‘My point entirely. You need help.’
‘And my point is that we roared with laughter and had a choc ice instead. We are managing extremely well, thank you. Also, I have just forced a confession out of you. You are coming down to help, and not for your own benefit. I won’t have it, Lucy.’
He only called me Lucy when he was angry, but I wasn’t having it either. I was angry too.
‘The incident the other day wasn’t a one-off, Dad. I know you’re struggling. Waitrose in Thame rang Helena and she paid them forty-three pounds. Mummy had been doing a little light pilfering again.’
He paused. ‘She gets forgetful. Forgets to pay.’
‘And had parked on a roundabout while she got her shopping? I thought we’d agreed she wouldn’t drive any more, Dad?’
‘She found the keys.’ He sounded weary. ‘I’d left them out, by mistake. And the police were terribly nice, Luce.’
I sighed as I stopped at some lights. ‘Yes, and they were nice when she filled up with petrol three times and drove away without paying.’
‘Nancy’s done that once, she told us.’
‘I doubt it. I expect she was being kind.’ Nancy was Mum’s very switched-on BF.
‘I think we all know Nance has many admirable traits, but that the milk of human kindness flows like glue.’
I smiled as the lights went green and I moved off.
‘My point is that you and Helena expect her to be exactly the same woman she was ten years ago, and of course she’s not. But she’s not barking.’
‘No, I get that – hang on, I’m just parking, I’m in the car.’ I’d pulled into a side road and was slotting the car into place, only a few yards from my destination. I took the phone from its holder and held it to my ear. ‘Of course she’s not the same woman, and we don’t expect her to be. We don’t expect her still to be – I don’t know, chairing the NSPCC, or organizing meals on wheels like she was a few years ago. But she has deteriorated quite quickly recently, and we are building up to a crisis here, Dad. And frankly, I have just had my own crisis. And much as I was desperately unhappy with Michael, I still need to lick my wounds; in peace and quiet, sure, but also, if possible, not entirely alone. Surrounded by familiar people I love. And not in that quiet, empty house surrounded by bad memories. Let’s be even-handed here. It is about you and Mum, but it’s also about me. I want to come home. Would very much like to, please. If you’ll have me.’
There was a silence on the end of the line. I glanced up at the estate agent’s window. As I activated my parking app, I could tell he was thinking about it.
‘And you’d live in the cottage?’
‘Of course.’
‘It’s a bloody mess.’
‘I know.’
To call it a cottage was a huge exaggeration. It was an ugly pebbledash bungalow, thrown up in the fifties with no doubt zero planning permission. Certainly before my parents’ time: a throwback to the days when the farmhouse had staff, no doubt. A gardener, perhaps. It had been derelict for years. There was a sitting room permanently covered in bat poo which had our ping pong table in it, two bedrooms, a bathroom and a kitchen.
‘I’ll have a look at it this afternoon. See what I can do.’
‘Do not! I’ll sort it out myself when I come. It’ll give me something to do.’
There was a pause. Then: ‘Your mother’s delighted, of course.’
‘Is she?’ I smiled. ‘Dear Mum!’
‘She’s getting the horse trailer ready. Thinks you’re both off to the local gymkhana. She’s keenly anticipating the bending race.’
‘Right,’ I said faintly. I swallowed. ‘Dad, is it dementia? I know you say you’ve had all the tests, but it sounds jolly likely.’
‘No, no, not that. The hospital were quite categorical. Just a few lapses in concentration; and, of course, I ham it up a bit.’ Oh, did he. If my mother was naughty, my father was worse. He’d do anything for a laugh, so one never quite knew where the joke stopped and reality began. ‘But I won’t pretend, if you’re really serious, that I won’t be delighted to see you myself. Maybe to – you know. Get the place in order a bit. But we’re talking a few weeks here, possibly a month or two maximum, yes? Just for the summer. And just to get you back on your feet again too, hm?’
‘Of course,’ I agreed. I got out of the car and locked it. Then I walked down the road to the estate agents. I gazed through the window at the glossy photographs and particulars spread before me, looking at long-term rental prices. Not bad. Not bad at all, especially if I went for a year. Two years even. ‘Just for a few weeks,’ I agreed, before bidding him goodbye and clicking my phone off. Then I pocketed it, and sailed through the door into the office.
8
Time passed. But not long actually, only a few days. Estate agents work like quicksilver in London, particularly when there’s a commission in the offing. They sent some Rupert round to look over the place, he liked what he saw, and then they got going: photos were taken, particulars were printed and put on the web – it looked rather smart, actually, and for a moment I wondered why I was going. But the following day I opened the door to my first prospective tenant. I’d forgotten, of course, that Ned had said he might pop round for a coffee, so that when I discovered the two of them together on my doorstep, it wrong-footed me. Being grown men, however, they’d managed to introduce themselves and ascertain what the other was doing there. As they stepped inside, Ned introduced me to the stranger, whose name was Joshua Cohen. He was slim, dark and not terribly tall, with glasses rather like the ones I’d seen on the face of Imo’s ex-boyfriend. He was possibly a bit younger than me and had the look of a young Jeremy Paxman before he got cross and arrogant. I was about to extend my hand, but then wondered if one did shake hands with viewers, and since he didn’t remove his from his overcoat pockets, I didn’t. We exchanged a few pleasantries and then I led them down the hall to the kitchen where I’d been brewing coffee, the aroma from which, I’d read in a colour supplement, was seductive when showing a house. When I got to my fragrant kitchen, however, I realized I only had Ned with me. Mr Cohen had peeled off. Raising my eyebrows at my son, I went back to find him in the sitting room.
‘Sorry.’ He turned to me abruptly. ‘I was just looking at your shelves. I saw them through the window.’
‘Oh yes, quite a few, I’m afraid.’ They were floor to ceiling on both sides of the fireplace and crammed. ‘But you don’t have to fill them with books like this, I just happen to have rather a lot. You could put ornaments or whatnots on them.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘I happen to have rather a lot, too.’
‘Oh. Splendid,’ I murmured. He’d gone again, ahead of me, making his way to the kitchen. Which left me following him. It occurred to me that Jeremy Paxman had always been arrogant.
‘What’s all this, Mum?’ Ned was perched on a stool at the island, looking at lemons I’d arranged attractively in a large shallow dish. He picked one up and grinned. ‘Gone a bit Tuscan?’
‘It was in the Sunday Times last week,’ said Mr Cohen with a smile. ‘That and the smell of coffee. This is the third house I’ve seen with the same vibe.’
They laughed in comradely fashion and I pretended to join in. I wanted to tell him I’d never said whatnots in my life before just now. ‘It was the Observer, actually,’ I said smoothly, crossing to my percolator.
‘Oh, sorry. I get both.’
‘Yes, me too.’
Ned’s eyes widened at my tone. He replaced the lemon.
‘Nice kitchen,’ said Mr Cohen, breaking a silence I obviously should have been the one to fill.
I beamed, remembering myself. ‘Thank you, I love it.’ I did, actually.
It had been bought on the strength of a two-book deal which had been labour-intensive in the writing, but very satisfactory in the spending. Even Michael had agreed that the three weeks we’d spent living off microwave meals while it was fitted had been worth it.
‘It was handmade in
Somerset,’ I told him proudly. ‘By artisans, in an atelier.’
‘Oh really? As opposed to carpenters in a joinery?’ He grinned. Was he laughing at me?
‘Or even chippies in a workshop,’ observed Ned, rather disloyally I felt, which they found equally funny. Lovely to have so much male bonding in my kitchen, I decided with a tight smile as I went to get some mugs. I felt my visitor’s eyes on my back.
‘I was sorry to hear about your husband,’ he said abruptly. I turned from the cupboard with my mugs, surprised. ‘Obviously the estate agent told me,’ he said. ‘Apparently it’s called the three D’s.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Reasons for selling. Death, divorce and debt.’
‘Oh, right. Except I’m not selling.’
‘No. But I can see it would be hard to stay.’
‘Well, yes. It is. In all sorts of ways.’ Ned and I managed not to look at each other. ‘Do you have a family, Mr Cohen?’ I swept on quickly.
‘Josh.’
‘Josh.’
‘I do, but they’re staying on in Paris.’
‘Oh, right. Gosh, you’ll miss them, won’t you?’
‘The children, yes, certainly. But my wife, no. We’re separating.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry.’
‘No, don’t be. It was high time.’
His candour was refreshing, as was his matter-of-fact delivery, and I wondered if this was the way forward for me. The way to reveal that I too was well shot of my other half. On the other hand, I decided nervously, circumstances might differ. I also wondered if, had I been happily married, I might have been rather shocked. I decided that in the real world I no longer inhabited, I might have been.
Ned cleared his throat. ‘Shall I make myself scarce, Mum? Come back another time?’
‘No, no, it won’t take a moment to show Mr Coh—Josh, around. I’ll be back in a mo. You finish making the coffee, darling.’ I went to the fridge to pour some milk into a jug.
‘In fact, if it’s all right by you, I’d rather poke around on my own, if you don’t mind,’ said Josh. ‘These houses all have an identical layout and I’ve seen three already.’ He smiled. ‘No dark secrets, I take it?’
The jug slipped from my fingers and smashed on the floor. Milk shot everywhere.
‘God!’ I lunged for a dishcloth in the sink. ‘So stupid,’ I muttered, mopping and squeezing as Ned put the bits of broken china in the dustpan he’d got from the cupboard. ‘No, no secrets. Absolutely not. Do have a good look around.’ I threw the J-cloth in the bin, my face hot. Ned calmly put the milk carton on the island but as Josh disappeared, he was watching me, I could tell. I gave the simmering percolator a degree of unnecessary attention.
‘How did you find Imo?’ I asked, with my back to him, before he could say anything.
‘Hm? Oh, fine. On good form, I thought. I mean – all things considered. She looks great.’
‘Imo always looks great.’ My daughter was very beautiful. ‘But in herself? Sad about Ben?’
Ned sighed. ‘Mum, you’ve got to stop worrying and treating us both as boxes to be ticked. Imo will find someone. She’s just – you know …’
‘A bad picker?’ I turned to look at him properly.
‘Is that what worries you? That you were, so she will be?’
‘I think it’s why she gives up so easily. James, Tommy, Ed – and now Ben – and there was nothing wrong with any of them! I think she panics.’
Ned sighed. He’d heard it all before. ‘Whereas I won’t pick at all. Poor Mum.’ He got up and put an arm round my shoulders, squeezing them and giving me his naughty grin. He looked just like his grandfather.
‘Darling, if you are gay, you know you can tell me. I’ve told you that a million times.’
‘You have, but I’m not.’
‘Or bisexual?’
‘You say that so weirdly. Why all the syllables? Sex-u-al.’
‘Ned …’
He laughed. ‘No, not that, either.’
‘So, hetero.’
He shrugged. ‘I guess. If you must have a label.’
‘I must. And you’re not even a priest, like Damien. It’s allowed, for God’s sake, in the C of E, and—’
‘Mum, breathe. Breathe.’ He led me to a stool, where I slumped down, defeated. ‘You’ll last longer. Anyway, Damien is gay.’
‘Is he?’ I brightened. ‘Oh good, he’s finally come out. Well, lucky Marion.’
Ned grinned and poured the coffee. ‘Yes, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
‘It would give me something to work with.’
‘You mean scouring dating sites?’
I blinked. I hadn’t considered this. Could one? For other people? ‘Maybe.’
‘Yes, Marion’s been busy. But she still likes to double-check. When Damien goes home for the weekend she says – hello, darling, lovely to see you. Still gay?’
Ned barked an incredulous hoot up to the ceiling. I smiled wryly. ‘Yes, well, you can laugh. Wait till you have children.’ I sighed. Glanced up at the ceiling. ‘D’you think he’s all right up there?’
‘He’s fine. Having a good old poke around. Much the best way to see a house, as he says. Anyway, I didn’t come to talk about Imo or me, I came about you. And not about moving – I’m coming round to that. At least for a bit. But I saw Sonia the other day.’
I got up and pretended to look for some biscuits. Sonia might be my agent but she was also a very good friend and she knew my children.
‘I bumped into her in Waterstones. Sit down, Mum. She says you’re not answering her emails. About signing a new contract.’
I breathed heavily into the cupboard where I was conducting my spurious search: wondered if I could confess to this priest son of mine that I no longer had an urge to write. No longer needed my therapy. I turned and gave it a whirl. He listened in silence. Then nodded.
‘Yes, I can see that. I understand that, with Dad gone, another world is not so … well, I get it. But wasn’t it also something for you?’
‘I’ve just explained, it was all for me. No one else. But with your father gone, it’s no longer necessary.’
‘But you were good at it. Are good at it.’
I shrugged. ‘I’m OK. You and I both know I can do it standing on my head. I was churning them out. And let’s not pretend it’s brain surgery.’
Ned and I didn’t do bullshit, so he didn’t protest. He tried another tack. ‘But what will you do? I mean—’
‘Do?’ I interrupted, irritated. ‘What is this obsession with doing? Why should I have to do anything? I’ve been doing all my life, surely it’s time for a bit of bugger all? Even a bit of fuc—oh, hello! Sorry, didn’t see you there. How did you get on?’
My prospective tenant appeared in the doorway, rather fortuitously actually, in the light of my son’s interrogation, and before my language got too fruity.
‘Yeah, I like it.’
‘Oh good! Do you?’ I beamed, delighted.
‘Well, there are a couple of things I wouldn’t mind changing, but on the whole it works.’
‘Oh? Really?’ I bridled instantly. ‘Like what?’
‘Well, the television is antiquated and the fridge is too small. Plus there’s an awful lot of clutter, which I presume you’re taking with you?’
‘Clutter? What clutter? This fridge is American, by the way; I just resisted one of those vast ostentatious ones. What clutter?’ I’d tidied the entire house yesterday, until my fingers were numb. Taken bin bags of rubbish to the tip. My cupboards looked like Benetton displays, which was why I hadn’t minded him peering around in them. He should have come last week.
‘Statues in the bathroom, that kind of thing.’
‘Oh, my lovely Nefertiti! Don’t you love her? Well clearly not. And that marble one is Diana, goddess of the moon, but I can take her with me, if you like?’
‘And all the blue and white china?’
‘You don’t like it? It’s antique.’
&n
bsp; ‘Mum, furnished really just means bare bones,’ Ned interjected. ‘Sofas, beds, tables, that kind of thing.’
‘Of course. Yes, of course. I know that.’ I straightened up. ‘Well, you can be sure I’ll pare it down to the very … bare bones, Mr … Josh.’ I nodded curtly. I wasn’t sure I liked this man. He was ungracious and uncomplimentary. ‘Would you like to see the garden?’
He shrugged non-committally. ‘Sure.’
I led him through and out of the French windows to the terrace. It was a beautiful spring day and this was my sanctuary. Any love I could no longer pour into my children, I poured in here.
‘Have a wander round,’ I suggested.
Another shrug, but he ambled off. Would it hurt to comment on how gorgeous it was before he went, I wondered? But I held my tongue.
The small raised terrace looked on to an immaculate rectangle of well-tended grass, surrounded on three sides by suitably distressed walls at which I’d been known to throw yoghurt, to age them. All were clothed with delicate creepers, and carefully espaliered fruit trees which were now in blossom, the apple the palest pink and white. Below, the beds positively billowed over with late spring flowers. Tulips, slightly dishevelled and decadent, like beautiful courtesans after a night out, were the softest blush Dutch ones from my very exclusive catalogue: they bowed their heads over a sea of blue forget-me-nots, nearly over, but not quite. Poised to replace them, and just starting to bud, in fact, were my all-time summer favourites, frothy lime-green Alchemilla mollis, which would spread and scramble everywhere like eager children, replacing the bluebells I cultivated in small clumps. An ancient wisteria, of the Chinese variety, so white, climbed the back wall I shared with my neighbour and dripped its elegant, pendulous flowers like huge, milky teardrops. Whoever lived behind had trained climbing roses on their side, and in the summer, they crawled over to mine. My neighbour had taste: they were softest yellow and classy.
Behind Closed Doors Page 8