Copycat

by Gillian White

‘That was my school.’ Jennie pointed to a red-brick factory, its walls tangled with barbed wire. This wasn’t the dark, mysterious poverty that moved poets and writers – booze, babies, batterings and Bridewells – this was quiet and respectable, with dingy net curtains and no vibrancy. Immediately beyond the factory was a playground. The clues were the climbing frame and tyres; otherwise it was more like a disused bomb site, a prowling ground for thin brown dogs with tails that curled up over their backs.

  ‘What do I want out of here?’ Jennie cried, holding out a pink candlewick bedspread, a deadly thing, as if she felt she ought to claim it and not abandon it to its fate.

  ‘You really don’t want that,’ I said, ‘and put that lampshade back where you found it. You’ve got to be selective. Stella’s dead. Turning down her bits and pieces isn’t going to hurt her now.’

  But Jennie put the button box, an oriental lacquered tea caddy, into one of the boxes we’d brought. ‘The awful thing is,’ she said, looking round hopelessly, ‘Mum worked so hard for all this crap and look at it! Just look at it! All that scrimping and scraping – for what? It would have been better if she’d given up and gone on the dole.’

  I pressed her hand. ‘Pride,’ I said, but knowing sod all about the stamina required of women like Stella. If I was ever in need, I would damn well make sure I claimed the last penny. And if things were that bad, I might well turn to crime. But Stella’s pride had not been passed on to her daughter, except in the superficial concerns that kept Jennie scrubbing and cleaning.

  No, unlike the miserable Stella, Jennie had no pride at all.

  ‘Look at this! What is it? It looks like a letter from your father!’

  I’d been delving in a musty box that reeked of damp. I had found it under Stella’s bed.

  ‘Let’s have a look… oh… there’s a photo…’

  I was astonished when I realized. ‘Haven’t you ever seen this before?’

  ‘No.’ Jennie sounded shy. I watched her face as she picked up the picture, taken by one of those Instamatics and sticky with fingerprints. ‘That’s not him,’ she said firmly.

  I took it from her and stared. ‘How do you know? It’s with all the letters, and here’s a wedding photo, my God!’

  Jennie snatched it off me. She said nothing. Her father was a funny little man, shiny like a salesman, wearing a crumpled suit, and the picture was taken between cars, on the pavement outside some register office. Stella wore white. A white linen suit with shades of Oxfam, and white high heels that made her feet look overlarge and her legs peculiarly skinny. But the very obvious surprise was that she bulged like a balloon at the front. There was no doubt about it. Stella was pregnant.

  ‘So much for all that moral high ground.’

  But Jennie ignored me. In the same low voice, she said, ‘I never dreamed he would look like that.’

  ‘I know. You hoped he’d be Richard Branson. Well, now you know.’ I was suddenly struck by a wonderful idea. ‘Jennie, why don’t you trace him?’

  ‘I don’t want to trace him,’ she said quickly, and she folded down the top of the box and put it on the take-home pile.

  ‘But he’s probably alive. Stella was only fifty-one. You could search for your roots. It’d be such fun.’

  ‘I don’t want to find my roots. Leave it alone, please, Martha.’

  I was taken aback by her vehemence, but I did what I was told.

  It was astonishing how deviously Jennie, at her most submissive and artful, penetrated Sam’s macho abhorrence and turned him into a kind of protector. She was a weak and feeble woman, and that appealed to a dominant male who would secretly have preferred me to be more needy. I talked him through our awkward relationship: how Jennie’s infatuation had spiralled, without encouragement, into this manic obsession from which we could see no way out. He, at his most benevolent and surprisingly grown up, finally accepted that sex was not at the core, that neither of us was the dyke he suspected and our squeamish reactions proved that.

  I had to admire the way Jennie spun her web around him, using every wile she had to get herself forgiven and accepted. All I wanted was peace to reign and if this was the best way to achieve it, then that was OK by me.

  Sam and I both reluctantly agreed that the only real way to help Jennie out of her emotional turmoil was to include her in our activities and to try to treat her as normal. So when Betws-y-Coed came up, Sam said, ‘OK, let the Gordons come, but Emma and Mark won’t be too chuffed and it is their cottage.’

  ‘It would mean such a lot to Jennie,’ I said, not mentioning how many chances my neighbour had already been given, and blown. ‘It would signal your absolution and you know how she cares about stuff like that.’

  ‘She’s mad, not bad,’ Sam said, full of his own self-importance again, expert as he now was on obsessions. ‘But let’s hope that’s water under the bridge.’

  And I dared to remark, ‘We’ve all done things we’re not proud of.’

  And Sam said, ‘Jennie hasn’t got a clue how sodding lucky she is, and there’s old Graham going round in the dark, thinking he’s got the perfect wife.’

  ‘She must be hell to live with – all those moods, and the kids so mollycoddled, waited on hand and foot.’

  ‘Well, just as long as they don’t expect us to pander to that when it’s pissing with rain in Betws-y-Coed for a whole sodding fortnight,’ said Sam.

  On a Monday and a Thursday, as soon as I got home from work, Jennie would come over to return Scarlett and Lawrence. It became a routine which was never broken and it meant that I could never stay late for a drink with my office friends after the paper was put to bed. She waited for this precious time, watching the road through her curtains for the moment when my second-hand Mini shook rustily onto my drive.

  And because she stubbornly refused payment, I felt obliged to entertain her with talk of my day in exchange for services rendered. It became an unspoken pact. We’d get out the wine and I’d kick off my shoes, and Jennie would sit at the table and wait, like an overstuffed seagull chick waits on roofs, behind chimneys, for its scrawny, worn-out parents to provide grubs. And I felt more guilt at abandoning Jennie for those special two days a week than I felt for my own children.

  She handicapped me. If circumstances had been normal, I would have found a new child-minder to replace Hilda and paid her so that I could do the hours I wanted – maybe cover the magistrates’ court or do some council meetings. I daren’t even bring up the subject with Jennie; she might regress into lengthy despair and I couldn’t tolerate more of that crap. We were going well. I mustn’t rock the boat.

  She was trying her hardest.

  She deserved encouragement.

  She must have known how close she had come to ruining our marriage, and maybe hers as well. If it wasn’t for the kids and the fact that we were next-door neighbours, I doubt that Sam would have been so forgiving. Mercifully, nobody else appeared to have seen or heard that frightful drama played out on our doorsteps. If they did, they never mentioned it.

  So I was surprised when Tina Gallagher confronted me over coffee at her house. ‘I hear you’re taking the Gordons on holiday with you again.’

  ‘To a cottage in Wales, which some friends have just bought.’

  Tina looked at me hard. ‘And you think that’s wise?’

  I was taken aback. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well,’ said Tina, avoiding my eyes, ‘after that dreadful business.’

  I dipped a finger in sugar and sucked it, attempting a casual response. I wished I hadn’t confided in Tina, but at the time I was so desperate that it felt like the only thing to do. ‘Oh, that’s over now.’

  ‘That’s not what I heard,’ she said.

  I wanted to leave, but how could I? I needed to know what she meant.

  ‘Well, Jennie’s grown chummy with Angie Ford,’ said Tina, and she told me that after that bloody great row, Jennie came crying to her, saying Sam had no right to treat her like that after what he’d done at
your last Christmas party.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Apparently, Jennie was rat-arsed and Sam had to take her upstairs…’

  ‘Yes, I know. He put her to bed, mainly to hide her from that wretched family…’

  ‘Well,’ said Tina, eyeing me over the rim of her mug, ‘apparently that’s not all he did.’

  ‘Balls,’ I said. ‘Bollocks, Sam would have said. He tells me about his women – afterwards. That’s all part of the thrill.’

  Tina raised her eyebrows before going on. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Martha sweetie, I am merely repeating what I’ve been told, what the whole Close has been told, for your own sake. Sam took advantage of Jennie, and you have a serious problem with booze. Those are the rumours spread by you know who. Nobody believes a word, of course, we all know Jennie Gordon by now. But when I heard about this holiday, I thought you two must be off your chumps. Why you don’t just cut yourselves off from that blessed family, I can’t imagine. That woman’s trouble, red hot, believe me.’

  When was this whole mess going to end?

  FIFTEEN

  Jennie

  WHEN WAS THIS WHOLE mess going to end?

  The cottage was nothing like I’d imagined. They all decided we should meet in the garden rather than travel in convoy, as I had suggested; they also turned down my idea of getting together at a cafe in town with toilets and water for the children.

  We assumed we would find the place without any trouble. We had it circled on our Ordnance Survey and Graham, a scout for so long, was an expert at reading maps.

  I was sick of chanting, ‘Just another few minutes, we’re nearly there. Poppy, darling, be patient…’

  I couldn’t believe it when we drew up. ‘No!’ I peered out frantically, because Poppy was retching every few minutes and Josh was screaming so hard in his seat that I thought he must have developed a temperature. ‘No, Graham, this can’t be it. It’s derelict, nobody lives here, and how would anyone get in?’

  ‘Up the path, of course.’ Graham, at the end of his tether, slammed his sunglasses down on the dashboard in temper. He got out and wandered along the lane that ran alongside the high stone wall. I watched him straining to see over. He stuck up his thumb, slid back in the car and drove bumpily off the road and onto an uneven, grassy slope that bordered the ramshackle building.

  Sheep pooh. God. Disgusting.

  I had to admit I was wrong when he pointed out the name, Last Resort, which was so silly and typical of Mark and Emma; although – to be fair – it was named that when they bought it. It could have been called that for hundreds of years, going by the state of the crooked sign. You’d never have spotted it from the lane.

  ‘Oh look, Poppy,’ exclaimed Graham at his most encouraging. ‘I think a wicked witch lives here…’ And I could have shaken him. He knew very well how sensitive Poppy was to suggestion.

  How could we possibly wait in this garden?

  Masses of tall weeds and brambles with wasps, bees, dragonflies and beetles, at their most industrious, hovered and bothered round hairy stems. Thank goodness I’d had the foresight to bring the wet wipes and the Wasp-Eze, the bug spray and an assortment of blankets.

  Graham nearly demolished the gate in order to get through. He trampled down a space on the so-called grass, so we could spread out a rug and have somewhere to sit. Of course, Mark and Emma, being childless and showing no signs of wanting a family, wouldn’t consider this hazardous. They had assured us the place was perfect.

  ‘But you must admit,’ Graham said, happier now that he was out of the car and draining the last drop of tepid tea, ‘the place is idyllic.’ For Heidi maybe, yes. We were surrounded by steep green hillsides, almost mountainous in places, while below us a forest meandered down to the distant slither of river.

  The sounds were of buzzing insects, bleats of hidden sheep and the faraway splashing of the river, while the smells were of hot vegetation and pine.

  ‘Oh yes, charming if you’re in the SAS doing a course in orienteering, or a hermit in training for total seclusion. But how far away are the shops? Don’t forget, we’ve got two babies, and I’m more concerned about basic survival.’

  ‘For once, why don’t we try and relax?’ said Graham, who was crossing his legs and letting his head fall back. His sandy hair tickled his neck. He leaned forward and took off his shirt.

  ‘You’ll get bitten,’ I warned him. ‘You’re asking for trouble.’ I sorted out Poppy’s sun hat, even though she would tug it off when I wasn’t looking. Luckily I had remembered the sunshade for the carrycot because, my God, it was hot.

  ‘You clever things, you’ve arrived already, super.’ Emma leapt lithely over the side of the Morgan and hauled out a gigantic hamper. ‘We hoped we’d be first. We wanted to have the grub all unpacked and ready.’

  Graham shook hands with Mark and relieved him of the raffia umbrella. ‘Bang it in the ground somewhere, while I fight my way in and find us some chairs.’

  We’d been on holiday with them before, but not in such close proximity. In Italy we’d all stayed in a hotel, where we did our own thing and had our own rooms. In many respects, Mark and Emma were like strangers: because of their laid-back lifestyle, their endless money and their freedom, they seemed like kids, much younger than us. I felt drab and boring alongside Emma. Were they happy to have us here for a fortnight at their cottage, or had they needed persuading? When Emma and Mark were around, even the steady, sensible Graham talked faster and louder and tried to be wittier.

  But in my case, feeling inferior, my awkwardness made me clumsy and dull.

  The cottage door was open now and Emma had disappeared into the kitchen. I felt I ought to be helping, although I had enough on my plate with the children tired, hungry and hot. I followed her into the rustic hovel.

  She expected me to know what to do with the strange bits and pieces she brought from the hamper. Most of it was probably cordon bleu and therefore unsuitable for the children. But I couldn’t cope, I just couldn’t cope.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll do it,’ she said. ‘You just take the stuff outside. The table ought to be up by now, and Mark will sort the wine.’ She turned to Poppy and gave a huge smile, but Poppy just sucked her finger and clung tightly to my skirt.

  ‘She’s shy,’ I explained, made inadequate again, and unfairly annoyed with Poppy who could be bright and fun if she tried.

  ‘It’s a long journey for them, isn’t it?’ Emma attempted to draw Poppy out. ‘You’re hungry, aren’t you?’ she said, ruffling Poppy’s hair, so that my daughter frowned and straightened it again.

  ‘I wish I had hair like that,’ said Emma.

  But she had. Poppy’s hair – straight and honey-blonde – was as fair as Scarlett’s was dark. It was just possible that Emma’s hair was dyed blonde, but I guessed that it was natural. Its glossy texture seemed effortless too. She and Mark were ‘natural’ people, mostly in shorts or swimwear, and they sported glowing, advertisement skin.

  They probably ran along the sand hand in hand, or rode across it bareback.

  But no matter what I spent on clothes, I couldn’t achieve that born-into-them look, and I was too thin to swing when I walked, like Emma did.

  I whispered to Graham nastily, ‘Trust the Frazers to be late. The worst’ll be done by the time they arrive.’

  ‘Knowing Martha, she planned it that way.’ But Graham’s remark was jokey, whereas mine had been meant spitefully. I felt slighted; I was out of my depth but I was determined to make it seem as if I was having a wonderful time.

  ‘While we’re waiting for the others, could we take some of our stuff upstairs and see where we are all sleeping?’ I thought it impolite that Emma hadn’t already shown us round – after all, we were her guests.

  She was too busy fiddling in the kitchen for manners. ‘Top of the stairs,’ she said. ‘Duck your heads, turn left and you’re at the end of the little landing.’

  I prised Graham away from Mark – if men can do nothing, they w
ill – and reminded him that our car was still loaded. ‘You want me to do it right now?’ he asked with an unnecessary sigh.

  ‘Whatever you like, Graham. Up to you,’ I said coldly. But he knew how angry I was. At this point, I knew that the fortnight was doomed.

  I was left to unpack on my own while Graham minded the children. An outsider already, I kept watch through the latticed window that overlooked the garden. The bedroom floor creaked and slanted like the deck of the Mary Rose. The beams were placed precisely to be a hazard for the unwary. The furniture was antique, black with age, but the fabrics Emma had chosen were gorgeous – patchworks, ginghams, and crisp fresh cottons, which reminded me of a Wendy house I had once played in, in a rich friend’s garden. Ours was a comfy double bed, while the kids had bunks in their little room, and Josh, in his carrycot, could sleep at the bottom. As the sun streamed in through the window, it brought with it the scent of red roses. Briefly, foolishly, I felt cheered.

  ‘Hey, you all, they’re here.’

  I wouldn’t go down to meet the Frazers. I would stay up here and see how long it took for Martha to come and find me.

  I stood back and watched.

  She looked as amazing as ever: her hair, scraped up in a band to the top of her head, fell down round her face in untidy spirals. She might be large, but, because of her style she was glorious. Her skimpy sundress was a feminine pink.

  Mark swung Scarlett round in the air while Emma cuddled the gurgling Lawrence. Their kids responded. Why couldn’t mine? ‘Take him away before I get broody,’ Emma called, laughing, to Martha. She would never have said that about little Josh, who was going through a sickly patch.

  Corks popped as the wine was opened, as it had not been for us.

  Compelled to make these pathetic comparisons, naturally I was hurt.

  ‘Truly delightful,’ Martha cried, as she stood back to admire the cottage. So far, it seemed that she hadn’t missed me.

  ‘It’s idyllic,’ said Sam, ‘you clever things.’

  Martha gasped at the sight of the table, now laden and looking delicious. ‘When did you do all this, Emma?’