I didn’t have much opportunity to be lonely. For some mysterious reason, Aunty Barbara seemed to take a liking to me and would often collar me for a chat when at large, or detain me in her room when I took up her meals or drinks. She had lots of silly names for me, such as her Gorgeous Girl, or the Divine Creature, and would gossip at me as if I was one of her old woman friends who understood.
The principal theme of her conversation was the Inferiority of Men, allowing for the odd exception such as my father. The weight of her argument rested on two exemplars who bore the brunt of her disdain. One was her agent, Clive, whose function remained obscure, but whom I pictured against a lamp post in a trench-coat with upturned collar.
‘He always says I’m too old for this part or that part,’ she complained to me one day, as I sat on her bed trying to peel a satsuma for her. She couldn’t do it herself because the citrus juice got into the chewed skin around her nails and stung like hell. ‘And then months later I find the part’s gone to someone older than me, like Susannah York. He’s got me nothing but piddly bits of radio work and voice-overs for years. I’ve a good mind to ditch him and get someone else. I told him that once, and do you know what he said? “Darling, that’s like someone on the Titanic demanding a different deck-chair.”’ She gave a bitter laugh.
Most of her venom, however, was reserved for Donovan’s father, Alan, who had announced his intention of leaving her by jumping out of the upstairs window of a Swiss hotel room during an argument. Fortunately for him he had landed in deep snow. Her complaints against him were numerous and contradictory: he kept them short of money; he spoiled Donovan with expensive presents; he was uncommunicative; she never wanted to speak to him again; he had deliberately cut off all links with the past; he was trying to win over their friends to his side; he had broken her heart; she had never loved him anyway . . . I found all this grown-up talk largely incomprehensible, but exhilarating. My parents never, ever spoke like this. They seldom discussed other people in front of me and Christian, and only in the blandest and most uncritical terms. True, Kind and Necessary were the three criteria which had to be met before a word was allowed through the gates of their teeth. I sensed that Mum was uneasy at the thought of my audiences with Aunty Barbara, as she often interrupted them to borrow me for some footling errand, but she couldn’t bring herself to articulate her anxiety.
Finally she felt moved to intervene, precipitating a scene that very nearly wrecked New Year’s Eve for all of us.
It was early evening and we were all in the sitting room except Mum and Dad, who were making cheese sandwiches for supper, there having been a revolt against turkey on the sixth day after Christmas. Christian and Donovan were lying in front of the fire, playing Scrabble, while I was working away at a piece of French knitting on a bobbin made from a wooden cotton reel with four brass screws in the top. I had become quite adept at this soothing, but senseless craft and had already turned out yards of multicoloured woollen tubing, for which no purpose had yet presented itself.
Aunty Barbara was at full stretch on the couch. She had, unusually, discarded her nightwear in favour of one of Mum’s dung-coloured corduroy skirts and a navy Shetland pullover. In her hurried departure from home she had not packed sufficient warm clothing for the glacial temperatures of the Old Schoolhouse and was now having to borrow. She was playing with her long hair, plaiting and then unplaiting it, while half-listening to a play on the radio and chipping in with her comments on the performance.
‘Beryl Reid. I worked with her once. What a scream. I wonder if she’d remember me . . . Joe Orton. What a tragedy. All that talent wasted . . . Oh not her again, God, she’s in everything. Couldn’t act her way out of, oh SHUT UP!’ Aunty Barbara slung a cushion at the radio set, narrowly missing the Scrabble game and knocking the tuning button so that the dialogue was swallowed up in a hailstorm of interference and high-pitched whistling. She made no move to restore the sound quality, or retrieve the cushion, but slumped back to the horizontal again with her eyes clenched shut.
After enduring this unfriendly noise for a minute or two Donovan got up and gave the off switch a sharp twist. The radio expired with a pop. Aunty Barbara opened one eye. ‘Since you’re up, go and fetch my bag, Donovan,’ she said. ‘It’s in my room.’
He turned on his heel with a look of annoyance, and we heard him clumping up the stairs with slow, emphatic tread.
I caught Christian’s eye and he pulled a face – one of those untranslatable grimaces which are perfectly understood by the recipient. Christian didn’t like Aunty Barbara. I could tell this because he answered her questions in monosyllables and without making eye contact. To be fair, she didn’t put him to this trouble often, considering the male opinion of no great value. In private he confided that he thought she was ‘mad and scary’ and ‘not like a mum’. On the last point I had to agree, but it’s hard to dislike someone who seems bent on singling you out for praise and admiration.
Donovan returned with the bag, a hand-woven woollen sac which Aunty Barbara began to unpack onto the floor beside her. Presently she found what she was looking for – a round pocket mirror, in which she attempted to examine the top of her head.
‘That’s not a proper word,’ Christian said suddenly. Donovan had laid down HORE on the triple word square and was totting up his score.
‘It is,’ Donovan retorted. ‘I’ve heard it.’
‘HORE isn’t a word, is it?’ Christian appealed to Aunty Barbara who had located a grey hair with the aid of her mirror, and was winding it around her finger.
‘No. Ow.’ The unwanted hair was plucked out at the root. ‘Not spelled like that it isn’t.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Anyway, where exactly did you hear it, Donovan?’
He looked uncomfortable. ‘I don’t know. I’ve forgotten.’
‘I’m getting the dictionary,’ Christian insisted. ‘If you’re wrong you miss a turn.’ He strode out, nearly colliding with Mum, who was coming through the doorway with a plate of cheese sandwiches and a jar of mixed pickle. Dad was a few paces behind with the tea tray.
‘God, listening to you two reminds me of arguments I used to have with Alan. Before the real arguments began, I mean,’ said Aunty Barbara. ‘He was a cheat, in Scrabble as in life.’
Mum put the sandwiches down and started to distribute plates.
‘One time he got so annoyed because I said the word “zoo” was an abbreviation that he tipped the whole table over and stormed out and didn’t come back all night. You’ve never met such a bad loser. I should have read the warning signs then.’
Mum frowned and made throat-clearing noises.
‘Right, who’s for tea?’ Dad said, with exaggerated cheeriness.
‘He used to cheat at bridge too,’ Aunty Barbara went on, undeflected. ‘We had this code for how many aces, how many kings, depending on the way he was holding his cards. He always had to win at everything. Sometimes I’d deliberately overbid just to annoy him. I can’t stand that male competitive stuff.’
At this point Christian reappeared holding the open dictionary, his finger planted on the crucial page. ‘There. Told you. Horde. Horehound. Horizon. You lose.’
‘Just because it’s not in the dictionary doesn’t mean it’s not a word,’ Donovan retorted, snatching the book.
‘Course it does. Where do you think words come from, you div?’
‘You’re the div.’
‘Listen to you, Donovan!’ cried Aunty Barbara, reaching for a sandwich. ‘You’ll end up like your father if you don’t watch out.’
Mum, who was holding the teapot, twitched, slopping scalding tea onto the tray. ‘Barbara,’ she said, in a low voice that silenced the room in an instant, ‘I thought we’d agreed you wouldn’t run Alan down in front of Donovan. It isn’t fair.’
Aunty Barbara stopped, mouth open, sandwich halfway to her lips. ‘Fair?’ she said incredulously. ‘You don’t know the half of it. I’ll tell you how fair Alan is: when we did the big carve-up we agreed to split
everything equally. I went out and left him to it, and when I came back I found he’d taken one of every pair of curtains in the house. Just to spite me. That’s the sort of person he is.’
‘Nevertheless,’ said Mum, who was looking as hot and uncomfortable as I’d ever seen her, ‘I don’t think it’s especially helpful for Donovan to hear all this.’
Christian and I were riveted by this rare opportunity to witness grown-up conflict. Donovan, who was evidently accustomed to having people quarrel over him, was still thumbing through the dictionary, oblivious.
‘Oh, don’t worry about him,’ Aunty Barbara gestured with her sandwich, scattering shreds of grated cheese. ‘He’s heard it all before. And worse. You should hear the choice language Alan’s been teaching him for that matter,’ she added, pointing at the game of Scrabble, now temporarily suspended.
Dad glanced over Christian’s shoulder at the board and tutted. ‘I expect you’re thinking of HOAR,’ he said to Donovan. ‘It’s a sort of frost.’
‘I don’t know why you’re so keen to defend Alan all of a sudden.’ Aunty Barbara’s eyes narrowed. ‘Actually I do know why. He’s been onto you, hasn’t he?’
‘No,’ Mum replied, taken aback by this turn the conversation was taking.
‘He’s trying to get all our friends onto his side by spreading lies about me. I knew it!’ Her voice rose hysterically. ‘What’s he been saying?’
‘Nothing. We’ve never . . .’ Mum’s attempt at reassurance was steamrollered by a fresh outburst of paranoia.
‘He can’t bear to think that anybody knows what he’s really like. It’s not enough that he’s ruined my life. He wants to ruin my reputation too. I bet he told you that I’m unstable and an unfit mother, and I drink and stuff like that.’
‘No he . . .’
‘The bastard won’t rest till he’s destroyed me,’ she raved.
‘Barbara,’ Mum warned.
‘Oh pardon my fucking French,’ Aunty Barbara snapped, subsiding unhappily into the sagging trench in the middle of the couch.
The silence that greeted this remark was broken by the gentle swishing sound of Donovan turning the pages of the dictionary.
‘Barbara.’ Dad dropped to his knees in front of her and grasped her by the elbows so that his face was level with hers. ‘I promise you we don’t have any contact with Alan whatsoever. The last time we heard from him was before he . . . left. I think it’s perfectly clear where our sympathies lie.’
Aunty Barbara gave a violent tremble like a jumpy horse, and then relaxed with a great sigh. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why I get so . . .’
‘It’s all right,’ Mum soothed. ‘No need to apologise.’
‘You’ve been so kind to us. And I’m just a crabby old cow.’
Mum and Dad made polite demurring noises, while out of the corner of my eye I saw Christian nodding solemnly.
‘I wonder . . .’ Aunty Barbara glanced at her watch. ‘Do you think anywhere will be open? I’ve run out of ciggies.’
Dad offered to drive down to the newsagent’s for her, but she said she needed the exercise, and in the end they left together, on foot.
On the way Dad must have had one of his Kind Words, because when they returned Aunty Barbara was more cheerful, and even helped with the washing up. Her only other contribution to the running of the house was to suggest that Mum got a cleaner. ‘Big house like this. You need someone to come in and do for you.’
Mum dismissed the idea. She didn’t see why someone else should clear up our dirt. ‘Besides, how could we afford it?’ she added.
‘You could let out some of these rooms to paying guests,’ Aunty Barbara said, scouring a dinner plate as though intent on removing the pattern as well as the remains of lunch.
‘I have thought about it,’ Mum said, rescuing the plate, ‘but most of the time our spare rooms seem to be occupied by non-paying guests.’
Aunty Barbara failed to acknowledge this remark. ‘I’d have a cleaner like a shot if I could,’ she went on. ‘But they take one look at my place and resign. The last one said, “I’m not working here, it’s filthy!” I said, “Of course it’s filthy. You don’t think I’m going to pay you good money to clean a house that’s already clean?” She didn’t stay.’
For the first time I was allowed to stay up to see in the New Year, but in the end the grown-ups all fell asleep at about half past ten and had to be shaken awake in time for Auld Lang Syne. Christian was made to go out of the back door and come in at the front holding a lump of coal, for reasons no one could explain, and we toasted 1977 with Elderflower cordial, and made resolutions for the year to come. Christian and I promised not to go through shoes so fast, Donovan was going to eat vegetables, Dad would do something about the roof, Mum would sort out Grandpa Percy, and Aunty Barbara was going to put the whole damn thing behind her.
13
A FEW DAYS after the bank holiday, Aunty Barbara announced her intention of going to the sales, and offered to take me with her.
‘You can help me choose Donovan’s Christmas present,’ she said.
Mum made no objection to this plan; in fact she was quite happy for me to deputise for her in any confrontation with the ugly forces of materialism. ‘No, I certainly don’t feel left out,’ she assured us. ‘You know I can’t stand shopping. I’d only spoil it for you.’
My enthusiasm was entirely mercenary. Aunty Barbara had hinted that there might be something in it for me, and I sensed that she was the sort of person who might spend, as she did most other things, impulsively. The boys weren’t interested in accompanying us. ‘We’ll be looking at ladieswear and shoes,’ Aunty Barbara told them, by way of deterrent.
‘We’ll have lunch out,’ she said, as we set off for the bus stop in a buffeting wind. ‘Perhaps you know somewhere nice we can go.’ I didn’t: we never ate out, except on holiday, as an absolute last resort. ‘We’re going to have a lovely time,’ Aunty Barbara insisted. She had dressed up for the occasion in a black wool dress and high-heeled suede boots that zipped to the knee. Her hair had been teased and rolled into a cottage loaf shape on top of her head, and her face was fiercely painted – black for the eyes and red for the lips. As we walked along she crushed me to her side so that I was almost suffocated by the gerbil coat. While I fought for breath she instructed me to call her Barbara. ‘I’m not a proper Aunty, and anyway it makes me feel old.’
She often returned to the subject of ageing and was full of advice and warnings. ‘Neck and hands, Esther, they’re the first to show.’ ‘Keep your face out of the sun, unless you want to end up looking like beef jerky.’
We sat on the top deck of the bus so that she could smoke, which she did with a curious grimacing expression to avoid growing pucker lines around her mouth. The wind had done its best to flatten the cottage loaf, and left streaky black tears at the corners of her eyes. When she opened her wallet to pay the conductor she caught sight of herself in the strip of mirror inside and gave a little scream.
‘What a fright!’ she exclaimed, dabbing at the smudges with a scrap of tissue.
The precinct was crowded with shoppers when we arrived, but Aunty Barbara showed the same steely resistance to obstruction as she had in the matter of wood-gathering.
‘Hold tight,’ she commanded, taking me by the wrist and elbowing a channel through the scrum that had formed around the entrance to Grantley’s. ‘Excuse us, excuse us,’ she cried, oblivious to the reproachful mutters that attended our progress.
In ladieswear she thumbed through rails of beaded evening gowns, clamping one after another against her as though about to perform a tango. I sat outside the fitting room on a vinyl stool while she tried on the pick of them. Every few minutes she would emerge between the curtains in a different costume and strike a pose for my approval. ‘What do you think?’ she said, of a tissue-thin green dress with a pearl-crusted bodice.
‘Beautiful,’ I said, meaning the dress, and Aunty Barbara looked pleased. ‘It’
s what Alan used to call a gownless evening strap,’ she said with a laugh, and then her face darkened. She fingered the label, which was attached to a little bag of spare pearls. A nice touch that, I thought.
‘It is half price,’ she went on. ‘The trouble is I don’t go anywhere any more.’ This melancholy thought seemed to spur her to a decision. ‘Oh, what the hell, I’ll take it.’ And she swished behind the curtain to change.
At the till the assistant wrapped the dress in layers of white tissue and laid it in a box with gold lettering on the lid, a gesture so glamorous it brought a lump to my throat. Bienvenu à Biarritz. As we made our way back to the escalators through bridalwear I allowed my fingers to trail wistfully over the yards of bunched taffeta and silk. Aunty Barbara must have seen my hand lingering on the hem of a peach bridesmaid’s dress, as she stopped and said, ‘Oh, isn’t that pretty? Do you like it?’
I nodded dumbly. It was the most beautiful, wondrous creation, with gauzy sleeves, a wide satin sash, a ballooning skirt with a scalloped hem, covered buttons, and a heart-shaped neckline decorated with tiny peach rosebuds. I would never be able to wear it.
‘Let’s see if it fits,’ she said, plucking it from the rail and propelling me towards the cubicles once more. I struggled out of my nylon trousers and skinny-rib sweater to reveal a greyish vest and pants, while Aunty Barbara parted the petal layers of the underskirt and lowered the dress over my head. It rested on me as lightly as a cobweb, rustling and whispering when I turned, like something alive. ‘It does look rather lovely,’ Aunty Barbara admitted, when she had finished tying the sash. ‘Perhaps not with socks and sneakers though.’
I gazed at my transformed reflection in the mirror with frank admiration, bobbing up and down to make the skirt puff up. ‘Let’s get it,’ Aunty Barbara decided. ‘That’ll give Mummy a surprise.’
Won’t it, I thought, as Aunty Barbara wrote out another cheque for a fantastic amount of money, far exceeding Mum’s annual expenditure on clothes. When the shop assistant produced another of those monogrammed boxes and pressed it into my trembling hands I thought I would expire with happiness.
In a Good Light Page 11