by Ros Carne
Isabel Goddard was seated in a wing chair, leaning forward, staring at the television. The volume was turned up high.
Mel called out, ‘Mum.’
Isabel lifted her head. She wore make-up that did little to disguise the wrinkled remains of years of smoking but gave a clownish definition to the gaunt yet handsome face. Her hair looked different. Swept back and thicker. Had she used a hair piece? And there was a silver gleam in the usual pale grey. It must have been done professionally.
Mel walked over and turned down the sound, then reached for the cord by the window and pulled one of the curtains aside, tucking it behind a large brass hook that had been screwed into the wall for that purpose. Her mother didn’t appear to mind. The television commentary was replaced by the buzz of an invisible insect, trapped between the other curtain and the closed window.
‘Hello, darling.’
‘Hi, Mum.’
‘Where’s that boy?’
‘He couldn’t make it.’
‘Always so busy. When’s he coming to see his gran? I thought his exams were over.’
‘He’s been a bit hard to pin down recently. You know teenagers.’
‘I remember what you were like.’
Mel felt a stab of guilt. She could be kinder to her mother. It was more than a month since her last visit. She used to help her mother with the house and garden, but she’d made little effort this year. Work, Jacob, Paul, there was always something more pressing. But today she could see a new level of chaos. A feathering of dust lay like a second skin across every tired object in the once elegant sitting room. Chipped porcelain figures, silver framed photographs and Chinese ceramics jostled with cups half-full of cold coffee on occasional tables and shelves. Piles of old theatre programmes lay next to unopened post. African violets with faded flower heads and shrivelled leaves drooped in corners. It was curious that her mother could give so much attention to her own appearance and so little to her surroundings.
But she could not disguise all the effects of age. She had always been slim but now she was thin, too thin. She wore a navy wool shift dress that hung from her bony shoulders like a sack. Her bare arms, jutting from the short sleeves, were like sticks wrapped in parchment.
‘Are you getting enough to eat, Mum?’ Mel asked.
‘What a ridiculous question.’
‘You’re looking rather thin.’
‘I’ve always been slim. You know that. I hope you’re not coming here to criticise.’
‘Of course not. I was just worried.’
‘Why isn’t Jacob here?’
‘I’ve said. It’s complicated.’
‘What’s complicated? You haven’t given me a proper reason. Doesn’t he want to see me? We used to be such pals.’
He did want to see her. In fact, the visit to Gran was the only reason she had been able to persuade him to come out with her today. The more she thought about it, the more she was convinced it was Natasha who had upset him. And now he wasn’t picking up his phone. A horrible thought struck her. But it was just a thought. She would set it aside.
‘Did you have lunch?’ she asked.
‘For goodness sake, Melanie. I was waiting for you.’
‘It’s past five o’clock.’
‘Well, you’re late, aren’t you? I said I’d be watching Countryfile.’
‘I’ll get something ready.’
In the kitchen she wiped down two unmatched cups and saucers. There was no milk. She remembered her mother liked Earl Grey in the afternoon, preferably with a squeeze of lemon. The only lemon she could find was blue and fuzzy. They would do without. But there was a ready meal defrosting on the side so presumably her mother had something planned for this evening. There were ginger biscuits in a tin. She put them on a plate and carried them through with the tea. Then she sat down opposite her mother in the other wing chair.
‘What have you been doing?’ she asked as she poured the tea.
‘The usual. Reading. Watching TV. I meet my friends in the village for coffee. Sometimes I take a walk. And I’ve been sorting out my old costumes. They’re all over the bed in the spare room.’
‘What are you planning to do with them?’ asked Mel.
‘I haven’t decided yet. I might organise an exhibition.’
Had her mother lost all touch with reality? She couldn’t pick up a duster, and now she was organising an exhibition.
‘Maybe you should just take them to the charity shop.’
‘Charity shop? I’m shocked you entertain such a thought. They’re your inheritance.’
‘Sorry, Mum.’
They would have to go of course, like the rest of the clutter. Her mother needed to downsize to somewhere more sensible. It was ridiculous to have four bedrooms and a garden front and back when she lived alone. Mel had never seen the front look so wild. Though it was doubtful whether her mother would agree to leave the house she had lived in for the last fifty years. There was a pause. Mel broke the silence with the thoughts in her head.
‘You should get a cleaner. You could afford it.’
‘Like the one that stole money from me?’
‘It was never proven. Anyway, that was just one. You didn’t get on. They won’t all be like that. Or you might find a nice lodger. Someone who could give you a bit of help for a reduced rent. People are desperate for accommodation.’
‘Ridiculous. I can’t have a lodger.’
‘Well, you can’t go on like this.’
As soon as she said it she wished it unsaid. Why should it matter if her mother lived in mess? It was not Mel’s job to run her life. Why hadn’t she told her mother she looked nice? It shouldn’t be difficult to pay a simple compliment. Just as she was wondering how to temper the mood, Isabel bit back.
‘I’ll die soon then you’ll be happy.’
‘For Chrissake, Mum. I won’t be happy if you die. Anyway, you’re not even eighty. Eighty’s the new sixty.’
‘Who says?’
Her mother’s face darkened. Mel felt the familiar thump of guilt and exasperation.
‘Forgive me, Mum. I shouldn’t criticise. That’s great about the costumes. Good to have a sort out. I’d love to see them again.’
Better to focus on something her mother enjoyed. She had said the right thing at last. ‘Pop upstairs.’ Isabel gave a thin smile. ‘They’re all set out on the bed.’
Mel swallowed her tea, ran upstairs and opened the door to the largest of the three spare rooms: her room, though she had moved out the last of her possessions twenty years ago. The walls were still the pastel pink of her childhood. The furniture was unchanged, the small armchair, the chest of drawers painted white and blue, the traditional, kidney-shaped dressing table with the glass top. One of the walls was lined with fitted cupboards whose mirrored doors had been thrown open. Costumes were packed tight along the rail. Others were piled up on the single bed. It was years since Mel had seen them. Evening dresses in satin, chiffon and velvet, some swathed in plastic bags, power dressing suits from the 1980s. High heeled shoes, many in patent leather, were set out on a rack.
Looking at the clothes and shoes, touching them, she was transported back thirty years, the evenings in front of the TV, the visits to the set, the parties, the wet kisses of the men, the chattering confidence of the women. She remembered the words of her mothers’ friends, ‘You must be so proud of your lovely mother.’ And she had been. Then. What had happened to that pride? Now the costumes only saddened her. The faded remnants of a once-glittering surface. She ran downstairs.
‘Well done, Mum. It’s wonderful to see them.’
Isabel was seated in a low chair. Mel walked towards her, bent down and clasped her hands. Blue veined, age spotted, the knuckles swollen and arthritic, they were nevertheless perfectly manicured. Her mother might have no time or inclination for housework, but she had time to take herself to the beauty shop in the High Street for a spot of pampering. There was something poignant about those pink varnished fingernails which
so few people would see. She wore two rings, both gold, a semi-eternity studded with diamonds and emeralds and a ruby set in a circle of diamonds. The rings had belonged to Isabel’s own mother.
Mel looked up at her mother’s face.
‘Your hair’s nice. I meant to say.’
‘Thank you, darling. I’m making a bit of an effort. In fact there is something I haven’t mentioned.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You know that local theatre group, the South London Thespians or whatever they call themselves?’
‘You said you’d have nothing to do with them.’
Her mother was a pro. Amateur theatre was anathema.
‘Well, this is a bit different.’
A mischievous smile lit up her mother’s face. There was an excited glint in her eyes.
‘Why didn’t you tell me when I arrived?’
‘You were too busy criticising my house.’
‘So, what is it? Have you learnt your part?’ Her mother found memorising difficult. The most recent return to acting, a guest appearance in a pantomime, had been a fiasco, with Isabel calling for a prompt on almost every line.
‘There’s nothing to learn. I won’t be treading the boards. I’ll be sitting on a sofa.’
‘Interesting.’
‘It’s a fundraiser. I’m there as a pro. As myself. They’re doing an evening on soaps.’ Her voice dropped as she repeated the word, ‘soaps’ rolling it around her still agile mouth in her best RADA drawl. ‘Horrible word. Canada Row was pure drama. A reflection of life. For many people, it was their life.’
Isabel was sitting up straight now. She appeared to have grown by several inches.
‘Don’t stop. I need to hear the lot,’ said Mel.
Mel was delighted for her mother, though apprehensive lest everything should go wrong again.
‘It’s in that new Community Hall. Hardly my venue of choice but it’s for charity of course, so needs must. Not far from here. Just the wrong side of Dulwich. They’re sending a taxi to pick me up. They’ll do my hair and make-up, though I’ll be wearing my own clothes. I thought I’d dig out something suitable from the collection. They’ll show a few clips from Canada Row and a couple of other dramas. There’ll be a compère chappie interviewing three of us. I’ve no idea who the others are.’
‘What are they interviewing you about?’
‘Mostly our telly roles. Maybe a bit about our lives now. Then the audience clap and we all go home.’
‘That’s amazing. How did they find you?’ Mel was sitting down now, settling into this, pleased for her mother and amused by her rapid mood shift.
‘Darling, I still have an agent.’
What would Isabel say when asked what she was doing now? Would she make something up?
‘Mum, that’s brilliant. When is it?’
‘Wednesday evening.’
Her heart sank. She was out of London. ‘I’m so sorry, Mum. I’m in Canterbury.’ A three-day trial. The money would be good. There was no way she could forfeit it for her mother’s fifteen-minute performance.
‘All evening?’ Isabel sounded plaintive.
‘I don’t know. It’s an hour and half on the train. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get away from court.’ She would need to wait for the verdict. Courts often sat late rather than sending the jury away for the night.
‘Up to you, darling,’ snapped Isabel.
‘I’ll do my best.’
She would. She wanted to be there for her mother now. As much as she had wanted her mother to be there for her in the past. And she had longed for it. Still did. But, there seemed to be taboos on every subject of importance. She had never been able to share a problem. And Isabel would be horrified if she knew what the problems were: the affair with Paul, Jacob’s arrest, Natasha’s troublemaking. She hadn’t even told her about the mugging for fear of upsetting her. A mother–daughter friendship had never been part of the picture.
But Isabel was an old woman now. Mel could at least give her more of her time. She would do her best to get to ‘Meet the Stars’.
Chapter Twenty-six
Mel
Mel stared through the train window at the houses, parks and warehouses of south London. The slow rumble of the overground helped calm her thoughts. Jacob had texted. He was home and safe and they would talk later. The visit to Dulwich had been a nightmare but the visit to her mother had turned out better than expected. At least Isabel had something to look forward to.
As for Natasha, there was nothing left in Mel but a bullet-hard determination to erase the woman from her life. Mel would talk to the members of the pupillage committee. Someone else could take over Natasha’s supervision for the final two months of her pupillage. Mel would cite personal differences. After that she would avoid all contact. If Natasha tried to squat or get a third six, Mel would do everything in her power to stop it. With careful management, she would never have to see her again.
She glanced at her phone, opening Jacob’s message for the third time that evening.
I’m home. CU l8ter.
She smiled inwardly. The silly code they still used. Textspeak had moved on but it was good enough for them.
Her mood lightened and she felt stronger, more hopeful, as she alighted from the train at Finsbury Park and set off down the tunnel towards the bus.
There was a queue for the W3 and it was only three stops from the station to her home, but she decided to wait. It wasn’t yet wholly dark, but in the half-light of a summer evening, Mel preferred to avoid passing too close to the place where she’d been assaulted two months previously. There had been nothing more from the police. She wondered if the case was closed.
The flat was quiet, only the usual muffled thud of music from the floor above. She threw down her bag and pushed open the door to Jacob’s room. Her boy was staring into his computer screen, oversized headphones wrapped around his asymmetrical haircut like a pair of plastic earmuffs. His right hand was draped over a mouse, scudding around a worn-out mat. Mel pushed a jumble of clothing to one side and plonked herself on the large bean bag she had given him for his thirteenth birthday. A nod of his head indicated he had seen her but there was no lull in the gaming.
Scanning the room for something to write on and with, she spotted a biro on the floor and a notebook full of illegible scribbles on the edge of his computer table. Turning up a clean page, she wrote, ‘Talk to me.’ She was about to add ‘when you’ve killed enough baddies,’ but it sounded patronising and she wanted the mood to be right. Ripping off the page, she left it on the table next to his computer, voices ringing in her head: You spoil him. You let him dominate you. The voices had a point, but tonight she needed to approach him on his terms.
There was soup in the fridge. She popped it in the microwave. A drink would be welcome but in her eagerness to get back she had omitted to pick up wine at the corner shop. And she needed a clear head for work.
After the soup, she opened the Canterbury brief and laid out the papers on the table. Her client had stabbed her lover with a fruit knife. The evidence against her was strong. Mel would need to be at her focused best to get the woman off on self-defence. Cross-examination of the lover would be key. For a good hour she was oblivious to her own concerns, losing herself in preparation.
Shortly before midnight Jacob walked in. Mel was deep in work and didn’t look up immediately. When she did, her son seemed different, more solid, with a new confidence. Over the last few weeks he’d grown tall and lanky, but when did his shoulders become so broad? It was not as if he worked out.
‘I’m going to bed,’ he said.
‘Don’t keep avoiding me, Jacob.’
‘I’m not avoiding you. I’m here, aren’t I?’
Even as she heard him speak she was conscious that half her mind was on tomorrow’s case. Was she, too, guilty of avoidance? She shut her notebook and held his gaze. It was late, but she needed to know.
‘Listen, darling, you walked off this afterno
on. You didn’t tell me you were going or why. You know I’m anxious because of the assault thing. You might at least have texted.’
‘I did text.’
‘Two hours later.’
‘One hour.’
‘One hour, two hours, what’s it matter? The thing is you pissed off. Why?’
‘I wanted to come home.’
As a single mother Mel had yearned for a companion. Was that why she had treated Jacob as mature beyond his years? Why she had assumed an understanding and experience he was too young to possess? She should have been a better parent, a better guide. He was sixteen now, but it was not too late. He might think he was almost a man, but he was on police bail on an assault charge and she needed to protect him.
‘What happened? Did Natasha say something to upset you?’
His body gave a little jerk. His features looked tight and hard and his eyes lost their dreamy softness. Mel waited, the walls of the room pressing in on her. The electric overhead light felt harsh and cruel.
‘You won’t like this, Mum.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Natasha told me. About you and this bloke Paul.’
And though she had suspected what he might say, she was unprepared for the physicality of her reaction. A bitter taste flooded her mouth; her stomach seemed to curdle. Was it revulsion at the lies she had told him? The days she had called to say she was stuck at work when she’d been resting in Paul’s arms in a hotel bed? Had she felt even a slither of guilt? No, more like a running strain of mild discomfort, mostly ignored. Because no one would get hurt, would they?
Hearing it from Jacob changed everything. It was hard to know which was worse. The exposure itself or the way it had happened, that her pupil Natasha should divulge her secret out of sheer malice. Mel was grateful she had followed her instinct and prevented her meeting her mother. Though God knows why she had invited Natasha for coffee in Dulwich in the first place. Was it some deep fascination, hard to shake off? Was Natasha’s charm a spell, even when you could see its falsity? Was that why she had deceived so many in chambers? Well, Mel was shot of her now. There would be no reference. No more supervision. Natasha could do no more damage.