by Sharon Maas
And then Gran dropped her bombshell. In the middle of the interview, she remembered. Oh, what a silly old goose she was! Of course the stamp hadn’t been stolen! She was so absent-minded! She had taken it out of the album and hidden it, and then forgotten she had done so. It all came back to her She had it! She actually had the stamp! She pointed to the Luxury Commode Chair. ‘It’s in there!’
George’s eyes glowed brighter yet. He had found it: the perfect scoop. Promotion and an overnight breakthrough as a front-page journalist would be his. ‘Wheelchair Grandmother finds Million-pound Stamp in POTTY CHAIR!’
He stood up and removed his camera from around his neck, waved it and smiled at Gran, all charm and sweetness.
‘May I?’
George took several photos of Gran, and then one or two of me with her, of her with the potty chair, her lifting the potty seat to triumphantly remove the stamp and wave it at him. And then he said:
‘Thank you so much, Mrs Quint. This is a wonderful story. May I have your telephone number, just in case?’
That was my chance. I gave him our number, and I gave him my mobile number as well, just in case, and gave him my most charming smile. And George smiled back at me knowingly, and I knew for sure I’d be hearing from him again, and it wouldn’t be about the stamp.
* * *
We were at the breakfast table, on the third morning after George’s article, which had been published in the Femail section of the paper; we’d read it online. Even though it had, as I’d predicted, been embellished and slanted to make it predominantly a women’s human interest article, the central fact was big news.
The legendary DuPont stamp, the rarest stamp in the world, had a challenger! Since they were not identical – one being signed ‘E.D.W.’ and the other ‘T.A.Q.’ – they were truly rivals for that title. But unlike the DuPont stamp, this one was not buried in a vault; this one was out there, floating around in the real world. It could be seen, admired, inspected, discussed – and, perhaps, acquired. At least, that’s what they thought.
In the following days, the media took up the chase. Mainstream newspapers, magazines and TV news reporters all hounded her, and she basked in the attention. Gran loved it. You’d think that she had been discovered herself, rather than the stamp.
She now fancied herself as a minor celebrity. She agreed to one interview after the other, including an appearance on a breakfast TV show. Our little household, already in a state of disarray, descended into chaos as Gran’s schedules took precedence over our own and her demands grew ever more rarefied. It was awful.
‘I got to go to the hairdressers! And I need a new dress!’ she fretted, and when Mum tried to talk her out of that – ’I just can’t afford these extras!’ – Gran flipped.
She flung her spoonful of porridge across the table.
‘Is who raise you up since you was a baby?’ she bawled at Mum. ‘Is who buy you story-books and bicycle and Pony Club and them Beatles records and Schoolgirls’ Picture Library and t’ing? And now when you old mother want a little something extra, such a fuss. Such a fuss. I don’t know what the world coming to! You young people so selfish!’
So saying she stood up, grabbed her rollator, and trundled off to her room, there to sulk for an hour or two. Mum was almost in tears.
‘I can’t take it! I can’t take it anymore!’ She sprang to her feet, her own breakfast unfinished. ‘Inky, listen. I need to scream. I really need to scream. I’m going up to my room to scream. Just don’t worry, OK? It’ll be over in a few seconds. Just ignore it and if any passers-by come knocking at the door tell them it’s OK; nobody’s being murdered. OK?’
She rushed from the room and up the stairs. I heard her door slam. I was not just worried, I was scared. This wasn’t Mum. Mum never lost her cool. The last time she’d raised her voice was way back when I was fourteen and I’d done something truly terrible, but not so terrible that I could even remember what it was. Mum was so laid-back, she was supine. Mum never screamed! Maybe she was cracking? Could Mum crack? I’d always believed not. Now I wasn’t so sure.
I wondered for a moment whether I should follow her, try to calm her down. I decided against it. Maybe she needed that scream. Everybody needs a good scream now and then, or else a good cigarette, even Mum. It was a sign that she was human, a healthy sign. I took a deep breath and continued with my breakfast, ears pricked for Mum’s scream from up above.
It never came.
I waited and listened. Nothing. Five minutes. Nothing. I finished my coffee. I needed to go out for my hit of nicotine, but by now I was beginning to worry. Mum wouldn’t do anything to herself, would she? Slit her wrists or something? I knew I would if I had Gran on my hands and no cigarettes. Well, maybe; I’d certainly want to.
But, I thought, maybe Mum was having a good cry instead. That would be just as good as a scream. I decided to put off my nicotine hit. I needed to check on her. What if she’d already slit her wrists and was lying on the bedroom floor right now, bleeding to death? I had to go up. It was my duty.
* * *
Halfway up the stairs I smelt it. That sweet, almost sickly scent that sometimes pervaded the house, creeping under doors and embedding itself into clothes and hair and upholstery and carpets and curtains so that the whole house was subtly suffused with it, like babyskin fragrance. And I knew what Mum was up to. She wasn’t human after all.
I rapped on the door.
‘Come in!’
I entered.
She was sitting cross-legged on a folded blanket on the floor, in her meditation corner. A single candle glowed on a makeshift altar. Two thin, white strands of smoke rose from a stick of incense.
‘Oh, excuse me. I didn’t hear you scream, so I came to make sure you’re OK.’ Automatically my voice lowered to almost a whisper. It was a reflex, a response to the muted atmosphere. Mum smiled, stood up and opened the curtains. Sunlight flooded the room. ‘I’m fine. I dissolved the scream.’
I nodded, uncomfortable with such talk. ‘OK, then.’ I paused respectfully before changing the subject. ‘Mum, I wanted to tell you something.’
I took hold of her hand and sat down on the edge of her bed, pulling her down beside me.
‘I just wanted you to know, I’ll pay for Gran’s hairdo and her new dress. It’s OK. I’ve got a bit of savings and I’d love to help.’
She leaned forward and hugged me. ‘You’re a sweety,’ she murmured into my hair. And I knew everything was all right. But then she yelped, sprang to her feet.
‘Look at the time!’ she cried. ‘I’ve got to go to work!’
‘Work? But today’s Saturday!’
‘An emergency. Two of the storyliners were ill this week. I’ve got to go in and finish writing the script. I’ll be back by one. If you could get Mummy’s hair done by then …’
I nodded. ‘I’ll take care of it.’
She dashed off, leaving me in the room. The bed was still unmade. I decided to make it for her. I tugged away the rumpled duvet.
That’s when I found the letter. It was buried among the rumpled bedclothes, both the open letter and the envelope. The letter was slightly crumpled, as if it had been crushed and then smoothed out again.
It was one of those familiar ones, the ones with the handwritten envelopes. I remembered seeing it among this morning’s post, which Mum had taken upstairs before breakfast. A pile of unopened letters lay on her desk; bills most likely. This one, she’d opened and read …
Now, I swear I’m not a snoop. I don’t go around reading people’s letters for fun. But there was just something about these letters in particular. Perhaps a pattern I’d unconsciously seen in Mum’s behaviour when they arrived, a pattern of slight, almost imperceptible dismay, a slight blanching of the skin. I was only vaguely aware of such reactions, but over time – for I had seen many of them arrive, and many of them taken upstairs – that was the general impression. So yes, I might as well admit it. I was bursting with curiosity.
Downstai
rs, the front door slammed. She was gone. All was quiet. I couldn’t help it. My fingers operated on their own volition, unfolding the letter, and so did my eyes, reading it.
It was a letter from a literary agent. Now, I know nothing of the world of literary agents but I do love novels and I read articles about my favourite authors and even I had heard of this agent, a really big time guy.
It was a letter of rejection. Not even a personal one. Her name had been added in handwriting to a form letter that even I could tell was a duplicate, sent out to hundreds, if not thousands, of hopeful aspiring novelists.
‘Dear Author,
Thank you very much for sending us the manuscript of The Six O’Clock Bee. Though we enjoyed reading it very much we are sorry to inform you that …’
And then I knew. Mum was writing a novel. Or had written one. Or both. That’s what she did when she got up early in the morning to work. The realisation came to me in a flash of both great admiration and deep compassion. Oh, the poor thing. The poor, poor thing.
Mum was a good writer, but not that good. No one knew this as well as I did. I was her first reader, after all. Oh, she was successful in her own way, and many of her love stories for women’s magazines got published. But a whole novel? She couldn’t do it. No way. Not that I hadn’t encouraged her:
‘You should write the next Harry Potter!’ I’d told her a couple of times, but she’d laughed me off. Not my genre, she’d said; but that’s the kind of thing that made fortunes, and not love stories.
‘Or, at least, something like Bridget Jones,’ I conceded. ‘That made a couple of millions too. Something light and funny.’ We’d both laughed our heads off at Bridget Jones. Now, if Mum could duplicate that … But she hadn’t wanted to talk about it. She shook her head and refused to say a single word more on the subject. Secretive, evasive, private: in every subject that was in any way important to Mum, she kept her silence. It was so aggravating.
Now, my heart sank for her. In fact, I teared up in compassion. Poor Mum! Poor scatty, mediocre Mum, born to lose. No wonder she’d cracked this morning, if only for a short while. I wished she had screamed instead of doing whatever mysterious thing she did with incense and candlelight. Maybe a good scream would get this thing out of her system, once and for all.
I decided not to make the bed after all; because then she’d know I knew and would be embarrassed.
All those rejections, all that effort; it was enough to make anyone depressed.
As I turned to go I saw her filing cabinet. One of the doors was open. I glanced at the shelves: a row of upright arch lever files, all in different, bright colours, as if to brighten her day, whereas I knew for a fact that their contents did just the opposite.
Poor Mum. Poor, poor Mum. I wished I could help; I wished I was rich and could pour my benevolence down on her. How happy she’d be, how grateful! I had savings, it was true; I had worked since I was sixteen; squirreled away a bit of my wages whenever I could, a little nest-egg for my gap year in Asia. Apart from that, I could just afford a small rent for Mum and my own food, and what remained was enough for Gran’s new dress and hairdo, but not enough to pay all Mum’s bills.
My glance fell on the back of a bright red file. Written on the spine were the letters ‘REJ.’
I’d seen this one before and always thought ‘REJ.’ was simply a sloppily spelled ‘REG.’, short for ‘Registration’ or ‘Register’ or something official like that. But with my newfound intelligence I instinctively knew: ‘REJ.’ was for ‘Rejections’. I reached out, removed the file, and opened it. I was right.
It was more than an inch thick; chock full of rejection letters.
I leafed through them, and looked at the first. It was from ten years back. Mum had been at this for over ten years, and this was the only result: a humiliating, devastating file of rejections. A quick check told me that they were for three different novels. Three! Whatever else you could say about Mum, lack of perseverance wasn’t one of her flaws. I sighed and replaced the file.
Lowering my glance to the floor of the cabinet I saw Mum’s other shame, in a pretty Ikea storage basket: a collection of unopened letters: demands for payment she could not pay. I shouldn’t have done it, but I did: I pulled it out.
And then I frowned. On the top of the pile was an envelope that shouldn’t be there. A personal letter, covered in stamps, unopened. I couldn’t resist; I picked it up and inspected it, turning it over in my hands. It was a long white envelope with a smattering of Guyanese stamps, and a Royal Mail sticker on it saying ‘Signed For’. It was addressed to Mum and the handwriting – I recognised it now, that flourish, from the letters I’d received as a child – was Gran’s. Yes – written on the back, as a return address, was Gran’s name and address in Guyana. There were some words written beneath the return address:
‘Rika: you said in your letter that I am not to write you. But you MUST read this. Please!’
* * *
So Gran had written to Mum and she had never opened it, never read the letter. In spite of that urgent appeal to do so! Typical! I tried to figure out the date, the stamp was smudged, but the ‘Signed For’ notice had the date: 1984! The year of my birth! Eighteen years ago, and Mum had never read it!
And yet, why was it on top of the other letters? Surely that meant she had been looking at it recently? What was going on? Oh, the will power it took me to resist opening that letter, reading it! Here, I knew, would be the answer to all my questions, the solving of the mystery. But I lacked just that last little bit of brazenness. And the will power it must have taken her, to keep it for eighteen years, never reading it, yet holding on to it! Why? Why hadn’t she thrown it away, if she couldn’t bear to read it? Why? What did it say? Reluctantly, I laid the letter back in the box, shoved the box back into the cabinet. But one day, I swore to myself, Mum would read that letter. She had to. I would force her to.
* * *
Our old friend the stamp dealer rang to say that his contact had made a final offer of £15,000. Gran could take it or leave it. ‘For all we know,’ he said, ‘the stamp is a fake. It hasn’t been validated, has it?’
Once again, Gran told him to haul his tail.
But when a Mr Peterson from Stanley Gibbons – the authority on stamps, apparently – called, she took the phone into her room and closed the door. When she came out again fifteen minutes later she was subdued but serious.
‘That man,’ she told us, ‘say the experts saying it might not be a real genuine British Guiana One Cent. He saying, the only way to prove it is to let them examine it. If is a fake is worth nothing. But if is authentic, original from 1856, it going to be famous. But first I got to let them analyse it. Otherwise them experts going to always doubt.’
Her brow puckered at the dilemma: obviously, Gran wanted her stamp to be granted full recognition by the philatelic world. On the other hand, in order to do that she’d have to let them get their hot little hands on it. She couldn’t have it both ways, and she couldn’t boss them into recognising the stamp.
‘Rika,’ she said, after a moment of rare reflection, ‘I think I going to do it. Otherwise people going say I is a liar. Yes, I going to let them prove is real.’
* * *
Television began to bore Gran. She turned to Internet surfing instead. Mum took the huge step of installing Broadband – which I’d always nagged for anyway – and Gran now sat from mornings to evenings with her Neville-donated laptop, checking out God knows what websites. Gran joined online discussion forums, dropping in to leave an anonymous caustic opinion, and dropping out again. She chased up old schoolmates. She wrote articles for Wikipedia – articles on obscure points of Guyana’s history, such as the Enmore Massacre, which nobody was going to read anyway. She made sure I read them, though; she was horrified by my lack of background knowledge on Guyana.
‘You is a woman without roots,’ she told me; ‘if you don’t know where you come from how you going know where you going?’ I could have told her
I come from England; I didn’t need some irrelevant dump of an ex-colony sitting on the edge of nowhere as my roots. I kept that opinion to myself.
What worried me the most was Gran’s new emailing tic. For not only did she look up old friends, she followed the footsteps of long-lost Quints, digging them out of their cubby-holes all over the globe, from New Zealand to Ireland, from Finland to Chile. That’s how wide our family had spread. Gran drew an enormous family tree which she blue-tacked to her wall, and as soon as she knew the names of third, fourth and fifth generation Quints, she filled them in. And, if she could get hold of their address, and if they were old enough to read and write, she emailed them to introduce herself.
It worried me. For, as Mum had told me, I knew what she was looking for: a suitable heir for the Quint.
Which was betrayal of us, her next of kin, her own flesh and blood. I seethed in jealousy, but to speak up would be to worsen matters. In agony, I watched the family tree grow.
* * *
Already, flesh and blood was getting far too close for comfort. Soon after Gran’s flirtation with fame the calls from Neville and Norbert increased to daily. I never knew the content of those long conversations, for Gran retreated to her room with the phone, shutting the door on Mum and me. All I know is that around that time came the talk of putting in a stair-lift and a bathtub device that would lift Gran into the tub. Those suggestions never came to anything.
But then, one day, the delivery van arrived once more.
Gran had mentioned a couple of times that she wanted a new wheelchair, a motorised one, with which she could go out on her own. This was it; a present from Neville: a luxury scooter, with all the bells and whistles.
Already, Gran had been venturing ever further afield with her wheelchair. She had taken to going off, all on her own, to the Post Office and the Bank, to the grocery and the newsagent on Streatham High Road, and, especially, the charity shops where she hunted for bargains, sniffing the armpits of cardigans and blouses for tell-tale traces of perspiration, but seldom buying anything. And in all those places everyone rushed around the counters to serve her; she never had to stand up, although she could. I know because the first two times I accompanied her, not believing her capable of buying a stamp or a mango for herself. Once again, she proved me wrong.