Rose asked him.
‘You seem to derive satisfaction from it. I can’t imagine it’s that difficult, especially with my teaching experience.’
‘So, let me just clarify that – you think it’s easy because I do it?’
‘Now you’re projecting your own lack of self-regard on to me and imagining an insult where there is none,’ he said mildly. He propped the iPad up in front of him and began to scroll through the news, as though the conversation was now over. Or perhaps to avoid the direction it was taking.
‘Actually, I think you’d find it very difficult. And you have to write lesson plans. It’s interactive. You don’t just stand up there and pontificate.’
‘Rose, you’re always urging me to discuss things – now I am trying to do just that and you’re being combative. I’m simply saying that I don’t want to find myself at home, isolated and forced to take up golf, or worse.’
‘What’s worse than golf?’
He was distracted for a moment by his ritual of systematically compressing the crust around the edge of his toast with the handle of his knife, even though his teeth were in perfect working order. ‘I don’t know. Gambling?’
‘I’m all for you starting something new but not something that involves me in any way. I don’t want to ride shotgun for you any more, Peter. We’ve talked about this so many times.’
He adopted his defeated look then, as though she had now eliminated all possibilities and he would be forced, through no fault of his own, to take up gambling and golf.
Rose wasn’t buying it. She’d taught foreign students for twenty years, she was good at it and she knew that he wouldn’t be. He was out of touch. He’d only managed to hold his position as long as he had because, beyond his faults and annoying habits, Peter was a brilliant lecturer and a renowned expert on twentieth-century history. In some ways, his age had worked for him. He offered such detailed and vivid narratives, it almost seemed as though he was providing eyewitness accounts.
He was a talented and passionate orator, a raconteur who had a knack for finding unusual connections and parallels that brought the subject matter and the personalities to life. His speciality was the ability to relate historic events to contemporary ones. In person, he was shy and distracted, as if trying to remember where he’d left something or where he should be – which was usually the case. But once on his subject, he lit up and could talk for hours, whether he was being paid or not.
Rose had been in her first year of an Arts degree when she met Peter. She’d come to it late, starting at twenty-four, when most of he
r contemporaries had already graduated. She’d had enough of waitressing and office temping, singing in pubs and hoping for the big break. She’d also had enough of her volatile on-again off-again relationship with a bass guitarist called Charlie. She’d broken up with him a dozen times, but every time their paths crossed, it was back on again. (All these years later, Charlie in his rock-god leather jeans still featured in her erotic fantasies.) At the time, she had wanted to close that whole chapter of her life and become a serious grown-up.
Peter was the antithesis of Charlie: educated, respected and respectable. She worked hard on her essays for his subject, determined to dazzle her professor, and engaging him in after-lecture conversations. Peter seemed bemused by her enthusiasm, but despite his diffidence (or perhaps because of it) Rose found him complex and fascinating. She invited him to a pub gig where she was singing backup for a band. He didn’t show. It wasn’t his sort of thing. A clear sign of what was to come. Finally, they went out for dinner, to which he was half an hour late. She threw him into bed at the first opportunity. He was amenable to her attentions and their relationship limped along for a few months – until he realised he needed her.
Rose would soon discover that for all his virtuosity as a lecturer, his writing skills lagged far behind those of his students. His brilliant connections and conclusions were all there in his head but they were impossible for him to articulate onto the page. His spelling was too bewildering for spellcheck and punctuation would be sprinkled as randomly as stardust. If he wrote by hand, he struggled to even separate the letters from each other. It was years before it was properly diagnosed as dysgraphia and he became less self-conscious about it.
He read voraciously and could remember extraordinary amounts of material but his older sister had been his ghostwriter all through school, sticking with him right through university to his PhD. By then, she was married with children, which was difficult enough, but her husband was being transferred to San Francisco and a new helper was needed. Peter could plan his lectures out in his head and dictate them to his sister, or deliver off the cuff, if necessary. But to retain his tenure, he needed to publish papers, and a book was inevitable. Rose was flattered to be asked to assist him. She felt like the chosen one.
Sixty Summers Page 9