A Desirable Residence

by Madeleine Wickham

  ‘So what? It doesn’t matter if I don’t go on one lousy march!’

  ‘It does! You need to be able to talk about it at your interview. They won’t be very impressed if you didn’t go on the annual parade.’

  ‘They won’t care,’ began Daniel.

  ‘And yesterday,’ Anthea gave Marcus a glance of self-vindication, ‘yesterday, someone told me that the headmaster of Bourne College has recently joined the society. I’m sure he’ll be there on the parade. You might even get to meet him.’ She threw this information down like a trump card and looked around triumphantly. Hannah shrugged, and moved off towards the sink as though admitting defeat.

  This bloody scholarship to Bourne College had become, Marcus thought, like the word of the Lord. Nothing and nobody could argue against it. And Anthea had decreed herself the only person who could pronounce on what might or might not affect it. He gave Daniel a surreptitious sympathetic look. Despite his protestations, he couldn’t think of anything worse than having to dress up as some stupid bird and march through the centre of Silchester. As if that would affect a scholarship result one way or the other. Anthea was just using it as a way of dictating Daniel’s life. He was going to have to talk to her; make her see sense; put a stop to it.

  But he’d do it another time. He couldn’t face a row just then; not when he was feeling so pleased with himself. Daniel would just have to wear the costume to the parade and they’d all have a quiet life. Ignoring Hannah’s raised eyebrows, averting his eyes from Daniel’s flushed face, Marcus neatly folded his newspaper and made his way out of the kitchen, down the hall and into his study.

  He closed the door, sat back in his chair and dialled the number of the Silchester Tutorial College. If Liz heard the phone ringing from upstairs, she would, if she was able to, run down and answer it. It was safer, she had told him, than ringing the number in the flat. Not that Jonathan was remotely suspicious, she had added, and Marcus had felt a sudden compunction for this trusting man whom they were deceiving so easily. But the feeling had come and gone and been forgotten. Now he sat with his chin resting in his palm, his elbow on the desk, slightly tensed, waiting for the pleasure of hearing Liz answer.

  ‘Hello?’ She was panting slightly, and Marcus had a vision of her, red-cheeked and dishevelled.

  ‘You still OK for today?’

  ‘Yes. Why? Are you—’

  ‘I’m still fine. Just thought I’d check.’

  ‘Oh. All right.’ Her breathing had subsided a little, and Marcus imagined her leaning against the wall, running her hand through her hair and smiling at the receiver. ‘So you’ve brought me all the way down here for nothing?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ He had a sudden thought. ‘No, actually, not for nothing. I wanted to ask you a question.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a bit personal.’

  ‘Fire ahead.’

  ‘OK then. Tell me, is your husband going to dress up as a bird for this blasted parade?’

  Upstairs in the kitchen, Alice was hurriedly spooning her last mouthful of cereal into her mouth. As soon as she had done so she stood up from her seat on the radiator, still munching. She dumped her bowl in the sink, picked up her half-drunk cup of coffee, and retreated to her bedroom before her father could say anything to her.

  She shut the door and stared disconsolately at her reflection in the mirror. She was too pale, she decided, and too thin, and she had awful teeth, all pointy and crooked. She thought enviously of Ginny’s white, even teeth; of Ginny’s dimpling, infectious smile. Ginny’s gurgling laugh. If Alice ever laughed it came out either in a terrible high-pitched giggle or in great guffaws.

  She scowled at herself, reached for her black eyeliner and drew a thick line on each eyelid. She drew another line underneath each eye. Then she brushed a glob of glutinous dark mascara onto each set of lashes. She batted her eyes alluringly at herself. Not too bad, if you didn’t look at the rest of her face. She tossed her hair back with a film-star gesture and pressed her lips together hard so that the blood would flow into them. ‘Hi, Piers,’ she said casually. She gave a half-smile and immediately looked at her cheeks to see if they were blushing. But they were still pale and clear. ‘You’ve got such lovely skin,’ Ginny had once exclaimed. ‘Not a single line.’

  Alice thought about Ginny’s skin. It looked older than Alice’s, of course. But somehow it went with Ginny’s face. It went with her shiny blond hair and her wide smile, and the round, large-nippled breasts that Alice had seen a couple of times when they’d tried on clothes together. Alice was utterly unable to relate her own pale, thin, undeveloped body to Ginny’s creamy curves. And she knew it wasn’t just that she was younger. Never, in a million years, would she look anything like Ginny.

  And it was Ginny that Piers was in love with. Or at least Alice supposed he was in love with her. The thought of Piers being in love with anyone, even if it was Ginny, not her, made Alice feel a bit overcome. And the daydream she often had, about him suddenly noticing her and pulling her towards him and giving her a long, passionate kiss—preferably with Antonia Callender watching jealously—gave her a completely delicious feeling that she could normally make last for a whole lesson.

  She gave her hair a last flick, checked her back view in the mirror, and pulled on her jacket, giving her pocket a perfunctory pat to check her lighter was there. She did sometimes have a cigarette when she was round at twelve Russell Street, and Ginny and Piers were fine about it. But she had noticed she was smoking less and less when she was there. The others didn’t smoke—except perhaps dope, which they never did in front of her. And somehow it wasn’t the same, puffing away on her own, filling up an ashtray with her own solitary stubs.

  Today, however, she had decided she would definitely smoke a few. Everyone looked sexier when they smoked. She would sit on the floor and lean back against the sofa and take deep drags and push a hand casually through her hair. And she wouldn’t look at Piers at all.

  She picked up her rucksack and went out into the hall, smearing cherry-flavoured lip salve onto her lips as she went. Her father was still in the kitchen, engrossed in a letter. At the sight of his hunched shoulders, Alice felt a sudden guilt that she wasn’t going on that stupid parade with him.

  ‘Bye, Daddy,’ she said awkwardly. ‘Hope it goes well.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Her father looked up, a distracted expression on his face. ‘Oh, yes, thank you.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’d better start getting ready, I suppose.’ He glanced down at the letter in his hand, then looked up again, with a bright smile that didn’t look quite right. His eyes fell on her jacket, her rucksack, and the heavy-patterned cotton scarf which she was now swathing thickly around her neck. Ginny had bought that scarf for Alice; she said she’d seen it in the market and couldn’t resist it. Alice loved it.

  ‘Are you going out?’ her father said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Alice, wishing somehow that instead she could say, No, I’ve decided to come on the parade with you. But she couldn’t. She just couldn’t. She pushed the ends of the scarf into the collar of her jacket, and picked up her rucksack. ‘I might see you in Silchester,’ she added. ‘We might go Christmas shopping.’

  ‘Yes, that sounds a good idea,’ said her father vaguely. He didn’t seem to be listening to her. Alice gave an impatient snort, and marched out of the kitchen. She couldn’t bear standing there a minute longer, feeling guilty and annoyed all at the same time.

  She slammed the front door of the tutorial college, and began to stride off down the road, watching her breath turn to steam in the cold air, wondering if Piers would open the door when she got to Russell Street, and agonizing, for the millionth time, over what on earth she was going to buy him—and Ginny, and Duncan—for Christmas.

  Jonathan remained motionless when she had gone, staring into the corner of the kitchen, holding the fluttering white letter in his hand. He was still in this position when Liz came back in.

  ‘Was that Alice I heard cha
rging out?’ she said. She smiled widely at Jonathan and, as she went past to switch the kettle on, put a hand out to rumple his hair. Then she wondered whether she was behaving suspiciously. Did she usually rumple Jonathan’s hair? Or had she only ever done that to Marcus? While Marcus’s thick, glossy locks naturally invited a hand to run through them, Jonathan’s hair was thinning and rather dry. She tried to remember rumpling his hair in the past. But the only vision that came into her mind was that of plunging her fingers into Marcus’s dark hair as they made love; of caressing his head as they lay companionably afterwards; of tickling the back of his neck as they drove back to Silchester, until he turned his head to smile at her.

  This affair with Marcus was, she realized, robbing her of her instinctive, everyday behaviour towards Jonathan. Every gesture she made now was measured; every comment designed to quell suspicion; every tender moment shadowed by the memory of a counterpart with Marcus. She couldn’t remember how she used to act before all of this; couldn’t judge what was natural and what was false. She felt like an actor with selective amnesia: sometimes everything would come flooding back with accustomed ease; sometimes she would be left stranded, with only a small repertoire of comments and gestures to get her through the moment.

  She gave a quick glance at Jonathan. He was still sitting stationary on the stool, staring at nothing. And he probably didn’t notice any of it, she thought, with sudden irritation. He had always been hopelessly oblivious to variations in the tone of her voice; to meaningful gestures or raised eyebrows designed to galvanize him into action. He wouldn’t wonder why she was suddenly rumpling his hair; he probably hadn’t even noticed her doing it.

  ‘Do you want some more coffee?’ she said, trying to sound unconcerned. She looked round. ‘Jonathan?’ He swivelled to face her, his face weary and unsmiling. Oh my God, thought Liz. Oh my God. He’s found out.

  ‘Look at this,’ he said, holding out the letter. Liz’s eyes flickered to it, then rose to meet his.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, hating her voice for faltering.

  ‘It’s a letter,’ said Jonathan.

  ‘I can see that! Who’s it from?’ She picked up a mug from the draining board and began, needlessly, distractedly, to dry it.

  ‘It’s from Brown’s,’ said Jonathan. He took a deep, sighing breath and rubbed his hand over his face. ‘They’ve written to us about our mortgage.’

  Liz stared at him, unable to respond as she knew she should. She tried to adopt an expression of concern; tried to summon up a shared feeling of alarm. But a little voice inside her sighed with relief. It was only the mortgage. She and Marcus were safe from discovery.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she said, wrinkling her brow in what she hoped looked like worry. Jonathan shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Maybe nothing. It’s from the new branch manager. She’s carrying out a review of all small business loans. She wants to see us. She says she isn’t sure why we’ve been allowed to carry on with two mortgages.’

  ‘She?’ Jonathan looked down at the letter and nodded.

  ‘Barbara Dean.’

  ‘Are you sure it isn’t a man called Dean Barbara? People have funny names, you know.’ Liz grinned at Jonathan, trying to haul him out of his slough of gloom. But he peered at the letter again.

  ‘Barbara Dean, brackets, Mrs.’ He looked up at Liz. ‘Close brackets.’

  ‘OK. It’s a woman.’ Liz began to feel an impatience of the sort that hit her whenever pupils put up their hands to point out that the wrong date was written on the board. ‘And what does she say?’

  ‘She wants to see us. To discuss our position, she says.’ He read from the letter. ‘ “In particular, I wish to go over the circumstances which have led to you keeping such a large mortgage on your property in Russell Street, together with a substantial mortgage on your business.” ’

  ‘Well, that’s OK. I mean, it was their decision to let us keep both.’ Liz flushed slightly, as she remembered the hand that Marcus had played in Brown’s making that decision. Used some old connection, he’d told her. Some friend of the family’s. But there was nothing really wrong with that, she told herself. After all, he’d said he would sort out their mortgage situation even before that day in Russell Street; even before they’d . . . She shook her head impatiently, as her thoughts began to swim down familiar, delightful paths, and dragged her attention back to Jonathan.

  ‘I know it was their decision,’ he was saying. ‘But now they might regret it.’

  ‘Well, we’ve got the mortgages now. And we’re paying them off OK, aren’t we?’

  ‘Nearly,’ said Jonathan. He pushed a weary hand through his hair. ‘Actually, this month, we’re in arrears.’ Liz stared at him.

  ‘Are we? Why?’

  ‘Because at the moment, we haven’t got the money to pay all our bills. Something had to go.’ Jonathan stared at Liz, willing her to respond; to show some interest; to apply some of her zest for tackling problems to this, their hugest problem ever. But her eyes met his coldly.

  ‘Well, they’ll just have to wait,’ she said. ‘They can’t exactly do anything about it.’

  ‘Can’t they?’

  ‘Well, can they?’ Liz demanded. Jonathan shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know.’ He gazed hopelessly down at the letter, and Liz felt a rush of impatient fury. She felt like ripping the page from his hand and telling him to brace up, get a grip, stop being such a wimp. An immediate, utterly unfair comparison with Marcus inevitably sprang into her mind. If Marcus got a letter like that through the post, he would be dynamic and forceful; he wouldn’t just accept it; he’d be on the phone immediately, pulling strings and sorting it out.

  Of course. Marcus. The realization hit her with a pleasurable shock. Marcus would sort it all out for her. All he had to do was telephone one of his cronies at Brown’s and put in a word or two. A feeling of delight spread over her, as she considered the power that Marcus had in Silchester; the power that, by proxy, she now had also. She was in another league from Jonathan; poor, sad, worried Jonathan, with his financial humility; his low expectations; his unfailing deference to authority. He had no idea of how the world was really run; he had no idea of the influence that she, his own wife, could wield.

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about it,’ she said, trying not to sound too flippantly cheerful. The kettle was boiling, and she spooned some coffee into her mug. ‘Why don’t you go off now and get ready for the parade,’ she suggested, ‘and we’ll go and see this Barbara Dean character next week. There’s nothing you can do about it now, anyway.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ said Jonathan, folding the letter up carefully and pushing it back into its envelope. ‘There’s nothing either of us can do about it until Monday.’ Liz poured hot water over her coffee, took a sip and said nothing.

  When she’d gone out, to do some shopping, Jonathan made his way downstairs to his classroom to pick up some marking. On his way, he passed a collection of parcels and packages lying on the landing of the tutorial college. They’d been there almost a week now. Each contained a piece of equipment for the new language lab. Computers, software, cassettes, and workbooks. When they’d arrived, he’d deliberately refrained from tearing them open. They were Liz’s; they belonged to her project. And when she’d arrived home that evening, he’d told her to look on the landing, with a small thrill of excitement.

  But all she’d said was, ‘Oh, good. They’ve arrived.’ She hadn’t even bothered to open them. And since then, all that lovely, expensive equipment had just been sitting there. Jonathan wondered whether Liz appreciated how much all this stuff cost. Whether she realized that he’d taken out a costly loan to pay for it. Then it occurred to him that he’d never told her about the loan. Only he knew about it. And the bank. Oh God. Jonathan sat down on a wooden classroom chair, and buried his face in his hands. Suddenly he felt very lonely.

  As soon as he tried to get into his owl costume, Daniel could feel that i
t was too small. He struggled about uncomfortably until he was halfway into it, and then stared at himself in the mirror on his wardrobe. His legs were now covered in yellow felt, and an orange cut-out claw flopped on top of each shoe. His body had become an unwieldy barrel of brown feathers and furry stuff. He couldn’t bear to think what he would look like when the head was on.

  ‘It’s too small!’ Andrew’s voice rose up behind him, on the landing. Daniel turned round, and saw his younger brother staggering comically down the passage, half in, half out of his owl suit. He gave another glance at himself in the mirror, then went to the door.

  ‘Mine’s too small as well!’ he called, and went out onto the landing. ‘Look!’ Andrew turned round and saw him. He began to giggle.

  ‘Far too small!’ he exclaimed. ‘Size nought, more like. Your one’s size nought!’

  ‘Your one’s size minus a hundred!’ rejoined Daniel. He flapped the wings of his suit comically and Andrew copied him.

  ‘Minus a thousand!’

  ‘Minus a million!’ They flapped their wings at each other and giggled hysterically.

  ‘Boys! Quietly!’ Anthea was coming up the stairs. ‘Let me have a look,’ she called. She reached the top step and looked crossly at them. ‘Put them on properly!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘They won’t fit,’ said Andrew. ‘They’re too small.’ Anthea looked suspiciously from him to Daniel, who nodded.

  ‘My one’s far too small,’ he said.

  ‘Size minus five thousand million billion,’ said Andrew. Daniel laughed.

  ‘Be quiet!’ said Anthea. There was a short silence. Daniel looked at Andrew. He was still mouthing, ‘billion billion billion billion.’ Daniel started to mouth, ‘trillion trillion trillion’ at him. They both started to giggle. Daniel gave a snort.

  ‘That’s enough!’ exclaimed Anthea. ‘Go to your rooms and get those costumes on.’ She tugged roughly at Daniel’s. ‘Look. It does fit. You’re just not trying. Take your jersey off and really pull it on.’