by Liz Byrski
‘The one she’s writing, the novel.’
Lexie laughs. ‘She’s not a writer, Patrick. She wanted to be a writer, she scribbled and jotted away for years and never produced anything. Are you sure you haven’t had too much Polish vodka?’
He looks at her in surprise. ‘Absolutely not. She may not have written much in the past, but she’s certainly writing something now and it’s obviously very important to her. She was telling me that when she started it she spent most of that week in her pyjamas eating toast and cereal, glued to the keyboard.’
‘No way,’ Lexie says. ‘Maybe she’s the one who had too much vodka.’
Patrick clicks the remote control and the car doors unlock. ‘No vodka, no kidding,’ he says. ‘Your dad knows about it. He said he called in there mid-afternoon and she was still in her PJs typing away like a maniac, talking about Mary Wesley and it not being too late for her.’
Lexie stares at him and now it is she who is miffed, seriously miffed. ‘Well she hasn’t told me. Why hasn’t she told me?’
Patrick shrugs and opens the car door, ushering her into the passenger seat. ‘Perhaps she wanted to keep it to herself until she was ready. I don’t think she would have said anything about it tonight except that Laurence started asking her about it while I was with them, so I asked questions too.’
‘But I’m her daughter. In fact it was me who reminded her about Mary Wesley not so long ago. She could have told me, in confidence.’
‘What, just like you told her, in confidence, about your astonishing new relationship with a wonderfully dashing younger man?’ He slides his arm along the back of the passenger seat and leans over to kiss her, and kiss her again.
‘Okay, okay, you’re not that much younger,’ she says. ‘But I am too old for necking in the car. Your bed or mine?’
‘Mine, I think,’ Patrick says with a grin. ‘After all, it’s king-size.’
‘I’m still working out why a single man needs a king-size bed,’ Lexie says. ‘It seems a bit dodgy.’
‘That settles it,’ he says, starting the car. ‘Definitely my bed – and I’ll show you what can be done in much greater comfort than in a measly old queen,’ and glancing in the mirror he pulls slowly out from the parking bay and accelerates off in the direction of his own home.
‘I do think it’s odd though,’ Lexie says as they draw up at the traffic lights. ‘I don’t understand why she didn’t tell me.’
Patrick shrugs. ‘Margot’s a very independent woman, just like you; or rather you’re just like her. And she has her own life that she’s entitled to discuss or not as she wishes. She doesn’t need your permission to write a book.’
‘No,’ Lexie says, ‘no she doesn’t. It’s just that … well, did she tell you what it’s about?’
Patrick laughs. ‘Only conceptually,’ he says. ‘Are you worried that it will contain thinly disguised family portraits?’
‘Don’t even go there.’ Lexie hesitates. ‘She wouldn’t … would she? You don’t think that’s what she’s doing, do you?’
Patrick takes a hand off the wheel and reaches out for one of hers. ‘I haven’t a clue, Lex, she’s your mother not mine, and I think you are just going to have to trust her on this. But I doubt that you, your dad and your sister are the sole players in the landscape of Margot’s imagination. I suspect she’s perfectly capable of writing a novel without putting you in it, and frankly I think you’d be underestimating her if that’s what you think.’
FIFTEEN
It is on the fourth day that Emma realises where the dog shit is coming from. She has checked around the perimeter wall of her aunt’s garden and nowhere is there space for a dog to squeeze through, but on each of the past three mornings, as she has headed out for her early run, there has been a big stinking pile close to the side wall and each day she has fetched a plastic bag from the shed and removed it. But this morning it dawns on her that dogs are rather more random in their toileting choices, and while this is dog excrement, it was clearly not a dog that dumped it. It began, she realises, on Monday, the day after she’d come home and found Phyllida face to face with Trevor outside the garage. Both the garage doors had been open and Trevor was standing with two pit bulls straining at their leads, and he was saying something about Donald’s car, and Phyllida was shaking her head.
‘I’m not interested in discussing it,’ Emma heard her say. And Trevor had shrugged and started to walk away. He’d turned back at the gate though, and shouted something at Phyllida, but by that time Emma was inside the house and couldn’t hear what he said. Phyllida had clicked the remote to close the garage doors and come striding back into the house, slamming the front door behind her.
‘What was all that about?’ Emma had asked from the top of the stairs.
‘I’ll tell you later,’ Phyllida had said. ‘When I’ve calmed down.’ But they had never actually discussed it.
‘Bastard!’ Emma says aloud now, hurrying to the shed. ‘Well I’ll show him not to mess with us.’ And she grabs the stepladder and a spade, scoops up the offending items and hurls them back over the wall.
‘How disgusting,’ she says later, standing by the sink with a mug of coffee. ‘I can’t believe he would do that.’
‘Well I certainly can,’ Phyllida says. ‘It’s just the sort of thing he would do. I blame Donald, because he hated Trevor but didn’t seem able to ignore him. He even bought the Range Rover off him and I wouldn’t be in the least surprised to find that he paid way over the odds for it.’
‘Uncle Don was so astute, I can’t imagine why he didn’t tell him to nick off and annoy someone else.’
‘Me neither. But Donald wasn’t actually very astute with people or money. Actually he didn’t have a clue. He may have been a brilliant surgeon but he could be quite naive about some things. Thanks for clearing it up, Em. Those dogs are pit bulls, you know, very dodgy. I think it’s best not to react. It’s probably just what he wants if he’s hoping to rattle my cage and get me to move.’
‘Well I’m not so sure,’ Emma says. ‘I’ve thrown it back over the wall and I hope it landed somewhere really inconvenient. What was the argument about in the drive the other day – not the house again, surely?’
Phyllida sighs. ‘Oh look, it was ridiculous. He went past the gate with those bloody dogs and he must have seen me outside the garage, so he came marching in and started going on about the cars. Said he would buy back Donald’s Range Rover because I can’t need more than one car. And he went on about the slide in prices for second hand vehicles because of the financial crisis, and how his offer wouldn’t last. Just like he did about the house.’
‘Do you want to sell the Range Rover?’ Emma asks. ‘I mean, you do only need one car and the Forester is much more you, so it might be the easy way to do it. Did he make a reasonable offer?’
‘He didn’t actually name a figure, and I’ve no idea what’s reasonable anyway,’ Phyllida says. ‘And yes, obviously I don’t need it and I’ll get rid of it when I’m ready, but certainly not to him. Over my dead body! That nasty little man thinks he can bully me. He thinks I’m some sort of sitting duck that he can intimidate, so he can make a killing with the house, and now the car. He was really trying to wind me up, kept tapping his nose with his finger and asking whether I’ll be disposing of the VW too.’
‘What VW?’
‘Exactly! We don’t own a Volkswagen. I think he’s just trying to rattle me. He keeps saying he had some sort of deal with Don. Anyway, I refuse to be harassed by the slimy toad.’
‘I can’t imagine you being bullied by anyone actually, Aunty Phyl,’ Emma says. ‘Anyway, I’d better run or I’ll be late. I’ll be home about seven. Theresa reckons she can fix my face, so I’m going there at five-thirty.’
Phyllida puts on her glasses and looks closely at her niece’s face. ‘Can’t see a thing wrong with it myself. Can’t you fix whatever it is with makeup? People don’t peer into your face looking for flaws, you know.’
; ‘I’m doing it,’ Emma says, tightening her lips. ‘And I’m thinking of an eyebrow lift. I’ve got an appointment with a cosmetic surgeon in a couple of weeks, so I need to get this sorted before then. Okay, I’m off. See you later,’ and dropping a kiss on Phyllida’s cheek she strides off down the hall and out through the front door.
For Emma, who has already lived at different times with every other member of her family, living with Phyllida is bliss. She has a beautiful room and bathroom to herself, and Phyllida won’t accept rent and only occasionally lets her pay for shopping or lunch when they are out together.
‘It might be best if I help you out with that,’ she had said when Emma disclosed the extent of her debt. And she’d written a cheque for the full amount. ‘Interest free loan,’ she’d said as she handed it to her.
Emma was so shocked she could barely speak, but when she got her voice back she had promised to repay it in full.
‘We’ll talk about that a bit further down the track,’ Phyllida had said, and to Emma it sounded as though she was telling her to forget about it.
But it’s not just the financial relief. Phyllida, presumably missing the task of looking after Donald, seems to relish the task of looking after her instead. And Rosie’s weekend visits are much easier with Phyllida around. Emma alone has never worked out how to be with Rosie, who is so uninterested in all the things little girls are supposed to like – fairy dresses, princesses, magical horses, pretend makeup and dolls – all the things that Emma had loved as a child. She can’t quite get a grip on who Rosie is or how they might do things together.
But the best thing about living with Phyllida, Emma thinks, is that her aunt takes her seriously. She makes her feel important. There is something pathetic about being the younger child, especially when the elder sister is so bloody perfect, and so much more like their parents in every way than she is. Emma tends to think of herself as the black sheep, different, awkward, and somewhat embarrassing. Occasionally she likes that and attempts to see it as a strength, but most of the time she resents it and feels trapped by it. A black sheep, she thinks, is only of value if she is either hugely successful or outrageously eccentric, and Emma knows she is neither.
Each time Phyllida crosses something off her list she feels she is taking a step forward. She has always believed in the value of the list and it has never been more useful to her than now as she endeavours to take life one day at a time in the belief that it will eventually get her where she is supposed to be going, wherever that might be.
With Margot’s help, the milestone of sorting and disposing of Donald’s clothes has been passed, and the day that she and her sister had packed the boxes and bags into the back of the Range Rover and delivered them to the op shop Phyllida had returned home with a new sense of calm. As she crawled into bed that night she knew that the grief that had wrung her out as she dealt with the contents of his wardrobe had been less for the loss of Donald himself than for the edifice of their life together, its security, its status, all of which had been stripped away by his death. It was a disturbing, unworthy feeling that she didn’t plan to share with anyone else and which she tried to push out of her mind. The worst really was over and although the prospect of sorting out the contents of Donald’s study still lies ahead, it is a task which, she feels, can be left for another time. Today it is the appointment with the solicitor about the will, and it’s long overdue, it’s really just a formality, but it’s one more job that will be out of the way by the end of today.
Emma’s presence is what is keeping Phyllida going right now. Her niece is, she thinks, a blessing, rescuing her from the overbearing emptiness of the house and distracting her from depressing forays into both the past and future. Emma is entirely in the present and although the worrying obsession with her appearance and a serious shopping habit suggest otherwise, she is an intelligent and thoughtful person, and very easy to have around. She is, however, Phyllida thinks, not particularly happy, and a couple of days before she had moved in Laurence had turned up, worried and confused by Emma, and frustrated by Margot’s apparent abdication from responsibility.
‘I really don’t think this is going to get us anywhere, Laurence,’ Phyllida had said, handing him a glass of Donald’s best malt whisky. ‘Emma’s been an unhappy girl for a long time, and Margot’s tried everything she knows to reach out to her, so dramatic gestures and raised voices won’t help.’
‘That’s just what Margot said, and I don’t understand it, really I don’t. What’s she got to be unhappy about? Margot thinks it could be because we split up but that’s donkey’s years ago. She seemed okay at the time, and Lexie’s okay.’
Phyllida sighed. ‘Emma’s a different person, and she was only six when you left. She wouldn’t have been able to understand that and she may still resent it.’
Laurence gave an irritated sort of snort. ‘There would have been other kids at school from broken families though, it wasn’t like she was the only one.’
‘Maybe it was harder for her because she had to adapt to the fact that you were living with another man.’
‘So it’s my fault, is it?’ Laurence said, waving his glass around. ‘All this debt and Botox and shopping is my fault for being gay!’
‘You know that’s not what I meant,’ Phyllida said, refusing to be goaded. Laurence obviously needed some sort of argument to make himself feel better but he wasn’t going to get one from her. He was also looking for a quick fix, which she didn’t have.
‘There are other more obvious causes,’ she’d said. ‘Margot and I have discussed it. Emma feels she failed Rosie, and I suspect she feels that in doing so she failed her own mother.’ She almost added that Emma might feel that Laurence had also failed Margot, but decided to hold back on that. ‘It’s probably all very complicated. Anyway, now that you’ve stopped ranting, come and have some soup. I was just going to eat when you turned up, and there’s plenty for two. Who knows what’s behind all this? Emma may not even know that herself.’
And over pea and ham soup she had suggested a different approach which involved a few weeks of cosseting Emma in a variety of ways, leading into a slowly tightening regime of financial management, and the introduction of domestic responsibilities. ‘And,’ Phyllida added, ‘maybe some other activities to divert her from shopping.’
‘What sort of activities?’ Laurence asked.
‘Not sure … maybe something calming and spiritual. Yoga, perhaps. I could do with that myself, or perhaps a hobby of some sort. I might even be able to get her to take up golf. Let’s just see what happens when we’ve spent a bit of time together.’
‘Well, you realise you may be stuck with her once she moves in, don’t you? Especially if you make her too comfortable.’
‘Really, Laurence, that’s an appalling thing to say. Have you considered that I might like to be stuck with her as you put it?’ Phyllida said. ‘My own circumstances are rather bleak at present, maybe Emma and I can help each other. And I can promise you that different levels of discomfort will be introduced a little at a time, as and when I think she can handle them. Trust me. You might as well, I seem to be the last resort.’
Now, as she considers Emma’s comments about the cosmetic surgeon, Phyllida thinks it might be time for the first little bit of belt-tightening. Emma has been with her for a while now, but it will need to be little by little, kind but firm. Phyllida stacks her breakfast things in the dishwasher, switches it on and glances at the kitchen clock; time to get a move on for the appointment with the solicitor, and when the doorbell rings, she dries her hands on the kitchen towel and hurries to answer it.
The woman on the doorstep seems vaguely familiar; Asian, in her fifties, dark hair greying at the temples, straight faced and serious, wearing a light trench coat over black pants and a black polo neck sweater.
‘Yes?’ Phyllida says, expectantly.
The woman waits, then sighs. ‘You don’t recognise me, do you?’
‘Should I?’
‘May Wong. We met at the hospital.’
‘I’m sorry, I … oh, of course,’ Phyllida says. ‘You’re one of the nurses. Sister Wong, isn’t it?’ There is some haughty satisfaction in her tone as she recalls this woman’s infuriating manner just before Donald’s heart attack. ‘What was it you wanted?’
‘Perhaps I could come in?’
‘I’m in a bit of a rush actually, an appointment in town …’
But the woman waits, silently, giving no ground until Phyllida, who would not normally succumb to this sort of pressure, opens the door a little wider. ‘So,’ she says when they are both standing inside the hall. ‘What is it?’
‘I realise it’s been a difficult time for you,’ May says, ‘but I’m concerned that as you begin to sort through Donald’s things, something of mine might get lost or thrown out.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Phyllida is irritable now. ‘Why do you imagine anything of yours might be here in my house?’
May appears rather more pale than when she first arrived and, looking around her, takes a couple of steps over to a chair and sits down.
‘Sorry,’ she says, ‘I feel a bit dizzy. Tension, I suppose. Look, I’m sure you don’t want this any more than I do, so can we just stop playing games and get it over and done with? Donald had a piece of jewellery that’s rather precious to me. He took it with him on the day he was taken ill, he’d promised to have it repaired, but of course he wouldn’t have had time to take it to the jeweller. It must be somewhere among his things. Perhaps you could find it for me? It’s an antique brooch, oval, with garnets and seed pearls in a rose gold setting. Two garnets and a pearl need resetting. It belonged to my grandmother, so although it’s a nice piece the value is largely sentimental. I’d really like to have it back.’
Phyllida stares down at her in silence, her mind racing. The woman must be mad, of course.
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. I suppose you want money or something, but you’ve come to the wrong place,’ she says, moving briskly back to the door and opening it. ‘Why on earth would Donald offer to get something repaired for you? Please leave now and don’t come back.’