Copycat

by Gillian White

  I told Mr Singh, ‘I love Martha’s children like my own, more sometimes, and that’s awful. They’re so like Martha, you see, perfect little carbon copies.’

  This could be because her kids loved me back, unlike the cats who verged on the hostile. And, of course, Martha’s children and mine were one way of keeping us together.

  And I wondered how I would feel if they ever gave us cause to part.

  Mr Singh glanced at his watch to signal five minutes left. Presumably he gave this warning so his patients could pull themselves together and not start diving too deeply before the end of the session. He used this time as a summing-up period during which he withdrew some of his sympathy. It slipped like a shadow under his door. ‘So you’ve decided to say nothing to Martha about Sam’s little infidelity? Although she’s your friend? Although she might rather be told about her husband’s latest fling?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve decided. Whoever told her something like that, she’d resent them for telling her. And knowing Sam it’ll soon blow over.’

  ‘Mummy!’ Poppy was jumping through the puddles, the water lapping over her boots. She clung on to my hand and in her other she held a small, useless umbrella.

  ‘Yes?’ She ought to stop messing around, the blasted shop closed at five thirty.

  She gabbled on. ‘D’you like Scarlett better than me?’

  ‘What on earth gave you that silly idea?’

  She kept on jumping, jarring my arm. My sleeve was pulled over my wrist. The rain sheeted down in full force now and the buses, brilliantly lit, sloshed past us as we struggled and huddled, and Poppy’s umbrella kept nudging my face. ‘Mummy?’

  ‘What is it?’ Sometimes her chatterings provoked me to tears. I needed to think – I’d forgotten my list but I knew what I wanted was important.

  ‘D’you like the way I have my hair?’

  ‘Of course I do. It suits you.’

  ‘When Josh grows up, will he look like Lawrence?’

  ‘I dunno, Poppy.’

  ‘Mummy?’ My patience was exhausted. I didn’t bother to answer. Rain was dripping down my neck and my right hand, in Poppy’s, was going numb. I would call in and see Martha when I got back, but only if Sam’s jeep wasn’t there. If we didn’t hurry, we might not make it.

  ‘Scarlett says that when we go to big school next term, we can sit at the same table together.’

  ‘Well, that’s nice, you’ll like that.’

  At last we were out of the shop and hurrying homewards. My strides were too long for Poppy, so she skipped along by my side.

  Damn and blast! Damn. The jeep.

  I couldn’t pop in to Martha’s now. Sam was on his way home. I blamed Poppy for dawdling, for keeping me at the counter while she took so long to choose her sweets, and now there was the jeep – it pulled out of the line of traffic and stopped at the bus stop.

  We kept walking, but I watched as a woman in a mac got out. It took them a while to release hands, it took time to finish what she was saying – something urgent. They smiled, then laughed; she slammed the door and hurried towards the shelter.

  So Sam’s indiscretion was still going strong and I felt a sickly blob of terror as a new threat presented itself – a disturbance in the status quo. What if the Frazers’ marriage broke up? What if they got divorced and had to sell the house? What if Martha, ambitious and capable, moved to another part of the country?

  And what would become of poor Poppy, having to cope without Scarlett? Parting would break their hearts.

  Sam’s behaviour could prove lethal, and he wasn’t too bothered about being discreet. I had seen him twice now, so it was quite likely that somebody else, some meddler like Tina Gallagher, would be the next one to catch him at it and hurry to Martha with the news.

  These possibilities were terrifying. I couldn’t allow this affair to drag on until Martha somehow found out. Time and again, she had promised she wouldn’t have him back if he cheated once more. ‘And it’s different now,’ she told me the last time we discussed it. ‘I’m stronger, I’m working, the kids are older. Once, I couldn’t have done without him, stuck at home with a baby. But not now. Oh no. There’s no way I would take any more of that.’

  Had she meant it?

  I fretted, but what could I do?

  Damn Sam and his lecherous urges.

  It might be that Sam was in love this time and would demand a divorce. In that case, confrontation would only bring matters to a head. But whatever the circumstances, Sam wouldn’t take kindly to me interfering in his life.

  I would have to be subtle. I would not criticize. I would issue a friendly warning.

  It’s only when women are normal that plums and blackberries have a place in their lives.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Martha

  IT’S ONLY WHEN WOMEN are normal that plums and blackberries have a place in their lives.

  If plums and blackberries had a place in my life, I might be one of those enviable people whose lives cruise along on an even keel, no storms to confound them, no waves to unseat them and no half-hidden icebergs lying in wait. People like my mum and dad, theirs was a blueprint for marriage, and as a child I used to dream that one day I’d be as contented as them.

  I should have married a less dangerous man whose love for me was greater than mine for him.

  Like Graham, for example. But like most women so blessed, Jennie failed to appreciate her luck.

  Was this another of Sam’s flings, one that just lasted rather longer, or was this the time it would turn serious? As years flew by – Poppy and Scarlett off to school and Josh and Lawrence to playgroup – pride and terror stopped me from asking. I had no-one to share my misery with since I’d stopped confiding in Jennie. Although she’d improved over these last few years and taken several jobs as a temp, I was still nervous around her, of her troublemaking abilities, which weren’t deliberate – I understood that – just part of her uncanny fixation. She didn’t deny this was true; poor thing, she couldn’t even trust herself any more.

  Angie Ford was an expert at turning a drama into a crisis. And anyway, since she had sided against me over Jennie’s lame suicide bid, we weren’t as close as we once had been. As for Tina next door, she would look for the funny side and I knew I couldn’t cope with her jokes – I didn’t want to compare our marriage to her own troubled one with Carl, and nor did I want a toy boy to screw, or to put up with her coarse laughter.

  I loved Sam. I adored him.

  There were any number of giveaways, and I was wise to all of them because of past experiences. I refused to be the last to know. Sadly, like some suspicious old shrew, I seemed to be programmed to pick up clues, prying in back pockets, sniffing round crotches. Sam was unnaturally considerate, over-enthusiastic in bed, and he’d ring to warn me if he was going to be late instead of just letting his supper burn.

  I responded in my old pitiful manner: cooking up his favourite dishes, baking his beloved homemade bread, waxing my legs and plucking my eyebrows; and even checking the oil, water and tyre pressures.

  I blessed Jennie’s Back To Work endeavours, they were doing the trick – she stayed on the rails and there was no more excessive behaviour. That straw would have broken this camel’s back.

  She grumbled, of course; that was her nature. ‘Me, the slave of some paunchy man stuck behind a desk all day, that’s all I’ll ever be. Out of the house, yes, OK, but still servicing the male of the species.’

  ‘That’s not right. This is just a start; you must reach for higher things. Stick your name down now. Get a degree.’

  ‘Oh yeah? With what qualifications?’

  ‘They don’t count. You’re a mature student. They’ll take you on the strength of an interview, if you make an effort to be slightly more positive.’

  ‘Would you come with me?’

  ‘Of course I would.’

  At the school sports day I missed him terribly. I went with Graham and Jennie because Sam rang at the last minute to say he couldn’t ma
ke it. Scarlett would be heartbroken and I cursed the bastard’s selfishness. No matter how desperately he was bonking, you’d think his daughter’s feelings might still mean something. The wanker.

  ‘Cheer up, mate,’ said Jennie, too self-absorbed as usual to notice the cloak of sadness around me. ‘Most of the women are here on their own. At least you’ve got a husband at home, unlike some of them, poor things.’

  I’ve never been keen on competition, especially when it comes to kids. They don’t enjoy beating each other. Winning is learnt behaviour and I’d seen enough of their games to know that they’d rather encourage each other and lose than gloat over a win. Winning can be a lonely business.

  Scarlett and Poppy came a marvellous first in the three-legged-race, and I was weak with laughter as they hobbled home. I looked round to share my amusement with Jennie, but she was standing up, clapping frantically, and all she could give was a tight, tense smile.

  Scarlett, six now, was a natural, and when she bragged, ‘Look how high I can jump, Mummy,’ or, ‘See how much faster I can go,’ I probably played it down too much with my ‘Well, you’re lucky to have such fast little legs.’ Rather too dismissive. Maybe I should have made more of her talents, but she was big-headed enough already.

  So there I was, chatting to the mums, sitting on a bank of daisies, missing Sam on such a beautiful day. Although I barely noticed when Scarlett and Poppy lined up at the start of their running race, I managed to give them a quick, cheery wave before I went back to the gossip.

  But what was this weird change in Jennie?

  She was ramrod straight, sitting up like a meerkat, and her knuckles were such a ghastly white it looked as if they were diseased.

  People were talking – she took no notice.

  You could almost imagine she was praying.

  I followed her stare. What could be happening? Some accident? Some argument? No, as far as I could tell, the only thing going on was the running race.

  I nudged her. ‘Jennie, are you OK?’

  Perhaps she was silently choking.

  She didn’t even hear me.

  They were off. Jennie rose to her feet, taut and tense, a creature possessed, and her fists went straight to her mouth where she chewed at her knuckles. ‘Come on, come on,’ she hissed with menace and her mouth formed a perfect snarl. ‘Oh Poppy, come on!’

  It was a relief to notice that her performance was not unique. A number of mothers, and most of the fathers, were on their feet, howling at their kids as if this was the Olympic Games, not a class of six-year-olds having fun.

  When the race was over Jennie sagged, collapsing like a sack beside me, in a genuine state of despair.

  I asked her, ‘How did our lot do?’ In the frenzy, I hadn’t been able to see.

  ‘Scarlett won,’ Jennie told me, with a rictus smile stuck to her face. ‘I don’t think Poppy was placed, she came in the middle with the rest of the masses.’

  It was hard to know what to say. Should I apologize for Scarlett’s success? Would that make Jennie feel better?

  ‘Well, they did win the three-legged’ – I offered what comfort I could – ‘so they’ll win a box of Liquorice Allsorts.’

  It was not a good moment for Scarlett to come rushing over, red-faced and breathless. ‘Did you see me, Mummy, I was way out in front and then…’

  I lowered my voice. ‘Well done, well done! And how about you, Poppy?’ I thought my question innocent enough.

  But, oh no, poor little Poppy was crying. ‘Poppy, what’s wrong, did you hurt yourself?’

  She wouldn’t answer – one of her sulks.

  ‘She’s cross because she didn’t come first,’ said Scarlett unhelpfully. And I nearly said, For goodness’ sake, what the hell does it matter how fast you can run, but luckily I stopped myself just in time. Scarlett was listening, I’d be letting her down.

  ‘Maybe next time,’ I said brightly.

  ‘Poppy’s no athlete,’ said Jennie seriously. ‘She’s more of an academic, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Of course she is,’ I quickly agreed. ‘Maybe she’ll win a prize at speech day.’ My God, my God, how could coming first assume such bloody enormous proportions?

  During all this heavy stuff, we were trying to control Lawrence and Josh who tumbled together like a couple of puppies as soon as they set eyes on each other. What makes people say boys are easier? That wasn’t my experience. These boys never settled to anything, no quiet crayoning, no cutting out shapes – it was kicking balls, it was fighting, climbing…

  Although this was natural and I laughed to watch them, there was something worrying about this little friendship. I’d already mentioned it to Sam: ‘Lawrence always comes off worse.’

  ‘He’s smaller, he’s bound to,’ said Sam, indifferently.

  ‘Josh does get carried away…’

  ‘He’s a baby,’ said Sam, ‘testing his strength. Don’t worry so much. You’ll turn poor Lawrence into a sissy.’

  That was the last thing I was doing. And even if I’d wanted to, it wouldn’t be possible. That boy was a monkey, a rubber ball of energy: if he fell he hardly noticed. He was smaller than Josh who had yet to lose his puppy fat. But it wasn’t only these tussles that concerned me, it was the way Josh wrenched Lawrence’s lorry away, or tripped him up almost deliberately, or nicked his Smarties, or knocked down his bricks.

  How laughable, I told myself, to be so paranoid over three-year-olds.

  It was Jennie who persuaded them to enter the little brothers’ race.

  And this time I watched, concerned over wiry little Lawrence in such an excited scrum. He might get confused over which way to run, he was such a soppy laid-back kid.

  The little terror set the pace, paddling away with his nut-brown legs, tongue between teeth but still giggling, while behind him thumped the chubby Josh, so determined for such a baby. By some fluke, God alone knows how, Lawrence was going to win, and I worried about the effect on Jennie. But at the very last moment we were saved from what could have triggered a tantrum, because Lawrence glanced behind him and then collapsed in a frenzy of laughter. All the mini athletes shot past him, and the dope was still laughing when I picked him up.

  Josh hadn’t won, but he came fourth and got a tube of Smarties, which went a long way towards pleasing Jennie. Her mood lifted. She was sweetness and light.

  But even after these niggling incidents, even when Lawrence showed such a preference for playing with other toddlers and not Josh, I still didn’t worry about my kids’ friendships with the little Gordons. Hell, they were more like family than friends, Scarlett and Lawrence grew up with them. Naturally they would want to be close.

  I had hoped that eventually Jennie would find a permanent position and decide to work full time. Her various employers seemed pleased with her. She’d be quiet and conscientious, I knew. Either that, or do a degree which I thought would challenge her, use up her spare energy and absorb some of that raging passion. When she said she was thinking of giving up work altogether, I went into an immediate panic. Understandable in the circumstances.

  She said, ‘It’s OK for you, Martha, your job’s fun.’

  ‘Only because I make it fun.’ I was horrified. ‘But you can’t want to go back to square one, stuck in the house on your own, with the sprogs out all day. What will you do? You’ll end up in bed with the Emva Cream.’

  ‘Contrary to accepted opinion, some women do enjoy home life, Martha. People like us just aren’t given credence. We don’t all yearn to wear pinstriped suits and sit in swivel chairs.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I had to agree, and I sometimes wished I was more like that – the stress of a full-time job and two kids wasn’t funny. ‘I just feel you’re wasting your talents.’

  ‘What talents? Don’t keep patronizing me.’

  The last couple of years had been so much calmer with Jennie’s mind and energy focused, and I dreaded a relapse with her brain free to churn. We would see less of each other than ever because the pub lu
nches would have to stop. And how would that affect her?

  ‘I’ll still be able to meet you at lunchtime,’ she confounded me by adding.

  ‘So you’re not keen on the degree idea either?’

  ‘It was your idea, not mine. I’ve decided to wait until Josh starts school proper.’

  ‘Oh? I thought…’

  ‘Keep your hair on, Martha, I’m not about to start screaming and stalking. Anyway, they’ve made that an official offence and I’m not about to get put away.’

  ‘That never crossed my mind,’ I lied.

  ‘Liar,’ she said.

  She was making a mistake, I was certain. Look at me, for example. Even with the nagging heartache of Sam’s indiscretions going on in the background, work made it possible to half forget. There were people to be interviewed, stories to write and deadlines to be met. It would be so easy to dwell on my fears and, yes, even wallow in that black mire, but work put a stop to that fatal option.

  If this was an affair, it was no quick bonk.

  At the worst times, Jennie used to waffle on about how I could never understand the enormity of the passion that drove her. That was shit. Sam and I started off like that – on my side, anyway. I adored him to the point of worship; he was godlike in my eyes. I’d have given my life if he’d asked me. I was the typical lovesick cow, I was the woman in a Mills and Boon romance, I was the subject of all those tragic love songs. I was as close to insanity then as I was ever likely to get. And after we were engaged and I found him with some office floozy, if it hadn’t been for my mum and my friends I think I’d have topped myself.

  When I told her this, when I tried to explain that I had once been obsessed like her, Jennie was contemptuous of what she called my servile behaviour. I didn’t see it that way – I saw it as loving, caring. I enjoyed cleaning his shoes; I didn’t bother about my own. Sam was master of the house; at the end of the day, what he said went. OK we had our disagreements, but I liked to let him win.