One Day, Someday

by Lynne Barrett-Lee

  ‘Western Lowland Gorilla,’ reads Joe. ‘That’s Gorilla gorilla gorilla to you scholarly types. Gorillas, it says here, are great apes - as are humans, take note - from Africa. And despite their enormous strength and vicious-looking teeth, they are - oh, and this is good to know, kids. This is reassuring. This enclosure,’ he goes, ‘which was officially opened in March 1999 by Mrs Moira Bugle, secretary of the Friends of the Zoo Society, incorporates state-of-the-art surveillance and security technology, thereby ensuring the safety and well-being of both gorilla and visitor. Though it does point out that, like most gorillas, these are a particularly unaggressive family group, and that they haven’t actually dismembered any small boys since the unfortunate mauling incident of nineteen eighty-four.’

  They both swivel. ‘The what?

  ‘Goodness, did you never hear about that? You never told them about it, Lu? I’m surprised you missed it. It was in all the papers. It was a pretty grisly attack, apparently, though not as bad as it might have been, because at least they were able to re-attach the severed arm. Groundbreaking surgery, by all accounts. Though they couldn’t do much about the fingers, obviously.’

  ‘What fingers?’ says Simeon, wide-eyed. ‘What happened to the fingers?’

  Joe sticks two of his own towards his mouth and leans towards them. He beckons them closer. ‘Straight through and out the other end,’ he whispers.

  The boys digest this horror for a moment, then Leo’s brow creases. ‘You’re making that up,’ he says. ‘You are, aren’t you? You made all that stuff up.’

  Joe’s face takes on a look of incredulity. ‘Making it up? Why on earth would I make something like that up? Leo, these are dangerous animals. Think about it. Why else would they have a fifty-billion-volt fence around them?’ Then he shrugs. ‘You can ask the keeper if you don’t believe me.’

  Simeon pushes his hands into his jeans pockets and glances around, as if weighing the temptation to ask the keeper and expose Joe as a fraud with the unpalatable possibility of being made to look like a complete twit. I try to keep my lips from twitching. ‘You are, though,’ he says finally. ‘Leo’s right. You’re making it all up, aren’t you?’

  Angharad, who has been absorbed, up till now, in the task of trying to get a picture with her disposable camera, trots across and rolls her eyes at her father. ‘Of course he’s making it up, silly. Tsk! He always does. And don’t you know anything? Gorillas are vegetarians.’

  ‘I did know that,’ Leo persists, as we set off again in search of a place to eat lunch. It is now past midday, and people are laying claim to patches of lawn with alarming speed, but Joe has declined my suggestion of a bench. He has, he tells me, a plastic-backed blanket rolled up in his bag, and is more than happy to sit on the grass.

  ‘Of course you did,’ he says now, to Leo. ‘Though I have a feeling they do like the odd termite. Does that count?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ says Leo. ‘Do vegetarians eat insects? But I did know you were making it up. Simeon didn’t.’

  ‘I did!’

  ‘Anyway, I knew you were lying.’

  ‘Telling fibs, Leo, please!’ I say.

  ‘Because that electric-fence thing in the moat is four volts. Not billions. I know because it says on them. And I’ve touched one.’

  ‘You haven’t.’

  ‘I have. They’ve got them at Longleat. And it makes you jump six feet into the air and all your hair goes on fire.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t.’

  ‘Yes, it does!’

  Strangely, strangely, I appear to be having fun. The sun is warm on my back, and the children are behaving themselves, and despite my glowing nose and molten sinuses, my mood has lightened considerably. I find I’m almost happy that we brought Joe and Angharad along.

  ‘You look much cheered up,’ reflects Joe, who has obviously noticed, and who is trying to deal one-handed with the ring-pull on a can of Diet Coke. The children have cantered off to the play area, having laid waste to most of the contents of both picnic bags.

  Which, in Joe’s case, has consisted mainly of Jaffa Cakes, sausage rolls, jam sandwiches and crisps. He gratefully accepts a cheese-salad roll from me, with the observation that Angharad had taken charge of the picnic, and that he’d been happy to let her, because her mother fed her mainly on gruel.

  ‘Indeed, I consider it a parental responsibility,’ he adds, while I deal with the can for him. ‘Left in Rhiannon’s hands the poor child would reach her dotage without ever having tasted an oven chip. And, besides, I rather enjoy the chance to expand her cultural horizons. I don’t want her to grow up into a middle-class deb who only eats bread if it’s got wood shavings in it, and can quote E numbers like share prices. How dire. And - good Lord! Hello!’

  He puts down the Coke can and lifts his hand to wave. An elegant woman, whom I judge to be in her late fifties or early sixties, is coming across the grass towards us.

  ‘It is you, Joe! I thought it was.’ She puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head. Her clothes - a sprigged dress and long tailored jacket - look well made. ‘I saw you earlier,’ she says, ‘and I did a bit of a double-take, and I thought, It can’t be, and then I saw your arm and - well, well, well! Anyway,’ her smile includes me, ‘how on earth did you come to do that?’

  Joe stands up, knocking over the Coke can. ‘Hello, Liz,’ he says, pecking at the cheek she has proffered for a kiss. He takes off his sunglasses and lifts the plastered arm for her. ‘I was involved in an accident last month. Broke it in two places. Nothing major. How are you?’

  I don’t know whether I should stand up as well, so I stay on the rug and dab at the spillage.

  She nods. ‘Fine. Absolutely fine,’ she says. ‘Oh, and it’s so good to see you, Joe! But ouch,’ she adds, tutting, ‘that looks nasty.’ I look up, unsure what she’s referring to, and realize it’s Joe’s scar. I’m so used to it now that it barely registers any more. She reaches out and touches it gently. ‘You have been in the wars. Angharad did tell me about it, after a fashion but, oh, you poor thing, I’d no idea it had been this bad. Where is she, by the way? Is she here?’ She glances around.

  ‘In the play area with Lu’s son and nephew,’ Joe tells her. Then turns to me. ‘This is Lu Fisher, by the way. She works with me. Lu’s being a bit of an all-round hero right now. I can’t drive, of course, so she’s been ferrying me around a bit. And she very kindly let us gatecrash her trip. Lu, this is Liz.’ The woman smiles at me, and now I do stand up to shake her hand. She seems very nice.

  ‘Lovely to meet you,’ she says cheerfully. ‘And isn’t this such a perfect day for it? Well,’ she goes on, checking her watch, ‘better go and round up the gang for some lunch. And I’ll go and say hello to Minnie Mouse while I’m at it. Mind you, once the twins know she’s here I doubt I’ll get a minute’s peace. Poor David’s already looking like he needs a stiff drink, bless him. And all he’s got is a max-pack of disgusting coffee. You must come over and say hello, Joe. Catch up later for a cup of tea, perhaps?’ She engulfs Joe in a warm embrace and I can smell her expensive perfume. We agree on a rendezvous at four thirty.

  ‘Who was that?’ I ask, as she heads off towards the play area.

  ‘An ex of mine,’ he responds, a twinkle in his eye as he sits back down again.

  I do a double-take of my own.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Ex-mother-in-law.’

  ‘Goodness! As in …’

  He nods. ‘The genuine article. As in Rhiannon’s mother. David’s her husband - Rhiannon’s dad, of course - and the twins are Rhiannon’s nieces. Her sister’s two girls. They must be, oh, six or seven. Something like that. I think Liz looks after them a couple of days a week.’

  ‘She seemed very pleased to see you,’ I observe. Genuinely pleased. Which I can’t help but find odd, given whose mother she is.

  He looks at me sideways and lifts his black brows. ‘You mean, she didn’t rush over with a rolling-pin and beat me about the head with it?’
/>   I laugh. ‘Something like that. You’ve got to admit, it’s not the way things usually work out. I mean, I wouldn’t have imagined you’d be her favourite person under the circumstances.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, you did leave her daughter, after all. And it’s not as if you and Rhiannon have one of those trendy amicable-divorce relationships on the go, is it?’

  He laughs this time, but without much humour. ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘You spotted that, did you?’

  ‘And in that sort of situation the last thing you’d expect—’

  ‘Oh. And what sort of situation would that be, Lu?’

  There is now, suddenly, a distinct edge to his tone. But his pointed use of my name makes my hackles rise slightly. As if I’m being patronized, somehow. ‘Well,’ I say, ‘given what happened between you, it - well,’ I shrug. ‘A woman scorned and all that. I suppose it’s only natural to assume—’

  ‘Is that so?’ He looks at me sharply then takes the bag of Jaffa Cakes out of their packet, crushing the latter in his fist. Moments pass. ‘D’you know what?’ he says at last. ‘I think you’ve made rather a lot of assumptions where I’m concerned, Lu.’ He leaves the words to press their point for a few seconds, then adds, ‘And what exactly do you know about it, anyway?’

  I’m not quite sure how to respond to either of these statements. I feel as if I’ve suddenly been dumped in the middle of an argument I didn’t know I was having, and I’m aware that the confrontational tone is still very much in his voice. I flounder uncomfortably under his gaze for a few seconds and reach for a tissue to blow my nose. ‘Sorry,’ I say eventually. ‘It’s just what I’d heard. I thought you’d left her for another woman. I thought—’

  There is a tic at the corner of his jaw, and I have the uncomfortable feeling that I’ve trodden on eggs. That I’m about to be upbraided. Which makes my hackles rise further. Because I know all about infidelity. But just as I’m squaring up to defend my corner, his expression suddenly softens.

  ‘Men, eh?’ he observes.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘A woman scorned and all that?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say—’

  ‘Yes, you would,’ he says, twisting open the half empty Jaffa Cakes bag. He takes one and offers them to me. ‘I don’t know quite what’s happened with you exactly, but I think I’ve grasped that much. So I don’t imagine any of us are going to get a very good press with you at the moment, all things considered, are we? Want one?’

  ‘No thanks.’ I don’t know how to answer him. I’m not sure I want to. His conciliatory turnabout has thrown me. ‘It’s nothing to do with that,’ I say, stiffly. ‘It’s just that I thought you and she … Well. It’s none of my business, anyway. And I think it’s very nice that you and her parents manage to—’

  ‘You’re right. It is none of your business, any more than your love-life is any of my business either, as you’ve already made clear. But for what it’s worth, I imagine it was all for the best. I’m sure you can do better than that.’

  How on earth did we get on to this?

  I start clearing the picnic things. ‘And what would you know about it? What would you know about him?’

  He gives me a cool appraising look. ‘All that I need to, I suspect. And I certainly don’t hear you telling me he’s flavour of the month. Not this month, anyway.’ He starts to help me, gathering crisp bags and cartons. I’m torn, inexplicably, between a sudden desire to tell him all about it and another to tell him to sod off. So I clamp my mouth shut and say nothing.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he goes on. ‘And you’re quite right, as it happens. There was another woman involved. So, yes, that is probably what you have heard. And I can see you’ve reached your own conclusions about it.’ He flips his sunglasses down on to his nose. ‘But let’s just say that where tar and brushes are concerned, I suspect you’re a bit of an expert anyway.’

  I take this in, feeling indignant and guilty in about equal measure. The word ‘assumptions’ drifts across my consciousness. The word ‘bag’ bustles along to join it. And, I regret to note, seems to have the edge. ‘Look,’ I say, ‘you’ve got me all wrong here, Joe. I didn’t mean to sound disapproving or anything. I was only making an observation, for God’s sake. That’s all.’ I snap shut the clip on my backpack and catch my finger in it. Which hurts, so I stick it into my mouth.

  ‘Ouch,’ he says, noting my wince and unzipping the cool-bag he has just zipped up. ‘You bleeding? I’ve got some tissues.’ I shake my head and he does up the bag again. ‘And look at the state of your nose, Miss Fisher. As red as a baboon’s bottom. Come on. Let’s go and find the children, shall we? Go make this visit to Antarctica.’

  So, bloody hell, here I am feeling bad again. Feeling bad about what I said to Joe. Feeling worse about what he said to me. Assumptions, indeed. Tar and brushes, indeed. But, oh, God, the dreadful thing is that he’s right, isn’t he? He is right. Who am I to pass judgement on him? I don’t know the first thing about it. I don’t know the first thing about him, really. I certainly don’t know the first thing about his marriage. I don’t know anything about him or her or him and her or him and the other woman - women? - or why I feel so angry with him. Why do I feel so angry with him? And do I feel angry with him, really? Or do I just feel angry with men? Or do I really feel so angry with men, or is it just the one man? And what the hell did I ever see in Stefan? And what did he ever see in me? And isn’t it me that I’m angry with, really? Am I ever going to get it right? Am I? Sod and damn and blast it. I don’t know the first thing about anything, really. Except that my head hurts again.

  Bristol Zoo’s latest visitor attraction is a Disneyesque confection of rocky Antarctic outcrops, with lots of heavy-duty decking, cutesy wooden cabins and thoughtfully placed coils of thick, oily rope. Scummy water slaps at the pebble beaches and mock-rock, and the animals - sea birds, fur seals and two kinds of penguin - plough over us, under us, backwards and forwards, tracing well-flippered routes through their miniature world.

  We file along a watery tunnel, Angharad clutching Joe’s hand and muttering nine to the dozen, with the boys, flushed and damp-necked, zig-zagging behind them, cavorting and shouting in the way that boys do. Ironically, it seems Leo and Angharad have had some words of their own. About what, I don’t know, but there’s certainly some frost in the air.

  Though Joe, disconcertingly, is all jolly smiles once again. ‘Gran find you OK?’ I hear him asking Angharad. ‘That was a nice surprise, wasn’t it?’

  Angharad nods happily. ‘And guess what, Dad? She said she’d buy me a Magnum later.’

  ‘And us as well,’ Simeon is quick to remind her.

  ‘Might,’ she retorts. ‘She said only if your mummy says so.’

  ‘But my mum’s not here, is she?’

  ‘So tough, then.’

  ‘My mum is,’ says Leo, ‘and she’ll say it’s all right, won’t you, Mum?’

  ‘We’ll see,’ I say. ‘Now, come on, Leo,’ I add, rummaging in the backpack. ‘This looks like a good spot. How about you make some notes on all this information here. Look, there are details on all the different animals that live here, and - oh, look, here’s some information about all the ones that are endangered species. And maybe we can get some pictures of the penguins, and—’

  ‘You can’t use my camera,’ says Angharad.

  Joe puts his arm around her shoulder and pats it. ‘Now, come on, chicken. Don’t be unkind,’ he remonstrates, meeting my eyes and rolling his a little. ‘You’ve got lots of film in there. I’m sure you can spare Leo a couple of shots.’

  ‘We-ell. OK, but only—’

  ‘It’s all right,’ I say. ‘I’ve brought my camera too.’ But it comes out all wrong. As if I’m being touchy about it. ‘But thanks anyway, Angharad,’ I add quickly. ‘That’s very kind of you.’ She gives me a slightly hostile look, which I return with the widest smile I can manage. ‘Now, here you are, Leo. Here’s your pad. And here’s a pen. Why don’t you start over
there?’

  ‘Mum, do I have to do it right now? I want to go with Sim and look at the seals. Can’t I? I want to go and—’

  ‘Leo, don’t start. We came here with the express intention of getting some stuff for your project, and I told you that once we’d been for a play in the play area we would have to get on with it. Why does everything always have to involve an argument? Why can’t you just do as I ask?’

  ‘But, Mum, they’re going to be feeding them soon.’

  ‘Which is all the more reason to stop arguing with me and get on with some work, isn’t it?’ I snap.

  ‘But, Mu-um—’

  I become aware of a hand lightly brushing my arm. It’s Joe’s. ‘Leo,’ he says, ‘come on, mate. Do as your mum says, eh?’

  And he does. It’s like magic. Which makes me feel even more of a bag.

  Simeon and Angharad skip off soon after, to go and save us a good spot for when the seals get fed. Joe, who is being almost painfully helpful, directs Leo to all the most useful bits of conservation information, then comes across to watch the penguins with me while my suddenly industrious son stands and makes notes about the information film they’re showing in what looks like Captain Scott’s hut.

  Joe rests his plaster on the thick wooden fence rail beside me and with the other hand pats the backpack on my back. ‘Can I take that for you?’ he offers. ‘I’m sure it’ll fit inside my bag. Save you humping it about all afternoon in the heat.’

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s fine. There isn’t much in it now, anyway.’