by Lissa Evans
‘We’re just going to give it a year,’ Tom had explained over the washing-up yesterday. ‘The photographer said he’ll do us a portfolio cheap and then we could take it round to agents and magazines and things.’
‘And models are getting younger,’ Robin had added, earnestly, as if he had researched a paper on the subject. ‘Like the top male model in Europe’s only twenty and he’s a millionaire. I mean, the juggling idea was probably a bit stupid –’ he shook his head over the folly of youth ‘– but this could really work because, you know, we’ve got a gimmick. That’s what the photographer said.’
‘And instead of going to college this year we could go next year,’ Tom had said, cunningly.
‘So where would you live while you’re doing this?’
They had looked astonished at the question. ‘At home, of course. With you.’
‘You don’t want us to leave, do you Mum?’ Robin had asked.
‘… then there’s the bloke who lives above Iris, he might be half of a couple, I’m not sure.’
‘We’ll say that’s five, then,’ said Spencer, counting on his fingers.
‘And the family the other side – there’s three of them, and I think a grandmother lives there too.’
‘And the three of you in the house, of course. So that makes twelve people homeless, thirteen if you count Barry…’
‘It’s only temporary for the rest of them,’ protested Fran, ‘until they shore it up, or flanch the side walls or whatever it is they do.’
‘Still, it’s a messy old result, isn’t it? A lot of inconvenience all round.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Well…’ He shrugged. ‘You should really have hired a professional arsonist – these amateurs aren’t worth the tr –’
‘Shhhhh.’ She looked around, torn between outrage and laughter, but the only people within sight were a tour party over by the catacombs, following their leader through a water-stained door into a vault. ‘Please, Spence, you mustn’t. Really. You shouldn’t even think about that list – I’ve tried not to.’ Though she had actually lain awake in a cold sweat one night, on her camp bed in Spencer’s boxroom, imagining the insurance investigator coming across their shameful, drunken suggestions miraculously preserved in the bottom of a bin somewhere.
‘Sorry,’ said Spencer, contrite. In the fortnight since the fire he hadn’t always found it easy to judge Fran’s mood; for a couple of days she had been as subdued as he had ever seen her and they had sat together on the sofa, convalescing dozily in front of the TV. Gradually Spencer’s head had cleared, and Fran had regained her usual energy and started working through the practicalities, but when not engaged in haranguing the insurance company she veered between wordless brooding and a near-hysterical joie de vivre, when all subjects were fair game and no jokes off-limits. This was not quite one of those times.
‘Sorry,’ he said again. ‘It’ll be our secret.’ He squeezed her arm reassuringly and took a bite of egg McMuffin. They were sharing the flat-topped tomb of Florence Alderton, spinster of this parish, which occupied the crest of a hill within Highgate Cemetery.
Around them lay a carefully managed wilderness of ivy and angels and uncut grass still heavy with dew. Fran had drawn up a strict timetable for the day, but they had both overslept with the result that breakfast had been taken on the hoof and the ninety minutes allocated to the cemetery slashed to a perfunctory twenty, of which they had already spent ten admiring the view.
‘I got a card yesterday,’ said Fran, after a while.
‘Oh yes?’
‘The silver envelope with the mauve ink?’
‘I saw that. Who was it from?’
‘Mr Tibbs.’
Spencer glanced at her to gauge how he should take this. She looked perfectly composed.
‘What did he say?’
‘Oh, you know – he’s settling in nicely, his owners have found a lovely house with a garden for him in Norwich, he can never thank me enough for saving his life, he’s sorry that he ever doubted my regard for him. The usual sort of thing cats say.’
‘What’s his handwriting like?’
‘I think he dictated it. There was a note from Sylvie too, and their style’s quite similar.’ She caught his eye and then looked away again.
‘We shouldn’t make fun,’ she said. ‘She and Pete have been so bloody nice about everything.’
‘No, we shouldn’t. I think it’s quite touching, actually.’
There was a second or two before they exploded. Over by the catacombs a row of faces turned to stare at them as they honked and spluttered, and Spencer ducked his head and wiped his eyes with a coat sleeve. ‘Come-on,’ he said, grabbing her hand, ‘we’ve got a list to get through.’
Iris held the bag of rolls to her chest like a hot-water bottle and turned down the short cut between Dora Avenue and Beryl Close. It had worried her, how quickly she had slipped back into living at her father’s house, how she had never once turned the wrong way out of the surgery or attempted to catch a bus to Dalston at the end of the day instead of walking the five minutes to Alma Crescent. Of course, it might be a sign of springy adaptability but she suspected the reverse: an easy backwards fall into the past.
Her list of resolutions for the year was, of course, laughably defunct and its failure seemed to be symbolized by the clothes she was currently wearing; during the hasty packing session that they had been allowed by the safety officer, she had been so busy supervising Tom and Robin that she had ended up stuffing any old items into her own suitcase, with the result that she was now wearing a selection of garments that were dowdy even by her own standards. ‘You won’t mind me saying this, Iris,’ Tammy had said – wrongly as it turned out – when she had popped in as usual yesterday evening, ‘but that’s really not a colour that brings out the best in you.’ Over the past few weeks she had come to the conclusion that she’d simply been tackling the wrong set of problems, window dressing instead of wielding a wrecking ball. Or a flamethrower, she thought, remembering Fran. That was how to do it – root and branch, foundation to attic, rip it up and start all over again. Well, that was how someone like Fran would do it, anyway; she herself had commenced a little tentative, diffident, wrecking-ball research, a long-term demolition project, so to speak, the sort that was only carried out after extensive consultation with the inhabitants, causing minimal disturbance to the environs.
She turned the corner into Alma Crescent and involuntarily slowed her steps. A familiar figure was standing shakily by the gate, Leslie Peake’s waterproof bush-hat pulled well over his forehead. ‘Hello, Callum,’ she said, approaching him cautiously. It seemed to take him several seconds to register her voice, and then he swung his whole body round towards her and rocked a little, adjusting to the new position.
‘Docca Carroll.’
His eyes were unfocused and there was a sticky patina in the hollow of his cheeks, and the smell of ammonia and glue flooded the air around him. She thought he had lost weight even since the last time she had seen him; his features seemed sharpened and shrunk.
‘Dr Carroll doesn’t live here, Callum.’
‘Wanna see him.’
‘He’s not here.’
‘Where?’
‘He’ll be starting back at the surgery on Monday. The day after tomorrow.’
‘Mun?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mun.’ He reached inside the slack waistband of his trousers and before she could even wonder what he was doing, pulled out the Lamazol baseball hat and held it out to her.
‘You’ve still got it then?’
‘Yuh.’ He replaced it as carefully as his coordination would allow, and then turned slowly and began to shuffle back up the street, pausing at intervals to cough and spit and painfully catch his breath again. She stood and watched him go; this was the third time he had turned up at the house, and after the second – one of his more lucid visits – she had phoned Spencer to tell him. ‘I think he thinks he saved yo
ur life.’
‘How’s he looking?’
‘Terrible. Worse than ever.’
‘Yeah. I imagine it won’t be long now.’
‘Until what?’
‘Until he dies.’
‘Oh.’ She was startled by the bluntness of the statement.
‘Sorry,’ said Spencer, ‘that must sound a bit callous, but he’s been dying since the first day I saw him. It’s only ever been a matter of time, there’s never been anything I could do for Callum.’
Except you were kind to him and you gave him a hat, thought Iris. Which is more imaginative and more truly helpful than anything Dr Petty or Dov Steiner could have come up with.
She watched Callum’s wavering progress as far as the corner, and then, suddenly remembering the cooling bag of rolls, turned towards the house.
*
Judging by the cake crumbs, Nina and her fathers had been at the Serpentine Café for some time.
‘Sorry we’re late,’ said Spencer, pulling up a chair. ‘There was a very long queue for the Crown Jewels, and we felt we ought to see them.’
‘A queue? In April? Jesus Chr – ’ Niall looked at Nina. ‘Sorry.’ He held out his hand and she gave it an admonitory tap. ‘New regime,’ he said to Spencer. ‘We were hauled into nursery for a ticking-off.’
‘So what was the Tower like then?’ asked Nick, crisply.
‘Crowded,’ said Fran.
‘Good shop, though. Some good spending opportunities.’ Spencer undid the top of his backpack and put it on Nina’s lap. ‘Here you go. See if you can find anything in there that might belong to you.’
‘A present?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you say to your godfather?’ asked Nick, as she rifled through the bag.
‘Spankyou very much.’
‘Don’t look at me,’ said Niall. ‘She picked it up at nursery.’
‘It’s a lady!’ Nina pulled out a model of a Beefeater on a little stand. ‘With a beard.’
‘It’s not a lady,’ said Spencer. ‘It’s a man. In a dress.’
Nick rolled his eyes.
‘What are you going to call him?’ asked Fran.
Nina thought for a moment. ‘Fluffy.’
She looked startled by the burst of laughter.
‘Come on little ’un, come and help me get some more coffee.’ Nick lifted her off the chair and she trotted after him, still holding the Beefeater.
‘So Fran, how’s the new landlord? A bit of a bastard, I’ve heard,’ said Niall, relaxing the language barrier as soon as his daughter was out of earshot.
‘No, he’s very tolerant,’ she said. ‘I haven’t exactly been fantastic company.’
‘You’ve been fine,’ said Spencer. ‘And you’ve already done me a favour. D’you know Fran found Bill?’
‘No! Where?’
‘Right at the back of the cupboard under the sink where I keep the pet supplies.’ He tried and failed to keep a reproving note out of his voice.
‘Ohh,’ said Niall, getting it. ‘That was me, wasn’t it? Inadvertent lock-in by the eejit rookie zoo-keeper. Is he OK?’
‘He seems to be.’ His reply was a little stiff; Niall was taking the near-death of one of his charges rather lightly.
‘Spence, he’s tried to get back in twice,’ said Fran. ‘He ate half a packet of reptile anti-fungal powder while he was there and it’s his new favourite diet; he won’t touch magazines any more.’ Shortly after the rescue, she had carried out an experiment in which she had placed Bill equidistant to the box of powder and a couple of pages of Horn and he had virtually sprinted towards the former.
‘So, I’ve cured him of his wank-mag habit,’ said Niall, triumphantly. ‘Fantastic. And how’s the rest of the brood?’
‘We buried the chameleon last week,’ said Spencer. He had been changing its water when it had simply fallen off the branch, apparently in an advanced stage of rigor mortis. ‘So in exactly a year I’ve managed to whittle a rich and varied collection down to Bill and a spider.’ He saw the other two exchange glances.
‘Now listen.’ Niall put a hand on his arm. ‘You’ve done Mark proud, you’ve kept them alive a fuck of a lot longer than he ever managed. You know what he was like – he treated them like a set of light bulbs – if one died he’d just replace it with another one the same size. He’d have pissed himself at the idea of burying a lizard.’
‘Chameleon,’ corrected Fran.
‘Chameleon, lizard, Puff the bleeding Dragon – if it died it was in the bin. No sentiment involved, in the bin and then straight down the pet shop with his Access. It’s true, isn’t it?’ Spencer was silent and Niall gave his arm a little shake. ‘Isn’t it?’
Spencer was thinking two things; the first was that six months ago, maybe even six weeks ago, he would have become quite defensive at the implied criticism of Mark, whereas now it seemed a reasonable and even amusing comment and in no way a mean-spirited betrayal of his memory. When had that transition occurred? The other thought was more pertinent.
‘When Mark went into hospital the first time,’ he said, ‘I offered to look after the animals and he talked me through it. Do you remember he had a couple of geckoes then? The ones that walk up the side of the tank?’
‘I remember,’ said Niall.
‘Well he referred to them as seven and nine. It turned out that that was the number of replacements he’d got through since the original pair. I hadn’t even realized – they all looked the same.’
‘You see.’
‘To be fair to Mark they really were delicate,’ said Spencer. ‘I mean, he was only in hospital three weeks, but I was already up to eight and ten by the time he got out. He never knew.’
‘Good man,’ said Niall. ‘Mind you, I think we all thank Christ that you’re a doctor and not a vet.’
Tom grabbed the rolls and was tearing the first one open and slathering it with jam before she could get her coat off.
‘Grandad’s only got All-Bran and porridge and prunes,’ he said with disdain. ‘There’s just nothing to eat here.’
‘Can you get a plate?’ she asked, as he bit off a great mouthful, scattering crumbs across the floor, and he opened a random cupboard and stared blankly at a stack of casserole dishes.
He closed it again, and opened the next one to reveal a row of glasses. ‘I can’t find any.’
She got the plates herself, and the knives and the butter and the napkins, and made herself a pot of tea before sitting down at the table.
‘Where is your grandad?’
‘In the garden,’ he said, pasting butter onto a second roll. ‘Reinforcing the new fence. Putting up gun turrets.’
She pulled a pile of letters towards her and spotted her own name and address on the top one, partially obscured by a red stamp that said ‘REDIRECTED’. ‘When did this come?’ she asked; they had been waiting for their post for two weeks.
‘Just now, when you were out. A whole bunch turned up at once, the postman had to knock on the door. Hey, you know we’re getting that Young Citizens Award.’ He waved a typed letter at her. ‘We can spend that hundred quid getting our pictures done, can’t we?’
‘Or you could give it back,’ she suggested mildly, leafing through the pile in search of something that wasn’t a bill, ‘so it could go to somebody more deserving.’ There was one hand-addressed letter, a card by the feel of it, in a tasteful pale grey envelope, and an A4 manila package from the States with ‘In God We Trust’ printed in purple across the flap. Her stomach lurched. She had tucked the memory of her request to Bethesda College so far into the back of her mind that it was like seeing an unwelcome visitor on the doorstep, one whom you had casually but insincerely invited to visit. She put it to one side.
‘I bet we could save more libraries by modelling than by doing petitions. I’ll give you a bet if you want.’
‘Mmm?’ she said, half listening, and then, ‘What’s this?’ At the bottom of the pile, one of the letters had been opened
and the contents – a yellow booklet – half-stuffed back again.
‘Oh, Grandad thought it was for him. It was in with the other post and it said I Unwin on the front.’
She eased the booklet out and turned it over. The title was in large, bold lettering: London Area Authority Grants and Bursaries for Medical Students studying in the United Kingdom. She jammed it back so hastily that the envelope split and the booklet uncurled on the table again, rocking slightly as if to draw attention to itself. Tom looked at her, roll halted midway to his mouth.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ she said, with unconvincing lightness, turning the booklet over so that the title was hidden.
‘I’ve already seen it, Mum. Who’s going to be a medical student, then?’
‘No one.’
‘You’re not thinking of me and Rob, are you?’ he said, derisively.
‘What?’ asked Robin, loping into the kitchen.
‘Mum’s being mysterious. She’s got a thing on medical students.’
‘What thing?’
‘A thing on grants for medical students. A pamphlet.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s just for work,’ she said, coming up with a useful lie rather too late for it to be believed.
‘Well why did they send it here, then?’
‘Who’s going to be a medical student?’ asked Robin, still half asleep, sliding into a chair. ‘You need sciences for that, don’t you?’
‘Ayesha. Is Ayesha going to medical school?’
‘You need three As or something, don’t you?’
‘She can examine me any time she wants,’ said Tom, salaciously, licking jam out of his third roll.
‘Or what’s the name of that fat nurse who does the warts?’
‘Oh God, yeah. She’d be like Mengele, wouldn’t she?’
‘Who?’ asked Robin, who’d given up History at fifteen.
Iris, refilling the kettle and inventing a little washing-up so that she could stay out of the conversation, was torn between relief and a certain resentment. While she had wanted to keep her embryonic research project a secret for the time being, it was galling to hear her sons speculate on every possible recipient of a student grant apart from the obvious one.