These days, a man called Bert tended the garden and a woman called Prue came on Friday mornings to clean the house. From what Charlotte had seen, her mother treated them with embarrassing imperiousness, playing the role of the colonial boss with far more relish than Charlotte could ever remember her doing when there had been an excuse for it.
Charlotte saw the lace curtain in the front room twitch but knew she would still be expected to ring the bell. She had been careful to dress in a manner that would brook no criticism – a smart brown skirt, heels, a wool jacket. Having pressed the button, she tugged at the hem of the jacket while Jasper, the dachshund, yapped, and her mother, sighing volubly, slid the door bolts from their metal sheaths.
‘Hello, Mum – I brought you some daffs. You look well.’ Charlotte stepped across the dog and kissed the soft, powdered cheek before handing over the flowers.
Jean shook her head. ‘Do I? I can’t think why. I’m not well at all. Dr Fairgrove says he’s very worried about me, that if it wasn’t for having to get out and about to look after myself and dear Jas, I’d probably have seized up completely. I’m using my stick more and more,’ she added, handing the daffodils back to Charlotte and plucking an aluminium cane from the elephant stand behind the door. ‘I get so tired without it.’
‘Poor you,’ Charlotte murmured, trying not to hear recrimination in the thwack of the stick on the linoleum as she followed her mother into the kitchen. She focused on the now slightly rounded back of her seventy-eight-year-old parent, the shadow of elegance still evident in the thin legs – so thin that her tights fell into small folds at her ankles. ‘Hmm, something smells nice.’
‘It’s only fish in a bag – cod with a white sauce.’Jean leant the stick against the kitchen table and lifted the saucepan lid, frowning. ‘I simply can’t be bothered with cooking, these days. Of course I never really learnt how to cook until your father and I returned to England. Before that, there was no need.’ A forlorn dreamy tone had crept into her voice. No need,’ she repeated wistfully, bending down – slowly, stiffly – to pluck Jasper off the floor and scratch the silky black fur between the ears.
Charlotte found a vase for the flowers, then pulled open the cutlery drawer to begin setting the table. ‘I’m not a great cook myself,’ she reminded her mother wryly. ‘Maybe it runs in the genes.’
‘Nonsense, dear, you could easily learn, even now.’ Jean’s wrist flicked expertly as she whisked a fork round the saucepan of potatoes. ‘Men like to be cooked for. The old adage about it being the way to their hearts is so true. Take these, for example.’ She held up a forkful of the now creamy mash. ‘They contain salt, pepper, butter, milk and – most important of all – an egg. They are ingredients, not the product of divine intervention.’
Charlotte tensed, breathed deeply, then continued laying out the knives and forks and arranging the mats; wintry scenes of villagers skating and gathering firewood which she could remember placing on other tables as a girl, before the colours had faded, when the felt underneath had been spongy and green instead of thin and grey.
Chewing the fish a little later, which was soft but tasty in its too-salty sauce, Charlotte did her best to listen sympathetically to small-talk about the effect of the changeable spring weather on Jean Boot’s health and the fact that a fresh spate of malingering by the hapless Prue meant that the house was badly in need of dusting. ‘I am sure poor Prue will come when she can,’ Charlotte ventured, glancing at the spotless cabinet next to the table, which paraded the best of the crockery treasures to have survived domestic accidents and the hazards of being shipped across the world.
‘It’s not good enough, though, Charlotte. One needs people one can rely on. And my sheets – I hate not having my sheets changed.’
‘I can do it, if you like.’
‘Would you, dear?’Jean smiled for the first time since her daughter’s arrival, revealing the small pearly teeth of which she was still, justifiably, very proud. ‘That would be kind.’ She dabbed at the tight white curls of her perm, her blue eyes glistening with gratitude.
‘No problem.’ Charlotte could feel her patience running out, just as she had known it would. It did not help that she was feeling ill again, close to throwing up in fact. She pressed her half-eaten mash and fish to one side of her plate and laid down her knife and fork.
‘Aren’t you hungry?’
‘Not very, I’m afraid. Actually, I’ve been a little –’
‘Jasper! Here, darling. Look what the naughty Charlotte has left for you.’
Charlotte bit her lip and folded her arms while her plate was scooped from in front of her and set on the floor. The dachshund clambered out of his wicker nest and trotted across to the treat, his too-long claws, splayed with age, scraping audibly on the lino.
‘I’ve got cake for pudding. A nice sponge – do you have room for that?’
‘A small piece, Mum, yes, please,’ Charlotte muttered, trying not to watch the dog’s pink tongue work its way across the lumps of fish, despairing at how one could feel so trapped by someone one knew so well. ‘But I can’t stay that long, I’m afraid – Martin is dropping Sam back early today.’
‘Charlotte – forgive me – but is there really no hope for you two?’ Jean burst out, flinging both arms outwards to emphasize her exasperation.
Charlotte stared at her slice of cake, which was sizeable – much larger than her mother’s – with a gluey fissure of scarlet jam running through the middle. She thought, with uncharacteristic longing, of the Madeira to which she was usually subjected: plain, at least, not too sweet, though that, too, could stick in the throat.
‘Charlotte?’Jean had her cake fork poised. This, Charlotte knew, was her idea of a motherly moment.
‘Mum…’ She folded her napkin and ran her fingers along the fresh crease. ‘Our decree nisi has come through. Martin is living with someone else now.’
‘I know, dear, but…’
‘Someone with whom he had an affair during our marriage –’
‘Aha – but he always denied that, didn’t he? He said it was just friendship, didn’t he? That ridiculous little note, wasn’t it?’ She jabbed the air with her fork. ‘A child – a boy – needs his father…’
Charlotte could feel the dizziness coming back. She pressed the edge of her spoon down through her cake, forcing the jam to dribble from its seam.
‘There are ups and downs in any marriage, Charlotte.’
‘As you would know, Mum, wouldn’t you? Because –’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Charlotte tried to swallow. The cake was in clods at the back of her throat. Some deep protective reflex had snagged the rest of the sentence; a reflex connected to the expression on her mother’s face, now slack with dismay and something else… Fear. ‘I just meant… ups and downs… I… Excuse me – I think I might –’
She ran with her hand over her mouth, up the stairs and along the landing to the bathroom. Jasper, excited, scuttled after her, butting her heels with his nose. There was no time to shut the door or to think of anything but gripping the rim of the lavatory to steady herself through the spasms.
‘Jasper, out.’
From the corner of her eye Charlotte saw the walking-stick nudge the dog into the corridor and the door close. I am alone, she thought, thank God. But a moment later the tap was running and then her hair was being held back for her and a warm flannel pressed gently to her forehead.
‘You poor child. There, better now. A sip of water when you’re ready. I thought you looked a little peaky. I hope it wasn’t the fish.’
Charlotte sat back on her heels, shaking her head as she blew her nose on some loo roll, managing even to smile. ‘I’ve not been right for a couple of days,’ she croaked. ‘Hope I don’t give it to you.’
‘I don’t get bugs,’ Jean retorted. ‘My cod-liver oil sees to that.’
‘Yuk.’ Charlotte reached for the towel rail and levered herself upright. ‘I can’t bear that stuff, not even i
n the capsules they say have no taste.’ She ran the flannel over her face again, feeling a lot better, dimly aware that she wanted to stretch out the moment. But her mother was already half on the landing, instructing her to have a lie-down if she wanted, not to come down until she was ready.
Charlotte rinsed her mouth, tidied her hair with a dusty tortoiseshell comb from the back of the bathroom cupboard, then walked, treading softly, along the corridor to the linen cupboard, pausing for a quick sentimental peek into the eaves space where Sam had once loved to hide. She saw in the same instant how foolish it was to be talking to anyone about Sam’s troubles but Sam himself. She would do it that night, she decided, no matter how much he squirmed. If there was something sinister going on, she would whittle it out of him.
Having made up her mother’s bed and folded the dirty sheets carefully into the laundry basket, she went as far as the door of what had, in latter years, been her father’s room, then changed her mind and turned back for the stairs. His stuff had long since found its way to charity shops. The bed would be flat and empty, the air scented with furniture polish. The only memento left was the old photo that lived on the window-sill, of him among the tea bushes, hand raised to ward off the sun, two workers standing next to him, their dusty faces grinning, their sacks bulging on their backs, her mother’s writing across the bottom: Reggie at Ratnapura. Charlotte knew it so well she was past needing to look at it.
Downstairs Jean was in the kitchen, the radio on at a high volume, wiping down the table mats.
‘I’m sorry –’
‘No need. You’re not well. You should get yourself home to bed.’
‘I changed your sheets.’
‘Thank you, but I would have managed, you know.’ She turned off the radio and hung the cloth over the edge of the sink.
‘Of course you would.’ Charlotte picked up her handbag. ‘I’d better go. I might be moving house, by the way.’
‘Might you, indeed? I thought you’d given up on that idea.’
‘I almost had but…’ Charlotte left the sentence hanging, warning herself to get out while the air between them was still relatively clear, ‘I’ll let you know, obviously.’
On the doorstep Jean thrust a carrier-bag at her. ‘It’s for your birthday.’
‘My birthday? But that’s months away.’ Charlotte laughed. ‘I’ll see you long before then.’
‘Quite possibly, but I should hate to forget and one can’t trust the post these days.’
‘No… right, thanks.’ Charlotte peered into the bag.
‘And it is your fortieth, after all.’
Charlotte made a face. ‘Don’t remind me.’
‘I suppose you’ll have a big party, won’t you?’
‘I very much doubt it.’
‘That one you did for Martin was lovely.’
‘Yes, yes, it was, wasn’t it,’ Charlotte muttered, hastily kissing her cheek and hurrying down the path, so eager to get away that she forgot the snails and crushed two before she could help herself.
‘Love to Sam,’ Jean called, when she was at the gate. ‘Tell him Granny sends her love.’
Sam plugged in the earphones of his portable CD-player for the journey back to Wandsworth. It had come with a case strapped to a belt so that you could walk around listening to whatever you wanted, but every time Sam tried it the music jumped, even when he took tiny steps and tried not to breathe too hard. It was a stupid, gay machine – he couldn’t believe how thrilled he had been to get it a year before. What he really wanted now was an iPod like Cindy’s, but just when he’d got her on the point of caving in his dad had interrupted and said not until his birthday and only then if he was good and worked hard and got a decent report, blah-blah.
But the CD-player worked fine on his lap in the car. His mum, he knew, would have tapped his head and said, ‘Anyone at home?’ or one of her funny sayings to try to get him to switch it off and talk to her instead, but his dad was cool about it. That afternoon he had even asked to listen to one of the CDs and clicked his fingers to the beat and said it wasn’t bad, which was bordering on pathetic but sort of nice all the same. Except that a couple of minutes later he was suddenly lying next to him on the carpet, eager and earnest and asking if everything was all right at school, which had taken a lot of the niceness away and made Sam see that the finger-clicking had been one of those fake shows that adults put on when they want something from you and need to butter you up to get it.
The world looked different to a soundtrack; more interesting, better. Even tower blocks and spitting grey skies and the stop-start traffic that was blatantly stressing out his dad (fingers drumming the wheel, watch checks, tugging at his hair like he wanted more of it to fall out) looked sort of decent with the Gorillaz pumping between his ears. Sam wished he could use a similar filter for the everyday ordeal of school. With music in his head he was sure he wouldn’t notice the sniggers at his puny frame when he was down to his pants in the changing rooms, or the sneering gaze of freaky Rose Porter during the horrors of Drama, or George’s new way of sitting with his back half turned and his arm spread to cover his work or – almost worst of all – Miss Hornby’s mumsy kindness. Did you enjoy your snack, Sam? Good boy for remembering to use your pencil sharpener! Please join us in Chess Club after school one day – we’d love to have you!
Like he was a special case. Like he was a special sad little runt who needed protecting. At after-school club on Friday she had even put her arm round him – in front of everyone – leaving it there for so long he had wanted to punch her. Was he looking forward to the weekend? Was he enjoying the Tudors? Any problems and he was to come straight to her. It was positively pervy, and Sam had wanted to shout as much to everyone else sitting at the library tables, smirking at his expense. But talking wasn’t allowed and by the time his mum arrived they had all gone except Rose, who had kept her head bent over work as usual, writing and writing, like the words just streamed out of her pen along with the ink, no crossings-out or the desire to die of boredom that so often afflicted him.
‘Sam, sweetheart, I thought we’d go out for tea for a change – have a pizza or something. Would you like that?’
His dad had driven off in a noisy blast of exhaust fumes that Sam knew was connected to the finger-drumming and hair-pulling on the journey. He and Cindy were going to sing together and Cindy didn’t want to be late. She had said so several times during the last-minute hassle of packing his stuff. He was messy, just like his dad, she had teased; his dad had made a face to show he didn’t find the comment funny. Like her clothes always made it into the laundry basket, he had replied, prompting a blatantly unteasing remark from Cindy about wet towels and washing-up, after which she had left the room closing the door really quietly, which Sam had felt was worse than a good slam. The next thing his dad had left the room, too, and the house went totally silent and Sam had put the telly on so he wouldn’t have to notice it or think too much about the fact that it was him leaving his socks next to the sofa that had set the whole thing off. A few minutes later they had come back into the sitting room holding hands. But Cindy’s eyes were puffy and red, and saying goodbye at the door she had kept a hold of his dad’s fingers till the very last second and said again about how important it was not to be late getting back.
Sam shook his head solemnly at his mother, explaining that they had eaten pizza the night before, choosing their own toppings as usual, and he had had pineapple and peppers and ham.
‘Peppers?’ she exclaimed, like it was something not allowed. ‘Since when have you liked peppers?’
‘Since whenever.’ Sam shrugged. They were sitting in the kitchen. She had poured him an apple juice even though he hadn’t asked for it and made herself a cup of tea, which she was holding in both hands and pressing close to her chest, like she needed the heat of it to warm her up.
‘How about a burger, then? A burger and chips?’
Sam eyed her suspiciously, shaking his head again. He had only just got hom
e and the thought of trekking off somewhere else, even for the rare treat of junk food, held little appeal. ‘We could have pasta,’ he said at length, having given the matter some thought, aware that she was trying to be nice. ‘With that sauce, I like,’ he prompted. ‘The one without the lumps.’
‘With that sauce – of course we can. In fact, that is exactly what we shall have.’ She leapt into action, opening cupboards and banging around with packets and saucepans and tins.
‘But I’m not really hungry yet,’ he admitted. ‘Cindy made a chocolate cake.’
‘Did she? How lovely that she’s such a good cook.’
‘I like your cooking,’ ventured Sam, in a small voice.
‘Oh, sweetheart…’ Charlotte put down the saucepans, crossed the room and kissed the top of his head, then returned to her tea, beaming now and clearing her throat. ‘I’ve got something really exciting to tell you. I wanted to wait until I was sure it was possible – but I’ve found a lovely house right next to the park and much closer to St Leonard’s –’
‘Why do we have to move? I don’t want to move.’
‘Well, of course you feel like that right now, but wait till you see –’
‘I don’t want to see it.’ Sam watched as she put down her mug slowly, returning it exactly into the middle of the wet ring its base had made on the table.
‘I would like to show it to you,’ she said firmly. ‘Maybe after school one day this week. Having a look won’t do any harm at all. It has a loft – a really huge one, with its own ladder. And we could… that is, I was thinking, with the park so close, we might even get a… dog. Would you like that, Sam? Maybe not until Christmas, but – but a puppy of your own?’
Life Begins Page 8