Ordinary People

by Diana Evans

  ‘I haven’t seen a purple sheet,’ he said. ‘I don’t even know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘This house,’ Stephanie said sharply, raising her arm in a grand gesture to their ceilings, their walls and cupboards and UPVC windows and generous lawn and to the Surrey Hills beyond, ‘is a communal space, Damian. Do you know what that means? As in, we all live here together, you and me and our children? You have three of them. Their names are Jerry, Avril and Summer. My name is Stephanie, and we are married, and married people talk to each other and tell each other their problems if something is troubling them.’ As she proceeded with this speech, Stephanie could feel herself becoming upset. She had acquired her sarcastic tongue from witnessing her older sister Charlotte’s vituperative exchanges with their mother during adolescence, and she had only discovered that she had it in quite such a large proportion since being married to Damian. But it was wrong for him. It was too cruel. He was looking up at her with a sad, hostile, slightly baffled expression. She felt pity for him, but she continued. ‘And if there is something troubling you, which I know there is, well, now is the time to spit it out and weep on my shoulder, Mister, because if you carry on moping around the house like this I’m frankly going to lose it. It’s hard losing a parent. I know it is. I know I’ll feel just the same when, if, when, my dad, well, I don’t even want to think about it, but … Oh, Damian, I wish you’d just talk to me!’

  Now she was crying, not copiously weeping, which would be unlike her, but there were tears in her eyes and her shoulders were fallen in pleading. Damian sensed that he should comfort her, which irritated him even more. He was still thinking about the Marlboro, still held in that moment of being about to smoke it. He could hear the rain on the other side of the front door and was imagining it also falling on the other side of the back door, where it was waiting for him, the last one. He would look out at the sky, and blow the smoke up to the water, and feel washed away for a little while of all feeling, all obligation and emptiness, become the embodiment of emptiness itself. In an attempt to return to this brief, interrupted paradise, he placed one foot up on the first stair in a gesture of empathy, at which Stephanie took two steps down, more generous than him in her comparative psychological good health. He was supposed to say something.

  ‘Look, Steph, I’m fine.’ (Vituperation rose again within her but she bore with him.) ‘Don’t be upset. I’m sorry. I guess I am a bit distant. It’s just work, stuff, you know. I’m fine about Laurence, honestly. It’s really not a big deal.’

  ‘Do you know how crazy that sounds? How can it not be a big deal?’

  It still seemed strange and dysfunctional to Stephanie that Damian called his father by his first name. She had never heard him refer to him in the usual way. She had only met ‘Laurence’ a few times, once at the Southbank Centre in London for dinner with Damian when they were first together, another time at the wedding. She had found him rather stiff and abrupt, a bit condescending, not a happy man.

  ‘It’s just not,’ Damian said, again in that snappy tone. ‘We weren’t close. I’m not devastated. You know we weren’t that close.’

  ‘Yes I know I know you weren’t that close, but he was your dad.’

  Stephanie stared at her husband for a second as if she were looking at something in a fish tank and realised that there was going to be no emotionally intelligent conclusion to this conversation. She would just have to give him time. She had said what needed to be said and felt some relief, and now she was going to carry on with her Saturday, which after the cleaning would be spent in the rich and all-consuming company of her children. There was a toffee ship to make, a Buckingham Palace puzzle to complete, a swimming lesson to be attended, and – oh, she now remembered – dinner at Michael and Melissa’s to meet the new baby. The thought of a tense drive up to London with Damian did not fill her with joy. She had bought a gift already, a packet of 100% cotton 6-9 month babygros, but maybe it should wait.

  ‘Are you sure you’re up to going to dinner later?’ she said. ‘Do you want to cancel?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No you’re not sure you want to go or no you don’t want to cancel? They’re your friends, I’m not bothered.’

  ‘No, we’re going,’ he said. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You’re fine.’

  ‘Yes. I’m fine.’

  ‘OK. Fine. Whatever.’ Stephanie turned, raising her eyebrows and her hands in exasperation, and started back upstairs. She was not going to let him ruin her day. Happiness was a human right. ‘Just remember I’m here if you need me, don’t shut me out, blah blah blah. I’m going to find that sheet. And please don’t forget to clean the bathrooms today.’

  Damian watched her disappear, feeling shitty. The excitement of the Marlboro was somewhat dampened but he was going to smoke it anyway. He returned to the kitchen and ignited the cooker, only to discover on retrieving the cigarette from his pocket that he had broken it in his fondling. There was a slit right near the butt, in the most terminal and irreparable place. He didn’t even have a Rizla to fix it with. The vase cupboard had been cleared of all traces, all temptation, apart from this one accidental omission. The chance for nicotine closure was ruined. He held Stephanie personally responsible.

  Damian met Stephanie fifteen and a half years ago at a fundraisers’ conference in Islington when they were both living in London. He was working as a housing officer in Edgware, his first job after leaving university, and she was at the NSPCC, in their fundraising department. She was tall, sturdy and humble, not specifically his type in that she did not look like Lisa Bonet, Chilli from TLC or Toni Braxton, but she was wholesome and attractive in a Kate Moss-meets-Alison Moyet kind of way, and she possessed something that Damian did not possess: an aptitude for contentment, which he found reassuring. She hailed from Leatherhead, a small town in north Surrey. Her father Patrick, a former transport manager, owned a garden and outdoor furniture centre along the A24 towards Horsham which he ran with his wife Verena, Stephanie’s mother, who was half Italian. Verena did the accounts and admin, Patrick did the marketing and customer relations. He was very big on advertising. Approximately three minutes past the garden centre on the A24 was an enormous sign stating: YOU HAVE JUST MISSED BRITAIN’S LARGEST GARDEN CENTRE – LARGEST SELECTION OF UK AND EXOTIC BUDS, CANE AND GARDEN FURNITURE. Whether it was true that Patrick’s garden centre really was the largest in Britain was a marginal issue for him, because it was very large, and it probably was the largest independent garden centre, definitely along a major A road, in this country. There were all kinds of loopholes in advertising that meant you could claim practically anything you wanted, he was always telling people. Patrick had worked in advertising during his youth, before the transport managing. He often told the story, urged on by a weak, defeated look on his son-in-law’s face that made him want to kick him in the teeth and say BUCK UP, MATE!, but instead he told the story: ‘I worked in advertising for years, went straight into it from college, thought, this is a load of, excuse my language, tripe. But then I got into it, you know? There’s a lot you can do to influence people. Signs and symbols, they’re all around us. We’re being coaxed, nudged and seduced by them every minute, only we don’t know it. We think we’re cleverer than that but we’re not. I’ve said this many times to Vera – haven’t I, V? – what makes people unhappy a lot of the time is that they think they should live outside the box. They think they’re better than their lot. But really, we arrive where we arrive in accordance with our abilities and potential. I was actually a damn good advertising man, as I’m sure you’re a damn good housing officer …’ This was last Sunday in the living room, the monthly in-lawed roast. ‘Research manager,’ Damian had clarified, as he had many times before. ‘I’m researching the effects of solar heat on large glass areas in multistorey blocks of flats.’ (He could never seem to abbreviate this description, every word seemed essential.) ‘I started out as a housing officer.’

  ‘And worked your way up. Good. Yes. That
’s good. And it sounds very interesting, doesn’t it, V?’

  ‘Really interesting. Ecological. Important,’ Verena said.

  ‘It is. Very important work,’ Stephanie said. ‘That’s what I’m always telling him.’

  ‘I’m sure it is. I’m sure it is.’ Patrick redid a button that had come loose on his pink shirt. ‘And I bet you’re really good at it too, as I was at advertising. But,’ he went on, ‘I had always wanted my own business, to be my own boss, master of my own kingdom an’ all that. But if I hadn’t spent all those years in advertising, and in transport also – that was useful too – well, to use a cliché, I wouldn’t be where I am today. Would I, V?’ ‘No, he wouldn’t, would he, Steph?’ ‘No, Dad, you wouldn’t.’ ‘That’s right, my princess.’

  ‘Mum, Dad, can I get you anything? Do you want more crisps? More cashews? The lamb’s not quite ready yet.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind some more of those crisps. What flavour were they?’

  ‘Thai sweet chilli and sour cream.’

  ‘Wow. The things they do to crisps these days!’ Patrick said. ‘When I was a kid there was just ready salted, cheese and onion, and salt and vinegar. When they brought in beef and onion it was like caviar or something. It’s like extraterrestrial television. The entrance of Channel Four into the picture was enormous, wasn’t it, V?’

  ‘Oh yes, massive.’ Verena was on her third glass of wine. ‘Do you remember that, Steph?’

  ‘Kind of … vaguely. Do you, Damian?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Well, because before that there were only the three channels, BBC1, BBC2 and ITV. Remember Family Fortunes?’

  ‘I used to love Family Fortunes!’

  ‘You did, Steph. They had all the great shows on ITV – Benny Hill, Minder. It’s gone downhill a bit now.’

  ‘Everything’s gone downhill, because everyone’s competing with everyone.’

  ‘Yes, V! Exactly my point. Now that’s not a bad thing with crisps, not if you get – what did you say the flavour was, princess?’

  ‘Thai sweet chilli and sour cream.’

  ‘Yes. There’s nothing wrong with a bit of healthy competition if you get amazing concoctions like that out of it. But when it means that people are making TV shows that they just know are, excuse my language, utter tripe, then it’s just bad for entertainment, isn’t it? I mean, what was wrong with Grandstand? Do you remember Grandstand?’

  ‘How could I forget, Dad. You used to subject us to it every Saturday without fail.’

  ‘Yes, Damian. He did. If any of us ever disturbed him he’d get really, really annoyed.’

  ‘I would. I would. I loved that show. And they’ve got rid of it. I just don’t understand it. And now there’s Football Focus instead, which is just not of the same calibre, in my opinion. Gary Lineker is a pillock, excuse my language. He’s all about the cool shirts and the baby face and the ladies love him, but he’s not a commentator. He’s got nothing on Don Leatherman. He may be a better-looking chap but he hasn’t got half the brains Don’s got.’

  ‘He’s done a lot for crisps, though,’ Verena said. ‘Those adverts he did …’

  ‘Only Walkers, though. They don’t do all the new flavours,’ said Stephanie.

  ‘There you go,’ Patrick said, taking another crisp, ‘a footballer turned ad man turned commentator. Brings me nicely back round to my point. Damian,’ he said, ‘just remember this, you can be whatever you want to be, but it’s important to appreciate and learn from the roles we find ourselves in. One day when the solar heat gets too much, well, it might be time to get out of the kitchen, so to speak. But for now, you have a very precious wife and two precious princesses, as well as this little prince here – come ’ere you! – to look after. You’ve got to bring home that bacon, fella, and for now that is your focus – hah, football, focus, get it? Who knows what all this is leading towards, eh? The sky’s the limit.’

  They were all looking sympathetically at Damian, while being duly impressed by Patrick’s masterful cascade of puns.

  ‘OK … thanks, Patrick,’ Damian said.

  ‘You’re a brilliant researcher into the effects of solar heat on large glass areas in multistorey blocks of flats,’ Stephanie said.

  ‘I bet he is,’ said Verena. ‘Steph, do you need any help in the kitchen?’

  ‘No thanks, Mum. Everything’s under control. You just sit back and relax. Do you want some more wine?’

  It may partly be due to the long-lasting effects of these monthly in-lawed roasts that Damian woke up this morning feeling weak and needing and depressed. They always left him with the sense that his life was wrong, Stephanie was wrong, this house was wrong, everything was wrong. In the presence of her family, Stephanie seemed to revert to an earlier, more provincial, more sheltered self, a self raised on horse-riding lessons and country hikes and stoic matrimony, a playroom looking out on the Surrey Hills, much like the one she had made in this house, in fact, and he found it difficult to extricate her from this peachy daddy’s princess back into the bold, forthright, somehow cooler woman he had fallen in love with and married. Or had he really fallen in love at all? Was it just that she had made him feel adequate and dynamic, that she was focused and forthright in her plans for her life when he was not, so he just went along with her? All she really wanted, she had told him very early on in a pub, was a family. ‘I want children and a home and a husband. I’ll work as well but my job will be secondary. My children will be my work. I want to look after them. I’m not going to shove them in a nursery when they’re three months old. I’m going to teach them their alphabet and take them to the park and help them paint pictures. I’m going to feed them. I’m old-fashioned, right? But I’m allowed to want those things.’

  And so it was. A warm, gravel-fronted semi on a safe and quiet street. Swings in the back. Lawn, stripy. A bamboo gazebo donated by Patrick, from which of a summer’s evening the children appeared, and peeked, their silk cheeks and soft hair. They adored their mother like the sun rising, they filled her up. She taught them to identify trees and see the good in each other and be possessing of themselves. The school they attended was high-achieving and highly endorsed by the state. Jerry went to a good, bright nursery three mornings a week while Stephanie worked at a local charity. There was a country park nearby, and two leisure centres, and they were spoilt for choice in their supply of warehouse DIY shops, economy global clothing brands and chain eateries within driving distance, always returning to this big, warm and sturdy house, with its pale-blue front door and the pale-blue calico sofa in the living room where you could sit and look out at the light and the leaves of the sessile oaks through the window opposite. Stephanie loved this house. She loved its neatness and thick upstairs carpets and old wooden surfaces. She loved how the neatness met with the chaos of children – their shoes, their felt tips, their plastic microphones, their dolls, their animal puzzles, their Lego – yet was never completely overcome by it, for she had developed an efficient system of storage around the house so that everything knew where it belonged, even if did not always find itself there. The teddies, dolls and soft animals lived in an orange IKEA compartmentalised hanging basket on the landing, the hook for which Damian had erected with some difficulty given his limited DIY skills (another reason why Patrick found him unimpressive). The other, smaller objects representing any kind of human or animal life were kept in a plastic tray marked CREATURES, which could be slid in and out of a bulky pine holding frame in the playroom, also containing several further trays – PAPER, for paper, colouring books, stickers and postcards, NOISES, for rattles, musical instruments, whistles, etc., OBJECTS, for inanimate toys, miniature furniture, shells, marbles, and so on. Stephanie had applied these labels during her free time between the school run, work, housework and general household admin, as she had put up photographs of her, Damian and the children around the rooms. It was indeed a house very similar to that in which she had grown up. Her childhood had been relatively happy and she was brought
easily to repeat it. She was content here. Contentment was simple.

  This was all a far stretch from where Damian had begun. He was not from Surrey but from London, south London, he was a child of the Stockwell tenements. The lawn, if it was ever stripy, was communal. The staircases were outside rather than in. Four flights had led up to the front door which was painted one of four state-offered colours, red, black, blue or green (Laurence had chosen black). Alternatively you could take the lift but they were often used as toilets by dogs or drunks, only the culprits knew the truth. Once you reached your floor you waved your plastic fob key over the censor and a heavy metal-edged door released, opening on to a cold, narrow walkway. Inside each flat was a small bathroom, a small windowless toilet, a small kitchen, a medium-sized living room, and one, two or three bedrooms, depending on the size of the party (Laurence and Damian’s had two). There was also a balcony, which the tenants adorned according to their taste. Some were left bare or used only for hanging out washing, then some people really went to town, displaying hanging baskets and patio tables and potted trees and lanterns, showing real pride and aspiration in their outdoor space, throwing in a little flora, a little slice of Chelsea. Laurence and Damian’s balcony was mostly bare apart from a bench and an ashtray on the windowsill, and stretched across the squared air was a sheet of tough green government netting to stop the pigeons from excreting on their turf. This was where Laurence had done a lot of his thinking, evening, night, morning and afternoon. He was not green-fingered or house-proud. Thinking was everything.