‘I cheated,’ said Emma. ‘I brought it all with me. Jennie and Poppy helped. Are you hungry?’
I waited, but still Martha did not ask where I was. I needed Emma and Mark to know how important I was to my friend. Something must be wrong. But what?
‘Bloody starving,’ said Martha. And, ‘Bloody starving,’ Scarlett repeated, and everyone laughed and began to tuck in and talk about the cottage and all its idiosyncrasies – how the previous occupant had died in Emma and Mark’s very bed, how the locals had nosed in to meet them.
‘Where’s Mummy?’ whispered Poppy. I saw her tugging at Graham’s sleeve. I saw her lips move when she asked again.
But everyone was talking so loudly that nobody could hear her.
Were we here because they pitied us?
I tried to slip into the group unseen, cross with myself for being the cause of my own ordeal.
They all made out they were pleased to see me.
The revelling mixed with more mundane activities, as Mark cut the grass with a museum-piece mower aided by Graham and Sam. Between them they stripped and repaired every part of that blasted machine.
Was this their idea of holiday fun?
Eventually a stream was revealed, a stream that sploshed its way through the natural rocks and reeds of the garden. Poppy and Scarlett were in seventh heaven, splashing and paddling in the altogether, and harvesting jars of God knows what.
Martha was watching me. There was a new wariness in her attitude towards me. And strangely, when I went to feed Josh she didn’t pick up Lawrence and come with me. I watched from my window and a little while later Emma came out and gave Martha Lawrence’s bottle. Was she deliberately ignoring me? Why? Why? What had I done? She sat beside Emma to feed him; they sat in those hard director-style chairs, the ones with the loose striped covers.
They were perfectly happy without me.
They dug out an old gramophone and some scratchy records which Mark had discovered in an outbuilding. ‘Lazy River’, ‘What A Wonderful World’, and then a deep singing voice, ‘What Is Life To Me Without Thee?’ The others laughed. But it made Emma cry.
At six o’clock I decided to try to put Josh to bed. Predictably, the water in the bathroom was stone-cold, so like a killjoy I invaded the party and asked about hot water.
‘It’s a cunning device,’ said Emma lightly. ‘Push the switch on that ugly boiler and the water comes out instantly hot. I can’t think why we don’t get one in London. Here, Jennie,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘take a drink up with you.’
Graham didn’t ask if I needed help, or if he could bath Josh for me. If I asked him I knew what he’d say: ‘Let’s give it a miss tonight.’ At least he was having a marvellous time, drinking too much, talking too much and making quite a fool of himself.
I was in the kitchen heating up a jar of vegetable broth – there was nothing suitable to liquidize and no sign of a liquidizer – when Martha came in.
‘Is everything OK?’ I asked timidly.
‘Why wouldn’t it be?’ she replied.
‘Oh, I just thought…’
‘Well, don’t think, Jennie. Why don’t we make this fortnight a trial period when you make an effort not to think at all? And perhaps we could live without hurtful rumours about Christmases spent in bed with other people’s husbands. D’you know what Sam said when I told him? He laughed. He said, “Give me some credibility, sweetheart, I’m not that desperate.” But I still can’t believe you said it. My God, Jennie, what are you?’
I winced with pain. ‘What have I done?’
‘It’s what you’ve said, as you know very well,’ she answered coldly. ‘Rumours. Lies. They always get back in the end, Jennie. I’ve come here to relax and enjoy myself and that is what I intend to do. And I’ll drink as much as I damn well like without you turning me into a pisshead. Now you can do what you must, so long as it doesn’t involve me in any more of your nasty messes.’
‘I can’t bear this. I’m going home.’
‘You do just what you like, it’s no concern of mine, as long as you leave me out of it. If you want to go home – go! Just don’t make a drama out of it.’
And then she left me alone in the kitchen.
I felt sick. Stunned.
My life was plunged into chaos again, but this time nobody would die and save me.
I couldn’t go home. I couldn’t leave Martha hostile like this and then spend fourteen days in agony, unable to make things right. I knew what she was talking about. I never dreamed she’d find out what I’d said; the only reason I’d lied about Sam and me at the Christmas party was to make myself more interesting. I needed friends… I had to tell lies. And Martha did drink too much, everyone knew that. So what harm had I done?
They lit a bonfire and sat round it, Mark playing his guitar and the crickets chirping merrily. Poppy and Scarlett, up way past their bedtimes, sucked their thumbs and tried to join in with sleepy little voices. If I insisted on leaving, I would be depriving my daughter of a longed-for holiday with her best friend.
Graham was having a good time, too, and since he worked so desperately hard all year, how could I, for my weird, selfish reasons, drag him back to the Close again?
Gripping the edge of the bedroom window I watched with white knuckles, listening to Josh’s deep breathing behind me. How thoughtless they were. When everyone came up to bed they would disturb him – especially Poppy, by the time she was settled in the bunk directly above him. And then she’d not sleep for fear of Graham’s witches.
We were stuck here for two endless weeks. The only option I had was to try to act as normal as possible, pretend to be enjoying myself, and make more of an effort to get on with Emma and demonstrate to Martha that I could survive without her approval.
So far, she had failed to respond to my new friendship with Angie Ford. She had shown no signs of the jealousy I’d hoped for; I doubt that she’d even noticed. She was very involved in her work these days and the goings-on in the Close played a minor role in her life.
I had wanted to see how Martha would react if she discovered that boring, dowdy old Jennie became more popular than her. I took advantage of her two days a week absence to try and draw closer to some of our neighbours. Angie Ford was the easiest: a buzzing little lady with freckles, short curls and denim outfits. What the hell was I trying to prove? Did I hope that Martha might be hurt? Might consider me disloyal? That she might value our special friendship more?
When Angie asked me about the affray outside Martha’s house on that awful day when he’d found the note, I lied about me and Sam at the party. It made me more worldly, more glamorous. ‘It’s just one of those things that happen,’ I told Angie glibly. ‘Of course, it’s all over now.’ Well, I could hardly tell her the truth and expect her to speak to me ever again.
Pretty harmless stuff. It would never get out, I’d thought at the time; just me trying to find a way in, and there were more opportunities now the pool project was under way. It brought our neighbours to my house – where I could befriend and influence.
Bravely we stayed on at Last Resort.
Apart from that one kitchen confrontation and occasional peculiar glances, Martha was superficially friendly. The worst part of that holiday was seeing how Poppy and Josh were left out of the fun so much of the time. I knew why, but the fact still hurt me. Scarlett was such an outgoing child, happy to be thrown in the air or dunked in the water, to ride a donkey or travel in the back of Mark’s breezy Morgan, while Poppy tended to cry and whine and hide behind my back.
Poppy had a horror of being dirty.
And, of course, the carefree Martha never worried if Lawrence was plucked from his cot to be played with or tickled, to be gurgled at, to be poked; whereas once he was resting, it was essential that Josh be left undisturbed because it took him so long to settle.
Everything to do with that woman seemed to be filled with so much pain.
SIXTEEN
Martha
EVERYTHING TO D
O WITH that woman seemed to be filled with so much pain.
She was so transparent it was pitiful; and I was so angry to hear what she’d done, it was hard to stay civil. Surely she knew that malicious gossip had a habit of boomeranging back. And what a vicious lie to tell. As if Sam would look in Jennie’s direction – she was hardly his type. But if the Close decided to believe that I was a drunken lush, so be it. I could live with that one, but not the other.
That appalling holiday.
It was such a mistake to invite them.
Instead of sticking to me like glue, Jennie went breezily off every morning with Sam or Emma or Mark, whoever volunteered for the supermarket run. And if there was no table for six at a restaurant, guess who chose to sit apart… If anyone left the beach to buy ice creams, it was the new, independent Jennie. Incredibly, this odd behaviour was designed to make me feel jealous. She really could not get into her head the fact that I’d had enough, and I understood that she’d spread these tales about herself and Sam in order to join what she called the ‘in crowd’.
The in crowd. My God! What a laugh. If Jennie’s idea of an in crowd was the mismatch of neighbours in our Close, she needed a shrink to sort her out. If I hadn’t been tied to the house with kids, I wouldn’t have got involved with them at all. Oh, they were OK, they were fine, but not the kind of friends I would choose, and anyway it’s a grave mistake to get too chummy with the neighbours.
Dammit. What made me feel so responsible for Jennie’s wretched kids?
Probably the same reasons that struck me when I first saw her struggles to survive in that damn maternity ward. Yes, I was worried about Jennie’s kids. Hell, I loved them almost as much as my own.
Poppy whined, ‘Scarlett’s Barbie is nicer than mine.’
Jennie said, ‘Well, you could have picked the same one.’
‘No, I couldn’t.’ And Poppy, frustrated, battered her new doll’s head on the floor. ‘Emma chose them for us.’
Emma laughed. ‘Poppy, that’s not true. I said you could choose the doll you wanted. Scarlett chose that one, and you spent the next half-hour fiddling with every one in the shop.’
Scarlett, watching, seeing Poppy’s crumbling face and the way she was stripping the clothes off the doll, handed hers over. ‘You have this one, Poppy, we’ll swap.’
‘Oh, no…’ Jennie started to say, but then went on, ‘well, if you really don’t mind, Scarlett, that’s very very kind.’
Scarlett adored Poppy and Jennie.
And later in the beach cafe: ‘I don’t want chicken nuggets, I want what Scarlett’s got.’
‘But you don’t like spaghetti bolognaise, Poppy. You said you wanted nuggets. Come on, darling, eat up.’
‘Let’s share.’ These little scenes made Scarlett uneasy. They dragged on and tainted the atmosphere. ‘You put some of yours on my plate and you can have some of mine.’
And if – on those warm Welsh evenings dogged by midges – Scarlett was settled on Mark’s knee, Poppy would fidget and whine until Mark was forced to scoop her up, too. Then Scarlett would climb down to find somewhere more comfortable. But Poppy wouldn’t stop at that. She would follow, whatever Jennie said.
This behaviour, though irritating, was no big deal, but it made me sad when Poppy asked Jennie pathetically, ‘Why does everyone like Scarlett better than me?’
Cut to the quick, Jennie replied, ‘Darling, whatever makes you think that?’
But if other kids with their buckets and spades came to play in the same rock pool as ours, if any little naked strangers arrived to watch, as toddlers do, Poppy immediately stalked away and sulked on Jennie’s knee. Instead of sending her daughter packing, Jennie would say consolingly, ‘Don’t worry, darling, they’ll be gone in a minute.’ And then she’d wonder why Poppy was finding it hard to make friends.
Back in the Close, there was that time when I’d found learning-to-read flash cards stuck to every piece of furniture in Jennie’s house and I’d asked, ‘Aren’t you taking all this too seriously?’
‘Poppy’s terribly bright, Martha,’ said Jennie, ‘so she needs the stimulation. And it’s so much better if they get a good grounding before they go to nursery school.’
So naturally I was concerned about Jennie’s children. And to an extent I blamed myself, wondering guiltily if Jennie’s over-compensatory mothering might be a symptom of her relationship with me.
Home again. One more crisis over and I screwed my courage to the sticking post and told Jennie matter-of-factly that Scarlett was going to nursery school for two mornings a week in September. This would give me extra time to do more hours at work.
‘How could you? She’s far too young,’ Jennie said disapprovingly. ‘I’ll have her, if you really feel you have to do this.’
‘I don’t have to do it, Jennie, it’s what I want to do. And I’d rather she went to nursery than stayed at home with you – for the social experience.’
I’d known Jennie would offer to have her, but Scarlett needed diversity. A show-off like her would love a nursery; she would be in her element.
‘But that means Poppy will have to go.’
‘Rubbish,’ I said. ‘Of course she doesn’t have to. But it wouldn’t hurt her to do a few hours, maybe on the days Scarlett wasn’t there?’
Jennie looked shocked. ‘Why would I send her on those days? She’d want to be with Scarlett. How can we split them when they’re so close?’
‘I know, I know.’ I proceeded with caution. I’d seen the look on Jennie’s face. ‘But wouldn’t it be more fun for them to have a change now and then?’
Jennie said, ‘I don’t see why. Unless you don’t like Poppy’s influence!’
‘Oh come on, Jennie, that’s absurd. Of course, if you really feel they would be happier together, send Poppy along as well. I only thought…’
‘What are you trying to do to me, Martha, alienate me altogether?’
The anguished look on her face made me say, ‘That’s not true. You know I’m very fond of you, Jennie.’
‘But how can I know that when you’re so cold? You’re so offhand with me sometimes. And in Wales…’
‘In Wales I was livid with you. What reaction did you expect? You’d gone around slandering my bloody husband, not to mention saying that I’m a lush… OK, you say you’ve put it right now, but there’s no smoke without fire.’
‘But I need you, Martha.’
‘I know, I know…’
‘And I get so hurt…’
‘Yes, I know that, too, but I don’t go around being deliberately unkind.’
‘If only you needed me, too.’
‘I do need you, Jennie. What would I do on Mondays and Thursdays?’
‘I don’t mean like that.’
‘Then how?’ God, how I loathed this soul-searching. If I didn’t sidestep most of it, I’d be wallowing around in Jennie’s trough most of the time we spent together. This was the type of discussion she enjoyed best of all and she could often get her way no matter how hard I resisted.
Jennie mused as I waited. ‘I suppose… I suppose what I really honestly want is for you to feel the same way as me.’
I tried to joke. ‘My God, what sort of state would we both be in then? Both of us wandering around lovelorn and lost.’
‘I’m so unhappy,’ moaned Jennie. ‘How I wish this obsession would stop. I am so sick and tired of it all, of the stuff it makes me do.’
‘So am I, Jennie,’ I said. ‘Believe me, so am I.’
She liked to harp on about how lucky she was to have met Graham. ‘When you think about his parents and my mother, and I was his first girlfriend and he was my first boyfriend, too.’
They met at the bank where she worked. Graham went in for some travellers’ cheques and that’s how it started. So I was vaguely surprised when she told Angie Ford that they had met at a party.
But I let it go.
It was unimportant.
Maybe it made Jennie feel more exciting.
&
nbsp; It was the following summer. We were a small and lazy group, sitting in Jennie’s garden one hot weekend, drinking home-made lemonade and being sexist, watching the men do their time on the swimming-pool project. The hole had been dug. The pipes were going in. The mess had mostly been cleared away now, to Jennie’s great relief. We were almost at the exciting stage of attempting to fit the liner.
All the materials for the venture were paid for by the Gordons, but the work had been done by the rest of us. As soon as the liner was fitted, we would fill it and pray for an Indian summer.
‘Ruth and Howard resented me on sight,’ said Jennie. ‘They told their son he could do much better, and Stella was downright rude when she realized Graham and I were an item. She called him “nothing much” to his face, but, of course, Stella never did like men.’
When I raised an eyebrow she added, ‘Because my dad left her when I was two.’
‘The little I saw of Stella certainly didn’t make me warm towards her.’
‘My childhood was very unhappy,’ said Jennie, going off at a tangent she thoroughly enjoyed. ‘That’s partly why I’m so determined to make it better for Poppy and Josh. That’s why I refuse to go to work. I was a latchkey kid. The children suffer, there’s no doubt about that. What’s more, the statistics prove it.’
‘So Martha’s a bad mother for a start,’ Angie pointed out wryly.
‘I wasn’t referring to her,’ said Jennie too defensively.
I smiled. I knew she was. ‘I’d be worse if I stayed trapped at home,’ I said, refusing to rise to her bait.
And then out of the blue she said, ‘Scarlett has had to harden up very quickly.’
‘Sorry?’ I couldn’t have heard right.
Jennie repeated her quiet statement. And then she added, ‘I’ve watched it happen. I notice it more than you, Martha, being the one who looks after her…’
‘You’ve never mentioned this before, and anyway, what d’you mean – harden up?’
‘I have seen that child being hurt and you taking no notice,’ accused Jennie.
‘She’ll be phoning the social services next,’ said Angie, trying to lighten the tension.
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