“Of course, in our day the fathers didn’t pitch in at all,” says Barbara, flinching. “You wouldn’t get Donald going near a nappy. Drive a mile to avoid one.”
“Richard’s fantastic,” I say carefully. “I couldn’t manage without him.”
Barbara takes a red onion and quarters it fiercely. “You’ve got to look after them a bit, men. Delicate flowers,” she muses, pressing the blade down till the onion cries softly to itself. “Can you give that gravy a stir for me, Katharine?” Cheryl comes in and starts defrosting cheese straws and vol-au-vent cases for tomorrow’s drinks party.
I feel so alone when Barbara and Cheryl are twittering together in the kitchen, even though I’m standing right there. I reckon this must be how it was for centuries: women doing the doing and exchanging conspiratorial glances and indulgent sighs about the men. But I never joined the Muffia; I don’t know the code, the passwords, the special handshakes. I expect a man—my man—to do women’s work, because if he doesn’t I can’t do a man’s work. And up here in Yorkshire, the pride I feel in managing, the fact that I can and do make our lives stay on track, if only just, curdles into unease. Suddenly I realize that a family needs a lot of care, a lubricant to keep it running smoothly, whereas my little family is just about bumping along and the brakes are starting to squeal.
Richard walks back into the kitchen, minus nappy, puts his arms round my waist, hoists me up onto the rail of the Aga, rests his head in the crook of my neck and starts to twiddle my hair. Just like Ben does.
“Happy, sweetheart?”
It sounds like a question, but really it’s an answer. Rich is happy here, I can tell, with the womanly bustle and the fug of baking and me not on the phone every five minutes. “He’s a real homebody is our Richard,” says Barbara proudly.
I tell Rich, and I’m only partly joking, that he would have been better off marrying some nice Sloane with a super line in mince pies.
“Well, I didn’t, because I would have died of boredom. Anyway,” he says, stroking my cheek and tucking a stray tendril of hair behind my ear, “if we need mince pies I know this incredible woman who can fake them.”
12:03 P.M. Barbara has put me on nuts duty—cashews, pistachios, peanuts for the older kids. As I fill the little glass bowls, I think how grateful I am to be useful, while a more complicated feeling brings a pain to my chest. Like heartburn, only I haven’t eaten yet. Christmas at the Shattocks is hard for me. Here I am in the bosom of a relatively functional family, and every cruel Yule from my childhood reverberates in my bones. I only have to hear Harry Belafonte singing “Mary’s Boy Child” on Radio 2 and I’m there, with Dad lurching into the kitchen, back from the pub, bearing some peace offering for my mother—a frothy lace nightie in the wrong size, a gold watch he’s had off a mate on the market. My father always made an entrance like a star, sucking up all the available air in the room. Julie and I were left breathing shallowly behind the settee, praying that she’d forgive him again, that she’d have him back so we could have the kind of Christmas that families were meant to have, the kind Richard’s family has.
I take some nuts through to the big L-shaped sitting room with the French windows onto the garden. Today is the Shattocks’ annual drinks party. A beaming Donald takes my arm and presents me to one of his golf chums. Somewhere in his sixties, the man is wearing a sports jacket and red shirt with a tie only marginally less busy than the Test Card.
“Jerry, can I introduce my daughter-in-law Katharine. Katharine’s a career lady, you know. Kept her own name. Very modern.”
Jerry perks up. “Do you travel with your work, then, Katharine?”
“Yes, I go to the States a lot and—”
“So who looks after Richard when you’re away?”
“Richard. I mean, Richard looks after Richard. And the children. And we have a nanny who looks after the children, and . . . well, it all works somehow.”
Jerry nods distractedly as though I’m bringing him news of some Minoan aqueduct. “Oh, that’s marvelous. Do you know Anita Roddick, love?”
“No, I—”
“You’ve got to hand it to her, haven’t you? All that hair. Very striking for her age. And not a spare ounce on her. They often let themselves go at that time of life, don’t they?”
“Who?”
“Italians.”
“I didn’t know Anita Roddick was Italian—”
“Oh, aye. There’s a woman up our road, spit of the young Claudia Cardinale before the macaroni cheese had her. What line did Donald say you were in?”
“I’m a fund manager, sort of investing money on behalf of pension funds and companies in—”
“Can’t go far wrong with the Bradford and Bingley, I always say. Thirty-day deposit account, instant access.”
“That sounds good.”
“I suppose it’s your lot want us in the ruddy Euro, is it?”
“No—”
“Before you know it, Katharine, Gordon Brown’ll have us going down the Feathers with a pocket of Krautmarks. What did we win the war for, answer me that.”
There is a point during these Yuletide conversations when the person you are for the rest of the year, struggling to come up for air through the layers of wrapping paper and saturated fats, finally bursts out like the alien from John Hurt’s chest.
“Actually, Jerry,” I say more loudly than I intend, “entry to the Euro will depend on the level of fiscal imbalances, progress in supply-side reform, and the state of the Capital account. Anyway, the global economy is run by Alan Greenspan and the Federal Reserve, so really our focus should be on the US rather than Europe.”
Jerry rears up and backs into a china cabinet which tinkles like sleigh bells. “Well, it’s been lovely talking to you, love. Richard’s a lucky lad, isn’t he? I say, Barbara, your Richard’s done well for himself. Your Katharine could go on Countdown, she’s got that good a head on her shoulders—and a lovely little face with it.”
Clutching a tumbler of medium sherry, I let myself out through the French windows and fall gratefully into the garden’s biting air. Lower myself onto the rockery. Come on, Kate, why did you put down that good-hearted old boy in there just now? Showing off. Showing him I wasn’t just another blonde in a twinset. He didn’t mean any harm. How’s poor Jerry supposed to know what manner of woman I am, what strange new species? Back in London, at Edwin Morgan Forster, they think I’m deviant for having a life outside the office. Up here, people think I’m a freak for having a job instead of a life.
Yesterday, I told Barbara that Emily loved broccoli. I’ve no idea if that’s true. At EMF, on the other hand, I pretend I read the FT’s Lex column every day before work, although if I actually did I wouldn’t sometimes snatch those thirteen minutes on the bus with Emily, testing her spellings, chatting, holding hands. Double agents lie for a living.
3:12 P.M. The entire family—Donald, Barbara, the rest of the grown-ups and assorted grandchildren—is crunching across a field, picking our way between Friesians. A heavy frost has turned the cow pats into doilies; the children jump on them, liberating the evil green liquid beneath. Sky like a Brillo pad—scouring clouds suddenly pierced by implausible am-dram spotlight of sunshine. Am just admiring the warmth it casts on the facing hills when my mobile rings. Cows and Barbara simultaneously open long-lashed eyes wide like Elizabeth Taylor told to play shocked.
“What is that dreadful noise, Katharine?”
“Sorry, Barbara, it’s my phone. Hello? Yes, hello?”
A man’s voice bounces off a satellite into the Dales. It’s Jack Abelhammer, the American client Rod gave me as a consolation prize for not getting a pay rise. The voice is full of WASPish scorn (Yanks can’t believe our lazy Brit habit of taking the entire week off between Christmas and New Year’s). I have yet to meet Mr. Abelhammer, but he sounds like he’s capable of living up to his name and I’m the one about to get nailed.
“For Chrissake, Katharine Reddy, there’s no one in your office. I’ve been tryi
ng for two hours. Have you seen what’s happened to Toki Rubber Company?”
“I think I must have missed that, Mr. Abelhammer. Just remind me.” Play for time, Kate. Play for time.
EMF recently bought a big slug of shares for Abelhammer’s fund in Toki Rubber of Japan. Now it turns out that the genius who struck the deal failed to spot that Toki Rubber owns a small US company which manufactures cot mattresses. The same mattresses which have been withdrawn in the States after scientists established a possible link to cot death. Sod. Sod. Sod.
Abelhammer says that when the market opened in Tokyo yesterday, the price collapsed by 15 percent. Cratered. Can feel my stomach plunge now by equal percentage.
“That stock came highly recommended by you,” snaps Abelhammer. I picture him, a scowling silver tycoon in some New York tower. “What exactly are you going to do about it? Miss Reddy, can you hear me?”
Spooked from their daydreams, a couple of Friesians have wandered over for an exploratory nuzzle of my borrowed Barbour. Whatever happens, I must not let most important client know I am being licked by a cow.
“Well, Mr. Abelhammer, sir, what we must avoid here at all costs is a knee-jerk reaction. Clearly, I need a few days for further analysis. And obviously, l’ll be talking to our Japanese analyst. As you’re probably aware, Roy is the best in the business. (A lie: analyst is Romford cokehead currently on shag’n’vac in Dubai with pole dancer he picked up in Faringdon Road. Chances of getting appalling little runt out of bed: nil.) “And I will be calling you with a considered plan of action.”
Across the field into Abelhammer’s chilly transatlantic silence floats my mother-in-law’s voice, clear as a cathedral bell: “Really, these Americans, absolutely no sense of tradition.”
7:35 P.M. Back at the house am swabbing dung off Emily’s Mini Boden trousers. Lilac needle cord. (Paula seems to have packed for a week in Florida, not Yorkshire. Should have done the suitcase myself.) Cheryl comes into the utility room and pulls a face. Her kids were wearing brown drip-dry polyester. “I find it terribly practical.”
2:35 A.M. A figure is stooping over our bed. Sit up, reach blindly for light switch. It’s my father-in-law.
“Katharine, there’s a Mr. Hokusai on the telephone, calling from Tokyo. Seems very anxious to talk to you. Could you kindly take it in the study?”
Donald’s voice is frighteningly calm, as if withholding all the things he could possibly say. As I stumble past him in my nightie, he raises a silvery eyebrow. Catch sight of myself in the hall mirror. Realize am not wearing nightie. Am wearing Agent Provocateur bra.
5
Boxing Day
WELL, WE MADE IT through the season of goodwill, all right. Except for Boxing Day lunch. I forget the derivation of Boxing Day, but the feeling of wanting to invite your loved ones outside one at a time and punch them in the face, does that come into it somewhere?
Anyway, it was all my fault, Richard said, and he wasn’t wrong exactly, but I plead gross provocation. Whenever we’re at my in-laws’ house, I feel as though the children have turned into hand grenades. Any second the pin may work loose and they’ll explode all over the eau-de-nil chaise longue or take out an entire cabinet of Royal Worcester egg coddlers. Rich and I scurry after them, lunging at falling ornaments, fielders in the dying light of a doomed cricket match.
I am longing to drown my sorrows with Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic on the TV, instead of shadowing Ben around the sitting room as he hauls himself up onto spindly occasional tables, chewing on lamp wires or snatching fistfuls of slivered almonds. Weigh up danger of denying baby slivered almonds, thereby risking embarrassing tantrum (“Can’t she even control her own child?”) or allowing him to go ahead and choke, thereby endangering his life and Barbara and Donald’s prairie-lush Wilton carpet.
In the afternoon, while Ben is having his nap, I lie on the bed with my laptop and compose an e-mail to another world.
To: Debra Richardson
From: Kate Reddy, Wrothly, Yorkshire
Dearest debs, how was it 4 U?
All the elements of the traditional English Xmas here: sausage rolls, carols, subtle recriminations. Mother-in-law busy preparing emergency food parcel for son neglected by callous City bitch (me).
You know that I always say I want to be with my children. Well, I really want to be with my children. Some nights, if I get home too late for Emily’s bedtime, I go to the laundry basket and I Smell Their Clothes, I miss them so much. Never told anyone that before. And then when I’m with them, like I am now, their need is just so needy. It’s like having a whole love affair crammed into a long weekend—passion, kisses, bitter tears, I love you, don’t leave me, get me a drink, you like him more than me, take me to bed, you’ve got lovely hair, cuddle me, I hate you.
Drained & freaked out & need to go back to work soonest for a rest. What kind of mother is afraid of her own children?
Yrs Wrothly,
K8 xxxxxxx
* * *
I am about to hit SEND, but instead I press DELETE. There’s only so much you can confess, even to your dearest friend. Even to yourself.
3:57 A.M. Emily is sick. Excitement, I think: too much Tweenies chocolate plus large and unaccustomed helping of Mummy. Just got off the phone to Japanese rubber company and am slipping into bed next to a snoring Richard when there is a cry from the neighboring room, as though an animal were being hunted in a dream. I go in and find Em sitting up in bed, cupping her left ear. There is sick everywhere: over her nightie, her duvet—oh, God, Barbara’s duvet—her blankie, her sheep, her hippopotamus, even her hair. She looks up at me with beseeching horror; Emily hates any loss of dignity.
“I feel sick, Mummy, don’t let me be sick again,” she pleads.
I carry her across the landing to the bathroom and hold her over the toilet, arching her clear of the rim as my mother always did for me. I feel my palm cool on her forehead; feel her stomach stiffen suddenly and then relax as what’s left in there comes out. Then, when I have undressed us both, we take a silent bath together and I comb the cranberries from her hair.
After finding clean nightwear, changing the bed linen and tucking Em in, I scrape the Russian salad gunk as best I can from Barbara’s duvet cover and leave it to soak in the bath. Then I lie on the floor next to my child’s bed and estimate the losses if Abelhammer is so furious that the Salinger Foundation quits Edwin Morgan Forster. Two-hundred-million-dollar account. Heads will roll. And my head is not even highlighted. No time. Emily presented me with a drawing of myself yesterday.
“Oh, is Mummy wearing a lovely brown hat?” I exclaimed.
“No, silly, the top of your hair is brown and the bottom is yellow.”
Surprised to feel big little-girl tears start to roll down my cheeks and drip warmly into my ears.
8:51 A.M. Surface. Feel like a diver in lead boots. Emily is still asleep. Touch her forehead: much cooler. Downstairs, Barbara is tight-lipped and shooting charged glances at the kitchen clock.
“Katharine, I hope you don’t think I’m speaking out of turn, but you want to put a bit of makeup on before you come downstairs. Don’t want Richard thinking we’ve stopped making an effort, do we? They soon cotton on to that sort of thing, do men.”
I tell her I’m sorry, but I’ve been up half the night with Emily and haven’t really slept. I sense her eyes on me: that cool, appraising stare she gave when Rich first brought me home: the way you might look at a heifer in a show ring.
“Oh, I know you look very peaky at the best of times, love,” she owns cheerfully. “But a spot of rouge can work wonders. Personally, I can’t speak too highly of Helena Rubinstein’s Autumn Bonfire. Cup of tea?”
I didn’t mean to describe myself as the main breadwinner at Boxing Day lunch. It just came out that way. There was a general conversation around the table about New Year’s resolutions, and Donald—upright but wistful, like Bernard Hepton in Colditz—said perhaps Katharine could work a bit less in the coming twelve months. That wou
ld have been fine—gallant, sweet, caring even—if my sister-in-law hadn’t added with a snort, “So the kids can pick her out in an identity parade.”
Ooof. Clearly Cheryl had had one glass of red wine too many, and what was required of me was to rise above it. But after three days of enforced wifely humility, I didn’t feel able to rise above anything. And that was when I began a sentence with the words, “As the main breadwinner in our house—” A sentence I would never finish as it happens because, when I looked at the startled faces round the table, it seemed safer to let it die away like a bugle call.
Donald pushed his specs up his nose and helped himself to parsnips, which I know he can’t stand. Barbara put her hand to her throat as though to cover the puce flush of shock spreading beneath. It couldn’t have been worse if I had announced breast implants or lesbianism or not liking Alan Bennett. All upsets in the natural order.
Rich, meanwhile, was making valiant efforts to pretend I had said bread sauce instead of breadwinner and was dispensing lumps of that porridgey glue to his relatives. “The trouble with you, Kate,” he told me later in our room, as he sat on the bed while I packed a bag for my crisis meeting in London, “is you think that if people have the correct data they will buy your analysis. But they don’t want your data. People—parents—they get to an age when new information is frightening, not helpful. They don’t want to know that you earn more than me. For my father it’s literally unthinkable.”
“And for you?”
He looks down at his shoelaces. “Well, to be honest, I have a pretty hard time with it myself.”
* * *
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