A Family Man

by Amanda Brookfield

  ‘I am here to work, you know,’ Matt interrupted, laughing. ‘You mean going to watch three shows on Broadway?’

  ‘Four. And I’ve got to write a big feature on New York theatre, why it’s so much more of a closed shop than the West End, why only so few shows translate well across the Atlantic – which reminds me, can I use your computer to file my pieces?’

  ‘You could if it was working. Sorry, pal, it crashed last week and I haven’t gotten anybody round to take a look yet. The fax and phone are okay, though – you’re welcome to use them.’

  ‘My God, a few months in and you’re even beginning to talk like a Yankee,’ teased Matt, ‘not to mention dressing like one.’ He laughed, thinking with a spurt of fondness of Beth, who, in a comparable switch of environment, was still so irresistibly and irrefutably American. And the sex hadn’t been bad at all, he reflected, remembering again their night together, reassured greatly just by the fact that it had happened, not caring why or where it was headed.

  ‘This is the worst bit at the moment,’ growled Graham, clicking his fingers with irritation at the traffic, which a long series of bollards and ticker tape was squeezing from three lanes to one. A few workmen, looking somehow more heroic and self-important than their British counterparts ever seemed to, were striding around in padded jackets, tight jeans and heavy-soled boots, waving the cars past and climbing in and out of construction vehicles. ‘Forever digging up the fucking roads for something.’ Graham revved the engine impatiently.

  ‘Just like home,’ remarked Matt dryly.

  ‘Four more blocks of this and we’re out of it. My flat’s that way.’ Graham carved the air next to his window with his hand. ‘Third floor of a warehouse, converted by two high-powered architects a few years ago. All beams, open space and high ceilings – you’ll love it.’

  ‘Even nicer than Borough, then?’ Matt twisted his neck to look out of Graham’s side of the car, experiencing a shiver of unease at the towering grey blocks, so tall and packed that the patch of yellowy grey representing the sky looked like a dim unreachable light at the end of an inverted tunnel.

  ‘I’ve placed it with an estate agent, didn’t I tell you? The UK property market’s reached such a high everyone says it’s going to nosedive or plateau out at best. The agent reckons I’ll get four fifty, which isn’t bad when you think what I paid.’

  ‘And what was that?’ asked Matt faintly, a little perturbed at the sense that even at a distance of two thousand miles Graham was somehow more on top of things back home than he was.

  ‘Two twenty. You ought to get your place valued, you know, I bet it’s worth a fortune. With Kath gone, it might be wise to move, get somewhere smaller, put the money into the stock market —’ Catching sight of the expression on Matt’s face, he broke off. ‘Only a thought. Obviously it’s early days to be rearranging your life.’

  Halfway down a narrow alley of a street, Graham fired a console at a large steel door, which slowly opened, revealing the dark mouth of a small underground carpark.

  ‘You get rats down here sometimes,’ he remarked cheerfully, seizing Matt’s suitcase from the boot and leading the way to the lift. ‘And cockroaches. We have this ghostbuster of a guy who comes by every few weeks, sprays stuff down the drains and plug holes – all part of the landlord’s service. Hey, are you okay? You look kind of pale – you don’t actually see the little bastards very often —’

  ‘It’s not that.’ Matt ran a hand over his face, feeling suddenly haggard and drained. ‘Jet-lag, I guess.’

  Graham gave a dismissive laugh. ‘Bit early for that, I’m afraid. We’ve got the whole day to go yet. I thought you might want to shower and then we could find some food. A bloody Mary and some eggs Benedict will soon sort you out.’

  Matt made a face. ‘Coffee and scrambled eggs maybe. Graham … thanks for taking me in like this and for being so …’ He laughed awkwardly, aware that, as ever when confronted with raw displays of emotion, his friend was looking stricken and impatient. ‘Well … it’s good to be here.’

  ‘Any time.’ Graham clicked his heels together and gave a mock salute. ‘And now may I show you to your quarters?’ The lift had deposited them outside a door on a small landing with polished wooden floorboards and lime-green walls. ‘Don’t worry, it gets better inside.’ A moment later Matt was stepping into the largest single living space he had ever seen, the length of three London buses and just as wide. The far end was kitted out with state-of-the-art chrome kitchen units and a crescent-shaped breakfast bar, while the other side of the room was taken up by a huge leather suite and a television with a screen the size of a door. The area in between was spacious enough to house a massive medieval-style dining-room table, a desk and several man-size polished wooden artifacts. Sweeping up to split levels on either side were two symmetrical staircases, without banisters and curving in gentle spirals to what were clearly bedrooms, suspended from the ceiling like giant shelves. Looking up at each one, Matt was able to make out the ends of wide beds and sleek matching sets of bedroom furniture.

  ‘There’s a loo down there off the kitchen and each bedroom wing has its own en suite. What do you think? Fucking brilliant or what?’

  ‘It is, it is,’ murmured Matt, overwhelmed not only by the original and vast dimensions of the flat but by the realisation, hitherto only half acknowledged, that Graham was seriously wealthy. ‘What did you say these people were paying you?’

  Graham grinned. ‘I didn’t and you don’t want to know.’

  ‘No, I don’t think I do,’ Matt muttered, walking farther into the room and swinging his arms out as if trying to fill up some of the space. ‘I love these staircases.’ He touched the wood of one of the steps, thinking how hazardous they would be for a four-year-old and how lucky Graham was to be able to ignore such considerations.

  ‘So do I, even if they’re not exactly ideal for entertaining,’ remarked Graham dryly, leading the way up the left-hand one. ‘I haven’t put the acoustics to the test yet – nor do I intend to during your stay,’ he added hastily, ‘but my guess is that noise from the guest suite to the main suite would travel rather efficiently. Definitely a one-man pad.’ He dropped Matt’s case on to the bed and turned back towards the stairs. ‘Call if you need anything. And don’t get any smart ideas about a kip.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’ll give you half an hour max, then we’re out of here.’

  ‘Half an hour it is.’ Matt waved him off down the stairs, feeling not so much bossed about as pleasantly taken in hand. After weeks of grappling with the new mercurial state of his own life, it was sheer delight to be organised by someone else, to have a clear schedule to follow and no one’s welfare to worry about but his own.

  20

  Sitting alone on her blue chintz sofa, Louise stared disconsolately at the telephone on the table beside her. She had been on the verge of calling Matt, only to remember that he was in New York. Both children were in Wimbledon with her parents for the week, providing her with a keenly anticipated break from the humdrum routine of family life. Gloria had taken the opportunity to fly to Barcelona with the most recent male acquaintance to emerge from the frenetic fog of her social life. The plan had been for her and Anthony to take off somewhere nice as well, until a couple of last- minute work hitches had made Anthony plead the necessity of remaining within driving distance of the hospital. He had presented a very appealing case for the luxury of having some time on their own at home; of lazy lie- ins and being able to go out without the burden of negotiating the rollercoaster social life of their employee. He would keep his work commitments to the barest minimum, he assured her, so they really could have the best of all worlds – comfort, familiarity, and freedom all rolled into one.

  * * *

  Sitting alone on her sofa that Tuesday afternoon, with the quiet tick of the house around her, Louise could feel her faith in such a scenario slipping away. Anthony had spent most of the previous day ensconced in his study.

  A two-hour sortie to the h
ospital that afternoon had predictably stretched to three. They were supposed to be going to the cinema – Leicester Square and a curry afterwards – but she was already doubting whether even this unambitious plan would be realised. It seemed increasingly as if the simplest, most everyday things required enormous conviction before they could be made real, that each day required a huge effort of drive and reinvention of which she was growing less and less capable.

  To have longed for time alone, only to feel that one was not only wasting but failing to enjoy it, was depressing. When the children were around, even with Gloria to help out, Louise had the constant feeling that there were one million things which being a mother prevented her from attending to. Yet now they were gone, she could not for the life of her conceive what such things were or why they had felt so pressing. It had taken just one day to catch up on her letter-writing, clear the laundry baskets and the ironing pile. The house was both tidy and clean. The fridge and larder were stocked with more food than either she or Anthony could eat during the course of six days, especially if they dined out as often as he promised.

  In a dim bid for reassurance she dialled Anthony’s direct line at the hospital.

  ‘Hello, it’s me.’

  ‘Hello, darling, all well?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Having a lovely relaxing day?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good … I’m almost finished here. But rather than me traipsing home first, why don’t we meet outside the cinema?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘It’s only sensible, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Fine. See you later, then.’

  Louise carefully put the phone down and sat staring at the extravagant swirling blue designer fabric on either side of her knees, feeling grey and small and quite lost against its bold pattern. In fact all the accoutrements of her life made her feel grey and lost, she decided, casting her eyes round the expensive, tasteful furnishings of the room and recalling with some wonderment the pleasure she had taken in putting it all together. Paint, lampshades, curtain ties, scatter cushions, rugs, all painstakingly selected to merge and complement each other, like myriad pieces in a huge collage; a brilliant backdrop for any life, a palette of colour and imagination, and yet… Louise stood up, so quickly that she staggered a little from dizziness, seeing stars dance in the corners of her eyes. No one was perfectly happy, she comforted herself, crossing the room and switching off the lights.

  Standing in the dimness of the hallway she paused, arrested by the thought of Kath. Nothing had felt quite right since she’d gone. Worse still, Louise was beginning to glimpse an understanding of why she had gone, of why anyone might want to jump from the rails of her own life to something fresh and full of promise.

  In the kitchen the fruitcake she had baked that morning sat on the wire cooling rack, plump with dried fruit and almonds. Without the children bullying for leftovers, Louise had wiped out the inside of the bowl herself, running her finger round the rim and licking scoops of the sweet mixture till she felt sick.

  After a few moments’ deliberation, Louise eased the cake off the rack, wrapped it in a large square of greaseproof paper and placed it carefully in a tin which had housed all the cheese biscuits over Christmas. Tucking it under her arm, she scooped up her handbag and coat, pulled the front door behind her and got into the car.

  It was a duty call, she told herself, pulling up some ten minutes later a few yards from the front door of Matt’s house. The thought of her own father managing in a comparable situation was laughable. He couldn’t even find the butter dish without her mother’s help, let alone see to the needs of a small child. During the course of that week the extent of his involvement with his grandchildren would, she knew, not stretch beyond story-reading and pushing swings in the park. All the vital things – cleanliness, food, sleep – would be managed by her mother.

  Getting no immediate response to her ring, Louise bent down and peered through the letter flap. Encouraged by light and a sound suggesting that the house was occupied, she tried again, several times in succession.

  ‘Bloody hell, I’m coming, I’m coming.’

  A young girl whom Louise recognised at once from the brief glimpse she had had of her in the park seven weeks before opened the door. She was wearing voluminous khaki trousers, with wide, fraying hems, trailing well over the platformed soles of her trainers, and a black T-shirt which looked as if it had been shrunk several times in the wash. In her hand was a duster and a can of polish. Round her neck hung a headset with large ear-phones, attached by a long black wire into a small machine poking out of the top of her trousers.

  ‘Sorry, I had these on.’ She plucked at the headset, which was still pulsing with a tinny noise. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘I’ve come to see Joshua – and his grandfather,’ replied Louise, unable to mask the ring of disapproval in her tone. While Matt had sung the praises of his young protégée, she had not been able to help wondering at the prudence of bestowing any sort of childcare responsibility on a creature from such a background. The sight of Josie now, waving the duster as if she were mistress of the house, curling her tongue round chewing gum between sentences, did nothing to assuage such reservations. ‘I promised Matt I’d drop by while he was away – just to keep an eye on things, you know.’

  Josie gave her a sharp look. ‘They’re out at the moment – gone to the park. I’m doing a couple of hours’ housework. I’d do it when they were around only Josh’s got a thing about the hoover – doesn’t like the noise, which is fair enough if you think about it.’ She hesitated a moment before adding, ‘You could come in if you wanted to wait for them.’

  ‘Thank you. I will,’ replied Louise firmly, the girl’s evident lack of enthusiasm only sharpening her determination to cross the threshold.

  Having so recently had nothing to do but survey the pristine interior of her own home, Louise felt a curious mixture of envy and dismay at the cheerful chaos prevailing in the Webster household. Kath would have had a fit, she thought sadly, pressing herself against the wall to get past a large cardboard box trailing with Sellotape and bits of string.

  ‘A time capsule,’ explained Josie, giving the box a tap as she slid her own wiry frame past it in order to follow Louise into the living room. ‘I’m having a grand sort-out in here.’ She waved her duster at the piles of toys and books scattered across the carpet. ‘Cup of tea?’

  ‘Yes, thank you – but I can make it,’ said Louise hastily, ‘I know my way quite well round the kitchen. And I’ll take this through, while I’m at it. A little something for tea,’ she added, tapping her nails on the lid of her tin, driven to make the observation by the blank look on the girl’s face. ‘Don’t let me stop you getting on with your work.’

  ‘Right … no. I’ll just carry on out here.’

  The lack of animation in Josie’s expression became rather more understandable at the sight of the kitchen, where a sweet smell and a sink full of unwashed patty-tins bore testimony to some considerable baking efforts on her own part. Tutting loudly at the mess, Louise set her tin down and rolled up her sleeves in preparation to do battle with the washing up.

  ‘There’s no need. I was going to do that next.’

  ‘You’ve clearly got more than enough on your plate next door,’ she replied, her voice brisk. ‘It won’t take a minute.’

  ‘I don’t want you to do it,’ said Josie doggedly, not understanding her own reactions beyond an intuition that Louise was hostile, that she wasn’t offering help so much as disapproval and criticism. She remembered her from the incident in the playground. She hadn’t liked the look of her then either, with her smart, expensive clothes and disapproving rich-lady smirk. ‘I said I’ll bloody do it,’ she repeated, snatching the rubber gloves from Louise’s hands.

  ‘How dare you … I …’

  ‘Look, just sit down and have some tea, won’t you?’ pleaded Josie, conscious suddenly that she might be addressing a creature va
lued by her employer for some reason. Maybe even his girlfriend, she reflected, inwardly cringing at the thought. ‘It’s very kind of you and everything, but if you clear up it makes me feel guilty and Mr Webster pays me to clear up so it wouldn’t be right.’

  This unhappy exchange was brought to a merciful conclusion by the sound of a key in the lock and Joshua bursting into the kitchen, his elfin face streaked with mud and two lines of dribble streaming freely from his nostrils. Ignoring Louise, he grabbed hold of Josie’s left leg.

  ‘Hello, I’m Louise,’ she said, holding out her hand to Dennis, noting as she did so the echo of Matt among the craggy features, and the same firm set of the jaw. ‘I think we’ve spoken on the phone.’ Even the hairline was similar, Dennis’s receded but firm head of silky grey suggesting Matt had little further to worry about on that score. ‘Just dropped by to see how you were getting on.’

  ‘Well, how kind. Josie, is the kettle on?’

  Josie and Louise exchanged a brief glance, as Josie seized the kettle and wedged it under the tap. ‘It is now. And there’s loads to eat ’cos this … Louise brought a cake.’ She dropped three tea bags into three mugs and folded her arms. ‘Tea coming right up.’

  Unable to ignore the sight of Joshua’s streaming nose a moment longer, Louise took a tissue from her sleeve and swiped it deftly across his upper lip. ‘Aren’t you going to even say hello?’ she asked, bending down to get his attention.

  ‘Hello,’ he shouted, before skidding out of the room and diving into the cardboard box in the hall.

  Louise was relieved that, instead of joining her and Dennis, Josie continued with her household chores, occasionally breaking off to have a noisy swig of tea or to exchange a few squeals through the flap in Joshua’s box. Matthew’s father was a gentle, kindly man, she could see at once, and even older than she had expected. Despite the strong lines of his features and the brightness of his eyes, he had that edge of physical frailty which she associated with men approaching seventy; a subtle slowness in even the mildest movement, evident in every turn of his head and the way he got up from his chair. He coughed a lot too, trumpeting into a handkerchief with a violence that made her jump.