Paul was crouched before Anja, speaking about London; places she should go, what not to miss. She keyed it all into her phone.
Anja was different with a man, I saw that straight away. She had moved to the ledge of her seat, straight-backed and attentive. Her voice was loud, she was more assured. It had nothing to do with flirtation.
I moved deeper into my chair with some comment about my back; all the better to watch them. Still Lauren spoke, angled over her knees.
Paul was talking about farmers’ markets, air miles, ethical eating. Anja liked Nando’s, Coca-Cola, food that was a brand. One time a fox got the rubbish and I found a pair of greaseproof pockets among the mess strewn the length of the lawn. I was puzzled, as I picked them up, followed the trail around the back of the shed and I found a ripped-up box, a Happy Meal. After that I often noticed the spatter of ketchup through the skin of a bin liner, or came across a pod the dog had hidden and licked clean. She made no move to hide this habit, though nor did she eat in front of me. Perhaps she thought I would not have approved.
She listened hard as Paul spoke. Her eyes roved his face. Her response was perfect although she cannot have cared about his argument; I wasn’t sure she even understood. His certainty sounded childish and irrelevant; an insult, almost, and I wanted to shut him up, stop him making a fool of all of us. But there was also his satisfaction, his pleasure at being heard, and her face pin-bright, reflecting his conviction back at him. I caught her look for an instant, and thought she saw me see all this, but I couldn’t be sure. She laid a gentle hand on my thigh. She could be anyone, this girl.
Mo came back with a ‘Bugger! Oh sorry!’ as she tripped over a child I hadn’t noticed. A neat stream of nibbles slid to the floor. There were two of them, a boy and a girl, lying on their stomachs wearing earphones the size of buns, watching a single thin screen that they had propped against the wall. The child – the boy, Jack – curled up his leg and held it where Maureen had kicked him and then pushed off with the other foot to lunge for a sausage roll. The girl saw and grabbed for one too.
‘Get off, the pair of you, they’re for the grown-ups,’ their mother said, and shook a foot at them, but they couldn’t hear, merely looked at us with big round eyes and went back to their screen.
‘Don’t worry, loves, there’s plenty for everyone. My famous home-made sausage rolls!’ said Maureen, trying to pick them up off the carpet, clumsy in oven gloves.
‘D’you want another one, Jack?’
She spoke loudly and waved a clubbed mitt at him, scattering pastry.
‘Oh well,’ she said, and left a pile of food before each child. Maureen’s dog Sammy was up from her bed at that, seeking her chance.
‘I wish I’d thought it through. He was always a bit of a bastard, to be honest. And now they’re stuck with a crap dad,’ Lauren was saying.
She paused, which was probably my chance to speak. She followed my gaze to her children.
‘Oh, don’t worry about them. They can’t hear a thing. I wouldn’t slag him off in front of the kids.’
She folded her arms, insulted.
‘Mum?’ – called in the direction of the kitchen.
‘Where’s she gone?’ – muttered to herself.
‘Can I have another drink?’ – the drone of a child.
Lauren pressed a hand into the seat and was off, wandering listlessly after her mother. I shuffled across towards Anja.
‘Mind if I join you?’ I said.
Paul gave a wide-eyed look after Lauren and I said, ‘Don’t!’ and Anja said, ‘What?’
‘Well, it’s nice to see you out of the house, Mags, anyway,’ said Paul.
‘It’s nice to be out,’ I replied, unsure if that was true.
‘And Peter’s feeling much better as well, aren’t you?’ he said.
It was their decision not to hide things.
‘I am.’
‘God, you’re a regular district nurse,’ I said.
Their happiness brought out the curmudgeon in me. It always had, it was the shape of our friendship. Well rehearsed and good-natured. Anja grinned on, not following, or hiding it.
‘Christ, it’s hot in here.’ Paul flapped the collar of his shirt and blew out his bottom lip. I touched a radiator, up full whack for the guests.
‘Peter, would you open the window?’ he said.
He unscrewed the lock and shoved up the sash, exposing a long inch of air. The cold snaked in.
‘I’m gonna get more wine.’
Paul came back with a bottle of red and poured Peter and me huge glasses.
‘Anja, what about you? Where’s yours?’ he asked.
‘Oh. I.’
She looked round her.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll find you another. It’s red for you too, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘Actually, no thanks. It’s OK. I’ll.’
She reached back for a tumbler, empty but for one hump of ice.
‘Get something for myself from the kitchen.’
‘Oh sorry. You not drinking? I don’t know why I thought –’
He looked round for Peter with a question on his face.
‘Are you driving? Oh no. I suppose not. God. I’ll shut up now.’
He picked up her glass and sniffed it.
‘Apple juice? I’ll fetch another.’
He walked away, and I could see colour spreading round the back of his neck.
She gave me a dart of a glance.
From the kitchen I heard Lauren say: ‘Not too much of that. I bought it for the kids.’
Peter asked after the dog. He’d had a Lab when he was younger; it was Paul who chose the terriers. Anja clawed through her bag. From the other end of the room Maureen called: ‘Righto. Shall we eat? I’m just going to put it all down on the table and you can help yourselves.’
A huge vat of chilli with Maureen behind it like everybody’s mother. We fussed; settling spoons and moving mats under hot dishes just in time. A terracotta bowl of jacket potatoes with a cross cut into each, bucketing steam. An unambiguous salad – lettuce, tomato, cucumber and onion. Celery sticks in a half-pint glass of the tankard style; a pot of salt next door. Home-made coleslaw – another speciality. And Heinz salad cream in a squeezy bottle; I hadn’t even known you could still get it.
The accessories last: sour cream with chives snipped on top, a huge mound of grated cheddar.
She’d put out the good plates.
‘Dive in, you lot!’ said Mo, still standing. ‘What about the kids, Lauren? I’ve done them some fish fingers.’ Three each. Sliding about before her on blue plastic plates.
‘Put them on the coffee table, Mum. They can eat over there,’ Lauren said.
Maureen almost sat, until: ‘Blimey. The garlic bread!’
‘I’ll fetch it, Mo, don’t worry. You get started!’
I plucked the tea towel from the back of Maureen’s chair just as she sat.
‘I’ll help you, Maggie.’
Anja had followed me. The kitchen was in chaos. I bent to the oven.
‘Could you get me something to put this in?’ I said, as I pulled out the tray of hot bread. I felt a defencelessness knelt there before her.
She went straight to the right drawer and took out a bowl. I pulled the loaf apart along the cuts, burning myself briefly every time.
Anja stood by, and when I was done, she took hold of me, my wrists, rather hard.
‘Maggie. I haven’t told the others,’ she whispered into my face. ‘I don’t want everyone to know. About the baby.’
I flexed my hands, and she let me go.
‘It’s your choice, Anja. Really. But what about at the hostel? Won’t it help your case? How’s all that going, by the way?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said.
‘Well, shouldn’t you look into it? Can’t we find out? And what about the doctor?’
Lauren eyed us from the table, tipped onto the back legs of her seat.
‘I’m fine. For now. I need to think
.’ Anja’s voice was taut.
‘Well, if you’re sure.’
‘I am, Maggie. Please don’t tell.’
‘No, of course not. Don’t be silly.’
I felt annoyed by her and implicated in something.
‘And if you choose to drink. Anja, honestly. Do what you want. It’s none of my business.’
‘D’you need a hand in there? Everything all right?’ Lauren called in a sing-song voice.
Anja went back to the party with her best oblivious grin.
I loaded up my plate. It really was delicious. The dog patrolled the table and Lauren shooed her away.
‘This is amazing, Mo. Just like my mum makes,’ said Paul.
‘Back on low carb from tomorrow though,’ said Peter.
There was lots more wine and we ate, and for a while we all seemed to enjoy ourselves.
‘How old are you, Paul?’ That was Lauren.
‘Me? Forty-two. Why d’you ask?’ A different tone. An anxious note.
‘Christ, you don’t look it. Don’t you keep young? Ten years older than me and you wouldn’t know.’
True, with her roots growing through and her cracked hands. She must have shared my thought, and scissored the ends of her hair with her fingers.
‘Local, are they, your parents?’ she said.
‘Who, mine?’ said Paul, a child, pretending not to hear, hoping she’d go away. She watched him steadily, moving accurate forkfuls up to her mouth.
‘No. Not really. St Albans. Not born and bred like you, Lauren.’
‘See much of them, do you?’ she asked.
‘Yes. They get down when they can.’ His knife clanked against the side of his plate.
‘It’s nice though, isn’t it? Getting everyone together like this. We do our best, don’t we? Eh?’ Mo called weakly from her end of the table.
‘And what about yours, Peter?’
She swivelled on her chair and I saw that she was drunk.
‘Both dead, I’m afraid,’ said Peter.
‘Oh dear. Then again, you’re older, aren’t you? Still. Awful.’
Maureen stood up and started bothering dishes.
‘Tell you what. Shall I? I’ll heat this through a bit. In case anyone wants more later. Or another spoonful before I go? There’s loads!’
Everyone said no and she left us to it, hiding in the kitchen. I lost a bit of respect for her then.
‘What about you, Tanja? Where are you from? Originally?’
‘Me? It’s Anja! Don’t worry – nearly got it! Albania, thanks.’
‘Oh right. Don’t know much about that. Oh Christ.’
Lauren knocked her glass with a ring and we all watched it roll a reckless circle. She caught it and a little wave of wine lapped up the side.
‘Bloody hell. I think I better slow down!’
She looked delighted, her first real smile of the day.
‘Where are the kids?’ she said, and stood, staggering briefly as her hand slid along the table on a coaster.
‘Oi, you two. You can’t eat and play on that thing at the same time.’
She set off with her drink.
‘Shove up!’ she said.
They made a space for her and she sat down in between them on the carpet. The small one, the girl, pressed her face deep into her mother’s hair.
‘What you watching then?’ she asked.
I ate more of what was left to fill the space. Anja texted deftly. Suddenly Lauren was getting her children into coats.
‘You can’t just sit about in here all day. Come on! Let’s go to the park while there’s still light!’
She couldn’t find their bits and went again to her mother. Maureen’s voice was low in the hall.
‘Yeah but, Mum. Two men? Really? And the cleaner?’ Lauren said.
Another few minutes and they were gone, Lauren’s voice falling off into quiet down the road. Maureen brought in a raspberry pavlova and some single cream. Another bottle under her arm. She thumped down onto her chair.
‘I don’t know what to say. She was horrible. She isn’t always like that. Maybe it’s the stress.’
Paul barked out his amusement and Peter took her arm.
‘Please don’t worry, Mo. We’ve all known worse. She’s under a lot of pressure.’
‘And she’s drunk,’ I said.
‘Well, I know but. I expected better. Honestly.’
She tutted and rubbed a finger across an eyebrow.
I knew what she was thinking and it wasn’t of us. She was taking it personally, as a mother will. Asking ‘What have I done?’; ‘Why is she doing this to me?’; ‘What is it that she’s trying to say with these behaviours?’ And of course, these were the right questions, but the answer would not be simple.
It’s a funny thing, a daughter who won’t conform, who turns to hurt you. Poor Maureen had done nothing to deserve it, as far as I could see. She was simply kicked, like the dog, when times got tough. My mother once said: ‘People will take as much as you’re willing to give. Don’t leave yourself with nothing.’ That might have been Mo’s mistake.
But I don’t think she withheld, the cardinal sin, which I was found guilty of. And I had, of course, withheld a fact. A key fact. The fact of Rose’s paternity. And that was my choice, though it never felt like one. And that choice took on greater meaning; it came, for my daughter, to define me. She said, later, that there had always been something hidden; that she had known it from a girl. That hurt, that rewrite of our history, her childhood – peach-tinted days – and I am no romantic. More time passed, and I saw that maybe she was right and I was sorry – that it was true, that she had seen it, and that it had mattered so. But she wanted all of me and, in being denied, refused me entirely. Children will just eat you up, if you let them. Especially girls.
I felt a sudden roll of nausea and went to the loo. Pushed open the slit of window and raised a tilted head to it. I could hear them chattering again.
When I came out, Paul was sat in front of a computer; Maureen’s laptop that her son had given her for a birthday.
‘I’ve rearranged it all, d’you see? Now your email is here. Much better. What else?’
Maureen stood at his shoulder, her glasses on, her forehead clenched.
‘Do her a home page,’ I said. ‘Anja’s done one for me. I’ve got the BBC.’
Peter had begun to clear. Anja was picking up gobbets of food with kitchen roll and I saw Maureen reach and squeeze her at her waist as she passed. ‘Thanks, love,’ she mouthed, and then: ‘No. I know what I want. Facebook, isn’t it? Mia told me all about it.’
Paul blew out through his lips.
‘Do you even know what that is? Are you sure she’s going to want her grandma poking about on her Facebook page?’ he said, with a pitchy laugh.
I saw Maureen bristle. A flick of the head that lifted her fringe, which she resettled between two fingers; her tell, I’d spotted it years back. She moved off. Peter had noticed but Paul was too busy at the screen.
‘You’ve got a page, Mags, didn’t you say?’ he asked.
‘Oh, I don’t know. Someone else did it for me,’ I said.
‘Shall we have a look at yours, and see if she fancies it? OK, email address?’ he asked.
‘I don’t remember,’ I said.
‘You must do! Surely it’s on your phone?’
‘I haven’t got that sort of phone,’ I said. ‘And it’s not my usual email anyway.’
‘Is it the Yahoo?’ Anja called. She appeared at the edge of the room, a big bowl under one arm and a tea towel across her shoulder. Hot from work. Upper lip shining.
‘I know your Yahoo address,’ she said.
The comment settled oddly on the room and I felt a fool, as she spelled it out clearly; old and silly. Perhaps something worse.
‘Password?’ Paul asked, eyes down.
‘Yes. Excuse me,’ I said and reached across him to type.
‘Right,’ said Paul. ‘Here we go.’
&nbs
p; A page appeared; entirely unfamiliar. Nothing recognisably mine.
‘This is the newsfeed. A post from one of Maggie’s friends. See?’
I pulled up a chair. The square of photo that identified the writer was inconclusive. I saw Susan’s name, from the walks, but the image next to her was, inexplicably, a cat.
‘And here she’s posted photos.’
Mallorca: a ghastly group shot. We stood outside a cafe in anoraks and with a hiking stick each. The challenging day. It was hard to see, at first, which one was me; I looked like a man in a pair of stretched-out glasses. A couple more – scenery, a meal, a drinking game that I must have been in bed for. Unusually, it looked less fun than it had been. As a postscript she suggested a ‘rematch’, this time in Morocco.
‘And you can search for friends here. And there’s a timeline, where you fill in your history so people can find you. You’ve been tagged in another photo, Mags. Here we go. Wow. When was that? You look. I don’t know. Kind of powerful,’ said Paul.
He clicked on it, and the picture enlarged. It was years old, black and white; a shot of my daughter, really, having won a North London spelling competition. A professional had come to the school, sent by the local paper. I, the proud mother at her arm. Rose looked herself: serious, decided. I wore an attitude I’d long since shed: pride, and something close to arrogance. A hair’s width of eyebrow. A creeping fret began.
‘What? Where did that come from?’ I asked.
‘You can find out. This was posted by – Kate Williams. Ring any bells? She says she went to school with Rose. She must have scanned it in.’
‘But she isn’t my friend,’ I said.
‘Well, maybe only we can see it. I’m not sure on all that. Peter, can you come over here a min? He’s better on this than me. You’ve got loads of friend requests. Have a look. I’ll go see what he says.’
Paul got up and I moved the screen close. Mo’s mouse-pad span the page the wrong way and the faces on the screen lurched and swam, little nightmare glimpses that set my heart stop-starting. I got the knack, and things got worse. There was Julie from that office job; a girl, no two, from my school; sweet Jesus, was that Ian? Horrible breaches in the skin of time. I pressed delete, delete and delete and Paul was back.
‘Christ, Mags. You don’t mind! Peter will look at it now, if you like.’
In My House Page 11