by Maggie Joel
The light on the answering machine flashed once, twice, three times, reflecting off the window and bathing the room intermittently in a lurid red glow.
It was freezing.
Jennifer flicked the light switch and turned the central heating on full. It had a timer switch which meant you could set it to come on an hour before you got home, but she had never figured out how it worked. Besides, what kind of person always knew what time they’d get home?
She recovered her coat, keys and briefcase from the hallway and carried them to the sofa, then turned to study the three envelopes she’d retrieved from her letterbox. Internet bill. British Telecom bill. Mobile phone bill. She cleared a space on the kitchen table and filed them there. Most of the calls would be to Nick’s mobile, and when most of your calls were to your ex, that was depressing. He, too, rang her much more often now that they were no longer married.
It was ten o’clock on Friday evening. She’d worked late to catch up after yesterday’s jaunt up north then gone to Vino Tinto around the corner where she’d downed two overpriced caipiroskas, been propositioned by a Norwegian software manufacturer, seen Gloria sitting in a dark nook with Adam Finch, their heads bent close together, and come home. The Northern Line had been experiencing delays and she’d waited twenty minutes at Stockwell for a train and now it was too late to make arrangements with anyone and too early to go to bed. Ten o’clock at home on a Friday evening.
She pressed the PLAY button on the answering machine.
‘Jen, sweetie, it’s Kim. Just wanted to say thanks so much for helping out Monday evening—it went well, didn’t it? And you were fabulous, of course. Sorry about the last-minute mix-up; Gerry is an idiot but you rose to the occasion sensationally. Anyway, I owe you. Come over for stuffed aubergines one night. Ciao!’
You sure do owe me, thought Jennifer sourly, particularly if anyone else in her family had decided to watch the broadcast on Tuesday.
But it was Friday night and so far it seemed that, aside from Aunt Caroline and the entire board of Gossup and Batch, Kim’s program had found itself a format and timeslot spectacularly free of viewers. This might not bode well for Kim’s future television career, but it made Jennifer very relieved.
There were two more messages on the machine.
‘Heya! I’m...traffic on Streatham...way to Gino’s...haven’t heard how it went? Didn’t catch the show, but Mill said it was cool...very convincing. Haven’t spoken to Kimmy. Anyway...find out where you got that Albanian fetta...Mill’s doing a Greek...do you think it’s tacky—Albanian fetta in Greek salad?... Catch ya.’
Nick. Great. So now she was his cookery consultant. And it had been Algerian fetta, not Albanian. Jesus. As for Milli making a salad, Greek or otherwise, who was he kidding? Nick’s girlfriend, who worked in marketing, was good at persuading teenagers they needed sneakers that cost half their parents’ weekly income, but she was a crap cook. And Nick ringing up to ask about fetta when he’d spent the two years of their own marriage existing on sardines on toast and Safeway’s frozen ravioli?
One message remained. She pressed PLAY and heard a burst of her mother’s voice. She pressed STOP.
Okay. Well, it wasn’t Charlotte, that was the main thing. Good. Perhaps Scottish TV didn’t show Kim’s program? She cautiously pressed PLAY again.
‘Oh, you’re not there then? It’s Mum. It’s—let me see, Friday evening, about ten o’clock. I know it’s a bit late to call but I was worried. We haven’t heard from you for ages. Your father’s well. He’s just watching the news at the moment. I was thinking, why don’t you come over for Sunday lunch? This Sunday. Oh, I meant to say, we both watched your television program on Tuesday. I thought it was going to be something about computer games? I rang Charlotte straight after and she—’
At this point the answering machine took great delight in cutting Deirdre off and beeping smugly.
Shit, thought Jennifer. Hadn’t she emailed them both not to watch it? Didn’t people check their emails?
She erased all three messages. Then she had an uneasy thought. She flicked on her computer, opened her Hotmail account and saw, among all the Viagra and porn emails, a message from Graham headed Hey sis, anything you want to tell me???
So, in fact, everyone had watched it.
She logged off, turned off the computer, filled a glass with Australian cab sav and switched on the TV.
‘...went off the rails and slid down an embankment onto a main road at Streatham causing a heavy tailback of traffic,’ said the newsreader pleasantly on the late news. ‘A Southern Railways spokesperson blamed frozen points for the derailment. Meanwhile, in North Yorkshire, heavy falls of snow...‘
Jennifer shivered. She had first-hand knowledge of the heavy falls of snow in North Yorkshire. She flicked the mute button and took a fortifying swig of wine.
Mum could be fobbed off. Mum would prefer to be fobbed off, it would be doing her and Dad a favour. A quick phone call should suffice: ‘Oh, it was just TV, I was helping out Kim. I made it all up. You shouldn’t believe everything you see on television...’ Simple.
She wished she hadn’t been quite so believable. Even as she had been relating to Kim details she herself barely remembered and some that had never actually existed, she’d thought, Damn! This is good, this is really good! I’m telling a great story! I should write a book.
Now, with four days’ hindsight, she was realising her newfound storytelling skills were more to do with being in a television studio under swelteringly bright lights with a captive audience of bored housewives whipped into a frenzy by the warm-up man. And Kim, damn her, leaning forward and doing that faux-psychiatrist routine.
She had been sucked in. Well and truly.
On the news the political situation in Iraq had deteriorated, tensions had escalated in Kashmir and twenty asylum seekers had been discovered dead in the back of a meat lorry in Dover.
She went into the kitchen and crumbled off a hunk of Algerian fetta, some olives (Bulgarian), a pickled onion (Burnley via Sainsbury’s) and a lump of crusty bread (the deli in Wandsworth Road). Thus armed, she stood over the phone, hit the speakerphone button and pressed 9 on the memory pad. The phone rang twice before it was picked up.
‘Hello?’ said a surprised voice.
Jennifer picked up the receiver. ‘Hi, Dad, it’s Jen.’
Odd. Usually Mum answered the phone.
‘Hullo, love. Your Mum’s talking to someone at the front door,’ said Dad, recognising at once that his eldest child had not rung to speak to him.
She thought about saying, ‘Oh, actually I phoned to talk to you, Dad,’ but she couldn’t summon up some fake reason why she needed to talk to him.
‘Thanks, Dad, I’ll wait,’ she said. Then, ‘Oh, aren’t you and Mum off to Barcelona soon?’
‘We’ve cancelled,’ said Dad. ‘Too expensive.’
‘Oh. Well, didn’t you know that when you booked it?’
‘Your mother bought the new car. She should’ve sold the old one privately and bought a twelve-months-old one. We’d have saved five hundred in on-road costs.’
‘Why didn’t you do that then?’
‘Oh, your mother takes care of all that.’
‘Oh.’
‘Here she is... It’s Jennifer.’
There was a slight pause, then: ‘Hello dear, I was just at the front door. It was one of those market research people. They came by earlier when we were eating dinner so I said to come back later. I didn’t think they’d come at ten o’clock though. Wanted to know if we wanted to buy cable television.’
‘That’s not market research, Mum, that’s a salesman.’
‘It was a girl, she seemed very nice. She lives up on the estate. She gave me a brochure. Anyway did you get my message? I called at ten but you were out.’
‘Yes. I worked late. You’ve no idea how busy—’
‘Well, I told you from the start retail was a bad idea. Working all those Saturdays. And nowadays all the shops ar
e open Sundays too. Betty Willoughby’s youngest, Denise, just got a job at the meat counter at Tesco and she works all hours.’
‘Dad says you’re not going to Barcelona, now?’
‘No, it didn’t seem wise, not with the elections. The Basque is still a very volatile region.’
Good, this was safe territory.
‘It’s not in the Basque region, Deirdre,’ called out Dad from somewhere in the distance. ‘Barcelona is in Catalonia.’
‘Oh, did I mention, your Dad and I watched your television program on Tuesday. I didn’t realise it was going to be one of those American tell-the-whole-world-your-private-business things?’
This wasn’t such safe territory. Jennifer took a deep breath.
‘Well, Mum, those sorts of program rate highly.’ (Except, perhaps, this one.) ‘And anyway they can act like counselling for some people. I mean, you know, it encourages people to talk about issues, to access their emotions...’
‘To air their dirty laundry in public. I think it’s tasteless.’
Mum had a point.
‘Don’t you think that’s a rather elitist viewpoint, Mum? Based entirely on—on the paradigm of so-called high culture versus low culture where popular culture is inevitably seen as low and is therefore—’ She searched for the word ‘devalued.’
God she sounded like Charlotte.
‘You sound like Charlotte,’ said Mum.
‘Bilbao,’ called out Dad. ‘You’re thinking of Bilbao. That’s in the Basque.’
‘It was just a telly program. I was helping out Kim—Nick’s sister? Anyway, I made it all up. You know, you shouldn’t believe everything you see on TV.’
‘You lied on television?’
‘It’s not a court of law, is it? I wasn’t under oath. Anyway, it’s a low-rating program, they needed an additional guest at short notice, so I went on and—and made up the whole thing. That’s it. End of story.’
She could tell that this was not the end of the story so she ploughed on. ‘Kim said they’d give me a false name but then the producer forgot and put up my real name, although it was only my first name. Plenty of Jennifers in the world.’
‘Not who have sisters called Charlotte.’
‘Yes. That was...unfortunate. But what does it matter? No one believes it’s true. God, no one even saw it.’
‘Charlotte said her work colleagues all saw it.’
‘So she just tells them it’s not true! God, it’s TV—no one believes what they see on TV.’
‘I do. And so does your father.’
There was a silence as though something important had been said.
‘I just wish you’d think a bit more carefully before you say things about people, that’s all,’ Mum continued. ‘Because it’s just not fair on Charlotte—or on your father and me.’
No, it wasn’t fair. And perhaps now was the time to say: Actually, Mum, it wasn’t a lie at all. It happened and perhaps, therefore, you ought to be asking Charlotte about this, not me.
But when you’d kept something hidden for twenty-five years you didn’t just suddenly come out with it.
Except on national TV.
‘Well, I’m sorry, I have to go. I’ve got someone here,’ Jennifer lied.
‘Oh. Well, are you coming over for Sunday lunch?’
‘No, I’m doing a stocktake.’ Jennifer rang off.
To Mr Alberto Gaspari and the Board of Directors, Gossup and Batch PLC
Dear Sirs,
In response to a concern that has been raised regarding my appearance on national television last Tuesday—
Jennifer’s office phone rang.
Despite it being nine thirty on Saturday morning, someone was ringing her in her office. No one should even know she was here.
She glanced at the display. It was an external call but she didn’t recognise the number. The ringing stopped then the office door opened and Gloria stuck her head around it.
What was Gloria doing here? Hadn’t she asked for the day off to get her wedding dress fitted?
‘It’s your sister for you,’ said Gloria, adding a raised eyebrow that was a clear reproach for not answering the call herself.
Jennifer ignored her and picked up the receiver.
‘Yes?’
‘Jen. It’s Charlotte.’ Silence.
‘Oh. Hello.’
Jennifer tried not to think about what she had said on national television four days ago.
‘Mum rang me. About an hour or so ago. I’ve been trying to find you—’
‘I do have a mobile.’
‘—because Aunt Caroline’s had a stroke.’
A stroke? And Jennifer thought, Why would Mum ring Charlotte and not me?
Bertha and Jemima
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SEPTEMBER 1924
Now, THIS TIME, surely!
With a final well-placed jab the hatpin pierced the felt of the hat, her hair and her scalp, and Bertha yelped.
It was impossible! How were you meant to affix a hat to your head if you had short hair? It was like trying to hold a knob of butter between your fingers on a hot day. She threw hat and pin onto the bed in disgust.
How did Jem do it? She’d cut her lovely long hair into a slick bob more than twelve months ago and yet she never seemed to have any trouble at all keeping her hat on.
Jemima was downstairs in the lounge and the murmur of voices—Dad’s, mostly, but Mum was probably there too—travelled up the stairs to the bedroom at the front of the house in Wells Lane. It was a Sunday-lunchtime kind of murmur, a murmur softened by a stomach full of roast mutton and boiled carrots and baked potato and steamed pudding and, judging by the quietness of the street outside her window, the rest of Wells Lane was recovering from Sunday lunch too.
But not Bertha. Bertha had an appointment.
She picked up the hat and pin and, despite the importance of the occasion, decided not to ask Jemima for help. There wasn’t time, she told herself, when really there were a good many other reasons not to ask for Jemima’s help.
It was getting on for two o’clock and she needed to be at the tram depot by ten past and then—
And then.
Her heart jumped the way a needle on a gramophone record jumped if you danced the foxtrot too close to it. And then she would take the number 36 tram to Hyde Park where Mr Booth would be waiting for her.
She drew a quick breath and crushed the rim of the felt hat between her fingers. It was too exciting, too nerve-wracking—but deliciously so.
What if he wasn’t there?
What if she couldn’t find him in all the crowd?
Naturally, Mr Booth—Ronnie!—was not going to Hyde Park simply to meet her; not as such, no. He was going to be there on important League business, but he had asked her to come along, to join him. Mr Booth’s exact words had been: ‘You ought to come, Miss Flaxheed—it is every woman’s duty.’ And that was true because politics was not merely a man’s duty, not any longer, not since the War, and anyway, it was every woman’s duty to get married, though she did not think that was quite what Mr Booth had meant. Yet.
Right, hat, this is it, she thought grimly, shoving onto her head the oddly shaped object that two years ago someone in Paris had decided was a stylish thing to place on one’s head and that someone else in a factory in Dagenham had copied and sold at a tenth of the price in Baxter’s Millinery in Acton High Street. With a prod and a final twist, the pin, hat and hair were fastened together and Bertha took a final look at herself in the narrow mirror.
She felt a little uncertain about the coat. It was a long black affair that reached to her ankles and was her best coat and had cost thirty shillings. But the fact remained it was still early September and autumn had barely set in. Indeed, as she glanced through the window, the lane outside was bathed in bright early afternoon sunlight and the sky was a clear, pale blue. The elms that lined both sides of the lane were still in full leaf and Mr Creely from number fifty-five was heading off to the George and
Dragon in only his shirt sleeves, despite it being a Sunday.
No, the coat would be too hot, she would look absurd and feel uncomfortable. On the other hand, suppose it suddenly turned chilly, or suppose it was late and becoming dark by the time she got home? (She tried very hard not to imagine how it would be if Mr Booth escorted her home, all the way to her front door. Well, to the garden gate, at any rate.) Yes, she would wear the coat. Elsie Stephens at work had said it was ‘very Gloria Swanson’ and that was good enough for Bertha.
Well then. This was it! The brass clock that hung on the wall at the top of the staircase indicated she had twelve minutes to get to the tram depot.
‘Bertha!’
It was Dad.
Bertha froze, fingers halfway to her hat, two startled eyes staring back at her from the mirror. It was fine. He probably just wanted her to say goodbye before she left.
‘Bertha!’
That wasn’t a ‘Hope you have a pleasant afternoon out,’ Bertha. That was a ‘Get here now, I want to talk to you!’ Bertha, and for a moment she dithered with both hat and coat—take them both off? Leave them both on? Take the hat off and leave the coat on?—then she scurried out of the room, picking up her skirt and dashing down the narrow flight of stairs. Once downstairs she paused outside the lounge (there was silence from within) then pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Her mother was sitting in her usual chair near the lamp in the corner, peering curiously over the top of a pair of spectacles at her knitting. The knitting, a green jumper for her sister’s youngest, covered her lap and balls of similar coloured wool crowded at her feet. She didn’t look up.