Behind Closed Doors

by Catherine Alliott

  In her pale yellow sitting room, Nance resumed her spot on the heavily indented sofa cushions beside my mother. A box of chocolates sat between them, they had a drink apiece, and a box of tissues which didn’t look terribly used. I deliberately didn’t sit.

  ‘Okey doke, Mum, let’s go.’ I turned sympathetically to her friend. ‘Nancy’s had a very difficult day. I think she needs some supper and an early night,’ I said gently.

  ‘Oh no, have a little drink, Luce,’ insisted my mother. ‘Just a small one.’

  ‘No, I really think we should be away.’

  ‘Oh, do stay, Lucy,’ urged Nancy. ‘Dan will be back in a mo, he’s only gone to run the vicar home. And he was so pleased to see you today.’

  I found myself sitting smartly in a yellow armchair opposite. ‘The vicar’s called already? That’s nice of him.’

  ‘Her,’ said Nance. She glanced guiltily at my mother. ‘Which of course is lovely, but I will rather miss our dear Reverend Hunter, who retired last year. For the funeral, I mean. He was so tall and good-looking, and with that shock of pure white hair – I honestly thought he was God.’ She put a hand to her heart and went a bit misty eyed.

  ‘Me too,’ agreed Mum vehemently. ‘Whereas Curate Leanne—’

  ‘I’m sure will do brilliantly,’ I said firmly, before they could get going on some massively uncomfortable character assassination based on gender and age and which I was already familiar with. And anyway, luckily Dan had appeared.

  ‘Oh, hello again,’ he beamed, breezing in smelling of fresh air and giving me, I noticed, an appreciative second glance, hopefully on account of the clean hair and spot of lippy. ‘I hoped I’d catch you before you whisked Cecily away. She’s been telling me what a trooper you’ve been since you’ve arrived.’

  I glanced at my mother in surprise, aware that, thus far, I’d had mostly complaints.

  ‘We do appreciate it, darling. Even if we appear to grumble,’ she said sheepishly.

  ‘And actually, your parents were the only ones who didn’t have some help,’ Nancy said, slightly accusingly. ‘The Frobishers have got Camilla, and the Dugdales are now in Natasha’s barn, and of course, I’m so lucky to have Dan.’ She beamed at her son who raised his eyebrows and grimaced at me as he took a seat.

  ‘Short straw, I’m afraid. Toby and Jilly are in Northumberland, and Milo’s buggered off to the States with his hotshot lawyer husband. And now that Claire’s buggered off too …’

  Oh yes, I remembered now. His wife left. With her personal trainer. No – her daughter’s personal trainer.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said politely, echoing his own words earlier, about Michael.

  ‘Dan’s not, are you, darling?’ piped up Nancy. ‘She was frightfully selfish, and if she wasn’t thinking about what she put into her body, she was thinking about what shapes to twist it into. Yoga and what have you. Poor old Dan barely got a look in. Now she and her toy boy instructor can self-obsess to their hearts’ content.’

  ‘Well, there are always two sides, Mum,’ Dan said uncomfortably.

  ‘And the children?’ I asked, moving quickly on and ignoring Nancy’s opening mouth. ‘They’re well?’

  ‘Yes, very. Both in London. Tabby’s just got married and Clem’s probably about to. And I can work from home, so I’ve let the London house.’

  ‘So have I,’ I said in surprise. ‘For similar reasons, actually. Well, sort of.’ I suddenly realized Mum and Nancy were trying not to smile like pussycats and were being very quiet, for them. Almost purring. I sat up straight, realizing I’d fallen right into a trap.

  ‘Right, come on, Mum, we’re off.’ I got to my feet, and so, reluctantly, did my mother. I crossed to the sofa; gave her a hand. Then I bent and gave Nancy a hug and told her not to move. I shepherded my mother out of the pretty yellow sitting room, followed by Dan. I couldn’t really look at him as we walked to the door, but then, I couldn’t really avoid it as I wrestled with the high brass knob: it was stiff. He came to my rescue.

  ‘Here, let me.’ He reached up and I removed my hand quickly, lest his should touch mine. I couldn’t avoid his eyes, though, which were smiley and kind, and something else: weary, perhaps, with the knowledge that our mothers were collectively being more unhelpful than they could imagine. He shrugged despairingly, clearly not one to dissemble, and I grinned back in recognition. Then I bid him goodbye.

  ‘You’re very quiet,’ said my mother when we were almost home. ‘What are you thinking? He’s very nice, isn’t he?’

  ‘He is, but I wasn’t thinking that.’ I turned into the drive and pulled up in front of the house. I turned to her. ‘I was wondering how on earth I’d managed to revert to my adolescent self quite so seamlessly, with you and your friends organizing my social life and you taking centre stage as Mrs Bennett.’

  My mother grinned, and it must have been a relief: she’d been sitting on it for ages. ‘Well, you barely had an adolescence, if you remember. Wouldn’t let me organize it, as Helena did hers, if you recall. You were determined to go it alone, and got it disastrously wrong, if you don’t mind my saying so. So you can hardly object if I have a little go now.’

  She cast me a triumphant glance and then got out of the car all on her own, without me having to go round and help. She shut her door with a flourish and started up the drive to the porch well ahead of me, but then I had banned high heels and found her some very acceptable low pumps, which at least allowed her to walk. Nonetheless, she had a new buoyancy about her, I decided, as I got out myself and closed my door. As if she was very much looking forward to her home-made chicken pie and a spot of cheese, and might even stay up to watch the news in front of the fire I’d laid, before going to bed in the fresh sheets I’d changed for her today. Well, bully for her, I thought, as I followed her up the gravel drive, realizing that it was me, for a change, who was exhausted, and in need of an early night.

  13

  A few days passed. My parents and I settled into a comfortable routine of shopping in the morning – my mother liked to come with me – and ticking off any long-avoided jobs in the afternoon. Bills that could no longer be settled by cheque and that, due to their ignorance of online banking, had been quietly ignored, were paid. The boiler was serviced. Wood for the fire was ordered so we didn’t have to chop our own, and the gutters were cleared by a local tradesman: two things which I was horrified to learn my father had still been doing until relatively recently. They both took trips to specialists at the local hospital to confirm their minor operations and, as a result, I think, became less anxious (my mother) and less defensive (my father).

  I’d organized some computer lessons for both of them, and had driven them into town for the first of many sessions, somehow knowing such instruction, like driving lessons in my youth, would be better not coming from a family member. Dad was reasonably adept in that he could at least email; my mother was a complete beginner, although I knew that once she got the hang of it – especially once she could flaming well see – she’d enjoy emailing friends and texting her grandchildren. Online shopping had been a complete revelation to both of them, and the morning we all sat down to place an Ocado order and then, hey presto, it arrived, was like the annunciation at Pope’s Farm. I knew this would indeed be their saviour one day – one day being some unspecified date when I would no longer be with them and they’d be going it alone, which we all spoke of as if it would definitely happen, but all quietly knew it might not. My only slight qualm came when my mother asked me if I thought ordering an entire twelve-piece dinner service in a terribly attractive lotus leaf pattern, which she’d seen half-price on some dodgy American site, was an extravagance at her age. I assured her it most definitely was, wondering what monster I’d unleashed.

  Mrs Cummings paid a visit, on the pretext of collecting for the parish magazine. She asked if the noises she’d heard last night had been ones of distress? Mum and I had been upstairs in her bedroom trying on her many dresses in the hope that some might fit me
and they’d have another life – we’re talking Dior and Chloé here. Not a chance with the dresses. I couldn’t get them past my hips and we decided even Helena, who was whippet thin, might struggle. But Mum had insisted I force myself into one of the coats, which was beautiful quality. It was so skin-tight my arms stuck out at ninety degrees like a windmill, or a teenager whose mother insists the blazer worn in reception still fits, and I’d then been unable to extract myself. Dad had had to come up to pull me free as my mother collapsed in a heap on the bed. Hilarity, I’d told Mrs Cummings, as her eyes darted past me, taking in everything from the recently hoovered stairs and the washed parquet floor, to the smell of polish still in the air from the dresser. She left, looking disappointed.

  And then, one morning, I awoke to a text from Amanda.

  ‘Have decided to have a memorial service for Michael. Ned has sweetly agreed to take it.’

  I stared at my phone. It was as if I’d been turned to stone. I’d been awake for ten minutes before I’d reached for my mobile and had been enjoying wallowing in the best spare room, a bedroom I’d known well as a girl but never slept in. My own bedroom was small, with a single bed, and since it was clearly going to be a while before I could move to the cottage, it had been unilaterally decided that I’d sleep in this much larger room, where there was a double bed and an en suite bathroom. In my youth I’d occasionally popped in to help Mum change the sheets, put flowers in a vase for a visitor, or borrow a book from the rather interesting guest bookcase, but had never had the pleasure of staying in here myself. I wondered, as I admired the spriggy Colefax wallpaper and the thick creamy curtains, not nearly as tired as the rest of the house on account of being used less, if this sort of look would work in the cottage? Or whether to go all pale wood, white walls and clean lines? I reached for my mobile to have a look at room set ideas on Pinterest, and suddenly all frivolous decorative notions turned to dust.

  My mouth went dry. I read it again and shut my eyes. All at once I was back in my old life, transported to the horror of so many long and frightened years. Why? Why couldn’t I just escape? Why did I have to be dragged back to All That when yes, all right, returning to the womb had not been exactly brave, but had at least proved to be busy, amusing and hopefully useful, and had totally taken my mind off my past. I hated Amanda. I just hated her. I also wondered if she’d ever go away. I sat up on my pillows and rang Ned.

  ‘Mum.’

  ‘Hi, darling. I’ve just had a message from Amanda. Apparently you said you’d take a memorial service for Dad.’

  ‘Eh? No, she sent me a text saying she was thinking of planning one and that she was talking to you. I assumed the two of you had spoken. I was surprised you were agreeing to it, actually. I was going to ring you, but I only got the text late last night.’

  I shut my eyes, feeling the familiar fury about being lied to and manipulated, which almost made me tremble. The audacity of these people: of this brother and sister act. The sheer mendacity and outrageousness. I would not have it, I wouldn’t. Then the fear.

  ‘Can I say no? Is it up to me?’

  ‘Well, you can certainly say you don’t want it.’

  ‘I’ll ring her,’ I said, trying to keep the emotion from my voice.

  ‘No, don’t, Mum,’ he said gently. ‘I’ll do it. I’ll pop round and see her. Don’t you get involved.’

  ‘Really?’ I felt a great wave of relief flood through me. ‘Would you, Ned? It’s just …’ I fought back something: tears even, perhaps; certainly a large lump in my throat.

  ‘Of course.’

  I busied myself even more than usual that day, cleaning rooms as yet untackled. Helena’s old bedroom, the boot room where Hector slept, the utility room. I concentrated on one at a time, doing each one methodically and thoroughly. I made a few puddings for the freezer because that was what my mother really loved, but made sure they were full of fruit, or eggs, or a bit of stodge, like bread and butter pudding. Having dropped my mother off at the chiropodist in the afternoon, since both she and my father were unable to cut her toenails – and I have to say, I’d felt a bit queasy when I’d looked – I came back and met a cheerful team of builders who gave me a reasonable quote and timescale for the bungalow. I’d just been to collect Mum when my phone rang. Without thinking, I popped it on hands-free speaker phone. It was Ned. He sounded grim.

  ‘She’s already arranged it.’

  I gasped. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Promise you. Invites have gone out already. Church is booked. Flowers ordered. She must have done it ages ago.’

  I shut my eyes. Luckily I was at some red lights. I opened them as they went green. Took a deep breath.

  ‘Is there anything we can do?’

  ‘Well, she won’t listen to me. Imo’s hopping mad – as you know, she flew back yesterday. I won’t be able to stop her storming round. Amanda says she’ll have it with or without us, though.’

  ‘I’ll go and see her,’ I said, seething. ‘I’m the only one who can put a stop to this.’

  ‘Or maybe just go along with it?’ he said despairingly.

  ‘Ned …’

  ‘I know. I don’t want to either. It’s just … Amanda is almost, like, possessed.’

  ‘I know.’ And it was how Michael could get, too. Possessed was a good word, particularly coming from a vicar.

  We said goodbye and my mother looked at me. Her face was a bit crumpled: scared. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Amanda wants a memorial service.’

  She didn’t speak. But her face, like my son’s voice, made me realize how much he had woefully affected everyone’s life: how even though I’d tried to limit the damage as much as I could, he had spread, insidiously, into everyone I loved and infected them with fear too. She leaned across and patted my hand. I gulped and we drove silently on, both quietly depressed.

  My daughter, however, was made of sterner stuff. That evening, she rang. She was incandescent on the phone.

  ‘She slammed the fucking door in my face!’ she fumed, as I was dishing out the bread and butter pudding. ‘I went round to tell her what I thought of her glorifying a man who’d bullied his wife and children for years and she screamed in my face that it was none of my business. She hustled me – literally, hustled me, as in shoved – down the hall, called me a heartless bitch and slammed the door on my foot!’

  ‘I’ll go,’ I told her. ‘I’m the only one she’ll listen to. Who she’ll have to listen to.’

  ‘And I’ll come with you.’

  ‘No. Thank you, darling, but I think I’ll be better alone.’

  She was quiet. ‘Don’t go to her house,’ she said softly, and I could tell she’d had a really horrible experience. ‘Meet her somewhere public. And tell me and Ned where you’re going.’

  I paused. Went cold. ‘OK.’

  My parents, as a rule, went to bed early. Really early, at about nine thirty – making it to the news was a big night out – which Camilla Frobisher, who’d sweetly telephoned to see how I was getting on, and to arrange a coffee, had caustically told me was the only silver lining. When they’d gone up, comparatively sober these days, just the one bottle of wine between the three of us at supper and with a great deal more food inside them, I sat in front of Newsnight: not listening, not seeing anything. Just thinking. Remembering. The time he took Imo’s phone from her bag and erased all the contacts he didn’t know. When he rang her boss and told him she was thinking of leaving. The times he’d wondered aloud if I’d meant to drive so fast across that crossroads? Send that motorbike flying? If actually, there was no such thing as accidents, that everything was premeditated. The time he’d found a photo of Ned and a friend, Sam, their arms linked, and—

  My mobile made me jump. It was a number I didn’t recognize. For one ridiculous moment, because of where I’d been, I wondered if it was Michael. Then I came to. Picked it up. My voice, when I said hello, was almost a whisper.

  ‘Hello, Lucy?’ said a much clearer, m
ale voice on the other end.

  I cleared my throat, rattled. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You sound miles away. It’s Dan.’

  ‘Oh. Hi, Dan.’ I rallied. Well, a bit. Not really. He was from my new, pleasant life, that I couldn’t really live any more.

  ‘Sorry, I’ve just realized how late it is. I’ve been away and only just got back.’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘I was just wondering, seeing as we both seem to be in the same boat on the geriatric parent front, whether you’d like a night off?’

  ‘Sorry?’ I wasn’t firing on all cylinders.

  ‘Pub supper? Give them the slip? Leave them in front of beans on toast and Holby City one night?’

  ‘Oh. I see. Um … yes, that would be lovely.’

  ‘OK.’ He sounded surprised at my lukewarm enthusiasm. ‘Tomorrow any good?’

  ‘Tomorrow I think I’m going to London.’

  He was quiet. I hadn’t suggested another day.

  ‘Friday?’ he said tentatively.

  ‘Yes, Friday,’ I managed. There was a pause.

  ‘You all right?’

  It was the kindness in his voice that almost made me choke. Something I was so very unused to in a man, unless it was my son, or my father. I couldn’t speak for a moment: felt my eyes fill with tears which spilled silently down my cheeks. ‘Yes,’ I managed to gasp. ‘I’m fine. See you Friday.’ And then I put the phone down and wept.

  The following day I drove to London, hands clenched on the wheel, teeth gritted. I knew I had to get this over with and that, if I left it even a day, it would hang over me like the cloak of doom. Ridiculous, I told myself, that it had had such an effect on me. A night’s sleep – well, four hours, I’d tossed and turned for much of it – and a fresh dawn had assured me that I was being faintly foolish, here. Amanda couldn’t go ahead without our consent, surely, and even if she did, so what? So what if she had her stupid, pompous service and we weren’t there? Oddly, though, the ramifications of that, for me in particular, had me gripping the wheel even tighter as my eyes grew huge with a different fear. A glance in the rear-view mirror told me that my face was very pasty and slightly sweaty, too. I breathed from the diaphragm, like Helena told me she did before she went into the boardroom to present to a client, and turned on Radio 2, hoping for some cheerful, sing-along music. ‘Amarillo’ came on, but even the thought of Peter Kay’s face failed to lift me.