Wonder Women

by Fiore, Rosie

  And then there was nothing to do. It was just eight o’clock. David and Miranda could both have gone home to their families, but the three of them needed to be together. David walked up to the off-licence and came back with six bottles of wine. Miranda looked in the cupboards and freezer for something to eat, but none of them could face a reheated church casserole, so Holly rang the local Indian and ordered curry. They ate like starving animals. When they had finished, the tablecloth was stained with turmeric and oil and there were remnants of poppadoms and grains of rice everywhere. Judith would never have countenanced a takeaway and wine feast at the kitchen table. She didn’t believe in convenience food, and she would have been horrified to see them eating straight out of the containers rather than using plates. In a funny way, that made it exactly the right thing to do on this of all nights.

  They all drank too much wine, they reminisced, they cried, they laughed. They went into the living room and played some of Judith’s old long-playing records. Then first David and then Miranda fell asleep on the sofas. Holly sat sipping her wine and listening to her mum’s Cliff Richard albums. She didn’t know what she felt … it wasn’t grief, not yet. She was relieved it had ended, but she also felt that it wasn’t quite over. The funeral was yet to come, and there was still unfinished business she needed to complete for Judith. She got up from her chair and crept upstairs, careful not to wake her siblings. She opened Judith’s jewellery box and retrieved all the letters, and also got the two Judith had put in her handbag to take to hospital. They were in chronological order, and, as Judith had said, the postmark on the oldest ones showed they had been sent from Mumbai (or Bombay, as it was then). But from 1995, the stamps changed to British ones and the letters had a Manchester postmark. The mystery man had obviously come to live in the UK. Judith must have been confused when she said he was still in India. He was only a couple of hundred miles away.

  Holly’s dad had died in 1992, so Judith was a widow by then. Why had he and Judith not met up? She picked up the most recent letter and turned the envelope over. There was an address sticker on the back: Dr P. Mistry, it said, with a Manchester address. Then she went back to the very first letter, dated some forty years before. The envelope was thin and the edges were frayed, as if the letter had been taken out and put back many, many times.

  My precious Judith,

  I arrived in Bombay last week, and it is as if I have come to a different planet. Everything seems strange, but nothing is so strange as the great void in my heart where you should be …

  The date of the first letter was about six months before her mother and father were married. In the second letter, it was clear that Dr Mistry was also married, and working in Bombay. Holly read them all. None of the letters was long, and they told her the life story of this man, the man Judith had loved. A man who had married out of duty and had come to care for and respect his wife, but wrote words of love to another woman once a year. He had had a successful career and had fathered children, and was now a grandfather. When his oldest son decided to come and live in the UK, the whole family had followed and they all now lived in Manchester. From things he said in his letters, it was clear that Judith wrote to him too – he asked about things she had told him, and mentioned David, Miranda and Holly by name. It was also clear that in the intervening years they had never met up. Perhaps that was the reason, in her confused state, Judith had believed he was still in India. As long as he was married, her moral code and his would have prevented them from meeting. He might as well have been thousands of miles away.

  When she had finished reading the last letter, Holly put them all carefully back in order. She got a shoebox from her room, put the letters into it and put them under her bed. She got a sheet of paper, an envelope and a stamp. ‘Dear Dr Mistry,’ she wrote, ‘It is with sadness that I inform you of the death of my mother, Judith Evans. She asked me to let you know of her passing.’

  Before she could fill the page with a million questions, she wrote, ‘Yours sincerely, Holly Evans,’ and made herself fold it and put it in the envelope. She crept downstairs and out of the back door, and walked to the postbox on the corner. The sky had cleared, and she stood watching the stars for a while. But she was desperately weary, so she walked back home, crawled into her bed and slept properly for the first time in weeks.

  The sound of the side gate opening woke her early the next morning. Still very tired, she got up and pulled on a dressing gown. When she got out into the garden, Mr Benton was busy taking tools out of the garden shed. She walked out towards him. ‘Mr Benton …’ she began.

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I felt her go, yesterday evening. And the vicar rang to let me know.’ He nodded his head. He kept his eyes on the handle of the rake he was holding, and carefully brushed a loose petal off his lapel. ‘Still, these leaves aren’t going to sweep themselves up, are they? And she likes a tidy lawn.’ He clearly didn’t want to talk any more, and he began to rake up the leaves with precision.

  The funeral was a week later, and Holly was astonished and touched at how full the church was. Mr Benton did a reading from John, that he knew Judith had particularly liked. The choir sang her favourite hymns, and it was all as correct and old-school as Judith would have wished. David did the eulogy, which was in essence a well-written and accurate biography, but not terribly emotional.

  Then Holly stood and walked to the front. Her knees were shaking under her skirt, and she could only stop the trembling in her hands by gripping the edge of the lectern.

  ‘My mum had beautiful hands,’ she began. ‘Very soft, with long, slim fingers and beautiful nails. When she became ill, one of the things I was able to do for her was give her a manicure. A few days before she died, I did her nails, and she asked me to paint them pillar-box red. If you knew my mum, that might surprise you – you probably thought of her as a pale pink woman. I know I always did. But for me, the great privilege of these last few months has been learning that she was anything but. She was a woman of many, many colours. She raised three children I hope she had cause to be proud of, she was a cornerstone of this church, and she inspired great love. I am sad that I only caught a glimpse of who she was so close to the end of her life. But I’m so glad that I saw what I did.’

  When she got back to her seat, Miranda squeezed her hand tightly. She looked across at David, but his jaw was clenched, and he was gripping the knees of his trousers. She knew not to touch him or talk to him – he was only just holding it together.

  When Holly stood up with David and Miranda to follow the coffin out to go to the crematorium, she spotted a tall, distinguished looking Indian man of about seventy, sitting at the back. He was alone, and he looked out of place – somehow she knew he was not just another member of the congregation.

  Everyone was milling around outside the church and chatting. Holly accepted condolences from a few people, but then worked her way through the crowds to the Indian man.

  ‘Dr Mistry,’ she said.

  ‘Holly. You look so like your mother,’ he said. Holly was astonished. She had never seen any similarity in their looks. ‘She told me all about you in her letters,’ he continued. ‘She was so proud of your courage and your creativity.’

  She didn’t mean to cry. She’d held it together through the service, but she couldn’t stop the tears that spilled down her cheeks at his words.

  He touched her arm gently. ‘I’m so sorry, Holly dear.’

  She looked up at him. ‘Holly dear – that’s what my mum always called me.’

  ‘I know. She called all three of you “dear”. It was deliberate. She wrote once that she thought it was the loveliest endearment, because it means both beloved and precious.’

  ‘This is hard,’ Holly said. ‘Not just her dying. This …’ And she gestured at him.

  ‘I can’t expect you to understand,’ said Dr Mistry, ‘and I don’t ask for your forgiveness. I loved Judith for more than forty years and I’m sad she’s gone.’

  ‘But she was married. T
o my father.’

  ‘She was. And she loved him, and was always faithful to him. I love my wife too. We have a good marriage – it’s an excellent partnership and we have wonderful children and grandchildren.’

  ‘But you and my mother …’

  ‘It was one letter a year. That’s all. One letter where we could remember the very happy and brief time we had together, and where we could imagine a different life. A life we never had, and which would probably have been disappointing in reality.’

  ‘I have the letters in Mum’s … in my car,’ Holly said. ‘I had this mad idea I could put them in the coffin before she was cremated. I don’t know why I thought that would be possible. I didn’t just want to throw them away. Would you like …?’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Dr Mistry. ‘It would mean a lot to me to have them. I’ll keep them with the ones that I have. The ones she sent me.’ He walked with Holly to the car, and she handed him the shoebox tied closed with string.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘And Holly, you spoke so beautifully in the church. I think she would have loved what you said. It was very brave of you.’

  ‘I had to say it. She was more, so much more, than people knew. And if I hadn’t said it today – here – it would never have been said. Because she’s gone.’

  He didn’t answer, just nodded once and then walked away. She was glad he didn’t say goodbye. She was sick and tired of saying goodbye to people.

  Miranda came over to her. ‘Who was that?’

  ‘No one. Old friend of mum’s,’ said Holly. ‘Let’s go. Let’s get to the crematorium and get this over with. The wake is booked for three and we need to get to the hotel.’

  30

  LEE NOW

  ‘New York?’

  ‘I know!’ said Jo. ‘Isn’t it fantastic?’

  ‘I … I don’t know what to say. Is this Richard again?’

  ‘No, it’s me. I joined this online networking thing for women in business, and found this woman I was at school with – Verity Ellis. I’m sure I told you about it.’

  Lee nodded. She might well have done. But as she talked about work stuff pretty much all the time, he tended to filter some of it out.

  ‘Anyway, she moved to the States about ten years ago and she owns a bunch of clothing companies. She’s terrifyingly successful.’

  ‘So …’

  ‘So she’s been speaking to some of her investors, and they’re looking for a children’s clothing outlet to develop. She’s showed them pictures of the East Finchley shop and the plans for the other stores we have in the pipeline, and they’re keen to talk.’

  ‘Develop it where?’

  ‘America, I guess. New York to start with, then the West Coast. We’d need to talk details. I know very little about it so far. That’s why I need to go to New York. To meet with them.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Lee, and sat back in his chair, folding his arms.

  Jo had just got home from a late meeting. The children were already in bed, and they were sitting at the kitchen table, eating the lasagne Lee had been keeping warm in the oven. She took a sip of her glass of water.

  ‘What kind of “wow” is that?’

  ‘The “wow” kind. Why?’

  ‘Well, it didn’t sound like the “Hey, Jo, I’m so proud of you, that’s brilliant” kind of wow. Which was the kind I was hoping for.’

  ‘It was that kind of wow. Of course it was. It’s just a lot to take in.’

  He bent over his plate and concentrated on extracting a strip of pasta with his fork. He couldn’t look at her. He knew she was looking at him with that hard-eyed, thin-lipped expression that meant she was about to pick a fight.

  ‘What’s to take in? Nothing is decided at all. We get to go on a jolly to New York, I have a few meetings and we see what we think.’

  ‘We? You and Richard?’

  ‘No. I thought it would be fun if we went as a family. I’ve never been to New York. I want to see it with you and the kids.’

  ‘But we wouldn’t see it together. I’ll be stuck in some overpriced, air-conditioned hotel room with two kids while you wheel and deal. The Americans are workaholics. You’d be in dinner meetings and breakfast meetings … Anyway, it would mean taking Zach out of school – and we can’t afford it.’ He knew he sounded petulant, and he didn’t care.

  ‘We can afford it.’

  ‘Really?’ Lee hadn’t meant the comment to come out quite so sarcastically, but he couldn’t take it back. ‘I’m not earning right now, and I think it would be bloody irresponsible to blow money on a trip to the States just because you think you have the ready cash right now.’

  He still couldn’t meet Jo’s eye, because he knew what she was thinking – that he wasn’t earning because he hadn’t done anything to get any freelance work. As it happened, he had been trying, but he’d had regretful ‘Thanks, but no thanks’-type replies from everyone he’d approached, including his old company. He knew he needed to get a proper website up and start registering with agencies, but his work on the children’s book was progressing, slowly but well, and he just hadn’t had the time.

  ‘Okay, well,’ said Jo, and to his surprise, she sounded hurt rather than angry. ‘What do you suggest? Shall I tell Verity we’re not coming because my husband doesn’t want to?’

  ‘No. You should go on your own,’ he said, feeling rotten for being so unsupportive.

  ‘I can’t!’ He could hear the tears in her voice. ‘I’ve never been away from the kids for more than a night. I’ve barely ever spent a night away from you. How can I go to the other side of the world …?’

  ‘It’s not the other side of the world. It’s a six or seven-hour flight. And the kids will be fine – they’re not tiny babies any more.’

  ‘But a week …’

  ‘It’ll fly by,’ Lee said, trying to be kinder. ‘If you think this is what you want, you should go for it.’

  ‘I …’ said Jo, and stopped.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Well, I kind of wanted to know what we wanted. Not just me. I mean … if this American thing took off …’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m not saying anything.’

  ‘Are they talking about you moving there?’

  ‘Not me … us. And no, they’re not. They haven’t mentioned it. But it would be a possibility, I suppose.’

  ‘Fuck me!’ said Lee. ‘Now you’re moving us all over to the States? Our kids growing up American? And what about me? You might get a Green Card, but I’m damned sure I wouldn’t … So what do I do? Sit at home and paint my nails?’

  ‘Lee …’

  ‘It would have been good if you’d run some of this past me first.’

  ‘This is me running it past you! I finished the telephone conference with Verity an hour ago. I’m trying to discuss some of the things I thought about on the Tube on the way home! Jesus, Lee, you can’t withdraw all your support and refuse to come with me or discuss it with me, and then yell at me because I haven’t included you in my plans! You can’t have it both ways!’

  ‘Whereas it seems you get it any way you want it,’ Lee said. He pushed his plate away. ‘I’m not hungry. I’m going to work.’

  ‘At what?’ said Jo sarcastically.

  Lee didn’t answer. He went into his little study and slammed the door. He didn’t draw or write, just sat fuming, playing endless games of Solitaire on his computer until well after midnight, when he knew Jo would be asleep.

  They slept, or rather didn’t sleep, on opposite edges of the bed, their backs turned to one another. In the morning, Lee felt wretched – hungover from lack of sleep and remorseful for his unkindness. He opened one eye and looked at the clock. Seven thirty. Jo was already up. He could hear her downstairs in the kitchen with the kids. He couldn’t make out exactly what was being said, but from the pitch and tone of the voices, he could tell Zach was being a right little brat, either refusing to do something, or doing something he shouldn’t. The mornings were
often a nightmare. The kids, Zach in particular, would be downright awful to Jo. She understood it was because Zach knew she’d be leaving, going to work for the day, and that he would miss her, but it didn’t make it any easier. On any other morning, Lee would have been in the kitchen to run interference and be the bad cop, so Jo didn’t have to yell at Zach, but this morning, she was doing battle on her own. The selfish, ugly part of him wanted to stay in bed and leave her to deal with the tantrum. After all, he’d be handling the kids and all their nonsense for the next ten hours at least. But he knew he had been vile to her the night before, and also that he had been unfair. He jumped up and made the bed, trying to get the pillows straight and nicely plumped up, the way Jo liked, then headed downstairs.

  It was ominously quiet in the kitchen. Imi was in her high chair, and Zach was sitting at the table. His expression hovered somewhere between evil satisfaction and fear. Jo was on her hands and knees. There was a massive splodge of porridge on the floor, and the fragments of a broken bowl, and Jo was trying to clean it up with a wodge of dampened paper towels and a brush and dustpan.

  ‘Zach!’ bellowed Lee. ‘What did you do? Did you throw your bowl? That’s very, very bad. Go and sit on the step.’

  ‘But—’ started Zach.

  ‘No buts. If you don’t go right now, I’ll take your Transformers away for a week.’

  Zach burst into tears and ran from the room. Jo sat back on her heels and looked at him.

  ‘Well done, Genghis Kahn. Why don’t you beat the soles of his feet with a ruler too?’

  ‘He was naughty …’

  ‘I threw the bowl. Not him, okay?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I made cereal and he refused to eat it, so I poured that away and made porridge, and then he said he didn’t want that, so I threw the bowl on the floor. But well done for screaming at a four-year-old before you find out what’s actually going on.’