Having It All

by Maeve Haran

  She bracketed answering machines with videos and possessed neither. Liz was always telling her she was just the person to have a video since she was always complaining that the programmes she wanted to watch were either on too late, or clashed with each other. But she didn’t want a video. It would just be another thing to worry about. Anyway she rather enjoyed banging on about the evils of television. As you got older complaining was one of the few pleasures left to you.

  Smiling to herself she double-locked the front door and started walking towards the car. As she lowered herself carefully into the seat, cursing the touch of rheumatism which was beginning to remind her she wasn’t twenty-one any more, she thought she could hear the phone ringing.

  Slowly she pulled herself out again and began walking to the door, forgetting that her keys were in her handbag on the front seat. Cursing in a surprisingly ungenteel manner she went back to get them, fumbling with the zip in her hurry. Eventually locating them, she hurried as fast as her rheumatism would let her back to the door. Just as she got her keys into the lock the phone stopped ringing.

  ‘Britt, love, welcome home!’

  Her mother took the suitcase from her shyly, backing into the narrow hall of their small semi, identical to all the others on the faceless modern estate, and put it down on the worn flowery carpet.

  The moment she walked in Britt recognized the familiar smell of poverty. Not feckless poverty with its sweat, stale air and chip fat. This was the smell of decent honest poverty: of Dettol and air-freshener and laundry drying in the spare room.

  Her mother didn’t touch Britt, not even a handshake, certainly not a kiss. Britt thought for a moment of her mother’s Swedish ancestry. Her Nordic relatives all kissed and slapped each other on the back continually. They were even worse than Londoners in the kissing stakes. But her mother had taken after the Yorkshire side of the family and squandering kisses wasn’t a Yorkshire habit. For a moment she tried to imagine her father kissing a mate on both cheeks in the pub and had to suppress a smile. No one would ever speak to him again.

  Britt looked at her mother, chatting away nervously. She looked even more worn and faded than usual. She’d probably decided to spring-clean the place in honour of Britt’s visit and knocked herself out dusting.

  To her amazement her mother actually claimed to enjoy housework and had acquired as few labour-saving devices as possible. If the consumer boom had depended on Mrs Mary Williams, of Acacia Gardens, Rothwell, then Zanussi, Hoover and AEG would have gone out of business long ago.

  She had recently acquired an aged automatic but she would no more have allowed a tumble-drier in the house than a fancy pasta-maker from the Elizabeth David shop or a coffee percolator. In Acacia Gardens people drank tea.

  And Britt had always been amazed that her mother still, like many of the older women on the estate, kept rigorously to the old pattern of washday on Mondays. If anyone had suggested an outing to her on a Monday during the school holidays, she would have answered, shocked, that Monday was washday. Britt always suspected that if she came down early enough she’d catch her mother black-leading the gas cooker.

  ‘Come in and see your father.’ Britt put down her handbag, struck for the first time by the fact that her father hadn’t come to the door to meet her. Following her mum into the small sitting room she steeled herself for the usual blunt greeting and the inevitable clash of wills that would soon follow. Whether it was after five minutes or five hours, she knew that she would, sooner or later, fall out with her father, as her mother rushed about like an ingratiating mosquito trying to douse the sparks of acrimony with tea and biscuits.

  But her father wasn’t sitting in his chair, safety catch off, with the first barbed comment of the day loaded and pointing in her direction. He was in her mother’s armchair next to the coal fire, his modest allocation being a perk from the mine where he worked, with a rug over his knees dozing. Gently her mother tucked it round him.

  ‘He sleeps a lot since this heart business.’

  Britt glanced at her mother in surprise, discovering a faintly guilty look in her mother’s eyes. ‘What heart business?’

  ‘He had a mild heart attack three weeks ago.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Mum, why didn’t you tell me? I’d have come straight away!’

  ‘I know, pet, I know. But we didn’t want to worry you. You’re so busy. And you know what your father’s like. He’s not one to make a fuss.’

  Britt looked at her mother in disbelief. Her father had had a heart attack and they hadn’t wanted to worry her with it. What kind of daughter did they think she was?

  It was Britt’s second brush with life and death that day and, like lightning on a steeple, she felt the shock run right through her. Unconsciously her hand strayed down to the firm tautness of her tummy where a new life was curled, minutely, inside her. And she saw that she had insulated herself from other people’s misfortune, even her parents’, because fear and pain and hurt were nothing to do with her. And now finally they had caught up with her.

  Very gently, while he still slept, she bent down and kissed him on the top of his bald head, and remembered how, when she was a little girl, she had sat on his knee and thought he was wonderful, and she wished things could be that simple again.

  David scanned the room-service menu for tomorrow and felt grateful that he wouldn’t either have to starve or make some pathetic attempt at buying a TV dinner and Christmas pudding for one. Grosvenor House’s Christmas menu was as lavish as any five-star hotel. They’d probably put a paper hat on the trolley and a cracker which he’d either have to pull with himself or the waiter.

  Taking a large and mind-numbing sip of Scotch, he reached for the remote control and zapped through the channels. Pausing for a moment on Sky News, he wondered whether he should let the paper know where he was. Then he decided against it. There was never any news at Christmas, people mostly waited till 27 December, when the news media was back at work again, to stage their hijacks, mass murders, bombings and invasions. That way they got better coverage. The odds against a really big story breaking that would need his involvement were about a hundred to one. He decided to take the risk.

  ‘Mum! When can we open our presents, Mum?’

  It was ten o’clock on Christmas morning and Liz wondered how much longer she could string out the time before they got down to present-opening. Usually they followed a time-honoured ritual of waiting till at least eleven, then David would distribute the presents, leaving just the right amount of time for a glass of Pimms and a brisk walk before Christmas lunch. But what on earth was the point of sticking to tradition this Christmas?

  ‘All right, Jamie, I’ll be down in a tic. Presents in ten minutes!’

  Liz did up the last of Daisy’s buttons and stood back to look at her. The tartan dress with the white sailor collar looked wonderful and Daisy had even allowed her to put a red Christmas bow in her blonde curls. Picking her up she remembered bitterly that David hadn’t even bothered to phone back and on what should have been the most exciting night of the year, Christmas Eve, instead of waiting up wide-eyed for Santa, Jamie had cried himself to sleep.

  Waking up alone in the six-foot bed David looked up at the mirror on the ceiling, but even the thought of Logan placing it there at just the right angle so that he could watch himself, a tiger in sex as well as business, couldn’t lift his mood. Thank God he’d been able to change those ridiculous satin sheets for a pair of serviceable cotton ones he’d found in the back of the wardrobe.

  When he’d decided to come here, David realized he’d had no idea what it would be like to spend three days alone, especially these three days, and he was finally forced to admit how incredibly lonely he felt. There was only one answer. He would have to try, one more time to speak to Liz and the kids.

  Dialling Liz’s mother’s number he held on for twenty full rings before admitting that it was useless. She couldn’t be there. Maybe they’d gone to a hotel. And then he thought of Ginny. Ginny woul
d know where she was. She might even be there for God’s sake, why hadn’t he thought of that before?

  Feeling more cheerful, he fumbled for her number. Maybe he didn’t have it. No, there it was, thank God for that.

  Ginny answered the phone immediately and he realized from the noises that she must be in the kitchen. For a moment he pictured it, warm and aromatic and hospitable, and, irrationally, he hoped that she might invite him down for Christmas.

  ‘Hello, Ginny. It’s David.’ He rushed quickly on not giving her the chance of expressing surprise at hearing from him. ‘I wondered if Liz was there by any chance?’

  ‘Liz? No. Isn’t she at Crossways? She left here about six yesterday and said she was going straight there.’

  There was a silence from the other end as David took this in. He must have missed her by only half an hour! She hadn’t been away at all!

  Getting no response, Ginny began to be alarmed. ‘David, there’s nothing wrong is there? She hasn’t had an accident or anything?’

  ‘No, no. I expect she’s sitting by the fire opening her presents.’ Ginny thought she could detect an edge of bitterness in his tone. ‘I never thought of trying her at home,’ he added lamely. ‘Thanks a lot, Ginny. I’ll call her now.’

  As she put the phone down Ginny wondered for a moment if she’d done the right thing in telling David where Liz was. Surely a phone call couldn’t do any harm. Maybe it would help. After all, it was clear to anyone with half a brain that they were still in love with each other.

  ‘Look, Mum, it’s Donatello!’ Jamie brandished the revolting toy and gave Eleanor a huge kiss. ‘Thanks, Gran, I’ve already got Michelangelo and Raphael. Oh, and Leonardo. This is great!’

  Eleanor shook her head and smiled. ‘Jamie, do you realize that Michelangelo, Raphael and Leonardo were probably the greatest artists who ever lived?’

  Jamie gave his granny a patient, understanding look. ‘They’re not real, you know, Granny, they’re just made of plastic. They couldn’t do any paintings!’

  Liz tried to suppress a giggle and was grateful that Daisy still liked fluffy toys and music boxes that played ‘How Much Is That Doggy in the Window?’

  As Daisy ignored her presents in favour of the wrapping paper, Jamie rushed back to go on opening his. Ginny had knitted him a jumper with zoo animals on it and then there was the bike that Liz, in an attempt to broaden his interest beyond slaughter in space, had told a white lie to get him.

  ‘Great, Mum, it’s brilliant!’

  But she knew he was really waiting to open his last present, a huge square box. It was what he wanted more than anything, so she’d saved it till last and pretended it came from David. If he hadn’t even bothered to ring, he’d hardly have remembered to get them any presents.

  It was the MantaForce Spaceship he’d told Britt about.

  ‘Here you are, Jamie. This one’s from Daddy.’

  ‘Oh, Mum . . .’ Jamie tore off the wrapping paper feverishly, his eyes gleaming with excitement. ‘It’s got a rocket launcher too! How did he know I wanted it?’ Jamie started to unpack the red and black space troopers. ‘I know. He must have overheard me telling that lady with him.’

  Liz avoided her mother’s glance.

  Suddenly he looked up suspiciously. ‘When did Daddy bring it?’

  Liz thought quickly. ‘That time he took you out for the day. He brought it back with him. It was in the boot.’

  Jamie put down the space troopers and fixed her with eyes narrowed with pain at her betrayal. Her, the one person he’d thought he could trust. ‘No it wasn’t. The boot was empty, except for the nappies that lady bought.’

  Her heart lurched as she heard the catch in his voice and saw him blink, his eyes bright with tears, all the happiness and excitement wiped from his face.

  ‘It wasn’t from Daddy at all,’ he accused, ‘it’s from you! You bought it!’ Pushing over the toy that had only seconds ago given him so much pleasure, he ran sobbing from the room as Liz watched helplessly, unable to think of what to say to soothe his hurt.

  Reaching out her mother took her hand in hers and held it tight and she was grateful for the comfort. ‘Was it really from you?’

  ‘Of course it was. David didn’t even ring to say Happy Christmas. His own children! I suppose he was too caught up with thinking about the bloody baby!’

  ‘What baby?’

  Liz could have kicked herself. For her own self-respect she hadn’t wanted her mother to know about the baby. Somehow it seemed the final, indefensible, humiliating betrayal.

  Her mother opened her arms. ‘Oh, Lizzie, you poor darling.’

  And now that the admission was made and her mother knew her last secret she threw herself into her arms and wept, until Daisy, up till now unmoved by the maelstrom of emotions around her, suddenly began to howl in unison.

  When the phone rang it was such a surprise that both Liz and Daisy stopped crying. Liz reached for a tissue and sniffed. ‘Would you get it, Mum? It’s probably Ginny ringing to say Happy Christmas.’

  But it wasn’t Ginny.

  ‘Hello, Eleanor. It’s David. Can I speak to Liz, please?’

  Panicking, Liz shook her head violently.

  ‘Sorry, David,’ Eleanor replied in words chipped, letter by letter, from an iceberg, ‘she’s comforting Daisy at the moment.’

  David wasn’t going to be frozen out by Eleanor, he’d hardly expected her to be sweetness and light. ‘Is Jamie there, then?’

  ‘Sorry again.’ Liz wondered if her mother’s voice had given David frostbite yet. ‘He’s upstairs in his bedroom. I’m afraid he’s rather upset at the moment.’

  Liz pictured David staying in some plush hotel with Britt, forcing himself to make a quick phone call to his ex-family so that he could sit down and enjoy his Christmas dinner with a clear conscience, feeling he’d done his duty. The thought made her angrier than she’d ever felt in her life before.

  Jumping up she grabbed the receiver from her startled mother.

  ‘Hello, David, this is Liz. Would you like to know the reason your five-year-old son is upstairs, sobbing his heart out? Because he hasn’t had a Christmas present from his father and when I bought him one and pretended it was from you, he didn’t believe me. So, I hope you’re having a really happy Christmas, just like we are! Goodbye David! And thanks a million.’

  And just in case he should try and phone back, she jerked the jack lead out of the wall with such force she almost pulled the wire from its connection.

  David sat white-faced and cold with anger staring at the phone. His picture of Liz was of someone warm and understanding, not the hard bitch who’d just shouted at him down the phone, without even giving him the chance to defend himself. No matter what he tried to do, he always seemed to be in the wrong.

  Pouring himself a large whisky he wondered for the first time if Liz had changed and whether, in the last few weeks, he might have been chasing a fantasy which didn’t remotely correspond to the real woman.

  With his finely tuned sense of injustice it didn’t occur to him that if Liz had changed, it was because he had hurt her, and worse still, their children, and that his dream of walking back into her open arms might just possibly be an unrealistic one. Neither did it occur to him that the way to win back her trust was not by the grand gesture or the clever tactic but only by time and understanding.

  As he stared moodily into his drink he knew only one truth: that he loved Liz and that his instincts told him that she loved him too. So, what was standing between them that couldn’t be settled between two adult people?

  Convinced by his own rationalization that the ground between them was narrow, and the valley green on the other side, he decided to give it one last try.

  And when the continuously busy tone told him that she had taken the phone off the hook rather than talk to him he decided there was only one plan of action left to follow: he was going to get very, very drunk.

  CHAPTER 23

  Britt had always
been blessed with the gift, useful to herself but irritating to others, of getting to sleep the moment her head hit the pillow, but on the night before Christmas for once it deserted her.

  The four walls, so close together after the huge airy spaces of her warehouse flat, seemed to close in on her, and the nylon sheets felt sticky and unpleasant. Used to the starched crispness of laundered cotton, every little snag in the fabric felt huge and itchy, and like the princess and the pea she found they stopped her falling comfortably into sleep.

  On the few occasions her eyes closed, she found herself on the motorway again, only this time the other car didn’t regain control but spun crazily like a top and careered off the road and down the bank into a pylon where it burst into flames, showering Christmas presents on the rubbish-strewn field below.

  At six-thirty Britt woke up in a pool of sweat that the nylon sheets had failed to absorb. She had had the worst night she could ever remember. Retching slightly as she tried to sit up she realized that morning sickness had arrived and she ran for the bathroom.

  But by the time she was leaning over the toilet, the sickness had passed. Shivering in the unaccustomed cold she cursed her parents for not having central heating. She could see her breath, for God’s sake, and when she leaned in to the mirror it frosted up before she could see whether she looked as bad as she felt.

  For a second it all came back to her. How numbingly cold it had been growing up in this house. She smiled, remembering how she had developed a technique for survival. Before she went to bed, she had laid out all her school clothes and then, when her mother knocked on her door to wake her, she would reach out for them and dress in bed, eyes closed, pretending to be a poor little blind girl, only emerging from the warmth of the bedclothes when she was fully dressed, at which point her sight would be miraculously restored to her and she was able to put on her heavy black school lace-ups unaided and rush downstairs for her morning Ready Brek, noticing bitterly that the tasteless sludge didn’t ring her body with a visible glow of warmth as the TV advert proclaimed.