Cooee

by Vivienne Kelly

  I am to be last, then. How am I to read this, I wonder? Does the last person speak more weightily, or am I something of a postscript to the proceedings?

  All I can think of, for a few moments, as I try to concentrate on Henry, is how very much I have always disliked him. Then his words arrest this train of thought. He’s been saying something about the specialness of the occasion, the bright promise of a new life, and so forth.

  Then he says, in his finicky way, pronouncing all his words carefully in that over-particular manner he appears for some reason to cultivate: ‘None of this would matter, of course’ — (I’m not sure what it is that wouldn’t matter) — ‘if we only focus on those attributes, those characteristics, that in fact we do see as important, as significant.’

  That’s Henry all over. Never settle for one word if two will do the trick. Zoë always maintains he is a wonderful teacher. ‘Inspirational,’ says Zoë, with bull-like force, so you don’t feel like contradicting her. ‘Simply inspirational. He has them hanging on his every word.’ I don’t believe it, though.

  ‘Indeed,’ says Henry, beaming around, ‘as necessary. However, let us not forget, in the daily striving, the competition, the conflict that constitute our lives, that other elements, other characteristics, characteristics that have nothing to do with competition, are still an integral part of our beings. In the great competitions that life sets us, enters us for, if I may put it that way, there are still other aspects of our personalities that are just as important, although they are not attuned to winning, to victory. One of these is the capacity to love.’

  Shit, I think.

  ‘It is this capacity to love — to love and to accept love — that stands us in such good stead in the significant relationships of our lives. Without it, we are unable to give or to receive the affection that in old-fashioned terms used to be called loving-kindness, that provides the links for all our friendships, the cement for our families, the single thing that holds us all together.’

  The fact is that Henry has stolen my thunder. My gift to Sophie was going to be the capacity to love. And, in fact, the capacity to be loved, which he seems to have cottoned on to also. In the midst of my irritation and confusion, I am astounded that Henry’s desiccated soul is capable of formulating these concepts. Goodness knows where he’s got them from.

  But what am I going to say? It’s nearly my turn. While Henry rabbits on about love and its importance or significance or whatever, I’m thinking as hard as I can. I’ve got my little speech all prepared. I’ve known what I’m going to say: I haven’t got notes because I don’t need them; unlike Steve, I’m perfectly capable of making a simple statement without rustling my way through several sheets of A4. But the simple statement I was going to make suddenly isn’t available to me any more. So far as I can tell, Henry’s taken pretty much an identical line, and left me high and dry.

  And how am I going to look? Everyone else has gone to a lot of trouble; everyone’s thought about Kate’s request and made an effort to meet it. So have I, of course, but it’s not going to look like that. I, who love Sophie best of all: I’m going to be the one who looks inadequate, ill-prepared, uncaring. It’s not fair.

  I’m thinking so hard that I don’t realise Henry has come to an end and everybody is looking at me.

  ‘Earth to Isabel,’ says Gavin. ‘Earth to Isabel.’

  I can never see why this is supposed to be such a witty thing to say, nor why people say it to me. Steve used it all the time and it drove me insane. I am listening, I felt like saying to him. I’m listening, but you’re not saying anything.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘The thing is …’ The thing is, of course, that I don’t want to say what the thing is. I don’t want to admit that Henry and I jumped on the same tram. I’m not quite sure why this is. Well, perhaps I am. I can’t stand Henry and don’t wish to be bracketed with him. What I wanted for Sophie was special, and Henry’s gone and spoilt it. I decide to improvise.

  ‘I’ve been sitting here, listening to you all,’ I start. I look around and smile winningly. Well, I try to. I don’t want any of them thinking I’m a bad grandmother. So many of them think I’m a bad mother. Wrongly, wrongly; but it’s what they think.

  ‘And it’s been fascinating, seeing what you’ve all chosen.’

  By mistake I look at Dominic, and find his gaze on me, stern and brimming with judgement and perhaps slightly baffled, too, as if he’s wondering what I’ve done to deserve being there at all. He’s wearing that awful, fastidious, unforgiving look he gets. I turn my eyes from him.

  I look around this group of people most of whom I do not love, although they are through genetic and legal ties the closest people to me in all the world. I see Max’s concern, Kate’s puzzlement, Zoë’s irritation, Dominic’s antagonism. I see Gavin’s embarrassment, Steve’s unease and Henry’s disdain. I see Sophie, burbling away, quietly sociable, on her mother’s knee.

  And suddenly it comes to me. So many of these people have combined to thwart and frustrate me over the years; so many of them have militated against my happiness in different ways. I know what I want for my granddaughter, growing up amongst them.

  ‘I wish this for Sophie,’ I say, firmly and steadily. ‘I want her to have a mind of her own. I want her to think for herself, to grow in strength and independence of character, not to be frightened to trust her own judgement, and to act as she sees fit, as she thinks best.’

  Everybody looks relieved that I’ve actually thought of something to say and have said it, even if they don’t much like the thing itself. Kate gives me one of her big gooey smiles.

  ‘What about you, Kate?’ asks Dominic. ‘Don’t you have a gift for Sophie?’

  Kate gives him a gooey smile, too.

  ‘I do,’ she says, as if this were a matter for particular congratulation.

  She pauses, apparently gathering her thoughts. God knows, it shouldn’t take her long.

  ‘I want to thank you all. Each and every one of you has given Sophie something truly worth having, something she’ll be grateful to you for to the end of her days. I’m going to make a little book for her, with pictures in it, and I’m going to include all her gifts in it, all the wishes you’ve made for her and the presents you’ve given her. It will mean she can look back to this day and see how lucky she is to be at the centre of such a loving family, such a good and thoughtful and generous family.’

  It seems as if she really thinks we have verifiably given Sophie the things of which we spoke, rather than simply speaking of them. Kate has always dwelt in her own special version of la-la land. Would that it were so easy! Would that I could have organised for Dominic to have a loving heart, for Kate to have some brains!

  ‘My own gift might seem an odd one,’ says Kate. ‘I guess it isn’t obvious, straightaway, as something you’d choose to give a child. But it just seems to me so important, I can’t tell you. I’m not even sure what to call it. It’s got to do, I suppose, with catching the wave, knowing the right time. That makes it sound like opportunism, jumping on the bandwagon sort of thing, but I don’t mean it as purely an opportunistic thing. It’s more like — well, catching the wave’s the best way I can put it, I think. Seeing when something is the right time for something and trusting yourself to act on it.’

  ‘Don’t die wondering,’ says Gavin, helpfully.

  ‘That’s it,’ she agrees. ‘Don’t die wondering.’

  And on this note we disperse, drink, eat, chat, more or less awkwardly. I’ve been quite nervous about this occasion, as it represents the first time, really, that Steve and I have consented to meet each other as part of the family. It doesn’t go too badly. We manage to have a conversation, or at least to be in the same conversing group, and neither of us positively scratches the other’s eyes out. It has to be a good sign.

  Max isn’t a chatty man, but he’s a bit quiet even for
him in the car on the way home. It isn’t until later, when we’re sipping whisky in Rain’s peaceful courtyard, that he refers to the afternoon, making his comment about Gavin. Then, to my surprise, he congratulates me on my family.

  ‘You have to be joking,’ I say.

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘My family! Actually, love, I don’t usually regard them as grounds for congratulation.’

  ‘I know. But you’d have to admit they all came up looking pretty good today.’

  ‘Did they?’ I consider it. ‘In what way, would you say?’

  ‘Well, they’d all thought about it, hadn’t they? They’d all tried hard.’

  ‘I did, too. I’d practised endlessly, what I was going to say. But then Henry pretty much said it for me, so I had to think about something else.’

  ‘Ah. I wondered what prompted the stage fright. You did well, Bella: that was a good present you gave her, especially if you thought of it at short notice.’

  Max stretches out and contemplatively swirls the liquor and ice around in his glass.

  ‘Yours was pretty good, too.’

  ‘I hope it will stand her in good stead,’ he says, seriously. ‘It’s a dangerous thing to wish on someone, a sense of adventure.’

  ‘It hasn’t done you any harm.’

  ‘No. Maybe not.’ He smiles and leans over to me, strokes my arm, makes me tingle. ‘It didn’t stop me from meeting you, anyway. That’s been my biggest adventure.’

  There’s a brief pause, spent in mutual smug contemplation. It’s one of the nice things about being one half of a happy couple, that you can do this sort of thing.

  After a little while, I say: ‘I was surprised by what Dominic said, though.’

  ‘What bit of it?’

  ‘The bit about lacking self-confidence. I would have said it was one of the principal things Dominic absolutely doesn’t lack.’

  ‘Truly?’

  ‘You surely don’t think Dominic an unconfident person?’

  ‘Well,’ says Max, ‘I haven’t been given the opportunity to get to know Dominic very much at all. But I’ve never thought of him as particularly confident.’

  I am baffled by this, and say so.

  ‘He didn’t seem very confident today, though. Did he?’

  ‘Perhaps not, but I’ve seen Dominic in that sort of situation before — one, I mean, where he has to speak more or less publicly — and he always carries it off just fine.’

  ‘I thought he was feeling very exposed,’ says Max. ‘I thought he was being forced to reveal more of himself than he wanted to. I suppose all of us were, but I think Dominic in particular found it uncomfortable, an invasion of privacy. He had to draw the curtain aside, didn’t he? He had to let people in. He didn’t like it.’

  I mull this over.

  ‘But he’s not unconfident,’ I say, eventually. ‘He’s not an unconfident person.’

  Max shrugs. ‘You know him far better than I do, Bella, obviously. But I’ve never thought of Dominic as very confident. Confident people don’t need to put up the barriers Dominic puts up.’

  I’m genuinely puzzled by this. I see what Max means, but it doesn’t square with how I think of Dominic. To me, he always seems as swift and strong and confident as an otter, a tiger, a hawk. How can Max think he isn’t?

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ says Max with a slight smile. ‘You look so anxious, Bella. There’s nothing to worry about.’

  I let it go, but it returns to niggle at me. Dominic: unconfident?

  He certainly doesn’t seem unconfident the next time I see him, which happens to be at his school’s speech night. He picks up several prizes, makes a cogent contribution to a kind of mini-debate they offer as part of the evening’s entertainment, and generally seems as untroubled as ever by attention. I mention this to Max (who doesn’t come, as he thinks it tactless to inflict himself on Dominic at these occasions) when I return home. He nods, cheerily.

  ‘It’s only that you said he was unconfident,’ I say.

  ‘I’m probably wrong.’

  ‘But he seemed so much on top of everything, Max. I wish you could have seen him.’

  I am bubbling over with undisguised pride: it’s pleasant to have produced a child who so conspicuously achieves high standards in everything he attempts. A number of Dominic’s teachers have made admiring remarks about him during the evening. Dominic himself, doubtless borne along and uplifted by his success, has even attained a degree of civility to me.

  Max pours my drink and hands it to me.

  ‘I believe you, my darling Bella,’ he says, with his charming grin. ‘No question.’

  I lean back, kick off my shoes, relax. ‘You know what I was thinking? I was thinking, heavens, if Kate can have a child like Sophie, imagine what Dominic’s children will be like.’

  Max looks puzzled.

  ‘Well,’ I say, suddenly realising that I’m not sounding kind. I like to sound kind, for Max. ‘What I mean is, I know Kate’s lovely, and of course we love her very much, but in terms of beauty and brain power … well. You know what I mean.’

  ‘Kate’s intelligent,’ says Max, with a hint of shortness. ‘Kate’s got a lot of perception, a lot of insight.’

  ‘Yes. Of course I agree.’ (I don’t.) ‘But …’

  ‘Look,’ says Max, ‘I know Sophie’s the most brilliant child ever to exist, but she isn’t very old yet, Bella darling. Don’t count too much on her intelligence and beauty, will you?’

  I shrug. Somewhere, dimly, I intuit a degree of what one might almost call displeasure in Max’s responses. But it’s been a good night, and I don’t want to dig too deep, or to enmesh myself in a tricky argument. Happily, I concede to his caution.

  Soon, we go to bed and make love; and making love is as glorious and radiant as it always is. There seems no limit to our luck, our felicity, the extraordinary generosity of the providence that watches silently over us.

  Part Three

  So I moved into a new phase. If not a genuine fairy godmother, certainly a devoted grandmother.

  Not long after Kate’s little celebration for Sophie, Max and I went over to their house one afternoon. Max didn’t usually come with me on these occasions. He derived great enjoyment, he said, from my new status, and he delighted in my pleasure with a tender and attentive mirth that moved me deeply; but he didn’t find it necessary always to be there, hanging onto my sleeve. He was a very sensitive man, Max, and highly attuned to female responsiveness, feminine priorities.

  He handled Sophie deftly enough himself — surprising, in a man who had never had children — but he preferred to see me holding her, to chuckle at my raptness and to encourage my captivation. He said that he thought it good for me to spend time with Kate, to strengthen my relationship with her at what he called a very special time — which it was — rather than insisting on being there all the time himself.

  But on this day he drove me over, and stayed twenty minutes or so before going on to a business appointment — one of those mysterious business appointments into the mists of which he disappeared, debonair and unassuming, one of the appointments about which information was never forthcoming. Not that I sought such information, then or ever.

  The previous day the demolition of the pool had commenced. A small swarm of men had arrived at an early hour and made themselves at home in our back garden. We’d already drained the pool. Jackhammers had noisily shattered the pale tiles and trucks had deposited neat slagheaps of filler earth around its perimeter. Before we left for Kate’s, I remember, we conducted a brief inspection of the back. The cavity in the ground gaped roughly as if a bomb had dropped in it: it was hard to believe we had lounged around it, dived so hedonistically into it. It all looked awful, but Max was pleased that the work had finally started.

  ‘You won�
�t know it,’ he said. ‘Going to be brilliant. Instant garden. Nothing like it.’

  Kate’s cleaning lady was there, when we arrived. We had given her twelve months’ worth of cleaning lady, Max and I, when Sophie was born: I remembered so clearly Kate’s own infancy and the difficulty I had found in ordering the most trivial components of one’s life in a halfway efficient manner. (Not that Kate hadn’t managed pretty well. She took to motherhood, I must say, better than I had.) She was a nice lady, Charmian: she had badly dyed, tight auburn curls and a hard-bitten, scrappy, sinewy look about her, but she was soft as butter inside, and gooed and gaaed around Sophie as much as any of us did. She cleaned the bathroom a treat: I remember that.

  Max had gone. Kate was on the phone to some friend who had rung. I was playing with Sophie. Charmian had just finished vacuuming and came into the living room. She tickled Sophie under the chin.

  ‘Goodbye, my precious,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you again next week, I expect.’

  Sophie was lying on my lap. She cooed and waved her fists about.

  ‘You can certainly see the likeness to her grandfather,’ observed Charmian.

  ‘Sorry?’ I said. I didn’t think Sophie resembled Steve in the slightest.

  ‘Even at this age, you can see the nose, I reckon. And the way her eyes are set. But specially the mouth. Your husband’s a very good-looking man, isn’t he? Striking. She’ll be the same, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  I went to explain, laughingly, that she had it wrong, that Max was my husband but not Kate’s father, and as I did so I glanced down at Sophie on my knees and the words — as the phrase has it — died on my lips. Died quite dead, all quite deadybones, as Dominic would once have said.

  Sophie lay on her back, beaming up at us, and as I looked at her she gave a delighted little clucking noise and crinkled her nose.

  I had seen that nose-crinkle before.