This behavior called to mind Edward, who was also a very difficult toddler. I have an enduring image of him sitting in his pushchair, kicking his legs, writhing and screaming at the top of his voice until he got what he wanted. My mother overindulged Edward in a way she never did me. Perhaps that was because he was unwell when he was small. I’m not sure exactly what was wrong with him; nobody explained it to me at the time and I haven’t subsequently thought to ask. I believe it was a genetic disorder, something to do with his stomach, which involved several operations to correct.
My mother was a distant figure to me during the summer Edward spent in the hospital; most of the time it was just my father and me. Surprisingly, he managed to rise to the occasion and assume responsibility for domestic affairs in my mother’s absence. He even found time to play with me. In my memory, it was sunny for the whole of that summer. My father and I spent our lunchtimes in pub beer gardens, and I had chicken flavor crisps and lemonade every day. Dinner was always something slightly wrong like marmalade sandwiches or spaghetti hoops with sweet corn. When my mother brought Edward home, my father went back to his usual ways and the fun stopped. I had to creep around the house so as not to disturb my brother when he was sleeping, and wasn’t allowed to play with him in case I hurt him. Instead of having the full attention of an adult—my father—I had to vie for the odd moments my mother was able to give me when she wasn’t running around after Edward. Even though he was only two years old, my brother was aware of the power his status as a convalescent gave him and took full advantage of it.
* * *
It was midafternoon by the time we made it back to my flat, and there was still no word from Kate. The return journey had been even more challenging than the outward one due to the number of carrier bags that had to be heaved onto and off the escalators in addition to the buggy and child. Having been kept awake for the whole of the previous night, I was by now utterly worn-out. I therefore dumped the bags in the kitchen and curled up in bed with the child. We both fell asleep immediately.
That evening we were eating our meal of roast chicken with mashed potato and peas, which turned out to be acceptable fare, when relief finally arrived. As I showed Kate into the kitchen, the child flung herself at her mother. Anyone would have thought they’d been parted for months. Kate placed the car seat containing the now-peaceful-looking baby on the floor, and sat down next to the child while she finished her dinner. Kate explained that the baby’s temperature was down and he’d been discharged with a course of antibiotics.
“Thanks so much for helping out,” she said. “Alex is in Sardinia, according to his boss. I owe you one.”
“That’s quite alright,” I said, getting up to clear the table. “I’d suggest, however, that you draw up a rota of emergency contacts in case of future family crises.”
Standing to help, Kate spotted the heap of maternity-shop carrier bags in the corner of the kitchen. She glanced down at my belly.
“Oh, you’re pregnant. Congratulations,” she said. “Is there a father lurking somewhere?” she added, as though I might have one hidden in a cupboard.
“No. No father.”
“Well, we can look out for each other. Two single mums together. We’ll have some fun.”
“That would be lovely,” I said. She seemed to think I meant it.
* * *
I worked late on Friday evening, preparing a lengthy submission for the monthly departmental meeting. I’d come up with some novel ways of improving personal efficiency and thus increasing individual targets. I was sure my colleagues would be pleased. There’s far too much inadvertent time-wasting going on in my office. I’ve noted that the quantity of beverages consumed during the working day greatly exceeds the number necessary to keep a person properly hydrated. No doubt people are making drinks simply because they think it’s their turn to do so, rather than because they’re thirsty. In addition, I’ve often observed two or more people standing next to the kettle at the same time, when it clearly only takes one person to make a round of tea or coffee. I’d therefore devised a strict timetable for the making and imbibing of drinks, the scientific validity of which was beyond dispute.
I’ve also noted that a considerable amount of time is wasted by my colleagues carrying documents across the open-plan office from their own desk to someone else’s. They then feel obliged to loiter at that desk talking to its occupant, and I suspect that such talk veers away from matters that are strictly work-related. If people were required to email paperwork to their colleagues, rather than physically taking it, their perceived obligation to chat would be eliminated. I’d documented several other such ideas, which I’d calculated would save an average of twenty minutes per day for each employee. This would enable Trudy to increase personal targets—including her own—by 4.5 percent.
By the time I left the office, it was already dark, and the rain, which had been threatening all day, was thundering down. While I was fiddling with the stubborn mechanism of my umbrella, a familiar face loomed out of the shadows at the side of the doorway, where the smokers usually huddle. Richard. It was some time since I’d seen or spoken to him; he’d phoned on several occasions, but I hadn’t picked up. What was there to discuss? He must have been lurking in the smokers’ corner for some time, but although his hair was slick with rain, his midnight-blue overcoat was sodden and he had droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes, he still somehow managed to look impeccable. He called to mind a scene from an old black-and-white film: a dapper Orson Welles emerging from the darkness in The Third Man. Something stirred in me, despite myself. I suppressed it.
I was in no mood for a tricky conversation, particularly one for which I hadn’t prepared, so I turned to head toward the underground station. I suppose it was a little optimistic to hope that Richard would simply dissolve away. Before I could make good my escape, he grabbed my sleeve.
“Susan,” he said, above the drone of the post-rush-hour traffic, the drumming of the rain and the fizzle of car wheels through puddles. “Don’t you think it’s high time we talked?” He lowered his gaze to the level of my belly. “About our baby.”
I pulled my coat around me.
“Please don’t feel obliged to think of it as our baby,” I told him. “You’ve played your part.”
“Why don’t we go somewhere dry, where we can discuss things properly? It seems silly to do this in the street.”
“We don’t have to do this anywhere. You can rest assured—I don’t need your assistance.”
“Susan, I just want you to know, I realize you were trying to frighten me off when we last met, because you wanted to demonstrate your independence. I admire you for that. But if I were to have some regular involvement, think how much easier you’d find it, both financially and practically. I’ve thought it all through and done a few calculations. I’m ready and willing to assume joint responsibility for the baby, with all that that entails.”
I reminded myself that I’d made my decision, and that I was not a person to waver. It had been a long day, though, and I was weary. I needed to get rid of Richard before any chinks started to appear in my armor.
“You’re wrong. I’m not trying to demonstrate anything. I’m just making it crystal clear that you’re free to walk away. Our interactions were based solely on a businesslike agreement, which has now ended. You have no further obligations.”
“But there’s no reason why the terms of the agreement shouldn’t be renegotiated if that’s the desire of both parties,” he said, with the air of a seasoned diplomat. “The initial purpose of our understanding was mutual entertainment and pleasure. The purpose now should be to raise a well-balanced and healthy child. I’m sure, if we work together to that end, it will be a most successful, mutually beneficial enterprise.”
“Look, Richard,” I said, brushing the dripping hair from my eyes. “I know you have no wish to be a father, and I also know that the child will
be absolutely fine without you. If you think about it properly, you’ll realize it would be absurd for us to continue to interact with each other for the next eighteen years simply because of an accident of biology. I doubt very much that that’s what you really want, if you’re honest with yourself.”
“But what do you want?”
“I want to get out of this rain. I want to go home and have my dinner.”
“That baby has my genes,” he said, waving his finger in the direction of my abdomen. “It doesn’t just belong to you. Half of it belongs to me. It might very well look like me, think like me, walk and talk like me. I’m not about to relinquish my share of control over its future. I owe a duty to my mother to ensure the welfare of her grandchild.”
“It’s not up to you,” I said, batting his hand away, irritated now. “I understand you want to do what you believe is the right thing, but please trust me to know what’s best for all of us. Now, if you don’t mind...”
I thrust the useless umbrella into an overflowing rubbish bin and hailed the vacant black cab that had fortuitously loomed out of the darkness.
“If you don’t come to your senses soon, I regret to say you’ll be hearing from my lawyer,” he called after me.
It’s remarkable how people fall into clichés when they haven’t got a leg to stand on.
9
I’d been endeavoring, for several days, to speak to Aunt Sylvia, but whenever I phoned I was greeted either by Uncle Frank’s nicotine rasp, or Wendy’s or Christine’s giggling trills. On a couple of occasions, I heard, in the background, Aunt Sylvia asking her gofer to tell me that she was really, really sorry but she was completely up to her neck in it, and that she’d definitely give me a buzz later. Her avowals, however, were as false as her nails, her eyelashes and the dazzling blue of her eyes. During one call, when Aunt Sylvia supposedly couldn’t speak because she’d had her teeth laser-whitened that morning, I managed to gather from Wendy that she, Christine and my aunt were coming down to London the following weekend to treat themselves and see a West End show. What about my giving their mum a tour of the sights while they had a “pamper day” at a spa?
“But I want a pamper day, too. I don’t want to waste my time looking around a load of gloomy old museums,” Aunt Sylvia managed to whimper through her dental distress.
In the end, it became clear that the only way I was going to pin down my elusive aunt was by agreeing, very much against my better judgment, to join her and the cousins at the spa. I’ve never before frequented such a place; I’ve always considered them to be a self-indulgent waste of time and money for the type who believe their worth as a person is directly proportionate to the amount they spend on themselves. Like my aunt and cousins. I was reassured by Wendy, however, that I need purchase only a half-day pass and wouldn’t be obliged to be handled by anyone.
* * *
I arrived at the spa—which was located in a slick London hotel where I’d once stayed with Richard—at nine thirty in the morning. My relatives weren’t yet there; it was evidently too early in the day for them to face the arduous task of being pampered. Everything in the reception area was gleaming, from the marble floor to the mirrored walls to the receptionist’s flawless skin. The ecclesiastical silence was broken only by the gurgle of water spouting from a font-like stone basin opposite the entrance. The air hung heavy with oils and unguents sliced through with the smell of chlorine.
“Would you like to book some treatments today, madam? You can choose from our à la carte menu or you might be interested in our ‘Serenity’ or ‘Vitality’ packages,” the glossy woman intoned. I informed her that I didn’t believe that either state could be achieved from a morning at her establishment, and that I simply required access to the inner sanctum. The cost of such access was astounding.
I was given a monogrammed towel and robe and directed to the communal changing room, where a number of women were wriggling into the most impractical swimwear I’d ever seen. I hadn’t worn my black Speedo costume since I’d become pregnant, and was aware that the way it stretched over my belly and squashed my newly fulsome breasts wasn’t particularly flattering. That didn’t overly concern me; I had much more important matters on my mind.
I wrapped myself tightly in the robe, and tied the belt in a secure double knot. Picking up my briefcase containing the hefty Tristram and Coote’s Probate Practice that I’d collected from the library the previous day, I made my way to the poolside “tranquility zone.” Its decor was similar to that of the reception area, with the addition of palm trees, lush trailing plants and sun loungers, and its atmosphere was sultry and airless. The place was already half full; it amazes me how many people have nothing constructive to occupy them on a Saturday morning. Crossing the room, I noted that the men reclining on the loungers were as portly and hirsute as the women were skinny and hairless. All looked equally vacuous. I found a secluded spot in a corner, put on my reading glasses and opened my law book.
An hour or so later Aunt Sylvia emerged from the changing room with Wendy and Christine a couple of steps behind. The usual kisses had to be tolerated, along with declarations of how brilliant it was to see me again so soon after the funeral. Sun loungers were pulled up to my own—Aunt Sylvia’s on my left and the cousins’ on my right—and robes removed. The cousins were both dressed in jade green swimsuits, wore matching gold bracelets around their ankles and had their brash blond hair arranged on top of their heads in a similarly elaborate manner. For twins to be dressing identically at the age of thirty-nine, and to be spending so much time together when they have their own families, is clearly an indication of deep-rooted identity problems, no doubt caused by their self-obsessed mother. My aunt, who was wearing a tropical-print costume to match the theme of the pool area, must have recently returned from her holiday home in Spain; her plump body was as brown and leathery as an old boxing glove. So very different from my pale, petite late mother.
* * *
The cousins and I spent more childhood afternoons together than I can bear to remember. Before my aunt and her family moved away from Birmingham to their showy spread near Worcester, she and my mother visited each other at least once a week. As children, we had no choice but to trail along. Strangely, even though my mother and aunt had very little in common, they managed to spend unfathomable amounts of time chatting and gossiping. In order to do so without the inhibiting presence of their offspring, Aunt Sylvia and my mother would usher us out to play in the back garden or in the street. When it was time to say our goodbyes, my mother would often be red-eyed and blotchy. I knew, then, that they had been addressing the perennial subject of my father’s behavior.
I’m six years older than the cousins, so I was nominally in loco parentis when my mother and aunt were otherwise engaged. I say “nominally,” because controlling those spoiled, sneaky little brats was impossible. My seniority in age held little sway with them, and neither did my superior size, strength or intelligence. The cousins were indulged by their mother to an extent even greater than Edward was by ours. So long as they treated her with fawning reverence, they were given whatever they requested—sweets, toys, pets. They made no secret of the fact that they disliked me, which was probably because I wasn’t susceptible to their wheedling and whinging. Conversely, they hero-worshiped Edward; his subversive behavior gave him an air of excitement and rebellion. If there was an argument or disagreement when the four of us were together, which there invariably was, it would always be Edward and the cousins against me.
I offer up the following as an example: I must have been about thirteen years old, which would put Edward at ten or eleven and the cousins at seven. It was late summer, and I was simultaneously dreading and longing for the return to school. “Dreading,” because even at that age I already preferred my own company; and “longing for,” because my success with schoolwork was the one aspect of my life over which I had complete control. The cousins, Edward and I had
been told, as usual, to play outside so the grown-ups could chat. I was much too old to “play,” wanting instead to sit and read my book, but I knew that my mother needed me to mind the younger children. A new patio was being laid in our back garden, and there was a swarm of flying ants on the pavement in front of our house, so we decamped to the local park. When we arrived, Edward started larking about: hounding the Canada geese and their goslings; lobbing stones into the pond where the old men had set up their fishing rods; scaling trees far beyond a safe height. The cousins were squealing with delight at his antics. I did my best to bring him into line, but to no avail. I might just as well have been trying to reason with a baboon.
At the playground, Edward entertained himself by scrambling the wrong way up the slide when there was a queue of children waiting to come down and spinning the roundabout so fast that toddlers were almost hurled off with the formidable centrifugal force. Shooed away by angry parents, he then decided to play a version of chicken. This involved standing in front of a swing that was hurtling toward him and jumping out of the way at the last possible moment. I shouted to him to stop, that he was going to hurt himself, but he simply made a hand gesture that I won’t merit with a description. As he was doing this, his timing went awry, and the corner of the swing caught the side of his forehead.
The amount of blood was alarming. The cousins were in tears, pale and trembling, and Edward fainted with the shock. Fortunately, a neighbor was in the playground with her young daughters. She stanched the flow of blood with one of their cardigans, bundled us all into her estate car—the cousins sitting in the open luggage space behind the rear seats—and drove us home. After Edward had been stitched up at the hospital, the inquest began. I gave my version of events, including an inventory of my brother’s mean, stupid and dangerous behavior, and he gave his. According to Edward, an older boy had pushed one of the cousins in front of the swing. As my brother had bravely rescued her, his head had been caught. The cousins backed up his story. Apparently, I’d been sitting on a bench with my nose in a book the whole time. My mother told me, with moist eyes and a crack in her voice, that she was very, very disappointed in me. I’d been the one in charge. I should have taken more care of my brother and cousins. I was usually such a sensible, dependable girl. Who in the world could she rely on, if not me? Edward and the cousins could hardly suppress their grins.
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