by Carrie Adams
Fran had given me the perfect segue into the next topic of conversation. Caspar. I grabbed my moment. “How is my charming Caspar?”
“Full of it. He honestly thinks I don’t get it. That I don’t understand, that I never had a youth. It’s so annoying, because it’s all just repeat, repeat, repeat. Yeah, kids today probably are under more pressure than we were, but to think I don’t understand.” Francesca shook her head under her helmet. “It’s so stupid. They’re so indignant and whatever I do is wrong. Thanks again, by the way, for bailing him out the other night. He does listen to you, actually, which is one thing.”
I phrased my next question carefully. “He told me you grounded him over the beer thing.”
“Really? Did he?”
“He called for a chat the other day.”
“A chat?” She pulled on the brakes. I stopped pedaling too and cycled back round to face her. It was obvious that Francesca hadn’t bought his social call either.
“Did he tell you it wasn’t our beer?”
“Er, no.”
“I bet he didn’t. He only sneaked into the neighbors’ kitchen and took it. They have kids the same age, so we have a kind of open house policy, and we were having lunch together…But all the same, I was so embarrassed. Anyway, I told him he couldn’t go out. Lots of slamming doors followed. I really can’t face thinking about it.”
“Little toad. No, he failed to mention all of that.”
“I don’t know what’s got into him, I really don’t.”
I thought about my own bad behavior as a child. It was all fairly mild but I recalled holding a grudge against my parents for months because they hadn’t let me go to a party and, like Poppy, I thought they’d ruined my life.
“Anything you’ve done that he’s punishing you for?”
Francesca looked at me, horrified.
“I don’t mean anything you deserve, just something he thinks you’ve done?”
Francesca shook her head slowly but, without actually answering, pedaled away. She turned her bike towards the pond and picked up speed. I followed a few paces behind. I hadn’t meant to insult her. Halfway round the pond, she slowed down and I caught up.
“That’s better,” she said. “Get some air in the lungs.”
“Maybe you need a couple of days away, leave Nick at home coping with all of this. We could go to a spa. They do really good deals mid-week. In fact, I think I still have a voucher that I won at some charity auction. I could take you! Maybe you’re just knackered.” Talking of knackered, I noticed I was now definitely puffing. And she definitely wasn’t.
“I need some more ginseng,” she said, ignoring my spa invitation. I didn’t know whether it was because she hadn’t heard me over the cacophony of geese around the pond, or that she wasn’t taken in by my voucher story and hated accepting charity.
“To hell with the ginseng, you need a night out. I mean a proper night out. Get dressed up, wash your hair if that’s not ruining the ozone too much, put on some heels, get your lovely legs out and come out on the razz with me.”
“Prop up a bar and get chatted up?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of a proper party. One without jelly and tedious women discussing MMR.”
I got a kick for that. It’s good to know one’s boundaries.
“Celebrities, free booze, live entertainment and enough shallow conversation to drown in. What do you think?”
“Sounds perfect.”
“Great. Come to Neil’s Channel 4 party on Saturday.”
“Neil as in Neil and Helen?”
Francesca was a bit intimidated by Neil and Helen.
“He can’t bring himself to look at me, let alone remember my name; he certainly won’t be inviting me to his party.”
“It’s not his, and anyway, he doesn’t have to. You can come as Claudia, Nick will make a fine Al, and I’ll bring Billy as my date. She could do with a laugh too, I suspect.”
“You’re on. I’ll ask Caspar to babysit.”
“I thought you were against child labor.”
“God, you’re annoying.”
I smiled and increased speed, cycling through another glut of fat pigeons pecking away at half a loaf of Hovis. Was that the whiff of an endorphin rush or something else? I was pleased.
With Fran, Nick and Billy, I would go to Neil’s party armed with a buffer zone of my own.
When I got back to the flat I called Caspar. The poor unfortunate boy has a mobile phone of his own. I had to wait until I was thirty-two.
“Hello?” came a whispered voice.
“Hi, Caspar, it’s me, can you talk?”
“No. I’m in class.”
“Why are you answering your phone, then?”
“Why are you calling me during school?”
“Don’t be cheeky.”
“You like it really.”
“Why are you in such a good mood?” I didn’t mean it to sound so suspicious.
“Christ, can’t win, can I?”
“Sorry, bollocks—listen, Caspar, the beer thing—”
“Here we go. Look, Tessa, you’re not my mum, so please, back off.”
“But—”
“What?”
“I’m trying to help. Please call me after class.”
Half an hour later I stepped dripping out of the shower, threw a towel around me and answered the phone. But it wasn’t Caspar, it was Billy.
“Sorry to disturb you,” said Billy. Billy always apologizes for everything. “Are you busy?”
“Far from it,” I replied, wrapping another towel around my hair and lying on my bed to dry.
“I have a huge favor to ask of you,” Billy said.
“Fire away.”
“I’m having some problems with money and—”
“How much do you need?”
“I don’t need to borrow any, um, but it’s Christoph, he hasn’t made some of the payments he’s supposed to, and I’ve been trying to talk to him for a while, but you know what he’s like, always traveling, so…”
“How long has it been?”
Billy hated telling me when Christoph had been behaving badly. Her loyalty to the man who’d broken her heart, ruined her life and turned his back on one of the finest children I know was anathema to me. “Four months.”
“And he’s not returning your calls?”
“Well, as I said he’s been away and—”
“Billy.”
“I know, I know, so that’s why I need your help. I’ve got an appointment with the solicitor tomorrow.”
“Great, that’s great.”
“Would you mind collecting Cora from school?”
“Not at all, I’d be delighted. It will be the highlight of my week.” Which was true. “Honestly, you’re doing me the favor. Listen, if it’s all right with you I’ll take her over to play at Nick and Francesca’s house. Katie and Poppy love her so much.”
“Perfect. Thank you.”
“That’s what godmothers are for.”
“You’re the best, Tessa, thanks.”
The following day at half past three I was outside Cora’s school gates. The mixture of people milling about with prams and bikes, dogs and scooters was amazing. Cora was lucky, her school only went up to age eleven, so she didn’t have to venture through throngs of older, intimidating kids who had a tendency to flex a little muscle when it came to the smaller ones. Cora was slight; although she was seven, she looked only five and I always feared she would be picked on. Since birth she’d always been below the bottom percentile on the charts. Whenever she mentioned this I told her it was better than being average.
She grinned at me and came running out, her long hair straggling behind her. She looks like a gypsy, with her pale skin, large brown eyes, missing tooth and narrow limbs. I crouched down, spread my arms wide and waited for the bundle of energy to hit me at full pelt.
“Hello, beautiful,” I said.
“Hello, Godmummy T, you’ve gone a funny c
olor,” she said.
Ah yes. Fading tan, too much time on my hands and an old bottle of the fake stuff found while tidying out my bathroom cupboard can do that to a person.
“I was hoping it wasn’t that obvious.”
“It’s stripy, not obvious.” Cora took my hand. “Like the zebra, you can hide in the bush and not get eaten by a lion.”
So, one positive to come out of this. I look like a freak but at least I won’t get eaten by a lion.
“Did you bring my elephant with small ears?” Nothing gets past this kid.
“It’s in the car.”
She beamed.
We chatted about school and friends of hers whom I’d never met in minute detail, and had a lengthy dispute about socks that got mixed up at gym time. Cora clearly found it hilarious. I found it hard to follow what she was saying, but it didn’t matter, I let her easy chit-chat wash over me and was soothed by the sound of her voice.
“And how’s Mummy?” I asked her.
“Cross with Christoph.” Cora had always called her father Christoph, despite being coached by Billy to do otherwise. Billy feared it would put Christoph off on the few times he deigned to grace them with his presence. As if Cora could put anyone off, ever. I think it reflected the innate wisdom that Cora was born with. Christoph wasn’t worthy of that most precious of words, “Daddy.” My goddaughter may look like a five-year-old but she is seven going on seventy. Sometimes she says the most extraordinary things that leave me gaping at her in wonder; I want to write them down and tuck them away into fortune cookies because they seem so worldly-wise. Cora, says…Maybe I’m just biased. Other times she gets very grown-up words mixed up and comes out with something I’d be more tempted to put in a cracker. It came from listening in on a predominantly adult world with only a seven-year-old brain to decipher it with.
Cora pointed to the local supermarket as we walked to the car. “We had to give all our shopping back to the lady in the shop, even though I’d helped pack it and everything, but she gave us our baked beans and bread, so it was all right. It’s Christoph’s fault, he’s a liar, liar, pants on fire.”
Poor Billy. I could easily lend her money. She was too proud.
“The shop lady gave me a lollipop, but told me not to tell anyone.”
“Why are you telling me then?” I said, ruffling her hair.
“Because you’re not a real grown-up.”
I took out an imaginary pen, scrawled an imaginary note, rolled it into an imaginary scroll and inserted it into an imaginary cookie. Cora, says…You’re not a real grown-up.
We arrived at Nick and Francesca’s house. Katie and Poppy loved having Cora over to play as much as she loved going. Cora was the jam to their sandwich. Katie and Poppy were the siblings she missed. She was a perfect middle child, actually. She deferred to Katie and encouraged Poppy and since she spent a huge amount of time amusing herself, she didn’t need to compete for attention. As a result, the girls gravitated towards Cora’s calmness, a gap was bridged and three perfectly happy little girls disappeared into a world that neither I, Francesca nor Billy could follow.
Full of sausages and mash, they went off to play, leaving Francesca and me to make another vat of tea and settle down to a proper chat. One without constant interruptions. I was pretty used to having conversations peppered with, “Hang on a second, I just have to…get down a toy, fill up the water, turn on the telly, break up a fight, get a plaster, wipe a bottom, find a Barbie” followed by the “Where were we?” which was inevitably followed by “Hang on a second, I just have to…” But the three of them were at the bottom of the garden and apart from a curious request for wooden spoons and gravy granules, we were largely ignored.
“So how is the boy wonder today?” I asked.
“Bit better, actually. He made breakfast this morning.”
“Oh, good.” That was the answer I was hoping to hear.
“You talked to him again, didn’t you?”
“Briefly,” I replied. Caspar had finally called me back that evening, by which time I had decided to go for the approach that worked best with children: blackmail. I’d gently reminded him about the police record, the speed, and nearly drowning in his own vomit and then, before he had a chance to get surly on me, I’d told him any more antics like nicking someone else’s beer, and I was going to reclaim the iPod. I was glad he’d taken my threats seriously.
Francesca poured more tea into our mugs. “I think not being allowed out had its effect. I think you were right, maybe we have been taking him for granted a little bit.” I’d said that before he nicked the beer, though. “So we’ve agreed to start paying him for the jobs he does, rather than just assuming he doesn’t mind babysitting or trimming the hedge or whatever. He says he thought he’d been told by Rachel, our neighbor, to help himself to drinks. It’s a bit implausible, but he’s been pretty contrite since talking to you, so thank you.”
A bit implausible?
“You know, he wants to save up for driving lessons. It’s a lot of money, but he has a year.”
“That’s good. That’s positive.”
“I think so.”
“Whatever he saves by next birthday, I’ll match it,” I offered.
“I wasn’t saying it for that reason. It might take him two years.”
“But I’d like to. That’s what Mum and Dad always did with me when I wanted something that cost more than 50p.”
“Well, there was only one of you; it’s a bit harder to do that with three kids. We’d be forking out money all the time. We do fork out money all the time. I swear it disappears. Anyway, it wouldn’t be fair to the girls. Talking of which, I’d better go and see what they’re up to.”
I heard the front door close, a bag drop, and something heavy thump up the stairs. Fran was outside negotiating with the children over how long they had until bath-time. I pushed myself off my chair and went into the hallway and shouted up the stairwell. “Hey, Caspar, aren’t you going to come and say hello?”
“Who’s that?” came a surly voice.
“Tessa.”
“Oh, hi, Tessa,” said Caspar, from behind his door. “I didn’t know you were here.”
“Come down and say hello.”
“Will do, give me a sec.”
My handbag was slung over the end banister. I lifted the flap and looked at my wallet for a moment wondering whether to count its contents. I let the flap fall back, dismissing my thoughts. Trust is everything. If Caspar said he was done with drugs, then he was done with drugs.
Francesca returned, having agreed to a ten-minute ruling.
“Caspar is back,” I said, finishing the last of the dishes. “I think he might be hiding from me.”
“He’s probably still a bit embarrassed. He idolizes you, so being sick out of a taxi window the night you rescued him is probably eating him alive.”
I had, of course, spoken to Francesca about that fateful Saturday night and although I’d given her a much watered-down version of events, I didn’t think I’d said that. What had I said? It was nearly a month ago now. That was the trouble with lies; they were much harder to remember than the truth. I had left Caspar the job of deciding how much he wanted to tell his parents. And while I hadn’t expected him to tell them everything, I hadn’t thought he’d lie. I wanted to know what I had rescued Caspar from, but realized it wouldn’t look good asking Fran.
“Everyone has to drink themselves stupid, it’s a rite of passage. One I’m still going through,” I said, fishing.
“Yes, but it was wrong of Zac to lace his drinks like that.”
Ah, so that was his little story. All Zac’s fault. No mention of the dope, the speed, the stolen money or the brush with the law, then. Implausible wasn’t the word.
“I’m just so grateful he had the good sense to call you,” said Fran. Quite a feat, when you’re unconscious. Ratbag. Then I remembered his forlorn expression, his solemn promise that the drugs would stop, his insistence that they had. I didn’t wan
t to be too hard on him—getting very drunk and puking up was a rite of passage. So was getting horribly stoned and paranoid. And it wouldn’t be the first time that a teenager nicked booze from someone’s house. OK, the speed might not have been quite so pedestrian, but I bet it wasn’t that unusual either. I never told my parents about the time that Ben had to stick his fingers down my throat because I’d drunk too much rum, and I was even younger than Caspar.
I was telling Fran the story of how we’d raided Ben’s mother’s drinks cabinet when Caspar finally materialized. He was all washed and scrubbed, his wet hair gelled, his clothes obviously fresh. It made me immediately suspicious. Then I smelt the toothpaste mingled with some rather strong aftershave, and my suspicions intensified. I looked closely into Caspar’s eyes, but they didn’t seem bloodshot and he wasn’t slurring his words. Perhaps I should mind my own business. Then again, what if he hadn’t stopped smoking, what if it was getting worse?
“Hey, Caspar, I know you’re all squeaky-clean, but I believe you owe me a car wash.” I glanced at my watch. The girls’ ten minutes were up. We had about an hour for bath and general messing about before I took Cora home.
“When do you want me to do it?” he asked.
“How about now?”
“What about homework?” asked Fran.
“I’ll do it later. Dad’s got all the stuff under the stairs.” Caspar left the room.
“Definitely some improvement.” Fran didn’t even ask me why her son owed me a car wash, so I didn’t tell her. Instead, I told her I would go and get the bath ready. I picked up Cora’s pajamas and went upstairs. I turned the taps on a fraction and let the bath begin to slowly fill. I reckoned I had a good ten minutes before Fran got the girls inside and upstairs.
I heard Caspar go out on to the street and then stealthily climb the stairs to his bedroom. I looked under the beanbag. Behind the bookshelves. I found a porn mag rolled up behind the bedhead, but no tin of incriminating drugs. I got down on my hands and knees and looked under the bed.