“I think that I’ve already mentioned the musicals-obsession to you.”
“You did do. But I hadn’t realised just how marked it was. I mean, bringing her to London without going to see a show, Rachael? It’s sheer cruelty. It’s tantamount to shoving a bag of heroin under the nose of a hardcore addict. And Trevor pipped me on that one. I never realised just how many shambolic musical scores he knows off by heart.”
“In-deedy!” added Lydia. “He won you pants-down. Trevor is well cool. But Michaelmas is okay too. I suppose. So I've changed his name for him. 'Cause he says that at his Oxfid school they’re too posh to say the word ‘Christmas’ and so they call it ‘Michaelmas’ and it’s spelled a bit like his name.”
“That’s not exactly how I described the historical nomenclature of Oxford term-dates to you, Lydia.”
“Well, whatever. But you’re still not as clever as Auntie Vicky. The Oxfid school wanted her to go there and she told them a big fat N – O. Get lost, she said.”
Michael glanced at me.
“It’s true,” I admitted. “Our Vicky is one of the few girls from darkest East Manchester who chose Scotland and Strathclyde instead. She passed all the entrance exams and then turned them down.”
“Really?” Genuinely taken aback.
Vicky was nonplussed.
“That’s not exactly what I said to them, but yes. Strathclyde was far superior in terms of engineering. And had a lower suicide rate. And many, many more men… of course.”
“And less of your upper-class inbred sorts!” I added breezily.
Michael muttered; “Someone really does have to sort out that working-class chip on your shoulder you know.”
“Speaking of chips, Rachael - would you mind leaving me something out for lunch before you go? I love you both to bits of course, but all of this has left me feeling kind of exhausted…”
“She hardly minces her words, does she?” I asked Michael as I headed into the kitchen and slapped together a cheese sandwich for Vicky. When I was scraping the breadcrumbs away into the bin, I noted that an enormous bouquet of pink roses had been shoved head downwards into it. Poor Cubus.
Just as I was furnishing Madam with her sandwich, Trevor emerged from the bathroom. His nose looked fine but his shirt was splattered with blood. He grinned at Vicky.
“Aren’t we two the accident-prone ones today? You going to be alright in this place on your own? At least it’s ground floor, I suppose.”
Vicky twirled a twist of hair around one finger.
“Oh, sure. I’m the resilient sort. Main problem for me is going to be boredom. But hopefully they’ll let me work from home ASAP.”
I fetched Lydia’s overnight bag. We both kissed Vicky goodbye. Michael shook my sister's hand, telling her;
“It was lovely meeting you. And I’m sure that Oxford is all the worse off for not having had the pleasure of you studying with them.” Vicky rolled her eyes as we clattered towards the front door and calling to us from over her shoulder;
“Look. I’m hardly doing badly in life, am I? I earn far more than your average MP does, I'll have you know.”
“Ha-ha – that's just like you, Trevor,” Michael goaded.
“Well. Anyway – just look after our kid, alright?” We heard Vicky’s voice coming down the corridor after us.
“Will do!” Michael called back, as we closed the front door.
“That's a silly thing to say,” Lydia grumbled. “Mum doesn't need men to look after her. She's got me!”
Followed by a rather audible sigh, courtesy of Michael.
CHAPTER 7
Lydia and I settled in the back of the car as Michael climbed into the front with Trevor.
“Right then, Trevor” he said, “Let's crank up the floor heater if you don't mind. Dry my shoes out. And now,” he carried on, calling over his shoulder, “Given that we've received an unexpected addition to the party, I thought that we might do something a little bit more child friendly than the er… the things that we’ve been doing for the rest of the er… weekend…”
Trevor sniggered. Michael shot him a look.
“Like what?” I asked.
“Well, the Foundling Museum is just around the corner from my place.”
Trevor interrupted;
“The Fondling Museum? I thought you wanted to do something a bit different to what you've — ”
Michael cut him off.
“You see, I’ve never actually been to it. Or into Coram Fields – that's sort of a park really – but it has this odd rule that you’re only allowed in if you’re accompanied by a child. Which, thankfully, I’ve always managed to avoid. Until this moment in time.”
Trevor was chuckling. Darkly.
I grinned.
“Yes. Let’s exploit my daughter. It’s usually the other way around, after all, in my household…”
“Oi!” said Lydia.
Twenty minutes later and we had parked. Lydia scurried ahead of us. Trevor tailed behind and I took the opportunity to apologise to Michael for our aborted weekend.
“Listen,” I told him, as Liddy became distracted by a terrier out for a walk with its owner. “I’m so sorry. I thought that I had everything planned out with the kids for this trip. My family have a way of doing this…”
Michael’s eyes darted over to Lydia. She was grilling the dog's owner about the pet’s date of birth, preferences for doggy snacks and the pooch’s bowel habits. Satisfied that my daughter was sufficiently preoccupied, Michael lent over and kissed me softly on the lips. Then he placed a finger over my mouth.
“No apologies. What is it the TV people say? Pets and children. Nothing but expense and trouble. And neither animal nor infant has anything sensible whatsoever to say in relation to the European Union and common economic policy. Give me adult presence any day. But, crikey. Your lips are cold. Let’s head into the museum.”
“Eew!” Lydia cried out. “It just wee-ed on my shoe!”
The Foundling Museum had been preserved in memory of Thomas Coram, an eighteenth-century philanthropist who set up a hospital and school in order to take in abandoned children. It was all quite revolutionary and ahead of its time, and Lydia was captivated by the place. I deliberately avoided explaining some of the more tragic tales that featured in the exhibition because my daughter might act like a gruff and uncouth gobshite, but she had a bottomless capacity for over-sensitivity. Still, despite my attempts to lead her away from the more depressing tales of woe, some of the Victorian illustrations of feckless gin-smitten mothers caught her attention;
“Mother! Why’s that lady dropping her baby on its head? Why would someone draw a picture of something … so flippin' weird?”
Michael was standing beside us, his fingers discreetly toying with the top of my jeans, stroking the small of my back. He chipped in;
“They didn’t have cameras in those days, Lydia. And received opinion was not particularly altruistic towards the destitute in society.”
I interpreted;
“… yes. Some rich folk didn’t care about poor people. They didn’t understand why they came to be poor. And they didn’t really want to know the real truth, either.”
Michael smiled blankly at me. Still not catching onto the whole ‘pitch it at a kid’s level’ approach. So, he continued;
“Yes, so in order to convey the message that the poor were feckless or undeserving of charitable aid – they employed artists to create illustrations… demonstrating for newspapers, and the like, the notion of a despicable underclass in society. Of course, this alleviated any hitherto sentiments of empathy - or even of Christian propriety.”
I began to try and explain, but Lydia cut straight in with;
“Yeah, I get it. They believed what someone drew in a picture. And they were a bunch of tight-wads. Just like Mum is - and that’s why we never have any nice new clothes.”
Michael burst out with a public schoolboy guffaw. Lydia pouted. She wasn’t trying to be all jocular. She was just s
tating the facts available at a certain postcode. But she carried on with;
“Those drawings… it’s a bit like… at my school. Every Monday, when we do our ‘What We Did At The Weekend Report’, Travis Walker always draws pictures of monsters eating his mum and dad up. He says it really happens - every weekend. And Mrs McCauley always has to say; ‘No more monster pictures today, Travis, please’. Because – like - no one’s stupid enough to believe him. No one. Not even Malaga Maysfield who’s a bit…”
I flashed her a look. She checked herself.
“…Who’s got problems and all of that. So, if some rich person looking at those newspapers… if they believed it all just because they saw it in some drawing, then… they must have been as big a spanner as Travis Walker is.”
We both burst out laughing. Lydia narrowed her eyes and flounced into the next room.
With the daughter gone, Michael’s fingers attempted to find their way down the back of the waistband of my jeans. He murmured in my ear;
“Poor Travis Walker. And rotten old Mrs McCauley! What if Travis is desperately trying to convey a coded message to social services? And his teacher’s just written him off as some snotty-nosed little attention seeker, when actually - his family home is filled with violence?”
“You could be right about that,” I considered. “I’ve seen Travis’ mum deal with the other parents over your usual playground scuffles. And she scares the shit out of me.”
In the next room was a panel outlining ‘Famous Orphans in History’. Lydia turned around to see us approaching and asked;
“So, Mum. What is a norphan exactly?”
“Not 'norphan'. 'Orphan'. With an ‘O’. See?”
I pointed out the spelling. Then I said, “Oh, Lydia. Come on. You must know what an orphan is? How many stories have we read with orphans in them? It's a child who has no parents.”
Lydia was one step ahead of me.
“Well, I like it with an ‘N’ better. That’s how it sounds when you say it. But anyway. Lots of them weren't norphans, were they? 'Cause they had mums what dropped them on their heads. And then left them here. Didn't they?”
Michael was checking his phone. The ever-present lines on his forehead more ingrained than usual, but he chose to answer her;
“Actually, I used to be a junior minister in International Development, so I know a bit about this kind of thing. There is, indeed, a proper definition in terms of overseas development work,” he informed Lydia, who had commenced with picking her nose. “One uses the term OVC – for ‘Orphaned and Vulnerable Children’ - when one speaks in terms of global issues of poverty and well-being.”
Lydia had cocked her head to one side. Finger up nose still. Michael perambulated on;
“And in the developing world, an orphan is often a child who, yes, still possesses a sole, surviving parent.”
The finger withdrew itself from her nose; a disappointing lack of bogies currently available. Liddy exhaled. A discernible hiss. Sibilant excitement.
“Oooshh. So, I’m a norphan then. Am I? ‘Cause I’ve only got Mum alive, nowadays! And Matthew… yeah – our Matthew is a norphan too! I can’t wait to tell him!”
I hadn't anticipated this. And I tried to search for the right words as I stared at the black-and-white photographs of doleful little girls wearing starched and pristine pinafores, sitting straight-backed in a 1920s classroom. Michael stepped in, surprising me.
“I think, Lydia - that in a developed nation such as Britain or the USA - that the definition of an orphan always has to be someone who has lost both of his – or her - parents.”
“Why? Why do you have to have both parents die? If you live here in England. To get to be an orphan. That’s not fair.”
“Well.” He looked slightly flummoxed. I had gathered my wits enough now to be able to chip in with;
“Liddy – it’s probably because losing a parent if you live in a poor country is much more of a… a sort of… disaster. Whereas here, where there is a bit more money to go around, it’s seen to be less…”
I had obviously said the wrong thing. A Lydia temper flare-up.
“What? So, you’re saying it’s not a preposterous disaster for me? For my daddy to be dead? Just because I have nice water to drink and no-one's trying to make me into their slave? Or making me eat just rice rice rice all of the time? That I’m not allowed to be all norphaned?”
Once again, Michael tried;
“I completely agree with you, Lydia. It seems very silly that we use the same term for different circumstances. I know that when I was little and my dad died…”
“What?” Liddy had put the brakes on. She looked taken aback. “Your daddy died too?”
“Yes, he did. And it was awful. But no one called me an 'orphan' because - like you – I had a nice mummy to take care of me and my sister.”
This was the first time that Michael had successfully dampened down his excessive verbosity and had managed to showcase the ‘child appropriate language’ thing. Hal-le-bloody-lu-jah.
“Right,” said Lydia. “So how did your dad die then?” Straight to the point.
“Oh. It was… cancer.”
“Everyone says it’s 'cancer' when you ask what’s killed them.”
“Ah, but sadly, cancer is rather common.”
“What is cancer anyway? Like some sort of a Great Plague, or whatever?”
“Gosh. If we’re going to be precise about this, Lydia – you might want to be aware that ‘cancer’ is the generic term for dozens of different types of manifestations of abnormal cell growth that tend to be degenerative and — ”
Well. Perhaps he hadn’t quite mastered the child appropriate language thing yet.
“So, it just kills people?” Lydia finished his sentence for him.
“That’s right. But not always. These days, if preventative medicine such as chemotherapy or radiotherapy can be utilised, most people can survive it. But — ”
“Your dad didn’t.”
“No.” Michael shook his head. “Unfortunately.”
“Bummer,” Lydia agreed. She wandered over towards the life-sized black-and-white photographs of the foundlings on the walls and placed her pint-sized palms against them.
“I feel sorry for them. All of them. And I feel quite sorry for myself, too. Nearly being a norphan. And for Matthew, too. Even though he always smells of pickled onion Monster Munch.”
Michael looked at me to gauge my reaction. I tried to do a “Kids! The Things That They Say,” sort-of smile. But it must have come out a little bit too melancholic, as he took a step towards me and combed his fingers against the back of my hair lightly. Lydia looked round and caught him.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “And you too, Michaelmas. I feel sorry for you too. You would have been a nearly- norphan too! Come here. Group hug! Group hug!” She wrapped one arm about my leg and the other about Michael’s. He looked inordinately surprised and didn’t quite know how to respond. At the same time, two elderly ladies trundled into the room, flashing sentimental smiles over what must have looked like a familial display of affection. I heard one of them whisper to the other, “That minister – you know the one who…”
Michael cleared his throat, extracting himself from my daughter’s pincer-like embrace.
“That’s very kind of you, Lydia” Michael eventually said “What a charming little girl you can be.”
Lydia headed for the stairs and turned, stabbing her forefinger at Michael;
“Well maybes… if you hugged people a bit more, you might actually have got to be the Prime Minister by now – rather than you just being some old minister-vicar who just waffles on about stuff.”
Michael looked at me and added;
“Less of the ‘charming,’ perhaps.”
After touring the exhibition, we had lunch in the museum cafe. Lydia sat at the table with us for only five minutes, having declined any of the choices of sandwiches.
“Why can’t they do plain old cheese? I’ll
eat summat later.” She sashayed away in the direction of the museum shop. I smirked to myself. Michael asked;
“What’s so amusing?”
“Oh, just thinking about Bev. One of the women who comes to Sisters’ Space. She makes it her mission in life to put me off my lunch every day.”
“How so?”
“Well, every day – without fail – she asks me what kind of sandwich I’ve got. And then she always concocts some kind of disgusting comparison… and re-names my lunch for me.”
“Like?”
“Like last week, she said that my corned beef butty looked like ‘VD scrapings.’ And then… she said that my coronation chicken looked like the contents of her toilet bowl after a dodgy curry from the Brindleford Bismillah.”
Michael’s eyes widened. “Interesting woman.”
I nodded.
“But I’m getting good at anticipating her take on things now.”
“So, go on then. What would she say about what you’ve chosen for lunch today?”
I shook my head. “You don’t want to know.” But he persisted.
“Okay.” I took a slug of coffee. “Bev would say something to the effect of… that my hummus and tzatziki pita bread combo resembles a nasty vaginal discharge plastered onto a piece of cardboard.”
Michael laughed. “And mine? What would Bev say that I was consuming for lunch?”
“Well… some might call it bratwurst with lemon mayo; but Bev would say that it looks like ‘someone’s bell-end got infected and that they’re pissing custard.'”
Michael coughed as a remnant of his sandwich got lodged in his throat. His eyes began to water and he gulped some of his water.
“Sorry, Michael. But you did ask. Has the ghost of Bev’s culinary comparisons put you off your lunch?”
He shook his head and grinned, licking the mayonnaise from his lips. “Not at all. I’ve got a stomach of steel. I’ve eaten some strange things in my time in – “
“Yeah – dead rats in Afghanistan or in the trenches of The Somme, or wherever.”
His eyes glimmered. “You’re clearly getting to know me rather too well. But tell me, Rachael. Or rather – please don’t tell me - that you’ve put this Bev character in charge of the menu-setting for your cafe and chocolatiers?”
Cuckoo in the Chocolate Page 8