‘Don’t suppose I could have one of those, could I?’ I gesture at Nessa’s packet of Superkings. ‘I’m not having the best day myself, so far.’
She presses them into my hand. ‘You’ll get used to it. Might even start to find it funny, one day.’
There’s an odd, choked little laugh from Tilly. ‘Well, I suppose if car crash vids are your idea of fun …’
‘Come on,’ says Nessa kindly. ‘I keep telling you, darly: treat it like you fetched up in the middle of a drag show.’
Tilly snatches my cigarette from between my fingers, pokes it between her lips. Takes a tiny, teenager’s mouthful of smoke and puffs it out immediately. The baby’s going to get far more oxygen from the hyperventilation than it ever is nicotine, the way she’s smoking.
‘I thought you were going up to London today?’
‘I was. Still am if Rufus can ever tear himself away from the accounts for five minutes.’
‘God, and you must have been looking forward to it so much.’
‘You’re not wrong there. I’m starting to get cabin fever down here.’
‘Castle fever,’ says Nessa.
‘Going to get dry rot of the brain soon,’ I say.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Tilly, ‘if I’m not … you know … I know it must be difficult for you, and really, I can’t tell you how happy I am that Rufus … And you seem really … anyway.’
I wonder, not for the first time, if it’s the hormones that have made her lose the ability to finish her sentences. ‘No worries, Tilly.’ I take the cig back. ‘I’m made of sterner stuff than you think.’
‘Ooh,’ she says, ‘I don’t think you are.’
I’m about to get a bit narky when she stutters, continues: ‘I mean – I mean … sorry. My mouth doesn’t seem to work any more these days. What I mean is, I thought you were made of stern stuff the minute I clapped eyes on you … no, that’s not what I meant, either. But, you know, I’m not under … underestimating … that’s what I mean. Oh God, I wish my back didn’t hurt.’
‘As your medical adviser,’ says Nessa, ‘I think you should go and put your feet up on a large sofa somewhere. Read a book. There must be something you can read in that library.’
‘I can’t,’ she says. ‘Someone’ll come along and tell me I shouldn’t be wasting time lying around reading on a lovely day like this.’
‘It’s not a lovely day,’ Nessa points out. ‘It’s a typical shitty British early winter day. If you don’t go and clock up some rest, I’ll set your grandmother on you.’
‘Oh God. Anything but that,’ says Tilly. ‘Can I …? Thanks.’
I hand her the cig.
‘Anyway,’ says Nessa, ‘you’ll be best off in the library. I don’t think any member of your family has ever gone in there in the time I’ve been working here.’
Tilly hands me back the cig, does that pregnant-lady thing of prodding at the small of her back with opened fingers. ‘Daddy sometimes goes in to look up Latin for the Telegraph crossword. I’m not sure what there is to read, though.’
‘Books?’ ventures Nessa.
‘I suppose there might be some Dickens in there. And a full complement of gothics.’
‘That’s the spirit. Try Hard Times. That’ll cheer you up.’
‘Knowing my luck,’ says Tilly, ‘all I’ll find is the complete Clarissa, and strain my wrist trying to hold it up.’
‘Is your back really bad?’ I ask.
Her hands fly immediately to the small of her spine. ‘Awful. Feels like red-hot needles. It’s ’cause the cartilage is softening.’
‘And stress,’ adds Nessa.
‘We don’t suffer from stress in this family.’
‘No,’ says Nessa drily. ‘Well, I can think of certain individuals who have managed to avoid it most of their lives.’
‘If you like,’ I offer, ‘I could come and give it a bit of a rubdown when I get back from London. Your back, I mean. You look like you could do with it.’
Tilly brightens visibly. ‘Would you? All this waddling … I don’t know … Bit tense, I suppose …’
‘Sure.’
‘Awfully cold in there, of course …’
Tilly is wearing a maternity sack in weighty corduroy, woollen tights, a thick wool jumper with a roll neck and, on top of that lot, a heavy woollen cardigan. You can’t tell how fat, or thin, she really is. ‘No need. I can do it under your jumper. I can’t really give you the full works in your, um delicate condition, anyway. But I can certainly help your back.’
‘God,’ says Tilly, ‘that would be … yuh. Thank you.’
‘That’s a date, then. Hopefully I’ll’ve got myself fully kitted out in Harvey Nicks’ best designer thermals by then.’
‘God … poor you … gosh. Are you dying?’
‘Not dying, exactly. But my fingers turned blue the other day.’
‘Happens to me every time,’ says Nessa. ‘Though I’m not sure if it’s entirely related to the heating. Go on, Tilly, for heaven’s sake. You look like your bladder could do with emptying, as well.’
‘Well … you know …’ says Tilly, clomping from foot to foot, ‘coffee in, coffee out.’ She starts to push her way through the leaves, turns and says: ‘I don’t know why people keep insisting on calling it a delicate condition. I feel like an elephant.’
‘Look like one too,’ shoots Nessa, leans back against the wall, taps another cigarette out into her hand and says: ‘I don’t go on duty for another five minutes.’
Tilly shooshes her way away. Nessa sparks up, raises an eyebrow over the flame and says: ‘So how about you, girl? How you doing?’
‘OK,’ I say.
‘No, really?’
‘I’ll survive.’
‘That bad, eh?’
‘They’re quite a family.’
‘Sure are. You’ve got your work cut out for you there. When I heard Rufus had married an Aussie, I thought, I’ll bet she doesn’t have a clue. Probably thinks they all talk like they’ve got lockjaw.’
‘You were right there,’ I say.
‘Always am,’ says Nessa. ‘I mean, how could you imagine a spunk like Rufus could be related to a gaggle of inbreeds like this lot? Tell you what, he’s a credit to himself, that boy. And Tilly, too. Amazing how some people can get hopeless parenting from the word go and still come out on top, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. It is pretty amazing, really. But I know quite well that kids don’t always come out like the people who raised them. ‘You know what?’ I continue. ‘I wouldn’t mind, but it’s the way they’re under the impression that they’ve got the raw end of the bargain.’
She laughs. ‘I’m afraid that’s pretty much all the English, all the time. I’ve never met such a race for thinking they were giving benediction to the rest of the world. Not quite all of them, mind. A fair number have moved on, especially in the cities, but you get the impression that a lot of them have never got over losing the empire. Still congratulating themselves on bringing bureaucracy to India.’
‘How long have you been here, then?’
‘Eight years, going on. Married a pom.’
‘And you get used to it?’
‘Fairly much?’
‘Where did you come from.’
We’re slipping into the Aussie inflection: one minute talking, and all our statements end with question marks. Except, of course, the questions.
‘Melbourne? You.’
‘Brizzie?’
‘You don’t sound like you’re from Brizzie?’
‘No,’ I tell her. ‘We were in Sydney at first? Then Canberra? We didn’t fetch up there till I was eleven?’
‘Oh, right. I know how that is. We started off in Perth? Didn’t go to Melbourne till I was eight? Your mum and dad OK with you taking off like this, then.’
‘They have to be?’
‘They coming over for a visit.’
‘Sure. I don’t know when, though? Thought it might be an idea to wait for spring
?’
‘Wise,’ she says. ‘It’s a lot better here once the days get a bit longer. If you can put them off till June, all the better. They might have some chance of two days on the trot without rain, then. So how you getting on with Mary?’
‘Pass.’
Nessa laughs. ‘Never underestimate the attachment of the grande dame to her firstborn.’
I don’t even really notice it at the time. Dismiss it as a slip of the tongue. Firstborn son is what she means, of course.
‘She’s one scary lady,’ continues Nessa.
‘Oh, thank God,’ I say. ‘I was beginning to think it was just me.’
‘Huh-uh. Scares the hell out of me, and I don’t scare for nobody.’
‘What do you reckon’s my best tack?’
Nessa considers this. Takes another drag on her ciggy. ‘Keep your head down for forty years and hope for the best?’
‘Thanks. That’s a big help.’
‘I’d move to the other side of the world and change your name. Maybe have surgery?’
The Great Hall door opens and footsteps crunch across the yard.
‘Talk of the devil,’ says Nessa.
‘Oi!’ shouts Rufus. ‘Nessa! Have you got my wife in there with you?’
‘What’s it to you?’ she shouts back.
‘I’ve come to take her to London.’
‘About bloody time,’ I say.
Nessa slouches against the wall again. ‘Just finish this off. Have a good time.’
‘Thanks. Good to meet you.’
‘Good to meet you,’ she says.
I start to push my way out through the foliage.
‘Oh, and Mel?’
I turn to look at her.
‘You know where I am, eh?’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Brief Encounter
Well, I’m not going to pretend otherwise: I like to shop. I like it a lot. Not to the degree my mum likes it, where it’s near obsessive-compulsive, but after my weeks of freezing rural dowdiness the sight of Knightsbridge is enough to set off a feeding frenzy. Within four hours of touching down at Paddington, I am staggering under the weight of the ankle-length dresses, knee-boots, velvet trousers, high-grade woollens, gloves, vests, hats and coats that will make life bearable in my new world. And with Christmas racing up towards me at an alarming pace, I’ve taken the opportunity to load up with what I hope might be appropriate gifts. It isn’t so easy, buying stuff for people who make it so clear that they don’t value anything that hasn’t been inherited. I have been so enthusiastic that I have amassed a collection of sixteen separate carrier bags, and realise at about three o’clock that I am no longer capable of manhandling them without the help of wheels.
So I hail a taxi on Sloane Street and tell it to take me round the corner to the house where Hilary lives in solitary splendour.
I’m in a good mood. Successful shopping does that to you; it satisfies some sort of base hunter-gatherer instinct and leaves you feeling as though you are competent to survive in a fertile world. I guess that’s why those bad shopping trips – the ones where every spot of cellulite stands out under the changing-booth lighting like the gone-cold skimmings off a stockpot, where clothes dig in under your stomach and make your breasts look like bags of slugs, where your toes poke out of dainty open-toed mules like chipolata sausages – are doubly depressing. It’s not just the grim realisation that the flesh is not only weak, but stretches as well: it’s the sense of failure. The feeling that someone, somewhere has got some quarry with your name on it. Usually someone whose arse doesn’t resemble a sack of marbles.
The house is medium-sized, white, elegant, understated. Not unlike my husband, really. I pay off the cabbie, finish listening to his Ph.D. thesis on the evils of immigration and mount worn stone steps, dropping bags all around me as he separates out his tip from his fare, elbow leaning on the doorframe.
Behind a discreet navy-blue door, all shiny brass handles and knockers, I find myself in a narrow, high-ceilinged hallway – polished wooden floor, and a couple of wishy-washy oil paintings depicting dusty vistas that I guess are probably somewhere in Tuscany. A walnut console table displays a Staffordshire bowl brimming with short-stemmed white roses. A couple of Arts and Crafts wooden chairs stand on either side. Now, this is more like it.
I drop my bags by the table and call out: ‘Hello?’
Over the swoosh of London’s perpetual traffic, a sudden change to the nature of the silence. As though someone, sitting quietly somewhere, has stopped what they were doing and is listening. ‘Hello? Anybody at home?’
I feel slightly bashful, despite the fact that I know that I have every right to be here.
A door under the stairs opens, and Hilary’s head pops out. ‘Ah,’ he says. Not what one would call an effusive welcome.
I flash him a smile. ‘Hi.’
‘I wasn’t expecting you until later,’ he says.
‘Yeah, well, I sort of ran out of arms.’
Hilary glances down at the pile of bags at my feet. ‘So I see.’
‘I’m gasping for a cup of tea,’ I inform him. ‘And a wash up. Is there anywhere I can …’
He flicks his eyes stairwards. ‘The kitchen and the drawing room are on the first floor. Master bedroom at the top.’ No offer to give me a hand or show me about.
‘Oh, OK. Thanks,’ I say with an irony that goes unacknowledged.
I walk past him and mount the stairs, feeling conspicuous. The kitchen is on the half-landing: tiny and twee, with floor-to-ceiling cupboards and not a stitch out of place. The exact opposite of the one at Bourton. I rifle through the cupboard nearest the sink and find a box of Earl Grey teabags, go to fill up the kettle.
He speaks from close behind me, over my right shoulder. He’s followed me up the stairs so silently that I have been unaware of his presence.
‘So,’ he says, ‘we’re alone.’
I jump out of my skin. If I were a cat, I’d be hanging from the ceiling wallpaper.
‘Jesus!’ I say. ‘You made me jump!’
He’s standing far too close. Smiles a crooked little smile at me, purses his lips. ‘Why?’ he asks. ‘Guilty conscience?’
I flip round to look at him. ‘Sorry?’
‘Why?’ he asks. ‘What have you done?’
‘No, I mean – I’m not sure I heard you correctly …’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t think that if I were you,’ he says. Smirks.
OK. So we’re playing silly buggers.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I ask.
He hasn’t moved back. Still stands so close I can practically feel his breath.
‘You’re very quick to play the hostess,’ he says.
I don’t rise to it. ‘No? OK,’ I say. Try to sidestep round him to get to the fridge. I feel deeply uncomfortable. Not surprising, really. That’s what I guess he’s trying to make me feel.
He doesn’t shift out of the way. To get to the milk, I’ll have to put my head at crotch-level to his knife-pressed twill trousers. ‘Excuse me,’ I say.
Hilary puts a hand on the countertop. ‘Why? What have you done?’
I stand back up. ‘Never mind.’
‘Mind what?’
I look him up and down. He’s quite a fascinating specimen, in a way. Gay men don’t come like that in my generation. Maybe that’s just because we’re not old enough yet. After all, it takes several decades of plucking and cold cream to achieve that shiny, plasticky, testosterone-free texture to the skin. Hilary looks like he’s gone at his masculinity with an ice-cream scoop. I suspect that the way men like him made themselves socially acceptable among a generation who were still, many of them, saying things like, ‘I just can’t bear to think about the things they do’ was to make it look like they would never, ever, dirty themselves up with something like sex, to turn themselves into effective eunuchs. He must spend hours every day shaving and ironing and arranging things just so. His trousers are waisted and loose-cut around the groin to m
ake it look like there’s nothing inside them. His hair looks like it’s been extruded rather than grown. The backs of his hands are pumice-smooth, the nails filed and buffed, the knuckles waxed hairless. In his top pocket he sports a spotted silk handkerchief which I doubt has ever seen the contents of a nose.
I could take him in a fight, any day.
I don’t want to, though. Not just yet, anyway.
I smile pleasantly. ‘I’m sorry if it’s a pain, me turning up like this,’ I say. ‘Please don’t feel you have to hang about with me out of politeness. I can look after myself.’
‘I’m sure you can,’ he says. And then he reaches out and, with one of those sexless hands, cups my right breast, firmly and contemplatively, and gives it a squeeze, as though he were testing a melon.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
A Conversation
‘Bourton Allhallows.’
The pips go. I push in my fifty pee. They go away. I add ‘cellphone’ to my mental shopping list.
‘Hello?’
‘This is Bourton Allhallows.’
‘Mary?’
‘Yes?’
‘Hi, it’s Melody. I’m on a payphone.’
‘Oh, yes?’ She says this in the sort of voice you use when someone calls back from the electricity company to tell you how come your bill has suddenly doubled overnight. Maybe she’s distracted or something.
‘Mary, is Rufus about?’
‘No.’
A pause. I wait for her to qualify the statement and watch the pennies ticking down on the crystal display.
‘No, he’s not about, or no he’s not near the phone?’
‘I—’
‘Because if he’s not near the phone, could you let him know and I’ll call back in five minutes?’
‘He’s not about.’
‘Oh. OK. I’ll try him on the cellphone.’
‘All right.’
She hangs up. No bothering with pleasantries or suchlike.
I have to pop into a shop to get some change. The nearest one is a health food shop. I have a hell of a time identifying anything at all that will actually produce any change from my five-pound note, eventually buy a bag of liquorice root. It costs £2.95 for five sticks. Unbelievable. Chew as I dig in my bag for the number.
Simply Heaven Page 18